On the morrow some of the small horses of the Spanish breed, full of vigor and of fire, stood snorting under his windows; but instead of four steeds, here were fifty, together with their riders. Barbicane descended with his three fellow- travelers; and much astonished were they all to find themselves in the midst of such a cavalcade. He remarked that every horseman carried a carbine slung across his shoulders and pistols in his holsters. On expressing his surprise at these preparations, he was speedily enlightened by a young Floridan, who quietly said: “Sir, there are Seminoles there.” “What do you mean by Seminoles?” “Savages who scour the prairies. We thought it best, therefore, to escort you on your road.” “Pooh!” cried J. T. Maston, mounting his steed. “All right,” said the Floridan; “but it is true enough, nevertheless.” “Gentlemen,” answered Barbicane, “I thank you for your kind attention; but it is time to be off.” It was five A.M. when Barbicane and his party, quitting Tampa Town, made their way along the coast in the direction of Alifia Creek. This little river falls into Hillisborough Bay twelve miles above Tampa Town. Barbicane and his escort coasted along its right bank to the eastward. Soon the waves of the bay disappeared behind a bend of rising ground, and the Floridan “champagne” alone offered itself to view. Florida, discovered on Palm Sunday, in 1512, by Juan Ponce de Leon, was originally named _Pascha Florida_. It little deserved that designation, with its dry and parched coasts. But after some few miles of tract the nature of the soil gradually changes and the country shows itself worthy of the name. Cultivated plains soon appear, where are united all the productions of the northern and tropical floras, terminating in prairies abounding with pineapples and yams, tobacco, rice, cotton-plants, and sugar-canes, which extend beyond reach of sight, flinging their riches broadcast with careless prodigality. Barbicane appeared highly pleased on observing the progressive elevation of the land; and in answer to a question of J. T. Maston, replied: “My worthy friend, we cannot do better than sink our Columbiad in these high grounds.” “To get nearer the moon, perhaps?” said the secretary of the Gun Club. “Not exactly,” replied Barbicane, smiling; “do you not see that among these elevated plateaus we shall have a much easier work of it? No struggles with the water-springs, which will save us long expensive tubings; and we shall be working in daylight instead of down a deep and narrow well. Our business, then, is to open our trenches upon ground some hundreds of yards above the level of the sea.” “You are right, sir,” struck in Murchison, the engineer; “and, if I mistake not, we shall ere long find a suitable spot for our purpose.” “I wish we were at the first stroke of the pickaxe,” said the president. “And I wish we were at the _last_,” cried J. T. Maston.