I have said that the bay on which we lived was part of the mouth or estuary of the river Marmousette, which, rising in distant mountains, falls into the sea, between Port Plate, a great land-bound gulf, and a high cape called Point de Cas Rouge. A mile or so further up the country than the Buccaneer settlement, the coast was low and marshy; the mangroves here grew in great abundance, and divers deep channels of salt water ran away from the main branch of the sea, and led, some of them, to great open savannahs, covered with rich grass, where the wild cattle loved to come and feed. One day, five of us started in a small pirogue, which could barely contain such a crew, to seek for bulls and cows in these swampy prairies—a Buccaneer called Walshe, who perfectly knew the mangrove canals, acting as pilot. We paddled up alongside of the bank, and having come to the swampy ground, directed the canoe through certain intricate channels in the forest of mangroves, with the intent of coming to a bit of the savannah favourable for our sport, which Walshe knew. It was curious, thus rowing, as it were, through a submerged forest. The water beneath us was very deep—for we were obliged to keep in the channels by reason of the mangroves growing on the muddy banks—and quite transparent, so long as the fat black slime remained undisturbed. Over head, the mangroves formed a complete canopy, so that we paddled in a hot green twilight, looking through long vistas of this natural alcove, or else trying in vain to make our eyesight penetrate more than a few yards athwart the infinity of grey, slimy stems. At this time, the tide was flowing inward, floating alongside of us broad layers of thick, rich scum, which gradually, as it were, clung to the trees on either side, leaving the mid-passage clear.