"We had, perhaps, on that account, better remain at the mouth of the river, and start from thence early to-morrow morning," Schwarz suggested; "then we shall have no occasion to sleep in the open air." "But lose half a day"--Werner quickly interrupted him. "What harm will it do us if we should pass one night under the open sky? You are, no doubt, used to it, and it won't hurt me either; at worst, one can only catch cold." "Well," said Schwarz, with a smile, "I have no objection: your impatience appears to me very natural--therefore, let it be so. But, Helldorf, hadn't you better go up to the pilot again, that we may not pass the place by mistake; that would be a joke!" "No, no; the pilot has assured me that he knows the spot," said the latter, "and he will put us out there; but, by way of precaution, I'll remind him of it again. In the meanwhile, you two had better get our luggage down into the little yawl astern, so that we may not occasion any further delay to the vessel on that account." He ascended the narrow stairs which led over the paddle-box; Schwarz and Werner in the meantime followed his advice, got their boxes and bags into the little boat, which was made fast astern by two stout ropes, and was towed after the steamer over the swelling waves, and then returned to the boiler-deck to await the stopping of the Diana. They now passed a rounded point of land which projected far into the river, and continued to steer for a while along the eastern bank, in order to keep in the deeper channel, but then, just as a sandbank began to show its white surface at no great distance from them, the bow of the boat suddenly turned from the land, and kept a course obliquely across the stream towards the western shore. "Yonder is another little river, falling into the Mississippi," said Schwarz, pointing from the starboard gallery of the boat back towards the land which they were leaving more and more, behind them--"yonder, where the bright roof of the log-hut stands out." "You call that a river!" said Werner; "you are liberal with your fine names; three houses cannot stand near each other but you dub them a town. But how desert and wild the prospect looks here, the treacherous rolling stream with its flood of mud, the flat shores without a single eminence, the dead sandbank, which, like a winding-sheet, skirts the gloomy forest. I should not like to live here; the whole appearance of the country seems to tell of fever and misery."