As we passed up the street, I was conscious of being the subject of Swampville speculation. Staring faces at the windows, and gaping groups around the doors, proved by their looks and gestures, that I was regarded as a rare spectacle. It could scarcely be my companion who was the object of this universal curiosity. A buckskin hunting-shirt was an everyday sight in Swampville--not so a well-mounted _military_ man, armed, uniformed, and equipped. No doubt, my splendid Arab, _caracoling_ as if he had not been out of the stable for a week, came in for a large share of the admiration. We were soon beyond its reach. Five minutes sufficed to carry us out of sight of the Swampvillians: for, in that short space of time, we had cleared the suburbs of the "city," and were riding under the shadows of an unbroken forest. Its cold gloom gave instantaneous relief--shading us at one and the same time from the fiery sun, and the glances of vulgar observation through which we had run the gauntlet. I at least enjoyed the change; and for some minutes we rode silently on, my guide keeping in advance of me. This mode of progression was not voluntary, but a necessity, arising from the nature of the road--which was a mere "trace" or bridle-path "_blazed_" across the forest. No wheel had ever made its track in the soft deep mud--into which, at every step, our steeds sank far above the fetlocks--and, as there was not room for two riders abreast, I followed the injunction of my companion by keeping my horse's head "at the tail o' his'n." In this fashion we progressed for a mile or more, through a tract of what is termed "bottom-timber"--a forest of those gigantic water-loving trees--the sycamore and cotton-wood. Their tall grey trunks rose along the path, standing thickly on each side, and sometimes in regular rows, like the columns of a grand temple. I felt a secret satisfaction in gazing upon these colossal forms: for my heart hailed them as the companions of my future solitude. At the same time I could not help the reflection, that, if my new estate was thus heavily encumbered, the clearing of the squatter was not likely to be extended beyond whatever limits the axe of Mr Holt had already assigned to it. A little further on, the path began to ascend. We had passed out of the bottom-lands, and were crossing a ridge, which forms the _divide_ between Mud Creek and the Obion River. The soil was now a dry gravel, with less signs of fertility, and covered with a pine-forest. The trees were of slender growth; and at intervals their trunks stood far apart, giving us an opportunity to ride side by side. This was exactly what I wanted: as I was longing for a conversation with my new acquaintance.