ravines, dank with decaying vegetation, finally halting for a brief
meal upon the southern edge of a small lake, the water of which was as
clear and blue as the cloudless August sky that arched it. The sand of
the shore where we rested was white as snow, yet De Croix had his man
spread a cloak upon it before he ventured to sit down, and with care
tucked a lace handkerchief about his throat to prevent stray crumbs
from soiling the delicate yellow of his waistcoat.

"One might fancy this was to be your wedding day, Monsieur," observed
Wells, sarcastically, as he marked these dainty preparations, and noted
with disgust the attentive negro hovering near. "We are not perfumed
courtiers dancing at the court of Versailles."

De Croix glanced about him carelessly.

"_Mon Dieu_, no," he said, tapping the lid of a richly chased silver
snuff-box with his slender fingers. "Yet, my dear friend, a French
gentleman cannot wholly forget all that belongs to the refinements of
society, even in the heart of the wilderness. Sam, by any foul chance
did you overlook the lavender water?"

"No, sah; it am safe in de saddle-bags."

"And the powder-puff, the small hand-mirror, and the curling-iron?"

"I saw to ebery one ob dem, sah."

De Croix gave a deep sigh of relief, and rested back upon the cloak,
negligently crossing his legs.