In a Roman matron this would have been called the noble love of freedom: in a poor negress it is mere brutal obstinacy.

We continued riding for some hours.

For the few last miles the road was intricate, and it passed through a desert waste of marshes and lagoons.

The scene by the dimmed light of the moon was most desolate.

A few fireflies flitted by us; and the solitary snipe, as it rose, uttered its plaintive cry.