A MIDNIGHT MARCH. 155 



beneath loose piles of stones. It is a terror to the 

 negroes and Indians, who fear contact with its slimy 

 skin more than they dread the Lance-head, a poison- 

 ous and deadly serpent of Martinique. Fortunately, 

 though rather abundant in the forests, they do not 

 willfully attack man, and seldom do harm more than 

 to pay occasional visits to the hen-roosts of sequestered 

 settlements. 



This must be the serpent of which the Caribs had a 

 tradition, two centuries ago, when the island was in 

 their possession, and white men rarely visited it except 

 as prisoners. But when a white man did visit them 

 he was joyfully received, and a feast was prepared, 

 of which, though in his honor, he did not partake, but 

 only formed a fart of it. They used to relate to 

 strangers the story of a great and frightful serpent, 

 which had its lair in the deep forests of the island. 

 It had upon its head a brilliant stone, like a priceless 

 carbuncle for brilliancy, which was usually covered 

 with a movable skin like the eyelid. When it de- 

 scended to the streams to drink, or when in sportive 

 mood, it would withdraw this skin and flash forth such 

 a dazzling light that no one could look upon the fiery 

 rays without losing his sight. 



The day passed quietly and the night came on. The 

 old Indian did not return, and we did not expect to 

 see him again, and decided that we would make an 

 early start next morning for our sea-coast camp. A 

 fresh bed of leaves was made up, and we retired early 

 within the cabin with rosewood walls. When it was 

 quite late and very dark, I was awakened by a rustling 

 among the leaves as of objects crawling over them. I 

 put out my hand to ascertain what was there, but drew 



