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 part 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 
