Dr. Perkins glanced at the compass and slightly altered the direction of the Sea Eagle; then he allowed the great craft to drop gently to rest on the waters of Black Bayou.
Harry referred to the plan again.
“North a hundred yards to the Lone Pine Island.”
“There it is,” cried Frank, indicating a small spot of land on which a dead pine reared its bare trunk.
Hardly had he spoken when a canoe shot round a bend in a small bayou just ahead of them, and a wild-looking man, who had been paddling it, checked his frail craft. His unkempt whiskers covered him almost to his waist, and his clothes were ragged to a degree. But none of them thought of this as the swamp dweller so unexpectedly came into view.
“Is this the Black Bayou?” they cried almost in chorus.
The other nodded and stared wildly and half in alarm at the strange-looking craft that confronted him.
“Oui! Thees Black Bayou,” he rejoined in soft, broken accents; “what you want, eh?”
“Did you ever hear tell of the Belle of New Orleans?” asked Ben, in a voice that shook with suppressed excitement.
To his astonishment the Acadian—for the weird figure in the boat was one of those strange dwellers of the cypress swamps—burst into a loud laugh.