"At last," cried Barbicane, rising in his stirrups, "here we are at the region of pines!"
"Yes! and of savages too," replied the major.
In fact, some Seminoles had just come in sight upon the horizon; they rode violently backwards and forwards on their fleet horses, brandishing their spears or discharging their guns with a dull report. These hostile demonstrations, however, had no effect upon Barbicane and his companions.
THEY WERE COMPELLED TO FORD SEVERAL RIVERS.
They were then occupying the centre of a rocky plain, which the sun scorched with its parching rays. This was formed by a considerable elevation of the soil, which seemed to offer to the members of the Gun Club all the conditions requisite for the construction of their Columbiad.
"Halt!" said Barbicane, reining up. "Has this place any local appellation?"
"It is called Stones Hill," replied one of the Floridans.
Barbicane, without saying a word, dismounted, seized his instruments, and began to note his position with extreme exactness. The little band, drawn up in rear, watched his proceedings in profound silence.
At this moment the sun passed the meridian. Barbicane, after a few moments, rapidly wrote down the result of his observations, and said,—