The moonbeams reveal a band of broad-shouldered, copper-colored aborigines, who once ruled over the whole of this fair peninsular.  They are returning, with packs of supplies strapped upon their backs, from a trading journey to the city of Kissimmee, where they have exchanged the fruits of their hunting for many-colored calicos, ammunition, and alas for the once-noble red men! fire-water.  They had left their canoes when they could no longer be floated, and are now returning in this, the only possible manner, to their fertile oasis, protected from the white men by many miles of bogs into which all foot travelers would sink to unknown slimy depths and death.

On they come in single file, hand over hand from tree to tree, their long legs dangling in the air, led by Tiger-tail, the chief of the survivors of the most intelligent and powerful of all the Indian tribes.  Suddenly the leader stops, gives the low cry of the Ring-dove, which halts his followers, and suspended in air, gazes at the sleeping form of a young white man, reclining, with his rifle beside him, on a hammock which rises dry and grass-covered above the surrounding morasses.

Motioning his band to follow, the chief drops noiselessly beside the sleeper, stealthily seizes the gun, revolver, and bowie-knife of the helpless victim, hands them to others, and shouts “Humph, wake up!” The pale-face reaches for his weapons, and finding them gone, jumps to his feet, gazing without flinching at his stalwart captors.

“Who you be?” grunted the chief.  “What for you here?”

“I am Henry Lee of Lawtey,” was the calm reply, “and I am hunting.”

“Humph, you white man hunt Seminole from earth.  You no right here.  You my prisoner; follow me, my slave.”

As resistance was useless, the youth silently obeys, climbing hour after hour until his arms seemed about to be wrenched from their sockets.  At last, just as the rising sun shot his lances of light through the forest’s gloom, the chief drops to solid earth, followed by all.

A romantically beautiful scene lies before them.  No longer the styx-like waters; the funereal realms of Pluto have vanished, and an elevated plateau appears, partially cleared.  Here and there graceful palms, tall, slender cocoanut and orange trees laden with fruit; sparkling springs; abundant harvests of varied crops; picturesque wigwams and huts, fair as the garden of the Lord.  A pack of dogs started to yelp, but at once slunk away at a word from the chieftain, who points to a hut, quietly saying:  “Go in there till I call you.”

Henry obeyed, and exhausted with his journey, sank quickly to sleep upon the straw-covered floor.  At length, when the sun was high in the heavens, he was awakened by a black man, who placed before him some venison and corn bread, then silently withdrew.  After satisfying his hunger, he went out to explore.