The passage was not a long one; two days after its departure the Tampico, having made four hundred and eighty miles, sighted the Floridian coast.  As it approached, Barbicane saw a low, flat coast, looking rather unfertile.  After coasting a series of creeks rich in oysters and lobsters, the Tampico entered the Bay of Espiritu-Santo.

This bay is divided into two long roadsteads, those of Tampa and Hillisboro, the narrow entrance to which the steamer soon cleared.  A short time afterwards the batteries of Fort Brooke rose above the waves and the town of Tampa appeared, carelessly lying on a little natural harbour formed by the mouth of the river Hillisboro.

There the Tampico anchored on October 22nd, at seven p.m.; the four passengers landed immediately.

Barbicane felt his heart beat violently as he set foot on Floridian soil; he seemed to feel it with his feet like an architect trying the solidity of a house.  J.T.  Maston scratched the ground with his steel hook.

“Gentlemen,” then said Barbicane, “we have no time to lose, and we will set off on horseback to-morrow to survey the country.”

The minute Barbicane landed the three thousand inhabitants of Tampa Town went out to meet him, an honour quite due to the president of the Gun Club, who had decided in their favour.  They received him with formidable exclamations, but Barbicane escaped an ovation by shutting himself up in his room at the Franklin Hotel and refusing to see any one.

The next day, October 23rd, small horses of Spanish race, full of fire and vigour, pawed the ground under his windows.  But, instead of four, there were fifty, with their riders.  Barbicane went down accompanied by his three companions, who were at first astonished to find themselves in the midst of such a cavalcade.  He remarked besides that each horseman carried a carbine slung across his shoulders and pistols in his holsters.  The reason for such a display of force was immediately given him by a young Floridian, who said to him—­

“Sir, the Seminoles are there.”

“What Seminoles?”

“Savages who frequent the prairies, and we deemed it prudent to give you an escort.”

“Pooh!” exclaimed J.T.  Maston as he mounted his steed.

“It is well to be on the safe side,” answered the Floridian.

“Gentlemen,” replied Barbicane, “I thank you for your attention, and now let us be off.”

The little troop set out immediately, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.  It was five a.m.; the sun shone brilliantly already, and the thermometer indicated 84 deg., but fresh sea breezes moderated this excessive heat.

Barbicane, on leaving Tampa Town, went down south and followed the coast to Alifia Creek.  This small river falls into Hillisboro Bay, twelve miles below Tampa Town.  Barbicane and his escort followed its right bank going up towards the east.  The waves of the bay disappeared behind an inequality in the ground, and the Floridian country was alone in sight.