In Which We Reach the Spanish Main

It was as Peterson had said--nothing on the river could touch the
Belle Helène. And it also was as I had not said but had thought--the
water left no trail. By daylight we were far below the old
battle-field, far below the old forts, far below La Hache, and among
the channels of the great estuary whose marshes spread for scores of
miles on either hand impenetrably. Quarantine lay yonder, the
Southwest Passage opened here; and on beyond, a stone's throw now for
a vessel logging our smooth speed, rolled the open sea. And still
there rose behind us the smoke of no pursuing craft, nor did any seek
to bar our way. So far as I knew, the country had not been warned by
any wire down-stream from the city. We saw to it that no calling
points were passed in daylight. As for the chance market shooter
paddling his log pirogue to his shooting ground in the dawn, or the
occasional sportsman of some ducking club likewise engaged, they
saluted us gaily enough, but without suspicion. Even had they known, I
doubt whether they would have informed on us, for all the world loves
a lover, and these Southerners themselves now traveled waters long
known to adventure and romance.

So at last, as the sun rose, we saw the last low marshy points widen,
flatten and recede, and beyond the outlying towers of the lights
caught sight of lazy liners crawling in, and felt the long throb of
the great Gulf's pulse, and sniffed the salt of the open sea.