The murder of his boy was too much for Raymond to endure, and he died of a broken heart on the day of the son's funeral. Knowing he was dying, he had a new will swiftly made, and all his wealth was left to his old friend Burrage.
Frank and Barney thoroughly enjoyed the rest of their stay in New Orleans. In the open carriage with them, at Frank's side, rode the "Queen of Flowers" as they went sight-seeing.
In the throng of spectators, with two detectives near at hand, they saw Colonel La Salle Vallier. He lifted his hat and bowed with the utmost courtesy.
"The auld chap is something of a daisy, after all, Frankie," laughed Barney. "Oi kinder admire th' spalpane."
"Ha, hum!" coughed Professor Scotch, at Barney's side. "He is a great duelist—a great duelist, but he quailed before my terrible eye—he was forced to apologize. Hum, ha!"
Frank leaned toward Inza.
"If anything happens when we are again separated that you should fail to receive my letters, you will not doubt me, will you?" he asked, in a whisper.
And she softly replied:
"No, Frank, but——"
"But what?"
"You—you must not forget Elsie Bellwood."
"I haven't heard from her in a long time," said Frank. And there the talk ended.
But Frank was to hear from his other girl friend soon and in a most unexpected manner.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE MYSTERIOUS CANOE
From New Orleans Frank, Barney and the professor journeyed to Florida.
Frank was anxious to see the Everglades and do some hunting.
Our hero was particularly anxious to shoot a golden heron, of which he had heard not a little.
One day a start was made in a canoe from a small settlement on the edge of the great Dismal Swamp, and on went our three friends deeper and deeper into the wilds.
At last the professor grew tired of the sameness of the journey.
"How much further into this wild swamp do you intend to go, Frank?" he asked.
"I am going till I get a shot at a golden heron."
"Nonsense! There is no golden heron."
"You think so?"
"I know it. The golden heron is a myth. White hunters have searched the remote fastnesses of the Florida swamps for a golden heron, but no such bird have they ever found. The Indians are the only ones to see golden herons."
"If the Indians can see them, white men may find them. I shall not be satisfied till I have shot one."
"Then you'll never be satisfied."
"Oh, I don't know about that, professor. I am something of an Indian myself. You know the Seminoles are honest and peaceable, and——"
"All Indians are liars. I would not take the word of a Seminole under any condition. Come, Frank, don't be foolish; let's turn round and go back. We may get bewildered on these winding waterways which twist here and there through swamps of cypress and rushes. We were foolish to come without a guide, but——"
"We could not obtain one until to-morrow, and I wished to come to-day."
"You may be sorry you did not wait."
"Now, you are getting scared, professor," laughed Frank, lifting his paddle from the water and laying it across the bow of the canoe. "I'll tell you what we'll do."
"All right."
"We'll leave it to Barney, who has not had a word to say on the matter. If he says go back, we'll go back."
Professor Scotch hesitated, scratched his fingers into his fiery beard, and then said:
"Well, I'll have to do as you boys say, anyway, so we'll leave it to Barney."
"All right," laughed Frank, once more. "What do you say, Barney, my boy?"
Barney Mulloy was in the stern of the canoe that had been creeping along one of the sluggish water courses that led through the cypress swamp and into the heart of the Everglades.
"Well, gintlemin," he said, "Oi've been so busy thrying to kape thrack av th' twists an' turruns we have been makin' thot Oi didn't moind mutch pwhat ye wur soaying. It wur something about turning back. Plaze repate it again."
So the matter was laid before him, and, when he had heard what Frank and the professor had to say, he declared:
"Fer mesilf it's nivver a bit do Oi care where we go ur pwhat we do, but, as long as we hiv come so fur, an' Frankie wants to go furder, Oi'd soay go on till he is sick av it an' reddy to turn back."
"There, professor!" cried Frank; "that settles it!"
"As I knew it would be settled," growled Professor Scotch, sulkily. "You boys combine against me every time. Well, I suppose I'll have to submit."
So the trio pushed on still farther into the great Dismal Swamp, a weird section of strange vegetable and animal life, where great black trees stood silent and grim, with Spanish moss dangling from their branches, bright-plumaged birds flashed across the opens, ugly snakes glided sinuously over the boggy land, and sleepy alligators slid from muddy banks and disappeared beneath the surface of the dead water.
The professor continued to grumble.
"If we should come upon one of these wonderful golden herons, Frank could not come within a hundred yards of it with that old bow and arrow," he said.
"Couldn't I?" retorted Frank. "Perhaps not, but I could make a bluff at it."
"I don't see why you won't use a gun."
"Well, there are two reasons. In the first place, in order to be sure of killing a heron with a shotgun I'd have to use fairly large shot, and that might injure the bird badly; in the second place, there might be two, and I'd not be able to bag more than one of them with a gun, as the report would scare the other. Then there is the possibility that I would miss with the first shot, and the heron would escape entirely. If I miss with an arrow, it is not likely the bird will be alarmed and take to flight, so I'll have another chance at it. Oh, there are some advantages in using the primitive bow and arrow."
"Bosh!" exploded Scotch. "You have a way of always making out a good case for yourself. You won't be beaten."
"Begobs! he is a hard b'y to bate, profissor," grinned Barney. "Av he wurn't, it's dead he'd been long ago."
"That's right, that's right," agreed Scotch, who admired Frank more than he wished to acknowledge. "He's lucky."
"It's not all luck, profissor," assured the Irish boy. "In minny cases it's pure nerve thot pulls him through."
"Well, there's a great deal of luck in it—of course there is."
"Oh, humor the professor, Barney," laughed Frank. "Perhaps he'll become better natured if you do."
They now came to a region of wild cypress woods, where the treetops were literally packed with old nests, made in the peculiar heron style. They were constructed of huge bristling piles of cross-laid sticks, not unlike brush heaps of a Western clearing.
Here for years, almost ages, different species of herons had built their nests in perfect safety.
As the canoe slowly and silently glided toward the "rookeries," white and blue herons were seen to rise from the reed-grass and fly across the opens in a stately manner, with their long necks folded against their breasts, and their legs projecting stiffly behind them.
"Pwoy