The sky was now quite clear, and the wheelmarks of the brougham
which had borne away Laura's father, Lord Quantock, remained
distinctly visible. Soon the verge of the down was reached, the
captain leading the way, and the baritone following silently,
casting furtive glances at his companion, and beyond him at the
scene ahead. In due course they arrived at the chasm in the cliff
which formed the waterfall. The outlook here was wild and
picturesque in the extreme, and fully justified the many praises,
paintings, and photographic views to which the spot had given birth.
What in summer was charmingly green and gray, was now rendered weird
and fantastic by the snow.
From their feet the cascade plunged downward almost vertically to a
depth of eighty or a hundred feet before finally losing itself in
the sand, and though the stream was but small, its impact upon
jutting rocks in its descent divided it into a hundred spirts and
splashes that sent up a mist into the upper air. A few marginal
drippings had been frozen into icicles, but the centre flowed on
unimpeded.
The operatic artist looked down as he halted, but his thoughts were
plainly not of the beauty of the scene. His companion with the
pistols was immediately in front of him, and there was no handrail
on the side of the path toward the chasm. Obeying a quick impulse,
he stretched out his arm, and with a superhuman thrust sent Laura's
husband reeling over.
Pages:
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261