On the right bank, two or three miles below the Spectacular Ruin, we passed by a noble pile of castellated buildings overlooking the water from the crest of a lofty elevation.  A stretch of two hundred yards of the high front wall was heavily draped with ivy, and out of the mass of buildings within rose three picturesque old towers.  The place was in fine order, and was inhabited by a family of princely rank.  This castle had its legend, too, but I should not feel justified in repeating it because I doubted the truth of some of its minor details.

Along in this region a multitude of Italian laborers were blasting away the frontage of the hills to make room for the new railway.  They were fifty or a hundred feet above the river.  As we turned a sharp corner they began to wave signals and shout warnings to us to look out for the explosions.  It was all very well to warn us, but what could we do?  You can’t back a raft upstream, you can’t hurry it downstream, you can’t scatter out to one side when you haven’t any room to speak of, you won’t take to the perpendicular cliffs on the other shore when they appear to be blasting there, too.  Your resources are limited, you see.  There is simply nothing for it but to watch and pray.

For some hours we had been making three and a half or four miles an hour and we were still making that.  We had been dancing right along until those men began to shout; then for the next ten minutes it seemed to me that I had never seen a raft go so slowly.  When the first blast went off we raised our sun-umbrellas and waited for the result.  No harm done; none of the stones fell in the water.  Another blast followed, and another and another.  Some of the rubbish fell in the water just astern of us.

We ran that whole battery of nine blasts in a row, and it was certainly one of the most exciting and uncomfortable weeks I ever spent, either aship or ashore.  Of course we frequently manned the poles and shoved earnestly for a second or so, but every time one of those spurts of dust and debris shot aloft every man dropped his pole and looked up to get the bearings of his share of it.  It was very busy times along there for a while.  It appeared certain that we must perish, but even that was not the bitterest thought; no, the abjectly unheroic nature of the death—­that was the sting—­that and the bizarre wording of the resulting obituary:  “Shot with A rock, on A raft.”  There would be no poetry written about it.  None could be written about it.  Example: 

Not by war’s shock, or war’s shaft,—­shot, with a rock, on a raft.

No poet who valued his reputation would touch such a theme as that.  I should be distinguished as the only “distinguished dead” who went down to the grave unsonneted, in 1878.

But we escaped, and I have never regretted it.  The last blast was peculiarly strong one, and after the small rubbish was done raining around us and we were just going to shake hands over our deliverance, a later and larger stone came down amongst our little group of pedestrians and wrecked an umbrella.  It did no other harm, but we took to the water just the same.