It shot out over the lip of the fall, twenty feet above us, in a curve like a scimitar, passed in one sheet the spot where we stood, and dived into a sunless pool thirty feet below with a thunderous boom.  What it may have been in full phases of the stream, I know not; yet even now it was sufficiently magnificent to give pause to a dying soul eager to shake off the restless horror of the world.  The flat of its broad blade divided the lofty black walls of a deep and savage ravine, on whose jagged shelves some starved clumps of rhododendron shook in the wind of the torrent.  Far down the narrow gully we could see the passion of water tossing, champed white with the ravening of its jaws, until it took a bend of the cliffs at a leap and rushed from sight.

We stood upon a little platform of coarse grass and bramble, whose fringe dipped and nodded fitfully as the sprinkle caught it.  Beyond, the sliding sheet of water looked like a great strap of steel, reeled ceaselessly off a whirling drum pivoted between the hills.  The midday sun shot like a piston down the shaft of the valley, painting purple spears and angles behind its abutting rocks, and hitting full upon the upper curve of the fall; but half-way down the cataract slipped into shadow.

My brain sickened with the endless gliding and turmoil of descent, and I turned aside to speak to my companion.  He was kneeling upon the grass, his eyes fixed and staring, his white lips mumbling some crippled memory of a prayer.  He started and cowered down as I touched him on the shoulder.

“I cannot go, Monsieur; I shall die!”

“What next, Camille?  I will go alone,”

“My God, Monsieur! the cave under the fall!  It is there the horror is.”

He pointed to a little gap in the fringing bushes with shaking finger.  I stole gingerly in the direction he indicated.  With every step I took the awful fascination of the descending water increased upon me.  It seemed hideous and abnormal to stand mid-way against a perpendicularly-rushing torrent.  Above or below the effect would have been different; but here, to look up was to feel one’s feet dragging towards the unseen—­to look down and pass from vision of the lip of the fall was to become the waif of a force that was unaccountable.

I had a battle with my nerves, and triumphed.  As I approached the opening in the brambles I became conscious of a certain relief.  At a little distance the cataract had seemed to actually wash in its descent the edge of the platform.  Now I found it to be further away than I had imagined, the ground dropping in a sharp slope to a sort of rocky buttress which lay obliquely on the slant of the ravine, and was the true margin of the torrent.  Before I essayed the descent, I glanced back at my companion.  He was kneeling where I had left him, his hands pressed to his face, his features hidden; but looking back once again, when I had with infinite caution accomplished the downward climb, I saw that he had crept to the edge of the slope, and was watching me with wide, terrified eyes.  I waved my hand to him and turned to the wonderful vision of water that now passed almost within reach of my arm.  I stood near the point where the whole glassy breadth glided at once from sunlight into shadow.  It fell silently, without a break, for only its feet far below trod the thunder.