but they knew that the air shuddered, and as they skirted the grounds along the way to the foot-bridge the roar grew in their stunned ears.  There, projected out into the night, were the cables of steel holding the frail platform over the abyss of night and terror.  Beyond was Canada.  There was light enough in the sky to reveal, but not to dissipate, the appalling insecurity.  What an impious thing it seemed to them, this trembling structure across the chasm!  They advanced upon it.  There were gleams on the mill cascades below, and on the mass of the American Fall.  Below, down in the gloom, were patches of foam, slowly circling around in the eddy—­no haste now, just sullen and black satisfaction in the awful tragedy of the fall.  The whole was vague, fearful.  Always the roar, the shuddering of the air.  I think that a man placed on this bridge at night, and ignorant of the cause of the aerial agitation and the wild uproar, could almost lose his reason in the panic of the scene.  They walked on; they set foot on Her Majesty’s dominions; they entered the Clifton House—­quite American, you know, with its new bar and office.  A subdued air about everybody here also, and the same quaking, shivering, and impending sense of irresponsible force.  Even “two fingers,” said the artist, standing at the bar, had little effect in allaying the impression of the terror out there.  When they returned the moon was coming up, rising and struggling and making its way slowly through ragged masses of colored clouds.  The river could be plainly seen now, smooth, deep, treacherous; the falls on the American side showed fitfully like patches of light and foam; the Horseshoe, mostly hidden by a cold silver mist, occasionally loomed up a white and ghostly mass.  They stood for a long time looking down at the foot of the American Fall, the moon now showing clearly the plunge of the heavy column—­a column as stiff as if it were melted silver-hushed and frightened by the weird and appalling scene.  They did not know at that moment that there where their eyes were riveted, there at the base of the fall, a man’s body was churning about, plunged down and cast up, and beaten and whirled, imprisoned in the refluent eddy.  But a body was there.  In the morning a man’s overcoat was found on the parapet at the angle of the fall.  Someone then remembered that in the evening, just before the park gate closed, he had seen a man approach the angle of the wall where the overcoat was found.  The man was never seen after that.  Night first, and then the hungry water, swallowed him.  One pictures the fearful leap into the dark, the midway repentance, perhaps, the despair of the plunge.  A body cast in here is likely to tarry for days, eddying round and round, and tossed in that terrible maelstrom, before a chance current ejects it, and sends it down the fierce rapids below.  King went back to the hotel in a terror of the place, which did not leave him so long as he remained.  His room quivered, the roar filled all the air.  Is not life real and terrible enough, he asked himself, but that brides must cast this experience also into their honeymoon?