That was in the warm days of early September. There was no likelihood
of serpents being abroad on this chill October morning.
Leaving the road at the cut above the ferry landing, he turned into
the trail. A half hour's walk brought him to the gradually rising,
rock-covered slope that led to the base of Quill's Window. On all
sides were great, flat slabs of stone, some of them almost buried
in the earth, others sticking their jagged points up above the
brush and weeds. Back in ages dim these drab, moss-covered rocks
had been sliced from the side of the towering mound by the forces
that shaped the earth, to be hurled hither and thither with the calm
disdain of the mighty. No human agency had blasted them from their
insecure hold on the shoulders of the cliff. Uncounted centuries
ago they had come bounding, crashing down from the heights, shaken
loose by the convulsions of Mother Earth, tearing their way through
the feeble barrier of trees to a henceforth place of security.
The trail wound in and out among these boulders, dividing at a
point several hundred feet south of the steep ascent to the top of
the great black mound. The main-travelled path turned in from the
river at this point, to skirt the hill at its rear. A more tortuous
way, traversed presumably by the fishers and hunters of the tribes,
or perhaps by war parties in swift pursuit or retreat, held directly
to the bank of the stream and passed along the front of the cliff.
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