To that
porous limestone formation water in whatever quantity is as beer to a
boche. Only, if one paused to listen on the brink of an aven, there
were odd and disturbing noises to be heard underfoot, liquid
whisperings, grim chuckles, horrible gurgles, that told of subterranean
streams in spate, coursing in darkness to destinations unknown,
unguessable.
His path (there was no trace of road) ran snakily through a dense
miniature forest of dwarfed, gnarled pines, of a peculiarly sombre
green, ever and again in some scant clearing losing itself in a web of
similar paths that converged from all points of the compass; so that
the wayfarer was fain to steer by the sun--and at one time found
himself abruptly on the brink of a ravine that gashed the earth like a
cruel wound. He worked his way to an elevation which showed him plainly
that--unless by a debatable detour of several miles--there was no way
to the farther side but through the depths of the ravine itself.
If that descent was a desperate business, the subsequent climb was
heartbreaking. He needed a long rest before he was able to plod on, now
conceiving the sun in the guise of a personal enemy.
Pages:
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29