"It does remind one of Dante's descriptions of the 'Entrance into the
Infernal Regions,' does it not?" inquired Lyon Berners.
"All except the little moon! Without that, its gloom would be perfectly
horrible! and it is horrible enough now," answered Rosa with a shudder.
"But I love it! Even its gloom and horror have a weird fascination for
me. It is my abode. I only seem to live my own life in my own Black
Valley," said Sybil, in a low, deep voice that thrilled with emotion.
They were suddenly silenced, for they were at the sharpest, steepest,
most difficult and dangerous turn in that most dangerous pass; and to go
down with any chance of safety required the utmost care and skill on the
part of the coachman, whose anxiety was shared by all within the coach.
Each passenger clung for support to what was nearest at hand, and might
reasonably have expected every instant to be dashed to pieces on the
rocks by the coach pitching over the horses' heads, as it tossed and
tumbled and thundered down the falling road, more like a descending
avalanche than a well-conducted four-wheeled vehicle.
Our travellers only let go their holdings and loosed their tongues again
at the foot of the precipice.
"That was--that was--Oh, there is no word to express what it was. It was
more than terrible! more than awful! And it is just a miracle that we
have escaped with our lives!" gasped Rosa Blondelle, aghast with horror.
"There has never yet been an accident on this road," observed Lyon
Berners, soothingly.
"Then there is a miracle performed every time a vehicle passes down it,"
replied Rosa, with a shudder.
"But look now, there is a very fine scene," said Mr. Berners, pointing
through the window as the coach rolled on. Sybil was already gazing
through the right-hand window, and so Rosa stretched her fair neck to
look from the left-hand one.
Yes, it was a fine scene. The young crescent moon with its tender beam
had gone down; but the great stars were out in all their glory, and by
their shining the travellers saw before them a beautiful little river,
whose rippling surface reflected in fitful glimmers the cheerful lights
of a village on its opposite bank.
"This is the Black River. It rises in those distant mountains, which are
called the Black Rocks, and which shut in our Black Valley. The village
here is called Blackville," explained Lyon Berners.
"What a deal of blackness!" replied Rosa Blondelle.
"If you think so, I must tell you in the first place that we are not
responsible for having named these places; and in the second, that the
names are really appropriate. The stupendous height and dark iron-gray
hue of the rocks that overshadow and darken the valley and the river,
and also the situation of the village at the entrance of the dark
valley, justify these names. And even if they did not, still we are not
so irreverent as to interfere with the arrangements of those who have
gone before us," laughed Lyon Berners.