Cruel As The Grave

"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.