This path was quickly obscured by dwarf oaks and alder bushes,
which completely roofed in the narrow valley, and about everything hung a
suggestion of solitude that would have caused any timid or suspicious
soul to have turned back. But Copplestone was neither timid nor
suspicious, and he was already intensely curious about this adventure;
wherefore, grasping Peter Chatfield's oaken cudgel firmly in his right
hand, he jumped over the bridge and followed the narrow path into the
gloom of the trees.
He soon found that the valley resolved itself into a narrow and rocky
defile. The stream, level at first, soon came tumbling down amongst huge
boulders; the path disappeared; out of the oaks and alder high cliffs of
limestones began to lift themselves. The morning was unusually dark and
grey, even for October, and as leaves, brown and sere though they were,
still clustered thickly on the trees, Copplestone quickly found himself
in a gloom that would have made a nervous person frightened. He also
found that his forward progress became increasingly difficult. At the
foot of a tall cliff which suddenly rose up before him he was obliged to
pause; on that side of the stream it seemed impossible to go further. But
as he hesitated, peering here and there under the branches of the dwarf
oaks, he heard a voice, so suddenly, that he started in spite of himself.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94