follow; and obeyed her
directions implicitly. "Who is that?" I whispered. "It is Ghita, the
Volcano-girl," he replied in English, before repeating the Italian name,
which might be translated, the "Daughter of the Volcano." I had no time
for further inquiries. We were once more in motion, and had enough to do
to keep our footing on the rough lava in the teeth of as furious a blast
as ever I remember encountering. It would have been dangerous to stand
even near a precipice.

It was a marvelous scene that vast black valley with its lake of fire at
the bottom--its cone of fire on one hand. The discharges were constant,
and had something appalling in their sound. We were almost too much
excited for observation. Now we looked at the cone of green and gold
that sank and rose, faded and brightened, smoked or flamed; then at the
seething lake; then at the strong mountains of lava; then at the burning
fissures that yawned around. There were yet some remnants of day--a
gloomy twilight at least revealed the jagged rim of the valley. Down we
went--down, down to the very edge of the boiling caldron of melted lava,
that rolled its huge waves toward the black shore, waves whose foam and
spray were fire and flame! An eruption evidently was preparing; and soon
indeed took place. We missed the sight; but what we now saw was grand
enough. A troop of heavy black clouds was hurrying athwart the sky,
showing the stars ever and anon between "like a swarm of golden bees."
The wind roared and bellowed among the lava-gullies, while the cone
discharged its blocks of burning lava, or its showers of red sparks,
with a boom like that of a park of artillery.

A thousand travelers may witness and describe the scene, but it can
never be hackneyed or vulgar. The volcano-girl, evidently familiar with
every changing aspect, crept to my side, as I stood apart wrapt in
silent admiration and wonder, and I caught her examining the expression
of my face as it was revealed by the dismal glare of the burning lake.
"E bellissima!" she whispered in a husky voice, pressing close to my
side, and trembling like a leaf, not with present fear, but manifestly
in memory of some dreadful event. We were friends from that moment, and
she constituted herself my especial guide, running before me to choose
the surest paths, giving me her delicate little hand, and showing, in
fact, all possible willingness to make up our little quarrel, if she
retained any remembrance of it.