as of a brooding tempest falls upon us
as the way narrows. Suddenly a mad, foaming torrent, with angry roar,
leaps from the rocks above, to toss, and writhe, and moan upon the rocks
below the arch upon which we stand. The water rushes over them, and
dashes against them. It swirls, and pants, and foams, while high above
it all we stand, our faces wet with the spray, our ears deafened by the
terrible roar. Truly, this _is_ "The Devil's Bridge."

Think of armies meeting here, as they did in the old Napoleonic wars,
contending for the passage of the bridge below. Think of the shrieks of
the wounded and dying, mingling with the raging of the waters. Think of
the white foam surging red among the rocks; of the angry torrent beating
out the ebbing life of those who checked its flow. Think of the meeting
of hosts in mortal conflict where no eye but God's could witness it,
upon which not even bird or startled beast looked down. It was like a
dreadful dream from which we passed--as through deep sleep--by a way cut
in the solid rock out into God's world again. Still, from one side of
the road rose the rocks that began to show signs of scanty vegetation
now; from the other fell the precipice to the torrent. We had left the
carriages at the bridge, and singly or in companies toiled up the road
that doubled back upon itself continually. Often we climbed from one of
these windings to the next above, by paths among the rocks, leaving the
carriages to make the turn and follow more slowly. Often our way was the
bed of a last year's torrent, or our feet touched the borders of the
stream, as we pulled ourselves up by the shrubs that grew among the
rocks. The ice-chill in the air brought strength for the time, and
perfect exhilaration. It seemed as if we could go on forever, scaling
these mountain heights.

At last the carriages overtake us, and we reluctantly resume our places.
The road is built out upon the mountain-side. It offers no protection
against the fall of the precipice. It narrows here. We look down, and
say, "How dreadful a careless driver might make this place!" and,
shuddering, draw back. Suddenly the train pauses, and down the long
hill runs a shout, "A carriage has gone over." We spring out, and run to
the front. "Is any one killed?" "No; thank God, no one is harmed." We
gather upon the edge of the precipice. Upon the rocks below lies the
body of a horse--dead, with his fore feet raised, as though pawing the
air; and mingl