"Ha, Raphael, you are not going thither! It is of no avail! You will only turn your brain altogether!" exclaimed Marco, as Horace approached him, and to the no small alarm of the fugitive, the bandit actually laid a strong, heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Speranza!" muttered Horace, shaking himself loose from a grasp which seemed to him like that of death. The fugitive could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses when he found himself actually striding onwards beyond the perilous spot. He expected every moment to be overtaken by a bullet, or to hear a sudden shout of recognition. He dared not look behind him, nor much quicken his steps, but instinctively he held his breath till he had gained the wood at the further end of the ledge. Then, indeed a low, fervent thanksgiving burst from the lips of Horace, and he felt himself really free.
The sound of falling water had every minute become more and more distinct. Horace, with eager hope, hurried forward in the direction from whence it came. Yet a little struggling through bramble and bush, trying the most direct way rather than the clearest, while still listening with painful anxiety for sound of pursuit, and the youth reached the bank of a stream which was rushing on as if eager to plunge madly down into the valley. The trunk of a tree lay over it, cutting with its dark, rough outline the path of quivering silver which the moonbeams had thrown across the waters. Here must have been the scene of the fearful catastrophe which Marco had related.
Horace shuddered at the sight of those dark, rapid waters in which a fellow-creature so lately had perished. He had now, however, no time for reflecting on the untimely fate of the wretched Enrico. Remembering the directions of Raphael, Horace was about to track the upward course of the stream, when he was startled by a faint cry, as of a human voice, which mingled with the rushing noise of the cataract. Horace was not of a superstitious nature; but it is no marvel that, when his nerves were quivering from the tension required for a great effort—at that hour of night—in that desolate place—on the very spot where he believed that, but a few hours before, a miserable man had been swept into eternity— that cry should seem to curdle the blood in his veins.
Again it rose, more distinct than before; and now superstition—if such a feeling had for a moment arisen—gave place to one more worthy. Horace was many yards from the head of the cataract, though he could see its spray white in the moonlight; the way to it was very thickly overgrown with brushwood, through which mortal foot had never yet made its way.
He held a short debate in his mind as to the course which he ought to pursue; whether he should seek his own safety by going to the right, or whether he should force a difficult passage to the top of the fall, in hopes of giving aid to some fellow-creature in distress. Was it not possible that Enrico, saved by some incomprehensible miracle, might be there in a position of peril from which he had no power to extricate himself? Might not Horace give aid to the brother of Raphael? That last thought destroyed every doubt, every selfish calculation of personal risk. Horace only considered how he might reach the place, and though not yet daring to answer the cry, he began with all the activity and energy on which he once had prided himself, to make his way to the edge of the cascata.
When the English youth had accomplished his object, how wondrous was the scene which presented itself to his view as he bent forward to gaze down the cascade. The body of water was not large, but the depth of the fall was very great, and one sheet of white foam overspread the stream which plunged seething, hissing, roaring—down—down—down—till it was lost in the cloud of spray which, hundreds of feet below, veiled the bottom of the cataract. Exquisite was the beauty of the fall, especially as now seen by the misty, silvery light of the moon, which gave a ghastly grandeur to the wild, bold, wooded rocks, which the cataract seemed to be cleaving asunder like an archangel's glittering sword. But the eye of Horace was riveted on one dark object in the midst of the foam, not many feet below the summit. At the first glance, he deemed that it might be a fragment of rock that had endured for ages the dash and fret of the restless waters; but no; it moved—it clung—a human being, suspended as it seemed by miracle, was living—breathing in the very heart of the dizzying roar and rush!
"How can I help you?" shouted out Horace, forgetful of everything but the frightful situation of Enrico.
"A rope—quick—my strength is giving way!" Hollow and strange came the scarcely articulate sounds.
Horace struck his brow with his hand. "What can I do? Oh, what can I do? A rope were worth the ransom of a king!"