The gorge grew narrower and wilder. They passed an immense tree, under which Indians may have bivouacked, and in some storm long past the lightning had plowed its way from the topmost branch to its gnarled roots.
At last the path crossed a little rill that tinkled with a faint murmur among the stones, making a limpid pool here and there. Immense bowlders, draped with varied-hued mosses and lichens, were scattered about, where in ages past the melting glacier had left them. The trees that densely shaded the place seemed primeval in their age, loftiness, and shaggy girth.
"Oh, what a deliciously cool and lovely spot!" cried Madge, throwing down her alpenstock. "Get me some oak leaves, Graydon, and I will make you a cup and give you a drink."
In a moment she made a fairy chalice with the aid of little twigs, and when she handed it to him, dripping with water, his hand trembled as he took it.
"Why, Graydon," she exclaimed, "what on earth makes you so nervous?"
"I am not used to climbing, and I suppose my hand has a little tremor from fatigue."
"You poor thing! Here is a mossy rock on which you can imitate Rip.
You have only to imagine that my leaf goblet is the goblin flagon of
Irving's legend."
"Where and what would you be after twenty years?"
"Probably a wrinkled spinster at Santa Barbara."
"You wouldn't go away and leave me?"