“And what a bridge,” muttered the colonel.
He might well exclaim, for it was formed in the narrowest part of the gloomy gorge, and though not more than five-and-thirty feet in length, it looked perilous in the extreme, being formed merely of a couple of thick ropes of twisted fibre, secured at either side round masses of rock, and with a roadway made by rough pieces of wood laid across and firmly bound to the ropes.
“A suspension bridge with a vengeance,” continued the colonel. “We shall never get the mules to cross that.”
And he had perfect warrant for his words. For some forty yards below, the water foamed along in a perfect torrent, falling heavily from a shelf above, and sending up quite a thick mist, which magnified the surrounding objects and added to the gloom of the place.
Perry felt appalled, but the halt was of short duration, for after turning to them and shouting something which was almost inaudible in the roar of the torrent, the Indian stepped on to the bridge, and walked coolly across, half hidden by the mist; while the mule which played the part of leader bent its head, sniffed at the stout boards which formed the flooring, stepped on and walked carefully across, with the bridge swaying heavily beneath its weight.
“Not so bad as it looked, my lad,” said the colonel, as the next mule followed without hesitation. Then, after a pause, their new Indian crossed, followed with the mule by which he had walked, and then the rest, including those from which the travellers had dismounted, for no one thought of venturing to ride across the chasm.
“Our turns now, Perry,” said the colonel. “How do you feel?”
“Don’t like it,” said Perry huskily.
“Summon up your nerve, my lad; forget that there is any torrent beneath you, and walk boldly across. Here, I’ll go first.”
“No, no, please don’t,” cried Perry, setting his teeth. “I’ll go.”