They went on for a while in silence, the only sound falling upon their ears being the continuous roar of the torrent-like river which rushed down the valley in a narrow chasm far below their feet—one series of thundering cascades, all foam and milky glacier water.
Patches of pine forest, with the trees crowded close together, every stem straight as an arrow, ran for some distance up the sides of the vale; but there was no sign or note of bird. All was solemn and still, save that deep-toned roar.
Saxe stopped suddenly, waited till they came near, and held up his hand.
“What is it?” said Dale.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Mr Dale? Only two days ago in London, and here we are in this wild place! Why, you can’t hear a sound but the water!”
Almost as he spoke he bounded from the spot where he was standing, and ran a few yards in alarm.
For from somewhere unseen and high above, there was a sudden roar, a terrific crash, then a rushing sound, followed by a dead silence of a few seconds, and then the earth seemed to receive a quivering blow, resulting in a boom like that of some monstrous gun, and the noise now ran up the valley, vibrating from side to side, till it died away in a low moan.
The boy looked wildly from one to the other, to see that his uncle was quite unmoved and that the guide was smiling at him.
“Then that was thunder?” he said inquiringly.
“No; a big piece of rock split off and fell,” replied the guide.