Some minutes passed, perhaps fifteen, perhaps less, perhaps more; I can not say how long it was. Of a sudden, however, Rhodes, who was still leading the way, stopped. Of course, I stopped, too. No sound had escaped him, and he stood there like a statue, peering intently straight ahead.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Look there, Bill," he said in a low voice, pointing with his alpenstock, "and tell me what you see."
I was already looking, and already I had seen it.
But what in the world was that thing which I saw?
I remained silent, gazing with straining eyes and wondering if I really saw what I thought that I did.
"What," Rhodes asked, "do you make of it?"
"The thing is so faint. 'Tis impossible, and yet, if it were not impossible it can be that, I would say that it is an arch—part of a bridge."
"Just what I thought myself, Bill. The thing is so strange, though, so very strange, that I didn't know whether to believe my eyes or not."
"And so dim," I observed, "that it may be nothing of the kind. A bridge? Now, who, in the name of wonder, would build a bridge across this frightful chasm? And why? And how?"