“Where are we, Raoul?” I inquired faintly.
“Going down to a stream—a branch of the Antigua.”
“We are coming to another precipice?” I asked, with some uneasiness, as the roar of the torrent began to be heard more under our feet, and I snuffed the cold air from below.
“There is one, Captain. There is a good road, though, and well paved.”
“Paved! why, the country around is wild—is it not?”
“True; but the road was paved by the priests.”
“By the priests!” I exclaimed with some astonishment.
“Yes, Captain; there’s a convent in the valley, near the crossing; that is, there was one. It is now a ruin.”
We crept slowly down, our mules at times seeming to walk on their heads. The hissing of the torrent grew gradually louder, until our ears were filled with its hoarse rushing.
I heard Raoul below me shouting some words in a warning voice, when suddenly he seemed borne away, as if he had been tumbled over the precipice.