With
strong, nervous clutch Bostil felt the knots of the cables. Then he peered
into the opaque gloom of that strange and huge V-shaped split between the
great canyon walls. Bostil's mind had begun to relax from the single idea. Was
he alone? Except for the low murmur of the river there was dead silence--a
silence like no other--a silence which seemed held under imprisoning walls.
Yet Bostil peered long into the shadows. Then he looked up. The ragged
ramparts far above frowned bold and black at a few cold stars, and the blue of
its sky was without the usual velvety brightness. How far it was up to that
corrugated rim! All of a sudden Bostil hated this vast ebony pit.
He strode down to the water and, sitting upon the stone he had occupied so
often, he listened. He turned his ear up-stream, then down-stream, and to the
side, and again up-stream and listened.
The river seemed the same.
It was slow, heavy, listless, eddying, lingering, moving--the same apparently
as for days past. It splashed very softly and murmured low and gurgled
faintly.
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