As I approached the Swallow Falls Hotel, I lingered to
let my fancy feast in anticipation on the lovely spectacle that
awaited me. When I turned into the wood I encountered only one
person, a lady, and she hurried back to the hotel as soon as I
approached the river.
Following the slippery path as far as it led down the dell, I
stopped at the brink of a pool about a dozen yards, apparently,
from the bottom, and looked up at the water. Bursting like a vast
belt of molten silver out of an eerie wilderness of rocks and trees,
the stream, as it tumbled down between high walls of cliff to the
platform of projecting rocks around the pool at the edge of which I
stood, divided into three torrents, which themselves were again
divided and scattered by projecting boulders into cascades before
they fell into the gulf below. The whole seemed one wide cataract of
living moonlight that made the eyes ache with beauty.
Amid the din of the water I listened for the wail which had so deeply
impressed Winifred, and certainly there was what may be described as
a sound within a sound, which ears so attuned to every note of
Superstition's gamut as Winifred's might easily accept as the wail of
Sir John Wynn's ghost.
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