‘Fool as I was,’ I exclaimed, ‘not to have thought of the Bruce and Macdougall of Lorne before!’ With new life and vigour, I pressed forward in the direction of the waterfall. The noise came every instant louder and louder upon my ear; and in a short space, I had burst my way down a steep bank, and to the edge of a deep pool, or cauldron, into which a large rivulet came thundering and foaming down, through a deep chasm in the rocks above. I had little time to admire the loveliness of the cataract; but rushing to the outlet of the pool, I saw that the stream went dancing down a pebbly bed, intersected here and there with low veins and ledges of rocks, like weirs, over which the bright water flashed and foamed right merrily. So, with a cry of joy, I bounded into the stream, and began rapidly to splash my way downwards, running with almost frantic haste, sometimes slipping and stumbling over the smooth slimy stones, sometimes floundering into a deepish pool, scaring the fish, which flew gleaming away, like wedges of burnished metal, to seek shelter under the ledges of rock, or amongst the twisted roots of trees upon the bank, among which the water frothed and gurgled. ‘My great and fervent benison be upon water,’ I cried to myself. ‘It hath ever been my home, and now is it my refuge and my safety. Thanks, thanks, good secret-keeping stream! Amid the merry music of thy murmur, thou wilt never prate the whereabouts of the poor flying mariner. Rush speedily on with me, fair and living waters, sweeping my track fast downwards to the sea!’