“There may be a storm before long,” says Eric. “Shall we go back and defer seeing the falls until to-morrow?” “Go back because there is a dark cloud three or four miles away?” says Sylvia. “What an idea! No; let us go on.” “Is that the vote of the party?” he asks, looking round. Yes, it is the vote of the party; the feminine part of which is strongly inclined to suspect the other part of wanting to secure another uninterrupted hunt. “If the storm comes up,” says Charley, “we can find a refuge at the Bridal-Veil Fall.” “What an odd place to find a refuge!” says Mrs. Cardigan. “How can a fall shelter us—unless it be on the homœopathic principle of like curing like?” “You’ll see when we get there how it can shelter us,” says Mr. Brandon, winding a blast on his horn. Having ascended the mountain on one side, we go down on the other, leaving the sheets of rock behind, and plunging into the depths of a forest without road or path. We are struggling through a laurel _chaparral_ in single file, and I am wondering if I shall emerge without having suffered the loss of any of my raiment, or without being pulled from my horse, when a vivid flash of lightning suddenly blazes around us, and a rattling peal of thunder sounds overhead. We glance up in dismay. That the sun has been for some little time obscured we are all aware, but the suddenness with which the cloud has come over astonishes even those who are best acquainted with mountain-storms. “I did not expect it so soon,” says Mr. Brandon. “We must run for it, or we shall be drenched to the skin.” “Run! where?” asks Mr. Lanier, blankly. “To the fall!” answers Eric, galloping ahead. There is no time for question. Another vivid flash, another volleying peal, show us the necessity of following as rapidly as possible. Away we go, a string of racing equestrians, presenting altogether so ludicrous an appearance that I find myself shaking with laughter as I bring up the rear. It is a breathless race, under drooping boughs, through dense thickets, over fallen trees, down declivities where a stumble would send horse and rider rolling head-foremost. Presently we dash into something bearing a faint resemblance to a road, and, just as the first heavy drops of rain begin to fall, come in sight of a white sheet of water rushing swiftly down an inclined plane of rock, falling abruptly in a beautiful cascade, and then shooting down another rocky slope. Here our escorts draw up their panting horses. “Just in time!” says Charley, as he lifts Sylvia from her saddle. The rest of us are deposited on the ground, the horses are fastened, and then, as the rain begins to pour fast and furious, we are hurried along a winding descent over and under rocks, until some one says, “Stoop!” and we find ourselves beneath a great shelving rock on a level with the lower river-bed. “Why, this is like the Black Mountain cave!” exclaims Sylvia, “only five times as large.”