We make slow progress here. It is impossible not to pause and linger at every step. The road, flecked with shadows, stretches before us, bounded on one side by the tumultuous river, overshadowed on the other by these inexpressibly picturesque escarpments. Sylvia descends from her horse, and, looping up her habit, climbs the rocks with almost childlike delight—followed by her two attendants, who do not probably enjoy the scrambling so much. Yet a change has evidently come over Charley. Despite his indolence, he has a genuine love of Nature, and it begins to assert itself. Lanier, on the contrary, would be plainly content to sit on his horse and say, “Really, very beautiful!” “How little idea most people have of the grandeur of this country!” says Eric. “The pass of the Trosachs is nothing to this gorge of the French Broad—yet compare the renown of the one with the obscurity of the other.” “Yet the scenery of the French Broad is tame compared to some that is to be found in these mountains—and which is absolutely unknown,” says Charley. “Tame!” repeats Sylvia. “Are we always to remain below in the scale of comparison? Shall we never see any thing which has the distinction of being superlative?” “Yes, you will stand on the Black Mountain and you will see Hickory-Nut Gap,” Eric answers. “Those two things are superlative.” Since the day is wearing on, we cannot linger so long as we should like. Though our road is bounded by the narrow walls of the gorge through which the river forces its way, there is no monotony in the scenery. Every curve of the winding stream gives us a picture of new beauty—a picture essentially unlike any that we have seen before. As we advance, the mountains on each side rise higher, the stream grows wilder, the masses of rock which strew its channel are larger, sometimes piled in fantastic shapes with the water surging around and boiling under them, or forming islands covered with greenness. [Illustration: At Luncheon.] Toward the middle of the day the sun shines out hotly—making our noonday rest, while we eat our luncheon, very pleasant. It is while we are engaged in this manner, scattered over the rocks by the river-bank, under the shade of the trees, that to our surprise the stage, which we expected to meet much later in the day, comes driving past. Two or three voices hail the driver: “Halloa!—from the Warm Springs already?” _Driver_: “Haven’t been to the Springs to-day—couldn’t cross Laurel yesterday evening.” “Is it too high for fording?” “Much too high.” “Do you think it is down by this time?” “Can’t tell—maybe.” Then the lumbering vehicle rattles on, and we look at each other. “By George! here’s a promising state of affairs!” says Mr. Lanier, twisting the ends of his black mustache. “I’ve had my doubts about Laurel from the first,” says Charley, taking another sandwich. “It’s a dangerous-looking stream even at low water.”