Just below Marshall, the river makes a magnificent curve, sweeping with a bold and beautiful stretch around the base of the wooded cliffs that rise abruptly from its verge, and from this point the grandeur of the gorge is unmatched and absolutely beyond description. The scenes grow wilder with every mile. Our ears are filled with the roar of the tumultuous river that lashes itself to fury among the rocks of every conceivable form that seem trying to bar its way. Much of the road is made in the bed of the stream, and, as we wind around the cliffs that jut out here and there, it is always with the devout hope that we may not come face to face with some other vehicle. In such a case it is impossible to see what either party would or could do. We are spared any thing of the kind, however, and so we go on, feeling as if we were leaving civilization altogether behind, and plunging deeper and deeper into the heart of primeval Nature. The fact that we meet no travelers strikes us. “I am afraid Laurel _is_ up,” Eric says, doubtfully, “else we should have met somebody from beyond there.” One feature of the day’s travel also impresses us—the number of people who are engaged in fishing. At least once in the course of every half mile we pass a group of men and boys employed in this manner. Our curiosity is roused at last. Why should the whole population of the French Broad be devoting themselves to fishing on this special day? We ask two or three, but receive little satisfaction. Unless approached with some tact, your mountaineer is apt to prove sullen and non-committal. [Illustration: Fishermen.] The road is so rough and so muddy that it is impossible to travel fast, and the afternoon is more than half gone before we hear that we are nine miles from Laurel, of the state of which we have not yet received any definite information. “Eric,” says Charley, riding up to the side of the phaeton which Eric is driving, “I have grave doubts about that river ahead of us. If we can’t cross it, where do you propose to spend the night? There is not a tolerable place between the Springs and Alexander’s.” “We can camp out,” says Sylvia, riding up on the other side. “Eric, pray let us do that.—Aunt Markham, wouldn’t you rather sleep in the carriage than in such houses as we have passed?” “I think I should,” says Aunt Markham, “but I would rather cross Laurel than do either.”