Despite this foreboding prophecy, the afternoon remains clear, and we see the wild beauty of the gorge for the first time to advantage. The air is like crystal, and a glory of sunlight streams on the river with its masses of rock and the mountains that overshadow it. In the five miles that lie between our place of lodging and the banks of Laurel, the picturesque loveliness changes and deepens constantly. The river grows more and more tumultuous, and its waves wear caps of foam like the breakers of the ocean as they plunge in stormy rapids over its hidden rocks. Rugged cliffs hang over us, fringed with ferns and mosses; verdure-clad mountains rise from the other bank; leaping cascades tumble down the rocky glens and dash across our way—there are pictures on every side that would repay the lover of Nature or the artist for any hardship or fatigue that could possibly be encountered in reaching this land of almost unknown beauty. [Illustration: Laurel Run.] Presently we see a broad, green stream flowing in front of us, and the horses are drawn up on the banks of Laurel. Notwithstanding the late heavy rains, there is no tinge of mud in the clear water of this mountain river, and we appreciate the strength of its current when we see that it sweeps directly across the French Broad before the latter river can change its course. Even then, it takes half of the channel, and the clear and the turbid current flow onward side by side. The bridge which was swept away crossed the stream near its mouth; but the ford is a little higher, and to this we drive. There is a cabin on the other side, from which, in answer to several halloos, the ferryman issues. The canoe in which we are to make the passage is moored on the other side, and at this Aunt Markham gazes doubtfully. “John,” she says to her coachman, whom she considers less likely to run dangerous risks than Eric, in whose vocabulary fear is a word unknown—“John, do you think that boat is safe? I suppose we can cross in it, but how about the carriages and the horses? Don’t you think it might be better for you to remain on this side until the river goes down?” This is a proposal which does not meet with John’s approval. No one has a better appreciation of good lodging and good fare than the negro of the old _régime_. “There ain’t no danger at all ef we takes the carriages off the wheels,” he replies. “We can hold ’em steady on the boat, and the horses can swim easy enough.” “Oh, it will all be easy,” says Eric, coming to the carriage door. “There is no reason to be nervous, mother. I am sorry that it is necessary you should alight—every thing must be taken out of here, John—luggage, cushions, every thing.” “This is—dreadful!” says Aunt Markham, with a gasp, after she has been deposited on the road-side in the blazing heat of the sun, with satchels, novels, and baskets strewed around in wild confusion.