The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3Poe, Edgar Allan
General
The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3
Poe, Edgar Allan
American fiction -- 19th century; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales, American
I now called to mind that three of us had entered the fissure
from the main gorge, and that our companion, Allen, was still
missing; we determined at once to retrace our steps and look for
him. After a long search, and much danger from the farther caving
in of the earth above us, Peters at length cried out to me that
he had hold of our companion’s foot, and that his whole body was
deeply buried beneath the rubbish beyond the possibility of
extricating him. I soon found that what he said was too true, and
that, of course, life had been long extinct. With sorrowful
hearts, therefore, we left the corpse to its fate, and again made
our way to the bend.
The breadth of the seam was barely sufficient to admit us, and,
after one or two ineffectual efforts at getting up, we began once
more to despair. I have before said that the chain of hills
through which ran the main gorge was composed of a species of
soft rock resembling soapstone. The sides of the cleft we were
now attempting to ascend were of the same material, and so
excessively slippery, being wet, that we could get but little
foothold upon them even in their least precipitous parts; in some
places, where the ascent was nearly perpendicular, the difficulty
was, of course, much aggravated; and, indeed, for some time we
thought insurmountable. We took courage, however, from despair,
and what, by dint of cutting steps in the soft stone with our
bowie knives, and swinging at the risk of our lives, to small
projecting points of a harder species of slaty rock which now and
then protruded from the general mass, we at length reached a
natural platform, from which was perceptible a patch of blue sky,
at the extremity of a thickly-wooded ravine. Looking back now,
with somewhat more leisure, at the passage through which we had
thus far proceeded, we clearly saw from the appearance of its
sides, that it was of late formation, and we concluded that the
concussion, whatever it was, which had so unexpectedly
overwhelmed us, had also, at the same moment, laid open this path
for escape. Being quite exhausted with exertion, and indeed, so
weak that we were scarcely able to stand or articulate, Peters
now proposed that we should endeavour to bring our companions to
the rescue by firing the pistols which still remained in our
girdles—the muskets as well as cutlasses had been lost among the
loose earth at the bottom of the chasm. Subsequent events proved
that, had we fired, we should have sorely repented it, but
luckily a half suspicion of foul play had by this time arisen in
my mind, and we forbore to let the savages know of our
whereabouts.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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