Lessons were at an end,
for my scholar was away in the green woods. Sometimes she brought me a
bunch of flowers, but I seldom saw her; my wild bird had flown back to
the forest. When the ground was dry and the pine droppings warmed by
the sun, I, too, ventured abroad. One day, wandering as far as the
Arched Rock, I found the surgeon there, and together we sat down to
rest under the trees, looking off over the blue water flecked with
white caps. The Arch is a natural bridge over a chasm one hundred and
fifty feet above the lake,--a fissure in the cliff which has fallen
away in a hollow, leaving the bridge by itself far out over the water.
This bridge springs upward in the shape of an arch; it is fifty feet
long, and its width is in some places two feet, in others only a few
inches,--a narrow, dizzy pathway hanging between sky and water.
'People have crossed it,' I said.
'Only fools,' answered oar surgeon, who despised foolhardiness. 'Has
a man nothing better to do with his life than risk it for the sake of
a silly feat like that! I would not so much as raise my eyes to see
any one cross.'
'O yes, you would, Monsieur Rodenai,' cried a voice behind us.
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