Strock. From Pleasant Garden we can see the entire
crest of the mountain. Not a suspicious noise has come down to us.
Not a spark has risen. If a legion of devils is in hiding there, they
must have finished their infernal cookery, and soared away to some
other haunt."
"Devils!" cried Mr. Smith. "Well, I hope they have not decamped
without leaving some traces of their occupation, some parings of
hoofs or horns or tails. We shall find them out."
On the morrow, the twenty-ninth of April, we started again at dawn.
By the end of this second day, we expected to reach the farm of
Wildon at the foot of the mountain. The country was much the same as
before, except that our road led more steeply upward. Woods and
marshes alternated, though the latter grew sparser, being drained by
the sun as we approached the higher levels. The country was also less
populous. There were only a few little hamlets, almost lost beneath
the beech trees, a few lonely farms, abundantly watered by the many
streams that rushed downward toward the Catawba River.
The smaller birds and beasts grew yet more numerous. "I am much
tempted to take my gun," said Mr. Smith, "and to go off with Nisko.
This will be the first time that I have passed here without trying my
luck with the partridges and hares. The good beasts will not
recognize me.
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