Heard. They had
left he cultivated ground behind and were now ascending, by a cindery
track of pumice-stone, among grotesque blocks of lava and scoriae that
glowed like molten metal. Tufts of flowery broom scented the air. The
soil, so recently drenched by the miraculous shower of rain, was once
more dry and dusty; its fragile flowers wilted in the sirocco. And
still the young man marched ahead. Always upwards! The landscape grew
more savage. They bent round a corner and gound themselves skirting a
precipice. The bishop glanced down in trepidation. There lay the sea,
with not a boat in sight. As he continued to look the horizon
oscillated; the ground sank under his feet and blue waters seemed to
heave and rise up towards him. He shut his eyes in a fit of dizziness
and grasped a rock. Its burning touch revived him.
Then on again. Always upwards.
"Do walk a little more slowly," said the bishop, puffing and wiping his
face. "We must be well above the level of the Old Town by this time. A
wild scramble.
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