It yelled and pealed and shrilled and shrieked.

It was made up of a thousand piercing cries.
It was a rising and a moving sound.

Beginning at the western break of the valley, it rushed along each gigantic cliff, whistling into the caves and cracks, to mount in power, to bellow a blast through the great stone bridge.

Gone, as into an engulfing roar of surging waters, it seemed to shoot back and begin all over again.
It was only wind, thought Venters.

Here sped and shrieked the sculptor that carved out the wonderful caves in the cliffs.