She hurried Sarchedon down and down, under the overhanging brows of rock, to where the rim sloped out and failed.

Here was a half-acre of sand, with a few scant willows, set down seemingly in a dent at the base of the giant, beetling cliffs.

The place was light, though the light seemed a kind of veiled red, and to Lucy always ghastly.

She could not have been joyous with that river moaning before her, even if it had been up on a level, in the clear and open day.

As a little girl eight years old she had conceived a terror and hatred of this huge, jagged rent so full of red haze and purple smoke and the thunder of rushing waters.