Ticket No. 9672 by Jules Verne (the best e book reader txt) 📕

roar deafening. The earth makes an abrupt descent of nine hundred feet to the bed of the Maan midway between Lake Mjos and Lake Tinn, nine hundred feet, that is to say six times the height of Niagara, though the width of this last waterfall from the American to the Canadian shore is three miles.

The Rjukan is so grand and unique in its aspect that any description falls far short of the reality, and even a painting cannot do justice to it. There are certain wonders of nature that must be seen if one would form any adequate conception of their beauty; and this waterfall, which is one of the most widely celebrated in Europe, belongs to this category.

These were the very thoughts that were passing through the mind of a tourist who was at that very moment sitting perched upon a rock on the right bank of the Maan, from which spot he could command a nearer and more extended view of the fall.

Neither Joel nor his sister had yet noticed him, though he was plainly visible from the rock on which they were seated.

In a few minutes the traveler rose and very imprudently ventured out upon the rocky slope that is rounded like a dome on the side next the Maan. What the adventurous tourist wished to see was evidently the two caverns under the fall, the one to the left, which is ever filled to the top with a mass of seething foam, and the one to the right, which is always enshrouded in a heavy mist. Possibly he was even trying to ascertain if there were not a third cavern midway down the fall to account for the fact that the Rjukan at intervals projects straight outward into space a mass of water and spray, making it appear as if the waters had suddenly been scattered in a fine spray over the surrounding fields by some terrific explosion in the rear of the fall.

And now the daring tourist was slowly but persistently making his way over the rough and slippery ledge of rock, destitute alike of shrubbery or grass, known as the Passe de Marie, or the Maristien.

It is more than probable, however, that he was ignorant of the legend that has made this pass so widely known. One day Eystein endeavored to reach his betrothed, the beautiful Marie of Vesfjorddal, by this dangerous path. His sweetheart was holding out her arms to him from the other side of the gorge, when suddenly he lost his footing, fell, slipped further and further down the ledge of rock which is as smooth as glass, and disappeared forever in the seething rapids of the Maan.

Was this rash traveler about to meet a similar fate?

It seemed only too probable; and in fact he soon perceived the danger of his position, though not until it was too late. Suddenly his foot slipped, he uttered a cry, and after rolling nearly twenty feet, he finally succeeded in securing a hold upon a projecting rock on the very edge of the abyss.

Joel and Hulda, though they had not yet caught sight of him, heard his cry.

“What is that?” exclaimed Joel, springing to his feet.

“A cry!” replied Hulda.

“Yes, a cry of distress.”

“From what direction did it come?”

“Let us listen.”

Both looked first to the right, and then to the left of the fall, but they saw nothing, though they had certainly heard the words “Help! help!” uttered during one of the intervals between each rebound of the Rjukan.

The cry was repeated.

“Joel, someone who is in danger is calling for help,” cried Hulda. “We must go to his aid.”

“Yes, sister; and he cannot be far off. But in what direction? Where is he? I see no one.”

Hulda hastily climbed a little knoll behind the mossy rock upon which she had been sitting.

“Joel!” she cried, suddenly.

“Do you see him?”

“There, there!”

As she spoke she pointed to the imprudent man whose body seemed to be almost overhanging the abyss. If his foothold upon a tiny ledge of rock failed him, or he was seized with dizziness, he was lost.

“We must save him!” said Hulda.

“Yes,” replied Joel, “if we can keep our wits about us we shall perhaps be able to reach him.”

Joel gave a loud shout to attract the attention of the traveler, who immediately turned his head toward the spot from which the sound proceeded; then the worthy fellow devoted a few moments to deciding how he could best rescue the stranger from his dangerous position.

“You are not afraid, are you, Hulda?” he asked.

“No, brother.”

“You know the Maristien well, do you not?”

“I have crossed it several times.”

“Then walk along the brow of the cliff, gradually getting as near the traveler as you possibly can; then allow yourself to slide down gently toward him, and take him by the hand, so as to prevent him from falling any further; but do not let him try to lift himself up, because if he should be seized with vertigo he would certainly drag you down with him, and you would both be lost.”

“And you, Joel?”

“While you are traversing the brow of the cliff I will creep along the edge of it on the riverside. I shall reach him about as soon as you do, and if you should slip I shall perhaps be able to prevent you both from falling.”

Then, taking advantage of another interval in the roaring of the torrent, Joel shouted in stentorian tones:

“Don’t move, sir. Wait; we will try to get to you!”

Hulda had already disappeared behind the trees that crowned the ledge, in order to ascend the Maristien from the other side of the declivity, and Joel soon caught a glimpse of the fast-receding form of the brave girl at the turn in the path where the last trees grew.

He, in turn, at the peril of his life, had begun to creep slowly along the shelving edge of the ledge that surrounds the Rjukan. What wonderful coolness, what steadiness of foot and of hand were required