[Footnote 1: Nestorian Biography, p. 127.]
On Monday, they left for a visit to the Alpine district of Ishtazin.
Unable to take horses along those frightful paths, they rode on
hardy mules. In a subsequent journey over the same road, the
fastenings of Miss Fiske's saddle gave way, and she fell, but
providentially without injury. Sometimes they climbed, or, more
hazardous still, descended, a long, steep stairway of rock, or they
were hid in the clouds that hung around the higher peaks of the
mountain. Now the path led them under huge, detached rocks, that
seemed asking leave to overwhelm them, and now under the solid
cliffs, that suggested the more grateful idea of the shadow of a
great rock in a weary land. Down in the valley were pleasant
waterfalls, little fields rescued by much labor from the surrounding
waste, choice fruits, and such a variety of flowers, that it seemed
as if spring, summer, and autumn had combined to supply them. Then,
in looking up, the eye rested on silver threads apparently hanging
down from far-off summits, but really foaming streams dashing
headlong down the rocks, yet so distant that no sound came to the
ear from their roaring waters.
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