The long day wore on; the sun rose to the zenith and sunk, and
still the Indians pushed forward. It was a long, forced march, and
Cecil was terribly fatigued when at last one of the Indians told
him that they were near a big river where they would camp for the
night.
“One sun more,” said the Indian, pointing to the sun now sinking
in the west, “and you will see the Bridge of the Gods.”
The news re-animated Cecil, and he hurried on. A shout rose from
the Indians in advance. He saw the head of the long train of horses
and riders pause and look downward and the Indians at the rear
gallop forward. Cecil and his friend followed and joined them.
“The river! the river!” cried the Indians, as they rode up. The
scene below was one of gloomy but magnificent beauty. Beneath them
opened a
