selves heard if they had wished to speak; but their
thoughts were those that could be exchanged without the agency of the
lips.

The volume of the Rjukan fall is enormous, its height very
considerable, and its 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 water-fall 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 can not 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
water-fall, 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, know 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 know. 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