"Let us rest here," said St. John, as we reached the first stragglers of a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond which the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where, still a little farther, the mountain shook off turf and flower, had only heath for raiment and crag for gem--where it exaggerated the wild to the savage, and exchanged the fresh for the frowning--where it guarded the forlorn hope of solitude, and a last refuge for silence.
«Asseyons-nous ici,» dit Saint-John au moment où nous atteignions les premiers rochers qui gardent l'entrée d'une gorge où le torrent se précipite en cascade. Un peu au delà, la montagne n'avait plus ni fleurs ni gazon, la mousse lui servait de tapis, le roc de pierre précieuse.