The monotonous noise and
motion of the train had put our fellow-travelers to sleep, and when it
gradually ceased they did not stir. There was no bustle at the little
station where we stopped; a few drowsy figures stole silently by in
the dim light, like ghosts on the spectral shore of Acheron; the whole
scene was strangely unreal, phantasmal. "What can it be?" we asked
each other under our breaths. "There is but one thing that it can
be--Lake Thrasimene." And so it was. Often since, both by starlight
and daylight, we have seen that watery sheet of fatal memories, but
it never wore the same shadowy yet impressive aspect as on our first
night-journey from Florence to Rome.
Not far from here one leaves the train for Perugia, seated high on
a bluff amid walls and towers. We had been told a good deal of the
terrors of the way--how so steep was the approach that at a certain
point horses give out and carriages must be dragged up by oxen. It was
with some surprise, therefore, that we saw ordinary hotel omnibuses
and carriages waiting at the station. But we did not allow ourselves
to feel any false security: by and by we knew the tug must come. We
set off by a wide, winding road, uphill undoubtedly, but smooth and
easy: however, this was only the beginning; and as it grew steeper and
steeper, we waited in trepidation for the moment when the heavy beasts
should be hitched on to haul us up the acclivity.
Pages:
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57