One afternoon a dull, lead-black-colored cinder knoll tempted her to
explore its bare heights. She rode up until her mustang sank to his knees
and could climb no farther. From there she essayed the ascent on foot. It
took labor. But at last she gained the summit, burning, sweating, panting.
The cinder hill was an extinct crater of a volcano. In the center of it lay
a deep bowl, wondrously symmetrical, and of a dark lusterless hue. Not a
blade of grass was there, nor a plant. Carley conceived a desire to go to
the bottom of this pit. She tried the cinders of the edge of the slope.
They had the same consistency as those of the ascent she had overcome. But
here there was a steeper incline. A tingling rush of daring seemed to drive
her over the rounded rim, and, once started down, it was as if she wore
seven-league boots. Fear left her. Only an exhilarating emotion consumed
her. If there were danger, it mattered not. She strode down with giant
steps, she plunged, she started avalanches to ride them until they stopped,
she leaped, and lastly she fell, to roll over the soft cinders to the pit.
There she lay. It seemed a comfortable resting place. The pit was scarcely
six feet across.
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