We made a halt in the middle of the day, but the rain was coming down,
and we were glad to be soon off again.

In the afternoon we got over into the Roumanian side of the frontier.
The lofty limestone ridge of which I have spoken is in fact the
boundary-line at this part. We were at an elevation of about 6000 feet,
judging from the heights above us, when suddenly, or almost suddenly,
the clouds were lifted which hitherto had enveloped us. It was like
drawing up the curtain of a theatre. I never remember to have seen
anything so striking as this sudden revealing of the fair world at our
feet, bathed in glowing sunlight. We beheld the plains of Roumania far
away stretched as a map beneath us; there, though one cannot discern it,
the swift Aluta joins the Danube opposite Nicopolis; and there, within
range of the glass, are the white mosques of Widdin in Bulgaria. We
looked right down into Little Wallachia, where woods, rocks, and streams
are tumbled about pellmell in a picturesque but unsettled sort of way.
The very locality we were traversing is the part where the
salt-smugglers used to carry on their trade, and many a sharp encounter
has been fought here between them and the soldiers. This is now a thing
of the past, since Roumania has also introduced a salt monopoly.

We were treated to this glorious view for little more than half an hour;
the clouds then enveloped us again, and blotted out that fair world,
with all its brightness, as if it were not. A strong wind blew up from
the north, bringing with it a storm of rain and sleet which chilled us
to the bones. The horses went slower and slower. Including the noonday
halt, we had been ten hours in the saddle, and men and horses had had
pretty well enough. I never recollect a colder ride.