As may be supposed--continued the pilot--the mountain sides are very
rugged, but on the summit stands a brass dome supported on pillars, and
bearing on top the figure of a brass horse, with a rider on his back.
This rider wears a breastplate of lead, on which strange signs and
figures are engraved, and it is said that as long as this statue
remains on the dome, vessels will never cease to perish at the foot of
the mountain.
So saying, the pilot began to weep afresh, and the crew, fearing their
last hour had come, made their wills, each one in favour of his fellow.
At noon next day, as the pilot had foretold, we were so near to the
Black Mountain that we saw all the nails and iron fly out of the ships
and dash themselves against the mountain with a horrible noise. A
moment after the vessels fell asunder and sank, the crews with them. I
alone managed to grasp a floating plank, and was driven ashore by the
wind, without even a scratch. What was my joy on finding myself at the
bottom of some steps which led straight up the mountain, for there was
not another inch to the right or the left where a man could set his
foot. And, indeed, even the steps themselves were so narrow and so
steep that, if the lightest breeze had arisen, I should certainly have
been blown into the sea.