 In truth he was a strange and wayward white, fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. In darkness and in storm he found a light. More less than when on ocean waves serene, the southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen. Each sad vicissitude amused his soul, and if a sigh would sometimes intervene, and down his cheek a tear of pity roll, a sigh, a tear, so sweet he wished not to control the minstrel. Sanobert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous to set forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him, and, talking again of the road, Valencourt said that some months passed he had travelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence on the way to Roussillon. He recommended it to Sanobert to take that route, and the latter determined to do so. The road from this hamlet, said Valencourt, and that to Beaujeu, part at the distance of about a leg and a half from hence. If you will give me leave, I will direct your moloteer so far. I must wander somewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than any other I could take. Sanobert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together the young stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of Sanobert to take a seat in his little carriage. The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral valley, bright with radure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak, beech, and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle were posed. The mountain ash, too, and the weeping birch, often threw their pendant foliage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely concealed their roots, and where their light branches waved to every breeze that fluttered from the mountains. The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun had not yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks from their folds to feed upon the hills. Sanobert had set out thus early not only that he might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that he might inhale the first pure breath of morning, which above all things is refreshing to the spirits of the Invalid. In these regions it was particularly so, where an abundance of wildflowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth their essence on the air. The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar gray tint, now dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling on the tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light, while their sides and the veil below were still wrapped in dewy mist. Meanwhile the sullen gray of the eastern clouds began to blush, then to redden, and then to glow with a thousand colors till the golden light darted over all the air, such the lower points of the mountain's brow, and glanced in long, sloping beams upon the valley and its stream. All nature seemed to have awakened from death into life. The spirit of Sanobert was renovated. His heart was full. He wept, and his thoughts ascended to the great Creator. Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, and to taste the full delight of that liberty, which the Izzard seemed to enjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs. While Valancourt often stopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling to point out to them the peculiar objects of his admiration, Sanobert was pleased with him. Here is the real ingenuousness and ardor of youth, said he to himself. This young man has never been at Paris. He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and his heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so short an acquaintance. Valancourt, talked long by the side of the carriage, seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared to search anxiously for topics of conversation to account for his delay. At length he took leave. As he went, Sanobert observed him look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with accountants full of timid sweetness while the carriage drove on. Sanobert, for whatever reason, soon after looked from the window and saw Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with folded arms and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and Valancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the salute and started away. The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soon found themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to their summits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shot up from the veil and lost its snowy top in the clouds. The rivulet, which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a river, and flowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a mirror, the blackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was seen lifting its bold head above the woods and the vapours that floated midway down the mountains, and sometimes a face of perpendicular marble rose from the water's edge, over which the larch threw his gigantic arms, here scathed with lightning, and there floating in luxuriant foliage. They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing now and then at a distance the solitary shepherd with his dog stalking along the valley and hearing only the dashing of torrents, which the woods concealed from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the breeze, as it swept over the pines, or the notes of the eagle and the vulture, which were seen towering round the beatling cliff. Often as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, Sanobara lighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that grew on the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound, while Emily, wrapped in high enthusiasm, wandered away under the shades, listening in deep silence to the lonely murmur of the woods. Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues. The goat herds or the hunter's cabin perched among the cliffs of the rocks were the only human habitations that appeared. The travelers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant spot in the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars, and then set forward towards Boje. The road now began to descend, and leaving the pine forests behind, wound among rocky precipices, the evening twilight again fell over the scene, and the travelers were ignorant how far they might yet be from Boje. Sanobara, however, conjectured that the distance could not be very great, and comforted himself with the prospect of traveling on a more frequented road after reaching that town, where he designed to pass the night. Minkled woods and rocks and heathy mountains were now seen obscurely through the dusk, but soon even these imperfect images faded in darkness. People proceeded with caution, for he could scarcely distinguish the road. His mules, however, seemed to have more sagacity, and their steps were sure. On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance that illumined the rocks and the horizon to a great extent. It was evidently a large fire, but whether accidental or otherwise, there were no means of knowing. Sanobara thought it was probably kindled by some of the numerous banditry that infested the Pyrenees, and he became watchful and anxious to know whether the road passed near this fire. He had arms with him, which on an emergency might afford some protection, though certainly a very unequal one against a band of robbers, so desperate, too, as those usually were who haunted these wild regions. While many reflections rose upon his mind, he heard a voice shouting from the road behind, and ordering the volunteer to stop. Sanobara bade him proceedings fast as possible, but either Michael or his mules were obstinate, for they did not quit the old pace. Horse's feet were now heard. A man rode up to the carriage, still ordering the driver to stop, and Sanobara, who could no longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able to prepare the pistol for his defense. When his hand was upon the door of the shez, the man staggered on his horse. The report of the pistol was followed by a groan. And Sanobara's horror may be imagined, when in the next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valenkor. He now bade the moloteer stop, and, pronouncing the name of Valenkor, was answered in a voice that no longer suffered him to doubt. Sanobara, who instantly alighted and went to his assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely, and appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavored to soften the terror of Sanobara by assurances that he was not materially hurt, the wound being only in his arm. Sanobara, with the moloteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where Sanobara tried to bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that he could not accomplish it. And Michael, being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which on being disengaged from his rider had galloped off, he called Emily to his assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage and found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this circumstance, and that of leaving Valencor bleeding, he scarcely knew what he did. He endeavored, however, to raise her, and called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the road, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valencor, who heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly understood the subject of his distress, and almost forgetting his own condition he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he reached the carriage, and then understanding that anxiety for him had occasioned her in disposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While he said this, Saint Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was still bleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formed some handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of the blood, but Saint Aubert, dreading the consequences of the wound, inquired repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu. When learning that it was at least two leagues' distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how Valencor, in his present state, would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he was already faint from the loss of blood. When he mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valencor entreated that he would not suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had no doubt he should be able to support himself very well. And then he talked of the accident as a slight one. The volunteer, being now returned with Valencor's horse, assisted him into the chaise, and as Emily was now revived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu. Saint Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by this accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valencor, who explained his unexpected appearance by saying, You, sir, renewed my taste for society. When you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude. I determined therefore, since my object was merely amusement, to change the scene, and I took this road, because I knew it led through a more romantic tract of mountains than the spot I have left. Besides, he added, hesitating for an instant, I will own, and why should I not, that I had some hope of overtaking you. And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment to Saint Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced the accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. The Valencor seemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every unpleasant feeling relative to himself, and for that purpose, still struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to converse with Gaethe. Emily, meanwhile, was silent, except when Valencor particularly addressed her, and there was, at those times, a tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much. They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed into distance on the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could distinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding still nearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous bands of gypsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds of the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily looked with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people, shown by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of the scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity which the eye feared to penetrate. They were preparing their supper, a large pot stood by the fire over which several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of tent round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole formed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their danger. Valencor was silent, but laid his hand on one of Sanneau-Bear's pistols. Sanneau-Bear drew forth another, and Michael was ordered to proceed as fast as possible. They passed the place, however, without being attacked. The rovers being probably unprepared for the opportunity, and too busy at their supper to feel much interest at the moment in anything besides. After a league and a half more, past in darkness, the travellers arrived at Beauje, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded, which though superior to any they had seen since they entered the mountains, was bad enough. The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could be called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved faces at least dexterously as he set bones. After examining Valencor's arm, and perceiving that the bullet had passed through the flesh without touching the bone, he dressed it, and left him with a solemn prescription of quiet which his patient was not inclined to obey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to pain, for ease may be allowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with anguish. When his spirits thus reanimated, he wished to partake of the conversation of Saint Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, were uncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, Saint Aubert was obliged to go out with the landlord to buy meat for supper, and Emily, who during this interval had been absent as long as she could, upon excuses of looking to their accommodation, which she found rather better than she expected, was compelled to return and converse with Valencor alone. They talked of the character of the scenes they had passed, of the natural history of the country, of poetry, and of Saint Aubert, a subject on which Emily always spoke and listened to with peculiar pleasure. The travellers passed an agreeable evening, but Saint Aubert was fatigued with his journey, and as Valencor seemed again sensible of pain, they separated soon after supper. In the morning Saint Aubert found that Valencor had passed a restless night, that he was feverish and his wound very painful. The surgeon, when he dressed it, advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu, advice which was too reasonable to be rejected. Saint Aubert, however, had no favourable opinion of this practitioner, and was anxious to commit Valencor into more skilful hands, but learning upon inquiry that there was no town within several leagues which seemed more likely to afford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey and determined to await the recovery of Valencor, who with somewhat more ceremony than sincerity made many objections to this delay. By order of his surgeon Valencor did not go out of the house that day, but Saint Aubert and Emily surveyed with the light the environs of the town, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps that rose some in abrupt precipices and other swelling with woods of cedar, fir, and cypress, which stretched nearly to their highest summits. The cheerful green of the beach and mountain ash was sometimes seen, like a gleam of light amidst the dark verdure of the forest, and sometimes a torrent poured its sparkling flood high among the woods. Valencor's indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several days, during which interval Saint Aubert had observed his disposition and his talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw a frank and generous nature full of ardour, highly susceptible of whatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhat romantic. Valencor had known little of the world. His perceptions were clear, and his feelings just, his indignation of an unworthy or his admiration of a generous action were expressed in terms of equal vehemence. Saint Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom checked it, and often repeated to himself, this young man has never been at Paris. Assai sometimes followed the silent ejaculation. He determined not to leave Valencor till he should be perfectly recovered, and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able to manage his horse, Saint Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few days in the carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had discovered that Valencor was of a family of the same name in Gascony, with whose respectability he was well acquainted. The latter accepted the offer with great pleasure, and they again set forward among these romantic wilds about Roussillon. They travelled leisurely, stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand appeared, frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the mules could not go, from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence, and often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender wild time, juniper and tamarisk, and under the shades of woods, between those bowls they caught the long mountain vista, sublime beyond anything that Emily had ever imagined. Saint Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valencor and Emily strolled on. He pointing out to her notice the objects that particularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of the Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses of conversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently fixed his eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so much animation the taste and energy of her mind. And when he spoke again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice that defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent pauses became more frequent, till Emily only betrayed an anxiety to interrupt them, and she, who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk again and again of the woods and the valleys and the mountains to avoid the danger of sympathy and silence. From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travelers into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibited their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of the mountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes, and seated on some wild cliff where only the illyx or the larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of fir and precipices where human foot had never wandered, into the glen so deep that the thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height and fantastic shape, some shooting into cones, others impending far over their base, and huge masses of granite along whose broken ridges was often lodged a weight of snow that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound, threatened to bear destruction in its course to the veil. Around on every side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of grandeur, the long perspective of mountaintops tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow, valleys of ice and forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and clearness of the air in these high regions were particularly delightful to the travellers. It seemed to inspire them with a finer spirit and diffused an indescribable complacency over their minds. They had no words to express the sublime emotions they felt. A solemn expression characterised the feelings of Saint Aubert. Tears often came to his eyes, and he frequently walked away from his companions. Aucour now and then spoke to point to Emily's notice some features of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere through which every object came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded her, who could scarcely believe that objects which appeared so near were in reality so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes was broken only at intervals by the scream of the vultures seemed cowering round some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air, except when the travellers listened to the hall of thunder that sometimes muttered at their feet. While above, the deep blue of the heavens was unobscured by the lightest cloud halfway down the mountains, long billows of vapor were frequently seen rolling, now wholly excluding the country below, and now opening and partially revealing its features. Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of these clouds as they changed in shape and tense, and to watch their various effect on the lower world, whose features partly veiled, were continually assuming new forms of sublimity. After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend towards Roussillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene, yet the travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublime objects they had quitted. Though the eye, fatigued with the extension of its powers, was glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures that now hung on the margin of the river below. To view again the humble cottage shaded by cedars, the playful group of mountaineer children, and the flowery nooks that appeared among the hills. As they descended they saw at a distance on the right one of the grand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements and towers to the splendor of the setting rays, pillow tops of woods, colouring the steeps below, while far above inspired the snowy points of the mountains, still reflecting a rosy hue. Saint Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed to by the people of Beaujus, and where he meant to pass the night, but no habitation yet appeared. Of its distance Valencourt could not assist him to a judge, for he had never been so far along this chain of alps before. There was, however, a road to guide them, and there could be little doubt that it was the right one, for since they had left Beaujus there had been no variety of tracks to perplex or mislead. The sun now gave his last light, and Saint Aubert bade the moloteer proceed with all possible dispatch. He found indeed the lecissitude of illness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body and mind, and he longed for repose. His anxiety was not soothed by observing a numerous train, listing of men, horses, and loaded mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing and disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could not be judged of. Something bright like arms glanced in the setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As these wound into the veil, the rear of the party emerged from the woods and exhibited a band of soldiers. Saint Aubert's apprehensions now subsided. He had no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who, in conveying prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered and conquered by a party of troops. The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of these mountains that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their calculation that they could reach Montagne at sunset. But as they wound along the valley they saw on a rude alpine bridge that united two lofty crags of the Glen, a group of mountaineer children amusing themselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and watching the stones plunge into the water that threw up its white spray high in the air as it received them, and returned a sullen sound which the echoes of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective of the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottage on a cliff overshadowed with pines. It appeared that they could not be far from some small town. San Obert bade the moloteer stop, and then called to the children to inquire if he was near Montagne. But the distance and the roaring of the waters could not suffer his voice to be heard, and the crags joining the bridge were of such tremendous height and steepness that to have climbed either would have been scarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with decent. San Obert therefore did not waste more moments in delay. They continued to travel long after Twilight had obscured the road, which was so broken that now, thinking it safer to walk them to ride, they all alighted. The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to assist them. While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper bell of a convent. The Twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything like a building, but the sounds seemed to have come from some woods that overhung an eclivity to the right. Balancourt proposed to go in search of this convent. If they will not accommodate us with the night's lodging, said he, they may certainly inform us of how far we are from Montagne, and direct us towards it. He was bounding forward without waiting San Obert's reply, when the latter stopped him. I am very weary, said San Obert, and wish for nothing so much as for immediate rest. We will all go to the convent. Your good looks would defeat our purpose, but when they see mine and Emily's exhausted countenances, they will scarcely deny us repose. As he said this, he took Emily's arm within his, and telling Michael to wait a while in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend towards the wood, guided by the bell of the convent. His steps were feeble, and Balancourt offered his arm which he accepted. The moon now threw a faint light over their path, and soon after enabled them to distinguish some towers rising above the tops of the woods. While following the note of the bell, they entered the shade of those woods, blighted only by moonbeams that glided down between the leaves, and through a tremulous, uncertain gleam upon the steep track they were winding. The gloom and the silence that prevailed, except when the bell returned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surrounding scene, struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice and conversation of Balancourt somewhat repressed. When they had been some time ascending, San Obert complained of weariness, and he stopped to rest upon a little green summit, where the trees opened and admitted the moonlight. He sat down upon the turf between Emily and Balancourt. The bell had now ceased, and the deep repose of the scene was undisturbed by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some distant torrents might be said to soothe rather than to interrupt the silence. Before them extended the valley they had quitted, its rocks and woods to the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deep shadow that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits only were tipped with light. While the distant perspective of the valley was lost in the yellow mist of moonlight, the traveller sat for some time wrapped in the complacency which such scenes inspire. These scenes, said Balancourt, length, soften the heart like the notes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melody which no person who had felt it once would resign for the gayest pleasures. They weaken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to benevolence, pity, and friendship. Those whom I love, I always seemed to love more in such an hour as this. His voice trembled, and he paused. Saint Aubert was silent. Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand he held. She knew the object of his thoughts. Hers too had, for some time, been occupied by the remembrance of her mother. She seemed by an effort to rouse himself. Yes, said he, with a half-suppressed sigh, the memory of those we love, of times for ever past, and such an hour as this steals upon the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillness of a night, all tender and harmonious as this landscape sleeping in the mellow moonlight. After a pause of a moment, Saint Aubert added, I have always fancy that I thought with more clearness and precision at such an hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensible in a great degree that does not soften to its influence. But many such there are. Malincourt sighed. Are there indeed many such, said Emily? A few years hence, my Emily, replied Saint Aubert, and you may smile at the recollection of that question if you do not weep to it. But come, I am somewhat refreshed, let us proceed. Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a chirpy hillock above, the convent of which they were in search. A high wall that surrounded it led them to an ancient gate at which they knocked, and the poor monk who opened it conducted them into a small adjoining room where he desired they would wait while he informed the superior of their request. In this interval several friars came in separately to look at them, and at length the first monk returned, and they followed him to a room where the superior was sitting in an arm chair, with a large folio volume printed in black letter open on a desk before him. He received them with courtesy, though he did not rise from his seat, and having asked them a few questions granted their request. After a short conversation, formal and solemn on the part of the superior, they withdrew to the apartment where they were to sup, and Valincourt, whom one of the inferior friars civilly desired to accompany, went to seek Michael and his mules. They had not descended half-way down the cliffs before they heard the voice of the moloteer echoing far and wide. Sometimes he called on Saint Aubert, and sometimes on Valincourt, who having at length convinced him that he had nothing to fear either for himself or his master, and having disposed of him for the night in a cottage on the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with his friends on such sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set before them. While Saint Aubert was too much disposed to share it, Emily, in her anxiety for her father, forgot herself, and Valincourt, silent and thoughtful, yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularly solicitous to accommodate and relieve Saint Aubert, who often observed while his daughter was pressing him to eat, or adjusting the pillow she had placed in the back of his arm-chair, that Valincourt fixed on her a look of pensive tenderness, which he was not displeased to understand. They separated at an early hour, and retired to their respective apartments. Emily was shown to hearth by none of the convent, whom she was glad to dismiss, for her heart was melancholy, and her attention so much abstracted that conversation with a stranger was painful. She thought her father daily declining, and attributed his present fatigue more to the feeble state of his frame than to the difficulty of the journey. A train of gloomy ideas haunted her mind till she fell asleep. In about two hours after, she was awakened by the timing of a bell, and then heard quick steps pass along the gallery into which her chamber opened. She was so little accustomed to the manners of a convent as to be alarmed by this circumstance. Her fears ever alive for her father suggested that he was very ill, and she rose in haste to go to him. Having paused, however, to let the persons in the gallery pass before she opened her door, her thoughts in the meantime recovered from the confusion of sleep, and she understood that the bell was the call of the monks to prayers. It had now ceased, and all being again still, she forbore to go to Sanobert's room. Her mind was not disposed for immediate sleep, and the moonlight that shone into her chamber invited her to open the casement, and look out upon the country. It was a still and beautiful night. The sky was unobscured by any cloud, and scarce a leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air. As she listened, the midnight hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel that stood on one of the lower cliffs, unholy strain that seemed to ascend through the silence of night to heaven, and her thoughts ascended with it. From the consideration of his works her mind arose to the adoration of the deity in his goodness and power. Whenever she turned her view, whether on the sleeping earth or to the vast regions of space, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of human thought, the sublimity of God and the majesty of his presence appeared. Her eyes were filled with tears of awful love and admiration. And she felt that pure devotion, superior to all the distinctions of human system, which lifts the soul above this world and seems to expand it into a nobler nature. Such devotion as can perhaps only be experienced when the mind, rescued from a moment, from the humbleness of earthly consideration, aspires to contemplate his power in the sublimity of his works and his goodness in the infinity of his blessings. Is it not now the hour, the holy hour, when to the cloudless height of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon, and to this neither world and solemn stillness give sign that to the listening ear of heaven religion's voice should plead? The very babe knows this, and chance awaked his little hands, lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch calls down a blessing. Churacticus The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence, but Emily remained at the casement, watching the settling moon and the valley sinking into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present state of mind. At length she retired to her mattress and sunk into tranquil slumber. CHAPTER VIII. While in the rosy veil, love breathed his infant sighs from anguish-free. THOMPSON Saint Aubert sufficiently restored by a knight's repose to pursue his journey set out in the morning with his family and valent corps for Roussillon, which he hoped to reach before nightfall. The scenes through which they now passed were as wild and romantic as any they had yet observed, with this difference that beauty every now and then softened the landscape into smiles. Little woody recesses appeared among the mountains covered with bright radure and flowers, where a pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of the cliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along the banks of a rivulet that refreshed it with perpetual green. Saint Aubert could not repent for having taken this fatiguing road, though he was this day also frequently obliged to a light to walk along the rugged precipice and to climb the steep and flinty mountain. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospects repaid him for all this, and the enthusiasm with which they were viewed by his young companions heightened his own and awakened a remembrance of all the delightful emotions of his early days when the sublime charms of nature were first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in conversing with valent corps and in listening to his ingenuous remarks. The fire and simplicity of his manners seemed to render him a characteristic figure in the scenes around him, and Saint Aubert discovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an elevated mind unbiased by intercourse with the world. He perceived that his opinions were formed rather than imbibed, for more the result of thought than of learning. Of the world he seemed to know nothing, for he believed well of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the reflected image of his own heart. Saint Aubert as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his path often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and valent corps as they strolled on together. He with accountants of animated delight, pointing to her attention some grand feature of the scene, and she listening and observing with a look of tender seriousness that spoke the elevation of her mind. They appeared like two lovers who had never strayed beyond these their native mountains, whose situation had secluded them from the frivolities of common life, whose ideas were simple and grand like the landscapes among which they moved, and who knew no other happiness than in the union of pure and affectionate hearts. Saint Aubert smiled and sighed at the romantic picture of felicity his fancy drew, and he sighed again to think that nature and simplicity were so little known to the world as that their pleasures were thought romantic. The world that he pursuing the strain of thought ridicules a passion which at seldom feels its scenes and its interests distract the mind depraved the taste corrupt the heart and love cannot exist in a heart that has lost the dignity of innocence. Virtue and gaste are nearly the same for virtue is little more than active taste and the most delicate affections of each combined in real love. How then are we to look for love in great cities where selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity, and truth? It was near noon when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of steep and dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up in a scent that was clothed with wood, and instead of following the carriage they entered the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air, which with the bright brodure of turf they grew under the trees, the mingled fragrance of flowers and balm, thyme, and lavender that enriched it, and the grandeur of the pines, beach, and chestnuts that overshadowed them rendered this a most delicious retreat. Sometimes the thick foliage excluded all view of the country. At others it admitted some partial catches of the distant scenery and gave hints to the imagination to picture landscapes more interesting, more impressive than any that had been presented to the eye. The wanderers often lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy. The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the conversation of Valencor and Emily, were more frequent today than ever. Valencor often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity into fits of deep musing, and there was sometimes an unaffected melancholy in his smile which Emily could not avoid understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke. San O'Bear was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter under them, following as nearly as they could guess the direction of the road till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had continued near the brow of the precipice allured by the scenery it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above. Valencor called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice except his own echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceived a shepherd's cabin between the bulls of the trees some distance, and Valencor bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, he saw only two little children at play on the turf before the door. He looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys told them that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was gone down into the veil but would be back presently. As he stood, considering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above till he made their echoes ring. Valencor immediately answered the call, an endeavor to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles and precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to be silent and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance from the spot where San Obert and Emily were. The carriage could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and since it would be very fatiguing for San Obert to climb the long and steep road to the place where it stood now, Valencor was anxious to find a more easy ascent by the way he had himself passed. Meanwhile, San Obert and Emily approached the cottage and rested themselves on a rustic bench, vastened between two pines, which overshadowed it till Valencor, whose steps they had observed, should return. The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambles and teased his brother to join in them. San Obert looked with pleasure upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these and their lamented mother, and he sunk into a thoughtfulness which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most captivating sweetness. San Obert smiled on her through his tears, took her hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind. While she sung, Valencor approached, who was unwilling to interrupt her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded, he joined the party and told them that he had found Michael as well as a way by which he thought they could ascend the cliff to the carriage. He pointed to the woody steps above, which San Obert surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would be less toilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to attempt it. But Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he should rest and dine before they proceeded further, Valencor went to the carriage for the refreshments deposited there. On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain to where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect, and thither they were preparing to go when they saw a young woman join the children and caress and weep over them. The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and perceiving the strangers hastily dried her tears and proceeded to the cottage. San Obert, on inquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on that preceding night, his little all. A gang of gypsies, who had for some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his master's sheep. Jacques, added the shepherd's wife, had saved a little money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go to his master for those that are stolen, and what is worse than all his master when he comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man, and then what is to become of our children? The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner in relating her grievance, inclined San Obert to believe her story, and Valencor convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value of a stolen sheep, on hearing which he turned away with a look of disappointment. San Obert put some money into her hand, Emily too gave something from her little purse, and they walked towards the cliff. The Valencor lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd's wife, who was now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He inquired how much money was yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found that it was a sum very little short of all he had about him. He was perplexed and distressed. This sum, then, said he to himself, would make this poor family completely happy. It is in my power to give it, to make them completely happy. But what is to become of me, how shall I contrive to reach home with the little money that will remain? For a moment he stood unwilling to forego the luxury of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with so small a sum as would be laughed. While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared. His children ran to meet him. He took one of them in his arms, and with the other clinging to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. His forlorn and melancholy look determined Valencor at once. He threw down all the money he had, except a very few louis, and bound it away after San Obert and Emily, who were proceeding slowly up the steep. Valencor had seldom felt his heart so lied as at this moment. His gay spirits danced with pleasure. Every object around him appeared more interesting or beautiful than before. San Obert observed the uncommon vivacity of his countenance. What has pleased you so much, said he? Oh, what a lovely day, replied Valencor. How brightly the sun shines! How pure is this air! What enchanting scenery! It is indeed enchanting, said San Obert, whom early experience had taught to understand the nature of Valencor's present feeling. What pity that the wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass their days in gloom, in the cold shade of selfishness. For you, my young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as at this moment. May your own conduct always give you the sunshine of benevolence and reason united. Valencor, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply, but by a smile of gratitude. We continued to wind under the woods between the grassy knolls of the mountain, and as they reached the shady summit, which he had pointed out, the whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spot where they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a messy wall to a considerable height, and then branched out into overhanging crags. Their gray tints were well contrasted by the bright hues of the plants and wildflowers that grew in their fractured sides, and were deepened by the gloom of the pines and cedars that waved above. The steeps below, over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, were fringed with thickets of alpine shrubs, and lower still appeared the tufted tops of the chestnut woods that clothed their base, among which peeped forth the shepherd's cottage, just left by the travellers, with its bluish smoke curling high in the air. On every side appeared the majestic summits of the Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendous cracks of marble, whose appearance was changing every instant as the varying lights fell upon their surface. Others still hiked, displaying only snowy points, while their lower steeps were covered almost invariably with forests of pine, larch, and oak that stretched down to the vale. This was one of the narrow valleys that opened from the Pyrenees into the country of Roussillon, and whose green pastures and cultivated beauty form a decided and a wonderful contrast to the romantic grandeur that environs it. Through a vista of the mountains appeared the lowlands of Roussillon, tinted with the blue haze of distance, as they united with the waters of the Mediterranean, where, on a promontory which marked the boundary of the shore, stood a lonely beacon over which were seen circling flights of seafowl. Beyond appeared now and then a stealing sail, white with the sunbeam, and whose progress was perceivable by its approach to the lighthouse. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant that it served only to mark the line of separation between the sky and the waves. On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot where the travelers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascany. Here, no sign of cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened the glen, rose abruptly from their base and stretched their barren points to the clouds, unburied with woods and uncheered even by a hunter's cabin. Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw its long shade over the precipice, and here and there a cliff reared on its brow a monumental cross to tell the traveler the fate of him who had ventured thither before. This spot seemed the very haunt of Benditty, and Emily, as she looked down upon it, almost expected to see them stealing out from some hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon after, an object not less terrific struck her, a gibbet, standing on a point of rock near the entrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she had before observed. These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful story. She forebored to point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom over her spirits and made her anxious to hasten forward that they might with certainty reach Prusillon before nightfall. It was necessary, however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and seating themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the basket of provisions while by breezy murmurs cooled, broad or their heads the verdant cedars wave, and high palmettoes lift their graceful shade. They draw ethereal soul, their drink reviving gales profusely breathing from the piney groves and veils of fragrance, there at a distance hear the roaring floods and cataracts. Thompson. St. Aubert was revived by rest and by the serene air of the summit, and Valencor was so charmed with all around and with the conversation of his companions that he seemed to have forgotten he had any further to go. Having concluded their simple repast, they gave a long, farewell look to the scene and again began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoiced when he reached the carriage, which Emily entered with him, but Valencor willing to take a more extensive view of the enchanting country into which they were about to descend, then he could do from a carriage, loosen his dogs, and once more bounded with them along the banks of the road. He often quitted it for points that promised a wider prospect, and the slow pace at which the mules traveled allowed him to overtake them with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he hastened to inform St. Aubert, who though he was too much tired to walk himself, sometimes made the shez wait while Emily went to the neighboring cliff. It was evening when they descended the lower Alps that bind Roussillon and form a majestic barrier around that charming country, leaving it open only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation once more beautified the landscape, for the lowlands were colored with the richest hues, which a luxuriant climate and an industrious people can awaken into life. Groves of orange and lemon perfume the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the foliage, while sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their treasures. Beyond these, woods and pastures and mingled towns and hamlets stretched towards the sea on his bright surface gleamed many a distant sail while over the whole scene was diffused the purple glow of evening. This landscape with the surrounding Alps did indeed present a perfect picture of the lovely and the sublime of beauty sleeping in the lap of horror. The travelers having reached the plains proceeded between hedges of flowering myrtle and pomegranate to the town of Arles where they proposed a rest for the night. They met with simple but neat accommodation and would have passed a happy evening after the toils and the delights of this day had not the approaching separation thrown a gloom over their spirit. It was Sano Baer's plan to proceed on the morrow to the borders of the Mediterranean and travel along its shores into Langdalk and Valancor, since he was now nearly recovered and had no longer a pretense for continuing with his new friends resolved to leave them here. Sano Baer who was much pleased with him invited him to go further but did not repeat the invitation and Valancor had resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it that he might prove himself not unworthy of the favor. On the following morning therefore they were to part, Sano Baer to pursue his way to Langdalk and Valancor to explore new scenes among the mountains on his return home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful. Sano Baer's manner towards him was affectionate though grave and Emily was serious though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful. After one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet passed together they separated for the night. End of volume one, chapter five. The Mysteries of Udalfo by Anne Radcliffe. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The Mysteries of Udalfo by Anne Radcliffe. Volume one, chapter six. I care not, fortune, what you me deny. You cannot rob me of free nature's grace. You cannot shut the windows of the sky through which Aurora shows her brightening face. You cannot bar my constant feet to trace the woods and lawns by living stream at Eve. Let health my nerves and finer fibers brace and eye their toys to the great children leave. A fancy reason virtue not can me bereave. Thompson. In the morning Valancourt breakfasted with Saint Aubert and Emily, neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness still hung over Saint Aubert and to Emily's fears his disorder appeared to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious affection and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her own. At the commencement of their acquaintance Valancourt had made known his name and family. Saint Aubert was not a stranger to either for the family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from Lavalie, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the neighborhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his present companion, for though his countenance and manners would have won him the acquaintance of Saint Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances he would not have accepted these as sufficient introductions to that of his daughter. The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night, but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage-wheels, which were to bear away Saint Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from his chair and went to the window. It was indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they must part. Saint Aubert told Valancourt that he hoped he would never pass Lavalie without favouring him with a visit, and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would, as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes an interesting conversation, and Saint Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they were seated, and none of the parties seemed to have the courage enough to say farewell. At length Saint Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage drove on. The travellers remained for some time in a state of tranquil pensiveness which is not unpleasant. Saint Aubert interrupted it by observing, This is a very promising young man. It is many years since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful. Saint Aubert sighed and sunk again into a reverie, and as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was seen at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. He perceived her and waved his hand, and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight. I remember when I was about his age, resumed Saint Aubert, and I thought and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me then, and now it is closing. My dear sir, do not think so gloomily, said Emily in a trembling voice. I hope you have many, many years to live, for your own sake, for my sake. Ah, my Emily, replied Saint Aubert, for thy sake. Well, I hope it is so. He wiped away a tear that was stealing down his cheek, threw a smile upon his countenance, and said, in a cheering voice, There is something in the ardour and ingeniousness of youth, which is particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person, his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me. Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never before listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed. No, not even when he had bestowed them on herself. They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded on one side by the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and on the other by the ocean, and soon after noon they reached the town of Colleure, situated on the Mediterranean. Here they dined and rested till towards the cool of day, when they pursued their way along the shores, those enchanting shores which extend to Langduck. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the vastness of the sea, its surface varying as the lights and shadows fell, and on its woody banks mellowed with autumnal tints. Saint Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected letters from Monsieur Kisnel, and it was the expectation of these letters that had induced him to leave Colleure, for his feeble frame had required immediate rest. After travelling a few miles he fell asleep, and Emily, who had put two or three books into the carriage on leaving Lavallee, now had the leisure for looking into them. She sought for one in which Valencourt had been reading the day before, and hoped for the pleasure of retracing a page over which the eyes of a beloved friend had lately passed, a dwelling on the passages which he had admired, and of permitting them to speak to her in the language of his own mind, and to bring himself to her presence. Upon searching for the book she could find it nowhere, but in its stead perceived a volume of Petrarch's poems that had belonged to Valencourt, whose name was written in it, and from which he had frequently read passages to her, with all the pathetic expression that characterised the feelings of the author. She hesitated in believing what would have been sufficiently apparent to almost any other person that he had purposely left this book instead of the one she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange. But having opened it within patient pleasure, and observed the lines of his pencil drawn along the various passages he had read aloud, and, under others more descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had dared to trust his voice with, the conviction came at length to her mind. For some moment she was conscious only of being beloved, then a recollection of all the variations of tone and countenance, with which he had recited these sonnets and of the soul, which spoke in their expression pressed to her memory, as she wept over the memorial of his affection. They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found, as he had expected, letters from Monsieur Kisnel, the contents of which so evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed, and pressed him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclose the occasion of his concern. But he answered her only by tears, and immediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though she forbore to press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by her father's manner, and passed a night of sleepless solitude. In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards Le Cut, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders of Langdoc and Roussillon. On the way Emily renewed the subject of the preceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert's silence and dejection that he relaxed from his reserve. I was unwilling, my dear Emily, said he, to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receive from these scenes, and meant, therefore, to conceal for the present some circumstances, with which, however, you must at length have been made acquainted. But your anxiety has defeated my purpose. You suffer as much from this, perhaps, as you will do from a knowledge of the facts I have to relate. Monsieur Kisnel's visit proved an unhappy one to me. He came to tell me part of the news he has now confirmed. You may have heard me mention a Monsieur Montville of Paris, but you did not know that the chief of my personal property was invested in his hands. I had great confidence in him, and I am yet willing to believe that he is not wholly unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurred to ruin him, and I am ruined with him. Saint Aubert paused to conceal his emotion. The letters I have just received from Monsieur Kisnel resumed he, struggling to speak with firmness, and closed others from Montville, which confirmed all I dreaded. M'as we then quit la valise at Emily, after a long pause of silence? That is yet uncertain, replied Saint Aubert. It will depend upon the compromise Montville is able to make with his creditors. My income, you know, was never large, and now it will be reduced to little indeed. It is for you, Emily, my child, that I am most afflicted. His last words faltered. Emily smiled tenderly upon him through her tears. And then, endeavouring to overcome her emotion, my dear father, said she, do not grieve for me or for yourself. We may yet be happy. If la valise remains for us we must be happy. We will retain only one servant, and you shall scarcely perceive the change in your income. Be comforted, my dear sir. We shall not feel the want of those luxuries which others value so highly, since we never had a taste for them. And poverty cannot deprive us of many consolations. It cannot rob us of the affection we have for each other, or degrade us in our own opinion, or in that of any person whose opinion we ought to value. Saint Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unable to speak. But Emily continued to urge her father the truths which himself had pressed upon her mind. Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual delights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me examples of fortitude and benevolence, nor me of the delight of a consoling and beloved parent. It cannot deaden our taste for the grand and the beautiful, or deny us the means of indulging it, for the scenes of nature, those sublime spectacles, so infinitely superior to all artificial luxuries, are open for the enjoyment of the poor as well as of the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain so long as we are not in want of necessaries? Pleasures such as wealth cannot buy will still be ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of nature, and lose only the frivolous ones of art. Saint Aubert could not reply. He caught Emily to his bosom. Their tears flowed together, but they were not tears of sorrow. After this language of the heart all other would have been feeble, and they remained silent for some time. Then Saint Aubert conversed as before, for if his mind had not recovered its natural tranquility, it at least assumed the appearance of it. They reached the romantic town of Lucotte early in the day, but Saint Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In the evening he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view the environs that overlooked the lake of Lucotte, the Mediterranean, part of Roussillon with the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxurious province of Langdok, now blushing with the ripened vintage which the peasants were beginning to gather. Saint Aubert and Emily saw the busy groups, caught the joyous song that was wafted on the breeze, and anticipated with apparent pleasure their next day's journey over this gay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the seashore. To return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was withheld by a desire to lengthen the pleasure which the journey gave his daughter, and to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder. On the following day, therefore, they recommended their journey through Langdok, winding the shores of the Mediterranean. The Pyrenees still forming the magnificent background of their prospects, while on their right was the ocean, and on their left, wide extended plains melting into the blue horizon. Saint Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with Emily, yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes a shade of melancholy would steal upon his countenance and betray him. This was soon chased away by Emily's smile, who smiled, however, with an aching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind and upon his enfeebled frame. It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Langdok where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford them beds, for here too it was the time of the vintage, and they were obliged to proceed to the next post. The langer of illness and of fatigue, which returned upon Saint Aubert, required immediate repose, and the evening was now far advanced, but from the necessity there was no appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed. The rich plains of Langdok, which exhibited all the glories of the vintage, with the gayities of a French festival, no longer awakened Saint Aubert a pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes moved over the scene, he considered that they would soon perhaps be closed forever on this world. Those distant and sublime mountains, said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched towards the West, these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful light of day will be shut from my eyes. The song of the peasant, the cheering voice of man, will no longer sound for me. The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of her father, and she fixed them on his face with an expression of such tender pity as recalled his thoughts from every dulcetory object of regret, and he remembered only that he must leave his daughter without protection. This reflection changed regret to agony. He sighed deeply and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to conceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of the Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon, marking the point where the sun had set amid the vapors of an autumnal evening. A cool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the glass, but the air which was refreshing to health was as chilling to sickness, and St. Ober desire that the window might be drawn up. Increasing illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day's journey, and he stopped the mule tear to inquire how far they had yet to go to the next post. He replied, nine miles. I feel I am unable to proceed much further, said St. Ober. Inquire as you go if there is any house on the road that would accommodate us for the night. He sunk back in the carriage and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set off and continued on the full gallop, till St. Ober, almost fainting, called him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window and saw a peasant walking at some little distance on the road, for whom they waited till he came up, and when he was asked if there was any house in the neighborhood that accommodated travellers. He replied that he knew of none. There is a chateau indeed among those woods on the right, added he, but I believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the way, for I am almost a stranger here. St. Ober was going to ask him some further question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptly passed on. After some consideration he ordered Michael to proceed slowly into the woods. Every moment now deepened the twilight and increased the difficulty of finding the road. Another peasant soon after passed. Which is the way to the chateau in the woods, cried Michael. The chateau in the woods, exclaimed the peasant, do you mean that with the turrent yonder? I don't know as for the turrent, as you call it, said Michael. I mean that white piece of a building that we see at a distance there among the trees. Yes, that is the turrent. Why, who are you, that you are going thither? said the man with surprise. St. Ober, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. We are travellers, said he, who are in search of a house of accommodation for the night. Is there any hereabout? None, monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder, replied the peasant, pointing to the woods. But I would not advise you to go there. To whom does the chateau belong? I scarcely know myself, monsieur. It is uninhabited, then? No, not uninhabited, but the steward and the housekeeper are there, I believe. On hearing this, St. Ober determined to proceed to the chateau, and risked the refusal of being accommodated for the night. He therefore desired the countrymen would show Michael the way, and bade him expect reward for his trouble. The man was, for a moment, silent, and then said that he was going on another business, but that the road could not be missed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St. Ober was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good night and walked on. The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate, and Michael, having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of ancient oak and chestnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty arch above. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance of this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered as she passed along, and recollecting the manner in which the peasant had mentioned the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such as she had not suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering that they were probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her father's situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had made sensible to every impression. They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which, together with the unevenness of the ground and the frequent roots of old trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed with caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage, and as St. Aubert looked from the window to inquire the cause, he perceived a figure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permit him to distinguish what it was, but he bad Michael go on. "'This seems a wild place,' said Michael. "'There is no house hereabouts. Don't your honour think we had better turn back?' "'Go a little farther, and if we see no house then we will return to the road,' replied St. Aubert. Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his pace made St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again he saw the figure. He was somewhat startled. Probably the gloominess of the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual. However this might be, he now stopped Michael, and bad him called the person in the avenue. "'Please, your honour, he may be a robber,' said Michael. "'It does not please me,' replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at the simplicity of his phrase, and we will therefore return to the road, for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.' Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with a lacquery when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. It was not the voice of command or distress, but a deep hollow tone which seemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till they went as fast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken ground and the necks of the whole party, nor once stopped till he reached the gate, which opened from the avenue into the high road, where he went into a more moderate pace. "'I am very ill,' said St. Aubert, taking his daughter's hand. "'You are worse than, sir,' said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner. "'You are worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! What is to be done?' He leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavored to support him with her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattling of the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air. It was to Emily the voice of hope. "'Oh! We are near some human habitation,' said she. Help may soon be had.' She listened anxiously. The sounds were distant, and seemed to come from a remote part of the woods that bordered the road, and as she looked towards the spot once they issued, she perceived in the faint moonlight something like a chateau. It was difficult, however, to reach this. St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage. Michael could not quit his mules, and Emily, who still supported her father, feared to leave him, and also feared to venture alone to such a distance, she knew not whither or to whom. Something, however, it was necessary to determine upon immediately. St. Aubert, therefore, told Michael to proceed slowly, but they had not gone far when he fainted, and the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless. My dear, dear father!" cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he was dying. Speak, if it is only one word, to let me hear the sound of your voice. But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she bade Michael bring water from the rivulet that float along the road, and having received some in the man's hat, with trembling hands she sprinkled it over her father's face, which as soon as the moon's rays now fell upon it seemed to bear the impression of death. Preemotion of selfish fear now gave way to a stronger influence, and committing St. Aubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules, she stepped from the carriage in search of the chateau she had seen at a distance. It was a still, moonlight night, and the music, which yet sounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road up a shadowy lane that led to the woods. Her mind was, for some time, so entirely occupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for herself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now wholly excluded the moonlight, and the wildness of the place, recalled her to a sense of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased, and she had no guide but chance. For a moment she paused in terrified perplexity, till a sense of her father's condition again overcoming every consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated in the woods, but she looked round in vain for a house or a human being, and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on, however, not knowing quither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, and endeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue, which opened upon a moonlight spot, arrested her attention. The wildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to the turreted chateau, and she was inclined to believe that this was a part of the same domain, and probably led to the same point. While she hesitated, whether to follow it or not, a sound of many voices in loud merriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not the laugh of cheerfulness but of riot, and she stood appalled. While she paused she heard a distant voice calling from the way she had come, and not doubting but it was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back. But a second thought changed her purpose. She believed that nothing less than the last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules, and fearing that her father was now dying she rushed forward, with a feeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her heart beat with fearful expectation as she drew near the spot once the voices issued, and she often startled when her steps disturbed the fallen leaves. The sounds led her towards the moonlight glade she had before noticed, at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw between the bowls of the trees a small circular level of green turf, surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On drawing nearer she distinguished these by their dress to be peasants, and perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods which waved loftily over this spot. While she gazed and endeavored to overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasant girls came out of a cottage. Music instantly struck up and the dance began. It was the joyous music of the vintage, the same she had before heard upon the air. Her heart, occupied with terror for her father, could not feel the contrast which this gay scene offered to her own distress. She stepped tasteily forwards towards a group of elder peasants who were seated at the door of a cottage, and having explained her situation and treated their assistance. Several of them rose with alacrity, and offering any service in their power followed Emily, who seemed to move on the wind as fast as they could towards the road. When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to animation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael whether his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard for himself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however, still languid, and perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, he renewed his inquiries for an inn, and concerning the chateau in the woods. The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir, said a venerable peasant who had followed Emily from the woods. It is scarcely inhabited, but if you will do me the honour to visit my cottage, you shall be welcome to the best bed it affords. St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman, he therefore was not surprised at French courtesy, but ill as he was he felt the value of the offer enhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy to apologize, or appear to hesitate about availing himself of the peasant's hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the same frankness with which it was offered. The carriage again moved slowly on, Michael following the peasant's up the lane which Emily had just quitted till they came to the moonlight glade. St. Aubert's spirits were so far restored by the courtesy of his host, and the near prospect of repose that he looked with a sweet complacency upon the moonlight scene, surrounded by the shadowy woods, through which, here and there, an opening and bended the streaming splendour, discovering a cottage or a sparkling rivulet. He listened, with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and tambourine, and though tears came to his eyes when he saw the debonair dance of the peasant's, they were not merely tears of mournful regret. With Emily it was otherwise. Immediate terror for her father had now subsided into a gentle melancholy, which every note of joy, by awakened comparison, served to heighten. The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a phenomenon in these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked around it with eager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sixth stranger, several girls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes, which they presented to the travelers, each with kind contention pressing for a preference. At length the carriage stopped at a neat cottage, and his venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert to a light, led him and Emily to a small inner room, illuminated only by moonbeams, which the open casement admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an arm-chair, and his senses were refreshed by the cool and balmy air that lightly waved the embowered honeysugles, and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His host, who was called la voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned with fruits, cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded, having set down which, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair of his guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and when the fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himself somewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who communicated several particulars concerning himself and his family, which were interesting because they were spoken from the heart, and elineated a picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by her father, holding his hand, and while she listened to the old man, her heart swelled with the affectionate sympathy he described, and her tears fell to the mournful consideration that death would probably soon deprive her of the dearest blessing she then possessed. The soft moonlight of an autumnal evening, and the distant music, which now sounded a plaintive's strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The old man continued to talk of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent. I have only one daughter living, said la voisin, but she is happily married, and is everything to me. When I lost my wife, he added with a sigh, I came to live with Agnes and her family. She has several children who are all dancing on the green yonder, as Marius grasshoppers, and long may they be so. I hope to die among them, monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but there is some comfort in dying surrounded by one's children. My good friend, said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, I hope you will live long surrounded by them. Ah, sir, at my age I must not expect that, replied the old man, and he paused. I can scarcely wish it, he resumed, for I trust that whenever I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I can sometimes fancy I see her of a still moonlight night, walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that we shall be permitted to revisit the earth after we have quitted the body? Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart. Her tears fell fast upon her father's hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to speak, and at length said, in a low voice, I hope we shall be permitted to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it. Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only guides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe that disembodied spirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocently hope it. It is a hope which I will never resign, continued he, while he wiped the tears from his daughter's eyes, it will sweeten the bitter moments of death. Tears fell slowly on his cheeks. Lavoisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence. Then Lavoisin, renewing the subject, said, But if you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world the relations we have loved in this, I must believe this. Then do believe it, replied Saint Aubert. Severe indeed would be the pangs of separation if we believed it to be internal. Look up, my dear Emily, wish I'll meet again. He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam of moonlight, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow. Lavoisin felt he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped it, saying, We are in darkness. I forgot to bring a light. No, said Saint Aubert, this is a light I love. Sit down, my good friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day. This air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music which floats so sweetly at a distant. Let me see you smile. Who touches that guitar so tastefully? Are there two instruments, or is it an echo I hear? It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. The guitar is often heard at night, when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes accompanied by a voice so sweet and so sad one would almost think the woods are haunted. They certainly are haunted, said Saint Aubert with a smile, but I believe it is by mortals. I have sometimes heard it at midnight when I could not sleep, rejoined Lavoisin, not seeming to hear this remark, almost under my window, and I never heard any music like it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, but as soon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen, and I have listened and listened till I have been so timorous that even the trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say it often comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these many years and outlived the warning. Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition, could not in the present tone of her spirits wholly resist its contagion. Well, but my good friend, said Saint Aubert, has nobody had courage to follow the sounds. If they had, they would probably have discovered who is the musician. Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into the woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever, and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm and would go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so early in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright planet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left. What turret? asked Saint Aubert with quickness. I see none. Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full upon it. Up the avenue yonder, a long way off, the chateau it belongs to is hit among the trees. Yes, my dear sir, said Emily, pointing, don't you see something glitter above the dark woods? It is a feign, I fancy, which the rays fall upon. Oh, yes, I see what you mean, and who does the chateau belong to? The marquise de Villoir was its owner, replied Lavoisin, emphatically. Ah! said Saint Aubert, with a deep sigh. Are we then so near Le Blanc? He appeared much agitated. It used to be the marquise's favourite residence, resumed Lavoisin, but he took a dislike to the place and has not been there for many years. We have heard lately that he is dead and that it has fallen into other hands. Saint Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the last words. Dead, he exclaimed, good God, when did he die? He is reported to have died about five weeks since, replied Lavoisin. Do you know the marquise, sir? This is very extraordinary, said Saint Aubert, without attending to the question. Why is it so, my dear sir, said Emily, in a voice of timid curiosity? He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie, and in a few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had succeeded to the estates. I have forgot his title, monsieur, said Lavoisin, but my Lord resides at Paris chiefly. I hear no talk of his coming hither. The chateau is shut up, then, still. Why, little better, sir, the old housekeeper and her husband the steward have care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard by. The chateau is spacious, I suppose, said Emily, and must be desolate for the residents of only two persons. Desolate enough, mademoiselle, replied Lavoisin, I would not pass one night in the chateau for the value of the whole domain. What is that? said Saint Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. As his host repeated his last sentence, a grown escape from Saint Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily asked Lavoisin how long he had lived in this neighborhood. Almost from my childhood, sir, replied his host. You remember the late Marchionis then? said Saint Aubert in an altered voice. Ah, monsieur, that I do well. There are many besides me who remember her. Yes, said Saint Aubert, and I am one of those. Alas, sir, you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She deserved a better fate. Tears stood in Saint Aubert's eyes. Enough, said he, in a voice almost stifled by the violence of his emotions. It is enough, my friend. Emily, though extremely surprised by her father's manner, forebore to express her feelings by any question. Lavoisin began to apologize, but Saint Aubert interrupted him. The apology is quite unnecessary, said he. Let us change the topic. You was speaking of the music we just now heard. I was, monsieur, but, hark! It comes again. Listen to that voice. They were all silent. At last a soft and solemn breathing sound rose like a stream of rich distilled perfumes and stole upon the air that even silence was took ere she was wear and wished she might deny her nature and be evermore still to be so displaced. Milton. In a few moments the voice died into air and the instrument, which had been heard before, sounded in low symphony. Saint Aubert now observed that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a guitar and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continued to listen, but the sounds returned no more. This is strange, said Saint Aubert at length interrupting the silence. Very strange, said Emily. It is so, rejoined Lavoisin, and they were again silent. After a long pause, it is now about eighteen years since I first heard that music, said Lavoisin. I remember it was on a fine summer's night, much like this, but later that I was walking in the woods and alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at his bedside all the evening while his mother slept, for she had sat up with him the night before. I had been watching and went out for a little fresh air. The day had been very sultry. As I walked under the shades and mused I heard music at a distance, and thought it was clode playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening at the cottage door. But when I came to a place where the trees opened I shall never forget it, and stood looking up at the north lights, which shot up the heavens to a great height. I heard all of a sudden such sounds. They came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music of angels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky. When I came home I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and said it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I could not persuade them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my wife herself heard the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was, and Father Denis frightened her sadly by saying that it was music come to warn her of her child's death, and that music often came to houses where there was a dying person. Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely new to her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from Saint Ober. But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis. Father Denis, said Saint Ober, who had listened to narrative old age with patient attention, are we near a convent then? Yes, sir, the convent of Saint Clair stands at no great distance, on the seashore yonder. Ah, said Saint Ober, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, the convent of Saint Clair. Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled with a faint expression of horror gathering on his brow. His countenance became fixed, and touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of the moonlight, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument, which seemed to bend in hopeless sorrow over the ashes of the dead, shone by the blunted light, that the dim moon through painted casements lends the immigrants. But my dear sir, said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, you forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give me leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made. Saint Ober, recollecting himself and smiling affectionately, desired she would not add to her fatigue by that attention, and Lavoisin, whose consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests which his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and apologizing for not having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of the room. In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of pleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her what she had not before suspected, that for their accommodation it was necessary part of Lavoisin's family should leave their beds. She lamented this circumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited, at least, a share of her father's courteous hospitality. It was settled that some of her children and Michael should sleep in the neighboring cottage. If I am better tomorrow, my dear, said Saint Ober, when Emily returned to him, I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the present state of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey with pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach Lavoisin. Emily, though she also desired to return, was grieved at her father's sudden wish to do so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of indisposition than he would acknowledge. Saint Ober now retired to rest, and Emily to her little chamber, but not to immediate repose. Her thoughts returned to the late conversation concerning the state of departed spirits, a subject at this time particularly affecting to her, when she had every reason to believe that her dear father would ere long be numbered with them. She leaned pensively on the little open casement, and in deep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue, unclouded concave was studded thick with stars, the worlds perhaps of un-speared of mortal mold. As her eyes wandered along the boundless aether, her eyes rose as before towards the sublimity of the deity, and to the contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted the course of her mind. The merry dance had ceased, and every cottager had retired to his home. The air still seemed scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and now and then the distant sound of a solitary sheet-bell, or of a closing casement, was all that broke on silence. At length even this hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated and enwrapped, while her eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe, she continued at the casement, till the gloom of midnight hung over the earth, and the planet, which Lavois-Zan had pointed out, sunk below the woods. She then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, and the mysterious music, and as she lingered at the window, half-hoping and half-fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the remembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shown, on mention of the Marquis la Villois's death, and of the fate of the Marchionis, and she felt strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this emotion. Her surprise and curiosity were indeed the greater, because she did not recollect ever to have heard him mention the name of Villois. No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily, perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue, remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from the window to repose. Volume 1 Chapter 7 Let those deplore their doom, whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn. The lofty souls can look beyond the tomb, can smile at fate and wonder how they mourn. Shall spring to these sad scenes no more return? Is yonder wade the sun's eternal bed? Soon shall the orient with newuster burn, and spring shall soon her vital influence shed. Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. Beady Emily, called as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke little refresh by sleep for uneasy dreams of her suitor, and marred the kindest blessing of the unhappy. But when she opened her casement, looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired the pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheering freshness which seems to grieve the very spirit of health, and she heard only the sweet and picturesque sounds, if such an expression may be allowed. The maddened bell of a distant convent, that faint murmur the sea waves, song of birds, and a far-off low of cattle, which she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged in pensive tranquility which they inspired, and while she leaned on her window, waiting till Sana'abae could descend to breakfast, her ideas arranged themselves in the following lines. The first hour of morning How sweet to whine the forest's tangled shade! When early twilight from the eastern bound dawns on sleeping landscape of the glade, and fades morning spreads her blush around, when every distant flower that wept in night lifts its chill head, soft glowing with a tear, expands its tender blossom to the light, and gives its incense to genial air. How fresh the breeze that wafts a rich perfume, and swells the melody of waking birds, the hum of bees beneath the verdant bloom, and woodman's song, and low of distant herds, then doubtful gleams the mountain's boring head, seen through the parting foliage from afar, and father still the ocean's misty bed, with flitting sails at partial sea-beams' share, but vain the silven shade, the breath of may, the voice of music floating on the gale, and forms a beam through morning's dewy veil, if health no longer bid the heart be gay, O' balmy hour, design her wealth to give, your spreader blush, and bid the parent live. Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth from a hut adjoining, as she left her room, san oba, who was now arisen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep as herself, she led them downstairs to the little parlor, in which they had softened a preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast set out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them good morrow. I envy you this cottage, my good friends, said san oba, as he met them, it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat, and this air that one breathes, if anything could restore us health, it would surely be this air. L'avocin bowed gratefully and replied with gallantry of the Frenchman, our cottage may be envied sir, since you and mademoiselle have honored it with your presence. San oba gave him a friendly smile first compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream, fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed her father with attention, thought he looked very ill, endeavored to persuade him to defer traveling till the afternoon, but he seemed very anxious to be at home, and his anxiety expressed repeatedly, and with the nervousness that was unusual with him. He now said he found himself as well as he had been of late, and that he could bear traveling better in the cool hour of the morning than at any other time. While he was talking with his venerable host and thanking him for his kind of tensions, Emily observed his continence change, and before she could reach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few moments he recovered from the sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill that he perceived himself unable to set out, and, having remained a little while, struggling against the pressure of indisposition, he begged he might be helped upstairs to bed. This request renewed all of the terror which Emily had suffered on a preceding evening, but those scarcely able to support herself under the sudden shock it gave her, she tried to conceal her apprehension from Sanobar, and gave her trembling arm to a system to the door of his chamber. When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then weeping in her own room, might be called, and, as she came, he waved his hand for every other person to quit the apartment. When they were alone, he held out his hand to her and fixed his eyes upon her continence, with an expression so full of tenderness and grief that all her fortitude forsook her, and she burst into an agony of tears. Sanobar seemed to be struggling to acquire firmness, but was still unable to speak. He had only pressed her hands and checked the tears that stood trembling in his eyes. At length he commanded his voice, my dear child, said to he, trying to smile to his anguish, my dear Emily, and paused again. He raised his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer, and then, in a firmer tone, and with a look in which tenderness of the father was dignified by the highest solemnity of the saint, he said, my dear child, I would soften the painful truth I have to tell you, but I find myself quite unequal to the art. Alas, I would at this moment conceal it from you, but that would be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot be long before we must part. Let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our prayers may prepare us to bear it. His voice faltered, while Emily, still leaping, pressed his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a convulsive sigh, but she cannot look out. Let me not waste these moments, that Sanobar recovering himself. I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn consequence, which I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain from you. When this is done, I shall be easier. You have observed, my dear, how anxious I am to reach home, but know not all my reasons for this. Listen to what I am going to say. Yet stay, before I say more, give me this promise, a promise made to your dying father. Sanobar was interrupted. Emily, struck by his last words, as if for the first time, with conviction of his immediate danger, raised her head. Her tears stopped, and, gazing at him for a moment with an expression of unutterable anguish, a slight convulsion seized her, and she sunk, senseless, in her chair. Sanobar's cries brought Lavosin and his daughter to the room, and they administered every means in their power to restore her, but for considerable time without effect. When she recovered, Sanobar was so exhausted by the scene he'd witnessed that it was many minutes before he had strength to speak. He was, however, somewhat relieved by a cordial which Emily gave him, and, being again alone with her, he exerted himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her all the comfort of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into his arms, leapt on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said, he ceased to offer the alleviations which he himself could not at this moment feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers. Recalled at length to a sense of duty, she tried to spare her father from a farther view of her suffering, and quitting his embrace dried her tears and said something which she meant for consolation. My dear Emily, replied Sanobar, my dear child, we must look up with humble confidence to that being who is protected and comforted us in every danger and every affliction we have known. To his eyes every moment of our lives has been exposed. He will not, he does not forsake us now. I feel his consolation to my heart, I shall leave you, my child, still in his care, and though I depart from this world I shall still be in his presence. May weep not again, my Emily. In death there is nothing new or surprising, since we all know that we are born to die, and nothing terrible to those who can confide in an all-powerful God. And my life been spared now. After a very few years in the course of nature I must have resigned it. Old age with all its train of infirmity, its privations and its sorrows, would have been mine, and then at last death would have come, and called forth to yours you now shed. Rather, my child, rejoice that I am saved from such suffering, and that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired and sensible of comforts of faith and resignation. Santa bear paused, fatigued with speaking. Emily again endeavored to assume the air of composure, and in replying to what he had said, tried to sue them with a belief that he had not spoken in vain. When he had reposed for a while, he resumed the conversation. Let me return, said he, to a subject which is very near my heart. I said I had a solemn promise to receive from you. Let me receive it now before I explain the chief circumstance which it concerns. There are others of which your peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise then that you will perform exactly what I shall enjoy. Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears as it began again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them, and, looking eloquently at Santa bear, found herself to do whatever he should require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why. He proceeded, I know you too well, my Emily, to believe that you would break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given. Your assurance gives me peace, and he observance of it, of the utmost importance to your tranquility. Here then what I'm going to tell you, the closet which adjoins my chamber at La Valley, has a sliding board in the floor. You will know it by the remarkable knot in the wood, and by its being the next board, except one, to the wainscot which fronts the door. At the distance of about a yard from that end nearer the window, you will perceive the line across it, as if the plank had been joined. The way to open it is this, press your foot under the line, the end of the board will then sink, and he may slide it with ease beneath the other. Below, you will see a hollow place. Sana Bear paused for breath, and Emily sat fixed in deep attention. You understand these directions, my dear, said he. Emily, the scarcely able to speak, assured him that she did. Then he returned home, then, he added, with a deep sigh. At the mention of a return home, all the melancholy circumstances that must attend to this return rushed upon her fancy. She burst into convulsive breeze, and Sana Bear himself affected beyond the resistance of the fortitude, which he had, at first, summoned, wept with her. After some moments, he composed himself. My dear child, said he, be comforted. When I am gone, will not be forsaken. I leave you only in the more immediate care of that providence, which has never yet forsaken me. Do not afflict me with this excessive grief. Rather, teach me by your example to bear my own. He stopped again, and Emily, the more she endeavored to restrain her emotion, found it less possible to do so. Sana Bear, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject, that posit, my dear, when you return home, go to it. And beneath the board I have described, you will find a packet of written papers. Attend to me now, for that promise you have given particularly relates to what I shall direct. These papers you must burn, and solemnly I command you, without examining them. Emily surprised for a moment overcame her grief, and she ventured to ask why this must be. Sana Bear replied that if it had been right for him to explain his reasons, her late promise would have been unnecessarily extracted. It is sufficient for you, my love, to have a deep sense of the importance of observing me in this instance. Sana Bear proceeded, under the board you will also find about two hundred Louis dollars, wrapped in a silk purse. Indeed it was to secure whatever money might be in the chateau, that this secret place was contrived, at a time when the province was overrun by troops of men who took advantage of the tummels and became plunderers. But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is, that you will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, sell the chateau. Sana Bear even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to make it an article of the contract that the chateau should always be hers. He then gave her a more minute account of her present circumstances than you had yet done, adding, The two hundred Louis, with what money you will find in my purse, is all the ready money I have to leave you. I have told you how I am circumstantial to the Montsier-Montville in Paris. Ah, my child, I leave you poor. But not destitute, he added, after a long pause. Emily could make no reply to the things you now said, but Neld had the bedside with her face conduct built, weeping over the hand she held there. After this conversation, the mind of Sana Bear appeared to be much more at ease. But, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into a kind of doze. And Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, so a gentle tap at the chamber door aroused her. It was la vassine, come to say, that a confessor from the neighboring convict was blow, ready to attend Sana Bear. Emily would not serve her father to be disturbed, but desired that the priest might not leave to cottage. When Sana Bear eroked from his doze, his senses were confused, and it was some moments before he recovered them sufficiently to know, that was Emily who sat beside him. He then moved his lips and stretched forth his hand to her, as she received which she sank back in her chair, overcome by the impression of death on his continents. In a few minutes he recovered his voice and Emily then asked if he wished to see the confessor. He replied that he did, and when the Holy Father appeared, she withdrew. They remained alone together about half an hour. When Emily was called in, she found Sana Bear more agitated than when she had left. And she gazed with a slight degree of resentment at the friar, as a cause of this. Who, however, looked mildly and mournfully at her and turned away. Sana Bear, in a tremulous voice, said he wished her to join in prayer with him, and asked if love was in would do so too. The old man and his daughter came in. They both wept and knelt with Emily around the bed, while the Holy Father read in the solemn voice the service of the dying. Sana Bear lay with stringed continents and seemed to join fervently in the devotion. While tears often stole from beneath his closed eyelids, and Emily sobs more than once interrupted the service. When it was concluded, an extreme unction had been administered, the friar withdrew. Sana Bear then made a sign for love was in to come nearer. He gave him his hand and was, for a moment, silent. At length he said in a trembling voice, My good friend, our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to give you an opportunity of showing me much kind attention. I cannot doubt that you will extend this kindness to my daughter when I am gone. She will have need of it. I entrust her to your care during few days. She will remain here. I need say no more. You know the feelings of a father, for you have children. Mine would be indeed severe. Tideless confidence in you. He paused. Lavosin assured him, and his tears bore testimony to sincerity, that he would do all he could to soften her affliction, and that, if Sana Bear wished, he would even attend her to Gaskini, and offer so pleasing to Sana Bear that he have scarcely the words to acknowledge his sense of the old man's kindness, or to tell him that he accepted it. The scene that followed between Sana Bear and Emily affected Lavosin so much that he quitted the chamber, and she was again left alone with her father, whose spirit seemed fainting fast, but neither his senses nor his voice yet failed him, and, at intervals, he employed much of these last awful moments in advising his daughter as to her future conduct. Perhaps he had never thought more justly or expressed himself more clearly than he did now. Above all, my dear Emily, said he, do not indulge in the pride of fine feelings, dramatic error of amiable minds. Those who really possess sensibility ought early to be taught that it is a dangerous quality, which is continually extracting the excessive misery or delight from every surrounding circumstance. And, since in our passage through the world, painful circumstances occur more frequently than pleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I fear, or acute in our sense of good, we become the victims of our feelings, unless we can in some degree command them. I know you will say, for you are young, my Emily, I know you will say that you are contented sometimes to suffer, rather than give up your refined sense of happiness at others, but when your mind is long been harassed by vicissitudes, you will be content to rest, and you will then recover from your delusion. You will perceive that the phantom of happiness is exchanged for the substance, for happiness arises in the state of peace, out of tumble. It is of a temperate and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart that is continually alive to minute circumstances than in one that is dead to feeling. You see, my dear, that though I would argue against the dangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate of apathy. At your age, I should have said that is a vice, more hateful than all the errors of sensibility, and I say so still. I call it a vice, because it leads to cause to evil. In this, however, it does no more than the old government sensibility, which by such a rule might also be called a vice, but the evil of the former is of more general consequence. I have exhausted myself, since I know better feebly, and I have worried to you, my Emily, but on a subject so important to your future comfort, I am anxious to be perfectly understood. Emily assured him that his vice was most precious to her, and that she would never forget it, or cease from endeavoring to profit by it. Seno Bear smiled affectionably and sorrowfully upon her. I repeat it, said he, I would not teach you to become insensible, if I could. I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and point out how you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that self-collusion which has been pataled to the peace of many persons. Beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility. If you yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost forever. Always remember how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude than the grace of sensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy. Apathy cannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the world. Sentiment is a disgrace instead of an ornament, unless it lead us to good actions. The miser, he thinks himself respectable merely because he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good, with the actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameful than a man of sentiment without active virtue. He may have observed persons be delight so much in this sort of sensibility sentiment, which excludes that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from the distressed, and because their sufferings are painful to be contemplated, do not endeavor to relieve them. How despicable is that humanity which can be contented to pity, or it might assuage. Saint Aubert, sometime after, spoke of Madame Charon, his sister. Let me inform you of a circumstance that nearly affects your welfare, he added. We have, you know, had little intercourse for some years, but, as she is now your only female relation, I have thought it proper to consign you to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of age, and to recommend you to her protection afterwards. She is not exactly the person to whom I would have permitted my Emily, but I had no alternative, and I believe her to be upon the whole a good kind of woman, and ye not recommended to your prudence my love to endeavor to conciliate her kindness. He will do it for his sake who is so often wished to do so for yours. Emily assured him that whatever he requested, she would religiously perform to the utmost of her ability. Alas, she added in a voice interrupted by sighs, that will soon be all which remains for me. It will be almost my only consolation to fulfill your wishes. Saint Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt that look at her heart. My dear father, she explained, and then checking herself pressed his hand closer and hit her face with her handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but Saint Aubert heard her convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. Oh, my child, said he faintly, let my consolation be yours. I die in peace, for I know that I am about to return to the bosom of my father, who will still be your father when I am gone. Always trust in him my love, and he will support you in these moments, as he supports me. Emily could only listen and weep, but the extreme composure of his manner, and the faith and hope he expressed somewhat soothed her anguish. Yet whenever she looked upon his emaciated continents and saw the line to the death beginning to prevail over it, saw his sunk eyes still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was a pang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it required filial virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt. He desired once more to bless her. Where are you, my dear? Said he, as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window that he might not perceive or anguish. She now understood that his sight failed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the last effort of an expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed his forehead, the damns of death that settled there, and forgetting her fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled with him. Sanobara lifted his eyes. The spirit of a father had returned to them, but it quickly vanished, and he spoke. No more. Sanobara lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and thus gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle or a sigh. Emily was led from the chamber by Lavoisin and his daughter, and did what they could to comfort her. The old man saddened with her. Agnes was more erroneously officious. End of Volume 1 Chapter 7