The Mysteries of Udolpho Read online

  CHAPTER IV

  In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene, In darkness, and in storm he found delight; Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen. Even sad vicissitude amus'd 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 wish'd not to controul. THE MINSTREL

  St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous toset forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and, talkingagain of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, he hadtravelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence on theway to Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Aubert to take that route,and the latter determined to do so.

  'The road from this hamlet,' said Valancourt, 'and that to Beaujeu, partat the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you willgive me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wandersomewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than anyother I could take.'

  St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together, theyoung stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert totake a seat in his little carriage.

  The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoralvalley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak,beech and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. Themountain-ash too, and the weeping birch, often threw their pendantfoliage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely concealedtheir roots, and where their light branches waved to every breeze thatfluttered from the mountains.

  The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun hadnot yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks fromtheir folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early,not only that he might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but thathe might inhale the first pure breath of morning, which above all thingsis refreshing to the spirits of the invalid. In these regions it wasparticularly so, where an abundance of wild flowers and aromatic herbsbreathed forth their essence on the air.

  The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, nowdispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling onthe tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light,while their sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy mist.Meanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to blush, then toredden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till the golden lightdarted over all the air, touched the lower points of the mountain'sbrow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the valley and its stream.All nature seemed to have awakened from death into life; the spirit ofSt. Aubert was renovated. His heart was full; he wept, and his thoughtsascended to the Great Creator.

  Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, andto taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed toenjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt oftenstopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling to pointout to them the peculiar objects of his admiration. St. Aubert waspleased with him: 'Here is the real ingenuousness and ardour 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 hisheart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so shortan acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the carriage;seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared tosearch anxiously for topics of conversation to account for his delay. Atlength he took leave. As he went, St. Aubert observed him look with anearnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a countenancefull of timid sweetness, while the carriage drove on. St. Aubert, forwhatever reason, soon after looked from the window, and saw Valancourtstanding upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with foldedarms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, andValancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the salute, andstarted away.

  The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soonfound themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to theirsummits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shotup from the vale, 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, theblackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was seen liftingits bold head above the woods and the vapours, that floated mid-way downthe mountains; and sometimes a face of perpendicular marble rose fromthe water's edge, over which the larch threw his gigantic arms, herescathed with lightning, and there floating in luxuriant foliage.

  They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing nowand then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog, stalkingalong the valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents, which thewoods 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 beetling cliff.

  Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubertalighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that grewon the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound; whileEmily, wrapt 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-herd's orthe hunter's cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were the onlyhuman habitations that appeared.

  The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasantspot in the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then setforward towards Beaujeu.

  The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind,wound among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over thescene, and the travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be fromBeaujeu. St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance could not bevery great, and comforted himself with the prospect of travelling on amore frequented road after reaching that town, where he designed to passthe night. Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy mountains were now seenobscurely through the dusk; but soon even these imperfect images fadedin darkness. Michael proceeded with caution, for he could scarcelydistinguish 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, thatillumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It was evidentlya large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there were no meansof knowing. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled by some of thenumerous banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he became watchfuland anxious to know whether the road passed near this fire. He had armswith him, which, on an emergency, might afford some protection, thoughcertainly a very unequal one, against a band of robbers, so desperatetoo as those usually were who haunted these wild regions. While manyreflections rose upon his mind, he heard a voice shouting from the roadbehind, and ordering the muleteer to stop. St. Aubert bade him proceedas fast as possible; but either Michael, or his mules were obstinate,for they did not quit the old pace. Horses' feet were now heard; a manrode up to the carriage, still ordering the driver to stop; and St.Aubert, who could no longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty ableto prepare a pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door ofthe chaise. The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol wasfollowed by a groan, and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, when inthe next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt.He now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name ofValancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him todoubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his assistance,found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely, andappearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured to soften theterror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not materially hurt, thewound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted
himto dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where St. Auberttried to bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that hecould not accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in pursuit of thehorse, which, on being disengaged from his rider, had galloped off,he called Emily to his assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to thecarriage, and found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between thedistress of this circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding,he scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her,and called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by theroad, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt,who heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantlyunderstood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his owncondition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when hereached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him hadoccasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled,but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While hesaid this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was stillbleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formedsome handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of theblood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquiredrepeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it wasat two leagues' distance, his distress increased, since he knew not howValancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the carriage,and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When hementioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he wouldnot suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had nodoubt he should be able to support himself very well; and then he talkedof the accident as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned withValancourt's horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was nowrevived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu.

  St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by thisaccident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explainedhis unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste forsociety; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude.I determined, therefore, since my object was merely amusement, to changethe scene; and I took this road, because I knew it led through a moreromantic tract of mountains than the spot I have left. Besides,' addedhe, hesitating for an instant, 'I will own, and why should I not? that Ihad some hope of overtaking you.'

  'And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,'said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had producedthe accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourtseemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions everyunpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, stillstruggled against a sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety.Emily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt particularlyaddressed her, and there was at those times a tremulous tone in hisvoice that spoke much.

  They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance onthe blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they coulddistinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding stillnearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous bands ofgipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds of thePyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily lookedwith some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people,shewn 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 thetrees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity, which theeye feared to penetrate.

  They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, overwhich several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind oftent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the wholeformed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly theirdanger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert'spistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was ordered toproceed as fast as possible. They passed the place, however,without being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared for theopportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much interest, atthe moment, in any thing besides.

  After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellersarrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded;which, though superior to any they had seen since they entered themountains, was bad enough.

  The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he couldbe called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shavedfaces at least as dexterously as he set bones. After examiningValancourt's arm, and perceiving that the bullet had passed throughthe flesh without touching the bone, he dressed it, and left him witha solemn prescription of quiet, which his patient was not inclined toobey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to pain; for ease may beallowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with anguish; and,his spirits thus re-animated, he wished to partake of the conversationof St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, wereuncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was obliged togo out with the landlord to buy meat for supper; and Emily, who, duringthis interval, had been absent as long as she could, upon excuses oflooking to their accommodation, which she found rather better than sheexpected, was compelled to return, and converse with Valancourt alone.They talked of the character of the scenes they had passed, of thenatural history of the country, of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subjecton which Emily always spoke and listened to with peculiar pleasure.

  The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatiguedwith his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain, theyseparated soon after supper.

  In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restlessnight; that he was feverish, and his wound very painful. The surgeon,when he dressed it, advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu; advicewhich was too reasonable to be rejected. St. Aubert, however, had nofavourable opinion of this practitioner, and was anxious to commitValancourt into more skilful hands; but learning, upon enquiry, thatthere was no town within several leagues which seemed more likely toafford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey, and determinedto await the recovery of Valancourt, who, with somewhat more ceremonythan sincerity, made many objections to this delay.

  By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house thatday; but St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs ofthe town, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, somein abrupt precipices, and others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, andcypress, which stretched nearly to their highest summits. The cheerfulgreen of the beech and mountain-ash was sometimes seen, like a gleam oflight, amidst the dark verdure of the forest; and sometimes a torrentpoured its sparkling flood, high among the woods.

  Valancourt's indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu severaldays, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition andhis talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He sawa frank and generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible ofwhatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhatromantic. Valancourt had known little of the world. His perceptions wereclear, and his feelings just; his indignation of an unworthy, or hisadmiration of a generous action, were expressed in terms of equalvehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom checkedit, and often repeated to himself, 'This young man has never been atParis.' A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He determinednot to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly recovered; and, ashe was now well enough to travel, though not able to manage his horse,St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few days in the carriage.This he the more readily did, since he had discovered that Valancourtwas of a family of the same name in Gascony, with whose respectabilityhe was well acquainted. The latter accepted the offer with greatpleasure, and they again set forward among these romantic wilds aboutRousillon.

  They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grandappeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence
, whither the mulescould not go, from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence;and often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender, wild thyme,juniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of woods, between thoseboles they caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond any thing thatEmily had ever imagined.

  St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourtand Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects thatparticularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such ofthe Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses ofconversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently fixedhis eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so muchanimation the taste and energy of her mind; and when he spoke again,there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice, that defeatedany attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent pausesbecame more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to interruptthem; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk again,and again, of the woods and the vallies and the mountains, to avoid thedanger of sympathy and silence.

  From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travellersinto the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibitedtheir frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of themountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes,and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the larch couldflourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices where humanfoot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the thunder of thetorrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard tomurmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height, and fantasticshape; some shooting into cones; others impending far over their base,in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodgeda weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound,threatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, onevery side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms ofgrandeur--the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with etherealblue, or white with snow; vallies of ice, and forests of gloomy fir.The serenity and clearness of the air in these high regions wereparticularly delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire themwith a finer spirit, and diffused an indescribable complacency overtheir minds. They had no words to express the sublime emotions theyfelt. A solemn expression characterized the feelings of St. Aubert;tears often came to his eyes, and he frequently walked away from hiscompanions. Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to Emily's noticesome feature of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere, through whichevery 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 brokenonly at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering roundsome cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air;except when the travellers listened to the hollow thunder that sometimesmuttered at their feet. While, above, the deep blue of the heavens wasunobscured by the lightest cloud, half way down the mountains, longbillows of vapour were frequently seen rolling, now wholly excluding thecountry below, and now opening, and partially revealing its features.Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of these clouds as they changedin shape and tints, and to watch their various effect on the lowerworld, whose features, partly veiled, were continually assuming newforms of sublimity.

  After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descendtowards Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene.Yet the travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublimeobjects they had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extensionof 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 humblecottage shaded by cedars, the playful group of mountaineer-children, andthe flowery nooks that appeared among the hills.

  As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of thegrand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlementsand towers to the splendour of the setting rays, yellow tops of woodscolouring the steeps below, while far above aspired the snowy points ofthe mountains, still reflecting a rosy hue.

  St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed toby the people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but nohabitation yet appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not assist himto 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 littledoubt that it was the right one; for, since they had left Beaujeu, therehad been no variety of tracks to perplex or mislead.

  The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteerproceed with all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude ofillness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of bodyand mind, and he longed for repose. His anxiety was not soothed byobserving a numerous train, consisting of men, horses, and loadedmules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing anddisappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could notbe judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the setting ray,and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were in thevan, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As thesewound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, andexhibited a band of soldiers. St. 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 ofthese mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in theircalculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as theywound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that unitedtwo lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusingthemselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and watching thestones plunge into the water, that threw up its white spray high in theair as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, which the echoesof the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective ofthe valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottageon a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could notbe far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, andthen called to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but thedistance, and the roaring of the waters, would not suffer his voice tobe heard; and the crags, adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendousheight and steepness, that to have climbed either would have beenscarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with the ascent. St.Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments in delay. They continuedto travel long after twilight had obscured the road, which was sobroken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they allalighted. The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble toassist them. While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bellof a convent. The twilight would not permit them to distinguish anythinglike a building, but the sounds seemed to come from some woods, thatoverhung an acclivity to the right. Valancourt proposed to go insearch of this convent. 'If they will not accommodate us with a night'slodging,' said he, 'they may certainly inform us how far we are fromMontigny, and direct us towards it.' He was bounding forward, withoutwaiting St. Aubert's reply, when the latter stopped him. 'I am veryweary,' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing so much as for immediaterest. We will all go to the convent; your good looks would defeat ourpurpose; but when they see mine and Emily's exhausted countenances, theywill scarcely deny us repose.'

  As he said this, he took Emily's arm within his, and, telling Michael towait awhile in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend towardsthe woods, guided by the bell of the convent. His steps were feeble, andValancourt offered him his arm, which he accepted. The moon now threwa faint light over their path, and, soon after, enabled them todistinguish some towers rising above the tops of the woods. Stillfollowing the note of the bell, they entered the shade of those woods,lighted only by the moonbeams, t
hat glided down between the leaves,and threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the steep track they werewinding. The gloom and the silence that prevailed, except when the bellreturned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surroundingscene, struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice andconversation of Valancourt somewhat repressed. When they had been sometime ascending, St. Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped torest upon a little green summit, where the trees opened, and admittedthe moon-light. He sat down upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt.The bell had now ceased, and the deep repose of the scene wasundisturbed by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some distanttorrents might be said to sooth, rather than to interrupt, the silence.

  Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woodsto the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deepshadow, that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits onlywere tipped with light; while the distant perspective of the valley waslost in the yellow mist of moon-light. The travellers sat for some timewrapt in the complacency which such scenes inspire.

  'These scenes,' said Valancourt, at length, 'soften the heart, like thenotes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy which noperson, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest pleasures.They waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to benevolence,pity, and friendship. Those whom I love--I always seem to love more insuch an hour as this.' His voice trembled, and he paused.

  St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand heheld; she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time,been occupied by the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by an effortto rouse himself. 'Yes,' said he, with an half-suppressed sigh, 'thememory of those we love--of times for ever past! in such an hour as thissteals upon the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillnessof night;--all tender and harmonious as this landscape, sleeping in themellow moon-light.' After the pause of a moment, St. Aubert added, 'Ihave always fancied, that I thought with more clearness, and precision,at such an hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensiblein a great degree, that does not soften to its influence. But many suchthere are.'

  Valancourt sighed.

  'Are there, indeed, many such?' said Emily.

  'A few years hence, my Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'and you may smile atthe recollection of that question--if you do not weep to it. But come, Iam somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.'

  Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, theconvent 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 hedesired 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 foliovolume, printed in black letter, open on a desk before him. He receivedthem with courtesy, though he did not rise from his seat; and, havingasked them a few questions, granted their request. After a shortconversation, formal and solemn on the part of the superior, theywithdrew to the apartment where they were to sup, and Valancourt, whomone of the inferior friars civilly desired to accompany, went to seekMichael and his mules. They had not descended half way down the cliffs,before they heard the voice of the muleteer echoing far and wide.Sometimes he called on St. Aubert, and sometimes on Valancourt; whohaving, at length, convinced him that he had nothing to fear either forhimself, or his master; and having disposed of him, for the night, in acottage 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 St. Aubert was too much indisposed to share it, Emily, in heranxiety for her father, forgot herself; and Valancourt, silent andthoughtful, yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularlysolicitous to accommodate and relieve St. Aubert, who often observed,while his daughter was pressing him to eat, or adjusting the pillow shehad placed in the back of his arm-chair, that Valancourt fixed on her alook of pensive tenderness, which he was not displeased to understand.

  They separated at an early hour, and retired to their respectiveapartments. Emily was shown to hers by a nun of the convent, whom shewas glad to dismiss, for her heart was melancholy, and her attentionso much abstracted, that conversation with a stranger was painful. Shethought her father daily declining, and attributed his present fatiguemore to the feeble state of his frame, than to the difficulty of thejourney. A train of gloomy ideas haunted her mind, till she fell asleep.

  In about two hours after, she was awakened by the chiming of a bell, andthen heard quick steps pass along the gallery, into which her chamberopened. She was so little accustomed to the manners of a convent, as tobe 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 beforeshe opened her door, her thoughts, in the mean time, recovered from theconfusion of sleep, and she understood that the bell was the call ofthe monks to prayers. It had now ceased, and, all being again still,she forbore to go to St. Aubert's room. Her mind was not disposedfor immediate sleep, and the moon-light, 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 shelistened, the mid-night hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel,that stood on one of the lower cliffs, an holy strain, that seemed toascend through the silence of night to heaven, and her thoughts ascendedwith it. From the consideration of His works, her mind arose to theadoration of the Deity, in His goodness and power; wherever she turnedher view, whether on the sleeping earth, or to the vast regions ofspace, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of human thought, thesublimity of God, and the majesty of His presence appeared. Her eyeswere filled with tears of awful love and admiration; and she felt thatpure devotion, superior to all the distinctions of human system, whichlifts the soul above this world, and seems to expand it into a noblernature; such devotion as can, perhaps, only be experienced, whenthe mind, rescued, for a moment, from the humbleness of earthlyconsiderations, aspires to contemplate His power in the sublimity of Hisworks, 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 nether world in solemn stillness, Gives sign, that, to the list'ning ear of Heaven Religion's voice should plead? The very babe Knows this, and, chance awak'd, his little hands Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch Calls down a blessing.* *Caractacus

  The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; butEmily remained at the casement, watching the setting moon, and thevalley sinking into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present stateof mind. At length she retired to her mattress, and sunk into tranquilslumber.