Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, and
to taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard 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. St. Aubert
was pleased 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 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, St. Aubert observed him
look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a
countenance full of timid sweetness, while the carriage drove on. St.
Aubert, 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 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, the blackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was
seen lifting its bold head above the woods and the vapours, that
floated mid-way 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 beetling cliff. Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert
alighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that
grew on the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound;
while Emily, 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
or the hunter’s cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were the
only human habitations that appeared. The travellers 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 Beaujeu. 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 travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be from
Beaujeu. St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance could not
be very great, and comforted himself with the prospect of travelling on
a more frequented road after reaching that town, where he designed to
pass the night. Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy mountains were now
seen obscurely through the dusk; but soon even these imperfect images
faded in darkness. Michael 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. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled by
some of the numerous banditti, 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 muleteer to stop. St.
Aubert bade him proceed as 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 man rode up to the carriage, still ordering the
driver to stop; and St. Aubert, who could no longer doubt his purpose,
was with difficulty able to prepare a pistol for his defence, when his
hand was upon the door of the chaise. The man staggered on his horse,
the report of the pistol was followed by a groan, and St. Aubert’s
horror may be imagined, when in the next instant he thought he heard
the faint voice of Valancourt. He now himself bade the muleteer stop;
and, pronouncing the name of Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that
no longer suffered him to doubt. St. Aubert, 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
endeavoured to soften the terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he
was not materially hurt, the wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert,
with the muleteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the
bank of the road, where St. Aubert 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 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 the road, but
Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, 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 indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not
from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence.