The Count left the château de St. Foix, early in the morning, with an
intention of passing the night at a little inn upon the mountains,
about half way to La Vallée, of which his guides had informed him; and,
though this was frequented chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their route
into France, and, of course, would afford only sorry accommodation, the
Count had no alternative, for it was the only place like an inn, on the
road. After a day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found themselves,
about sunset, in a woody valley, overlooked, on every side, by abrupt
heights. They had proceeded for many leagues, without seeing a human
habitation, and had only heard, now and then, at a distance, the
melancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell; but now they caught the notes of
merry music, and presently saw, within a little green recess among the
rocks, a group of mountaineers, tripping through a dance. The Count,
who could not look upon the happiness, any more than on the misery of
others, with indifference, halted to enjoy this scene of simple
pleasure. The group before him consisted of French and Spanish
peasants, the inhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, some of whom were
performing a sprightly dance, the women with castanets in their hands,
to the sounds of a lute and a tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of
France, the music softened into a slow movement, to which two female
peasants danced a Spanish Pavan. The Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety as he had
witnessed at Paris, where false taste painted the features, and, while
it vainly tried to supply the glow of nature, concealed the charms of
animation—where affectation so often distorted the air, and vice
perverted the manners—sighed to think, that natural graces and innocent
pleasures flourished in the wilds of solitude, while they drooped
amidst the concourse of polished society. But the lengthening shadows
reminded the travellers, that they had no time to lose; and, leaving
this joyous group, they pursued their way towards the little inn, which
was to shelter them from the night. The rays of the setting sun now threw a yellow gleam upon the forests
of pine and chesnut, that swept down the lower region of the mountains,
and gave resplendent tints to the snowy points above. But soon, even
this light faded fast, and the scenery assumed a more tremendous
appearance, invested with the obscurity of twilight. Where the torrent
had been seen, it was now only heard; where the wild cliffs had
displayed every variety of form and attitude, a dark mass of mountains
now alone appeared; and the vale, which far, far below had opened its
dreadful chasm, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam
still lingered on the summits of the highest Alps, overlooking the deep
repose of evening, and seeming to make the stillness of the hour more
awful. Blanche viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusiasm to
the murmur of the pines, that extended in dark lines along the
mountains, and to the faint voice of the izard, among the rocks, that
came at intervals on the air. But her enthusiasm sunk into
apprehension, when, as the shadows deepened, she looked upon the
doubtful precipice, that bordered the road, as well as on the various
fantastic forms of danger, that glimmered through the obscurity beyond
it; and she asked her father, how far they were from the inn, and
whether he did not consider the road to be dangerous at this late hour. The Count repeated the first question to the guides, who returned a
doubtful answer, adding, that, when it was darker, it would be safest
to rest, till the moon rose. “It is scarcely safe to proceed now,” said
the Count; but the guides, assuring him that there was no danger, went
on. Blanche, revived by this assurance, again indulged a pensive
pleasure, as she watched the progress of twilight gradually spreading
its tints over the woods and mountains, and stealing from the eye every
minuter feature of the scene, till the grand outlines of nature alone
remained. Then fell the silent dews, and every wild flower, and
aromatic plant, that bloomed among the cliffs, breathed forth its
sweetness; then, too, when the mountain-bee had crept into its
blossomed bed, and the hum of every little insect, that had floated
gaily in the sunbeam, was hushed, the sound of many streams, not heard
till now, murmured at a distance.—The bats alone, of all the animals
inhabiting this region, seemed awake; and, while they flitted across
the silent path, which Blanche was pursuing, she remembered the
following lines, which Emily had given her:

TO THE BAT

From haunt of man, from day’s obtrusive glare,
Thou shroud’st thee in the ruin’s ivy’d tow’r. Or in some shadowy glen’s romantic bow’r,
Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare,
Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care! But, at the sweet and silent ev’ning hour,
When clos’d in sleep is ev’ry languid flow’r,
Thou lov’st to sport upon the twilight air,
Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue,
In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay,
Thou flit’st athwart the pensive wand’rer’s way,
As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew. From Indian isles thou com’st, with Summer’s car,
Twilight thy love—thy guide her beaming star! To a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled in
darkness, afford a higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, that
the sun can show. While the fancy thus wanders over landscapes partly
of its own creation, a sweet complacency steals upon the mind, and

Refines it all to subtlest feeling,
Bids the tear of rapture roll. The distant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze among
the woods, or the far-off sound of a human voice, now lost and heard
again, are circumstances, which wonderfully heighten the enthusiastic
tone of the mind. The young St. Foix, who saw the presentations of a
fervid fancy, and felt whatever enthusiasm could suggest, sometimes
interrupted the silence, which the rest of the party seemed by mutual
consent to preserve, remarking and pointing out to Blanche the most
striking effect of the hour upon the scenery; while Blanche, whose
apprehensions were beguiled by the conversation of her lover, yielded
to the taste so congenial to his, and they conversed in a low
restrained voice, the effect of the pensive tranquillity, which
twilight and the scene inspired, rather than of any fear, that they
should be heard. But, while the heart was thus soothed to tenderness,
St. Foix gradually mingled, with his admiration of the country, a
mention of his affection; and he continued to speak, and Blanche to
listen, till the mountains, the woods, and the magical illusions of
twilight, were remembered no more.