While he said this
St. 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 St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired
repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was
at two leagues’ distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how
Valancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the
carriage, and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When he mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt 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 muleteer being now
returned with Valancourt’s horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as
Emily was now revived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu. St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by
this accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, 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,”
added he, 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,” said
St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced the
accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt
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 gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt 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 at a 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
gipsies, 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. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert’s
pistols; St. Aubert 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 about their supper to feel much interest, at
the moment, in anything besides. After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers
arrived at Beaujeu, 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 as dexterously as he set bones. After examining
Valancourt’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; and,
his spirits thus reanimated, he wished to partake of the conversation
of St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, were
uncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. 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 Valancourt alone. They talked of the character of the scenes they had passed, of the
natural history of the country, of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subject
on which Emily always spoke and listened to with peculiar pleasure. The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatigued
with his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain,
they separated soon after supper. In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt 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. St. Aubert, however, had no
favourable opinion of this practitioner, and was anxious to commit
Valancourt into more skilful hands; but learning, upon enquiry, 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 Valancourt, who, with somewhat more
ceremony than sincerity, made many objections to this delay. By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that
day; but St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of the
town, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some in
abrupt precipices, and others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, and
cypress, which stretched nearly to their highest summits. The cheerful
green of the beech 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. Valancourt’s indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several
days, during which interval St. 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. Valancourt 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.