As the storm,
however, seemed approaching, they did not quit their place of shelter;
and the Count, seated between his daughter and St. Foix, endeavoured to
divert the fears of the former, and conversed on subjects, relating to
the natural history of the scene, among which they wandered. He spoke
of the mineral and fossile substances, found in the depths of these
mountains,—the veins of marble and granite, with which they abounded,
the strata of shells, discovered near their summits, many thousand
fathom above the level of the sea, and at a vast distance from its
present shore;—of the tremendous chasms and caverns of the rocks, the
grotesque form of the mountains, and the various phenomena, that seem
to stamp upon the world the history of the deluge. From the natural
history he descended to the mention of events and circumstances,
connected with the civil story of the Pyrenees; named some of the most
remarkable fortresses, which France and Spain had erected in the passes
of these mountains; and gave a brief account of some celebrated sieges
and encounters in early times, when Ambition first frightened Solitude
from these her deep recesses, made her mountains, which before had
echoed only to the torrent’s roar, tremble with the clang of arms, and,
when man’s first footsteps in her sacred haunts had left the print of
blood! As Blanche sat, attentive to the narrative, that rendered the scenes
doubly interesting, and resigned to solemn emotion, while she
considered, that she was on the very ground, once polluted by these
events, her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a sound, that came in
the wind.—It was the distant bark of a watch-dog. The travellers
listened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew stronger, fancied, that
the sound came from no great distance; and, the guides having little
doubt, that it proceeded from the inn they were in search of, the Count
determined to pursue his way. The moon now afforded a stronger, though
still an uncertain light, as she moved among broken clouds; and the
travellers, led by the sound, recommenced their journey along the brow
of the precipice, preceded by a single torch, that now contended with
the moonlight; for the guides, believing they should reach the inn soon
after sunset, had neglected to provide more. In silent caution they
followed the sound, which was heard but at intervals, and which, after
some time entirely ceased. The guides endeavoured, however, to point
their course to the quarter, whence it had issued, but the deep roaring
of a torrent soon seized their attention, and presently they came to a
tremendous chasm of the mountain, which seemed to forbid all further
progress. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count and St.
Foix, while the guides traversed the edge in search of a bridge, which,
however rude, might convey them to the opposite side, and they, at
length, confessed, what the Count had begun to suspect, that they had
been, for some time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only,
that they had lost it. At a little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous passage,
formed by an enormous pine, which, thrown across the chasm, united the
opposite precipices, and which had been felled probably by the hunter,
to facilitate his chace of the izard, or the wolf. The whole party, the
guides excepted, shuddered at the prospect of crossing this alpine
bridge, whose sides afforded no kind of defence, and from which to fall
was to die. The guides, however, prepared to lead over the mules, while
Blanche stood trembling on the brink, and listening to the roar of the
waters, which were seen descending from rocks above, overhung with
lofty pines, and thence precipitating themselves into the deep abyss,
where their white surges gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The poor
animals proceeded over this perilous bridge with instinctive caution,
neither frightened by the noise of the cataract, nor deceived by the
gloom, which the impending foliage threw athwart their way. It was now,
that the solitary torch, which had been hitherto of little service, was
found to be an inestimable treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking,
but endeavouring to recollect all her firmness and presence of mind,
preceded by her lover and supported by her father, followed the red
gleam of the torch, in safety, to the opposite cliff. As they went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow pass, at
the bottom of which, the torrent they had just crossed, was heard to
thunder. But they were again cheered by the bark of a dog, keeping
watch, perhaps, over the flocks of the mountains, to protect them from
the nightly descent of the wolves. The sound was much nearer than
before, and, while they rejoiced in the hope of soon reaching a place
of repose, a light was seen to glimmer at a distance. It appeared at a
height considerably above the level of their path, and was lost and
seen again, as if the waving branches of trees sometimes excluded and
then admitted its rays. The guides hallooed with all their strength,
but the sound of no human voice was heard in return, and, at length, as
a more effectual means of making themselves known, they fired a pistol. But, while they listened in anxious expectation, the noise of the
explosion was alone heard, echoing among the rocks, and it gradually
sunk into silence, which no friendly hint of man disturbed. The light,
however, that had been seen before, now became plainer, and, soon
after, voices were heard indistinctly on the wind; but, upon the guides
repeating the call, the voices suddenly ceased, and the light
disappeared. The Lady Blanche was now almost sinking beneath the pressure of
anxiety, fatigue and apprehension, and the united efforts of the Count
and St. Foix could scarcely support her spirits. As they continued to
advance, an object was perceived on a point of rock above, which, the
strong rays of the moon then falling on it, appeared to be a
watch-tower. The Count, from its situation and some other
circumstances, had little doubt, that it was such, and believing, that
the light had proceeded from thence, he endeavoured to reanimate his
daughter’s spirits by the near prospect of shelter and repose, which,
however rude the accommodation, a ruined watch-tower might afford. “Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenees,” said the
Count, anxious only to call Blanche’s attention from the subject of her
fears; “and the method, by which they give intelligence of the approach
of the enemy, is, you know, by fires, kindled on the summits of these
edifices. Signals have thus, sometimes, been communicated from post to
post, along a frontier line of several hundred miles in length.