Here was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had
left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so
obscured in twilight, that the eye could not follow the distant
perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow
of the horizon still marked the west, and this was of some little use
to the travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage
by singing; his music, however, was not of a kind to disperse
melancholy; he sung, in a sort of chant, one of the most dismal ditties
his present auditors had ever heard, and St. Aubert at length
discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint. They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which
twilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his
ditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among
the woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. They were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called
to the muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise was not repeated;
but presently they heard a rustling among the brakes. St. Aubert drew
forth a pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as fast as possible; who
had not long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the mountains
ring. He looked again from the window, and then saw a young man spring
from the bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The
stranger was in a hunter’s dress. His gun was slung across his
shoulders, the hunter’s horn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a
small pike, which, as he held it, added to the manly grace of his
figure, and assisted the agility of his steps. After a moment’s hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and
waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamlet
they were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only
half a league distant, that he was going thither himself, and would
readily show the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and,
pleased with his chevalier-like air and open countenance, asked him to
take a seat in the carriage; which the stranger, with an
acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep pace with the
mules. “But I fear you will be wretchedly accommodated,” said he: “the
inhabitants of these mountains are a simple people, who are not only
without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute of what in other
places are held to be its necessaries.”

“I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,” said St. Aubert. “No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.”

The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very
thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now
opened among the mountains, would likewise have added to their
perplexity. Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a
great distance like a bright cloud in the air. “What light is yonder,
sir?” said she. St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a
mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected
the sun’s rays, while those below lay in deep shade. At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,
and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather
were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and
which still gleamed with the evening light. The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not
only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of
public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and
enquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility
St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so
near, he would alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the
carriage. On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in
the chase. “Not much, sir,” he replied, “nor do I aim at it. I am
pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among
its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for
game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me
that respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a
lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.”

“I admire your taste,” said St. Aubert, “and, if I was a younger man,
should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a
wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours—I go
in search of health, as much as of amusement.” St. Aubert sighed, and
paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: “If I can
hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is
my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to
Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can,
perhaps, give me information on the subject.”

The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at
his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which
led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon. They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a
cottage, that would afford a night’s lodging. In several, which they
entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and
the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for
one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father’s
countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided
with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they
examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of
two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by
mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of
six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skins
and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was
admitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; and
here the scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted
the Pyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of
liquors) was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such
scenes, and looked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the
young stranger seemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he
made him an offer of his own bed. “It is a decent one,” said he, “when
compared with what we have just seen, yet such as in other
circumstances I should be ashamed to offer you.” St. Aubert
acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by this kindness, but
refused to accept it, till the young stranger would take no denial. “Do
not give me the pain of knowing, sir,” said he, “that an invalid, like
you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your
refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy
your acceptance. Let me show you the way.