It now appeared certain, that the place was
inhabited, and the Count returned to consult again with St. Foix,
whether he should try to obtain admittance, for its wild aspect had
somewhat shaken his former resolution; but, after a second
consultation, he submitted to the considerations, which before
determined him, and which were strengthened by the discovery of the
dog, that guarded the fort, as well as by the stillness that pervaded
it. He, therefore, ordered one of his servants to knock at the gate,
who was advancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the
loop-hole of one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but,
receiving no answer, he went up to the gate himself, and struck upon it
with an iron-pointed pole, which had assisted him to climb the steep. When the echoes had ceased, that this blow had awakened, the renewed
barking,—and there were now more than one dog,—was the only sound, that
was heard. The Count stepped back, a few paces, to observe whether the
light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that it was gone, he returned
to the portal, and had lifted the pole to strike again, when again he
fancied he heard the murmur of voices within, and paused to listen. He
was confirmed in the supposition, but they were too remote, to be heard
otherwise than in a murmur, and the Count now let the pole fall heavily
upon the gate; when almost immediately a profound silence followed. It
was apparent, that the people within had heard the sound, and their
caution in admitting strangers gave him a favourable opinion of them. “They are either hunters or shepherds,” said he, “who, like ourselves,
have probably sought shelter from the night within these walls, and are
fearful of admitting strangers, lest they should prove robbers. I will
endeavour to remove their fears.” So saying, he called aloud, “We are
friends, who ask shelter from the night.” In a few moments, steps were
heard within, which approached, and a voice then enquired—“Who calls?”
“Friends,” repeated the Count; “open the gates, and you shall know
more.”—Strong bolts were now heard to be undrawn, and a man, armed with
a hunting spear, appeared. “What is it you want at this hour?” said he. The Count beckoned his attendants, and then answered, that he wished to
enquire the way to the nearest cabin. “Are you so little acquainted
with these mountains,” said the man, “as not to know, that there is
none, within several leagues? I cannot show you the way; you must seek
it—there’s a moon.” Saying this, he was closing the gate, and the Count
was turning away, half disappointed and half afraid, when another voice
was heard from above, and, on looking up, he saw a light, and a man’s
face, at the grate of the portal. “Stay, friend, you have lost your
way?” said the voice. “You are hunters, I suppose, like ourselves: I
will be with you presently.” The voice ceased, and the light
disappeared. Blanche had been alarmed by the appearance of the man, who
had opened the gate, and she now entreated her father to quit the
place; but the Count had observed the hunter’s spear, which he carried;
and the words from the tower encouraged him to await the event. The
gate was soon opened, and several men in hunters’ habits, who had heard
above what had passed below, appeared, and, having listened some time
to the Count, told him he was welcome to rest there for the night. They
then pressed him, with much courtesy, to enter, and to partake of such
fare as they were about to sit down to. The Count, who had observed
them attentively while they spoke, was cautious, and somewhat
suspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of the approaching storm,
and of encountering alpine heights in the obscurity of night; being
likewise somewhat confident in the strength and number of his
attendants, he, after some further consideration, determined to accept
the invitation. With this resolution he called his servants, who,
advancing round the tower, behind which some of them had silently
listened to this conference, followed their Lord, the Lady Blanche, and
St. Foix into the fortress. The strangers led them on to a large and
rude hall, partially seen by a fire that blazed at its extremity, round
which four men, in the hunter’s dress, were seated, and on the hearth
were several dogs stretched in sleep. In the middle of the hall stood a
large table, and over the fire some part of an animal was boiling. As
the Count approached, the men arose, and the dogs, half raising
themselves, looked fiercely at the strangers, but, on hearing their
masters’ voices, kept their postures on the hearth. Blanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall; then at the men,
and to her father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, addressed himself to
the hunters. “This is a hospitable hearth,” said he, “the blaze of a
fire is reviving after having wandered so long in these dreary wilds. Your dogs are tired; what success have you had?” “Such as we usually
have,” replied one of the men, who had been seated in the hall, “we
kill our game with tolerable certainty.” “These are fellow hunters,”
said one of the men who had brought the Count hither, “that have lost
their way, and I have told them there is room enough in the fort for us
all.” “Very true, very true,” replied his companion, “What luck have
you had in the chace, brothers? We have killed two izards, and that,
you will say, is pretty well.” “You mistake, friend,” said the Count,
“we are not hunters, but travellers; but, if you will admit us to
hunters’ fare, we shall be well contented, and will repay your
kindness.” “Sit down then, brother,” said one of the men: “Jacques, lay
more fuel on the fire, the kid will soon be ready; bring a seat for the
lady too. Ma’amselle, will you taste our brandy? it is true Barcelona,
and as bright as ever flowed from a keg.” Blanche timidly smiled, and
was going to refuse, when her father prevented her, by taking, with a
good humoured air, the glass offered to his daughter; and Mons. St.
Foix, who was seated next her, pressed her hand, and gave her an
encouraging look, but her attention was engaged by a man, who sat
silently by the fire, observing St. Foix, with a steady and earnest
eye. “You lead a jolly life here,” said the Count. “The life of a hunter is
a pleasant and a healthy one; and the repose is sweet, which succeeds
to your labour.”

“Yes,” replied one of his hosts, “our life is pleasant enough. We live
here only during the summer, and autumnal months; in winter, the place
is dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend from the heights, put a
stop to the chace.”

“’Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,” said the Count: “I should like
to pass a month in your way very well.”

“We find employment for our guns too,” said a man who stood behind the
Count: “here are plenty of birds, of delicious flavour, that feed upon
the wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the valleys.