University of Virginia Library

THE SKELETON'S CAVE.

CHAPTER I.

We hold our existence at the mercy of the elements;
the life of man is a state of continual vigilance against
their warfare. The heats of noon would wither him
like the severed herb; the chills and dews of night
would fill his bones with pain; the winter frost would
extinguish life in an hour; the hail would smite him to
death, did he not seek shelter and protection against
them. His clothing is the perpetual armour he wears
for his defence, and his dwelling the fortress to which
he retreats for safety. Yet, even there the elements
attack him; the winds overthrow his habitation; the
waters sweep it away. The fire, that warmed and
brightened it within, seizes upon its walls and consumes
it, with his wretched family. The earth, where she
seems to spread a paradise for his abode, sends up
death in exhalations from her bosom; and the heavens
dart down lightnings to destroy him. The drought
consumes the harvests on which he relied for sustenance;

or the rains cause the green corn to "rot ere its youth
attains a beard." A sudden blast ingulfs him in the
waters of the lake or bay from which he seeks his
food; a false step, or a broken twig, precipitates him
from the tree which he had climbed for its fruit; oaks
falling in the storm, rocks toppling down from the precipices
are so many dangers which beset his life.
Even his erect attitude is a continual affront to the great
law of gravitation, which is sometimes fatally avenged
when he loses the balance preserved by constant care,
and falls on a hard surface. The very arts on which
he relies for protection from the unkindness of the elements
betray him to the fate he would avoid, in some
moment of negligence, or by some misdirection of skill,
and he perishes miserably by his own inventions. Amid
these various causes of accidental death, which thus
surround us at every moment, it is only wonderful that
their proper effect is not oftener produced—so admirably
has the Framer of the universe adapted the faculties
by which man provides for his safety, to the perils
of the condition in which he is placed. Yet there are
situations in which all his skill and strength are vain to
protect him from a violent death, by some unexpected
chance which executes upon him a sentence as
severe and inflexible as the most pitiless tyranny of
human despotism. But I began with the intention of
relating a story, and I will not by my reflections anticipate
the catastrophe of my narrative.

One pleasant summer morning a party of three persons
set out from a French settlement in the western
region of the United States, to visit a remarkable cavern
in its vicinity. They had already proceeded for
the distance of about three miles, through the tall original
forest, along a path so rarely trodden that it required
all their attention to keep its track. They now
perceived through the trees the sunshine at a distance,
and as they drew nearer they saw that it came down

into a kind of natural opening, at the foot of a steep
precipice. At every step the vast wall seemed to rise
higher and higher; its seams and fissures, and inequalities
became more and more distinet; and far up,
nearly midway from the bottom, appeared a dark opening,
under an impending crag. The precipice seemed
between two and three hundred feet in height, and quite
perpendicular. At its base, the earth for several rods
around was heaped with loose fragments of rock,
which had evidently been detached from the principal
mass, and shivered to pieces in the fall. A few trees,
among which were the black walnut and the slippery-elm,
and here and there an oak, grew scattered among the
rocks, and attested by their dwarfish stature the ungrateful
soil in which they had taken root. But the
wild grape vines which trailed along the ground, and
sent out their branches to overrun the trees around
them, showed by their immense size how much they
delighted in the warmth of the rocks and the sunshine.
The celastrus also here and there had wound its strong
rings round and round the trunks and the boughs, till
they died in its embrace, and then clothed the leafless
branches in a thick drapery of its own foliage. Into
this open space the party at length emerged from the
forest, and for a moment stopped.

"Yonder is the Skeleton's Cave," said one of them,
who stood a little in front of the rest. As he spoke he
raised his arm, and pointed to the dark opening in the
precipice already mentioned.

The speaker was an aged man, of spare figure, and
a mild, subdued expression of countenance. Whoever
looked at his thin gray hairs, his stooping form, and the
emaciated hand which he extended, might have taken
him for one who had passed the Scripture limit of threescore
years and ten; but a glance at his clear and bright
hazel eye would have induced the observer to set him
down at some five years younger. A broad-brimmed

palmetto hat shaded his venerable features from the
sun, and his black gown and rosary denoted him to be
an ecclesiastic of the Romish faith.

The two persons whom he addressed were much
younger. One of them was in the prime of manhood
and personal strength, rather tall, and of a vigorous
make. He wore a hunting-cap, from the lower edge
of which curled a profusion of strong dark hair, rather
too long for the usual mode in the Atlantic States, shading
a fresh-coloured countenance, lighted by a pair of
full black eyes, the expression of which was compounded
of boldness and good-humour. His dress
was a blue frock-coat trimmed with yellow fringe, and
bound by a sash at the waist, deer-skin pantaloons,
and deer-skin mocasins. He carried a short rifle on his
left shoulder; and wore on his left side a leathern bag
of rather ample dimensions, and on his right a powder-flask.
It was evident that he was either a hunter by
occupation, or at least one who made hunting his principal
amusement; and there was something in his air
and the neatness of his garb and equipments that bespoke
the latter.

On the arm of this person leaned the third individual
of the party, a young woman apparently about nineteen
or twenty years of age, slender and graceful as a
youthful student of the classic poets might imagine a
wood-nymph. She was plainly attired in a straw hat
and a dress of russet-colour, fitted for a ramble through
that wild forest. The faces of her two companions
were decidedly French in their physiognomy; hers was
as decidedly Anglo-American. Her brown hair was
parted away from a forehead of exceeding fairness,
more compressed on the sides than is usual with
the natives of England; and showing in the profile
that approach to the Grecian outline which is remarked
among their descendants in America. To complete
the picture, imagine a quiet blue eye, features

delicately moulded, and just colour enough on her cheek
to make it interesting to watch its changes, as it deepened
or grew paler with the varying and flitting emotions
which slight cause will call up in a youthful maiden's
bosom.

Notwithstanding this difference of national physiognomy,
there was nothing peculiar in her accent, as she
answered the old man who had just spoken.

"I see the mouth of the cave, but how are we to
reach it, Father Ambrose? I perceive no way of getting
to it without wings, either from the bottom or the top
of the precipice."

"Look a few rods to the right, Emily. Do you see
that pile of broken rocks reaching up to the middle of
the precipice, looking as if a huge column of that
mighty wall had been shivered into a pyramid of fragments?
Our path lies that way."

"I see it, father," returned the fair questioner; "but
when we arrive at the top, it appears to me we shall be
no nearer the cave than we now are."

"From the top of that pile you may perceive a horizontal
seam in the precipice extending to the mouth of
the cave. Along that line, though you cannot discern it
from the place where we stand, is a safe and broad
footing, leading to our place of destination. Do you
see, Le Maire," continued Father Ambrose, addressing
himself to his other companion, "do you see that eagle
sitting so composedly on a bough of that leafless tree,
which seems a mere shrub on the brow of the precipice
directly over the cavern? Nay, never lift your rifle,
my good friend; the bird is beyond your reach, and you
will only waste your powder. The superfluous rains
which fall on the highlands beyond are collected in the
hollow over which hangs the tree I showed you, and
pour down the face of the rock directly over the entrance
of the cave. Generally, you will see the bed
of that hollow perfectly dry, as it is at present, but

during a violent shower, or after several days' rain, there
descends from that spot a sheet of water, white as
snow, deafening with its noise the quiet solitudes around
us, and rivalling in beauty some of the cascades that
tumble from the cliffs of the Alps. But let us proceed."

The old man led the party to the pile of rocks which
he had pointed out to their notice, and began to ascend
from one huge block to another with an agility scarcely
impaired by age. They could now perceive that human
steps had trodden that rough path before them; in
some places the ancient moss was effaced from the
stones, and in others their surfaces had been worn
smooth. Emily was about to follow her venerable conductor,
when Le Maire offered to assist her.

"Nay, uncle," said she, "I know you are the politest
of men, but I think your rifle will give you trouble
enough. I have often heard you call it your wife; so I
beg you will wait on Madame Le Maire, and leave me
to make the best of my way by myself. I am not now
to take my first lesson in climbing rocks, as you well
know."

"Well, if this rifle be my spouse," rejoined the
hunter, "I will say that it is not every wife who has so
devoted a husband, nor every husband who is fortunate
enough to possess so true a wife. She has another
good quality—she never speaks but when she is bid,
and then always to the point. I only wish for your
sake, since I am not permitted to assist you, that Henry
Danville were here. I think we should see the wildness
of the paces that carry you so lightly over
these rocks, a little chastised, while the young gentleman
tenderly and respectfully handed you up this rude
staircase, too rude for such delicate feet. Ah, I beg
pardon, I forgot that you had quarrelled. Well, it is
only a lover's quarrel, and the reconciliation will be the
happier for being delayed so long. Henry is a worthy
lad and an excellent marksman."

A heroine in a modern novel would have turned back
this raillery with a smart or proud reply, but Emily
was of too sincere and ingenuous a nature to answer a
jest on a subject in which her heart was so deeply interested.
Her cheek burned with a blush of the deepest
crimson, as she turned away without speaking, and
fled up the rocks. But though she spoke not, a tumult
of images and feelings passed rapidly through her
mind. One vivid picture of the past after another came
before her recollection, and one well-known form and
face were present in them all. She saw Henry Danville
as when she first beheld, and was struck with his
frank, intelligent aspect and graceful manners,—respectful,
attentive, eager to attract her notice, and fearing
to displease,—then again as the accepted and delighted
lover,—and finally, as he was now, offended,
cold, and estranged. A rustic ball rose before her
imagination—a young stranger from the Atlantic States
appears among the revellers—the phrases of the gay
and animated conversation she held with him again
vibrate on her ear—and again she sees Henry standing
aloof, and looking gloomy and unhappy. She remembered
how she had undertaken to discipline him for
this unreasonable jealousy, by appearing charmed with
her new acquaintance, and accepting his civilities with
affected pleasure; how he had taken fire at this—had
withdrawn himself from her society, and transferred
his attentions to others. It was but the simple history
of what is common enough among youthful lovers; but
it was not of the less moment to her whose heart now
throbbed with mingled pride and anguish, as these incidents
came thronging back upon her memory. She
regretted her own folly, but her thoughts severely
blamed Henry for making so trifling a matter a ground
of serious offence, and she sought consolation in reflecting
how unhappy she must have been had she been
united for life to one of so jealous a temper. "I am

confident," said she to herself, "that his present indifference
is all a pretence; he will soon sue for a reconciliation,
and I shall then show him that I can be as
indifferent as himself."

Occupied with these reflections, Emily, before she
was aware, found herself at the summit of that pile of
broken rocks, and midway up the precipice.

CHAPTER II.

The ecclesiastic was the first of the party who arrived
at the summit. He had seated himself on one
of the blocks of stone which composed the pile, with
his back against the wall of the precipice, and had
taken the hat from his brow that he might enjoy the
breeze which played lightly about the cliffs; and the
coolness of which was doubly grateful after the toil of
the ascent. In doing this he uncovered a high and
ample forehead, such as artists love to couple with the
features of old age, when they would represent a comitenance
at once noble and venerable. This is the only
feature of the human face which Time spares: he dims
the lustre of the eye; he shrivels the cheek; he destroys
the firm or sweet expression of the mouth; he
thins and whitens the hairs; but the forehead, that temple
of thought, is beyond his reach, or rather, it shows
more grand and lofty for the ravages which surround it.

The spot on which they now stood commanded a
view of a wide extent of uncultivated and uninhabited
country. An eminence interposed to hide from sight

the village they had left; and on every side were
the summits of the boundless forest, here and there
diversified with a hollow of softer and richer verdure,
where the hurricane, a short time before, had descended
to lay prostrate the gigantic trees, and a young growth
had shot up in their stead. Solitary savannas opened
in the depth of the woods, and far off a lonely stream
was flowing away in silence, sometimes among venerable
trees, and sometimes through natural meadows,
crimson with blossoms. All around them was the
might, the majesty of vegetable life, untamed by the
hand of man, and pampered by the genial elements
into boundless luxuriance. The ecclesiastic pointed
out to his companions the peculiarities of the scenery;
he expatiated on the flowery beauty of those unshorn
lawns; and on the lofty growth, and the magnificence
and variety of foliage which distinguish the American
forests, so much the admiration of those who have seen
only the groves of Europe.

The conversation was interrupted by a harsh stridulous
cry, and looking up, the party beheld the eagle who
had left his perch on the top of the precipice, and having
passed over their heads, was winging his way towards
the stream in the distance.

"Ah," exclaimed Le Maire, "that is a hungry note,
and the bird is a shrewd one, for he is steering to a
place where there is plenty of game to my certain
knowledge. It is the golden eagle; the war eagle, as
the Indians call him, and no chicken either, as you may
understand from the dark colour of his plumage. I
warrant he has gorged many a rabbit and prairie hen
on these old cliffs. At all events, he has made me think
of my dinner: unless we make haste, good Father Ambrose,
I am positive that we shall be late to our venison
and claret."

"We must endeavour to prevent so great a misfortune,"
said Father Ambrose, rising from the rock where

he sat, and proceeding on the path towards the cavern.
It was a kind of narrow terrace, varying in width from
four to ten feet, running westwardly along the face of
the steep solid rock, and apparently formed by the
breaking away of the upper part of one of the perpendicular
strata of which the precipice was composed.
That event must have happened at a very remote
period, for in some places the earth had accumulated on
the path to a considerable depth, and here and there
grew a hardy and dwarfish shrub, or a tuft of wildflowers
hanging over the edge. As they proceeded, the
great height at which they stood, and the steepness of
the rocky wall above and below them, made Emily
often tremble and grow pale as she looked down. A
few rods brought the party to a turn in the rock, where
the path was narrower than elsewhere, and precisely
in the angle a portion of the terrace on which they
walked had fallen, leaving a chasm of about two feet
in width, through which their distance from the base
was fearfully apparent. Le Maire had already passed
it, but Emily, when she arrived at the spot, shrunk back
and leaned against the rock.

"I fear I shall not be able to cross the chasm," said
she, in a tone of alarm. "My poor head grows giddy
from a single look at it."

"Le Maire will assist you, my child," said the old
man, who walked behind her.

"With the greatest pleasure in life," answered Le
Maire; "though I confess I little expected that the
daughter of a clear-headed Yankee would complain of
being giddy in any situation. But this comes of having
a French mother I suppose. Let me provide a convenient
station for Madame le Maire, as you call her, and
I will help you over." He then placed his rifle against
the rock, where the path immediately beyond him grew
wider, and advancing to the edge of the chasm, held
forth both hands to Emily, taking hold of her arms near

the elbow. In doing this he perceived that she
trembled.

"You are as safe here as when you were in the
woods below," said Le Maire, "if you would but think
so. Step forward now, firmly, and look neither to the
right nor left."

She took the step, but at that moment the strange
inclination which we sometimes feel when standing on
a dizzy height, to cast ourselves to the ground, came
powerfully over her, and she leaned involuntarily and
heavily towards the verge of the precipice. Le Maire
was instantly aware of the movement, and bracing himself
firmly, strove with all his might to counteract it.
Had his grasp been less steady, or his self-possession
less perfect, they would both inevitably have been precipitated
from where they stood; but Le Maire was
familiar with all the perilous situations of the wilderness,
and the presence of mind he had learned in
such a school did not now desert him. His countenance
bore witness to the intense exertion he was
making; it was flushed, and its muscles were working
powerfully; his lips were closely compressed; the
veins on his brow swelled, and his arms quivered with
the strong tension given to their sinews. For an instant
the fate of the two seemed in suspense, but the strength
of the hunter prevailed, and he placed the damsel beside
him on the rock, fainting and pallid as a corpse.

"God be praised," said the priest, drawing heavily
the breath which he had involuntarily held during that
fearful moment, while he had watched the scene, unable
to render the least assistance.

CHAPTER III.

Some moments of repose were necessary before
Emily was sufficiently recovered from her agitation to
be able to proceed. The tears filled her eyes as she
briefly but warmly thanked Le Maire for his generous
exertions to save her, and begged his pardon for the foolish
and awkward timidity, as she termed it, which had
put his life as well as her own in such extreme peril.

"I confess," answered he, good-naturedly, "that bad
you been of as solid a composition as some ladies with
whom I have the honour of an acquaintance, Madame
Le Maire here would most certainly have been a
widow. I understood my own strength, however,"
added he, for on this point he was somewhat vain,
"and if I had not, I should still have been willing to risk
something rather than to lose you. But I will take
care, Emily, that you do not lead me into another scrape
of the kind. When we return I shall, by your leave,
take you in my arms and carry you over the chasm,
and you may shut your eyes while I do it, if you
please."

They now again set out, and in a few moments arrived
at the mouth of the cavern they had come to visit. A

projecting mass of rock impended over it, so low as not
to allow in front an entrance to a person standing upright,
but on each side it receded upwards in such a
manner as to leave two high narrow openings, giving
it the appearance of being suspended from the cavern
roof. Beneath it the floor, which was a continuation of
the terrace leading to the spot, was covered, in places,
to a considerable depth, with soil formed by the disintegration
of the neighbouring rocks, and traversed by
several fissures nearly filled with earth. As they entered
by one of the narrow side openings, Emily looked
up to the crag with a slight shudder. "If it should
fall!" thought she to herself; but a feeling of shame at
the idle fear she had lately manifested restrained her
from giving utterance to the thought. The good ecclesiastic
perceived what was passing in her mind, and
said, with a smile—

"There is no danger, my child; that rock has been
suspended over the entrance for centuries, for thousands
of years perhaps, and is not likely to fall today.
Ages must have elapsed before the crags could
have crumbled to form the soil now under our feet.
It is true that there is no place sacred from the intrusion
of accident; everywhere may unforeseen events
surprise and crush us, as the foot of man surprises and
crushes the insect in his path; but to suppose peculiar
danger in a place which has known no change for hundreds
of years is to distrust Providence. Come, Le
Maire," said Father Ambrose, "will you oblige us by
striking a light? Our eyes have been too much in the
sunshine to distinguish objects in this dark place."

Le Maire produced from his hunting bag a roll of
tinder, and lighting it with a spark from his rifle, kindled
in a few moments a large pitch-pine torch. The circumstance
which first struck the attention of the party
was the profound and solemn stillness of the place.
The most quiet day has under the open sky its multitude

of sounds—the lapse of waters, the subtle motions
of the apparently slumbering air among forests, grasses,
and rocks, the flight and note of insects, the voices of
animals, the rising of exhalations, the mighty process
of change, of perpetual growth and decay, going on all
over the earth, produce a chorus of noises which the
hearing cannot analyze—which, though it may seem to
you silence, is not so; and when from such a scene
you pass directly into one of the rocky chambers of the
earth, you perceive your error by the contrast. As the
three went forward they passed through a heap of dry
leaves lightly piled, which the winds of the last autumn
had blown into the cave from the summit of the surrounding
forest, and the rustling made by their steps
sounded strangely loud amid that death-like silence.
A spacious cavern presented itself to their sight, the
roof of which near the entrance was low, but several
paces beyond it rose to a great height, where the smoke
of the torch ascending, mingled with the darkness, but
the flame did not reveal the face of the vault.

They soon came to where, as Father Ambrose informed
them, the cave divided into two branches.
"That on the left," said he, "soon becomes a low and
narrow passage among the rocks; this on the right
leads to a large chamber, in which lie the bones from
which the cavern takes its name."

He now took the torch from the hand of Le Maire,
and turning to the right guided his companions to a
lofty and wide apartment of the cave, in one corner of
which he showed them a human skeleton lying extended
on the rocky floor. Some decayed fragments,
apparently of the skins of animals, lay under it in places,
and one small remnant passed over the thighs, but
the bones, though they had acquired from the atmosphere
of the cave a greenish yellow hue, were seemingly
unmouldered. They still retained their original
relative position, and appeared as never disturbed since
the sleep of death came over the frame to which they

once belonged. Emily gazed on the spectacle with
that natural horror which the remains of the dead inspire.
Even Le Maire, with all his vivacity and garrulity,
was silent for a moment.

"Is any thing known of the manner in which this
poor wretch came to his end?" he at length inquired.

"Nothing. The name of Skeleton's Cave was given
to this place by the aborigines; but I believe they have
no tradition concerning these remains. If you look at
the right leg you will perceive that the bone is fractured:
it is most likely the man was wounded on these
very cliffs either by accident or by some enemy, and
that he crawled to this retreat, where he perished from
want of attendance and from famine."

"What a death!" murmured Emily.

The ecclesiastic then directed their attention to another
part of the same chamber, where he said it was
formerly not uncommon for persons benighted in these
parts, particularly hunters, to pass the night. "You
perceive," added he, "that this spot is higher than the
rest of the cavern, and drier also; indeed no part of
the cavern is mach subject to moisture. A bed of
leaves on this rock with a good blanket, is no bad accommodation
for a night's rest, as I can assure you,
having once made the experiment myself many years
since, when I came hither from Europe. Ah, what have
we here? coals, brands, splinters of pitch-pine! The
cave must have been occupied very lately for the purpose
I mentioned, and by people too who, I dare say,
from the preparations they seem to have made, passed
the night very comfortably."

"I dare say they did so, though they had an ugly
bedfellow yonder," answered Le Maire; "but I hope
you do not think of following their example. As you
have shown us, I presume, the principal curiosities of
the cave, I take the liberty of suggesting the propriety
of getting as fast as we can out of this melancholy

place, which has already put me out of spirits. That
poor wretch who died of famine!—I shall never get
him out of my head till I am fairly set down to dinner.
Not that I care more for my dinner than any other man
when there is any thing of importance in the way, as,
for example, a buffalo, or a fat buck, or a bear to be
killed; but you will allow, Father Ambrose, that a
saddle of venison, or a hump of buffalo and a sober
bottle of claret are a prettier spectacle, particularly at
this time of day, than that mouldy skeleton yonder. I
had intended to shoot something in my way back just
to keep my hand and eye in practice, but it is quite too
late to think of that. Besides, here is Emily, poor
thing, whom we have contrived to get up to this place,
and whom we must manage to get down again as well
as we can."

The good priest, though by no means participating
in Le Maire's haste to be gone, mildly yielded to his
instances, particularly as they were seconded by Emily,
and they accordingly prepared to return. On reaching
the mouth of the cave, they were struck with the change
in the aspect of the heavens. Dark heavy clouds, the
round summits of which were seen one beyond the
other, were rapidly rising in the west; and through
the grayish blue haze which suffused the sky before
them, the sun appeared already shorn of his beams.
A sound was heard afar of mighty winds contending
with the forest, and the thunder rolled at a distance.

"We must stay at least until the storm is over," said
Father Ambrose; "it would be upon us before we
could descend these cliffs. Let us watch it from where
we stand above the tops of these old woods: I can
promise you it will be a magnificent spectacle."

Emily, though she would gladly have left the cave,
could say nothing against the propriety of this advice;
and even Le Maire, notwithstanding that he declared
he had rather see a well-loaded table at that moment

than all the storms that ever blew, preferred remaining
to the manifest inconvenience of attempting a descent.
In a few moments the dark array of clouds swept over
the face of the sun, and a tumult in the woods announced
the coming of the blast. The summits of the
forest waved and stooped before it, like a field of young
flax in the summer breeze,—another and fiercer gust
descended,—another and stronger convulsion of the
forest ensued. The trees rocked backward and forward,
leaned and rose, and tossed and swung their
branches in every direction, and the whirling air above
them was filled with their leafy spoils. The roar was
tremendous,—the noise of the ocean in a tempest is
not louder,—it seemed as if that innumerable multitude
of giants of the wood, raised a universal voice of
wailing under the fury that smote and tormented them.
At length the rain began to fall, first in large and rare
drops, and then the thunder burst over head, and the
waters of the firmament poured down in torrents, and
the blast that howled in the woods fled before them as
if from an element that it feared. The trees again
stood erect, and nothing was heard but the rain beating
heavily on the immense canopy of leaves around, and
the occasional crashings of the thunder, accompanied
by flashes of lightning, that threw a vivid light upon
the walls of the cavern. The priest and his companions
stood contemplating this scene in silence, when a rushing
of water close at hand was heard. Father Ambrose
showed the others where a stream, formed from
the rains collected on the highlands above, descended
on the crag that overhung the mouth of the cavern,
and shooting clear of the rocks on which they stood,
fell in spray to the broken fragments at the base of the
precipice.

A gust of wind drove the rain into the opening where
they stood, and obliged them to retire farther within.
The priest suggested that they should take this opportunity

to examine that part of the cave which in going to
the skeleton's chamber they had passed on their left, observing,
however, that he believed it was no otherwise
remarkable than for its narrowness and its length. Le
Maire and Emily assented, and the former taking up the
torch which he had stuck in the ground, they went back
into the interior. They had just reached the spot where
the two passages diverged from each other, when a
hideous and intense glare of light filled the cavern,
showing for an instant the walls, the roof, the floor,
and every crag and recess, with the distinctness of the
broadest sunshine. A frightful crash accompanied it,
consisting of several sharp and deafening explosions,
as if the very heart of the mountain was rent asunder
by the lightning, and immediately after a body of immense
weight seemed to fall at their very feet with a
heavy sound, and a shock that caused the place where
they stood to tremble as if shaken by an earthquake.
A strong blast of air rushed by them, and a suffocating
odour filled the cavern.

Father Ambrose had fallen upon his knees in mental
prayer, at the explosion; but the blast from the mouth
of the cavern threw him to the earth. He raised himself,
however, immediately, and found himself in utter
silence and darkness, save that a livid image of that
insufferable glare floated yet before his eyeballs. He
called first upon Emily, who did not answer, then upon
Le Maire, who replied from the ground a few paces
nearer the entrance of the cave. He also had been
thrown prostrate, and the torch he carried was extinguished.
It was but the work of an instant to kindle
it again, and they then discovered Emily extended near
them in a swoon.

"Let us bear her to the mouth of the cavern," said
Le Maire; "the fresh air from without will revive her."
He took her in his arms, but on arriving at the spot he
placed her suddenly on the ground, and raising both

hands, exclaimed, with an accent of despair, "The rock
is fallen!—the entrance is closed!"

It was but too evident,—Father Ambrose needed but
a single look to convince him of its truth,—the huge
rock which impended over the entrance had been loosened
by the thunderbolt, and had fallen upon the floor
of the cave, closing all return to the outer world.

CHAPTER IV.

Before inquiring further into the extent of the disaster,
an office of humanity was to be performed.
Emily was yet lying on the floor of the cave in a
swoon, and the old man, stooping down and placing her
head in his lap, began to use the ordinary means of
recovery, and called on Le Maire to assist him. The
hunter, after being spoken to several times, started
from his gloomy revery, and kneeling down by the side
of the priest, aided him in chafing her temples and
hands, and fanned her cheek with his cap until consciousness
was restored, when the priest communicated
the terrible intelligence of what had happened.

Presence of mind and fortitude do not always dwell
together. Those who are most easily overcome by the
appearance of danger often support the calamity after
it has fallen with the most composure. Le Maire had
presence of mind, but he had not learned to submit

with patience to irremediable misfortune; Emily could
not command her nerves in sudden peril, but she could
suffer with a firmness which left her mind at liberty to
employ its resources. The very disaster which had
happened seemed to inspire both her mind and her
frame with new strength. The vague apprehensions
which had haunted her were now reduced to certainty;
she saw the extent of the calamity, and felt the duties
it imposed. She rose from the ground without aid and
with a composed countenance, and began to confer with
Father Ambrose on the probabilities and means of
escape from their present situation.

In the mean time, Le Maire, who had left them as
soon as Emily came to herself, was eagerly employed
in examining the entrance where the rock had fallen.
On one side it lay close against the wall of the cavern;
on the other was an opening of about a hand's breadth,
which appeared, so far as he could distinguish, to communicate
with the outer atmosphere. He looked above,
but there the low roof, which met the wavering flame
of his torch, showed a collection of large blocks firmly
wedged together; he cast his eyes downwards, but there
the lower edge of the vast mass which had fallen lay
imbedded in the soil; he placed his shoulder against it
and exerted his utmost strength to discover if it were
moveable, but it yielded no more than the rock on which
it rested.

"It is all over with us," said he, at length, dashing
to the ground the torch, which the priest, approaching,
prudently took up before it was extinguished; "it is all
over with us; and we must perish in this horrid place
like wild beasts in a trap. There is no opening, no
possible way for escape, and not a soul on the wide
earth knows where we are, or what is our situation."
Then turning fiercely to the priest, and losing his
habitual respect for his person and office in the bitterness
of his despair, he said, "This is all your doing,—

it was you who decoyed us hither to lay our bones beside
those of that savage yonder."

"My son—" said the old man.

"Call me not son,—this is no time for cant. You
take my life, and when I reproach you, you give me
fine words. You call yourself a man of God,—can
you pray us out of this horrible dungeon into which you
have enticed us to bury us alive?"

"Say not that I take your life," said Father Ambrose
mildly, without otherwise noticing his reproaches;
"there is no reason as yet to suppose our case hopeless.
Though we informed no person of the place to
which we were going, it does not follow that we shall
not be missed, or that no inquiry will be made for us.
With to-morrow morning the whole settlement will
doubtless be out to search for us, and as it is probable
that some of them will pass this way, we may make
ourselves heard by them from the mouth of the cavern.
Besides, as Emily has just suggested, it is not impossible
that the cave may have some other outlet, and
that the part we were about to examine may afford a
passage to the daylight."

Le Maire caught eagerly at the hope thus presented.
"I beg your pardon, father," said he, "I was hasty—
I was furious—but it is terrible, you will allow, to be
shut up in this sepulchre, with the stone rolled to its
mouth, and left to die. It is no light trial of patience
merely to pass the night here, particularly," said he,
with a smile, "when you know that dinner is waiting
for you at home. Well, if the cave is to be explored,
let us set about it immediately; if there is any way of
getting out, let us discover it as soon as possible."

They again went to the passage which diverged from
the path leading to the skeleton's chamber. It was a
low, irregular passage, sometimes so narrow that they
were obliged to walk one behind the other, and sometimes
wide enough to permit them to walk abreast.

After proceeding a few rods it became so low that they
were obliged to stoop.

"Remain here," said Le Maire, "and give me the
torch. If there be any way of reaching daylight by
this part of the cavern, I will give an account of
it in due time."

Father Ambrose and Emily then seated themselves
on a low bench of stone in the side of the cavern, while
he went forward. The gleam of his torch appearing
and disappearing showed the windings of the passage
he was treading, and sometimes the sound of measured
steps on the rock announced that he was walking upright,
and sometimes a confused and struggling noise
denoted that he was making his way on his elbows
and knees. At length the sound was heard no longer,
and the gleam of the torch ceased altogether to be descried
in the passage.

"Father Ambrose!" said Emily, after a long interval.
These words, though in the lowest key of her
voice, were uttered in such a tone of awe, and sounded,
moreover, with such an unnatural distinctness in the
midst of that perfect stillness, that the good father
started.

"What would you, my daughter?"

"This darkness and this silence are frightful, and I
spoke that you might reassure me by the sound of your
voice. My uncle is long in returning."

"The passage is a long and intricate one."

"But is there no danger? I have heard of death-damps
in pits and deep caverns, by the mere breathing
of which a man dies silently and without a struggle.
If my poor uncle should never return!"

"Let us not afflict ourselves with supposable evils,
while a real calamity is impending over us. The cavern
has been explored to a considerable distance without
any such consequence as you mention to those who
undertook it."

"God grant that he may discover a passage out of
the cave! But I am afraid of the effect of a disappointment,
he is so impatient—so impetuous."

"God grant us all grace to submit to his good
pleasure," rejoined the priest; "but I think I hear him
on the return. Listen, my child, you can distinguish
sounds inaudible to my dull ears."

Emily listened, but in vain. At length, after another
long interval, a sound of steps was heard, seemingly
at a vast distance. In a little while a faint light showed
itself in the passage, and after some minutes Le Maire
appeared, panting with exertion, his face covered with
perspiration, and his clothes soiled with the dust and
slime of the rocks. He was about to throw himself
on the rocky seat beside them without speaking.

"I fear your search has been unsuccessful," said
Father Ambrose.

"There is no outlet in that quarter," rejoined Le
Maire sullenly. "I have explored every winding and
every cranny of the passage, and have been brought
up at last, in every instance, against the solid rock."

"There is no alternative, then," said the ecclesiastic,
"but to make ourselves as tranquil and comfortable as
we can for the night. I shall have the honour of installing
you in my old bed-chamber, where, if you sleep
as soundly as I did once, you will acknowledge to-morrow
morning that you might have passed a worse night.
It is true, Emily, that one corner of it is occupied by
an ill-looking inmate, but I can promise you from my
own experience that he will do you no harm. So let
us adjourn to the skeleton's chamber, and leave to
Providence the events of the morrow."

To the skeleton's chamber they went accordingly,
taking the precaution to remove thither a quantity of
the dry leaves which lay heaped not far from the mouth
of the cave, to form couches for their night's repose.
A log of wood of considerable size was found in this

part of the cavern, apparently left there by those who
had lately occupied it for the night; and on collecting
the brands and bits of wood which lay scattered about
they found themselves in possession of a respectable
stock of fuel. A fire was kindled, and the warmth, the
light, the crackling brands, and the ever-moving flames,
with the dancing shadows they threw on the walls, and the
waving trains of smoke that mounted like winged serpents
to the roof and glided away to the larger and
loftier apartment of the cave, gave to that recess lately so
still, dark, and damp, a kind of wild cheerfulness and
animation, which, under other circumstances, could not
have failed to raise the spirits of the party. They
placed themselves around that rude hearth, Emily taking
care to turn her back to the corner where lay the
skeleton. Father Ambrose had been educated in Europe;
he had seen much of men and manners, and he
now exerted himself to entertain his companions by the
narrative of what had fallen under his observation in
that ancient abode of civilized man. He was successful,
and the little circle forget for a while in the charm
of his conversation their misfortune and their danger.
Even Le Maire was enticed into relating one or two
of his hunting exploits, and Emily suffered a few of
the arch sallies that distinguished her in more cheerful
moments to escape her. At length Le Maire's hunting
watch pointed to the hour of ten, and the good priest
counselled them to seek repose. He gave them his
blessing, recommending them to the great Preserver of
men, and then laying themselves down on their beds
of leaves around the fire, they endeavoured to compose
themselves to rest.

But now that each was left to the companionship of
his own thoughts, the idea of their situation intruded
upon their minds with a sense of pain and anxiety
which repulsed the blessing of sleep. The reflections
of each on the events of the day and the prospects of

the morrow were different; those of Emily were the
most cheerful, as her hopes of deliverance were the
most sanguine. Her imagination had formed a picture
of the incidents of her rescue from the fate that threatened
her, a little romance in anticipation, which she
would not for the world have revealed to living ear,
but which she dwelt upon fondly and perpetually in the
secrecy of her own meditations. She thought what
must be the effect of her mysterious absence from the
village upon Henry Danville, whose very jealousy,
causeless as it was, demonstrated the sincerity and
depth of his affection. She represented him to herself
as the leader in the search that would be set on foot
for the lost ones, as the most adventurous of the band,
the most persevering, the most inventive, and the most
successful.

"He will pass by this precipice to-morrow," thought
she; "like others, he has heard of this cave; he will
see that the fall of the rock has closed the entrance,
his quick apprehension will divine the place of our imprisonment,
he will call upon those who are engaged
in the search, he will climb the precipice, he will deliver
us, and I shall forgive him. But should it be my
fate to perish; should none ever know the manner and
place of my death; there will be one at least who will
remember and regret me. He will bitterly repent the
wrong he has done me, and the tears will start into his
eyes at the mention of my name." A tear gushed out
from between the closed lids of the fair girl as this
thought passed through her mind, but it was such a
tear as maidens love to shed, and it did not delay the
slumber that already began to steal over her.

Sleep was later in visiting the eyes of Le Maire.
The impatience which a bold and adventurous man,
accustomed to rely on his own activity and address for
escape in perilous emergencies, feels under the pressure
of a calamity which no exertion of his own can remedy,

had chafed and almost maddened his spirit. His heart
sank within him at the thought of the lingering death
he must die if not liberated from his living tomb. Long
and uneasily he tossed on his bed of leaves, but he too
had his hopes of deliverance by the people of the village,
who would unquestionably assemble in the morning
to search for their lost neighbours, and who might
discover their situation. These thoughts at length prevailed
over those of a gloomier kind; and the fatigues of
the day overcoming his eyes with drowsiness, he fell
into a slumber, profound, as it seemed from his hard-drawn
breath, but uneasy and filled with unpleasant
dreams, as was evident from frequent starts and muttered
exclamations.

When it was certain that both were asleep, Father
Ambrose raised himself from his place and regarded
them sorrowfully and attentively. He had not slept,
though from his motionless posture and closed eyes, an
observer might have thought him buried in a deep slumber.
His own apprehensions, notwithstanding that he
had endeavoured to prevent his companions from yielding
themselves up to despair, were more painful than
he had permitted himself to utter. That there was a
possibility of their deliverance was true, but it was
hardly to be expected that those who sought for them
would think of looking for them in the cavern, nor was
it likely that any cry they could utter would be heard
below. The old man's thoughts gradually formed
themselves into a kind of soliloquy, uttered, as is often
the case with men much given to solitary meditation
and prayer, in a low but articulate voice. "For myself,"
said he, "my life is near its close, and the day
of decrepitude may be even yet nearer than the day of
death. I repine not, if it be the will of God that my
existence on earth, already mercifully protracted to the
ordinary limits of usefulness, should end here. But
my heart bleeds to think that this maiden, in the blossom

of her beauty and in the spring-time of her hopes,
and that he who slumbers near me, in the pride and
strength of manhood, should be thus violently divorced
from a life which nature perhaps intended for as long
a date as mine. I little thought, when the mother of
that fair young creature in dying committed her to my
charge, that I should be her guide to a place where she
should meet with a frightful and unnatural death. Accustomed
as I am to protracted fastings, it is not impossible
that I may outlive them both, and after having
closed their eyes, who should have closed mine, I may
be delivered and go forth in my uselessness from the
sepulchre of those who should have been the delight
and support of their friends. Let it not displease thee,
O, my Maker! if, like the patriarch of old, I venture
to expostulate with thee." And the old man placed
himself in an attitude of supplication, clasping his hands
and raising them towards heaven. Long did he remain
in that posture motionless, and at length lowering his
hands, he cast a look upon the sleepers near him, and
laying himself down upon his bed of leaves, was soon
asleep also.

CHAPTER V.

Of course the slumbers of none of the party were
long protracted. They were early dispersed by the
idea of their imprisonment in that mountain dungeon,
which now and then showed itself painfully in the
imagery of their dreams. When Emily awoke she
found herself alone in the skeleton's chamber. Her
eyes, accustomed to the darkness, could now distinguish
most of the objects around her by the help of a
gleam of light, which appeared to come in from the
larger apartment. The fire, kindled the night previous,
was now a mass of ashes and blackened brands; and
the couches of her two companions yet showed the
pressure of their forms. She rose, and not without
casting a look at the grim inmate of the place, whose
discoloured bones were just distinguishable in that dim
twilight, passed into the outer chamber. Here she
found the priest and Le Maire standing near the mouth
of the cavern, where a strong light, at least so it seemed
to her eyes, streamed in through the opening between
the well and the fallen rock, showing that the short
night of summer was already past.

"We are watching the increasing light of the morning,"
said the priest.

"And waiting for the friends whom it will bring to
deliver us," added Le Maire.

"You will admit me to share in the occupation, I
hope," answered Emily. "I am fit for nothing else,
as you know, but to watch and wait, and I will endeavour
to do that patiently."

It was not long before a brighter and a steady light,
through the aperture, informed the prisoners that the
sun had risen over the forest tops; and that the perfect
day now shone upon the earth. To those, who could
look upon the woods and savannas, the hills and the
waters around, that morning was one of the most beautiful
of the beautiful season to which it belonged. The
aspect of nature, like one of those human countenances
we sometimes meet with, so radiant with cheerfulness
that it seems as if they had never known the expression
of sorrow, showed, in the gladness it now put on,
no traces of the tempest of the preceding day. The
intensity of the sun's light was tempered by the white
clouds that now and then floated over it, trailing through
a soft blue sky; and the light and fresh breezes seemed
to hover in the air, to rise and descend, with a motion
like the irregular and capricious course of the butterfly;
now stooping to wrinkle the surface of the stream,
now rising to murmur in the leaves of the forest, and
again descending to shake the dew from the cups of
the opening flowers in the natural meadows. The replenished
brooks had a livelier warble, and the notes
of innumerable birds rang more cheerfully through the
clear atmosphere. The prisoners of the cavern, however,
could only distinguish the beauty of the morning by
slight tokens,—now and then a sweep of the winds
over the forest tops—sometimes the note of the wood-thrush,
or of the cardinal bird as he flew by the face
of the rocks; and occasionally a breath of the
perfumed atmosphere flowing through the aperture.
These intimations of liberty and enjoyment from the
world without only heightened their impatience at the
imprisonment to which they were doomed.

"Listen!" said Emily; "I think I hear a human
voice."

"There is certainly a distant call in the woods," said
Le Maire, after a moment's silence. "Let us all
shout together for assistance."

They shouted accordingly, Le Maire exerting his
clear and powerful voice to the utmost, and the others
aiding him as well as they were able, with their feebler
and less practised organs. A shrill discordant cry replied,
apparently from the cliffs close to the cave.

"A parrokeet," exclaimed Le Maire. "The noisy
pest! I wish the painted rascal were within reach
of my rifle. You see, Father Ambrose, we are forgotten
by mankind; and the very birds of the wilderness mock
our cries for assistance."

"You have a quick fancy, my son," answered the
priest; "but it is yet quite too soon to give over. It is
now the very hour when we may expect our neighbours
to be looking for us in these parts."

They continued therefore to remain by the opening;
and from time to time to raise that shout for assistance.
Hour after hour passed, and no answer was returned to
their cries, which indeed could have been but feebly
heard, if heard at all, at the foot of the precipice; hour
after hour passed, and no foot climbed the rocky stair
that led to their prison. The pangs of hunger in the
mean time began to assail them, and, more intolerable
than these, a feverish and tormenting thirst.

"You have practised fasting," said Le Maire to Father
Ambrose; "and so have I when I could get nothing
to eat. In my hunting excursions I have sometimes
gone without tasting food from morning till the night of
the next day. I found relief from an expedient which
I learned of the old hunters, but which I presume you
churchmen are not acquainted with. Here it is."

Saying this, he passed the sash he wore once more
round his body, drawing it tightly, and securing it by a

firm knot. Father Ambrose declined adopting, for the
present, a similar expedient, alleging that as yet he had
suffered little inconvenience from want of food, except
a considerable degree of thirst; but Emily, already
weak from fasting, allowed her slender waist to be
wrapped tightly in the folds of a silk shawl which she
had brought with her. The importunities of hunger
were thus rendered less painful, and a new tension was
given to the enervated frame; but the burning thirst
was not at all allayed. The cave was then explored
for water; every corner was examined, and holes were
dug in the soil which in some places covered the rocky
floor, but in vain. Le Maire again ventured into the
long narrow passage which he had followed to its termination
the day previous, in the hope of now discovering
some concealed spring, or some place where the much
desired element fell in drops from the roof, but he returned
fatigued and unsuccessful. As he came forth
into the larger apartment a light fluttering sound, as of
the waving of a thin garment, attracted the attention of
the party. On listening attentively it appeared to be
within the cavern; but what most excited their surprise
was, that it passed suddenly and mysteriously
from place to place, while the agent continued invisible,
in spite of all their endeavours to discover it. Sometimes
it was heard on the one side, sometimes on the other,
now from the roof, and now from the floor, near, and at
a distance. At length it passed directly over their heads.

"It is precisely the sound of a light robe agitated by
the wind, or by a swift motion of the person wearing
it," said Emily.

"It is no sound of this earth, I will depose in a court
of justice," said Le Maire, who was naturally of a
superstitious turn; "or we should see the thing that
makes it."

"All we can say at present," answered the priest,
"is, that we cannot discover the cause; but it does

not therefore follow that it is any thing supernatural.
What is perceived by one of our senses only does not
necessarily belong to the other world. I have no doubt
however, that we shall discover the cause before we
leave the cavern."

"Nor I either," rejoined Le Maire, with a look and
tone which showed the awe that had mastered him;
"I am satisfied of the cause already. It is a warning
of approaching death. We must perish in this cavern."

Emily, much as she was accustomed to rely on the
opinions of the priest, felt in spite of herself the infection
of that feeling of superstitious terror which had seized
upon her uncle, and her heart had begun to beat thick,
when a weak chirp was heard.

"The mystery is resolved," exclaimed Father Ambrose,
"and your ghost, my good friend, is only
a harmless fellow-prisoner, a poor bird, which the
storm doubtless drove into the cave, and which has
been confined here ever since." As he spoke, Emily,
who had looked to the quarter whence the sound proceeded,
pointed out the bird sitting on a projection of
rock at no great distance.

"A godsend!" cried Le Maire; "the bird is ours,
though his little carcass will hardly furnish a mouthful
for each of us." Saying this, he took up his rifle,
which stood leaning against the wall of the cavern, and
raised the piece to his eye. Another instant and the
bird would have fallen, but Emily laid her hand on his
arm.

"Cannot we take him alive," asked she; "and
make him the agent of our deliverance?"

"How will you do that?" said Le Maire, without
lowering his rifle.

"Send him out at the opening yonder with a letter
tied to his wing to inform our friends of our situation.
It will at least increase the chances of our escape."

"It is well thought of," answered Le Maire; "and

now, Emily, you shall see how an experienced hunter
takes a bird without harming a single feather of his
wings."

Saying this, he went to the mouth of the cave, and
began to turn up, with a splinter of wood, the fresh
earth. After considerable examination he drew forth a
beetle, and producing from his hunting-bag a quantity
of packthread, he tied the insect to one end of it, and
having placed it on the point of a crag, retired to a little
distance with the other end of the packthread in his hand.
By frequently changing his place, he caused the bird to
approach the spot where he had laid the insect. It was
a tedious process; but when at length the bird perceived
his prey, he flew to it and snapped it up in an
instant, with the eagerness of famine. By a similar
piece of management he contrived to get the thread
wound several times about one of the legs of the little
creature; and when this was effected, he suddenly
drew it in, bringing him fluttering and struggling to
his hand. It proved to be of the species commonly
called the cedar bird.

"Ah, Father Ambrose," cried Le Maire, whose
vivacity returned with whatever revived his hopes, "we
have caught you a brother ecclesiastic, a recollet, as we
call him from the gray hood he wears. No wonder we
did not see him before, for his plumage is exactly of
the colour of the rocks. But he is the very bird for a
letter; look at the sealing-wax he carries on his wings."
As he spoke he displayed the glossy brown pinions,
the larger feathers of which were ornamented at their
tops with little appendages of a vermilion colour, like
drops of delicate red sealing-wax.

"And now let us think," continued he, "of writing the
letter which this dapper little monk is to carry for us."
A piece of charcoal was brought from the skeleton's
chamber, and Le Maire having produced some paper
from his hunting-bag, the priest wrote upon it a few

lines, giving a brief account of their situation. The
letter, being folded, and properly addressed, was next
perforated with holes, through which a string was inserted,
and tied under the wing of the bird. Emily
then carried him to the opening, through which he
darted forth in apparent joy at regaining his liberty.
"Would that we could pass out," said she, with a sigh,
"as easily as the little creature which we have just
set free. But the recollet is a lover of gardens, and he
will soon be found seeking his food in those of the
village."

The hopes to which this little expedient gave birth
in the bosoms of all contributed somewhat to cheer
the gloom of their confinement. But night came at
length, to close that long and weary day; a night still
more long and weary. The light which came in at
the aperture began to wane, and Emily watched it as it
faded, with a sickness of the heart which grew almost
to agony, when finally it ceased to shine altogether.
She had continued during the day to cherish the dream
of deliverance by the sagacity and exertions of her
lover; and had scarcely allowed herself to contemplate
the possibility of remaining in the cavern another
night. It was therefore in unspeakable bitterness of
spirit that she accompanied the priest and Le Maire to
the skeleton's chamber, where they collected the brands
which remained of the fire of the preceding night, and
kindled them into a dull and meager flame. That evening
was a silent one—the day had been passed in various
speculations on the probability of their release, in
searching the cave for water, and in shouting at the
entrance for assistance. But the hour of darkness,—
the hour which carried their neighbours of the village to
their quiet and easy beds, in their homes, overflowing
with abundance, filled with the sweet air of heaven,
and watched by its kindly constellations—that hour
brought to the unhappy prisoners of the rock a peculiar

sense of desolation and fear, for it was a token that
they were, for the time at least, forgotten; that those
whom they knew and loved slumbered, and thought
not of them. They laid themselves down upon their
beds of leaves, but the horrible thirst, which consumed
them like an inward fire, grew fiercer with the endeavour
to court repose; and the blood that crept slowly
through their veins seemed to have become a current
of liquid flame. Sleep came not to their eyes, or came
attended with dreams of running waters, which they
were not permitted to taste; of tempests and earthquakes,
and breathless confinement among the clods
of earth and various shapes of strange peril, while
their friends seemed to stand aloof, and to look coldly
and unconcernedly on, without showing even a desire
to render them assistance.

CHAPTER VI.

On the third day the cavern presented a more gloomy
spectacle than it had done at any time since the fall of
the rock took place. It was now about eleven o'clock in
the morning, and the shrill singing of the wind about
the cliffs, and through the crevice, which now admitted
a dimmer light than on the day previous, announced
the approach of a storm from the south. The hope of
relief from without was growing fainter and fainter as
the time passed on; and the sufferings of the prisoners
became more poignant. The approach of the storm,
too, could only be regarded as an additional misfortune,
since it would probably prevent or obstruct for that day
the search which was making for them. They were
all three in the outer and larger apartment of the cave.
Emily was at a considerable distance from the entrance
reclining on a kind of seat formed of large loose stones,
and overspread with a covering of withered leaves.
There was enough of light to show that she was exceedingly
pale; that her eyes were closed, and that

the breath came thick and pantingly through her parted
lips, which alone of all her features retained the colour
of life. Faint with watching, with want of sustenance,
and with anxiety, she had lain herself down on this
rude couch, which the care of her companions had provided
for her, and had sunk into a temporary slumber.
The priest stood close to the mouth of the cave leaning
against the wall, with his arms folded, himself scarcely
changed in appearance, except that his cheek seemed
somewhat more emaciated, and his eyes were lighted
up with a kind of solemn and preternatural brightness.
Le Maire, with a spot of fiery red on each cheek,—
his hair staring wildly in every direction, and his eyes
bloodshot, was pacing the cavern floor to and fro, carrying
his rifle, occasionally stopping to examine the priming,
or to peck the flint; and sometimes standing still
for a moment, as if lost in thought. At length he approached
the priest, and said to him, in a hollow voice,

"Have you never heard of seamen on a wreck, destitute
of provisions, casting lots to see which of their
number should die, that the rest might live?"

"I have so."

"Were they right in so doing?"

"I cannot say that they were not. It is a horrid
alternative in which they were placed. It might be
lawful—it might be expedient, that one should perish
for the salvation of the rest."

"Have you never seen an insect or an animal writhing
with torture, and have you not shortened its sufferings
by putting an end to its life?"

"I have—but what mean these questions?"

"I will tell you. Here is my rifle." As he spoke,
Le Maire placed the piece in the hands of Father Ambrose,
who took it mechanically. "I ask you to do for
me what you would do for the meanest worm. You
understand me?"

"Are you mad?" demanded the priest, regarding

him with a look in which the expression of unaffected
astonishment was mingled with that of solemn reproof.

"Mad! indeed I am mad, if you will have it so—
you will feel less scruple at putting an end to the existence
of a madman. I cannot linger in this horrid
place, neglected and forgotten by those who should
have come to deliver me, suffering the slow approaches
of death—the pain—the fire in the veins—and, worst
of all, this fire in the brain," said Le Maire, striking his
forehead. "They think,—if they think of me at all,—
that I am dying by slow tortures; I will disappoint
them. Listen, father," continued he; "would it not
be better for you and Emily that I were dead?—is
there no way?—look at my veins, they are full yet,
and the muscles have not shrunk away from my limbs;
would you not both live the longer, if I were to die?"

The priest recoiled at the horrid idea presented to
his mind. "We are not cannibals," said he, "thanks
be to Divine Providence." An instant's reflection,
however, convinced Father Ambrose that the style of
rebuke which he had adopted was not proper for the
occasion. The unwonted fierceness and wildness of
Le Maire's manner, and the strange proposal he had
made, denoted that alienation of mind which is no uncommon
effect of long abstinence from food. He
thought it better, therefore, to attempt by mild and soothing
language to divert him from his horrid design.

"My good friend," said he, "you forget what
grounds of hope yet remain to us; indeed, the probability
of our escape is scarcely less to-day than it was
yesterday. The letter sent out of the cave may be
found, and if so, it will most certainly effect our deliverance;
or the fall of the rock may be discovered by
some one passing this way, and he may understand
that it is possible we are confined here. While our
existence is prolonged there is no occasion for despair.
You should endeavour, my son, to compose yourself,

and to rely on the goodness of that Power who has never
forsaken you."

"Compose myself!" answered Le Maire, who had
listened impatiently to this exhortation; "compose
myself! Do you not know that there are those here who
will not suffer me to be tranquil for a moment? Last
night I was twice awakened, just as I had fallen asleep,
by a voice pronouncing my name, as audibly as I heard
your own just now; and the second time, I looked to
where the skeleton lies, and the foul thing had half-raised
itself from the rock, and was beckoning me to
come and place myself by its side. Can you wonder
if I slept no more after that?"

"My son, these are but the dreams of a fever."

"And then, whenever I go by myself, I hear low
voices and titterings of laughter from the recesses of
the rocks. They mock me, that I, a free hunter, a
denizen of the woods and prairies, a man whose liberty
was never restrained for a moment, should be entrapped
in this manner, and made to die like a buffalo
in a pit, or like a criminal in the dungeons of the old
world,—that I should consume with thirst in a land
bright with innumerable rivers and springs,—that I
should wither away with famine, while the woods are
full of game and the prairies covered with buffaloes.
I could face famine if I had my liberty. I could meet
death without shrinking in the sight of the sun and the
earth, and in the fresh open air. I should strive to reach
some habitation of my fellow-creatures; I should be
sustained by hope; I should travel on till I sank down
with weakness and fatigue, and died on the spot. But
famine made more frightful by imprisonment and inactivity,
and these dreams, as you call them, that dog me
asleep and awake, they are more than I can bear.—
Hark!" he exclaimed, after a short pause, and throwing
quick and wild glances around him; "do you hear

them yonder—do you hear how they mock me!—you
will not, then, do what I ask?—give me the rifle."

"No," said the priest, who instantly comprehended
his purpose: "I must keep the piece till you are more
composed."

Le Maire seemed not to hear the answer, but laying
his grasp on the rifle, was about to pluck it from the
old man's hands. Father Ambrose saw that the attempt
to retain possession of it against his superior
strength, would be vain; he therefore slipped down his
right hand to the lock, and cocking it, touched the trigger,
and discharged it in an instant. The report awoke
Emily, who came trembling and breathless to the spot.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"There is no harm done, my child," answered the
priest, assuming an aspect of the most perfect composure.
"I discharged the rifle, but it was not aimed at
any thing, and I beg pardon for interrupting your repose
at a time when you so much need it. Suffer me to
conduct you back to the place you have left. Le
Maire, will you assist?"

Supported by Le Maire on one side, and by the priest
on the other, Emily, scarcely able to walk from weakness,
was led back to her place of repose. Returning with
Le Maire, Father Ambrose entreated him to consider
how much his niece stood in need of his assistance and
protection. He bade him recollect that his mad haste to
quit the world before called by his Maker would leave
her, should she ever be released from the cavern, alone
and defenceless, or at least with only an old man for
her friend, who was himself hourly expecting the summons
of death. He exhorted him to reflect how much,
even now, in her present condition of weakness and
peril, she stood in need of his aid, and conjured him not
to be guilty of a pusillanimous and cowardly desertion
of one so lovely, so innocent, and so dependent upon
him.

Le Maire felt the force of this appeal. A look of
human pity passed across the wild expression of his
countenance. He put the rifle into the hands of Father
Ambrose. "You are right," said he; "I am a fool,
and I have been, I suspect, very near becoming a madman.
You will keep this until you are entirely willing
to trust me with it. I will endeavour to combat these
fancies a little longer."

CHAPTER VII.

In the mean time the light from the aperture grew
dimmer and dimmer, and the eyes of the prisoners,
though accustomed to the twilight of the cavern, became
at length unable to distinguish objects at a few
paces from the entrance. The priest and Le Maire
had placed themselves by the couch of Emily, but
rather, as it seemed, from that instinct of our race which
leads us to seek each other's presence, than for any
purpose of conversation, for each of the party preserved
a gloomy silence. The topics of speculation on their
condition had been discussed to weariness, and no
others had now any interest for their minds. It was no
unwelcome interruption to that melancholy silence,
when they heard the sound of a mighty rain pouring
down upon the leafy summits of the woods, and beating
against the naked walls and shelves of the precipice.
The roar grew more and more distinct, and at length it

seemed that they could distinguish a sort of shuddering
of the earth above them, as if a mighty host was
marching heavily over it. The sense of suffering was
for a moment suspended in a feeling of awe and curiosity.

"That, likewise, is the rain," said Father Ambrose,
after listening for a moment. "The clouds must pour
down a perfect cataract, when the weight of its fall is
thus felt in the heart of the rock."

"Do you hear that noise of running water?" asked
Emily, whose quick ear had distinguished the rush of
the stream formed by the collected rains over the
rocks without at the mouth of the cave.

"Would that its channel were through this cavern,"
exclaimed Le Maire, starting up. "Ah! here we have
it—we have it!—listen to the dropping of water from
the roof near the entrance. And here at the aperture!"
He sprang thither in an instant. A little stream detached
from the main current, which descended over
rocks that closed the mouth of the cave, fell in a thread
of silver amid the faint light that streamed through
the opening; he knelt for a moment, received it between
his burning lips, and then hastily returning, bore
Emily to the spot. She held out her hollowed palm,
white, thin, and semi-transparent, like a pearly shell,
used for dipping up the waters from one of those sweet
fountains that rise by the very edge of the sea—
and as fast as it filled with the cool, bright element,
imbibed it with an eagerness and delight inexpressible.
The priest followed her example; Le Maire also drank
from the little stream as it fell, bathed in it his feverish
brow, and suffered it to fall upon his sinewy neck.

"It has given me a new hold on life," said Le Maire,
his chest distending with several full and long breathings.
"It has not only quenched that hellish thirst,
but it has made my head less light, and my heart lighter.
I will never speak ill of this element again—the choicest

grapes of France never distilled any thing so delicious,
so grateful, so life-giving. Take notice, Father Ambrose,
I retract all I have ever said against water and
water-drinkers. I am a sincere penitent, and shall demand
absolution."

Father Ambrose had begun gently to reprove Le
Maire for his unseasonable levity, when Emily cried
out—"The rock moves!—the rock moves! Come
back—come further into the cavern!" Looking up to
the vast mass that closed the entrance, he saw plainly
that it was in motion, and he had just time to draw Le
Maire from the spot where he had stooped down to
take another draught of the stream, when a large
block, which had been wedged in overhead, gave way,
and fell in the very place where he left the prints
of his feet. Had he remained there another instant, it
must have crushed him to atoms. The prisoners, retreating
within the cavern far enough to avoid the danger,
but not too far for observation, stood watching the
event with mingled apprehension and hope. The floor
of the cave just at the edge, on which rested the fallen
rock, yawned at the fissures, where the earth with which
they were filled had become saturated and swelled
with water, and unable any longer to support the immense
weight, settled away, at first slowly, under it,
and finally, along with its incumbent load, fell suddenly
and with a tremendous crash, to the base of the
precipice, letting the light of day and the air of heaven
into the cavern. The thunder of that disruption was succeeded
by the fall of a few large fragments of rock on
the right and left, after which the priest and his companions
heard only the fall of the rain and the heavy
sighing of the wind in the forest.

Father Ambrose and Emily knelt involuntarily in
thanksgiving at their unexpected deliverance. Le
Maire, although unused to the devotional mood, observing
their attitude, had bent his knee to imitate it, when

a glance at the outer world now laid open to his sight,
made him start again to his feet with an exclamation of
delight. The other two arose, also, and turned to the
broad opening which now looked out from the cave over
the fores. On one side of this opening rushed the
torrent whose friendly waters had undermined the rock
at the entrance, and now dashed themselves against its
shivered fragments below. It is not for me to attempt
to describe how beautiful appeared to their eyes that
world which they feared never again to see, or how
grateful to their senses was that fresh and fragrant air
of the forests which they thought never to breathe again.
The light, although the sky was thick with clouds and
rain, was almost too intense for their vision, and they
shaded their brows with their hands as they looked
forth upon that scene of woods and meadows and waters,
fairer to their view than it had ever appeared in the
most glorious sunshine.

"That world is ours again," said Le Maire, with a
tone of exultation. "We are released at last, and now
let us see in what manner we can descend."

As he spoke, he approached the verge of the rock from
which the severed mass had lately fallen, and saw to his
dismay that the terrace which had served as a path to the
cavern, was carried away for a considerable distance to
the right and left of where they stood, leaving the face
of the precipice smooth and sheer from top to bottom.
No footing appeared, no projection by which the boldest
and the most agile could scale or descend it. Le
Maire threw himself sullenly on the ground.

"We must pass another night in this dungeon," said
he, "and perhaps starve to death after all. It is clear
enough that we shall have to remain here until somebody
comes to take us down, and the devil himself
would not be caught abroad in the woods in the midst of
such a storm as this."

The priest and Emily came up at this moment:—

"This is a sad disappointment," said the former, "but
we have this advantage, that we can now make ourselves
both seen and heard. Let us try the effect of
our voices. It is not impossible that there may be
some person within hearing."

Accordingly they shouted together, and though nothing
answered but the echo of the forest, yet there
was even in that reply of the inanimate creation something
cheering and hope-inspiring, to those who for
nearly three days had perceived that all their cries for
succour were smothered in the depths of the earth.
Again they raised their voices, and listened for an answering
shout,—a third time, and they were answered.
The halloo of a full-toned, manly voice arose from the
woods below.

"Thank heaven, we are heard at last," said Emily.

"Let us see if the cry was in answer to ours," said
the priest, and again they called, and again a shout was
returned from the woods. "We are heard—that is certain,"
continued he, "and the voice is nearer than at
first,—we shall be released."

At length the sound of quick footsteps on the crackling
boughs was heard in the forest, and a young man
of graceful proportions, dressed, like Le Maire, in a
hunting-cap and frock, emerged into the open space at
the foot of the precipice. As he saw the party standing
in the cavity of the rock, he clapped his hands with an
exclamation of surprise and delight. "Thank heaven,
they are discovered at last! Are you all safe—all
well?"

"All safe," answered Le Maire, "but hungry as
wolves, and in a confounded hurry to get out of this
horrid den."

The young man regarded the precipice attentively
for a moment, and then called out, "Have patience a
moment, and I will bring you the means of deliverance."
He then disappeared in the forest.

Emily's waking dream was, in fact, not wholly unfulfilled.
That young man was Henry Danville; she
knew him by his air and figure as soon as he emerged
from the forest, and before she heard his voice. He had
been engaged, with many others belonging to the settlement,
in the pursuit of their lost curate and his companions,
from the morning after their absence, and fortunately
happened to be at no great distance when the
disruption of the rock took place. Struck with astonishment
at the tremendous concussion, he was hastening
to discover the cause, when he heard the shout to which
he answered.

It was not long before voices and steps were again
heard in the wood, and a crowd of the good villagers
soon appeared advancing through the trees, one bearing
a basket of provisions, some dragging ladders, some
carrying ropes and other appliances for getting down
their friends from their perilous elevation. Several of
the ladders being spliced together, and secured by
strong cords, were made to reach from the broken rocks
below to the mouth of the cavern, and Henry ascended.

My readers will have no difficulty in imagining the
conclusion. The emotions of the lovers at meeting
under such circumstances are of course not to be described,
and the dialogue that took place on that occasion
would not, I fear, bear to be repeated. The joy
expressed by the villagers at recovering their worthy
pastor brought tears into the good man's eyes; and
words are inadequate to do justice to the delight of Le
Maire at seeing his old companions and their basket of
provisions. My readers may also, if they please, imagine
another little incident, without which some of them
might think the narrative imperfect, namely, a certain
marriage ceremony, which actually took place before
the next Christmas, and at which the venerable Father
Ambrose officiated. Le Maire, when I last saw him,
was living with one of Emily's children, a hale old man

of eighty, with a few gray hairs scattered among his
raven locks, full of stories of his youthful adventures,
among which he reckoned that of his imprisonment in
the cave as decidedly the best. He had, however, no
disposition to become the hero of another tale of the
kind, since he never ventured into another cave, or under
another rock, as long as he lived; and was wont
to accompany his narrative with a friendly admonition
to his youthful and inexperienced hearers, against
thoughtlessly indulging in so dangerous a practice.