University of Virginia Library

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.