 | CHAPTER V. Tales of Glauber-Spa |  |
CHAPTER V.
A sunbeam that hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left.
Prisoners of Chillon.
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
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
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
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
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
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 V. Tales of Glauber-Spa | |