University of Virginia Library

25. XXIV.
ALPHONSE D'ERLACH.

The dawn of the morning after the separation of D'Erlach with
his few companions from the great body of the French, found the
former emerging from a dense thicket which they had traversed
through the night. They were still but a few miles from
their late encampment. A bright and generous sun, almost
the first that had shone for several weeks in unclouded heavens,
seemed to smile upon their desperate enterprise. The cries of
wild fowl awaking in the forests, with occasionally the merry
chaunt of some native warbler, arousing to the day, spake also in
the language of encouragement. On the borders of a little lake,
they found some wild ducks feeding, which they approached without
alarming them, and the fire of a couple of arquebuses gave
them sufficient food for the day. A small supply of maize, prepared
after the Indian fashion, was borne by each of the party,
but this was carefully preserved for use in a moment of necessity.
Assuming the possibility of their being pursued, the youthful
leader urged their progress until noon, when they halted for repose,
in a dense thicket, which promised to give them shelter.
Here, having himself undertaken the watch, Alphonse D'Erlach

counselled his people to seek for a renewal of their strength in
slumber. They followed his counsel without scruple, though not
without a struggle on the part of his brother, and others among
them, to share his watch. This he would not permit, alleging his
inability to sleep, but promising, when he felt thus disposed, to
devolve his present duty upon others. Long and sweet was the
slumbers which they enjoyed, and unbroken by any alarm.
When they awakened, the sun had sloped greatly in the western
heavens, and but two or three marching hours remained of the
day. These they employed with earnestness and vigor. The
night found them on the edge of a great basin, or lake, thickly
fenced in with great trees, and a dense and bewildering thicket.
As the day closed, immense flocks of wild fowl, geese, ducks, and
cranes, alighted within the waters of the lake, and again did the
arquebusiers, with a few shot, provide ample food for the ensuing
day. Here they built themselves a fire, around which the
whole party crouched, a couple only of their number being
posted as sentinels on the hill side, from which alone was it reasonable
to suppose that an enemy would appear. Again did they
sleep without disturbance, arising with the dawn, again to resume
their progress. But before they commenced their journey, a
solemn council was held as to the course which they should
pursue. On this subject the mind of their youthful leader had
already adopted a leading idea. His experience in the country,
as well as that of his brother, during frequent progresses, had
enabled them to form a very correct notion of the topography of
the region. Besides, several of their followers, were of the first
colonies of Ribault, and had accompanied Laudonniere, Ottigny,
and both the Erlachs on various expeditions among the Indians.

“We are now upon the great promontory of the Floridian,” said

Alphonse, “a region full of dense thickets and impenetrable
swamps. These we should labor to avoid, as well as any approach
in the direction of the Spaniards. By pursuing a course inclining
to the north-west for a while, we shall be enabled to do so, and
this done, gradually steering for the north-east, we shall be
enabled to reach the great mountains of the Apalachia. This is a
region where, as we know, the red-men are more mild and gentle,
more laborious, with larger fields of grain, and more hospitably
given than those which inhabit the coasts. It may be that having
sufficiently ascended the country, it will be our policy to leave the
mountains on our left, following at their feet, until we shall have
passed the territories in the immediate possession of the Spaniard.
Then it will be easy to speed downwards to the eastern coasts,
where the people always received us with welcome and affection.
We may thus renew our intercouse with the tribes that skirt the
bay of St. Helena—the tribes of Audusta, Ouade, Maccou and
others of which ye wot. But, whether we take this direction or
not, our present course should be as I have described it. When
we have reached the country where the land greatly rises, it will
be with us to choose our farther progress. There is gold, as we
know, in abundance in these mountains of the Apalachian; and it
may be our good hap even to attain to the great city of the mountains
of which Potanou and others have spoken, and to which
certain travellers have given the name of the Grand Copal, of the
existence of which I nothing doubt. This, they report as but
fifteen or twenty days' march from St. Helena, north-westward.
It will, follow, if this description be true, that we are quite as
near to this place, as to St. Helena. Here is adventure and a
marvellous discovery open to us, my comrades and we shall, perhaps,
in future days, bless the cruelty of the Spaniards which hath
thus driven us on the road to fortune. At least, we should have
reason to rejoice that we are here, when our comrades lie stark
and bleeding on the shores of Cannaverel. We are few, but we are
true; we have health and vigor; we have arms in our hands, and
are quite equal to any of the small bands of Indians that infest
the country. We shall seek to avoid encounters with them, but
shall not fear them if we meet; and all that I have seen of the
red-man inclines me to the faith, that they who deal with him
justly will mostly find justice, nay, even reverence in return.
What remains, but that we steadily pursue our progress, heedful
where we set our feet, keeping our minds in patience, never
hurrying forward blindly, and never being too eager in the attainment
of our object. Our best strength will lie in our patience.
This will save us when our strength shall fail.”

This counsel found no opposition. There was much discussion
of details, and the leading suggestion of his mind being adopted,
Erlach readily yielded much of the minutiæ to others. We shall
not follow the daily progress of our adventurers. Enough that for
twenty-seven days they travelled without suffering disaster.
There were small ailments of the party—some grew faint and
feeble, others became slightly lamed; and occasionally all hearts
drooped; but on such occasions the troop went into camp, chose
out some secure thicket, built themselves a goodly fire, and while
the invalids lay around it, the more vigorous hunted and brought
in game. Wild turkeys were in abundance. Sometimes they
roosted at night upon the very trees under which our Frenchmen
slept. On such occasions the hunters rose at dawn, and with
well-aimed arquebuses shot down two or more; the very fatness
of the birds being such, as made them split open as they struck
the earth. Anon, a wandering deer crossed their path, and fell a

victim to their shot. In this way they gradually advanced into
the hilly country. Very seldom had they met with any of the
red-men, and never in any numbers. These treated them with
great forbearance, were civil, shared with them their slender
stock of provisions, and received a return in trinkets, knives, or
rings of copper, and little bells, a small store of which had been
providentally brought by persons of the party. Sometimes, these
Indians travelled with them, camped with them at night, and behaved
themselves like good Christians. From these, too, they
gathered vague intelligence of the great city which lay among the
mountains. This was described to them, in language often heard
before, as containing a wealth of gold, and other treasures in the
shape of precious gems, which, assuming the truth of the description
given by the red-men, our Frenchmen assumed to be nothing
less than diamonds, rubies and crystals. But they were told that
this country was in possession of a very powerful people, fierce
and warlike, who were very jealous of the appearance of strangers.
The city of Grand Copal was described as very populous and rich,
a walled town, which it would be difficult to penetrate.

These descriptions contributed greatly to warm the imaginations
of our Frenchmen, but as the several informants differed in regard
to the direction in which this great city lay, it so happened that
parties began to be formed in respect to the route which should
be pursued. Opinion was nearly equally divided among them.
Alphonse D'Erlach was for pursuing a more easterly course than
was desired by some ten or more of the party. He was influenced
by information previously derived from the Indians, when he went
into the territories of Olata Utina, and beyond. But the more
recent testimony was in favor of the west, and this he was disposed
to disregard. For a time, the discussion led to nothing

decisive. His authority was still deferred to and the course continued
upon which he had begun. But as the winter began to
press more severely upon the company, and as their usual supplies
of game began to diminish from the moment that they left
the lakes, and great swampy river margin of the flat country, from
that moment, as if justified by suffering, the Frenchmen lessened
in their deference to a leader who was at once so youthful and so
imperative. Alphonse D'Erlach beheld these symptoms with
apprehension and misgiving. He well knew how frail was the
tenure by which he held his authority, from the moment that
self-esteem began to be active in the formation of opinion. He
felt that a power for coercion was wanting to his authority, and
resorted to all those politic arts by which wise men maintain a
sway without asserting it. He would say to them:

“My comrades, there are but twenty-two of us in a world of
savages. Hitherto, for more than thirty days, we have traversed
the wildernesses in safety. This is solely due to the fact that we
have suffered no differences to prevail among us. If you feel that
I have counselled and led you in safety, you may also admit that
I have led you rightly; for safety has been our first object. We
are as fresh and vigorous now, as when we left the dreary plains of
Cannaverel. Not one has perished. We have not suffered from
want of food, though frequently delayed in obtaining it. Methinks,
that you have no reason to complain of me. But if there
be dissatisfaction with my authority, choose another leader. Him
will I obey with good will; but do not suffer yourselves to disagree,
lest ye separate, and all parties perish.”

This rebuke was felt and had its effect for a season; but when,
after a week of farther and seemingly unprofitable wandering—
when they had attained no special point—when they rather continued

to skirt the mountains, pressing to the northward, than to
ascend them—the spirit of discontent was re-awakened. The circumstance
which rather gratified Alphonse D'Erlach, for the
present, that they had met so few of the natives, none in large
numbers, and had succeeded mostly in avoiding their villages, was
the circumstance that led to dissatisfaction among his followers.
They were eager to have their hopes fortified by daily or nightly
reports from those who might be supposed to know; they desired,
above all, to gather constant tidings of the great city of the mountains—to
receive intimations of its proximity; and this, they began
to assert, was impossible, so long as they should forbear to penetrate
the mountains themselves. Against this desire their young
leader strove for many reasons. It is not improbable that he
himself doubted the existence of the marvellous city of Grand
Copal. At all events, he well knew that to penetrate the mountains,
during winter, which already promised to be one of intense
rigor, would subject his party to great suffering, and, should food
fail them even partially in the unfriendly solitudes, would terminate
in the destruction of the whole. By following the mountains,
along the east for a certain distance, he knew he should finally
arrive at the heads of the streams descending to the sea in the
neighborhood of the first settlements made by the Huguenots;
that he should there find friendly and familiar nations, and perhaps
secure a home for his people, and found a new community in
the happy territories of Iracana, the Eden of the Indians, of the
beautiful and loving Queen, whereof, he began to have the tenderest
recollections. He also knew that, only by pursuing his way
along the mountains, aiming at this object, could he be secure
from the Spaniards in the possession of La Caroline, as well as
St. Augustine, who, he did not doubt, were already preparing for
exploration of the golden territories of which they had heard, as
well as the French.

But his arguments failed to influence the impatient people under
his control. Sharp words and a warm controversy, one night,
took place over the camp-fires, and led to a division of the party
in nearly equal numbers. It was in vain that Alphonse D'Erlach
and his brother employed all their arguments, and used every appeal,
in order to persuade his people to cling together as the only
means of safety. One Le Caille, a sergeant, who was greatly
endowed, in his own regards, as a leader among men, and who
had enjoyed some experience in Indian adventure under Laudonniere,
set himself in direct opposition to the two brothers.
“We are leaving the route, entirely, to the great city. We are
speeding from it rather than towards. It lies back of us already,
according to all the accounts given us, and as we march now, we
seek nothing. There is our path, pointing to the great blue summist
in the north-west, and thither should we turn, if we seek for
the Grand Copal.”

He found believers and followers. So warm had grown the
controversy, that the two parties separated that very night, and
camped apart, each having its own fires. The greater number,
no less than thirteen, went with Le Caille, leaving but nine to
D'Erlach, including himself and brother. The young leader
brooder over the disaster, for such he regarded it, in silence. He
found that it was in vain that he should argue, solely on the
strength of his own conjectures, against any course which they
should take, when his own course, though maintaining them in
health and safety, had failed to bring them to any of the ends
which they most desired. They were now wearied of wandering—they
craved a haven where they might rest for a season;

and were quite willing to listen to any one who could speak with
boldness and seeming certainty of any such place. Thus it was
that they followed Le Caille.

“Let us at least separate in peace and good-fellowship, mes
camarades,” said Alphonse D'Erlach, passing over, with the dawn,
to that side of the thicket where the others had made their camp.
They embraced and parted, taking separate courses, like a stream
that having long journeyed through a wild empire, divides at last,
only to lose themselves both more rapidly in the embracing sea.

For more than two hours had they gone upon their different
routes, the one party moving straight for the mountains, the other
still pursuing the route along their bases, in the direction of the
east, when Alphonse D'Erlach said to his brother:

“It grieves me that these men should perish: they will perish
of cold and hunger, and by violence among the savages. This
man Le Caille will fight bravely, but he is a sorry dolt to have the
conduct of brave men. Besides, we shall all perish if we do not
keep together. Perhaps it is better that we should err in our
progress—go wide from the proper track—than that we should
break in twain. Let us retrace our steps—let us follow them, and
unite with them for a season, at least, until their eyes open upon
the truth.”

He spoke to willing listeners. His followers obeyed him through
habit; they acknowledged the authority of a greater will and a
stronger genius; but they had not been satisfied. They, too, hungered
secretly for the great city and the place of rest, and were
impatient of the wearisome progress, day by day, without any ultimate
object in their eyes. Cheerfully, and with renewal of their
strength, did they turn at the direction of their leader, and push
forward to re-unite with their comrades. They had a wearisome

distance of four hours to overcome, but they had hopes to regain
their brethren by night, as they knew that they would rest two
hours at noon for the noonday meal, which, it was resolved, should
not, on this occasion, delay their progress, and by moving with
greater speed than usual, it was calculated that the lost ground
might be recovered.

Meanwhile, the party of Le Caille had crossed a little river
which they had to wade. The depth was not great, reaching only
to their waists, but it was very cold and it chilled them through.
They halted accordingly on the opposite side, and built themselves
a fire. Here the rest taken and the delay were unusually long,
and contributed somewhat to the efforts made by D'Erlach's party
to overtake them. When, after a pause of two hours, the troop
of Le Caille was prepared again to move, it was considerably past
the time of noon. As they gathered up their traps, one of their
party who had gone aside from the rest, was suddenly confounded
to behold a red-man start up from the bushes where he had been
crouching, in long and curious watch over their proceedings.
The Frenchman, who was named Rotrou, was quite delighted at
the apparition, since they eagerly sought to gather from the Indians
the directions for their future progress, and none had been
seen for many days. Rotrou called to the Indian in words of
good-nature and encouragement, but the latter, slapping his naked
sides with an air of defiance, started off towards the mountains.
Rotrou again shouted; the savage turned for a moment and
paused, then waving his hand with a significant gesture, he responded
with the war-whoop, and once more bounded away in
flight. The rash and wanton Frenchman immediately lifted his
arquebuse, and fired upon the fugitive. He was seen to stagger
and fall upon his knee, but immediately recovering himself, he set

off almost at as full speed as ever, making for a little thicket that
spread itself out upon the right. The party of Le Caille by this
time came up. They penetrated the covert where the red-man
had been seen to shelter himself, and for a while they tracked him
by his blood. But at length they came to a spot where he had
evidently crouched and bound up his hurts. They found a little
puddle of blood upon the spot, and some fragments of tow, moss,
and cotton cloth, some of which had been used for the purpose.
Here all traces of the wounded man failed them; and they resumed
their route, greatly regretting that he should have escaped, but
greatly encouraged, as they fancied that they were approaching
some of the settlements of the natives.

It was probably an hour after this event when D'Erlach and
his party reached the same neighborhood, and found the proof of
the rest and repast which that of Le Caille had taken on the banks
of the little river. This sight urged them to new efforts, and
though chilled also very greatly by the passage of the stream, they
did not pause in their pursuit, but pressed forward without delay,
having the fresh tracks of their brethren before their eyes, for the
guidance of their footsteps. It was well they did so. In little
more than an hour after this, while still urging the forced march
which they had begun, they were suddenly arrested by a wild
and fearful cry in the forests beyond, the character of which they
but too well knew, from frequent and fierce experience. It was
the yell of the savage, the terrible war-whoop of the Apalachian,
that sounded suddenly from the ambush, as the rattle of the snake
is heard from the copse in which he makes his retreat. Then
followed the discharge of several arquebuses, four or five in number,
all at once, and soon after one or two dropping shots.

“Onward!” cried Alphonse D'Erlach; “we have not a moment

to lose. Our comrades are in danger! On! Fools! they
have delivered nearly or quite all their pieces; and if the savage
be not fled in terror, they are at the mercy of his arrows. Onward,
my brave Gascons! Let us save our brethren.”

The young captain led the advance, but though pushing forward
with all industry, he did not forego the proper precautions.
His men were already taught to scatter themselves, Indian fashion,
through the forests, and at little intervals to pursue a parallel
course to each other, so as to lessen the chances of surprise, and
to offer as small a mark as possible to the shafts of the enemy.
The shouts and calmor increased. They could distinguish the
cries of the savages from those of the Frenchmen. Of the latter,
they fancied they could tell particular voices of individuals. They
could hear the flight of arrows, and sometimes the dull, heavy
sounds of blows as from a macana or a clubbed arquebuse; and
a few moments sufficed to show them the savages darting from
tree to tree, and here and there a Frenchman apparently bewildered
with the number and agile movements of his foes, but still
resolute to seek his victim. At this moment Alphonse D'Erlach
stumbled upon a wounded man. He looked down. It was the
Sergeant, Le Caille himself. He was stuck full of arrows; more
than a dozen having penetrated his body, and one was yet quivering
in his cheek just below his eye. Still he lived, but his eyes
were glazing. They took in the form of D'Erlach. The lips
parted.

“Le Grand Copal, Monsieur—eh!” was all he said, when the
death-rattle followed. He gasped, turned over with a single convulsion,
and his concern ceased wholly for that golden city, in the
search for which he had forgotten every other. D'Erlach gave
but a moment's heed to the dying man, then pushed forward for

the rescue of those who might be living. They were surrounded
by more than fifty savages, and among these were scattered groups
of women and even children. In fact, Le Caille, in his pursuit of
the Indian wounded by Rotrou, had happened upon a village of
the Apalachians.

It was fortunate for D'Erlach that the savages were quite too
busy with the first, to be conscious of the second party. They
had been brought on quietly, and, scattered as they had been in
the approach, they were enabled to deliver their fire from an extensive
range of front. It appalled the Indians, even as a thunder
burst from heaven. They had gathered around the few Frenchmen
surviving of Le Caille's party, and were prepared to finish
their work with hand-javelins and stone hatchets. The Frenchmen
were not suffered to reload their pieces, and were reduced to
the necessity of using them as clubs. They were about to be
overwhelmed when the timely fire of the nine pieces of D'Erlach's
party, the shout and the rush which followed it, struck death and
consternation into the souls of their assailants, and drove them
from their prey. With howls of fright and fury the red-men fled
to deeper thickets, till they should ascertain the nature and number
of their new enemies, and provide themselves with fresh weapons.
But D'Erlach was not disposed to afford them respite. His pieces
were reloaded; those of the Frenchmen of Le Caille—all indeed
who were able—joined themselves to his party, and the Indians
were pressed through the thicket and upon their village. To this
they fled as to a place of refuge. Our Frenchmen stormed it,
fired it over the heads of the inmates, and terrible was the slaughter
which followed. The object of D'Erlach was obtained. He
had struck such a panic into the souls of the savages, that he was
permitted to draw off his people without molestation; but the inspection

of the fatal field into which the rashness of Le Caille had
led his party, left D'Erlach with few objects of consolation. Seven
of them were slain outright, or mortally wounded; three others
were slightly wounded, and but three remained unhurt. The
survivors were brought off in safety, greatly rejoicing in a rescue
so totally underserved. The party that night encamped in a close
wood, in a spot so chosen as to be easily guarded. Two of the
persons mortally wounded in the conflict died that night; the
third, next day at noon. They were not abandoned till their
cares and sufferings were at an end, and their comrades buried
them, piling huge stones about their corses. Repose was greatly
wanting to the party; but they were conscious that the Indians
were about them. D'Erlach knew too well the customs of the
Apalachian race to doubt that the runners had already sped, east
and west, bearing le baton rouge—the painted club of red, which
summons the tribe to which it is carried to send its young vultures
to the gathering about the prey.

He sped away accordingly, re-crossing the little river where
the party of Le Caille had encountered the Indian spy, and pressing
forward upon the route which he had been before pursuing.
Day and night he travelled with little intermission, in the endeavor
to put as great a space as possible between his band and
their enemies. But the toil had become too severe for his people.
They began to falter, and were finally compelled to halt for a rest
of two or more days, in a snug and pleasant valley, such as they
could easily defend. Here they suffered several disasters. One
of his men, drying some gunpowder before the fire, it exploded,
and he was so dreadfully burnt that he survived but a day, and
expired in great agony. Another, who went out after game, never
returned. He probably fell a victim to his own imprudence, or

sunk under the arrows of some prowling savage. The camp was
broken up in haste and apprehension, and the march resumed.
Their force was now reduced to thirteen men, and these were destined
to still further reduction. The cold had become excessive.
The feet of the Frenchmen grew sore from constant exercise; and
at length, despairing of the long progress still before them before
they could reach the sea, Alphonse D'Erlach yielded to the growing
desire of his people to ascend the mountains and seek a
nearer spot of refuge, or at least of temporary repose. He began
to give ear more earnestly to the story of the great city of the
mountains; or, he seemed to do so. At all events,—such was
the suggestion—`we can shelter ourselves for the winter in some
close valley of the hills; here we can build log dwellings, and
supply ourselves with game as hunters.' The Frenchmen had acquired
sufficient experience of Indian habits to resort to their
modes of meeting the exigencies of the season. They knew what
were the roots which might be bruised, macerated, and made into
bread; and they had been fed on acorns more than once by the
Floridian savages. They began the painful ascent, accordingly,
which carried them up the heights of Apalachia, that mighty chain
of towers which divide the continent from north to south. They
had probably reached the region which now forms the upper
country of Georgia and South Carolina.

It was in the toilsome ascent of these precipitous heights that
they encountered one of those dangers which D'Erlach had striven
so earnestly to elude. This was a meeting with the Indians, in
any force. A body of more than forty of them were met descending
one of the gorges up which the Frenchmen were painfully
making their way. The meeting was the signal for the strife.
The war-whoop was given almost in the moment when the parties

discovered each other. The Indians had the superiority as well
in position as in numbers; being on an elevation considerably
above that of the Frenchmen. They were a large, fine-limbed
race of savages, clad in skins, and armed with bows and stonehatchets.
They had probably never beheld the white man before,
and knew nothing of his fearful weapons. They were astounded
by the explosion of the arquebuse, and when their chief tumbled
from the cliff on which he stood, stricken by an invisible bolt, they
fled in terror, leaving the field to the Frenchmen. But, three of
the latter were slain in the conflict, and three others wounded.
The path was free for their progress, but they went forward with
diminished numbers, and sinking hearts. The survivors were now
but ten, and these were hurt and suffering from sore, if not fatal,
injuries. The cold increased. The savages seemed to have
housed themselves from the fury of the winds, that rushed
and howled along the bleak terraces to which the Frenchmen had
arisen. They buried themselves in a valley that offered them
partial protection, built their fires, raised a miserable hovel of poles
and bushes for their covering, and sent out their hunters. Two
parties, one of two, the other of three men, went forth in pursuit
of a bear whose tracks they had detected; leaving five to keep the
camp, three of whom were wounded men. Of these two parties,
one returned at night, bringing home a turkey. They had failed
to discover the hiding-place of the bear. The other did not reappear
all night. Trumpets were sounded and guns fired from
the camp to guide their footsteps, but without success; and with
the dawn Alphonse D'Erlach set forth with his brother and another,
one Philip le Borne, to seek the fugitives. Their tracks
were found and followed for a weary distance; lost and again
found. Pursued over ridge and valley, in a zigzag and ill-directed
progress, showing that the lost party had been distracted by their
apprehensions. This pursuit led the hunters greatly from the
camp; but D'Erlach had made his observations carefully at every
step, and knew well that he could regain the spot. He had provided
himself well with such food as they possessed, and his little
party was well armed. He refused to discontinue the search,
particularly as they still recovered the tracks of the missing men.
For two days they searched without ceasing, camping by night,
and crouching in the shelter of some friendly rock that kept off
the wind, and building themselves fires which guarded their slumbers
from the assaults of wolf and panther; the howls of the one,
and the screams of the other, sounding ever and anon within their
ears, from the bald rocks which overhung the camp. On the
morning of the third day the fugitives were found, close together,
and stiffened in death. They had evidently perished from the
cold.

Very sadly did the D'Erlachs return with their one companion
to the camp where they had left their comrades. But their gloom
and grief were not to suffer diminution. What was their horror to
find the spot wholly deserted. The ashes were cold where they
had made their fires: the probability was that the place had been
fully a day and night abandoned. No traces of the Frenchmen
were left—not a clue afforded to their brethren of what had taken
place. Alphonse D'Erlach, however, discovered the track of an
Indian moccasin in the ashes, but he carefully obliterated it before
it was beheld by his companions. It was apparent to him that his
people had suffered themselves to be surprised; but whether they
had been butchered or led into captivity was beyond his conjecture.
His hope that they still lived was based upon the absence
of all proofs of struggle or of sacrifice.

To linger in that spot was impossible; but whither should they
direct their steps

“We are but three, now, my comrades,” said the younger
D'Erlach,—“we must on no account separate. We must sleep
and hunt together, and suffer no persuasions to part us. Let us
descend from this inhospitable mountain, and, crossing the stretch
of valley which spreads below, attempt the heights opposite. We
may there find more certain food, and better protection from these
bleak winds.”

“Better that we had perished with our comrades, under the
knife of Melendez,” was the gloomy speech of the elder D'Erlach.

“It is always soon enough to die,” replied the younger. “For
shame, my brother!—it is but death, at the worst, which awaits
us. Let us on!”

And he led the way down the rugged heights, the others following
passively and in moody silence.

They crossed the valley, through which a river went foaming
and flashing over huge rocks and boulders, great fractured masses
from the overhanging cliffs, that seemed the ruins of an ancient
world. The stream was shallow though wild; and crossing from
rock to rock they made their way over without much trouble or
any accident. The ascent of the steep heights beyond was not
so easy. Three days were consumed in making a circuit, and
finding a tolerable way for clambering up the mountain. Cold
and weary, hungry and sick at heart, the elder D'Erlach and
Philip le Borne, were ready to lie down and yield the struggle.
Despair had set its paralyzing grasp upon their hearts; but the
considerate care, the cheerful courage, the invigorating suggestion,
of the younger D'Erlach, still sufficed to strengthen them for renewed

effort, when they were about to yield to fate. He adopted
the legend of the great city. These rocks were a fitting portal to
such a world of empire and treasure. He dwelt with emotion upon
its supposed wonders, and found reasons of great significance for
assuming it to be near at hand. And they toiled after him up the
terrible heights, momently expecting to hear him cry aloud from
the summit for which they toiled—“Eureka! Here is the Grand
Copal!” In this progress the younger D'Erlach was always the
leader; Philip le Borne struggled after him, though at a long distance,
and, more feeble than either, the elder D'Erlach brought up
the rear. Alphonse had nearly reached the bald height to which
he was climbing, when a fearful cry assailed him from behind. He
looked about instantly, only in time to see the form of le Borne
disappear from the cliff, plunging headlong into the chasm a thousand
feet below. The victim was too terrified to cry. Life was
probably extinguished long before his limbs were crushed out of
all humanity amongst the jagged masses of the fractured rocks
which received them. The cry was from the elder D'Erlach. He
saw the dreadful spectacle at full; beheld his companion shoot
suddenly down beside him, with outstretched arms, as if imploring
the succor for which he had no voice to cry. He saw, and, overcome
with horror, sank down in a convulsion upon the narrow
ledge which barely sufficed to sustain his person. Alphonse
D'Erlach darted down to his succor, and clung to him till he had
revived.

“Where is Philip?” demanded the elder brother.

“We are all that remain, my brother,” was the reply.

The other covered his eyes with his hands, as if to shut out
thought; and it was some time before he could be persuaded to
re-attempt the ascent. Alphonse clung to his side as he did so;

never suffered him to be beyond reach of his arm, and, after
several hours of the greatest toil, succeeded in placing him safely
upon the broad summit of the mountain. And what a prospect
had they obtained—what a world of wonder, of beauty and sublimity—fertile
realms of forest; boundless valleys of verdure;
illimitable seas of mountain range, their billowy tops rolling onward
and onward, till the eye lost them in the misty vapors of the sea
of sky beyond.

But the eyes of our adventures were not sensible to the sublimity
and beauty of the scene. They beheld nothing but its
wildness, its stillness, its coldness, its loneliness, its dread and
dreary solitude.

“We are but two, my brother, two of all,” said the elder D'Erlach.
“Let us die together, my brother.”

“If fate so pleases,” was the reply—“well! But let us hope
that we may live together yet.”

“I am done with hope. I am too weary for hope. My heart
is frozen. I see nothing but death, and in death I see something
very sweet in the slumber which it promises. Why should we
live? It is but a prolongation of the struggle. Let us die. Oh!
Alphonse, your life is not less precious to me than mine own. I
would freely give mine, at any moment, to render yours more safe;
yet, if you agree, my hand shall strike the dagger into your heart,
if yours will do for mine the same friendly office.”

“No more, my brother! Let us not speak or think after this
fashion. Our frail and feeble bodies are forever grudgeful of the
authority which our souls exercise upon them. If they are weary,
they would escape from weariness, at sacrifices of which they
know not the extent; would they sleep, they are not unwilling
that the sleep should be death, so that they may have respite from

toil. My brother, I will not suffer my body so to sway my soul if
I can help it. I will still live, and still toil, and still struggle
onward, and when I perish it shall be with my foot advanced, my
hand raised, and my eye guiding, in the progress onward—forever
onward. It will be time enough to think of death when death
grapples us and there is no help. But, till that moment, I mock
and defy the tempter, who would persuade me to rest before my
limbs are weary and my strength is gone.”

“But, Alphonse, my limbs are weary, and my strength is
gone.”

“Let your heart be strong; keep your soul from weariness, and
your limbs will receive strength. Sleep, brother, under the shelter
of this great rock, while I kindle fire at your feet, and prepare
something for you to eat.”

And while the elder brother slept, the other watched and
warmed him, and some shreds of meat dried in the sun, and a
slender supply of meal corns, parched by the fire, with a vessel
of water, was prepared and ready for him at awakening.

But he awakened in no better hope than when he had laid
down. He ate and was not strengthened. The hope had gone
out from his heart, the fire from his eye, his soul lacked the
cheerful vigor necessary to exertion, and his physical strength
was nearly exhausted.

“Would that I had not awakened!” was his mournful exclamation,
as his eyes opened once more to the dreary prospect
from the bald eminence of that desolate mountain-tower. “Would
that I might close mine eyes and sleep, my brother, sleep ever,
or awake to consciousness only in a better world.”

“This world is ours, my brother,” responded the younger, impetuously;
and, if we are men, if we had no misgivings—if we

could feel only as we might—that the weariness of this day would
find a wing to-morrow; we should conquer it, and be worthy of
better worlds hereafter. But he who gives himself up to weariness,
will neither find nor deserve a wing. Thou hast eaten—thou
hast drunken,—thou shouldst be refreshed. I have neither eaten
nor drunken, since we set off at dawn this morning for our progress
across the valley.”

“Reproach me not, Alphonse,” replied the other; “thou hast
a strength and a courage both denied to me.”

“Believe it not; be resolute in thy courage, and thy strength
will follow. It is the heart, verily, that is the first to fail.”

“Mine is dead within me!”

“Yet another effort, mon frére,—yet one more effort! The
valley below us looks soft and inviting. There shall we find
shelter from the bleak winds that sweep these bald summits.”

“It is cold! and my limbs stiffen beneath me,” answered the
other, as he rose slowly to resume a march which was more painful
to his thoughts than any which he had of death. But for his
deference to the superior will of the younger brother, he had
surely never risen from the spot. But he rose, and wearily followed
after the bold Alphonse, who was already picking his way
down the steep sides of the mountain.

We need not follow the brothers through the painful details of
a progress which had few varieties to break its monotony, and
nothing to relieve its gloom. Two days have made a wonderful
difference in the appearance of both. Wild, stern and wretched
enough before in aspect, there was now a grim, gaunt, wolf-like
expression in the features of Alphonse D'Erlach, which showed

that privation and labor were working fearfully upon the mind as
well as the body. He was emaciated—his eyes sunken and glossy,
staring intensely yet without expression—his hair matted upon
his brows, and his movements rather convulsive than energetic.
His soul was as strong as ever—his will as inflexible; but the
tension of the mind had been too great, and nature was beginning
to fail in the support of this rigor. He now strove but little in
the work of soothing and cheering his less courageous brother.
He had no longer a voice of encouragement, and he evidently began
to think that the death for which the other had so much
yearned would perhaps be no unwelcome visitor. Still, as if the
maxims which we have heard him utter were a portion of his real
nature, his cry was forever “On,” and still his hand was outstretched
towards blue summits that seemed to hide another world
in the gulfs beyond them.

“I can go no farther, Alphonse. I will go no farther. The
struggle is worse than any death. I feel that I must sleep. I
feel that sleep would be sweeter than anything you can promise.”

“If you sleep, you die.”

“I shall rejoice!”

“You must not, brother. I will help you. I will carry you.”

He made the effort as he spoke—for a moment raised up the
failing form of his brother—staggered forward, and sank himself
beneath the burden.

“Ha! ha!” he laughed hoarsely; “that we should fail with
the Golden Copal in sight! But if we rest, we shall recover. Let
us rest. Let us kindle here a fire, my brother, for my limbs feel
cold also.”

“It is death, Alphonse.”

“Death! Pshaw! We cannot fail now; now that we are

nearly at the summit. I tell you, brother, we are almost at the
portals of that wondrous city. Once I doubted there were such
city, but I have seen glimpses of towers, and methought but now
I beheld the window in a turret from which a fair woman was
looking forth. See now! Look you to the right—there where
you see the mountain sink as it were, then suddenly rise again, the
slopes leading gently up to a tower and a wall. The evening
sunlight rests upon it. You see it is of a dusky white, and the
window shows clearly through the stone, and some one moves
within it. Dost thou see, my brother?”

“I see nothing but the sky and ocean. It is the waters that
roll about us.”

“It is the winds that you hear, as they sweep down from yonder
mountains. But where I point your eyes is certainly a tower, a
great castle—no doubt one that commands the ascent to the
mountains.”

“Brother, this is so sweet!”

“What?”

“Ah! what a blessed fortune! Escaped from the bloody
Spaniard, afar from the inhospitable land of the Floridian, to see
once more these sweet waters and the well-known places.”

“What waters? What places?”

“Do you know them not—our own Seine and the cottage, Alphonse?
Ha! ha! there they are! I knew they would come
forth. Old Ulrich leads them; and Bertha is there, and brings
little Etienne by the hand. And, ah! ha! ha! Joy, mother,
we are come again!”

“He dreams! he dreams! If thus he dies, with such a dream,
there can be no pain in it. Let him dream! let him dream!”

And Alphonse D'Erlach hastened to kindle the flames, and he

tore from his own body the garment to warm his dying brother;
and he clasped his hands convulsively as he listened to the faint
and broken words that fell from his lips, subsiding at last into,

“Mother, we are come!”

And then he lay speechless. The younger brother, turned
away, and looked yearningly to the mountains.

“If I can only reach you castle, he should be saved. It is not
so far! but this valley to cross—but that low range of rocks to
overcome. It shall be done. I will but cover him warmly with
leaves and throw fresh brands upon the fire, and before night I
shall return with help.”

And he did as he said. He threw fresh brands upon the fire;
he wrapped the senseless form of his brother in leaves and moss;
and, stooping down, grasped his hand and printed a long, last kiss
upon his lips. The eyes of the dying man opened, but they were
fixed and glassy. But Alphonse saw not the look. His own
eyes were upon the castellated mountain. He sped away, feebly
but eagerly, and as he descended into the valley, he looked back
ever and anon; and as he looked, his voice, almost in whispers,
would repeat the words—“Keep in heart, brother. I will bring
you help;” and thus he sped from the scene.

The day waned rapidly, but still the young Alphonse sped upon
his mission. He crossed the plain; he urged his progress up the
ridgy masses that formed the foreground to the great cliffs from
which the castled towers still appeared to loom forth upon his
sight. He cast a momentary glance upon the sun, wan, sinking
with a misty halo among the tops of the great sea-like mountains

that rolled their blue and billowy summits in the east, circumscribing
his vision, and he murmured—

“I shall be in time. Do not despair, my brother. I will soon
be with you and bring you succor.”

And thus he ascended the stony ridges, height upon height gradually
ascending, till he came to a sudden gorge—a chasm rent by
earthquake and convulsion from the bosom of the great mountain
for which he sped. He looked down upon the gorge, and as he
descended, he turned his eye to the lone plateau upon which his
brother had been laid to dream, and cried:

“I go from your eyes, my brother, but I go to bring you help.”

And he passed with tottering steps, and a feebleness still increasing,
but which his sovereign will was loth to acknowledge,
down into the chasm, and was suddenly lost from sight.

Scarcely had he thus passed into the great shadow of the gorge,
when the howl of wolves awakened the echoes of the valley over
which he had gone. And soon they appeared, five in number,
trotting over the ground which he had traversed, and, with their
noses momently set to earth, sending up an occasional cry which
announced the satisfaction of their scent. Now they ascend the
stony ridges. For a moment they halt and gather upon the verge
of the great chasm; then they scramble down into its hollows, and
howling as they go and jostling in the narrow gorges, they too
pass from sight into the obscurity of the mountain shadows.

Another spectacle follows in their place. Sudden, along the
rocky ledges of the high precipices which overhang the gorge,

darts forth a graceful and commanding form. It is a woman that
appears, young and majestic, lofty in carriage, yet winning in aspect.
She belongs to the red races of the Apalachian, but she is
fairest among her people. The skin of a panther forms her
mantle, and her garments are of cotton, richly stained. She carries
a bow in her hand, and a quiver at her back. Her brows are
encircled by a tiara of crimson cotton, from which arise the long
white plumes of the heron. She claps her hands, and cries aloud
to others still in the shadows of the mountain. They dart out to
join her, a group of graceful-looking women and of lofty and vigorous
men. She points to the gorge beyond, and fits an arrow
to her bow. The warriors do likewise, and her shaft speeds upon
its mission of death, shot down amidst the shadows of the gorge.
A cry of pain from the wolf,—another and another, as the several
shafts of the warriors speed in the same direction. Then one of
the warriors hurls a blazing torch into the abyss, and the wounded
wolves speed back through the gorges, and the hunters dart after
them with shafts, and blazing torches, and keen pursuit. Meanwhile,
the Apalachian princess descends the precipice with footsteps
wondrous sure and fast. Her damsels follow her with cries
of eagerness, and soon they disappear—all save the hunters, who
pursue the wolves with well-aimed darts, till they fall howling one
by one, and perish in their tracks. Then the warriors scalp their
prey and turn back, pass through the gorge, and follow in the
footsteps of their princess. The sun sinks, the night closes upon
the valley, and all is silent.