University of Virginia Library

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.