University of Virginia Library

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."