By the same rules, however, must the search for variety be guided, as the condition of producing happiness. Means of varying our pleasures, almost to infinity, have been given us by the Almighty, within the limits which he has himself a.s.signed to us. The enjoyment of His own works, the contemplation of His goodness, the devotion to His service, were alone sufficient, were man rightly wise, to afford more varied exercise to the human mind than would fill many a long life, even if the Almighty had not loaded our pathway with opportunities of a thousand other gratifications, innocent in themselves, and endless in their combinations. In fact, the variety which we seek in our way through life must be framed, not partially, but entirely, upon the model of that which we see in creation. Each new endeavour, each alteration of pursuit, must have its high object, and in itself be good; and, as we and our existence are but parts of a great system, so must each change be part of the great system of our life.

In an humbler and in a lesser way, he who sits down to tell a tale--intended not alone to while away an idle hour for himself or for others, but also to do some good while it amuses--may well indulge in following every work of nature, and every page in the book of human life, and change the scene continually, varying the characters, the personages, the events which he depicts; but he must also bear in mind that each is a part of one general scheme, each tends to one particular and distinct object.

From the court of France and the gay scenes of the capital we must once more travel back to the rugged mountain pa.s.ses among which our tale began, and to those in whose fate, to say sooth, we are the most interested. Although we are ourselves somewhat anxious to discover what has become of the fair Isabel of Brienne--how her escape has been effected--where she is now wandering--how she is guided, guarded, and protected--we must, nevertheless--though we suspect that her path was dangerous, th.o.r.n.y, and sorrowful--return to Baron de Rohan, and leave him no longer upon the side of the mountain.

The young cavalier rode on, accompanied by Corse de Leon, with as much speed as the rough and tortuous nature of the road would admit. The men who brought the horses followed quickly after; and, in about twenty minutes, they reached the spot in the valley where the two roads divided, which we have already mentioned more than once. Here Corse de Leon was about to proceed at the same pace up the shorter road, leaving upon the left hand that by which, upon a former night, he had brought back Isabel de Brienne to the castle of Ma.s.seran. One of his followers, however, instantly shouted to him: "Ho! signior, ho! you cannot go by that road except on foot. It was that which kept us so long. The stream is swelled, and the bridge is gone again, and we were obliged to come round the other way."

"The stream swelled!" said Corse de Leon, in a thoughtful tone. "There must be something going on farther up in the mountains. The snows must be melting, or some glacier breaking up! However, let us go on by this other road. One of you remain here and see if we are followed," he continued, turning to the men behind him; "let the other go down to the cross, and tell Pinchesne and the rest to come over the hill. Let them leave one or two in the valley in case they should be wanted. Now let us on!" and he rode forward more slowly than before, though the left-hand road which he pursued was the longer of the two. He seemed, however, in one of those moody fits during which bitter memories continually mingled with a natural current of powerful abstract thoughts, changing their character from the calm reasoning of a man of acute and high-toned mind and intelligence, to morose and misanthropical ponderings, wherein all the images were gloomy and harsh. At such times his whole conduct and demeanour varied according to the mood of the moment: even his corporeal gestures, the quickness or slowness of his pace, as well as his look and his tone of voice, were all affected by what pa.s.sed in his mind. When on his guard, indeed, no one was more deliberate, thoughtful, and measured, in every look, word, and gesture; but that was a matter of habit and acquired self-command. By nature he was one of those whose whole corporeal frame is, as it were unconsciously, the quick and ready slave of the spirit.

A change had come over him since they had mounted their horses, and such was, in reality, the secret of his riding more slowly. He might be actuated, indeed, in some degree, by consideration for the animal on which he was mounted; for the way, as we have before said, was nearly two leagues longer, and the night was excessively hot and oppressive, so that the white foam was already about the horse's neck and bridle. The sky was clear of all clouds, however, and the stars were shining bright, though they seemed smaller and farther off than usual. As they turned, the distant pointed summit of an icy mountain was seen towering over one of the pa.s.ses, white and glittering in the starlight, while around it, without any visible clouds, there played occasionally bright coruscations as of faint summer lightning. For some way Corse de Leon did not speak; but at length he said, putting his hand to his brow, "Were there any clouds in the sky, I should think there would be a storm to-night. It seldom happens that the elements, as is the case with human life, give us storms without clouds. We have generally some warning of the tempest."

"There is a moaning sound in the hills," said Bernard de Rohan, "and yet I feel no wind. But do you not think," he continued, reverting to what his companion had said, "do you not think that it generally happens in human life we have some forewarning of the storms that befall us?"

"Not from external things," replied Corse de Leon, "not from external things. Often, often without the slightest cause to fear a change, suddenly a thousand adverse circ.u.mstances combine to overwhelm us. It is true, indeed it is true, that there may be other indications of a different kind."

"Ay," answered Bernard de Rohan, "that is what I mean. Do you not think that when we have no external omens of what is coming--when no cloud blackens the sky--when no red sun announces the tempest of the following day--do you not think that even then, within us, there may be a warning voice which tells us of the storm that we see not, and bids us seek some shelter from its fury?"

"Like that low murmuring that we hear even now," said Corse de Leon.

"I remember," continued Bernard de Rohan, without marking his words particularly, "that, not many days ago, as I was crossing the mountains to come hither, a fit of gloom fell upon me: I knew not why; for all was bright and cheerful in the prospect before me. I could not shake it off for some time; and in vain I tried to scoff at my own feelings. They would have way: I felt as if some misfortunes were about to befall me; and, though not one of all the things which have since occurred could by any chance have been divined at the time, yet you see that misfortunes did a.s.sail me even within a few days."

"Do you call these misfortunes?" demanded Corse de Leon. "You are younger in heart than I even thought you were. But what you say is worthy of memory; if what you felt were really a presentiment of coming evils, take my word for it, they are scarcely yet begun: you will want watching and a.s.sistance," he added, thoughtfully; "you will need aid and help with a strong hand; I have not forgotten my promise, and I will keep it. But quick, let us ride on! Our horses feel that there is something coming, and I would fain reach Gandelot's inn before it comes."

"I should suppose," replied Bernard de Rohan, "that it offers very inefficient shelter. It is built so completely at the foot of the mountain, that I wonder the snows in winter do not overwhelm it."

"It has twice been crushed under an avalanche," replied his companion, "and they still build it up again on the same spot; but what the house has to fear is as much the water as the snow; and it is because it is no place of shelter that I would fain be there."

Bernard de Rohan understood him in a moment; and the thought of Isabel de Brienne was quite sufficient to make him spur on eagerly. About half a league farther, the road turned a projection of the mountain, and, shortly after they had pa.s.sed the angle of the rock, the spray of a cataract dashed in their faces, while an immense volume of water rushed furiously down from a spot some hundred yards above them, looking in that dim hour like some vast giant robed in white and leaning against the mountain. The torrent itself gushed across the road, and Bernard de Rohan turned his eyes upon his companion, not recollecting such an obstruction in their way.

"Some four or five hours ago," said Corse de Leon, "when I pa.s.sed by that spot, there was scarcely water enough to quench the thirst of a wolf, and now it is a torrent. There is some great commotion above there. But perhaps it is all past, and these may be the results. We must try and force our horses through, however; keep as close to the face of the rock as possible."

So saying, he spurred on; but it was with the greatest difficulty that either he or his companion compelled their horses to make the attempt to pa.s.s the torrent. The pattering of the spray and the roaring of the stream terrified and bewildered them; and when, at length, urged forward, partly by chiding, partly by gentleness, they did dash on, the animals bore their riders through the midst of the current, where the ground was rough and insecure. Twice the charger which bore Bernard de Rohan stumbled, and nearly fell, and twice, though drenched with the pouring of the water on his head, and gasping for breath under the rushing weight upon him, he aided the horse up with heel and hand till he reached the other side and stood on firm ground.

Wellnigh stunned and bewildered, he turned to look for Corse de Leon.

The brigand was standing beside him dismounted from the horse, and holding the animal by the rein with one hand, while he raised the other towards the sky with a look of eager, yet solemn attention. The next instant he grasped the young cavalier's hand, exclaiming, "Stir not a step! It is coming, it is coming! Now, as ever, we stand in G.o.d's good will to live or die; but death is very near us."

At the same moment there came a roar as of distant cannon; many shot off at once; then a murmuring pause; then a roar again; and, as it came on, the deafening sound of the thunder itself would have been as nothing to the terrific rushing noise that echoed through the hollow valleys. It seemed as if a thousand sounds were mingled; for the howling of the wind still continued, as if imitating the screams and wailing of people in pain; while the crash of rocks falling upon rocks, and of the stout trees of the forest rent into shivers, and of rolling ma.s.ses of earth and snow, crags and cliffs, with one half the mountain itself, was alone overpowering by the very sound that beat upon the ear, even had it not been accompanied by an awful pressure of the air which took away the breath, and a sense of coming annihilation which seemed to check the beating of the heart even before death had stilled it with his icy hand.

There was time for but one short prayer to Him on high, and one thought of her he loved, before the crumbling ruin came down into the valley, sweeping close, past the very place where Bernard de Rohan stood. Rocks and stones rushed on before it, and one immense ma.s.s struck his horse on the knees and chest, threw him backward on his haunches, and beast and rider rolled over the edge into the stream. For an instant he lost his consciousness; and then, waking to life, found himself in the valley below, dashed by the torrent against the rocky banks.

He had been thrown free, however, from the horse; and, though to swim was impossible, from the crags, the trees, the projecting stones, and the fierce struggling of the torrent, yet he contrived to grasp a rugged branch that hung over the water, swung himself to the bank, and sprang upon the land. It was all impulse, for he hardly knew how he found the bough or reached the firm ground. Even when there, he was fain to cast himself down, and press his hands upon his forehead, for everything swam round with him: the earth seemed to shake beneath his feet; and the roar of falling rocks and crags still mingled with the loud voice of the turbulent waters from which he had just escaped. The mightier sound, however, had pa.s.sed away--that awful rushing noise, unlike anything else on earth--and gradually, the others ceased also, till at length nothing was heard but the flowing of the river, as it foamed and struggled with the obstacles in its course.

When Bernard de Rohan could rise and look around him everything was dark, except where in the sky appeared the twinkling myriads of the night, beginning, he fancied, to look pale at the approach of morning.

He listened in the hopes of hearing some voice; but, if there was any, it was drowned in the noise of the waters.

With a thousand painful apprehensions in his heart, with no way of relieving his anxiety, with nothing left but to wait for the return of daylight, he cast himself down again, after having called once or twice aloud upon Corse de Leon without receiving any answer. He could not distinguish whither he had been borne. He could see some large trees still standing near him, and some enormous black ma.s.ses of rock lifting their heads around. The shadow of the giant mountain, too, rose up before him; but its form seemed changed, and he gazed as if to ascertain in what features it was altered.

Gradually the summit of the hill, warmed into a dusky brown, caught some of the rays of the rising sun, and--while every moment it a.s.sumed a brighter hue, till it crowned itself, and decorated the mists which surrounded it with gold--a sober twilight crept into the valley; and Bernard de Rohan found himself standing in the gray morning with a world of ruin and desolation around him, without a trace of road or human habitation, and with the narrow pa.s.s along which his way had been bent completely blocked up by the huge ma.s.ses of the fallen mountain.

CHAPTER XVIII.

With that strange, dizzy sensation which we feel when awaking from the first stunning effects of any great catastrophe, Bernard de Rohan continued to gaze around him for some minutes, as the morning rose brighter and brighter upon the wild scene of destruction in the midst of which he stood. He was himself much bruised and injured: blood was upon various parts of his garments; his strong, muscular arm would scarcely support him as he leaned against the rock, and his brain still reeled giddily from time to time with the fall and the blows he had received: but his own corporeal pain engaged less of his attention than the terrible picture which the rising light displayed. Everywhere appeared vestiges of the desolating phenomenon of the preceding night. The order of all things around him, and especially to the northeast, seemed to have been entirely broken up and changed. The granite rocks from the higher summits of the mountain were now piled up in immense ma.s.ses below, mingled with vast tracts of the most dissimilar substances, slate, and sandstone, and common vegetable earth, with here and there a thick layer of snow protruding through the chasms, marked in long streaks by the various kinds of earth over which it had pa.s.sed. Shivered fir-trees, and immense fragments of oak, with their green foliage still waving in the air, stuck out here and there in scattered disarray from the tumbled chaos of rock, and sand, and earth; and the fragments of a cottage roof, which lay reversed high up the side of the mountainous pile that now blocked up the valley, showed that the sweeping destruction had, at all events, reached one of the homes of earth's children.

Such was the scene towards the northeast: but it was evident that the fallen ma.s.ses had not yet firmly fixed themselves in the position which they were probably to bear for ages afterward. From time to time a rock rolled over, but slowly, making its way down into the valley with increasing speed, sometimes pausing and fixing itself in a new bed part of the way down. None of these, however, in their descent, reached the spot where Bernard de Rohan stood, for he was at least three hundred yards from the base of the mountain which had thus been produced during the night. As it came down, indeed, the immense body had been accompanied by the fall of large ma.s.ses of stone, which were scattered on all sides, so that the green bosom of the valley--which, on the preceding day, had been carpeted by soft and equal turf, only broken here and there by a tall tree, or clumps of shrubs and bushes, or else by large fantastic lumps of rock or stone, fallen immemorial ages before, and clothed by the hand of time with lichens or creeping plants--was now thickly spotted with fresh fragments, which from s.p.a.ce to s.p.a.ce had shivered the trees in their descent, and in other places was soiled with long tracks of various-coloured earths, which had showered down like torrents as the great ma.s.s descended farther on.

The stream, swollen, turbid, and furious, was rushing on amid the rocks in the middle of the valley; but the traces of where it had lately been evidently showed that it was rapidly decreasing in volume, and had already much diminished. Bernard de Rohan traced it up with his eye to the spot where it descended from the hill, crossing the road, which ran along the top of a steep bank on the opposite side. The cataract through which he had forced his horse the night before was there visible, and still showed a large column of rushing water, though it, too, was greatly lessened. This waterfall, however, gave the young cavalier some mark by which to judge of the distances; and he found that he must have been carried down the stream nearly three hundred yards before he recovered himself and got to land. He thus perceived how near the chief ma.s.s of falling mountain must have pa.s.sed to the spot where he had been standing, and he felt that the detached rock, which had struck his horse and cast him down into the stream before the whole fell, had probably saved his life.

But what had become of his companion? he asked himself. What had become of that being who, strange, and wild, and erring as he doubtless was, had contrived, not only to fix himself strongly upon his affections, but to excite, in a considerable degree, his admiration and esteem? Had he perished in that awful scene? Had he closed his wild and turbulent existence in the tremendous convulsion which had taken place? He feared it might be so; and yet, when he looked up and saw distinctly that--though ploughed up by the heavy stones that had fallen, and thus, in many places, rendered impa.s.sable--the road was still to be traced by the eye for some thirty yards beyond the cascade, he did hope--though the hope was but faint--that Corse de Leon might have escaped.

If so, traces of him and of the way that he had taken might yet be found. But another possibility soon presented itself to the mind of Bernard de Rohan, The brigand might have been thrown over the precipice by some of the falling rocks, like the young cavalier himself, and might even then be lying mutilated and in agony not far off. Without a moment's delay, Bernard proceeded to search along the course of the stream, which was far too much swollen to permit of his pa.s.sing it.

Nothing of Corse de Leon could he see, however; not a vestige, not a track; but a few yards from the spot where the cascade, after striking the road, bounded down again into the valley below, he found, in the bed of the stream, crushed and mangled in an awful manner, the carca.s.s of the poor horse which he had himself so lately ridden. The size of the animal had caused it to be entangled sooner among the rocks in the bed of the stream than he had been, but it had evidently been killed by the blow of the first fragment of stone which struck it, for its two front legs were broken, and its chest actually dashed in.

It was a painful and a sickening spectacle in the midst of a scene so wild, so awful, and extraordinary; but one additional horror which might well have been there was wanting. The vultures, which are said to be scared from their pursuit of prey by no portent, had, nevertheless, not approached as yet; and Bernard de Rohan, with his arms crossed upon his chest, remained for a moment looking at the dead body of the animal, as it lay half out of the water and half hidden by the rushing stream, with many a dark and gloomy a.s.sociation crossing his mind, though vaguely and unencouraged.

As he stood and gazed, a small bird upon an opposite tree, which had escaped uninjured throughout the late catastrophe, burst out in a wild and somewhat melancholy song; and Bernard de Rohan, with his heart heavier than before, turned and retrod his steps, in the hopes of finding some place where he could cross the torrent farther down the valley. In this expectation he was disappointed; the stream only grew larger, and deeper, and more impetuous, swelled by the different rivulets that were pouring down the sides of the mountains; and at length, after wandering on more than three miles, it plunged through a deep chasm in the rock, which left no footing for the young cavalier to make his way farther on that side of the valley. Could he have pa.s.sed the waters, it would have been easy to have made his way up to the little mountain road by which he had pa.s.sed the preceding night, and which was now before his eyes. But he was shut in between the torrent on one side and the high mountain on the other; and, although he saw some sheep-paths and other tracks, he knew not where they led to, but had only the certainty that they must take him to a distance from the spot which he wished to reach immediately, in order to relieve the darkest anxiety of all the many that were at his heart. Turning back, then, he made a desperate, but ineffectual effort to pa.s.s the ma.s.ses of the mountains which had been thrown down, and by midday he was forced to retread his steps nearly to the same spot where he had found himself in the morning.

In much pain from the bruises he had received, and exhausted with exertion and want of food, he sat down for a time to rest, and drank of the waters of the stream, although they were still troubled. He then took the resolution of endeavouring to climb the mountains which formed that side of the valley where he then was, trusting that he might find some one to show him the nearest way to the inn on the eastern slope of the hills. The path was rugged and winding, the mountain bleak and arid, and several hours elapsed while he wandered on, before he heard the sound of any living creature, or saw any moving thing, except when once or twice some object of the chase started away from his path, and when the golden lizards, basking in the sun, turned round their snake-like heads to gaze on the unwonted human form that pa.s.sed them.

At length, however, towards five o'clock in the evening, completely tired out, without having tasted food, and with no drink whatsoever but that one draught from the stream, he heard--as may well be supposed, with joy--the barking of a dog; and, looking up, he saw upon a point of the crag above a n.o.ble animal of the Alpine breed, baying fiercely at the step of a stranger.

Bernard de Rohan went on; and, following the dog as it retreated before him, he soon heard the bleating of some sheep, and, in a minute or two after, beheld a small white wreath of smoke rising in the clear mountain air, with the roof of a little cottage in a sheltered nook of the hill.

It was as poor a habitation as can be conceived; but the sight was a glad one to the young cavalier, and he approached the little low-walled yard, which served as a sort of fold, with feelings of infinite joy.

The barking of the dog brought forth the shepherd, holding a large pot of boiling ewe-milk in his hand. He was a small, plain-featured man, not very intelligent, who, notwithstanding his solitary life, had not acquired that desire of knowing more of his fellow-creatures which is so constantly the result of voluntary seclusion in monasteries. He was, however, hospitable and kind-hearted, and received the young stranger with a gladdening welcome. He set before him, in the very first place, the best of all he had; and asked, with some eagerness, of news from the valley; for he was already aware of what had occurred during the preceding night, and, indeed, knew far more than Bernard de Rohan himself.

The young cavalier told him all that he had to tell, and then questioned him rapidly and anxiously in turn. His first question, as may be easily supposed, referred to Gandelot's inn; and oh! how much more freely did he seem to breathe when the old-man replied, "Oh, that is quite safe!

The fall did not come within half a league of it."

"Are you sure, quite sure?" demanded Bernard de Rohan.

"My son was down there to-day with cheeses," answered the man, "and saw them all. He will be home with the rest of the sheep presently, and will tell you more about it."

"Was there a young lady there?" Bernard de Rohan inquired, with as much calmness as he could command.

"Yes, he talked of a stranger lady from France," replied the shepherd, "with a number of soldiers and attendants belonging to some French lord, for whom they were all grieving and weeping bitterly, because he had been killed somehow."

"How long will it be ere your son returns?" asked Bernard de Rohan, eager, notwithstanding all the fatigues that he had suffered, to reach the inn that night.

The answer he received was one of those vague and indefinite replies which are always given on such occasions by persons to whom, as to the shepherd, time seems of little or no value. He said that the lad would be back very soon; but hour after hour pa.s.sed, and he did not appear.

The young cavalier became impatient; and, finding that it was impossible, from any direction the old man could give, to learn the path which he ought to pursue, he urged him, with many promises of reward, to conduct him to Gandelot's small hostelry himself.

Had he proposed to the good shepherd, however, a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, it would not have seemed more impracticable. He declared that it was perfectly out of the question; that, now his wife was dead, there was n.o.body to remain in his cottage; that the distance was fully four leagues, and that it would take them as many hours to go. "It will be dark in half an hour," he continued, "and we should but break our necks over the rocks and precipices."