The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of
these mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their
calculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as they
wound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united
two lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusing
themselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and watching the
stones plunge into the water, that threw up its white spray high in the
air as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, which the echoes
of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective of
the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottage
on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not
be far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and
then called to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but the
distance, and the roaring of the waters, would not suffer his voice to
be heard; and the crags, adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendous
height and steepness, that to have climbed either would have been
scarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with the ascent. St.
Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments in delay. They continued
to travel long after twilight had obscured the road, which was so
broken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all
alighted.
The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to
assist them. While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell
of a convent. The twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything
like a building, but the sounds seemed to come from some woods, that
overhung an acclivity to the right. Valancourt proposed to go in
search of this convent. 'If they will not accommodate us with a night's
lodging,' said he, 'they may certainly inform us how far we are from
Montigny, and direct us towards it.' He was bounding forward, without
waiting St. Aubert's reply, when the latter stopped him. 'I am very
weary,' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing so much as for immediate
rest. We will all go to the convent; your good looks would defeat our
purpose; but when they see mine and Emily's exhausted countenances, they
will scarcely deny us repose.'
As he said this, he took Emily's arm within his, and, telling Michael to
wait awhile in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend towards
the woods, guided by the bell of the convent. His steps were feeble, and
Valancourt offered him his arm, which he accepted. The moon now threw
a faint light over their path, and, soon after, enabled them to
distinguish some towers rising above the tops of the woods. Still
following the note of the bell, they entered the shade of those woods,
lighted only by the moonbeams, that glided down between the leaves,
and threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the steep track they were
winding. The gloom and the silence that prevailed, except when the bell
returned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surrounding
scene, struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice and
conversation of Valancourt somewhat repressed. When they had been some
time ascending, St. Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped to
rest upon a little green summit, where the trees opened, and admitted
the moon-light. He sat down upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt.
The bell had now ceased, and the deep repose of the scene was
undisturbed by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some distant
torrents might be said to sooth, rather than to interrupt, the silence.