towers, buttresses of proportionable strength, and the arch of the large gate, which seemed to open into the hall of the fabric, was round, as was that of a window above. The air of solemnity, which must so strongly have characterised the pile even in the days of its early strength, was now considerably heightened by its shattered battlements and half-demolished walls, and by the huge masses of ruin, scattered in its wide area, now silent and grass grown. In this court of entrance stood the gigantic remains of an oak, that seemed to have flourished and decayed with the building, which it still appeared frowningly to protect by the few remaining branches, leafless and moss-grown, that crowned its trunk, and whose wide extent told how enormous the tree had been in a former age. This fortress was evidently once of great strength, and, from its situation on a point of rock, impending over a deep glen, had been of great power to annoy, as well as to resist; the Count, therefore, as he stood surveying it, was somewhat surprised, that it had been suffered, ancient as it was, to sink into ruins, and its present lonely and deserted air excited in his breast emotions of melancholy awe. While he indulged, for a moment, these emotions, he thought he heard a sound of remote voices steal upon the stillness, from within the building, the front of which he again surveyed with scrutinizing eyes, but yet no light was visible. He now determined to walk round the fort, to that remote part of it, whence he thought the voices had arisen, that he might examine whether any light could be discerned there, before he ventured to knock at the gate; for this purpose, he entered upon the terrace, where the remains of cannon were yet apparent in the thick walls, but he had not proceeded many paces, when his steps were suddenly arrested by the loud barking of a dog within, and which he fancied to be the same, whose voice had been the means of bringing the travellers thither. It now appeared certain, that the place was inhabited, and the Count returned to consult again with St. Foix, whether he should try to obtain admittance, for its wild aspect had somewhat shaken his former resolution; but, after a second consultation, he submitted to the considerations, which before determined him, and which were strengthened by the discovery of the dog, that guarded the fort, as well as by the stillness that pervaded it. He, therefore, ordered one of his servants to knock at the gate, who was advancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the loop-hole of one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but, receiving no answer, he went up to the gate himself, and struck upon it with an iron-pointed pole, which had assisted him to climb the steep. When the echoes had ceased, that this blow had awakened, the renewed barking,—and there were now more than one dog,—was the only sound, that was heard. The Count stepped back, a few paces, to observe whether the light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that it was gone, he returned to the portal, and had lifted the pole to strike again, when again he fancied he heard the murmur of voices within, and paused to listen. He was confirmed in the supposition, but they were too remote, to be heard otherwise than in a murmur, and the Count now let the pole fall heavily upon the gate; when almost immediately a profound silence followed. It was apparent, that the people within had heard the sound, and their caution in admitting strangers gave him a favourable opinion of them. “They are either hunters or shepherds,” said he, “who, like ourselves, have probably sought shelter from the night within these walls, and are fearful of admitting strangers, lest they should prove robbers. I will endeavour to remove their fears.” So saying, he called aloud, “We are friends, who ask shelter from the night.” In a few moments, steps were heard within, which approached, and a voice then enquired—“Who calls?” “Friends,” repeated the Count; “open the gates, and you shall know more.”—Strong bolts were now heard to be undrawn, and a man, armed with a hunting spear, appeared. “What is it you want at this hour?” said he. The Count beckoned his attendants, and then answered, that he wished to enquire the way to the nearest cabin. “Are you so little acquainted with these mountains,” said the man, “as not to know, that there is none, within several leagues? I cannot show you the way; you must seek it—there’s a moon.” Saying this, he was closing the gate, and the Count was turning away, half disappointed and half afraid, when another voice was heard from above, and, on looking up, he saw a light, and a man’s face, at the grate of the portal. “Stay, friend, you have lost your way?” said the voice. “You are hunters, I suppose, like ourselves: I will be with you presently.” The voice ceased, and the light disappeared. Blanche had been alarmed by the appearance of the man, who had opened the gate, and she now entreated her father to quit the place; but the Count had observed the hunter’s spear, which he carried; and the words from the tower encouraged him to await the event. The gate was soon opened, and several men in hunters’ habits, who had heard above what had passed below, appeared, and, having listened some time to the Count, told him he was welcome to rest there for the night. They then pressed him, with much courtesy, to enter, and to partake of such fare as they were about to sit down to. The Count, who had observed them attentively while they spoke, was cautious, and somewhat suspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of the approaching storm, and of encountering alpine heights in the obscurity of night; being likewise somewhat confident in the strength and number of his attendants, he, after some further consideration, determined to accept the invitation. With this resolution he called his servants, who, advancing round the tower, behind which some of them had silently listened to this conference, followed their Lord, the Lady Blanche, and St. Foix into the fortress. The strangers led them on to a large and rude hall, partially seen by a fire that blazed at its extremity, round which four men, in the hunter’s dress, were seated, and on the hearth were several dogs stretched in sleep. In the middle of the hall stood a large table, and over the fire some part of an animal was boiling. As the Count approached, the men arose, and the dogs, half raising themselves, looked fiercely at the strangers, but, on hearing their masters’ voices, kept their postures on the hearth.
Blanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall; then at the men, and to her father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, addressed himself to the hunters. “This is a hospitable hearth,” said he, “the blaze of a fire is reviving after having wandered so long in these dreary wilds. Your dogs are tired; what success have you had?” “Such as we usually have,” replied one of the men, who had been seated in the hall, “we kill our game with tolerable certainty.” “These are fellow hunters,” said one of the men who had brought the Count hither, “that have lost their way, and I have told them there is room enough in the fort for us all.” “Very true, very true,” replied his companion, “What luck have you had in the chace, brothers? We have killed two izards, and that, you will say, is pretty well.” “You mistake, friend,” said the Count, “we are not hunters, but travellers; but, if you will admit us to hunters’ fare, we shall be well contented, and will repay your kindness.” “Sit down then, brother,” said one of the men: “Jacques, lay more fuel on the fire, the kid will soon be ready; bring a seat for the lady too. Ma’amselle, will you taste our brandy? it is true Barcelona, and as bright as ever flowed from a keg.” Blanche timidly smiled, and was going to refuse, when her father prevented her, by taking, with a good humoured air, the glass offered to his daughter; and Mons. St. Foix, who was seated next her, pressed her hand, and gave her an encouraging look, but her attention was engaged by a man, who sat silently by the fire, observing St. Foix, with a steady and earnest eye.
“You lead a jolly life here,” said the Count. “The life of a hunter is a pleasant and a healthy one; and the repose is sweet, which succeeds to your labour.”
“Yes,” replied one of his hosts, “our life is pleasant enough. We live here only during the summer, and autumnal months; in winter, the place is dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend from the heights, put a stop to the chace.”
“’Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,” said the Count: “I should like to pass a month in your way very well.”
“We find employment for our guns too,” said a man who stood behind the Count: “here are plenty of birds, of delicious flavour, that feed upon the wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the valleys. Now I think of it, there is a brace of birds hung up in the stone gallery; go fetch them, Jacques, we will have them dressed.”
The Count now made enquiry, concerning the method of pursuing the chace among the rocks and precipices of these romantic regions, and was listening to a curious detail, when a horn was sounded at the gate. Blanche looked timidly at her father, who continued to converse on the subject of the chace, but whose countenance was somewhat expressive of anxiety, and who often turned his eyes towards that part of the hall nearest the gate. The horn sounded again, and a loud halloo succeeded. “These are some of our companions, returned from their day’s labour,” said a man, going lazily from his seat towards the gate; and in a few minutes, two men appeared, each with a gun over his shoulder, and pistols in his belt. “What cheer, my lads? what cheer?” said they, as they approached. “What luck?” returned their companions: “have you brought home your supper? You shall have none else.”
“Hah! who the devil have you brought home?” said they in bad Spanish, on perceiving the Count’s party, “are they from France, or Spain?—where did you meet with them?”
“They met with us, and a merry meeting too,” replied his companion aloud in good French. “This chevalier, and his party, had lost their way, and asked a night’s lodging in the fort.” The others made no reply, but threw down a kind of knapsack, and drew forth several brace of birds. The bag sounded heavily as it fell to the ground, and the glitter of some bright metal within glanced on the eye of the Count, who now surveyed, with a more enquiring look, the man, that held the knapsack. He was a tall robust figure, of a hard countenance, and had short black hair, curling in his neck. Instead of the hunter’s dress, he wore a faded military uniform; sandals were laced on his broad legs, and a kind of short trowsers hung from his waist. On his head he wore a leathern cap, somewhat resembling in shape an ancient Roman helmet; but the brows that scowled beneath it, would have characterised those of the barbarians, who conquered Rome, rather than those of a Roman soldier. The Count, at length, turned away his eyes, and remained silent and thoughtful, till, again raising them, he perceived a figure standing in an obscure part of the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, who was conversing with Blanche, and did not observe this; but the Count, soon after, saw the same man looking over the shoulder of the soldier as attentively at himself. He withdrew his eye, when that of the Count met it, who felt mistrust gathering fast upon his mind, but feared to betray it in his countenance, and, forcing his features to assume a smile, addressed Blanche on some indifferent subject. When he again looked round, he perceived, that the soldier and his companion were gone.
The man, who was called Jacques, now returned from the stone gallery. “A fire is lighted there,” said he, “and the birds are dressing; the table too is spread there, for that place is warmer than this.”
His companions approved of the removal, and invited their guests to follow to the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared distressed, and remained seated, and St. Foix looked at the Count, who said, he preferred the comfortable blaze of the fire he was then near. The hunters, however, commended the warmth of the other apartment,
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