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 masses 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 passed. 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 masses 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 masses 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 space to space 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 mass 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 mass of falling mountain must have passed 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 impassable—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 passing 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 carcass 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 association 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 passed the waters, it would have been easy to have made his way up to the little mountain road by which he had passed 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 pass the masses 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 passed 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 noble 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 passed, 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 nobody 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."

Bernard de Rohan found that it was impossible to move him; the son did not come home till the evening was beginning to grow gray, and the young cavalier was obliged, unwillingly, to resign all hopes of rejoining his bride before the next day.

With the shepherd and his son, the use of any other light but that of the broad sun was unknown except in the depth of the winter; and, though Bernard de Rohan could have sat up for many an hour questioning the younger man upon all he had seen and heard at the inn, but a short period was allowed him for so doing ere they retired to repose.

The information that he obtained was but little, for neither the elder nor the younger mountaineer was very intelligent or very communicative. The latter, indeed, seemed to divine at once, what had never struck the old man, that the young cavalier who had become their accidental guest was no other than the person by whose supposed death the lady whom he had seen at the inn had been plunged into such deep grief.

"She will be mighty glad to see you," he said, taking the matter for granted; "and, if we set off by daylight to-morrow, you will just catch her as she wakes, for you nobles are sad lie-abeds."

"Pray tell me, however, before we sleep," said Bernard de Rohan, "how the lady obtained information of the danger I have so fortunately escaped. Was it from Corse de Leon?"

The young man started, and gazed earnestly in his face by the dim light which still found its way into the cottage. "Corse de Leon!" he said, "Corse de Leon! that is a name we never mention in these parts of the country. No! no! I know nothing about Corse de Leon, though they do say that he has as many poor men's prayers as rich men's curses."

Bernard de Rohan found that that name had effectually closed the young shepherd's mouth, and not a word more upon the subject could be obtained from him.

He interrupted their habits of early sleep no longer, but made the best of such means of repose as they could give him, and, wearied out with long exertion, soon fell asleep, with the happy certainty that she whom he loved was free, and corporeally well, while the mental anguish which he knew she must be suffering he had the means of joyfully removing on the succeeding day.

The pain of the bruises which he had received woke the young cavalier as soon as excessive fatigue had been in some degree relieved. But the nights were at that season short; daylight soon appeared; the shepherds rose with the first ray of the sun; and, without other breakfast than a draught of warm milk, Bernard and his guide set off across the mountains. The time occupied by their journey was fully as much as the old man had said; for mountain leagues are generally long ones, and the road was rough and difficult to tread.

At length the view of a plainer country broke upon the eye; and as they descended a steep hill by a footway upon the open mountain side, Bernard de Rohan saw before him the rich lands towards Chambery, and, at the distance of about half a mile, the little inn of Gandelot, seated quietly at the foot of the passes. It looked tranquil and happy in the morning light; but why or wherefore the young gentleman could not tell, a feeling of uneasiness took possession of him at the very quietness which the whole scene displayed. There were none of his people hanging about the door, passing a morning half hour in listless idleness. There were none at the gates of the stables rubbing down horses or cleaning trappings and arms. There was no busy bustling about of attendants and stable-boys. There was nothing, in short, to be seen, but one or two domestic animals at the entrance of the farmyard, and the servant of the auberge, in a bright-coloured petticoat, cleaning some culinary utensils at the door of the inn.

The young cavalier hurried his pace, and, getting before the guide, advanced close to the girl before she saw him. She looked up at the approaching step, and then uttered a loud scream, which Bernard de Rohan easily understood to be her comment upon seeing the dead alive again. He passed on at once, however, through the half-opened door into the kitchen, but, to his dismay, it presented the complete picture of an inn after guests have departed. Everything had been put in order, and looked cold and vacant. The neatly-swept hearth possessed not more fire than might have lain in the hollow of one's hand, and over it the hostess was cooking a mess for the breakfast of herself and her husband; while the aubergiste stood at a well-washed table, counting some money, which he covered over with his hand at the girl's scream, and looked anxiously towards the door.

The surprise of good Gandelot seemed scarcely less than that of the servant, although it only took the outward form and expression of a deadly paleness. He recovered himself in a moment, however, and then, with a look of honest joy and satisfaction, in spite of all difference of rank and habitual restraint, he seized Bernard de Rohan by the hand, exclaiming, "Jesu Maria! Well, there have been many tears shed to no purpose. Why, bless my soul, how happy the poor lady's heart will be!"

"Where is she?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, eagerly. "Where is she? It seems as though there were nobody here."

"No, indeed," replied Gandelot. "What you say is very true. There is nobody here but your lordship's humble servant and his good wife. Why, what a pity that you came not yesterday at this hour! You would have saved the poor lady many a weary minute."

"Where is she, then! Where is she?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, more eagerly than ever. "When did she go? Where is she gone to? Where are my servants, too, and my men-at-arms?"

"Alack, and a well-a-day, sir!" replied the host, "they have all taken wing, and are scattered away like a flock of plovers. Here the lady arrived at the inn, with good Father Willand and some ten or twelve of your men, on the day before yesterday, late in the evening; and then there were consultations after consultations as to what was to be done, for every one knew and had heard by that time that you were a prisoner in the castle of Masseran; and the gentleman who came at the head of your men—not the servants, but the men-at-arms that came after you—vowed that he would attack the castle, and blow open the gates with a petard, and set you free. But when he had talked very high in this way for some time, Father Willand told him to hold his tongue; for, in the first place, the walls of the castle of Masseran were made of stones hard enough to break his teeth, and, in the next, as he had got no petard to blow the gates open with but the one in his mouth, it would be of very little service. With that there came not long afterward a messenger from one whom I must not name, telling the lady and the priest and all to keep as quiet as might be, for that you would be liberated before daylight on the next morning; and, as his word never fails, they all did keep quiet, but we sat up and watched to see what would come of it. A terrible night you know it was; but we were to have a more terrible morning, for by daylight news came up the valley—"

"That I was killed in the land-slip," said Bernard de Rohan, interrupting him.

"No, no," replied the aubergiste, "not that at all; but that the tower which was called the prison-tower of the castle of Masseran had taken fire and fallen, crushing the dungeon in which you had been placed, and you along with it, in the ruins. The lady went half-distracted, though she would not believe that it was true till Father Willand himself went up near the castle, with a body of your men to prevent any of the Masseran people from taking him, and then came back and told her it was all too sure. He told her, besides, that the people of the castle vowed it was some one on her part seeking to deliver you who had set fire to the tower, and the good priest advised her to get across the frontier with all speed. But she was so cast down with grief that she seemed to care little more about herself in this world, and lay, my wife said, partly kneeling by her bedside, partly lying upon it, with her face buried in the clothes, and the sobs coming so thick and hard that it was painful to hear. She could not be got to speak or answer a word to any one; and in the midst of all this came in some one whom you know."

"Who? who?" demanded Bernard de Rohan.

The aubergiste whispered, in a scarcely audible voice, the name of Corse de Leon; and the young cavalier exclaimed, with feelings of as much joy as he could feel at that moment, "Then he is safe, at least; that is some satisfaction."

"Ay, so far safe," replied the man, "that he is not killed as he might have been. But when he came here his left shoulder was out, and would have been useless for ever if he had not made four of us pull it in by main force, and never winked his eyes or uttered a word till it went in with a great start, and then only shut his teeth close."

"But he could have told them," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan, "he could have told that I had escaped before the tower took fire."

"I don't know how it is," replied the landlord; "but, sure enough, he thinks you dead as well as they do. He had a long conversation apart with Father Willand in that little room, out of the corner there, which you have never seen, and, mayhap, did not know of, for the door is in the dark, behind the closet and the chimney. What they talked about I don't know, but in the end I heard him say, 'Tell her nothing about it till she can bear to hear more. As he is dead, it matters not much how it happened.' Then the priest went to the lady, and, with great persuasion, got her down from her chamber, and made her take some wine, and, in the end, got her to set off, with some eight or ten of your people accompanying them. That was about twelve o'clock yesterday morning; and, in an hour or two after, the rest of your people went away over the mountains to join the good MarÉchal de Brissac, by the directions of the person you know."

"This is unfortunate," said Bernard de Rohan, musing, "this is most unfortunate. Do you know which way the lady has taken?"

"She went first to Bonvoisin," replied the host; "but whither she was to turn her steps after that, I know not."

"And I am left here alone," continued the young gentleman, "without horse or arms, at the moment I need them most. Can you furnish me with a horse, good Gandelot?"

"Faith, I have none to give, sir," answered the man, "or I would willingly trust you, if you did not pay me till this time twelvemonth."

"Nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I wanted not to be your debtor, Gandelot. Money, thank God, I have with me, but my resource must be Corse de Leon. Where can he be found?"

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the aubergiste, terrified at the loud tone in which his companion pronounced the name of the brigand. "Hush! hush! for Heaven's sake. There is somebody talking all this time to the girl outside the door."

"It is but the shepherd who guided me hither," replied the young cavalier. "But answer my question, good Gandelot: where is he to be found?"

"If you will sit here for an hour or two," replied the other, "my wife shall get you something ready to break your fast, and I will go up the side of the hill to see after the person you mention."

"But I wish to proceed immediately," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan. "If I could but get a horse, I would set out at once."

"There is no one who can get you either horse or arms within five leagues," replied the aubergiste, "except the man we were talking of. He can do both, and more too, for he can tell you where the lady is to be found, which I can't. So you have nothing for it but to confer with him. However, it will be better to send this shepherd back at once to his own place, and for you either to go into that little room there to the left, or up the stairs into your room above, for it would be a sad thing to be stopped again; and, although we stand on free land here, yet this Lord of Masseran's people are no ways scrupulous into whose face they poke their fist, or into whose soup they dip their spoon."

Though feeling sick at heart with impatience, the young cavalier saw that the plan suggested was the only one he could follow. Having rewarded the shepherd for his trouble in guiding him thither, he allowed the good aubergiste to lead him to his place of concealment; and, urging him in the strongest terms to lose no time, he sat himself down to while away the hours as best he might, with all the checkered thoughts of the past and the future.