Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woods
to the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deep
shadow, that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits only
were tipped with light; while the distant perspective of the valley was
lost in the yellow mist of moon-light. The travellers sat for some time
wrapt in the complacency which such scenes inspire.
'These scenes,' said Valancourt, at length, 'soften the heart, like the
notes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy which no
person, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest pleasures.
They waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to benevolence,
pity, and friendship. Those whom I love--I always seem to love more in
such an hour as this.' His voice trembled, and he paused.
St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand he
held; she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time,
been occupied by the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by an effort
to rouse himself. 'Yes,' said he, with an half-suppressed sigh, 'the
memory of those we love--of times for ever past! in such an hour as this
steals upon the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillness
of night;--all tender and harmonious as this landscape, sleeping in the
mellow moon-light.' After the pause of a moment, St. Aubert added, 'I
have always fancied, that I thought with more clearness, and precision,
at such an hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensible
in a great degree, that does not soften to its influence. But many such
there are.' Valancourt sighed. 'Are there, indeed, many such?' said Emily.
'A few years hence, my Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'and you may smile at
the recollection of that question--if you do not weep to it. But come, I
am somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.'
Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, the
convent of which they were in search. A high wall, that surrounded it,
led them to an ancient gate, at which they knocked; and the poor monk,
who opened it, conducted them into a small adjoining room, where he
desired they would wait while he informed the superior of their request.
In this interval, several friars came in separately to look at them;
and at length the first monk returned, and they followed him to a room,
where the superior was sitting in an arm-chair, with a large folio
volume, printed in black letter, open on a desk before him. He received
them with courtesy, though he did not rise from his seat; and, having
asked them a few questions, granted their request. After a short
conversation, formal and solemn on the part of the superior, they
withdrew to the apartment where they were to sup, and Valancourt, whom
one of the inferior friars civilly desired to accompany, went to seek
Michael and his mules. They had not descended half way down the cliffs,
before they heard the voice of the muleteer echoing far and wide.