Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested
themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which
overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should
return. The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to
observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols,
and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure
upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his
remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and
their lamented mother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emily
observing, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively
airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most
captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his tears, took
her hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the
melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind.
While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt
her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded,
he joined the party, and told them, that he had found Michael, as
well as a way, by which he thought they could ascend the cliff to
the carriage. He pointed to the woody steeps above, which St. Aubert
surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by his walk, and
this ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would be less
toilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to attempt it;
but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he should rest, and
dine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to the carriage for
the refreshments deposited there.
On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to
where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and
thither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the
children, and caress and weep over them.
The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her.
She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the
strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage.
St. Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her
husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to
watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on
the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had for some
time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his master's
sheep. 'Jacques,' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved a little money,
and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go to his master
for those that are stolen; and what is worse than all, his master, when
he comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer with the care of
his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to become of our
children!'