The Mysteries of Udolpho
of the precipice, preceded by a single torch, that now contended with
the moonlight; for the guides, believing they should reach the inn soon
after sunset, had neglected to provide more. In silent caution they
followed the sound, which was heard but at intervals, and which, after
some time entirely ceased. The guides endeavoured, however, to point
their course to the quarter, whence it had issued, but the deep roaring
of a torrent soon seized their attention, and presently they came to a
tremendous chasm of the mountain, which seemed to forbid all further
progress. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count and St.
Foix, while the guides traversed the edge in search of a bridge, which,
however rude, might convey them to the opposite side, and they, at
length, confessed, what the Count had begun to suspect, that they had
been, for some time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only,
that they had lost it.
At a little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous passage,
formed by an enormous pine, which, thrown across the chasm, united the
opposite precipices, and which had been felled probably by the hunter,
to facilitate his chace of the izard, or the wolf. The whole party, the
guides excepted, shuddered at the prospect of crossing this alpine
bridge, whose sides afforded no kind of defence, and from which to fall
was to die. The guides, however, prepared to lead over the mules, while
Blanche stood trembling on the brink, and listening to the roar of the
waters, which were seen descending from rocks above, overhung with
lofty pines, and thence precipitating themselves into the deep abyss,
where their white surges gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The poor
animals proceeded over this perilous bridge with instinctive caution,
neither frightened by the noise of the cataract, nor deceived by the
gloom, which the impending foliage threw athwart their way. It was now,
that the solitary torch, which had been hitherto of little service, was
found to be an inestimable treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking,
but endeavouring to recollect all her firmness and presence of mind,
preceded by her lover and supported by her father, followed the red
gleam of the torch, in safety, to the opposite cliff.
As they went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow pass, at
the bottom of which, the torrent they had just crossed, was heard to
thunder. But they were again cheered by the bark of a dog, keeping
watch, perhaps, over the flocks of the mountains, to protect them from
the nightly descent of the wolves. The sound was much nearer than
before, and, while they rejoiced in the hope of soon reaching a place
of repose, a light was seen to glimmer at a distance. It appeared at a
height considerably above the level of their path, and was lost and
seen again, as if the waving branches of trees sometimes excluded and
then admitted its rays. The guides hallooed with all their strength,
but the sound of no human voice was heard in return, and, at length, as
a more effectual means of making themselves known, they fired a pistol.
But, while they listened in anxious expectation, the noise of the
explosion was alone heard, echoing among the rocks, and it gradually
sunk into silence, which no friendly hint of man disturbed. The light,
however, that had been seen before, now became plainer, and, soon
after, voices were heard indistinctly on the wind; but, upon the guides
repeating the call, the voices suddenly ceased, and the light
disappeared.
The Lady Blanche was now almost sinking beneath the pressure of
anxiety, fatigue and apprehension, and the united efforts of the Count
and St. Foix could scarcely support her spirits. As they continued to
advance, an object was perceived on a point of rock above, which, the
strong rays of the moon then falling on it, appeared to be a
watch-tower. The Count, from its situation and some other
circumstances, had little doubt, that it was such, and believing, that
the light had proceeded from thence, he endeavoured to reanimate his
daughter’s spirits by the near prospect of shelter and repose, which,
however rude the accommodation, a ruined watch-tower might afford.
“Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenees,” said the
Count, anxious only to call Blanche’s attention from the subject of her
fears; “and the method, by which they give intelligence of the approach
of the enemy, is, you know, by fires, kindled on the summits of these
edifices. Signals have thus, sometimes, been communicated from post to
post, along a frontier line of several hundred miles in length. Then,
as occasion may require, the lurking armies emerge from their
fortresses and the forests, and march forth, to defend, perhaps, the
entrance of some grand pass, where, planting themselves on the heights,
they assail their astonished enemies, who wind along the glen below,
with fragments of the shattered cliff, and pour death and defeat upon
them. The ancient forts, and watch-towers, overlooking the grand passes
of the Pyrenees, are carefully preserved; but some of those in inferior
stations have been suffered to fall into decay, and are now frequently
converted into the more peaceful habitation of the hunter, or the
shepherd, who, after a day of toil, retires hither, and, with his
faithful dogs, forgets, near a cheerful blaze, the labour of the chace,
or the anxiety of collecting his wandering flocks, while he is
sheltered from the nightly storm.”
“But are they always thus peacefully inhabited?” said the Lady Blanche.
“No,” replied the Count, “they are sometimes the asylum of French and
Spanish smugglers, who cross the mountains with contraband goods from
their respective countries, and the latter are particularly numerous,
against whom strong parties of the king’s troops are sometimes sent.
But the desperate resolution of these adventurers, who, knowing, that,
if they are taken, they must expiate the breach of the law by the most
cruel death, travel in large parties, well armed, often daunts the
courage of the soldiers. The smugglers, who seek only safety, never
engage, when they can possibly avoid it; the military, also, who know,
that in these encounters, danger is certain, and glory almost
unattainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an engagement, therefore,
very seldom happens, but, when it does, it never concludes till after
the most desperate and bloody conflict. You are inattentive, Blanche,”
added the Count: “I have wearied you with a dull subject; but see,
yonder, in the moonlight, is the edifice we have been in search of, and
we are fortunate to be so near it, before the storm bursts.”
Blanche, looking up, perceived, that they were at the foot of the
cliff, on whose summit the building stood, but no light now issued from
it; the barking of the dog too had, for some time, ceased, and the
guides began to doubt, whether this was really the object of their
search. From the distance, at which they surveyed it, shown imperfectly
by a cloudy moon, it appeared to be of more extent than a single
watch-tower; but the difficulty was how to ascend the height, whose
abrupt declivities seemed to afford no kind of pathway.
While the guides carried forward the torch to examine the cliff, the
Count, remaining with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, under the
shadow of the woods, endeavoured again to beguile the time by
conversation, but again anxiety abstracted the mind of Blanche; and he
then consulted, apart with St. Foix, whether it would be advisable,
should a path be found, to venture to an edifice, which might possibly
harbour banditti. They considered, that their own party was not small,
and that several of them were well armed; and, after enumerating the
dangers, to be incurred by passing the night in the open wild, exposed,
perhaps, to the effects of a thunder-storm, there remained not a doubt,
that they ought to endeavour to obtain admittance to the edifice above,
at any hazard respecting the inhabitants it might harbour; but the
darkness, and the dead silence, that surrounded it, appeared to
contradict the probability of its being inhabited at all.
A shout from the guides aroused their attention, after which, in a few
minutes, one of the Count’s servants returned with intelligence, that a
path was found, and they immediately hastened to join the guides, when
they all ascended a little winding way cut in the rock among thickets
of dwarf wood, and, after much toil and some danger, reached the
summit, where several ruined towers, surrounded by a massy wall, rose
to their view, partially illumined by the moonlight. The space around
the building was silent, and apparently forsaken, but the Count was
cautious; “Step softly,” said he, in a low voice, “while we reconnoitre
the edifice.”
Having proceeded silently along for some paces, they stopped at a gate,
whose portals were terrible even in ruins, and, after a moment’s
hesitation, passed on to the court of entrance, but paused again at the
head of a terrace, which, branching from it, ran along the brow of a
precipice. Over this, rose the main body of the edifice, which was now
seen to be, not a watch-tower, but one of those ancient fortresses,
that, from age and neglect, had fallen to decay. Many parts of it,
however, appeared to be still entire; it was built of grey stone, in
the heavy Saxon-gothic style, with enormous round 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