"When we were out of ear-shot she told me that she had bribed the medicine man of her tribe, and brought some barrels of fire-water into the camp and made all the warriors drunk with it. Drunkenness, no doubt, prevented the Creeks from following us for a day or two. And if afterwards they pursued us, they probably turned to the west, thinking that we had set out in the direction of the country of Natchez. But we had gone north, tracking our way by the moss growing on the trunks of the trees."

_II.--The Magic of the Forest_

"The Creeks had stripped me almost naked, but Atala made me a dress out of the inner bark of the ash-tree and sewed some rat-skins into moccasins. I, in turn, wove garlands of flowers for her head as we tramped along through the great forests of Florida. Oh, how wildly beautiful the scenes were through which we pa.s.sed. Nearly all the trees in Florida are covered with a white moss which hangs from their branches to the ground. At night-time, when the moonlight falls, pearly grey, on the indeterminate crest of the forests, the trees look like an army of phantoms in long, trailing veils. In the daytime a crowd of large, beautiful b.u.t.terflies, brilliant humming birds, and blue-winged jays and parroquets come and cling to the moss, which then resembles a white tapestry embroidered with splendid and varied hues.

"Every evening we made a great fire and built a shelter out of a large hollow piece of bark, fixed on four stakes. The forests were full of game, which I easily brought down with the bow and arrows I took when we fled from the camp, and as it was now autumn, the forests were hung with fruit. Every day I became more and more joyful, but Atala was strangely quiet. Sometimes, as I suddenly turned my head to see why she was so silent, I would find her gazing at me, her eyes burning with pa.s.sion.

Sometimes she would kneel down, and clasp her hands in prayer and weep like a woman with a broken heart. What frightened me above all was the secret thought that she tried to conceal in the depths of her soul, but, now and then, half revealed in her wild, sorrowful, and lovely eyes. Oh, how many times did she tell me:

"'Yes, I love you, Chactas, I love you! But I can never be your wife!'

"I could not understand her. One minute she would cling round my neck and kiss me; another, when I wished in turn to caress her, she would repulse me.

"'But as I intend, Atala, to become a Christian, what is there to prevent us marrying?' I said, again and again.

"And every time I asked this question she burst into tears and would not answer. But the wild loneliness, the continual presence of my beloved, yes, even the hardships of our wandering life, increased the force of my longing. A hundred times I was ready to fold Atala to my breast. A hundred times I proposed to build her a hut in the wide, uninhabited wilderness, and live my life out there by her side.

"Oh, Rene, my son, if your heart is ever deeply troubled by love, beware of loneliness. Great pa.s.sions are wild and solitary things; by transporting them into the wilderness you give them full power over your soul. But in spite of this, Atala and I lived together in the great forests like brother and sister. On and on we marched, through vaults of flowery smilax, where lianas with strange and gorgeous blossoms snared our feet in their twining ropy stems. Enormous bats fluttered in our faces, rattlesnakes rattled around us, and bears and carcajous--those little tigers that crouch on the branches of trees, and leap without warning on their prey--made the latter part of our journey full of strange perils and difficulties. For after travelling for twenty-seven days, we crossed the Alleghany mountains, and got into a tract of swampy, wooded ground.

"At sunset a tempest arose and darkened all the heavens. Then the sky opened, and the noise of the tempestuous forest was drowned in long, rolling detonations of thunder, and the wild lightning flamed down upon us, and set the forest on fire. Crouching down under the bent trunk of a birch-tree, with my beloved on my lap, I sheltered her from the streaming rain, and warmed her naked feet in my hands. What cared I, though the very heavens broke above me, and the earth rocked to its foundations? The soft, warm arms of Atala were around my neck, her breast lay against my breast, and I felt her heart beating as wildly as my own.

"'O my beloved,' I said, 'open your heart to me, and tell me the secret that makes you so sorrowful. Do you weep at leaving your native land?'

"'No,' she said. 'I do not regret leaving the land of palm trees, for my mother is dead, and Simaghan was only my foster father.'

"'Then who was your father, my beloved?' I cried in astonishment.

"'My father was a Spaniard,' said Atala, 'but my grandmother threw water in his face, and made him go away, and she then forced my mother to give herself in marriage to Simaghan, who desired her. But she died from grief at being parted from my father, and Simaghan adopted me as his own daughter. I have never seen my father, though my mother, before she died, baptised me, so that his G.o.d should be my G.o.d. Oh, Chactas, I wish I could see my father before I die!'

"'What is his name?' I said. 'Where does he live?'

"'He lives at St. Augustin,' she replied. 'His name is Philip Lopez.'

"'O, my beloved,' I cried, pressing Atala wildly to may breast. 'Oh, what happiness, what joy! You are the daughter of Lopez, the daughter of my foster father!'

"Atala was frightened at my outburst of pa.s.sion, but when she knew that it was her father who had rescued me from the Creeks, and brought me up as his own son, she became as wildly joyful as I was. Rising up from my arms, with a strange, fierce, and yet tender light in her eyes, she took something out of her bosom and put in her mouth, and then fell on my breast in an ecstasy of self-surrender. Just as I was about to embrace her, the lightning fell, the sword of G.o.d, upon the surging, stormy forest, and made a wild and terrible radiance around us, and shattered a great tree at our feet. We rose up, overcome by a sacred horror, and fled. And then an even more miraculous thing happened. As the rolling thunder died away we heard in the silence and the darkness the sound of a bell. A dog barked, and came running joyfully up to us. Behind him was an old, white-haired priest, carrying a lantern in his hand.

"'Dear G.o.d!' said the priest. 'How young they are! Poor children! My dog found you in the forest just before the storm broke, and ran back to my cave to fetch me. I have brought some wine in my calabash. Drink it, it will revive you. Did you not hear the mission bell, which we ring every night so that strangers may find their way?'

"'Save me, father, save me!' cried Atala, falling to the ground. 'I am a Christian, and I do not want to die in mortal sin.'

"What was the matter with her? She was as pale as death, and unable to rise. I bent over her, and so did the missionary.

"'Oh, Chactas,' she murmured, 'I am dying. Just before the lightning struck the tree at our feet, I took some poison. For I felt that I could no longer resist you, my beloved, and I was resolved to save myself in death.'

"'But here is a priest,' I said. 'I will be baptised at once, and we can be married immediately afterwards.'

"'I could not marry you, even then,' she said. 'I was sixteen years old when my mother died, and in order to preserve me from marrying any of the heathen savages among whom my lot was cast, she made me vow, on the image of Mary the Mother of my G.o.d, that I would remain all my life a pure, Christian virgin.'

"Oh, Rene, how I hated the G.o.d of the Christians at that moment! I drew my tomahawk, resolved to kill the missionary on the spot. But disregarding me, he bent over Atala, and raised her head upon his knees.

"'My dear child, your vow does not prevent you from marrying your lover, especially as he is willing to become a Christian. I will write at once to the Bishop of Quebec, who has the power to relieve you of any vow that you have made, and then there will be nothing to prevent your marriage.'

"As he spoke, Atala was seized with a convulsion which shook all her body. In wild agony, she cried: 'Oh, it is too late, it is too late! I thought my mother's spirit would come and drag me down to h.e.l.l if I broke my vow. I took poison with me, Chactas, when I fled with you. I have just swallowed it. There is no remedy. Oh, G.o.d! Oh, G.o.d!'

"She was dead in my arms. I buried her where she died, and had it not been for the missionary, Rene, I would have laid down in the grave, by her side, and let the blood well out of all my veins. But I became a Christian, as you know, and then, finding some work in the world to do, I went back to my own tribe, and converted them. I have been to France.

I have seen your great king Louis XIV. I have talked with Bishop Bossuet, and it was he who convinced me that I could best serve G.o.d by returning to my own people, the Natchez, and trying to form them into a great Christian nation under the guidance of the King of France."

CHARLES VICTOR CHERBULIEZ

Samuel Brohl & Co.

Charles Victor Cherbuliez was born in Geneva, Switzerland, in 1829, studied history and philosophy in Paris, Bonn and Berlin and travelled widely, gathering material that he used in social and political essays and also in fiction. He won fame with his first novel, "Count Kostia," published in 1863. After that date his romances followed in quick succession. Embodying extravagant adventures, they must be cla.s.sed nevertheless in the category of the sentimental novel to which the writings of Sand and Feuillet belong. Cherbuliez is always an interesting story-teller and an ingenious artificer of plot, but his psychology is conventional and his descriptive pa.s.sages superficial though clever. "Samuel Brohl & Co.," published in 1877, ill.u.s.trates his power of drawing cosmopolitan types, Russians, Poles, English, Germans and Jews, which he portrays in all his novels. He was admitted to the French Academy in 1881, and died in 1899.

_I.--A Mountain Romance_

"Yes! she is certainly very beautiful as well as very rich," said Count Abel Larinski, as he watched, through his hotel window, the graceful figure of Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz. "A marriage between Count Abel Larinski, the sole descendant of one of the most ancient and n.o.ble families of Poland, and Mlle. Moriaz, the daughter of the President of the French Inst.i.tute, is a thing which might be arranged. But alas!

Count Abel Larinski, you are a very poor man. Let me see how long you will be able to stay in Saint Moritz? These hotels in the Upper Engadine are frightfully dear!"

The handsome young Polish n.o.bleman opened his purse and looked at the contents rather sadly. It was almost empty. He would certainly have to sell some of his family jewels, if he wanted to stay at Saint Moritz.

Unhappily, he now had only the fine diamond ring, which he wore on his finger, and a Persian bracelet composed of three golden plates connected by a band of filigree work.

"Now, which shall I sell," said the Count; "the Larinski ring, or the bracelet which belonged to Samuel Brohl? The ring, I think. It will bring in much more money, and besides, the bracelet might be useful as a present."

After strolling some time about the garden, Mlle. Moriaz saw her father waiting for her at the door.

"What do you think, Antoinette, of an excursion to Silvaplana Lake?"

said M. Moriaz. "I'm feeling so much better already, and I absolutely long, my dear, for a good walk."

"I should be delighted," said his daughter, "if you think it will not tire you."

M. Moriaz was sure an excursion would not tire him. So they set out for a long walk, through the wild mountain scenery. Antoinette was delighted to find that her father was recovering his strength, but he was alarmingly quiet and thoughtful. Was she in for one of those serious lectures on the subject of marriage which he used to read to her at Paris? Yes! Camille must have written to him. For as she was standing on a mountain bridge, listening to the liquid gurgling of the torrent at the bottom of the gorge, she said to him:

"Isn't the music of this wild stream delightful?"

"Yes!" he replied. "But I think this bridge that spans the gorge is a more wonderful thing than all the wild works of nature around us. I admire men, like our friend Camille Langis, who know how to build these bridges. What a fine fellow he is! Most men, with his wealth, lead idle, useless lives. But there he is now, building bridges across mountains just as wild as these, in Hungary. Why don't you marry him, my dear? He is madly in love with you, and you have known him all your life."

"That's just it," said his daughter, with a movement of impatience, "I have known him all my life. How can I now fall wildly and suddenly in love with him? No! If ever I lose my heart, I am sure it will be to some stranger, to someone quite different from all the men we meet in Paris."

"You are incorrigibly romantic, Antoinette," said her father, with just a touch of ill-humour. "You want a fairy prince, eh?--one of those strange, picturesque, impossible creatures that only exist in the imagination of poets and school girls. You are now twenty-four years old, Antoinette, and if you don't soon become more reasonable, you will die an old maid."