In the mean time the light from the aperture grew
dimmer and dimmer, and the eyes of the prisoners,
though accustomed to the twilight of the cavern, became
at length unable to distinguish objects at a few
paces from the entrance. The priest and Le Maire
had placed themselves by the couch of Emily, but
rather, as it seemed, from that instinct of our race which
leads us to seek each other's presence, than for any
purpose of conversation, for each of the party preserved
a gloomy silence. The topics of speculation on their
condition had been discussed to weariness, and no
others had now any interest for their minds. It was no
unwelcome interruption to that melancholy silence,
when they heard the sound of a mighty rain pouring
down upon the leafy summits of the woods, and beating
against the naked walls and shelves of the precipice.
The roar grew more and more distinct, and at length it

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seemed that they could distinguish a sort of shuddering
of the earth above them, as if a mighty host was
marching heavily over it. The sense of suffering was
for a moment suspended in a feeling of awe and curiosity.

“That, likewise, is the rain,” said Father Ambrose,
after listening for a moment. “The clouds must pour
down a perfect cataract, when the weight of its fall is
thus felt in the heart of the rock.”

“Do you hear that noise of running water?” asked
Emily, whose quick ear had distinguished the rush of
the stream formed by the collected rains over the
rocks without at the mouth of the cave.

“Would that its channel were through this cavern,”
exclaimed Le Maire, starting up. “Ah! here we have
it—we have it!—listen to the dropping of water from
the roof near the entrance. And here at the aperture!”
He sprang thither in an instant. A little stream detached
from the main current, which descended over
rocks that closed the mouth of the cave, fell in a thread
of silver amid the faint light that streamed through
the opening; he knelt for a moment, received it between
his burning lips, and then hastily returning, bore
Emily to the spot. She held out her hollowed palm,
white, thin, and semi-transparent, like a pearly shell,
used for dipping up the waters from one of those sweet
fountains that rise by the very edge of the sea—
and as fast as it filled with the cool, bright element,
imbibed it with an eagerness and delight inexpressible.
The priest followed her example; Le Maire also drank
from the little stream as it fell, bathed in it his feverish
brow, and suffered it to fall upon his sinewy neck.

“It has given me a new hold on life,” said Le Maire,
his chest distending with several full and long breathings.
“It has not only quenched that hellish thirst,
but it has made my head less light, and my heart lighter.
I will never speak ill of this element again—the choicest

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grapes of France never distilled any thing so delicious,
so grateful, so life-giving. Take notice, Father Ambrose,
I retract all I have ever said against water and
water-drinkers. I am a sincere penitent, and shall demand
absolution.”

Father Ambrose had begun gently to reprove Le
Maire for his unseasonable levity, when Emily cried
out—“The rock moves!—the rock moves! Come
back—come further into the cavern!” Looking up to
the vast mass that closed the entrance, he saw plainly
that it was in motion, and he had just time to draw Le
Maire from the spot where he had stooped down to
take another draught of the stream, when a large
block, which had been wedged in overhead, gave way,
and fell in the very place where he left the prints
of his feet. Had he remained there another instant, it
must have crushed him to atoms. The prisoners, retreating
within the cavern far enough to avoid the danger,
but not too far for observation, stood watching the
event with mingled apprehension and hope. The floor
of the cave just at the edge, on which rested the fallen
rock, yawned at the fissures, where the earth with which
they were filled had become saturated and swelled
with water, and unable any longer to support the immense
weight, settled away, at first slowly, under it,
and finally, along with its incumbent load, fell suddenly
and with a tremendous crash, to the base of the
precipice, letting the light of day and the air of heaven
into the cavern. The thunder of that disruption was succeeded
by the fall of a few large fragments of rock on
the right and left, after which the priest and his companions
heard only the fall of the rain and the heavy
sighing of the wind in the forest.

Father Ambrose and Emily knelt involuntarily in
thanksgiving at their unexpected deliverance. Le
Maire, although unused to the devotional mood, observing
their attitude, had bent his knee to imitate it, when

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a glance at the outer world now laid open to his sight,
made him start again to his feet with an exclamation of
delight. The other two arose, also, and turned to the
broad opening which now looked out from the cave over
the fores. On one side of this opening rushed the
torrent whose friendly waters had undermined the rock
at the entrance, and now dashed themselves against its
shivered fragments below. It is not for me to attempt
to describe how beautiful appeared to their eyes that
world which they feared never again to see, or how
grateful to their senses was that fresh and fragrant air
of the forests which they thought never to breathe again.
The light, although the sky was thick with clouds and
rain, was almost too intense for their vision, and they
shaded their brows with their hands as they looked
forth upon that scene of woods and meadows and waters,
fairer to their view than it had ever appeared in the
most glorious sunshine.

“That world is ours again,” said Le Maire, with a
tone of exultation. “We are released at last, and now
let us see in what manner we can descend.”

As he spoke, he approached the verge of the rock from
which the severed mass had lately fallen, and saw to his
dismay that the terrace which had served as a path to the
cavern, was carried away for a considerable distance to
the right and left of where they stood, leaving the face
of the precipice smooth and sheer from top to bottom.
No footing appeared, no projection by which the boldest
and the most agile could scale or descend it. Le
Maire threw himself sullenly on the ground.

“We must pass another night in this dungeon,” said
he, “and perhaps starve to death after all. It is clear
enough that we shall have to remain here until somebody
comes to take us down, and the devil himself
would not be caught abroad in the woods in the midst of
such a storm as this.”

The priest and Emily came up at this moment:—

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“This is a sad disappointment,” said the former, “but
we have this advantage, that we can now make ourselves
both seen and heard. Let us try the effect of
our voices. It is not impossible that there may be
some person within hearing.”

Accordingly they shouted together, and though nothing
answered but the echo of the forest, yet there
was even in that reply of the inanimate creation something
cheering and hope-inspiring, to those who for
nearly three days had perceived that all their cries for
succour were smothered in the depths of the earth.
Again they raised their voices, and listened for an answering
shout,—a third time, and they were answered.
The halloo of a full-toned, manly voice arose from the
woods below.

“Thank heaven, we are heard at last,” said Emily.

“Let us see if the cry was in answer to ours,” said
the priest, and again they called, and again a shout was
returned from the woods. “We are heard—that is certain,”
continued he, “and the voice is nearer than at
first,—we shall be released.”

At length the sound of quick footsteps on the crackling
boughs was heard in the forest, and a young man
of graceful proportions, dressed, like Le Maire, in a
hunting-cap and frock, emerged into the open space at
the foot of the precipice. As he saw the party standing
in the cavity of the rock, he clapped his hands with an
exclamation of surprise and delight. “Thank heaven,
they are discovered at last! Are you all safe—all
well?”

“All safe,” answered Le Maire, “but hungry as
wolves, and in a confounded hurry to get out of this
horrid den.”

The young man regarded the precipice attentively
for a moment, and then called out, “Have patience a
moment, and I will bring you the means of deliverance.”
He then disappeared in the forest.

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Emily's waking dream was, in fact, not wholly unfulfilled.
That young man was Henry Danville; she
knew him by his air and figure as soon as he emerged
from the forest, and before she heard his voice. He had
been engaged, with many others belonging to the settlement,
in the pursuit of their lost curate and his companions,
from the morning after their absence, and fortunately
happened to be at no great distance when the
disruption of the rock took place. Struck with astonishment
at the tremendous concussion, he was hastening
to discover the cause, when he heard the shout to which
he answered.

It was not long before voices and steps were again
heard in the wood, and a crowd of the good villagers
soon appeared advancing through the trees, one bearing
a basket of provisions, some dragging ladders, some
carrying ropes and other appliances for getting down
their friends from their perilous elevation. Several of
the ladders being spliced together, and secured by
strong cords, were made to reach from the broken rocks
below to the mouth of the cavern, and Henry ascended.

My readers will have no difficulty in imagining the
conclusion. The emotions of the lovers at meeting
under such circumstances are of course not to be described,
and the dialogue that took place on that occasion
would not, I fear, bear to be repeated. The joy
expressed by the villagers at recovering their worthy
pastor brought tears into the good man's eyes; and
words are inadequate to do justice to the delight of Le
Maire at seeing his old companions and their basket of
provisions. My readers may also, if they please, imagine
another little incident, without which some of them
might think the narrative imperfect, namely, a certain
marriage ceremony, which actually took place before
the next Christmas, and at which the venerable Father
Ambrose officiated. Le Maire, when I last saw him,
was living with one of Emily's children, a hale old man

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of eighty, with a few gray hairs scattered among his
raven locks, full of stories of his youthful adventures,
among which he reckoned that of his imprisonment in
the cave as decidedly the best. He had, however, no
disposition to become the hero of another tale of the
kind, since he never ventured into another cave, or under
another rock, as long as he lived; and was wont
to accompany his narrative with a friendly admonition
to his youthful and inexperienced hearers, against
thoughtlessly indulging in so dangerous a practice.