The mountain was marshy and wet—that wearisome surface of spongy hillock, and low, creeping brushwood, the most fatal thing to a tired walker—and I made but slow progress; besides, frequently, from inequalities of the soil, I would lose sight of the light for half an hour together, and then, on its reappearing suddenly, discover how far I had wandered out of the direct line. These little aberrations did not certainly improve my temper, and I plodded along, weary of limb and out of spirits.
At length I came to the verge of a declivity. Beneath me lay a valley, winding and rugged, with a little torrent brawling through rocks and stones—a wild and gloomy scene by the imperfect light of the stars. On the opposite mountain stood the coveted light, which now I could discover proceeded from a building of some size, at least so far as I could pronounce from the murky shadow against the background of sky.
I summoned up one great effort, and pushed down the slope—now sliding on hands and feet, now trusting to a run of some yards where the ground was more feasible. After a fatiguing course of two hours, I reached the crest of the opposite hill, and stood within a few hundred yards of the house—the object of my wearisome journey. It was indeed in keeping with the deserted wildness of the place. A ruined tower, one of those square keeps which formerly were intended as frontier defences, standing on a rocky base, beside the edge of a steep cliff, had been made a dwelling of by some solitary herdsman—for so the sheep collected within a little inclosure bespoke him. The rude efforts to make the place habitable were conspicuous in the door formed of wooden planks nailed coarsely together, and the window, whose panes were made of a thin substance like parchment, through which, however, the blaze of a fire shone brightly without.
Creeping carefully forward to take a reconnaissance of the interior before I asked for admission, I approached a small aperture, where a single pane of glass permitted a view. A great heap of blazing furze, that filled the old chimney of the tower, lit up the whole space, and enabled me to see a man who sat on a log of wood beside the hearth, with his head bent upon his knees. His dress was a coarse blouse of striped woollen descending to his knees, where a pair of gaiters of sheepskin were fastened by thongs of untanned leather; his head was bare, and covered only by a long mass of black hair, that fell in tangled locks down his back, and even over his face as he bent forward. A shepherd’s staff and a broad hat of felt lay on the ground beside him; there was neither chair nor table, nor, save some fern in one corner, anything that might serve as a bed; a large earthenware jug and a metal pot stood near the fire, and a knife, such as butchers kill with, lay beside them. Over the chimney, however, was suspended, by two thongs of leather, a sword, long and straight, like the weapon of the heavy cavalry of France; and, higher again, I could see a great piece of printed paper was fastened to the wall. As I continued to scan, one by one, these signs of utter poverty, the man stretched out his limbs and rubbed his eyes for a minute or two, and then with a start sprang to his feet, displaying, as he did so, the proportions of a most powerful and athletic frame.
He was, as well as I could guess, about forty-five years of age; but hardship and suffering had worn deep lines about his face, which was sallow and emaciated. A black moustache, that hung down over his lip and descended to his chin, concealed the lower part of his face; the upper was bold and manly, the forehead high and well developed; but his eyes—and I could mark them well as the light fell on him—were of an unnatural brilliancy; their sparkle had the fearful gleam of a mind diseased, and in their quick, restless glances through the room I saw that he was labouring under some insane delusion. He paced the room with a steady step, backwards and forwards, for a few minutes, and once, as he lifted his eyes above the chimney, he stopped abruptly and carried his hand to his forehead in a military salute, while he muttered something to himself. The moment after he threw open the door, and stepping outside, gave a long shrill whistle; he paused for a few seconds, and repeated it, when I could hear the distant barking of a dog replying to his call. Just then he turned abruptly, and with a spring seized me by the arm.
‘Who are you? What do you want here?’ said he, in a voice tremulous with passion.
A few words—it was no time for long explanations—told him how I had lost my way in the mountain, and was in search of shelter for the night.
‘It was a lucky thing for you that one of my lambs was astray,’ said he, with a fierce smile. ‘If Tête-noir had been at home, he’d have made short work of you. Come in.’