De L'Orme. / The Works of G. P. R. James, Esq., Vol. XVI.

by G. P. R. James

Nothing remained, however, but to urge our course forward as fast as possible; but the mule of the good priest had now resumed her hereditary obstinacy, and neither blows nor fair words would induce her to move one step faster than suited her immediate convenience; so that it bade fair to be near midnight before we could reach the first town in the valley D'Ossau.

After many a vain attempt upon the impassible animal, we were obliged to yield, and proceed onward as slowly as she chose, while occasionally a sort of low howling noise in the gorges of the mountain gave notice that the apprehensions of the guide were likely to be verified. A large eagle, too, kept sailing slowly before us, breaking with its ill-omened voice, as it flitted down the ravine, the profound death-like silence of the air. Over the whole of the scene there was a dark, inexpressible gloom, which found its way heavily to our own hearts. All was still, too, and noiseless, except the dull melancholy sounds I have mentioned: it seemed as if nature had become dumb with awe at the approaching tempest. No bird enlivened the air with its song, no insect interrupted the stillness with the hum, no object of life presented itself, except a hawk or a raven, shooting quickly across, evidently not in pursuit of prey, but in search of shelter. The hills and rocks were all cold and grey, except where the snow had lodged in large white masses, which rendered their aspect still more cheerless and desolate. The sky was dark, heavy, and frowning, and every object seemed benumbed by the hand of death; so that it was impossible, on looking around upon that sad, chill, powerless scene, to fancy it could ever re-awaken into life, and sunshine, and summer.

Gradually the howling of the mountains increased, and the wind began to break upon us with quick sharp gusts, that almost threw us from our horses, while a shower of small, fine sleet drove in our faces, fatiguing and teasing us, as well as impeding our progress. The guide began now to grumble loudly at the slowness of Father Francis's mule, and to declare that he would not stay and risk his life for any mule in France or Arragon.

We were now upon the French side of the mountains, and, as the road was sufficiently defined, I doubted not that we should be able to find our way without his assistance. As his insolence became louder, therefore, I told him, if he were a coward, and afraid to stay by those persons he had undertaken to guide, to spur on his horse, and deliver us from his tongue as speedily as possible. He took me at my word, replying that he was no coward, but that having his wife and children to provide for, his life was of value; that if we would go faster, he would stay with us and guide us on; but that if we would not, the path was straight before us, and that we had nothing to do but follow it by the side of the stream till it led us to a town. Seeing him thus determined, I thought it better to send forward Houssaye along with him, giving him directions to return with some people of the country to lead us right if we should have missed our way, and to relieve us in case we should be overwhelmed by the snow. Houssaye still smacked too much of the old soldier to say a word in opposition to a received order, and though he looked very much as if he would have willingly stayed with Father Francis and myself, yet he instantly obeyed, and putting spurs to his horse, followed the guide on towards Laruns.

The storm every moment began to increase, and so sharp was the wind in our faces, that we could hardly distinguish our way, being nearly blinded with snow, mingled with a sort of extremely fine hail. The atmosphere, also, loaded with thin particles, was now so dim and obscure, that it was not possible to see more than fifty yards before us, and, while wandering on through the semi-opaque air, the objects around appeared to assume a thousand strange and fantastic shapes, of giants, and towers, and castles, as their indistinct forms were changed by the hand of fancy. Even to the animals that bore us, these transformations seemed to be visible, for more than once my horse started from a rock which had taken the shape of some beast; and once we were nearly half-an-hour in getting the mule past an old pine, which the tempest had hurled down the mountain, and which, leaning over a mass of stone, looked like an immense serpent, stretching out its neck to devour whatever living thing should pass before it.

In the meanwhile, the ground gradually became thickly covered with snow, and every footfall of the horse left a deep mark, telling plainly how rapidly the accumulation was going on. Still we made but little progress, and, what between slipping and climbing, both the mule and the horse soon lost their vigour with fatigue, and we had now much difficulty in making them proceed.

Not long after the guide left us, it evidently began to grow dark, and it was with feelings I have seldom felt that I observed the gathering gloom which grew around. The white glare of the snow did, indeed, afford some light, but so confused and indistinct, that it served to dazzle, but not to guide.

All vestige of a path was soon effaced, and the only means of ascertaining in which way our road lay, was by the murmuring of the stream that still continued to rush on at the bottom of the precipice over which we passed. Even the black patches which had been left, where some large stone or salient crag had sheltered any spot from the drift, were soon lost, and it became evident that much more snow had fallen on the French side of the mountains, even before that day, than we had been led to expect.

Our farther progress became at every step more and more perilous, for none of the crevices and gaps in the path were now visible, and the tormenting dashing of the snow in our eyes, and in those of our beasts, prevented us or them from choosing even those parts which appeared most solid and secure. I had hitherto led the way, but Father Francis now insisted upon going first, on account of the sure-footed nature of the mule, whose instinctive perception of every dangerous step was certain to secure him, he observed, from perils of the nature we were most likely to encounter. The mule might also, he continued, in some degree serve to guide my horse, who had more than once stumbled upon the slippery and uneven rocks, concealed as they were by the snow.

After some opposition, I consented to his doing so, feeling a sort of depression of mind which I can only attribute to fatigue. It was not fear: but there was a sort of deep despondency grew upon me, which made me give up all hope of ever disentangling ourselves from the dangerous situation in which we were placed. The cold, the darkness, the chilly, piercing wind, the void, yawning expanse of the dim hollow before me, the melancholy howling of the mountains, the rush and the tumult of the swelling stream below, the whispering murmur of the pine-woods above, beginning with a gentle sigh, and growing hoarser and hoarser, till it ended in a roar like the angry billows of the ocean--all affected my mind with dark and gloomy presentiments;--I never hoped to save my life from the rude hand of the tempest--I hardly know whether I wished it; despair had obtained so firm a hold of my mind, that it had scarcely power even to conceive a desire.