And was it not strange that he had not as yet overtaken, or at least obtained a trace of, the man who thus occupied a portion of his thoughts? If that man were still amongst the mountains, they would probably meet; if he had succeeded in descending into the plains below, the same pathway that conducted him thither would also be open to Wagner. Animated with these reflections, and in spite of the hunger which now sorely oppressed him, Wagner prosecuted with fresh courage his search for a means of descent into the lovely regions that lay stretched before him, when he was suddenly startled by the sound of a human voice near him.
“My son, what dost thou amidst this scene of desolation?” were the words which, uttered in a mild benignant tone, met his ears.
He turned and beheld an old man of venerable appearance, and whose beard, white as snow, stretched down to the rude leathern belt which confined the palmer’s gown that he wore.
“Holy anchorite!” exclaimed Wagner—“for such must I deem thee to be,—the sound of thy voice is most welcome in this solitude, amidst the mazes of which I vainly seek to find an avenue of egress.”
“Thus it is oft with the troubles and perplexities of the world, my son,” answered the hermit, “that world which I have quitted forever.”
“And dost thou dwell in this desolate region?” asked Fernand.
“My cave is hard by,” returned the old man. “For forty years have I lived in the heart of these mountains, descending only into the plains at long intervals, to gather the fruits that constitute my food:—and then,” he added, in a tone which, despite the sanctity of his appearance, struck cold and ominous to the very heart of Wagner,—“and then, too, at the risk of becoming the prey of the terrible anaconda!”
“Thou sayest, holy hermit,” exclaimed Fernand, endeavoring to conquer a feeling of unaccountable aversion which he had suddenly entertained toward the old man, “thou sayest that thy cave is hard by. In the name of mercy! I beseech thee to spare me a few fruits, and a cup of water, for I am sinking with fatigue, hunger, and thirst.”
“Follow me, young man,” said the hermit; and he led the way to a cave opening from a narrow fissure in the rock.
The anchorite’s abode was, as Wagner had expected to find it, rude and cheerless. A quantity of dry leaves were heaped in one corner—evidently forming the old man’s couch; and in several small hollows made in the walls of rock, were heaps of fruit—fresh and inviting, as if they had only just been gathered. On the ground stood a large earthen pitcher of water. Upon this last object did the thirsty Wagner lay his left hand; but ere he raised it, he glanced hastily round the cave in search of a crucifix, in the presence of which he might sign the form of the cross with his right hand. But to his astonishment the emblem of Christianity was not there; and it now struck him for the first time that the anchorite wore no beads around his waist.