We left our colonists of Fredonia at the moment that the struggle was over which resulted in the death of Rogere. The scenes which immediately followed are full of interest, but we can only give them a passing notice.
The defeated party sullenly retired to their quarters at the outcast’s cave; and those at the tents were left to rejoice over their deliverance. Their present joy was equal to the anxiety and despair which had brooded over them before. The mothers clasped their children again and again to their bosoms, in the fulness of their hearts; and the little creatures, catching the sympathy of the occasion, returned the caresses with laughter and exultation. The men shook hands in congratulation, and the women mingled tears and smiles and thanksgivings, in the outburst of their rejoicing.
During these displays of feeling, Brusque and Emilie had withdrawn from the bustle, and, walking a part, held discourse together. “Forgive me, Emilie,” said Brusque, “I pray you forgive me for my foolish jealousy respecting the man you were wont to meet by moonlight, at the foot of the rocks. I now know that it was your brother, and I also know that we all owe our deliverance and present safety to you and him. I can easily guess his story. When the ship was blown up, he had departed, and thus saved his life.”
“Yes,” said Emilie; “but do you know that this weighs upon his spirit like a millstone? He says, that he had voluntarily joined the pirates, and for him to be the instrument of blowing up their ship, and sending them into eternity, while he provided for his own safety, was at once treacherous and dastardly.”
“But we must look at the motive,” said Brusque. “He found that his father, his mother, his sister, were in the hands of those desperate men: it was to save them from insult and death that he took the fearful step. It was by this means alone that he could provide escape for those to whom he was bound by the closest of human ties.”
“I have suggested these thoughts to him,” replied Emilie; “and thus far he might be reconciled to himself; but that he saved his own life is what haunts him; he thinks it mean and cowardly. He is so far affected by this consideration, that he has resolved never to indulge in the pleasures of society, but to dwell apart in the cave, where you know I have been accustomed to meet him. Even now he has departed; and I fear that nothing can persuade him to leave his dreary abode, and attach himself to our community.”
“This is sheer madness,” said Brusque. “Let us go to your father, and get his commands for François to come to the tents. He will not refuse to obey his parent; and when we get him here, we can, perhaps, reason, him out of his determination.”
Brusque and Emilie went to the tent of M. Bonfils, and, opening the folds of the canvass, were about to enter, when, seeing the aged man and his wife an their knees, they paused and listened. They were side by side. The wife was bent over a chest, upon which her face rested, clasped in her hands; the husband,—with his hands uplifted, his white and dishevelled hair lying upon his shoulders, his countenance turned to heaven,—was pouring out a fervent thanksgiving for the deliverance of themselves and their friends from the awful peril that had threatened them. It was a thanksgiving, not for themselves alone, but for their children, their friends and companions. The voice of the old man trembled, yet its tones were clear, peaceful, confiding. He spoke as if in the very ear of his God, who yet was his benefactor and his friend. As he alluded to François, his voice faltered, the tears gushed down his cheeks, and the sobs of the mother were audible.
The suppliant paused for a moment for his voice seemed choked; but soon recovering, he went on. Although François was a man, the aged father seemed to think of him as yet a boy—his wayward, erring boy—his only son. He pleaded for him as a parent only could plead for a child. Emilie and Brusque were melted into tears; and sighs, which they could not suppress, broke from their bosoms. At length the prayer was finished, and the young couple, presenting themselves to M. Bonfils, told him their errand. “Go, my children,” said he, “go and tell François to come to me. Tell him that I have much to say to him.” The mother joined her wishes to this request, and the lovers departed for the cave where François had before made his abode.
As they approached the place, they saw the object of their search, sitting upon a projecting rock that hung over the sea. He did not perceive them at first, and they paused a moment to look at him. He was gazing over the water, which was lighted by the full moon, and he seemed to catch something of the holy tranquillity which marked the scene. Not a wave, not a ripple, was visible upon the placid face of the deep. There was a slight undulation, and the tide seemed to play with the image of the moon, yet so smooth and mirror-like was its surface as to leave that image unbroken.