“The man of ancient days was not long in lighting a fire with some dried leaves. He then crushed some Indian corn between two stones, and having made a cake with it, placed it beneath the ashes to bake. When the cake had come to a fine golden color, he served it to us hot, with nut-cream, in a maple bowl. The evening having restored calm, the servant of the Great Spirit proposed that we should go and sit at the entrance to the grotto, which commanded an immense view. The remains of the storm had been carried in disorder towards the east; the fires of the conflagration caused in the forests by the lightning were still shining in the distance; at the foot of the mountain an entire pine-wood had been thrown down into the mud, and the river was charged pell-mell with molten clay, trunks of trees, and the bodies of dead animals and of dead fishes, floating upon the still agitated surface of the waters.
“It was in the midst of this scene that Atala related our history to the old genius of the mountain. His heart appeared to be touched, and tears fell upon his beard. ‘My child,’ he said to Atala, ‘you must offer your sufferings to God, for whose glory you have already done so many things. He will give you rest. Look at those smoking forests, those receding torrents, those scattered clouds: do you imagine that He who can calm such a tempest cannot appease the troubles of the heart of man? If you have no better retreat, my dear daughter, I offer you a place amongst the flock I have had the happiness of calling to Jesus Christ. I will instruct Chactas, and I will give him to you as a husband when he shall have proved himself worthy to be your spouse.’
“At these words I fell at the hermit’s knees, shedding tears of joy; but Atala became as pale as death. The old man raised me with benignity, and I then perceived that both his hands were mutilated. Atala at once comprehended his misfortunes. ‘The barbarians!’ she exclaimed.
“‘My daughter,’ replied the hermit, with a pleasant smile, ‘what is that in comparison with the sufferings of my Divine Master? If the Indian idolators have tortured me, they are poor, blind creatures, whom God will enlighten some day. I love them all the more for the injury they have done me. I could not remain in my country, to which I had gone back, and where an illustrious queen did me the honor to look upon these poor marks of my apostolate. And what more glorious reward could I receive for my labors than that of obtaining, from the head of our religion, the permission to celebrate the Divine sacrifice with these mutilated hands? It only remained for me, after such an honor, to try and render myself worthy of it; so I returned to the; new world to pass the rest of my lift: in the service of my God. I have dwelt in these solitudes nearly thirty years, and it will be twenty-two to-morrow since I took possession of this rock. When I came to the place, I encountered but a few wandering families, whose manners were ferocious and whose life was miserable. I have induced them to listen to the word of Peace, and their manners have become gradually softened. They now live together at the foot of this mountain. Whilst teaching them the way of salvation, I endeavored to instruct them in the primary arts of life, but without carrying them too far, and constantly keeping the honest people within the bounds of that simplicity which constitutes happiness. Fearing to trouble them by my presence, I retired to this grotto, where they come to consult me. It is here that far from man, I admire God in the grandeur of the solitude, and prepare myself for the death which the length of my years announces to me as approaching.’
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“On finishing this discourse, the hermit fell upon his knees, and we imitated his example. He began in a loud voice a prayer to which Atala responded. Some dull flashes of lightning still opened the sky in the east, and upon the western clouds three suns seemed to be shining at the same time.
“We re-entered the grotto, where the hermit stretched out a bed of cypress-moss for Atala. Profound language was depicted in the eyes and movements of the maiden. She looked at Father Aubry as though she wished to reveal a secret to him; but something appeared to deter her from so doing—either my presence, or a sort of shame, or perhaps the uselessness of the avowal. I heard her get up in the middle of the night. She went to look for the hermit; but, as he had given up his couch to Atala, he had gone to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, and to pray to God on the top of the mountain. He told me the next day that such was his custom, even during winter, as he loved to see the forests wave their stripped summits, the clouds fly through the air, and to hear the winds and the torrents roar in the solitude. My sister was therefore obliged to return to her couch, where she immediately fell asleep. Alas! full of hope, I thought Atala’s weakness was nothing more than a passing sign of weariness.