of a lofty tree, whence he hoped at least to perceive the mountain of
the Three Breasts: but he could discern nothing around him but the tops
of trees, some of which were gilded with the last beams of the setting
sun. Already the shadows of the mountains were spreading over the
forests in the valleys. The wind lulled, as is usually the case at
sunset. The most profound silence reigned in those awful solitudes,
which was only interrupted by the cry of the deer, who came to their
lairs in that unfrequented spot. Paul, in the hope that some hunter
would hear his voice, called out as loud as he was able,--"Come, come to
the help of Virginia." But the echoes of the forest alone answered his
call, and repeated again and again, "Virginia--Virginia."

Paul at length descended from the tree, overcome with fatigue and
vexation. He looked around in order to make some arrangement for passing
the night in that desert; but he could find neither fountain, nor
palm-tree, nor even a branch of dry wood fit for kindling a fire. He was
then impressed, by experience, with the sense of his own weakness, and
began to weep. Virginia said to him,--"Do not weep, my dear brother, or
I shall be overwhelmed with grief. I am the cause of all your sorrow,
and of all that our mothers are suffering at this moment. I find we
ought to do nothing, not even good, without consulting our parents. Oh,
I have been very imprudent!"--and she began to shed tears. "Let us pray
to God, my dear brother," she again said, "and he will hear us." They
had scarcely finished their prayer, when they heard the barking of a
dog. "It must be the dog of some hunter," said Paul, "who comes here at
night, to lie in wait for the deer." Soon after, the dog began barking
again with increased violence. "Surely," said Virginia, "it is Fidele,
our own dog: yes,--now I know his bark. Are we then so near home?--at
the foot of our own mountain?" A moment after, Fidele was at their feet,
barking, howling, moaning, and devouring them with his caresses. Before