st.aubert was silent; emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand he held; she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time, been occupied by the remembrance of her mother.he seemed by an effort to rouse himself.'yes,' said he, with an half-suppressed sigh, 'the memory of those we love--of times for ever past! in such an hour as this steals upon the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillness of night;--all tender and harmonious as this landscape, sleeping in the mellow moon-light.' after the pause of a moment, st.aubert added, 'i have always fancied, that i thought with more clearness, and precision, at such an hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensible in a great degree, that does not soften to its influence.but many such there are.'
valancourt sighed.
'are there, indeed, many such?' said emily.
'a few years hence, my emily,' replied st.aubert, 'and you may smile at the recollection of that question--if you do not weep to it.but come, i am somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.'
having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, the convent of which they were in search.a high wall, that surrounded it, led them to an ancient gate, at which they knocked;1
they had not descended half way down the cliffs, before they heard the voice of the muleteer echoing far and wide.sometimes he called on st.aubert, and sometimes on valancourt; who having, at length, convinced him that he had nothing to fear either for himself, or his master; and having disposed of him, for the night, in a cottage on the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with his friends, on such sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set before them.while st.aubert was too much indisposed to share it, emily, in her anxiety for her father, forgot herself; and valancourt, silent and thoughtful, yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularly solicitous to accommodate and relieve st.aubert, who often observed, while his daughter was pressing him to eat, or adjusting the pillow she had placed in the back of his arm-chair, that valancourt fixed on her a look of pensive tenderness, which he was not displeased to understand.