The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction | Page 6

did I know that any peril existed, excepting in my own
imagination? He might have ascended before, and be perfectly
acquainted with the descent; he might be gone in search of some
particular view, and have prepared his sister for the length of his
absence, as she was too much fatigued to accompany him. In this case,
any interference of mine would be impertinent. What should I do? I
leaned out of my window, as if in the hope of seeing some object,
which should help me to a decision. Such an object was just before me,

in the person of an old fisherman, a next-door neighbour, and very
honest friend of mine. "Come hither, John," said I; and I stated the case
to him. He thought we need not fear any danger. The mountain was not
very high; he knew of no dangerous places on it; and was of opinion
that there would be light enough to guide their steps half an hour longer.
He advised me to leave them alone, for that time at least. I determined
to do so, and sat down to my tea-table, on which I had not yet bestowed
a thought. I drew it close to the window, and looked as earnestly as
ever; but it was now too dark to see anything but the indistinct outlines
of the mountains, and the loch gleaming in the twilight. The half-hour
passed, and I had not seen them return; they might have returned
without my having seen them; but I could not bear uncertainty any
longer. I sent my servant to the inn, to inquire if they had arrived, and
whether they had ordered tea, or given any expectation as to the time of
their retain.
She brought word, that though tea had been ready for an hour past, the
lady and gentleman had not returned; and that the landlady would be
glad to know whether I could give her any intelligence of them.
"Let me pass!" said I, hastily opening the gate.
"Your bonnet, ma'am! shall I fetch your bonnet?" said my maid.
At that moment some one rushed past me. It was the young
lady--running, or attempting to run, but with faltering and unequal steps.
I followed her. At the first of the flight of steps before the inn, she
stumbled and fell. She was trembling and sobbing violently; whether
from breathlessness or agony, I could not tell. I raised her, and assisted
her to mount the steps. "My brother! my brother!" she exclaimed
incessantly. I could get no words but these from her. No time was to be
lost. I sat down beside her, and took both her hands; and speaking as
calmly as I could, said, "Compose yourself, and tell us what we must
do. Have you missed your brother, or has any accident befallen him
before your eyes?"
"He is on the mountain there! He left me, and did not come back. He
said he should not be gone twenty minutes."
"Now I know all," replied I. "I will take some people from the inn with
lights, and we will find him. You must stay and compose yourself, and
be patient; he has only missed his way."
She insisted upon going too; and declared that this was necessary, in

order to point out the track which her brother had taken. I explained to
her how I had watched their progress, and was therefore able to direct
their search. But she was resolute in her determination to go; and
finding her to be so, I gave up my intention of accompanying the party,
believing that I should only retard their progress.
I arranged with the landlady, that in case of any fatal accident having
happened, the young lady should be brought to my house, where she
would be in greater quiet and retirement than amid the bustle of an inn.
Hour after hour did we wait, listening to every sound, trembling at
every breath; and so shaken and weakened by intolerable suspense, that
we were ill-fitted to think and to act as occasion might require. It was a
dark, cloudy, and windy night. We often looked out, but could see
nothing, scarcely even the outline of the mountain. We listened, and
our hearts beat thick, when there was no sound but the rising gust! I
dwell on these circumstances too long, because I recoil from relating
the catastrophe, as if it were but recent--as if my thoughts had not been
familiarized with it for years.
It was as we feared; he was found lying at the bottom of a rock, no
more than ten feet high--but lifeless. His neck had been dislocated by
the fall. There were no external bruises--no signs of any
struggle--nothing painful in his appearance. I cannot relate every
circumstance of