he wished to continue his journey, carrying his sister, and believed he was able to climb in that way the mountain of the Three Peaks, which was still at the distance of half a league; but his strength soon failed, and he was obliged to set down his burden, and to rest himself by her side. Virginia then said to him, 'My dear brother the sun is going down: you have still some strength left, but mine has quite failed: do leave me here, and return home alone to ease the fears of our mothers.'—'Oh, no,' said Paul, 'I will not leave you. If night surprises us in this wood, I will light a fire, and bring down another palm-tree: you shall eat the cabbage; and I will form a covering of the leaves to shelter you.' In the mean time, Virginia being a little rested, pulled from the trunk of an old tree, which hung over the bank of the river, some long leaves of hart's tongue, which grew near its root. With those leaves she made a sort of buskin, with which she covered her feet, that were bleeding from the sharpness of the stony paths; for, in her eager desire to do good, she had forgot to put on her shoes. Feeling her feet cooled by the freshness of the leaves, she broke off a branch of bamboo, and continued her walk leaning with one hand on the staff, and with the other on Paul.

"They walked on slowly through the woods, but from the height of the trees, and the thickness of their foliage, they soon lost sight of the mountain of the Tree Peaks, by which they had directed their course, and even of the sun, which was now setting. At length they wandered without perceiving it, from the beaten path in which they had hitherto walked, and found themselves in a labyrinth of trees and rocks, which appeared to have no opening. Paul made Virginia sit down, while he ran backwards and forwards, half frantic, in search of a path which might lead them out of this thick wood; but all his researches were in vain. He climbed to the top of a tree, from whence he hoped at least to discern the mountain of the Three Peaks; but all he could perceive around him were the tops of trees, some of which were gilded by the last beams of the setting sun. Already the shadows of the mountains were spread over the forests in the valleys. The wind ceased, as it usually does, at the evening hour. The most profound silence reigned in those awful solitudes, which was only interrupted by the cry of the stags, who came to repose 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 forests alone answered his call, and repeated again and again, 'Virginia—Virginia.' Paul at length descended from the tree, overcome with fatigue and vexation, and reflected how they might best contrive to pass the night in that desert. But he could find neither a fountain, a palm-tree, nor even a branch of dry wood to kindle a fire. He then felt, by experience, the sense of his own weakness, and began to weep. Virginia said to him, 'Do not weep, my dear brother, or I shall die with grief. I am the cause of all your sorrow, and of all that our mothers suffer 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. She then said to Paul, 'Let us pray to God, my dear brother, and he will hear us.'

"Scarcely had they finished their prayer, when they heard the barking of a dog. 'It is the dog of some hunter,' said Paul, 'who comes here at night to lay in wait for the stags.'

"Soon after the dog barked again with more violence. 'Surely,' said Virginia, 'it is Fidele, our own dog; yes, I know his voice. Are we then so near home? at the foot of our own mountain? a moment after Fidele was at their feet, barking, howling, crying, and devouring them with his caresses. Before they had recovered their surprise, they saw Domingo running towards them. At the sight of this good old negro, who wept with joy, they began to weep too, without being able to utter one word. When Domingo had recovered himself a little, 'Oh, my dear children,' cried he, 'how miserable have you made your mothers! How much were they astonished when they returned from mass, where I went with them, and not finding you! Mary, who was at work at a little distance, could not tell us where you were gone. I ran backwards and forwards about the plantation, not knowing where to look for you. At last I took some of your old clothes, and showing them to Fidele, the poor animal, as if he understood me, immediately began to scent your path; and conducted me, continually wagging his tail, to the Black River. It was there a planter told me that you had brought back a negro woman, his slave, and that he had granted you her pardon. But what pardon! he showed her to me with her feet chained to a block of wood, and an iron collar with three hooks fastened round her neck.

"'From thence Fidele, still on the scent, led me up the precipice of the Black River, where he again stopped and barked with all his might. This was on the brink of a spring, near a fallen palm tree, and close to a fire which was still smoking. At last he led me to this very spot. We are at the foot of the mountains of the Three Peaks, and still four leagues from home. Come, eat, and gather strength.' He then presented them with cakes, fruits, and a very large gourd filled with a liquor composed of wine, water, lemon juice sugar, and nutmeg, which their mothers had prepared. Virginia sighed at the recollection of the poor slave, and at the uneasiness which they had given their mothers. She repeated several times, 'Oh, how difficult it is to do good.'

"While she and Paul were taking refreshment, Domingo kindled a fire, and having sought among the rocks for a particular kind of crooked wood, which burns when quite green, throwing out a great blaze, he made a torch, which he lighted, it being already night. But when they prepared to continue their journey, a new difficulty occurred; Paul and Virginia could no longer walk, their feet being violently swelled and inflamed. Domingo knew not whether it were best to leave them, and go in search of help, or remain and pass the night with them on that spot. 'What is become of the time,' said he, 'when I used to carry you both together in my arms? But now you are grown big, and I am grown old.' While he was in this perplexity, a troop of Maroon negroes appeared at the distance of twenty paces. The chief of the band, approaching Paul and Virginia, said to them, 'Good little white people, do not be afraid. We saw you pass this morning, with a negro woman of the Black River. You went to ask pardon for her of her wicked master, and we, in return for this, will carry you home upon our shoulders.' He then made a sign, and four of the strongest negroes immediately formed a sort of litter with the branches of trees and lianas, in which, having seated Paul and Virginia, they placed it upon their shoulders. Domingo marched in front, carrying his lighted torch, and they proceeded amidst the rejoicings of the whole troop, and overwhelmed with their benedictions. Virginia, affected by this scene, said to Paul, with emotion, 'O, my dear brother! God never leaves a good action without reward.'

"It was midnight when they arrived at the foot of the mountain, on the ridges of which several fires were lighted. Scarcely had they begun to ascend, when they heard voices crying out, 'Is it you, my children?' They answered together with the negroes, 'Yes, it is us;' and soon after perceived their mothers and Mary coming towards them with lighted sticks in their hands. 'Unhappy children!' cried Madame de la Tour, 'from whence do you come? What agonies you have made us suffer!' 'We come, said Virginia, 'from the Black River, where we went to ask pardon for a poor Maroon slave, to whom I gave our breakfast this morning, because she was dying of hunger; and these Maroon negroes have brought us home.'—Madame de la Tour embraced her daughter without being able to speak; and Virginia, who felt her face wet with her mother's