Frances felt her
spirits invigorated by these faint vestiges of the labor of man, and she
walked up the gentle acclivity with renewed hopes of success. The path
now diverged in so many different directions, that she soon saw it would
be useless to follow their windings, and abandoning it, at the first
turn, she labored forward towards what she thought was the nearest point
of the summit. The cleared ground was soon past, and woods and rocks,
clinging to the precipitous sides of the mountain, again opposed
themselves to her progress. Occasionally, the path was to be seen
running along the verge of the clearing, and then striking off into the
scattering patches of grass and herbage, but in no instance could she
trace it upward. Tufts of wool, hanging to the briers, sufficiently
denoted the origin of these tracks, and Frances rightly conjectured that
whoever descended the mountain, would avail himself of their existence,
to lighten the labor. Seating herself on a stone, the wearied girl again
paused to rest and to reflect; the clouds were rising before the moon,
and the whole scene at her feet lay pictured in softest colors.
The white tents of the militia were stretched in regular lines
immediately beneath her. The light was shining in the window of her
aunt, who, Frances easily fancied, was watching the mountain, racked
with all the anxiety she might be supposed to feel for her niece.
Pages:
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555