CHAPTER XVI.

"Saint Mary! what a scene is here!
I've traversed many a mountain strand,
Abroad, and in my native land;
And it has been my lot to tread

Where safety more than pleasure led.

Thus many a waste I've wandered o'er,

Clombe many a crag, crossed many a moor;

But by my halidome,

A scene so rude, so wild as this,

Yet so sublime in barrenness,

Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press,

Where'er I happ'd to roam !"

SCOTT.

SCENES of grandeur and sublimity usually become more impressive in proportion as they are removed from the haunts of men. There is a sort of awe which pervades the mind as the

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solitudes deepen around it. Every thing seems to be on a vaster and mightier scale; the echoes of the footsteps, or the occasional sound of a voice, only serve to mark more strongly the universal stillness which surrounds us, and we are ready to fancy ourselves presumptuously obtruding on nature in recesses not intended for human gaze. Something of this was felt by our travellers as they stood in the cave at the foot of the celebrated falls of Mootyjernah, which being in the neighbourhoood of the spot on which they had been stranded, they had seized the first opportunity of Clara's recruited strength to visit. The magnificent arch formed above their heads by the spring of the waters down a precipice of upwards of a hundred feet into a natural basin below-the vast sheet of foam which they formed in their descent, and which fully vindicated their claim to the fanciful appellation of "the shower of pearls," the huge masses of rock which here and there broke the snowy whiteness, and meeting the full force of the descending torrent, threw up the spray to a considerable

height, while the sunbeams catching them in their descent, formed them into a myriad of miniature rainbows-and the powerful and impressive contrast produced between the roar of the vast body of waters, and the deep and death-like stillness and solitude of the woods and wildernesses which surrounded them,— each in turn seemed to become the leading feature of the scene, to impress the soul with mingled sentiments of awe and admiration, and to speak in those words of power and energy which write themselves upon the heart in characters of adamant, of the great and mighty One, among whose works such wonders are the least. Absorbed in these contemplations, where the soul seems to rise above this earth, and the things of it, and strive to grapple with the forms and ideas which lie behind the veil of eternity, Edgar felt irritated at being aroused from such a reverie by one of his servants; but the gestures with which the man sought to induce him to follow were so earnest and vehement, that he at last ascended from the cave, when he discovered, at a short distance, a party of men

engaged in a seemingly desperate struggle. He saw at a glance the great disparity between the numbers of the combatants, and fancying that he distinguished a gentleman in a European dress, among the weaker party, he at once concluded that some traveller had been attacked by the Puharries, a predatory race who infest these districts, and summoning the full strength of his retinue, bore down with alacrity to the rescue. But the assailing party did not wait their arrival, for they no sooner observed the approach of strangers than they abandoned their intended prey, and made a hasty retreat towards a wood which skirted the scene of action. Too much a soldier to run the hazard of an ambuscade, and perceiving also, that the gentleman who had first attracted his attention, was extended on the ground, evidently severely wounded, Edgar halted his little party, and hurried forward to ascertain if he could benefit the sufferer. The latter raised his head feebly, to thank his approaching deliverer, but had scarcely caught a glimpse of his face, when he hastily averted his own, though not before

Edgar had recognized with surprise the wellknown features of Martindale. These features were so deeply associated in his mind with the treachery that had planned and so nearly achieved the ruin of his happiness, that he involuntarily drew back a step; but the next moment recollected the state in which he found his enemy, and disgust gave place to pity.

"Leave me-leave me!" groaned Martindale, as he saw his figure bending over him; "must I be indebted to you for succour? Away-and let the wretches return and finish their work."

"I will not leave you while I can be serviceable," said Edgar, mildly; "are your wounds dangerous?" And he attempted to staunch the blood which was gushing copiously from his side.

"Leave me!" was Martindale's only answer, and he strove to drag himself from his touch; but his strength was unequal to the effort, and he dropped motionless upon the sward.

Edgar raised him slowly and with care, and supported his drooping head upon his arm,