I held Atala by the hand, and we followed the missionary. He frequently turned round to look at us, and seemed to pity our youth and our misfortunes. A book was hanging from his neck, and he leant upon a white staff. His figure was tall, his face pale and thin, and his countenance simple and sincere. His features showed that he had seen bad days, and the deep wrinkles in his forehead were the noble scars of passions overcome by virtue and by the love of God and of man. When he spoke to us standing and motionless, his long beard, his eyes modestly cast downwards, the affectionate tone of his voice, everything about him was calm and sublime. Whoever, like myself, has seen Father Aubry with his breviary and staff, on his lonely way in the desert, preserves a veritable idea of the Christian traveller upon earth. “After half an hour’s dangerous march through the paths of the mountain, we arrived at the missionary’s grotto. We entered it over an accumulation of wet ivy and wild plants, washed down from the rocks by the rain. There was nothing in the place beyond a mat of papaya-leaves, a gourd for drawing up water, a few wooden vessels, a spade, a harmless serpent, and, upon a block of stone that served as a table, a crucifix and the Book of the Christians. “The man of ancient days was not long in lighting a fire with some dried leaves. He then crushed some Indian corn between two stones, and having made a cake with it, placed it beneath the ashes to bake. When the cake had come to a fine golden color, he served it to us hot, with nut-cream, in a maple bowl. The evening having restored calm, the servant of the Great Spirit proposed that we should go and sit at the entrance to the grotto, which commanded an immense view. The remains of the storm had been carried in disorder towards the east; the fires of the conflagration caused in the forests by the lightning were still shining in the distance; at the foot of the mountain an entire pine-wood had been thrown down into the mud, and the river was charged pell-mell with molten clay, trunks of trees, and the bodies of dead animals and of dead fishes, floating upon the still agitated surface of the waters. “It was in the midst of this scene that Atala related our history to the old genius of the mountain. His heart appeared to be touched, and tears fell upon his beard. ‘My child,’ he said to Atala, ‘you must offer your sufferings to God, for whose glory you have already done so many things. He will give you rest. Look at those smoking forests, those receding torrents, those scattered clouds: do you imagine that He who can calm such a tempest cannot appease the troubles of the heart of man? If you have no better retreat, my dear daughter, I offer you a place amongst the flock I have had the happiness of calling to Jesus Christ. I will instruct Chactas, and I will give him to you as a husband when he shall have proved himself worthy to be your spouse.’