“Ah, René! I do not repine against Providence, yet I confess I never think of that evangelical society without experiencing bitter regret. How a hut, with Atala, in that neighborhood, would have rendered my life happy! There all my wanderings would have ceased; there, with a spouse, ignored by men and concealing my happiness in the depths of the forest, my days would have flown by like those rivers which have not even a name in the desert. Instead of the peace I was then bold enough to promise myself, amidst what troubles have my years been cast! The constant plaything of fortune, wrecked upon every shore, long an exile from my country, and on my return thither finding only a ruined cabin and friends in the tomb--such was to be the destiny of Chactas. [Illustration: 064] [Illustration: 065] [Illustration: 067] III. THE DRAMA. “If my dream of happiness was bright, it was also of short duration, and I was to be awakened from it at the hermit’s grotto. On arriving there in the middle of the clay, I was surprised at not seeing Atala come forth to meet us. I cannot tell what sudden apprehension took possession of me. As we approached the grotto, I dared not call the daughter of Lopez; my imagination was equally frightened by the idea of the noise or of the silence that might follow my cries. Still more terrified by the dark appearance of the entrance to the rock, I said to the missionary, ‘O you, whom heaven accompanies and strengthens, penetrate into those shades!’ “How weak is the man who is governed by his passions! How strong is he who relies upon God! There was more courage in that religious heart, withered by seventy-six years, than in all the ardor of my youth. The man of peace entered the grotto, whilst I remained outside, full of terror. Soon a feeble murmur of complaint issued from the interior of the rock, and fell upon my ear. Uttering a cry as I recovered my strength, I rushed into the darkness of the cavern. Spirits of my fathers, you alone know the spectacle that met my view! “The hermit had lighted a pine-torch, which he was holding with a trembling hand over Atala’s couch. With her hair in disorder, the young and beautiful woman, slightly raised upon her elbow, looked pale and suffering. Drops of painful sweat shone upon her forehead; her half-extinguished eyes still sought to express her love to me, and her mouth endeavored to smile. As though struck by lightning, with my eyes fixed, my arms outstretched, and my lips apart, I remained motionless. A profound silence reigned for a moment between the three personages of this scene of grief. The hermit was the first to break it. ‘This,’ he said, ‘can only be a fever occasioned by fatigue, and if we resign ourselves to God’s will, He will take pity on us.’