“‘O my mother, why spake you thus? O Religion, the cause of my ills and of my felicity, my ruin and my consolation at the same time! And you, dear and sad object of a passion that is consuming me even in the arms of death, you can now see, O Chactas, what has caused the hardship of our destiny! Melting into tears, and throwing myself upon my mother’s bosom, I promised all that I was asked to promise. The missionary pronounced over me the fearful language of my oath, and gave me the scapulary that bound me forever. My mother threatened me with her malediction if ever I broke my vow; and, after having advised me to keep the secret inviolably from the pagans, the persecutors of my religion, she expired, whilst holding me in a tender embrace. [Illustration: 069] [Illustration: 071] [Illustration: 073] [Illustration: 075] “‘I did not at first know the danger of my oath. Full of ardor and a veritable Christian, proud, too, of the Spanish blood that flowed in my veins, I saw myself surrounded by men unworthy of receiving my hand, and I congratulated myself upon having no other spouse than the God of my mother. I saw you, young and beautiful prisoner; I pitied your lot; I had the courage to speak to you at the funeral pile in the forest. Then it was that I felt the weight of my vows!’ “When Atala had finished littering these words, I cried out, with clenched fists, and looking at the missionary with a threatening air, ‘This, then, is the religion you have so much vaunted to me! Perish the oath that deprives me of Atala! Man-priest, why did you come into these forests?’ ‘“To save you,’ said the old man, in a terrible voice; ‘to conquer your passions, and to prevent you, blasphemer, from drawing down upon yourself the wrath of Heaven! It is becoming, indeed, for so young a man, scarcely entered upon life, to complain of his griefs! Where are the marks of your sufferings? Where are the acts of injustice you have had to support? Where are your virtues, which alone could give you a certain right to murmur? What services have you rendered? What good have you done? What, miserable creature! you can only show me passions, and you dare to accuse Heaven! When, like Father Aubry, you shall have passed thirty years in exile upon the mountains, you will be less prompt to judge of the designs of Providence. You will then understand that you know nothing and are nothing, and that there is no chastisement so severe, no misfortune so terrible, that our corrupt flesh does not deserve to suffer.’