“He is on the mountain there!  He left me, and did not come back.  He said he should not be gone twenty minutes.”

“Now I know all,” replied I.  “I will take some people from the inn with lights, and we will find him.  You must stay and compose yourself, and be patient; he has only missed his way.”

She insisted upon going too; and declared that this was necessary, in order to point out the track which her brother had taken.  I explained to her how I had watched their progress, and was therefore able to direct their search.  But she was resolute in her determination to go; and finding her to be so, I gave up my intention of accompanying the party, believing that I should only retard their progress.

I arranged with the landlady, that in case of any fatal accident having happened, the young lady should be brought to my house, where she would be in greater quiet and retirement than amid the bustle of an inn.

Hour after hour did we wait, listening to every sound, trembling at every breath; and so shaken and weakened by intolerable suspense, that we were ill-fitted to think and to act as occasion might require.  It was a dark, cloudy, and windy night.  We often looked out, but could see nothing, scarcely even the outline of the mountain.  We listened, and our hearts beat thick, when there was no sound but the rising gust!  I dwell on these circumstances too long, because I recoil from relating the catastrophe, as if it were but recent—­as if my thoughts had not been familiarized with it for years.

It was as we feared; he was found lying at the bottom of a rock, no more than ten feet high—­but lifeless.  His neck had been dislocated by the fall.  There were no external bruises—­no signs of any struggle—­nothing painful in his appearance.  I cannot relate every circumstance of that dreadful night.  I thought she was gone too; she was brought in, insensible, and remained so for hours.  She was taken immediately to my house, and put to bed.  The body of her brother was also carried there, for I knew she would not be separated from it.  I sat beside her, watching her faint breathing, anxious for some sign of returning consciousness, but dreading the agony which must attend it.  If she had died, I could hardly have grieved for her; but there might be parents, brothers, and sisters!  Oh, that I knew, that I could bring them to her!  Alone, among strangers! how was she to bear her solitary grief?—­how was she to sustain the struggle which awaited her in the first hour of her awakening?  I could not banish the remembrance of them as I had seen them in the afternoon; happy in each other, and thinking not of separation; then, as he was when I last saw him, full of life and acuity, and apparently unboundedly happy, in the contemplation of scenes which a soul like his was fitted to enjoy.

Day dawned, and no change was perceivable; but in two hours afterwards she opened her eyes.  I crossed the room, to see whether she observed my motion.  She did; and I therefore opened the curtain, and spoke to her.  She gazed, but did not reply.  Presently she seized my arm, muttering some words, of which “my mother!” was all I could understand.  I took the opportunity of saying, that I was going to write to her family, and asked how I should address them.