which was only interrupted by the cry of the
stags, who came to repose in that unfrequented spot. Paul, in the hope that
some hunter would hear his voice, called out as loud as he was able, 'Come,
come to the help of Virginia.' But the echoes of the forests alone answered
his call, and repeated again and again, 'Virginia--Virginia.' Paul at
length descended from the tree, overcome with fatigue and vexation, and
reflected how they might best contrive to pass the night in that desert.
But he could find neither a fountain, a palm-tree, nor even a branch of dry
wood to kindle a fire. He then felt, by experience, the sense of his own
weakness, and began to weep. Virginia said to him, 'Do not weep, my dear
brother, or I shall die with grief. I am the cause of all your sorrow, and
of all that our mothers suffer at this moment. I find we ought to do
nothing, not even good, without consulting our parents. Oh, I have been
very imprudent!' and she began to shed tears. She then said to Paul, 'Let
us pray to God, my dear brother, and he will hear us.'

"Scarcely had they finished their prayer, when they heard the barking of a
dog. 'It is the dog of some hunter,' said Paul, 'who comes here at night to
lay in wait for the stags.'

"Soon after the dog barked again with more violence. 'Surely,' said
Virginia, 'it is Fidele, our own dog; yes, I know his voice. Are we then so
near home? at the foot of our own mountain? a moment after Fidele was at
their feet, barking, howling, crying, and devouring them with his caresses.
Before they had recovered their surprise, they saw Domingo running towards
them. At the sight of this good old negro, who wept with joy, they began to
weep too, without being able to utter one word. When Domingo had recovered
himself a little, 'Oh, my dear children,' cried he, 'how miserable have you
made your mothers! How much were they astonished when they returned from
mass, where I went with them, and not finding you! Mary, who was at work at
a little distance, could not tell us where you were gone. I ran backwards
and forwards about the plantation, not knowing where to look for you. At
last I took some of your old clothes, and showing them to Fidele, the poor
animal, as if he understood me, immediately began to scent your path; and
conducted me, continually wagging his tail, to the Black River. It was
there a planter told me that you had brought back a negro woman, his slave,
and that he had granted you her pardon.