# Vagabond life in Mexico/Fray Epigmenio

CHAPTER IV.
Fray Epigmenio.
Already the Indian village lay a league behind us. The route we were pursuing was through a ravine, the road through which could with difficulty be believed to have been made by the hand of man. We soon entered a pine forest which ran along a chain of precipitous hills. The darkness, which was rendered ​thicker by the interlaced branches of the trees overhead, was so profound that our horses could literally advance only by the gleam of the vivid flashes of lightning. Soon the storm increased; the trunks of the pines cracked and swayed to and fro in the wind, and the hollows in the mountains resounded with the multiplied echoes of terrific thunder-claps. The flashes now became less and less frequent, and at last, the intermittent gleams, which had hitherto lightened our advance, failed us entirely. A deafening thunder-clap was followed by a torrent of rain. It had now become impossible for us either to advance or to regain the road. Forced to remain immovable like equestrian statues, we were obliged to shout to one another to find out our respective positions. I then discovered that I was very near Fray Serapio. The voices of our three companions reached us like a distant echo borne along amid the whistling of the squall. We at last found ourselves separated from one another, without any probable hope of joining each other during the whole night, each of us being forced to stay where the darkness had overtaken him, exposed to all the dangers of the forest.
"Since we are condemned to remain here, as motionless as the statue of Charles IV. in Mexico," said I to the Franciscan, "don't you think this is a very good opportunity for telling me the history of your friend, Fray Epigmenio?"
"Fray Epigmenio!" cried the monk. "This is not a story suited either to the time or place. When I hear the trees groaning like spirits in Purgatory, and the torrents raging like wild beasts, I have not the courage to go over a history that is frightful enough in itself."
​A long pause followed. Where are we?" I at last asked.
"We ought to be only a mile and a half from the Desierto. We have kept on the right road; but I have strong fears that we have got entangled in a ravine, from which escape is almost impossible amid this darkness. In a few hours, should the rain continue, this ravine will be no longer a road, but a torrent, that will carry us along on its rushing waters like dead leaves. God succor our poor souls!" He crossed himself devoutly.
I had seen too often in America torrents suddenly swollen by thunder-showers to such a degree as to up root trees a hundred years old, and carry down rocks, to doubt for a moment the imminent danger of which I had been apprised by Fray Serapio. To this disheartening reply I had but one answer to make—we must have a fire, at any price. Unluckily, the monk had left his flint and steel with the student. I was not discouraged, however; and, unwilling to throw away any chance of extricating ourselves from our disagreeable position, I alighted from my horse, took in one of my hands the reata attached to the neck of the animal, and with the other tried to guide myself while holding on to the rocks. I was not long in finding my progress stopped by a precipitous bluff. I tried the other side; always a perpendicular wall of rock. Forced at last to stop after having unrolled the reata to its utmost length, I came back step by step to my horse, and, gathering it up again in my hand, remounted.
"This ravine is in truth a prison," said I.
"It is not the torrent alone that I fear," replied the monk. "Even if we escape drowning, we may be ​burned to death if the trees are set on fire by the lightning."
"Could we not leave our horses here, and try to gain on foot a place less exposed to danger?"
"We run a risk of tumbling into some quagmire. By the way the wind hits my face, I know that this ravine is of great extent. Let us remain where we are, and trust to Divine Providence."
I had exhausted all my expedients, and could find nothing to reply to those last words of Fray Serapio's, which were uttered in a truly mournful tone. Some moments passed. The storm was still at its height, and I could not shut my ears to its wild music. In the depths of the forests, a wail as of a thousand spirits came booming on the wind; torrents raged and dashed from rock to rock, the pines creaked like the masts of a vessel caught in a hard gale, and above our heads the wind whistled strangely among the leaves. During the temporary lulls of the tempest, we heard our companions, who, whether from ignorance or a wish to drown their sense of danger, were shouting and singing with all their might.
"Don't you think," said I to the monk, "that this gayety is somewhat out of place? I have a good mind to make them sensible of the danger they are running, to cause them to change their song for the 'De Profundis.'"
​I'll do it now. I would rather hear the sound of my own voice than the whistling of the wind among the firs. And now, when I think of it, it was in the convent of the Desierto, in the vicinity of this forest, and exactly at this time of the year, that the most interesting occurrence in the life of Fray Epigmenio took place."
"This circumstance," said I, "must add particular interest to your recital; but, at such a moment as this, I hardly feel disposed to listen to you. However, if you like to tell the story, I—"
"Fray Epigmenio," began the Franciscan, interrupting me, "was, even in his youth, but a melancholy companion. That is to say, he was not at all like me. Far from having wished, as I did, to be a soldier before donning the monk's habit, he was, when a mere boy, admitted as a novice into the Carmelite convent of the Desierto. At the time I refer to, that is, fifty years ago, the Desierto was not abandoned as it is now. It was then a retreat inhabited by several monks, who wished, by thus withdrawing themselves from the cities, to push austerity to its utmost limits. You may guess what influence a wild solitude like that would exercise upon a weak brain. For my part, I don't think I should be long in my right mind were I to live in such a place. The superiors of the young novice were soon alarmed at the ferocious exultation that soon took the place of his former solid piety. They represented to Epigmenio that the devil, jealous of his merits, was setting a trap for him, into which he would fall. It was a wise advice; but Epigmenio paid no heed to it. Worse than all, he isolated himself almost entirely from his brethren, and shut himself up more closely than ever in his cell—a sort of dark dungeon, whose ​windows opened upon the wood which surrounded the convent. This was the gloomiest cell in this gloomy cloister. Fray Epigmenio had chosen it in preference to those whose windows looked out upon the garden. The sight of the flowers seemed to this rigid cenobite too much of a worldly pleasure. The heavy masses of the dark woods, constantly agitated by the wind, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of rocks in fantastic forms, was the kind of landscape which had the greatest charm for Epigmenio. I told you before that the soundest head in the world could not long resist the combined influences of solitude and prayer. The monk confessed, when too late, that strange visions passed before his eyes in those long days of contemplation and silence. Mysterious voices assailed his ears, and it was not always the concerts of angels that he heard: the murmurs of the forest were often changed into voluptuous sighs and—"
At this moment the Franciscan suddenly paused, and, turning to me, said, "Are you listening?"
"I confess," I rejoined, "that I am paying more attention to the noise of the water which is now rising about our feet."
"Fray Epigmenio," said Serapio, without attending to my remark, "fancied himself a saint, since temptations like these assailed him, and that he was struggling against the devil, like the monks in the old legends. One day, about sunset, not content to wait for the tempter in his cell, he resolved to beard him in the forest itself, which was peopled with such phantoms. He had not wandered far among the pines when he heard the sound of stifled sobbing not far from him. He stopped and listened, and then advanced in the direction from which the moaning ​seemed to proceed. For a long time his search was fruitless. At last, after many turnings and windings, he arrived at a glade in the wood, in the centre of which lay, on the turf, a man, who invited him by signs to approach. Fray Epigmenio hesitated a moment. At last, having crossed himself devoutly, he falteringly approached the wounded man. 'In God's name,' cried he, 'of what unfortunate accident are you the victim?' The holy name of God appeared to rouse in the stranger a painful emotion, and his voice was hardly perceptible when he told Epigmenio that, as he was traveling with his daughter, he had been set upon by robbers, stripped of all he had, and left bleeding on the ground. He added that it was not for himself that he was asking assistance, but for the feeble creature by his side; and, at the same time, parting the branches of a bush near which he lay, he showed the monk a young lady lying in a swoon upon the grass. The rays of the moon fell full upon her marble countenance and white dress. You may imagine the confusion Epigmenio was in when he saw this beautiful female, who seemed to realize to him the most beautiful visions of his dreams. After a short silence, he represented to the stranger that the convent of the Desierto was not far off; but, were it nearer, a female could not be received within its walls. The unknown was grieved that he could not continue his journey, as his horse had escaped when the robbers attacked him. Plucking up his spirits, he declared, as his wound now gave him less pain, he would like to rise and seek for his lost steed. They set out together, but soon after agreed to separate, and—"
A blinding flash of lightning interrupted the monk's story. The storm was increasing. The muddy ​water had now risen as far as our stirrups. Our horses, that had stood without motion a long time, now turned and presented their chests to the current, which was surging up higher and higher every minute. Around us, in the depth of the woods, the noise of the torrents was mingled with the wild harmony of the brawling winds, that seemed to blow from every point of the compass.
"The water is rising," cried Fray Serapio, "and our horses will soon be utterly powerless against its force."
Almost at the same moment the poor animals turned quickly round, and, whether guided by instinct, or carried away by the force of the current, they moved toward the bottom of the ravine. A cry of distress, wafted to us by the wind, apprised us that the torrent was also bearing away our companions in misfortune. A second flash lighted up the forest, and was followed by a clap of thunder which shook the air. A sulphurous odor filled the atmosphere, and immediately, to our inexpressible satisfaction, a pine, which had been struck by lightning a few paces from us, blazed up, and soon illuminated the surrounding objects.
"We are saved!" cried Fray Serapio: "I see near us a rock low enough for our horses to mount."
​By the pale light in the sky, which was now comparatively clear, we could discern a narrow bridle-path running along the edge of the ravine. This road doubtless led to the Desierto, the very convent in which Fray Epigmenio had first taken his vows. We hurried along this path, certain this time of not missing our way; and a few minutes after, having escaped the most imminent peril, our little troop stopped, with heartfelt satisfaction, before the ruined walls of the ancient monastery.