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THE GIFT OF
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323
R"m
1723
とある
​





THE
Zirnid The
MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO,
-
A
ROM A NCE;
INTERSPERSED WITH SOME PIECES OF POETRY.
в
Ү.
ANN RADCLIFFE,
AUTHOR OF THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, ETC.
THE THIRD EDITION..
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
Fate ſits on theſe dark battlements, and frowns,
And, as the portals open to receive me,
Her voice, in fullen echoes through the courts,
Tells of a nameleſs deed.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1795.


wiw. Bemand


THE.
MYSTERIES
OF
į
U
D
O
L
P
H
0.
CH A P. I.
* I will adviſe you where to plant yourſelves ;
Acquaint you with the perfect ſpy o' the time,
The moment on't; for't muſt be done to-night.”
MACBETH.
L MILY was foniewhat ſurpriſed, on
the following day, to find that Annette
had heard of Madame Montoni's confine-
ment in the chamber over the portal, as
well as of her purpoſed viſit there, on
the approaching night. That the cir
cumſtance, which Barnardine had fo fo-
lemnly enjoined her to conceal, he had
himſelf told to ſo indiſcreet an hearer as
Annette, appeared very improbable, though
he had now charged her with a meſſage,
VOL. III.
concerning
425508


( 2 ),
сопсет
concerning the intended interview. He
requeſted, that Emily would meet him,
unattended, on the terrace, at a little after
midnight, when he himſelf would lead her
to the place he had promiſed; a propoſal,
from which ſhe immediately ſhrunk, for a
thouſand vague fears darted athwart her
mind, ſuch as had tormented her on the
preceding night, and which ſhe neither
knew how to truſt, or to diſmiſs. It fre-
quently occurred to her, that Barnardine
might have deceived her, concerning Ma-
dame Montoni, whoſe murderer, perhaps,
he really was"; and that he had deceived
her by order of Montoni, the more eaſily
to draw her into ſome of the deſperate
deſigns of the latter. The terrible ſuf-
picion, that Madame Montoni no longer
lived, thus came, accompanied by one
not leſs dreadful for herſelf. Unleſs the
crime, by which the aunt had ſuffered, was
inſtigated merely by reſentment, uncon-
nected with profit, a motive, upon which
Montoni did not appear very likely to act,
its


( 3 )
its object muſt be unattained, till the niece
was alſo dead, to whom Montoni knew
that his wife's eſtates muſt deſcend. Emily
remembered the words, which had in-
formed her, that the conteſted eſtates in
France would devolve to her, if Madame
Montoni died, without conſigning them to
her huſband; and the former obſtinate per-
ſeverance of her aunt made it too probable,
i hat ſhe had, to the laſt, withheld them.
At this inſtant, recollecting Barnardine's
manner, on the preceding night, ſhe
now believed, what the had then fancied,
that it exprefled malignant triumph. She
ſhuddered at the recollection, which con-
firmed her fears, and determined not to
meet him on the terrace. Soon after, the
was inclined to conſider theſe ſuſpicions as
the extravagant exaggerations of a timid
and haraſſed mind, and could not believe
Montoni liable to ſuch prepoſterous de-
pravity as that of deſtroying, from one
motive, his wife and her niece. She
blamed herſelf for ſuffering her romantic
B 2
imagination


( 4 )
imagination to carry her ſo far Leyond the
bounds of probability, and determined to
endeavour to check its rapid flights, left
they ſhould ſometimes extend into mad..
neſs. Still, however, ſhe ſhrunk froin the
thought of meeting Barnardine, on the
terrace, at midnight; and ſtill the wiſh to
be relieved from this terrible ſuſpenſe,
concerning her aunt, to ſee her, and io
footh her ſufferings, made her heſitate what
to do.
“ Yet how is it poſſible, Annette, I can
paſs to the terrace at that hour?” ſaid the,
recollecting herſelf, “ the ſentinels will
ſtop me, and Signor Montoni will hear
of the affair.”
“O ma’amſelle! that is well thought of,”
replied Annette. " That is what Barnar-
dine told me about. He gave me this
key, and bade me ſay it unlocks the door
at the end of the vaulted gallery, that
open near the end of the eaſt rampart, ſo
that you need not paſs any of the men
on watch. He bade me fay, too, that his
reaſon


( 5 )
reaſon for requeſting you to come to the
terrace was, becauſe he could take you to
the place you want to go to, without open-
ing the great doors of the hall, which grate
ſo heavily."
Emily's ſpirits were ſomewhat calmed
by this explanation, which ſeemed to be
honeſtly given to Annette. " But why did
he deſire I would come alone, Annette ?"
ſaid the.
" Why that was what I aſked him my-
ſelf, ma’amſelle. Says I, Why is my young
lady to come alone -Surely I may come
with her -What harm can I do? But he
faid: No-no-I tell you not,' in his gruff
way. Nay, ſays I, I have been truſted in
as great affairs as this, I warrant, and it's
a hard matter if. I can't keep a ſecret now.
Still he would ſay nothing but-No-no
-no.' Well, fays I, if you will only truſt
me, I will tell you a great ſecret, that was
told me a month ago, and I have never
opened my lips about it yet-?o you need
not be afraid of telling me. But all would
not
JU
IC
B 3


(6)
not do. Then, ma'amſelle, I went ſo far
as to offer him a beautiful new ſequin,
that Ludovico gave me for a keep-fake,
and I would not have parted with it for all
St. Marco's Place; but even that would
not do! Now what can be the reaſon of
this? But I know, you know, ma'am, who
you are going to ſee.”
« Pray did Barnardine tell you this ?”
“ He! No, ma’amſelle, that he did not.”
Emily enquired who did, but Annette
Thewed, that ſhe could keep a ſecret.
. During the remainder of the day, Emily's
mind was agitated with doubts and fears
and contrary determinations, on the ſub-
ject of meeting this Barnardine on the
rampart, and ſubmitting herſelf to his gul-
dance, the ſcarcely knew whither. Pity
for her aunt and anxiety for herſelf alter-
nately ſwayed her determination, and night
came, before ſhe had decided upon her
conduct. She heard the caſtle clock ſtrike
eleven-twelve-and yet her mind wavered.
The time, however, was now come, when.
The


(7)
the could heſitate no longer : and then the
intereſt ſhe felt for her aunt overcame
other conſiderations, and, bidding Annette
follow her to the outer door of the vaulted
gallery, and there await her return, the
deſcended from her chamber. The caſtle
was perfectly ſtill, and the great hall, where
fo lately ſhe had witneſſed a ſcene of
dreadful contention, now returned only
the whiſpering footſteps of the two ſolitary
figures gliding fearfully between the pillars,
and gleamed only to the feeble lamp they
carried. Emily, deceived by the long ſha-
dows of the pillars and by the catching
lights between, often ſtopped, imagining
ſhe ſaw fome perſon, moving in the diſtant
obſcurity of the perſpective ; and, as the
paſſed theſe pillars, lhe feared to turn her
eyes toward them, almoſt expecting to ſee
a figure ſtart out from behind their broad
ſhaft. She reached, however, the vaulted
gallery, without interruption, but uncloſed
its outer door with a trembling hand, and,
charging Annette not to quit it, and to
keep it a little open, that ſhe might be
beard
B 4


. ( 8 )
heard if ſhe called, ſhe delivered to her
the lamp, which ſhe did not dare to take
herſelf, becauſe of the men on watch, and,
alone, ſtepped out upon the dark terrace.
Every thing was ſo ſtill, that ſhe feared,
leſt her own light ſteps ſhould be heard
by the diſtant ſentinels, and ſhe walked
cautiouſly towards the ſpot, where ſhe had
before met Barnardine, liſtening for a
found, and looking onward through the
gloom in ſearch of him. At length, ſhe
was ſtartled by a deep voice, that ſpoke
near her, and ſhe pauſed, uncertain whether
it was his, till it ſpoke again, and ſhe then
recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine,
who had been punctual to the moment,
and was at the appointed place, reſting on
the rampart wall. After chiding her for
not coming ſooner, and ſaying, that he
had been waiting nearly half an hour, he
deſired Emily, who made no reply, to
follow him to the door, through which he
had entered the terrace..
While he unlocked it, ſhe looked back
to that ſhe had left, and, obſerving the
rays


( 9 )
rays of the lamp ſtream through a ſmall
opening, was certain, that Annette was
ſtill there. But her remote fituation could
little befriend Emily, after ſhe had quitted
the terrace ; and, when Barnardine un-
cloſed the gate, the diſmal aſpect of the
paſſage beyond, Thewn by a torch burning
on the pavement, inade her ſhrink from
following him alone, and the refuſed to go,
unleſs Annette might accompany her.
This, however, Barnardine abſolutely re-
fuſed to permit, mingling at the ſame
time with his refuſal ſuch artful circum-
ſtances to heighten the pity and curioſity
of Emily towards her aunt, that ſhe, at
length, conſented to follow him alone to
the portal.
He then took up the torch, and led her
along the paffage, at the extremity of
which he unlocked another door, whence
they deſcended, a few ſteps, into a chapel,
which, as Barnardine held up the torch to
light her, Emily obſerved to be in ruins;
and the immediately recollected a former
B.5 converſation


( 10 )
as retu
converſation of Annet:e, concerning it,
with very unpleaſant emotions. She look.
ed fearfully on the almoſt roofleſs walls,
green with damps, and on the gothic
points of the windows, where the ivy and
the briony had long ſupplied the place of
glaſs, and ran mantling among the broken
capitals of ſome columns, that had once
fupported the roof. Barnardine ſtumbled
over the broken pavement, and his voice,
as he uttered a ſudden oath, was returned
in hollow echoes, that made it more ter-
rific. Emily's heart funk ; but the ſtill
followed him, and he turned out of what
had been the principal aiſle of the chapel.
“ Down theſe ſteps, lady," ſaid Barnardine,
as he deſcended a flight, which appeared to
lead into the vaults; but Emily pauſed on
the top, and demanded, in a tremulous
tone, whicher he was conducting her.
* To the portal,” ſaid Barnardine.
“ Cannot we go through the chapel to
the portal ?" ſaid Emily.
“No, Signora, that leads to the inner
court,


( i )
anno
court, which I don't chooſe to unlock.
This way, and we ſhall reach the outer
court preſently."
Emily ſtill heſitated; fearing not only
to go on, but, ſince ſhe had gone thus far,
to irritate Barnardine by refuſing to go
further.
" Come, lady,” ſaid the man, who had
nearly reached the bottom of the flight,
« make a little haſte; I cannot wait here
all night."
“ Whither do theſe ſteps lead?” ſaid
Emily, yet pauſing.
“ To the portal,” repeated Barnardine,
in an angry tone, “I will wait no longer.”
As he ſaid this, he moved on with the
light, and Emily, fearing to provoke him
by further delay, reluctantly followed.
From the ſteps, they proceeded through
a paſſage, adjoining the vaults, the walls
of wbich were dropping with unwholeſome
dews, and the vapours, that crept along
the ground, made the torch burn ſo dim-
ly, that Emily expected every moment to
B6
fee


( 12 i
ſee it extinguiſhed, and Barnardine could .
fcarcely find his way. As they advanced,
theſe vapours thickened, and Barnardine,
believing the torch was expiring, ſtopped
for a moment to trim it. As he then reſted
againſt a pair of iron gates, that opened
from the paſſage, Emily law, by uncertain
flaſhes of light, the vaults beyond, and,
near her, heaps of earthy that ſeemed to
ſurround an open grave. Such an object,
in ſuch a ſcene, would, at any time, have
diſturbed her ; but now the was ſhocked
by an inſtantaneous prefentiment, that
this was the grave of her unfortunate aunt,
and that the treacherous Barnardine was
leading herſelf to deſtruction. The ob.
fcure and terrible place, to which he had
conducted her, ſeemed to juſtify the
thought; it was a place ſuited for murder,
a receptacle for the dead, where a deed of
horror might be committed, and no veſtige
appear to proclaim it. Emily was ſo
overwhelmed with terror, that, for a mo-
ment, the was unable to determine what
conduct


( 13 )
conduct to purſue. She then conſidered,
that it would be vain to attempt an eſcape
from Barnardine, by flight, ſince the
length and the intricacy of the way ſhe
had paſſed would foon enable him to over-
take her, who was unacquainted with the
turnings, and whoſe feebleneſs would not
ſuffer her to run long with ſwiftneſs. She
feared equally to irritate him by a diſclo-
fure of her ſuſpicions, which a refuſal to
accompany him further certainly would
do ; and, ſince ſhe was already as much
in his power as it was poffible ſhe could
be, if ſhe proceeded, ſhe, at length, deter-
mined to fuppreſs, as far as ſhe could, the
appearance of apprehenſion, and to follow:
filently whither he deſigned to lead her..
Pale with horror and anxiety, ſhe now
waited till Barnardine had trimmed the
torch, and, as her ſight glanced again up-
on the grave, ſhe could not forbear en-
quiring for whom it was prepared. He
took his eyes from the torch, and fixed
them upon her face without ſpeaking. She
faintly


( 14 )
faintly repeated the queſtion, but the man,
ſhaking the torch, paſſed on; and ſhe fol-
lowed, trembling, to a ſecond flight of
ſteps, having aſcended which, a door deli-
vered them into the firſt court of the caſtle.
As they croſſed it, the light ſhewed the
high black walls around them, fringed
· with long graſs and dank weeds, that
found a ſcanty ſoil among the mouldering
ſtones; the heavy buttreſſes, with, here
and there, between them, a narrow grate,
that admitted a freer circulation of air to
the court, the maſſy iron gates, that led to "
the caſtle, whoſe cluſtering turrets appeared
above, and, oppoſite, the huge towers and
arch of the portal itſelf. In this ſcene the
large, uncouth perſon of Barnardine, bear-
ing the torch, formed a characteriſtic figure.
This Barnardine was wrapt in a long dark
cloak, which ſcarcely allowed the kind of
half-boots, or ſandals, that were laced upon
his legs, to appear, and thewed only the
point of a broad ſword, which he uſually
wore, flung in a belt acroſs his ſhoulders. '.
On


( 15 )
On his head was a heavy flat velvet cap,
ſomewhat reſembling a turban, in which
was a ſhort feather ; the viſage beneath ic
ſhewed ſtrong features, and a countenance
furrowed with the lines of cunning and
darkened by habitual diſcontent.
· The view of the court, however, re-ani-
mated Emily, who, as ſhe croſſed ſilently
towards the portal, began to hope, that
her own fears, and not the treachery of
Barnardine, had deceived her. She looked
anxiouſly up at the firſt caſement, that
appeared above the lofty arch of the port-
cullis; but it was dark, and the enquired,
whether it belonged to the chamber, where
Madame Montoni was confined. Emily
ſpoke low, and Barnardine, perhaps, did not
hear her queſtion, for he returned no an-
ſwer; and they, ſoon after, entered the por-
tern door of the gate-way, which brought
them to the foot of a narrow ſtair-caſe, that
wound up one of the towers. .
“Up this ſtair-caſe the Signora lies,"
faid Barnardine.
“Lies!”


( 16 )
* Lies!” repeated Emily faintly, as ſhe
began to aſcend.
“ She lies in the upper chamber,” ſaid
Barnardine.
As they paſſed up, the wind, which
poured through the narrow cavities in the
wall, made the torch flare, and it threw a
ſtronger gleam upon the grini and falluw
countenance of Barnardine, and diſcovered
more fully the defolation of the place
the rough ſtone walls, the ſpiral ſtairs,
black with age, and a ſuit of antient ar-
mour, with an iron viſor, that hung upon
the walls, and appeared a trophy of ſome
former victory.
Having reached a landing-place, “ You
may wait here, lady,” ſaid he, applying a
key to the door of a chamber, « while
I go up, and tell the Signora you are
coming."
“ That ceremony is unneceſſary,” re-
plied Emily, “ my aunt will rejoice to
fee me.”
“ I am not ſo fure of that,” ſaid Barnar
dine,


( 17 )
dine, pointing to the room he had opened:
“ Come in here, lady, while I ſtep up.”
Emily, ſurpriſed and ſomewhat ſhocked,
did not dare to oppoſe him further, but,
as he was turning away with the torch,
deſired he would not leave her in dark-
neſs. He looked around, and, obferving
a tripod lamp, that ſtood on the ſtairs,
lighted and gave it to Emily, who ſtepped
forward into a large old chamber, and he
cloſed the door. As ſhe liſtened anxiouſly
to his departing ſteps, the thought he de-
ſcended, inſtead of aſcending, the ſtairs ;
but the gufts of wind, that whiſtled round
the portal, would not allow her to hear
diſtinctly any other ſound. Still, however,
The liſtened, and, perceiving no ſtep in
the room above, where he had affirmed
Madame Montoni to be, her anxiety in-
creaſed, though ſhe conſidered, that the
thickneſs of the floor in this ſtrong build-
ing might prevent any found reaching her
from the upper chamber. The next ma-
ment, in a pauſe of the wind, the diſtin-
guilhed


( 18 )
guiſhed Barnardine's ſtep deſcending to
the court, and then thought ſhe heard his
voice ; but, the riſing guſt again over-
coming other ſounds, Emily, to be certain
on this point, moved ſoftly to the door,
which, on attempting to open it, ſhe dif-
covered was faſtened. All the horrid ap.
prehenſions, that had lately affailed her,
returned at this inſtant with redoubled
force, and no longer appeared like the ex-
ággerations of a timid ſpirit, but ſeemed
to have been ſent to warn her of her fate.
She now did not doubt, that Madame
Montoni had been murdered, perhaps in
this very chamber; or that ſhe herſelf was
brought hither for the ſame purpoſe. The
countenance, the manners and the recol-
lected words of Barnardine, when he had
ſpoken of her aunt, confirmed her worſt
fears. For ſome moments, ſhe was inca-
pable of conſidering of any means, by
which ſhe might attempt an eſcape. Still
The liſtened, but heard footſteps neither on
the ſtairs, or in the room above; the
thought,


( 19 )
ce
thought, however, that the again diſtin.
guiſhed Barnardine's voice below, and went
to a grated window, that opened upon,
the court, to enquire further. Here, the
plainly heard his hoarſe accents, mingling
with the blaſt, that ſwept by, but they
were loſt again ſo quickly, that their
meaning could not be interpreted ; and
then the light of a törch, which ſeemed to
#fue from the portal below, flaſhed acroſs
the court, and the long ſhadow of a man,
who was under the arch-way, appeared up-
on the pavement. Emily, from the huge-
neſs of this ſudden portrait, concluded it
to be that of Barnardine; but other deep
tones, which paſſed in the wind, foon cond
vinced her he was not alone, and that his
companion was not a perſon very liable to
pity.
When her ſpirits had overcome the firſt
fhock of her ſituation, ſhe held up the
lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a
poflibility of an eſcape. It was a ſpacious,
room, whoſe walls, wainſcoted with rough
oak,


( 20 )
oak, ſhewed no caſement but the grated
one, which Emily had left, and no other
door than that, by which ſhe had entered.
The feeble rays of the lamp, however, did
not allow her to ſee at once its full extent;
The perceived no furniture, except, indeed,
an iron chair, faſtened in the centre of the
chamber, immediately over which, depende
ing on a chain from the cieling, hung an
iron ring. Having gazed upon theſe, for
ſome time, with wonder and horror, ſhe
next obſerved iron bars below, inade for
the purpoſe of confining the feet, and on
the arms of the chair were rings of the
ſame metal. As ſhe continued to ſurvey
them, the concluded that they were in true
ments of torture, and it ſtruck her, that
ſoine poor wretch had once been faſtened
in this chair, and had there been ſtarved to
death. She was chilled by the thought ;
but, what was her agony, when, in the
next moment, it occurred to her, that her
aunt might have been one of thefe victims,
and that the herſelf might be the next!
An


( 22 )
Beyond, appeared a corpſe, ſtretched on a
kind of low couch, which was crimſoned
with human blood, as was the floor beneath.
The features, deformed by death, were
ghaſtly and horrible, and more than one.
livid wound appeared in the face. Emily,
bending over the body, gazed, for a mo-
ment, with an eager, phrenſied cye ; but,
in the next, the lamp dropped from her
hand, and ſhe fell ſenſeleſs at the foot of the
couch.
When her ſenſes returned, the found
herſelf ſurrounded by men, among whom
was Barnardine, who were lifting her from
the floor, and then bore her along the
chamber. She was ſenſible of what paſſed,
but the extreme languor of her ſpirits did
not permit her to ſpeak, or move, or even
to feel any diſtinct fear. They carried her
down the ſtair-caſe, by which ſhe had al-
cended ; when, having reached the arch-
way, they ſtopped, and one of the men,
taking thế torch from Barnardine, opened
a ſmall door, that was cut in the great gate,
and,


( 23 )
and, as he ſtepped out upon the road,
the light he bore ſhewed ſeveral men on
horſeback, in waiting. Whether it was
the freſhneſs of the air, chat revived Emily,
or that the objects ſhe now ſaw rouſed the
ſpirit of alarm, ſhe ſuddenly ſpoke, and
made an ineffectual effort to diſengage
herſelf from the graſp of the ruffians, who
held her.
Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly
for the torch, while diſtant voices anſwered,
and ſeveral perſons approached, and, in the
ſame inſtant, a light flallied upon the court
of the caſtle. Again he vociferated for the
torch, and the men hurried Emily through
the gate. At a ſhort diſtance, under the
ſhelter of the caſtle walls, ſhe perceived the
fellow, who had taken the light from the
porter, holding it to a man, buſily em-
ployed in altering the ſaddle of a horſe,
round which were ſeveral horſemen, look-
ing on, whoſe harſh features received the
full glare of the torch ; while the broken
ground beneath them, the oppoſite walls,
with


( 24 )
-
with the tufted ſhrubs, that overhung their
fummits, and an embattled watch-tower
above, were reddened with the gleam,
which, fading gradually away, left the re-
moter ram parts and the woods below to
the obſcurity of night. .
" What do you waſte time for, there?”
ſaid Barnardine with an oath, as he ap-
proached the horſemen. “ Diſpatch-diſ-
patch.”
- The ſaddle will be ready in a mi-
nute," replied the man who was buckling
it, at whom Barnardine now ſwore again,
for his negligence, and Emily, calling
feebly for help, was hurried towards the
horſes, while the ruffians diſputed on
which to place her, the one deſigned for
her not being ready. At this moment
a cluſter of lights iſſued from the great
gates, and ſhe immediately heard the Thrill
voice of Annette above thoſe of ſeveral
other perſons, who advanced. In the
fame moment, the diſtinguiſhed Montoni
and Cavigni, followed by a number of
ruffian-


( 25 )
ruffian-faced fellows, to whom ſhe no
longer looked with terror, but with hope,
for, at this inſtant, ſhe did not tremble at the
thought of any dangers, that might await
her within the caſtle, whence to lately,
and ſo anxiouſly ſhe had wiſhed to eſcape.
Thoſe, which threatened her from without,
had engroſſed all her apprehenſions.
A ſhort conteſt enſued between the
parties, in which that of Montoni, how-
ever, were preſently victors, and the
horſemen, perceiving that numbers were
againſt them, and being, perhaps, not
very warmly intereſted in the affair they
had undertaken, gälloped off, while Bar-
nardine had run far enough to be loſt
in the darkneſs, and Emily was led back
into the caſtle. As ſhe re-paſſed the
courts, the remembrance of what ſhe had
ſeen in the portal-chamber came, with all
its horror, to her mind; and when, ſoon
after, ſhe heard the gate cloſe, that ſhut
her once more within the caſtle walls, ſhe
huddered for herſelf, and, almoſt forget-
VOL. III.
ting


( 26 )
in
ting the danger ſhe had eſcaped, could
ſcarcely think, that any thing leſs precious
than liberty and peace was to be found
beyond them. :
Montoni ordered Emily to await him in
the cedar parlour, whither he foon follow-
ed, and then ſternly queſtioned her on
this myſterious affair. Though ſhe now
viewed him with horror, as the murderer
of her aunt, and ſcarcely knew what ſhe
ſaid in reply to his impatient enquiries,
her anſwers and her manner convinced
him, that ſhe had not taken a voluntary
part in the late ſcheme, and he diſmiſſed
her upon the appearance of his ſervants,
whom he had ordered to attend, that he
might enquire further into the affair, and
diſcover thoſe, who had been accomplices
in it.
Emily had been ſome time in her apart-
ment, before the tunult of her mind al-
lowed her to remember ſeveral of the
paſſed circumſtances. Then, again, the
dead form, which the curtain in the por.
tal-


( 27 )
tal-chamber had diſcloſed, canie to her
fancy, and Me uttered a groan, which ter-
rified Annette the more, as Emily forbore
to ſatisfy her curioſity, on the ſubject of it,
for the feared to truſt her with ſo fatal
a ſecret, left her indiſcretion ſhould call
down the immediate vengeance of Mon-
toni on herſelf.
Thus compelled to bear within her own
mind the whole horror of the ſecret, that
oppreſſed it, her reaſon feemned to totter
under the intolerable weight. She often
fixed a wild and vacant look on Annette,
and, when ſhe ſpoke, either did not hear
her, or anſwered from the purpoſe. Long
fits of abſtraction ſucceeded; Annette ſpoke
repeatedly, but her voice ſeemed not to
make any impreſſion on the ſenſe of the
long agitated Emily, who ſat fixed and
filent, except that, now and then, ſhe
heaved a heavy figh, but without tears.
Terrified at her condition, Annette, at
length, left the room, to inform Montoni
of it, who had juſt diſmiſſed his ſervants,
C 2
without


( 28 )
without having made any diſcoveries on
the ſubject of his enquiry. The wild de-
ſcription, which this girl now gave of
Emily, induced him to follow her imme-
diately to the chamber.
At the ſound of his voice, Emily turned
her eyes, and a gleam of recollection ſeemed
to ſhoot athwart her mind, for ſhe imme-
diately roſe from her feat, and moved
Nowly to a remote part of the room. He
ſpoke to her in accents ſomewhat ſoftened
from their uſual harſhneſs, but the regard-
ed him with a kind of half curious, half
terrified look, and anſwered only " yes,”
to whatever he ſaid. Her mind ſtill ſeemed
to retain no other impreſſion, than that of
fear.
Of this diſorder Annette could give no
explanation, and Montoni, having attempt-
ed, for ſome time, to perſuade Emily to
talk, retired, after ordering Annette to re-
main with her, during the night, and to
inform him, in the morning, of her con-
dition,
When


( 29 )
When he was gone, Emily again came
forward, and aſked who it was, that had
been there to diſturb her. Annette ſaid ic
was the Signore-Signor Montoni. Emily
repeated the name after her, ſeveral tinics,
as if ſhe did not recollect it, and then fud-
denly groaned, and relapſed into abftrac-
tion.
Vith ſome difficulty, Annette led her
to the bed, which Emily examined with an
eager, phrenfied eye, before the lay down,
and then, pointing, turned with mudder-
ing emotion, to Annette, who, now more
terrified, went towards the door, that ſhe
might bring one of the female ſervants to
paſs the night with them ; but Emily, ob-
ferving her going, called her by name,
and then, in the naturally ſoft and plaintive
tone of her voice, begged, that the, too,
would not forſake her." For ſince my
father died,” added the, ſighing, “ every
body forſakes me.”
“ Your father, ma'amfelle !” ſaid An-
nette, “ he was dead before you knew me.”
« He
C 3


(30)
“ He was, indeed !" rejoined Emily,
and her tears began to flow. She now wept
Glently and long, after which, becoming
quite calm, ſhe at length ſunk to ſleep, An-
nette having had diſcretion enough not to
interrupt her tears. This girl, as affection-
ate as the was ſimple, loſt in theſe moments
all her former fears of remaining in the
chamber, and watched alone by Emily,
during the whole night.
CH A P.


( 31 )
CH A P. II.
............," unfold
What worlds, or what vaft regions, hold
Th’immortal mind, that hath forſook
Her manſion in this fleſhly nook !"
Il PensEROSO.
EMILY's mind was refreſhed by ſleep.
On waking in the morning, the looked
with ſurpriſe on Annette, who fat ſleeping
in a chair beſide the bed, and then en-
deavoured to recollect herſelf; but the
circumſtances of the preceding night were
ſwept from her memory, which ſeemed to
retain no trace of what had paſſed, and the
was ſtill gazing with ſurpriſe on Annette,
when the latter awoke.
“O dear ma’amſelle! do you know me?”
cried ſhe.
" Know you! Certainly,” replied Emi-
C 4
ly,


. ( 32 )
ly, “ you are Annette ; but why are you
fitting by me thus?”
“O you have been very ill, ma’amſelle,
Very ill indeed! and I am ſure I
thought"
“ This is very ſtrange!” ſaid Emily, ſtill
trying to reccollect the paſt.-t But I think,
I do remember, that my fancy has been
haunted by frightful dreams. Good God!”
ſhe added, ſuddenly ſtartingą" ſurely it
was nothing more than a dream !”
She fixed a terrified look upon Annette,
who, intending to quiet her, ſaid, “ Yes,
ma'amſelle, it was more than a dream, but
it is all over now."
" She is murdered, then !" ſaid Emily
in an inward voice, and ſhuddering in-,
ſtantaneouſly. Annette ſcreamed ; for,
being ignorant of the circumſtance to
which Emily referred, ſhe attributed her
manner to a diſordered fancy ; but, when
ſhe had explained to what her own ſpeech
alluded, Emily, recollecting the attempo
that had been made to carry her off, aſked


( 33 )
if the contriver of it had been diſcover-
ed. Annette replied, that he had not,
though he might eaſily be gueſſed at; and
then told Emily ſhe might thank her for
her deliverance, who, endeavouring to
command the emotion, which the remem.
brance of her aunt had occaſioned, appear-
ed calmly to liſten to Annette, though, in
truth, ſhe heard ſcarcely a word that was
faid.
“And ſo, ma’amſelle,” continued the
latter, “ I was determined to be even with
Barnardine for refuſing to tell me the ſe-
cret, by finding it out myſelf; ſo I watch-
ed you, on the terrace, and, as ſoon as
he had opened the door at the end, I ſtole
out from the caſtle, to try to follow you;
for, ſays I, I am ſure no good can be plan-
ned, or why all this ſecrecy ? So, ſure
enough, he had not bolted the door after
him, and, when I opened it, I ſaw, by the
glimmer of the torch, at the other end of
the paſſage, which way you were go-
ing. I followed the light, at a diſtance,
C 5
till


( 34 )
till you came to the vaults of the chapel,
and there I was afraid to go further, for
I had heard ſtrange things about theſe
vaults. But then, again, I was afraid to go
back, all in darkneſs, by myſelf ; ſo by the .
time Barnardine had triinmed the light, I
had reſolved to follow you, and I did ſo,
till you came to the great court, and there
I was afraid he would ſee me; fo I ſtopped
at the door again, and watched you acroſs
to the gates, and, when you was gone up
the ſtairs, I whipt after. There, as I ſtood
under the gate-way, I heard horſes' feet
without, and ſeveral men talking; and I
heard them ſwearing at Barnardine for not
bringing you out, and juſt then, he had
like to have caught me, for he came down
the ſtairs again, and I had hardly time to
get out of his way. But I had heard enough
of his ſecret now, and I determined to be
even with him, and to ſave you, too,
ma'amſelle, for I gueſſed it to be ſome new
ſcheme of Count Morano, though he was
gone away. I ran into the caſtle, but I
had
.
C
D
11


( 35 )
had hard work to find my way through
the paſſage under the chapel; and what is
very ſtrange, I quite forgot to look for
the ghoſts they had told me about, though
I would not go into that place again by
myſelf for all the world! Luckily the Sig-
nor and Signor Cavigni were up, ſo we
had foon a train at our heels, ſufficient to
frighten that Barnardine and his rogues,
all together.
Annette ceaſed to ſpeak, but Emily ſtill
appeared to liſten. At length ſhe ſaid,
fuddenly, “ I think I will go to him my-
ſelf ;-where is he?"
Annette aſked who was meant.
“ Signor Montoni,” replied Emily. “I
would ſpeak with him ;” and Annette,
now remembering the order he had given,
on the preceding night, reſpecting her
young lady, roſe, and ſaid ſhe would ſeek
him herſelf.
This honeſt girl's ſuſpicions of Count
Morano were perfectly juſt ; Emily, too,
when ſhe thought on the ſcheme, had at-
C6
tributed


( 36 )
tributed it to him ; and Montoni, who had
not a doubt on this ſubject, alſo, began
to believe, that it was by the direction of
Morano, that poiſon had formerly been
mingled with his wine.
The profeſſions of repentance, which
Morano had made to Emily, under the
anguiſh of his wound, were ſincere at the
moment he offered them: but he had
miſtaken the ſubject of his ſorrow; for,
while he thought he was condemning the
cruelty of his late deſign, he was lamenta
ing only the ſtate of ſuffering, to which
it had reduced him. As theſe ſuffer-
ings abated, his former views revived,
till, his health being re-eſtabliſhed, he
again found himſelf ready for enterpriſe
and difficulty. The porter of the caſtle,
who had ſerved hiin, on a former occaſion,
willingly accepted a ſecond bribe ; and,
having concerted the means of drawing
Emily to the gates, Morano publicly left
the hamlet, whither he had been carried
after the affray, and withdrew with his
people
dein


( 37 )
people to another at ſeveral miles diſtance.
From thence, on a night agreed upon by
Barnardine, who had diſcovered, front
the thoughtleſs prattle of Annette, the
moſt probable means of decoying Emily,
the Count ſent back his ſervants to the
caſtle, while he awaited her arrival at the
hamlet, with an intention of carrying her
immediately to Venice. How this, his fe-
cond ſcheme, was fruſtrated, has already
appeared; but the violent, and various
paſſions with which this Italian lover was
now agitated, on his return to that city,
can only be imagined.
Annette having made her report to
Montoni of Emily's health and of her
requeſt to ſee him, he replied, that ſhe
might attend him in the cedar room, in
about an hour. It was on the ſubject, that
preſſed ſo heavily on her mind, that Emily
wiſhed to ſpeak to him, yet ſhe did not
diſtinctly know what good purpoſe this
could anſwer, and ſometimes ſhe even re-
coiled in horror from the expectation of
his


( 38 )
his preſence. She wilhed, alſo, to petition,
though ſhe ſcarcely dared to believe the
requeſt would be granted, that he would
permit her, ſince her aunt was no more, to
return to her native country.
As the moment of interview approached,
her agitation increaſed ſo much, that ſhe
almoſt refolved to excuſe herſelf under
what could ſcarcely be called a pretence
of illneſs; and, when ſhe conſidered what
could be ſaid, either concerning herſelf, or
the fate of her aunt, ſhe was equally hope-
leſs as to the event of her entreaty, and
terrified as to its effect upon the vengeful
fpirit of Montoni. Yet, to pretend igno-
rance of her death, appeared, in ſome de-
gree, to be ſharing its criminality; and,
indeed, this event was the only ground,
on which Emily could reſt her petition for
leaving Udolpho.
· While her thoughts thus wavered, a
meſſage was brought, importing, that Mon-
toni could not ſee her, till the next day;
and her ſpirits were then relieved, for a
moment,
mily connas the onality; and
Leaving ü


( 39 )
moment, from an almoſt intolerable weighe
of apprehenſion. Annette ſaid, ſhe fancied
the Chevaliers were going out to the wars
again, for the court-yard was filled with
horſes, and ſhe heard, that the reit of the
party, who went out before, were expected
at the caſtle. And I heard one of the
ſoldiers, too,” added ſhe, " ſay to his
comrade, that he would warrant they'd
bring home a rare deał of booty.–So,
thinks I, if the Signor can, with a ſafe
conſcience, ſend his people out a-robbing
-why it is no buſineſs of mine. I only
wiſh I was once ſafe out of this caſtle;
and, if it had not been for poor Ludovico's
ſake, I would have let Count Morano's
people run away with us both, for it would
have been ſerving you a good turn, ma’am-
ſelle, as well as myſelf.”
Annette might have continued thus
talking for hours for any interruption ſhe
would have received from Emily, who was
filent, inattentive, abſorbed in thought,
and paſſed the whole of this day in a kind
of


( 40 )
of folemn tranquillity, ſuch as is often the
reſult of faculties overſtrained by ſuffer-
ing.
When night returned, Emily recollect-
ed the inyſterious ſtrains of muſic, that
ſhe had lately heard, in which ſhe ſtill felt
fome degree of intereſt, and of which the
hoped to hear again the foothing ſweet-
neſs. The influence of ſuperſtition now
gained on the weakneſs of her long ha-
raffed mind; ſhe looked with enthuſiaſtic
expectation, to the guardian ſpirit of her
father, and, having diſmiſſed Annette for
the night, determined to watch alone for
their return. It was not yet, however, near
the time when ſhe had heard the muſic on
a former night, and anxious to call off her
thoughts from diſtreſſing ſubjects, ſhe fat
down with one of the few books, that the
had brought from France ; but her mind,
refuſing controul, became reſtleſs and
agitated, and ſhe went often to the caſe.
ment to liſten for a found. Once, the
thought ſhe heard a voice, but then, every
thing


(41)
thing without the caſement remaining ſtill,
fhe concluded, that her fancy had deceived
her.
Thus paſſed the time, till twelve o'clock,
foon after which the diſtant ſounds, that
murmured through the caſtle, ceaſed, and
fleep ſeemed to reign over all. Emily then
feated herſelf at the caſement, where the
was ſoon recalled from the reverie, into
which ſhe ſunk, by very unuſual ſounds,
not of muſic, but like the low mourning
of ſome perſon in diſtreſs. As the liſtened,
her heart faltered in terror, and ſhe became
convinced, that the former ſound was more
than imaginary. Still, at intervals, ſhe heard
a kind of feeble lamentation, and ſought to
diſcover whence it came. There were fee
veral rooms underneath, adjoining the ram.
part, which had been long ſhut up, and, as
the ſound probably roſe from one of theſe,
ſhe leaned from the caſement to obſerve,
whether any light was viſible there. The
chambers, as far as ſhe could perceive,
were quite dark, but, at a little diſtance, on
the
ds


( 42 )
emov
the rampart below, ſhe thought ſhe ſaw
ſomething moving.
The faint twilight, which the ſtars ſhed,
did not enable her to diſtinguiſh what it
was; but ſhe judged it to be a fentinel,
on watch, and ſhe removed her light to
a remote part of the chamber, that ſhe
might eſcape notice, during her further
obſervation.
The fame object ſtill appeared. Preſently,
it advanced along the rampart, towards her
window, and ſhe then diſtinguiſhed ſome-
thing like a human form; but the ſilence,
with which it moved, convinced her it was
no ſentinel. As it drew near, ſhe heſitated
whether to retire ; a thrilling curioſity in-
clined her to ſtay, but a dread of the ſcarce.
ly knew what warned her to withdraw.
While ſhe pauſed, the figure came op-
poſite to her caſement, and was ſtationary.
Every thing remained quiet ; ſhe had not
heard even a foot-fall; and the folemnity
of this filence, with the myſterious form fhe
ſaw, ſubdued her fpirits, ſo that ſhe was
moving


''( 43 )
moving from the caſement, when, on a ſud-
den, ſhe obſerved the figure ſtart away, and
glide down the rampart, after which it was
ſoon loſt in the obſcurity of night. Emily
continued to gaze, for ſome time, on the
way it had paſſed, and then retired within
her chamber, muſing on this ſtrange cir-
cumſtance, and ſcarcely doubting, that
ſhe had witneſſed a ſupernatural appear.
ance.
When her ſpirits recovered compofure,
ſhe looked round for ſome other explana-
tion. Remembering what ſhe had heard
of the daring enterpriſes of Montoni, it
occurred to her, that ſhe had juſt ſeen fonie
unhappy perſon, who, having been plun-
dered by his banditti, was brought hither a
captive; and that the muſic ſhe had for-
merly heard, came from him. Yet, if they
had plundered him, it ſtill appeared impro-
bable, that they ſhould have brought him
to the caſtle, and it was alſo more conſiſtent
with the manners of banditti to murder
thoſe they rob, than to make them priſoners.
But


( 44 )
But what, more than any other circum-
ſtance, contradicted the ſuppoſition, that it
was a priſoner, was that it wandered on the
terrace, without a guard : a conſideration,
which made her diſinils immediately her
firſt ſurmiſe.
Afterwards, ſhe was inclined to believe
that Count Morano had obtained admit-
tance into the caſtle; but ſhe foon recollect-
ed the difficulties and dangers, that muſt
have oppoſed ſuch an enterpriſe, and that,
if he had ro far ſucceeded, to come alone
and in filence to her caſement at midnight
was not the conduct he would have adopt.
ed, particularly ſince the private ſtair-caſe,
communicating with her apartment, was
known to him ; neither would he have ut.
tered the diſmal ſounds ſhe had heard.
- Another ſuggeſtion repreſented, that this
might be ſome perſon, who had deſigns
upon the caſtle ; but the mournful ſounds
deſtroyed, alſo, that probability. Thus,
enquiry only perplexed her. Who, or what,
it could be that haunted this lonely hour,
com-


( 45 )
-
complaining in ſuch doleful accents and in
ſuch ſweet muſic (for ſhe was ſtill inclined
to believe, that the former ſtrajns and įhe
late appearance were connected), ſhe had
no means of aſcertaining; and imagination
again afſumed her empire, and rouſed the
myſteries of ſuperſtition. i
She determined, however, to watch on
the following night, when her doubts
might, perhaps, be cleared up; and ſhe
almoſt reſolved to addreſs the figure, if it
lhould appear again.
С НАР.


( 46 )
CHAP. III.
« Such are thoſe thick and gloomy ſhadows damp,
Oft feen in charnel-vaults and fepulchres,
Lingering, and ſitting, by a new-made grave.”
MILTON.
O N the following day, Montoni fent
a ſecond excuſe to Emily, who was ſur-
priſed at the circumſtance. « This is
very ſtrange !” ſaid ſhe to herſelf. “ His
conſcience tells him the purport of my
viſit, and, he defers it, to avoid an explana-
tion.” She now almoſt reſolved to throw
herſelf in his way, but terror checked the
intention, and this day paſſed, as the pre-
ceding one, with Emily, except that a de.
gree of awful expectation, concerning the
approaching night, now ſomewhat diſturbed
the dreadful calmneſs that had pervaded
her mind.
Towards


( 47 )
Towards evening, the ſecond part of the
band, which had made the firſt excurſion
among the mountains, returned to the
caſtle, where, as they entered the courts,
Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their
loud ſhouts and ſtrains of exultation, like
the orgies of furies over ſome horrid ſacri-
fice. She even feared they were about to
commit fonie barbarous deed; a conjec-
ture from which, however, Annette ſoon
relieved her, by telling, that the people
were only exulting over the plunder they
had brought with them. This circum-
ſtance ftill further confirmed her in the.
belief, that Montoni had really commenced
to be a captain of banditti, and meant to
retrieve his broken fortunes by the plunder
of travellers ! Indeed, when ſhe conſidered
all the circumſtances of his ſituation-in
an armed, and almoſt inacceſſible caſtle,
retired far among the receſſes of wild and
ſolitary mountains, along whoſe diſtant
ſkirts were ſcattered towns, and cities, whi-
ther wealthy travellers were continually
paſſing


( 48 ) .
paffing-ihis appeared to be the ſituation
of all others moſt ſuited for the ſucceſs of
ſchemes of rapine, and the yielded to the
ſtrange thought, that Montoni was become
a captain of robbers. His character alſo,
unprincipled, dauntleſs, cruel and enterpri-
fing, ſeemed to fit him for the ſituation.
Delighting in the tumult and in the ſtrug-
gles of life, he was equally a Itranger to
pity and to fear; his very courage was a'
ſort of animal ferocity; not the poble im-
pulſe of a principle, ſuch as inſpirits the
mind againſt the oppreſſor, in the cauſe of
the oppreſſed; but a conſtitutional hardi-
neſs of nerve, that cannot feel, and that,
therefore, cannot fear.
Emily's ſuppoſition, however natural,
was in part erroneous, for ſhe was a ſtranger.
to the ſtate of this country, and to the
circumſtances under which its frequent
wars were partly conducted. The reve-
nues of the many ſtates of Italy being, at
that time, inſufficient to the ſupport of
ſtanding armies, even during the ſhort
periods,


( 49 )
periods, which the turbulent habits both
'of the governments and the people permit-
ted to paſs in peace, an order of men aroſe
not known in our age, and but faintly de-
ſcribed in the hiſtory of their own. Of the
ſoldiers, diſbanded at the end of every war,
few returned to the ſafe, but unprofitable
occupations, then uſual in peace. Some-
times they paſſed into other countries,
and mingled with armies, which ſtill kept
the field. Sometimes they formed them-
ſelves into bands of robbers, and occu-
pied remote fortreffes, where their deſpe-
rate character, the weakneſs of the go.
vernments which they offended, and the
certainty, that they could be recalled to
the arinies, when their preſence ſhould be
again wanted, prevented them from being
much purſued by the civil power; and,
fometimes, they attached themſelves to the
ſortunes of a popular chief, by whom they
were led into the ſervice of any ſtate, which
could ſettle with him the price of their va-
lour. From this latter practice aroſe their
Vol. III.
D
name,
:


( 50 ) :
CI
name-Condottieri ; a term formidable all
over Italy, for a period, which concluded
in the earlier part of the ſeventeenth cen-
tury, but of which it is not ſo eaſy to aſcer-
tain the commencement.
· Conteſts between the ſmaller ſtates were
then, for the moſt part, affairs of enter.
priſe alone, and the probabilities of fuc-
ceſs were eſtimated, not from the ſkill,
but from the perſonal courage of the
general, and the foldiers. The ability,
which was neceſſary 10 the conduct of
tedious operations, was little valued. It
was enough to know how a party might
be led towards their enemies, with the
greateſt ſecrecy, or conducted from them
in the compacteſt order. The officer was
to precipitate himſelf into a fituation,
where, but for his example, the ſoldiers
might not have ventured ; and, as the op-
poſed parties knew little of each other's
ſtrength, the event of the day. was fre-
quently determined by the boldneſs of
the firſt movements. In ſuch ſervices the
Condottieri


( 51 )
Condottieri were eminent, and in theſe, where
plunder always followed ſucceſs, their cha:
racters acquired a mixture of intrepidity
and profligacy, which awed even thoſe
whom they ſerved.
When they were not thus engaged,
their chief had uſually his own fortreſs, in
which, or in its neighbourhood, they en-
joyed an irkſome reſt; and, though their
wants were, at one time, partly ſupplied
from the property of the inhabitants, the
lavilh diſtribution of their plunder at
others, prevented them from being obi
noxious; and the peaſants of ſuch diſtries
gradually. ſhared the character of their
warlike“ viſitors. The neighbouring go.
vernments ſoinetimes profeſſed, but ſel-
dom endeavoured, to ſuppreſs theſe mili-
tary communities; both becauſe it was
difficult to do ſo, and becauſe a diſguiſed
protection of them enſured, for the ſer-
vice of their wars, a body of men, who
could not otherwiſe be ſo cheaply main-
tained, or ſo perfectly qualified. The
D 2 commanders


( 52 )
COU
commanders ſometimes even relied ſo far
opon this policy of the ſeveral powers,
as to frequent their capitals; and Mon-
toni, having met them in the gaming par-
ties of Venice and Padua, conceived a de.'
fire to emulate their characters, before his
suined fortunes tempted him to adopt their
practices. It was for the arrangement of
his preſent plan of life, that the midnight
councils were held at his manſion in Ve-
nice, and at which Orſino and ſome other
members of the preſent community then
affifted with fuggeftions, which they had
fince executed with the wreck of their for-
tunes.
On the return of night, Emily reſumed
her ſtation at the caſement. There was
now a moon ; and, as it roſe over the
tufted woods, its yellow light ſerved to
thew the lonely terrace and the ſurround-
ing objects, more diſtinály, than the twi.
light of the ſtars had done, and promiſed
Emily to aſſiſt her obſervations, ſhould
the myſterious form return. On this ſub-
ject,


( 53 )
Evers:
-10:-
ject, ſhe again wavered in conjecture, and
heſitated whether to ſpeak to the figure, to
which a ſtrong and almoſt irreſiſtible inte-
reſt urged her;. but terror, at intervals,
made her reluctant to do fo.
66 If this is a perſon who has deſigns
upon the caſtle,” ſaid ſhe, “ my curioſity
may prove fatal to me.; yet the myſterious
muſic, and the lamentations I heard, muſt
Surely have proceeded from him : if ſo, he
cannot be an enemy.”.
. She then thought of her unfortunate
aunt, and, ſhuddering with grief and hor.
ror, the ſuggeſtions of imagination ſeized
her mind with all the force of truth, and
ſhe believed, that the form ſhe had ſeen
was ſupernatural. She trembled, breath.ed
with difficulty, an icy coldneſs touched her
cheeks, and her fears for a while overcame
her judgment. Her reſolution now forſook
her, and the determined, if the figure ſhould
appear, not to ſpeak to it.
Thus the time paſſed, as ſhe ſat at her
calement, awed by expectation, and by
the
D 3.


( 54 )
me
the gloom and ſtillaeſs of midnight ; for
the faw obfcurely in the moon-light only
the mountains and woods, a cluſter of
towers, that formed the 'weſt angle of the
caſtle, and the terrace below; and heard
no found, except, now and then, the
lonely watch-word, paſſed by the ſentinels
on duty, and afterwards the ſteps of the
men who came to relieve guard, and whom
fhe knew at a diſtance on the rampart by
their pikes, that glittered in the moon-
beam, and then, by the few ſhort words,
in which they hailed their fellows of the
night. Emily retired within her chamber,
while they paſſed the caſement. When ſhe
returned to it, all was again quiet. It was
now very late, ſhe was wearied with watch-
ing, and began to doubt the reality of what
ſhe had ſeen on the preceding night ; but
ſhe ftill lingered at the window, for her mind
was too perturbed to admit of fleep. The
moon ſhone with a clear luſtre, that afford,
ed her a complete view of the terrace; but
the ſaw only, a ſolitary fentinel, pacing at
one


( 55 )
one end of it; and, at length, tired with
expectation, ſhe withdrew to ſeek reſt.
Such, however, was the impreſſion, left
on her mind, by the muſic, and the com-
plaining (he had formerly heard, as well as
by the figure, which the fancied The had
ſeen, that the determined to repeat the
watch, on the following night.
Montoni, on the next day, took no
notice of Emily's appointed viſit, but ſhe,
more anxious than before to ſee him, ſene
Annette to enquire, at what hour he would
admit her. He mentioned eleven o'clock,
and Emily was punctual to the moment';
at which the called up all her fortitude to
ſupport the ſhock of his prefence and the
dreadful recollections it enforced. He was
with ſeveral of his officers, in the cedara
-room ; on obſerving whom ſhe pauſed ;
and her agitation increaſed, while he con-
tinued to converſe with them, apparently
not obſerving her, till ſome of his officers,
turning round, ſaw Emily, and uttered an
exclamation.. She was. haſtily retiring,
when.
ļ
D4


( 56 )
when Montoni's voice arreſted her, and,
in a faltering accent, ſhe ſaid, "I would
fpeak with you, Signor Montoni, if you
are at leiſure.”
“ Theſe are my friends," he replied ;
“ whatever you would ſay, they may
hear.”
Emily, without replying, turned from
the rude gaze of the chevaliers, and Mon-
toni then followed her to the hall, whence
he led her to a ſmall room, of which he
ſhut the door with violence. As ſhe look-
ed on his dark countenance, the again
thought ſhe ſaw the murderer of her aunt ;
and her mind was ſo convulſed with horror,
that ſhe had not power to recall thought
enough to explain the purport of her viſit;
and to truſt herſelf with the mention of
Madame Montoni was more than the
dared.
Montoni-at length impatiently enquired
· what ſhe had to ſay. 6. I have no time for
trifling," he added, “ my moments are
important.”
Emily


( 57 )
· Emily then told him, that ſhe wilhed to
return to France, and came to beg, that
he wonld permit her to do ſo.-But when
he looked ſurpriſed, and enquired for the
motive of the requeſt, ſhe heſitated, be-
came paler than before, trembled, and had
nearly funk at·his féet. He obſerved her
emotion, with apparent indifference, and
interrupted the ſilence by telling her, he
muſt be gone. Emily, however, recalled
her ſpirits ſufficiently to enable her to re-
peat her requeſt. And, when Montoni
abſolutely refuſed it, her Numbering mind
was rouſed.
“ I can no longer remain here with pro-
prietý, ſir,” ſaid ſhe, “and I may be al-
lowed to aſk, by what right you detain
me."
- “ It is my will that you remain here,”
ſaid Montoni, laying his hand on the door
to go ; :“ let that ſuffice you."
Emily, conſidering that ſhe had no ap-
peal from this will, forbore to diſpute his
right, and made a feeble effort to perſuade
D 5.
him
-


( 58 )
hiin to be juſt. “ While my aunt lived,
fir,” faid ſhe, in a tremulous voice, “ my
reſidence here was not improper; but now,
that ſhe is no more, I may ſurely be pere
mitted to depart. My ſtay cannot benefit
you, ſir, and will only diſtrefs me.”
" Who told you, that Madame Mon,
toni was dead ?" ſaid Montoni, with an ina
quiſitive eye. Emily heſitated, for nobody
had told her fo, and ſhe did not dare to
avow the having feen that ſpectacle in the
portal-chamber, which had coinpelled her
to the belief.
Bok
• Who told you ſo ?” he repeated, more
fternly.
« Alas! I know it too well,” replied
Emily : “ ſpare me on this terrible ſub-
ject ! 22
She fat down on a bench to fupport
herſelf.
: :
“ If you wiſh to ſee her,” ſaid Montoni,
e you may; ſhe lies in the eaſt turret."
He now left the room, without awaiting
her reply, and returned to the cedar cham-
ber,


( 59 )
ber, where' ſuch of the chevaliers as had
not before ſeen Emily, began to rally him,
on the diſcovery they had made ; but Mon-
toni did not appear diſpoſed to bear this
mirth, and they changed the ſubject.
Having talked with the ſubtle Orſino'
on the plan of an excurſion, which he
meditated for a future day, his friend ad
viſed, that they ſhould lie in waic for the
enemy, which Verezzi impetuoufly op-
poſed, reproached Orſino with want of
fpirit, and ſwore; - that, if Montoni would
let him lead on fifty men, he would cons'
quer all that ſhould oppoſe him... : )
Orſino fmiled contemptuoully; Mon-
toni ſmiled too, but he alſo liſtened. Ves
rezzi then proceeded with vehement decla-
mation and affertion, eill he was ſtopped
by an argument of Orfino, which he knew
not how to anſwer better than by invective,
His fierce fpirit deceſted the cunning cau--
tion of Orlino, whom he conſtantly op-
poſed, and whoſe inveterate, though filent,
hatred he had long ago incurred. And
D.6
Montoni


( 60 )
Montoni was a calm obſerver of both,
whoſe different qualifications he knew,
and how to bend their oppoſite character
to the perfection of his own deſigns. But
Verezzi, in the heat of oppoſition, now,
did not ſcruple to accuſe Orſino of cow.
ardice, at which the countenance of the
latter, while he made no reply, was over.
ſpread with a livid paleneſs; and Mon-
toni, who watched his lurking eye, faw
him put his hand haſtily into his boſom.
But Verezzi, whoſe face, glowing with
crimſon, formed a ſtriking contraſt to the
complexion of Orfino,, remarked not the
action, and continued boldly declaiming
againſt cowards to Cavigni, who was lily
laughing at his vehemence, and at the
filent mortification of Orſino, when the
latter, retiring a few ſteps behind, drew
forth a ſtilletto to ſtab his adverſary in the
back. Montoni arreſted his half-extended
arm, and, with a ſignificant look, made
him return the poniard into his boſom,
· unſeen by all except himſelf.; for moſt of
the.


(61
the party were diſputing at a diſtant wind
dow, on the ſituation of a dell where they
meant to form an ambuſcade.
When Verezzi had, turned round; thg
deadly hatred, expreſſed on the features of
his opponent; raiſing, for the firſt time, a.
ſuſpicion of his intention, he laid his hand
on his ſword, and then, ſeeming to recollect
himſelf, ſtrode up to Montoni.'
“ Signor,” ſaid he, with a ſignificant.
look at Orſino,," we are not a band of af:
falſins; if you have buſineſs for brave men,
employ me on this expedition : you ſhall
have the laſt drop of my blood ; if you
have only work for cowards keep him,
pointing to Orſino, “ and let me quit
Udolpho.”
Orſino, ftill more incenſed, again drev
forth his ſtilletto, and ruſhed towards Ve:
rezzi, who, at the ſame inſtant, advanced
with his ſword, when Montoni and the
reſt of the party interfered and ſeparated
them.
“ This is the conduct of a boy,” ſaid
Montoni:
-
-
- -
-
- ----


( 62 )
Montoni to Verezzi, « not of a man : be
more moderate in your ſpeech."
“ Moderation is the virtue of cowards,'*
retorted Verezzi ; " they are moderate in
every thing but in fear.”
· " I accept your words," ſaid Montoni,
turning upon him with a fierce and haughty:
look, and drawing his ſword out of the
fcabbard.
." With all my heart," cried Verezzi,
" though I did not mean them for you.”
He directed a paſs at Montoni ; and,
while they fought, the villain Orſino made:
another attempt to ſtab Verezzi, and was
again prevented..
The combatants were, at length, fepa-
rated ; and, after a very long and violent
diſpute, reconciled. Montoni then left the
room with Orſino, whom he detained in:
private conſultation for a conſiderable:
time.
Emily, meanwhile, ſtunned by the laſt
words of Montoni, forgot, for the momenty
his declaration, that ſhe ſhould continue in,
the
i


( 63. )
the caſtle, while he thought of her unfore
tunate aunt, who, he had ſaid, was laid in
the eaſt turret. In ſuffering the remains
of his wife to lie thus long unburied, there
appeared a degree of brutality more ſhock-
ing than ſhe had ſuſpected even Montoni
could practiſe.
After a long ſtruggle, ſhe determined to
accept his permiffion to viſit the turret, and
s to take a laſt look of her ill fated aunt :
with which deſign ſhe returned to her
chanıber, and, while ſhe waited for An,
nette to accompany her, endeavoured to
acquire fortitude ſufficient to ſupport her
through the approaching ſcene; for, though
the trembled to encounter it, the knew that
to remember the performance of this laſt
act of duty would hereafter afford her con.
ſoling ſatisfaction.
Annette came, and Emily mentioned
her purpoſe, from which the former en-
deavoured to diffuade her, though without
effect, and Annette was, with much diffi.
culty, prevailed upon to accompany her
to


( 64 )
to the turret; but no confideration could
make her promiſe to enter the chamber of
death.
They now left the corridor; and, having:
reached the foot of the ſtair-caſe, which
Emily had formerly afcended, Annette de:
clared ſhe would go no further, and Emily
proceeded alone. When ſhe faw the track
of blood, which ſhe had before obſerved,
her ſpirits fainted, and, being compelled to
reſt on the ſtairs, ſhe almoft determined
to proceed no further. The pauſe of a few
moments: reſtored her reſolution, and the
went on.
As ſhe drew near the landing place, up-
on which the upper chamber opened, ſhe
remembered, that the door: was formerly
faſtened, and apprehended, that it might
ſtill be ſo. In this expectation, however,
ſhe was miſtaken ; for the door opened at
once into a duſky and filent chamber, round
which the fearfully looked, and then low-
ly advanced, when a hollow voice ſpoke.
· Emily, who was unable to ſpeak, or to
as
move:


( 65 )
ve
move from the ſpot, uttered no found of
terror. The voice ſpoke again ; and then,
thinking that it reſembled that of Madame
Montoni, Emily's ſpirits were inſtantly
rouſed; ſhe ruſhed towards a bed, that
ſtood in a remote part of the room, and
drew aſide the curtains. Within, appeared
a palę and emaciated face. She ſtarted
back, then again advanced, ſhuddered as
the took up the ſkeleton hand, that lay
ſtretched upon the quilt; then let it drop,
and then viewed the face with a long, un.
ſettled gaze. It was that of Madame Mon.
toni, though ſo changed by illneſs, that the
reſemblance of what it had been could
ſcarcely be traced in what it now appeared.
She was ſtill alive, and, raiſing her heavy
cyes, ſhe turned them on her niece.
.. or Where have you been ſo long?" ſaid
The, in the ſame hollow tone, “ I thought
you had forſaken me."
i “ Do you indeed live," ſaid Emily, at
length, “ or is this but a terrible appari-
tion?” She received no anſwer, and agaia
lhe


( 66 )
the ſnatched up the hand. “ This is fube
ſtance,” ſhe exclaimed, “ but it is cold
cold as marble !” She let it fall. “O, if
you really live, ſpeak !" ſaid Emily, in a
voice of deſperation, " that I may not loſe
my ſenſes---fay you know me!"
"I do live,” replied Madame Montoni,
“ but I feel that I am about to die."
Emily claſped the hand ſhe held, more
eagerly, and groaned. They were both
ſilent for ſome moments. Then Emily
endeavoured to footh her, and enquired
what had reduced her to this preſent de
plorable ſtate.
Montoni, when he removed her to the
turret under the improbable ſuſpicion of
having attempted his life, had ordered the
men, employed on the occaſion to obſerve
a ſtriet ſecrecy concerning her. To this
he was influenced by a double motive. He
meant to debar her from the comfort of
Emily's viſits, and to ſecure an opportunity
of privately diſpatching her, ſhould any
new circumſtances occur to confirm the
prefent


( 67 )
preſent ſuggeſtions of his ſuſpecting mind,
His conſciouſneſs of the hatred he deſerved
it was natural enough ſhould at firſt lead
him to attribute to her the attempt that
had been made upon his life; and, though
there was no other reaſon to believe that
the was concerned in that atrocious deſign,
bis ſuſpicions remained; he continued to
confine her in the turret, under a ſtrict
guard; and, without pity or remorſe, had
ſuffered her to lie, forlorn and neglected,
under a raging fever, till it had reduced her
to the preſent ſtate,
· The track of blood, which Emily had
ſeen on the ſtairs, had flowed from the uns
bound wound of one of the men employed
to carry Madame Montoni, and which he
had received in the late affray. At night
theſe men, having contented themſelves
with ſecuring the door of their priſoner's
room, had retired from guard; and then
it was, that Emily, at the time of her firſt
enquiry, had found the turret ſo bilent and
deſerted. . .i
When


( 68 )
When ſhe had attempted to open the
door of the chamber, her aunt was neep-
ing, and this occafioned the ſilence, which
had contributed to delude her into a belief,
chat ſhe was no more; yet had her terror
permitted her to perſevere longer in the
call, fhe would probably have awakened
Madame Montoni, and have been ſpareď
much ſuffering. The ſpectacle in the por:
tal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed
Emily's horrible fufpicion, was the corpſë
of a man, who had fallen in the affray, and
the ſame which had been borne into the ſer:
vants" hall, where ſhe took refuge from the
tumult. This man had lingered under his
wounds for ſome days; and, ſoon after his
death, his body had been removed on the
couch, on which he died, for interment
in the vault beneath the chapel, through
which Emily and Barnardine had paſſed to
the chamber. .
Emily, after aſking Madame Montoni a
thouſand queſtions concerning herſelf, left
her, and ſought Montoni;. for the more
folemn


( 63 )
ſolemn intereſt ſhe felt for her aunt, made
her now regardleſs of the reſentment her
remonſtrances might draw upon herſelf,
and of the improbability of his granting
what the meant to entreat.
“ Madame Montoni is now dying, fir,”
faid Emily, as ſoon as ſhe ſaw him " Your
reſentment, ſurely, will not purſue her to
the laſt moment! Suffer her to be removed
from that forlorn room to her own apart-
ment, and to have neceſſary comforts ad-
miniſtered.”
• Of what ſervice will that be, if ſhe is
dying ?” faid Montoni, with apparent in-
difference.
..“ The ſervice, at leaſt, of ſaving you,
fir, from a few of thoſe pangs of conſcience
you muſt ſuffer, when you ſhall be in the
ſame fituation,” ſaid Emily, with imprudent
indignation, of which Montoni foon made
her ſenſible, by commanding her to quit his
preſence. Then, forgetting her reſentment,
and impreſſed only by compaſſion for the
piteous ſtate of her aunt, dying without
ſuccour,


( 70 )
fuccour, ſhe ſubmitted to humble herſelf
to Montoni, and to adopt every perſuaſive
means, that might reduce him to relent to.
waids his wife,
For a conſiderable time he was proof
againſt all ſhe ſaid, and all the looked; but
at length the divinity of pity, beaming in
Emily's eyes, ſeemed to touch his heart.
He turned away, aſhamed of his better
feelings, half fullen and half relenting ;
but finally conſented, that his wife ſhould
be removed to her own apartment, and
that Emily ſhould attend her. Dreading
equally, that this relief might arrive too
tate, and that Montoni miglit retraet his
conceſſion, Emily ſcarcely ſtaid to thank
him for it, but, afliſted by Annette, The
quickly prepared Madame Montoni's bed,
and they carried her a cordial, that might
enable her feeble frame to ſuſtain the fa-
tigue of a removal.
Madame was ſcarcely arrived in her own
apartment, when an order was given by her
huſband, that ſhe ſhould remain in the tur-
ret ;


( 71 )
ret; but Emily, thankful that ſhe had made
ſuch diſpatch, haſtened to inform bim of
it, as well as that a ſecond removal would
inſtantly prove fatal, and he ſuffered his
wife to continue where ſhe was.
During this day, Emily never left Ma-
dame Montoni, except to prepare ſuch
little nouriſhing things as ſhe judged ne-
ceſſary to ſuſtain her, and which Madame
Montoni received with quiet acquieſcence,
though ſhe ſeemed ſenſible that they could
not ſave her from approaching diffolution,
and ſcarcely appeared to wiſh for life.
Emily meanwhile watched over her with
the moſt tender ſolicitude, no longer ſeeing
her imperious aunt in the poor object be-
fore her, but the fifter of her late beloved
father, in a ſituation that called for all
her compaſſion and kindneſs. When night :
came, the determined to fit up with her
aunt, but this the latter poſitively forbade,
commanding her to retire to reſt, and An-
nette alone to remain in her chamber.
Reſt


( 72 )
Reſt was, indeed; neceſſary to Emily, whoſe
ſpirits and frame were equally wearied by
the occurrences and exertions of the day ;
but ſhe would not leave Madame Montoni
till after the turn of midnight, a period then
thought ſo critical by the phyſicians.
Soon after twelve, having enjoined An-
nette to be wakeful, and to call her, ſhould
any change appear for the worſe, Emily
ſorrowfully bade Madame Montoni good
night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her
ſpirits were more than uſually depreſſed by
the piteous condition of her aunt, whoſe
recovery The ſcarcely dared to expect. To
her own misfortunes ſhe ſaw no period,
incloſed as ſhe was, in a remote caſtle,
beyond the reach of any friends, had the
poſſeſſed ſuch, and beyond the pity even of
ſtrangers; while ſhe knew herſelf to be in
the power of a man capable of any action,
which his intereſt, or his ambition, might
ſuggeſt.
Occupied by melancholy reflections and
ines
by


( 73 )
by anticipations as ſad, ſhe did not retire
immediately to reſt, but leaned thought-
fully on her open caſement. The ſcene
before her of woods and mountains, re-
poſing in the moon-light, formed a re-
gretted contraſt with the ſtate of her mind; :
but the lonely murmur of theſe woods, and
the view of this ſleeping landſcape, gra-
dually ſoothed her einotions and ſoftened
her to tears.
She continued to weep, for ſome time,
loft to every thing, but to a gentle ſenſe of
· her misfortunes. When ſhe, at length,
took the handkerchief from her eyes, the
perceived, before her, on the terrace be-
low, the figure ſhe had formerly obſerved,
which ſtood fixed and ſilent, immediate,
oppoſite to her caſement. On perceivin..
it, ſhe ſtarted back, and terror for Com
time overcame curioſity ;-at length, as
returned to the caſement, and find
figure was before it, which the now com
pelled herſelf to obſerve, but was vi
unable to ſpeak, as ſhe had formei !
tended. The moon ſhone with a con
VOL. III.
E


( 74 )
Tight, and it was, perhaps, the agitation of
her mind, that prevented her diſtinguiſh-
ing, with any degree of accuracy, the form
before her. It was ſtill ſtationary, and ſhe
began to doubt, whether it was really ani-
mated.
Her ſcattered thoughts were now ſo far
returned as to remind her, that her light
expoſed her to dangerous obſervation, and
She was ſtepping back to remove it, when
The perceived the figure move, and then
wave what ſeemed to be its arm, as if to
beckon her; and, while ſhe gazed, fixed
in fear, it repeated the action. She now
attempted to ſpeak, but the words died on
her lips, and ſhe went from the caſement to
remove her light; as ſhe was doing which,
ſhe heard, from withoại, a faint groan.
Liſtening, but not daring to return, the
preſently heard it repeated.
• Good God!-what can this mean!”
ſaid ſhe.
Again the liſtened, but the found came
no more; and, after a long interval of
filence, the recovered courage enough to


( 75 )
go to the caſement, when the again faw
the ſame appearance! It beckoned again,
and again uttered a low ſound.
" That groan was furely human !” ſaid
Nae. « I will ſpeak.” “ Who is it," cried
Emily in a faint voice, “ that wanders at
this late hour?"
The figure raiſed its head, but ſuddenly
ſtarted away, and glided down the terrace.
She watched it, for a long while, palling
ſwiftly in the moon-light, but heard no
footſtep, till a fentinel from the other extre-
mity of the rampart walked Nowly along.
The man ſtopped under her window, and,
looking up, called her by name. She
was retiring precipitately, but, a ſecond
fummons inducing her to reply, the fol-
dier then reſpectfully aſked if ſhe had
ſeen any thing paſs. On her anſwering,
that ſhe had ; he ſaid no more, but walked
away down the terrace, Emily following
him with her eyes, till he was loſt in the
diſtance. But, as he was on guard, ſhe
knew he could not go beyond the ram-
part,
Was
E a


(76)
part, and, therefore, reſolved to await his
return.
Soon after, his voice was heard, at a diſ-
tance, calling loudly; and then a voice ſtill
more diſtant anſwered, and, in the next
moment, the watch-word was given, and
paffed along the terrace. As the ſoldiers
moved haſtily under the caſement, ſhe
called to enquire what had happened, but
they paſſed without regarding her.
Emily's thoughts returning to the figure
ſhe had ſeen, " It cannot be a perſon, who
has deſigns upon the caſtle," ſaid ſhe;
“ ſuch an one would conduct himſelf very
differently. He would not venture where
ſentinels were on watch, nor fix himſelf
oppoſite to a window, where he perceived
he muſt be obſerved ; much leſs would
he beckon, or utter a ſound of complaint.
Yet it cannot be a priſoner, for how could
he obtain the opportunity to wander thus?”
If ſhe had been ſubject to vanity, ſhe
might have ſuppoſed this figure to be
ſome inhabitant of the caſtle, who wander-
ed


( 77 )
ed under the caſement in the hope of fee-
ing her, and of being allowed to declare
his admiration; but this opinion never oc-
curred to Emily, and, if it had, ſhe would
have diſmiſſed it as improbable, on con-
fidering, that, when the opportunity of
ſpeaking had occurred, it had been ſuffered
to paſs in ſilence; and that, even at the
moment in which ſhe had ſpoken, the
form had abruptly quitted the place..
While ſhe muſed, two ſentinels walked
up the rampart in earneſt converſation, of
which ſhe caught a few words, and learned
from there, that one of their comrades had
fallen down ſenſeleſs. Soon after, three
other ſoldiers appeared Nowly advancing
from the bottom of the terrace, but the
heard only a low voice, that came at inter-
vals. As they drew near, ſhe perceived
this to be the voice of him who walked in
the middle, apparently ſupported by his
comrades; and the again called to them,
enquiring what had happened. At the
found of her voice, they ſtopped, and
• E3
looked


( 78 )
looked up, while the repeated her queſtion,
and was told, thar Roberto, their fellow
of the watch, had been ſeized with a fir,
and that his cry, as he fell, had cauſed a
falſe alarm.
• Is he ſubject to fits.” ſaid Emily.
“ Yes, Signora," replied Roberto; “ but
if I had not, what I ſaw was enough to have
frightened the Pope himſelf.”
“ What was it?” enquired Emily, trem-
bling.
"I cannot tell what it was, l'ady, or
what I ſaw, or how it vaniſhed,” replied
the ſoldier, who ſeenied to ſhudder at the
recollection.
“ Was it the perfon, whom you followed
down the rampart, that has occaſioned you
this alarm?” ſaid Emily, endeavouring to
conceal her own.
• Perſon !” exclaimed the man, " it
was the devil, and this is noi the firſt time
I have feen him!”
« Nor will it be the laſt,” obſerved one.
of his comrades, laughing.
6 No,


( 99 )
ellia . No, no, I warrant not,” ſaid another.
fello “Well,” rejoined Roberto, “ you may
a fi be as merry now, as you pleaſe; you was
fed none ſo jocoſe the other night, Sebaſtian,
when you was on watch with Launcelor."
“Launcelot need not talk of char," re.
chi plied Sebaſtian, « let him remember how
he ſtood trembling, and unable to give the
word, tilt the man was gone. If the man
me had not come ſo filently upon us, I would
have ſeized him, and ſoon made him tell
who he was."
"What man ?” enquired Emily.
" It was no man, lady,” ſaid Launcelot,
who ſtood by, “but the devil himſelf, as
my comrade ſays. What man, who does
700 live in the caſtle, could get within the
walls at midnight? Why, I might juſt as
well pretend to march to Venice, and get
among all the ſenators, when they are
counſelling; and I warrant I ſhould have
more chance of getting out again alive,
than any fellow, that we ſhould catch with-
ir the gates after dark. So I think I have
proved
he
SD
a
E 4.


( 80 )
proved plainly enough, that this can be
- nobody that lives out of the caſtle; and
now I will prove, that it can be nobody
that lives in the caſtle-for, if he did
why ſhould he be afraid to be ſeen? So
after this, I hope nobody will pretend to tell
me it was anybody, · No, I ſay again, by
holy Pope ! it was the devil, and Sebaf-
rian, there, knows this is not the firſt time
we have ſeen him.” ,;..
“ When did you ſee the figure, then,
before ?” ſaid Emily half ſimiling, who,
though ſhe thought the converſation fome-
what too much, felt an intereſt, which
would not permir her to conclude ir. ..!
“ About a week ago, lady,” ſaid Sebal-
tian, taking up the ſtory..
* And where ?”
“On the rampart, lady, higher up."
« Did you purſue it, that it fled ?".
“ No, Signora. Launcelot and I were
on watch together, and every thing was ſo
ſtill you might have heard a mouſe ſtir,
when, ſuddenly, Launcelot ſays-Sebaf.
an!


( 81 )
Or
cian ! do you ſee nothing? I turned my
head a little to the left, as it might be
thus. No, ſays I. Hulh! ſaid Launce-
lot,-look yonder-.juſt by the laſt cannon
on the rampart! I looked, and then
thought I did ſee ſomething move; but
there being no light, but what the ſtars
gave, I could not be certain. We ſtood
quite ſilent, to watch it, and preſently faw
fomething paſs along the caſtle wall juſt
oppoſite to us!”
" Why did not you ſeize it, then?”
į cried a ſoldier, who had ſcarcely ſpoken
eill now.
“Aye, why did you not ſeize it?” ſaid.
Roberto.
" You ſhould have been there to have
done that,” replied Sebaſtian. “ You
would have been bold enough to have
i taken it by the throat, though it had been
the devil himſelf; we could not take fuch
a liberty, perhaps becauſe we are not ſo
well acquainted with him, as you are.
Buty, as I was ſaying, it ſtole by us ſo
ES : quickly!


( 82 )
O Blora
quickly, that we had not time to get rid
of our ſurpriſe, before it was gone. Then,
we knew it was in vain to follow. We
kept conſtant watch all that night, but we
law it no more. Next morning, we told
ſome of our comrades, who were on duty
on other parts of the ramparts, what we
had ſeen; but they had feen nothing, and
laughed at us, and it was not till to.night
that the fame figure walked again."
Where did you loſe it, friend?” ſaid
Emily to Roberto.
- When I left you, lady," replied the
man, “ you might ſee me go down the
rampart, but it was not till I reached the
eam terrace, that I ſaw any thing. Then,
the moon ſhining bright, I ſaw fomething
like a ſhadow flitting before me, as it
were, at ſome diſtance. I ſtopped, when
I turned the corner of the eaſt tower,
where I had ſeen this figure not a moment
before, but it was gone! As I ſtood,
looking through the old arch, which leads:
$o the eaſt rampart, and where I am ſure
,


( 83 )
it had paſſed, I heard, all of a ſudden,
ſuch a ſound !-It was not like a groan, or
a cry, or a ſhout, or any thing I ever heard
in my life. I heard it only once, and that
was enough for me; for I know nothing
that happened after, till I found my com-
rades, here, about me.”
“ Come,” ſaid Sebaſtian, “ let us go-to
our poſts—the moon is ſetting. Good
night, lady!""
" Aye, let us go," rejoined Roberto.
“ Good night, lady;"
" Good night; the holy mother guard
you!” ſaid Enrily, as the cloſed her caſe.'
ment and retired to reflect upon the ſtrange
2. circumſtance that had juſt occurred, con-'
necting which with what had happened on:
former nights, The endeavoured to derive'
from the whole ſomething more poſitive,.
chan conjecture. But her imagination was
-> inflamed, while her judgment was not en-'
lightened, and the terrors of ſuperſtition ,
- again pervaded her mind. .
E6
CHAP


( 84 )
CH A P. IV.
iiii..... “ There is one within,
Beſides the things, that we have heard and ſeen,
Recounts moſt horrid fights, ſeen by the watch."
Julius CÆSAR.
In the morning, Emily found Madame
Montoni nearly in the ſame condition, as
on the preceding night; ſhe had ſlept lite
tle, and that little had not refreſhed her;
The Iniled on her niece, and leemed cheered
by her preſence, but ſpoke only a few
words, and never named Montoni, who,
however, foon after, entered the room. His
wife, when ſhe underſtood that he was
there, appeared much agitated, but was
entirely ſilent, till Emily roſe from a chair
at the bed-ſide, when ſhe begged, in a fee..
ble voice, that ſhe would not leave her.
The


( 85 )
The viſit of Montoni was not to footh
his wife, whom he knew to be dying, or
to conſole, or to aſk her forgiveneſs, but to
make a laſt effort to procure that ſignature,
which would transfer her eſtates in Lan-
guedoc, after her death, to him rather than
to Emily. This was a ſcene, that exhi-
bited, on his part, his uſual inhumanity,
and, on that of Madame Montoni, a per-
fevering ſpirit, contending with a feeble
frame; while Emily repeatedly declared
to him her willingneſs to reſign all claim
to thoſe eſtates, rather than that the laſt
hours of her aunt thould be diſturbed by
contention. Montoni, however, did not
leave the room, till his wife, exhauſted by
the obſtinate diſpute, had fainted, and ſhe
lay ſo long inſenſible, that Emily began
to fear that the ſpark of life was extin-
guiſhed. At length, ſhe revived, and,
looking feebly up at her niece, whoſe tears
were falling over her, made an effort to
fpeak, but her words were unintelligible,
and Emily again apprehended ſhe was dy-
ing.


( 86 )
ing. Afterwards, however, the recov e red
her ſpeech, and, being ſomewhat reſtored
by a cordial, converſed for a conſiderable
time, on the ſubject of her eſtates in France,
with clearneſs and preciſion. She directed
her niece where to find ſome papers rela-
tive to them, which ſhe had hiiherto con-
cealed from the ſearch of Montoni, and
earneſtly charged her never to ſuffer theſe
papers to eſcape her.
Soon after this converſation, Madame
Montoni'ſunk into a doze, and continued
flumbering, till evening, when ſhe fèemed
better than ſhe had been ſince her removal
from the turret. Emily never left her, for
a moment, till long after midnight, and.
even then would not have quitted the room,
had not her aunt entreated, that ſhe would
retire to reft. She then obeyed, the more
willingly, becauſe her patient appeared
ſomewhat recruited by ſleep; and, giving
Annette the ſame injunction, as on the
preceding night, ſhe withdrew to her own
apartnient. But her ſpirics were: wakeful-
andi


( 87 g
SLO
and agitated, and, finding it impoffibte for
ſteep, ſhe determined to watch, once more,
for the myſterious appearance, that had ſo
much intereſted and alarmed her.
It was now the ſecond watch of the
night, and about the time when the figure
had before appeared. Emily heard the
paſſing ſteps of the ſentinels, on the ram-
part, as they changed guard ; and, when all
was again filent, ſhe took her ſtation at the
caſement, leaving her lamp in a remote
part of the chamber, that ſhe might eſcape
notice from without. The moon gave a
faint and uncertain light, for heavy vapours
ſurrounded it, and, often rolling over the
diſk, left the ſcene below in total dark-
Reſs. It was in one of theſe moments of
obfcurity, that the obſerved a ſmall and
lambent flame, moving at ſome diſtance on
the terrace. While ſhe gazed, it diſap-
peared, and, the moon again emerging
from the lurid and heavy thunder clouds,
the turned her attention to the heavens,
where the vivid lightnings darted from
cloud
100


. . ( 88 ).
OUD
troud to cloud, and flaſhed filently on the
woods below. She loved to catch, in the
momentary gleam, the gloomy landſcape.
Sometimes, a cloud opened its light upon
a diſtant mountain, and, while the ſudden
fplendour illumined all its receſſes of rock
and wood, the reſt of the ſcene remained in
deep ſhadow ; at others, partial features of
· the caſtle were revealed by the glimpſe
the ancient arch leading to the eaſt ramparty
the turret above, or the fortifications be-
yond ; and then, perhaps, the whole edifice
with all its towers, its dark mafly walls and
pointed caſements would appear,and vaniſh:
in an inſtant.
· Emily, looking again upon the rampart,
perceived the flame lhe had ſeen before ;
it moved onward; and, foon after, ſhe
thought ſhe heard a footſtep. The lighe
appeared and difappeared frequently, while
as ſhe watched, it glided under her caſe,
ments, and, at the ſame inſtant, ſhe was:
certain, that a footſtep paſſed, but the
darkneſs did not permit her to diſtinguilh
any


( 89 )
any object except the flame. It moved
away, and then, by a gleam of lightning,
ſhe perceived ſome perſon on the terrace.
All the anxieties of the preceding night re-
turned. This perſon advanced, and the play,
ing flame alternately appeared and vaniſhed.
Emily wiſhed to ſpeak, to end her doubts,
whether this figure were humanor ſuperna-
tural ; but her courage failed as often as ſhe
attempted utterance, till the light moved
again under the caſement, and the faintly
demanded; who paſſed
“ A friend,” replied a voice.
" Whar friend," ſaid Emily, ſomewhat
encouraged, “ who are you, and what is
chat light you carry ?"
“I am Anthonio, one of the Signor's
ſoldiers," replied the voice.
" And what is that tapering light you
bear?” ſaid Emily,“ See how it darts up-
wards,--and now it vaniſhes !"
“ This light, lady,” ſaid the ſoldier,
“ has appeared to night as you ſee it, on
the point of my lance, ever ſince I have
been


( go )
been on watch; but what it means I can
not tell.”
“ This is very ſtrange !" ſaid Emily.
“My fellow-guard,” continued the mart,
* has the ſame flame on his arms; he ſays
he has ſometimes ſeen it before. I never did ;
I am but lately come to the caſtle, for I
have not been long a ſoldier.”,
." How does your comrade account for
it?” ſaid Emily.
: “ He ſays ic is an omen, lady, and bodes
* no good.”
" And what harm can it bode?" rejoined
Emily,
4" He knows not ſo much as that, lady." .
Whether Emily was alarmed by this
omen, or not,' ſhe certainly was relieved
from much terror by diſcovering this man
to be only a ſoldier on duty, and it imme-
diately occurred to her, that it might be
he, who had occaſioned ſo much aların on
the preceding night. There were, how-
ever, ſome circumſtances, that ſtill required
explanation. As far as ſhe could judge
by.


were
Le
by the faint moon-light, that had aſlifted
her obſervation, the figure ſhe had ſeen did
not reſeinble this man either in thape or .
fize; beſides, ſhe was certain it had carried
no arms. The filence of its ſteps, if ſteps
it had, the moaning ſounds, too, which it
had uttered, and its ſtrange diſappearance,
were circumſtances of myſterious import,
that did not apply, with probability, to a
foldier engaged in the duty of his guard.
She now enquired of the ſentinel, whether
he had ſeen any perſon beſides his fellow -
watch, walking on the terrace, about mid-
night ; and then briefly related what the
had herſelf obſerved.
“I was not on guard that night, lady,"
replied the man,“ but I heard of what hap
pened. There are amongſt us, who believe
ſtrange things. Strange ſtories, too, have
long been told of this caſtle, but it is no bu-
Gneſs of mine to repeat them; and, for my
part, I have no reaſon to complain; our
Chief does, nobly by us,"?
“I como


( 92 )
“ I commend your prudence," ſaid Emi.
ly. “ Good night, and accept this from
me,” ſhe added, throwing him a fmall piece
of coin, and then cloſing the caſement to
put an end to the diſcourſe..
When he was gone, Ne opened it again,
liſtened with a gloomy pleaſure to the dif-
tant chunder, that began to murmur among
the mountains, and watched the arrowy
lightnings, which broke over the remoter
Icene. The pealing thunder rolled onward,
and then, reverbed by the mountains, other
thunder ſeemed to anſwer from the oppoſite
horizon; while the accumularing clouds,
entirely concealing the moon, affumed a red
fulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent
ftorm.
· Emily remained at her caſement, till the
vivid lightning, that now, every inftant,
Tevealed the wide horizon and the land-
ſcape below, made it no longer ſafe to do ſo,
and the went to her couch ; but, unable to
compoſe her mind to Deep, ſtill liftened


( 93 )
in Silent awe to the tremendous ſounds,
that ſeemed to ſhake the caſtle to its foundaa'
tion.
She had continued thus for a conſidera.
į ble time, when amidſt the uproar of the
ſtorm, ſhe thought ſhe heard a voice, and,
raiſing herſelf to liſten, ſaw the chamber
door open, and Annette enter with a coun-'
tenance of wild affright.'
“ She is dying, ma'amſelle, my lady is
dying !” ſaid ſhe. "
Emily ſtarted up, and ran to Madame
Montoni's room. When ſhe entered, her
aunt appeared to have fainted, for ſhe was
quite ſtill, and inſenſible; and Emily with
a ſtrength of mind, that refuſed to yield to
grief while any duty required her activity,
applied every means that ſeemed likely to
reſtore her. But the laſt ſtruggle was over
- ſhe was gone for ever.
When Emily perceived, that all her efa
forts were ineffectual, ſhe interrogated the *
terrified Annette, and learned, that Ma.
dame Montoni had fallen into a doze, foon
after
i
cal


( 94 )
after Emily's "departure, in which ſhe had
continued, until a few minutes before her
death.
“ I wondered, ma’amſelle,” ſaid Annette,
« what was the reaſon my lady did not
ſeem frightened at the thunder, when I
was ſo terrified, and I went often to the
bed to ſpeak to her, but ſhe appeared to be
aſleep; till preſently I heard a ſtrange
noiſe, and, on going to her, ſaw the was
dying."
Emily, at this recital, thed tears. She
had no doubt but that the violent change
in the air, which the tempeſt produced,
had effected this fatal one, on the exhauſted
frame of Madame Montoni.
After ſome deliberation, ſhe determined
that Montoni ſhould not be informed of
this event till the morning, for ſhe confi-
dered, that he night, perhaps, utter fome
inhuman expreſſions, ſuch as in the pre-
ſent temper of her ſpirits the could not
bear. With Annette alone, therefore,
whom ſhe encouraged by her own exam-
ple,


( 95 )
: ple, the performed ſome of the laſt rolemn
offices for the dead, and compelled herſelf
to watch during the night, by the body of
her deceaſed aunt. During this folemn pe-
riod, rendered more awful by the tremen-
dous ſtorm that ſhook the air, ſhe frequently
| addreſſed herſelf to Heaven for ſupport and
protection, and her pious prayers, we may
believe, were accepted of the God, that
giveth comfort.
CHAP.


( 95 )
CHA P. V. i
The midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell
Of Death beats ſlow ! heard ye the note profound ?
It pauſes now ; and now, with riſing knell,
Flings to the hollow gale its fullen found.”
Mason
HEN Montoni was informed of the
death of his wife, and conſidered that ſhe
had died without giving him the ſignature
ſo neceſſary to the accompliſhment of his
wiſhes, no ſenſe of decency reſtrained the
expreſſion of his reſentment. Emily anx.
iouſly avoided his preſence, and watched,
during two days and two nights, with lit-
tle intermiſſion, by the corpſe of her late
aunt. Her mind deeply impreſſed with
the unhappy fate of this object, ſhe forgot
all her faults, her unjuſt and imperious con-
duct to herſelf; and, remembering only
her


( 97 )
ker ſufferings, thought of her only with
tender compaſſion. Sometimes, however,
the could not avoid muſing upon the ſtrange
infatuation that had proved ſo fatal to her
aunt, and had involved herſelf in a laby-
rinth of misfortune, from which ſhe ſaw no
means of eſcaping, the marriage with
Montoni. But, when the conſidered this
circumſtance, it was “ more in ſorrow than
in anger,"—more for the purpoſe of indul-
ging lamentation, than reproach.
In her pious cares ſhe was not diſturbed
i by Montoni, who not only avoided the
chamber, where the remains of his wife
were laid, but that part of the caſtle ad-
joining to it, as if he had apprehended a
contagion in death. He ſeemed to have
I given no orders reſpecting the funeral, and
Emily began to fear he meant to offer a
new inſult to the memory of Madame
Montoni; but from this apprehenſion ſhe
was relieved, when, on the evening of the
ſecond day, Annette informed her, that
the interment was to take place that night.
VOL. III.
She


( 98 )
She knew, that Montoni would not attend;
and it was ſo very grievous to her to think
that the remains of her unfortunate aunt
would paſs to the grave without one relative,
or friend to pay them the laſt decent rites,
that ſhe determined to be deterred by no
conſiderations for herſelf, from obſerving
this duty. She would otherwiſe have
Ihrunk froin the circumſtance of following
them to the cold vault, to which they were
to be carried:by men, whoſe air and counte-
nances ſeemed to ſtamp thein for murderers,
at the midnight hourof ſilence and privacy,
which Montoni had choſen for committing,
if poſſible, to oblivion the reliques of a
woman, whom his harſh conduct had, at
leaſt, contributed to deſtroy.
Emily, ſhuddering with emotions of
horror and grief, aſſiſted by Annette, pre-
pared the corpſe for interment; and, hava
ing wrapt ic in cerements, and covered it
with a winding-theet, they watched beſide
it, till paſt midnight, when they heard
the approaching footſteps of the men, who
were


( 99 )
were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was
with difficulty, that Emily overcame her
emotion, when, the door of the chamber
being thrown open, their gloomy counte-
nances were ſeen by the glare of the torch
they carried, and two of them, without
ſpeaking, lifted the body on their ſhoulders,
while the third preceding them with the
light, deſcended through the caſtle towards
the grave, which was in the lower vault of
the chapel within the caſtle walls.
They had to croſs two courts, towards
the eaſt wing of the caſtle, which, adjoin-
ing the chapel, was, like it, in ruins : but
the ſilence and gloom of theſe courts had
now little power over Emily's mind, occu-
pied as it was, with more mournful ideas;
and the ſcarcely heard the low and diſ-
mal hooting of the night-birds, that rooft-
ed among the ivyed battlements of the
ruin, or perceived the ſtill fittings of the
bat, which frequently croſſed her way.
But, when, having entered the chapel, and
pafled between the mouldering pillars of
CCU
F2
the


( 100 )
the aiſles, the bearers ſtopped at a flight of
Ateps, that led down to a low arched door,
-and, their comrade having deſcended to un-
lock it, ſhe ſaw imperfectly the gloomy
abyſs beyond ;-ſaw the corpſe of her aunt
carried down theſe ſteps, and the ruffian-
like figure, that ſtood with a torch at the
bottom to receive it all her fortitude was
luft in emotions of inexpreſſible grief and
terror. She turned to lean upon Annette,
who was cold and trembling like herſelf,
and the lingered ſo long on the ſummit of
the flight, that the gleam of the torch be-
gan to die away on the pillars of the chapel,
and the men were almoſt beyond her view.
Then, the gloom around her awakening
other fears, and a ſenſe of what ſhe con-
ſidered to be her duty overcoming her re-
luctance, the deſcended to the vaults, fol.
lowing the echo of footſteps and the faint
ray, that pierced the darkneſs, till the
harſh grating of a diſtant door, that was
opened to receive the corpſe, again appalled
her.
After
10


( 101 )
After the pauſe of a moment, ſhe went
on, and, as ſhe entered the vaults, ſaw be-
tween the arches, at ſome diſtance, the meh
lay down the body near the edge of an open
grave, where ſtood another of Montoni's
men and a prieſt, whom ſhe did not ob-
ſerve, till he began the burial ſervice; then,
lifting her eyes from the ground, ſhe ſaw
the venerable figure of the friar, and heard
him in a low voice, equally folemn and af.
fecting, perform the ſervice for the dead.
At the moment, in which they let down
the body into the earth, the ſcene was ſuch
as only the dark pencil of a Domenichino,
perhaps, could have done juſtice to. The
fierce features and wild dreſs of the con-
dottieri, bending with their torches over the
grave, into which the corpſe was deſcend-
ing, were contraſted by thé venerable figure
of the monk, wrapt in long black gar-
ments, his cowl thrown back from his pale
face, on which the light gleaming ſtrongly
Dewed the lines of affliction ſoftened by
piety, and the few grey locks, which time
had
F 3


( 103 )
to the courts, amuſed themſelves with jokes
upon his holy order, which he endured in
filence, demanding only to be conducted
fafely to his convent, and to which Emily
liſtened with concern and even horror.
When they reached the court, the monk
gave her his bleſſing, and, after a lingering
look of picy, turned away to the portal,
whither one of the men carried a torch ;
while Annette, lighting another, preceded
Einily to her apartinent. The appearance
of the friar and the expreſſion of tender
compaffion, with which he had regarded
her, had intereſted Emily, who, though it
was at her earneſt fupplication, that Mon-
toni had conſented to allow a prieſt to per-
forin the laſt rites for his deceaſed wife,
knew nothing concerning this perſon, till
Annette now informed her, that he .be.
longed to a monaſtery, ſituated among the
mountains at a few miles diſtance. The
Superior, who regarded Mɔntoni and his
aſſociates, not only with averſion, but with
terror, had probably feared to offend him
F4
by


( 102 )
had ſpared on his temples: while, beſide
him, ſtood the ſofrer form of Emily, who
Jeaned for ſupport upon Annette; her face
half averted, and ſhaded by a thin veil,
that fell over her figure; and her mild and
beautiful countenance fixed in grief ſo fo-
lemn as admitted not of tears, while the
thus faw committed untimely to the earth
her laſt relative and friend. The gleanis,
thrown between the arches of the vaults,
where, here and there, the broken ground
marked the ſpots in which other bodies had
been recently interred, and the general ob-
ſcurity beyond were circumſtances,- that
alone would have led on the imagination
of a ſpectator to ſcenes more horrible, than
even that, which was pictured at the grave
of the miſguided and unfortunate Madame
Montoni.
When the fervice was over, the friar re-
garded Emily with attention and ſurpriſe,
and looked as if he wiſhed to ſpeak to her,
but' was reſtrained by the preſence of the
condottieri, who, as they now led the way
to.


( 103 )
to the courts, amuſed themſelves with jokes
upon his holy order, which he endured in
filence, demanding only to be conducted
fafely to his convent, and to which Emily
liſtened with concern and even horror.
When they reached the court, the monk
gave her his bleſſing, and, after a lingering
look of pity, turned away to the portal,
whither one of the men carried a torch ;
while Annette, lighting another, preceded
Einily to her apartment. The appearance
of the friar and the expreſſion of tender
compaſſion, with which he had regarded
her, had intereſted Emily, who, though it
was at her earneſt fupplication, that Mon-
toni had conſented to allow a prieſt to per-
form the laſt rites for his deceaſed wife,
knew nothing concerning this perſon, till
Annette now informed her, that he «be-
longed to a monaſtery, ſituated among the
mountains at a few miles diſtance. The
Superior, who regarded Mɔntoni and his
affociates, not only with averſion, but with
terror, had probably feared to offend him
F 4
by


( 104 )
by refuſing his requeſt, and had, therefore,
ordered a monk to officiate at the funeral,
who, with the meek ſpirit of a chriſtian,
had overcome his reluctance to enter the
walls of ſuch a caſtle, by the wiſh of per-
forming what he conſidered to be his duty,
and, as the chapel was built on confecrated
ground, had not objected to commit to it
the remains of the late unhappy Madame
Montoni.
,, Several days paffed with Emily in total
feclufion, and in a ſtate of mind partaking
both of terror for herſelf, and grief for the
departed. She, at length, determined to
make other efforts to perſuade Montoni to
permit her return to France. Why he
ſhould wiſh to detain her, ſhe could ſcarce-
ly dare to conjecture, but it was too cer-
tain that he did ſo, and the abſolute refuſal
he had formerly given to her departure al-
lowed her little hope, that he would now.
conſent to it. But the horror, which his
preſence inſpired, made her defer, from day
to day, the menţion of this ſubject; and
: at


( 105 )
were n
at laſt ſhe was awakened from her inactie
vity only by a meſſage from him defiring
her attendance at a certain hour. She be-
gan to hope he meant to reſign, now that
her aunt was no more, the authority he had
uſurped over her ; till ſhe recollected, that
the eſtates, which had occaſioned ſo much
contention, were now hers, and ſhe then
feared Montoni was about to employ ſome
ftratagem for obtaining them, and that he
would detain her his priſoner, till he ſuc-.
ceeded. This thought, inſtead of over-
coming her with deſpondency, rouſed all
the latent powers of her fortitude into ac-
tion; and the property, which ſhe would
willingly have reſigned to ſecure the peace
of her aunt, ſhe reſolved that no common
ſufferings of her own thould ever compel
her to give to Montoni. , For Valancourt's
fake alſo the determined to preſerve theſe
eſtates, ſince they would afford that com-
petèncy, by which ſhe hoped to ſecure the
comfort of their future lives. , As fhe
thought of this, ſhe indulged the tenderneſs
F5
as


( 106 )
as often, and anticipated the delight of that
moment, when, with affectionate genero-
fity, ſhe might tell him they were his own.
She ſaw the ſmile, that lighted up his fea-
tures the affectionate regard, which ſpoke
at once his joy and thanks; and at this
inſtant ſhe believed ſhe could brave any
ſuffering, which the evil ſpirit of Montoni
might be preparing for her. Remembering
then, for the firſt time fince her aunt's
death, the papers relative to the eſtates in
queſtion, the determined to ſearch for them,
as ſoon as her interview with Montoni was
över.
With theſe reſolutions ſhe met hiin at
the appointed time, and waited to hear his
intention before the renewed her requeſt.
With him were Orſino and another officer,
and both were ſtanding near a table, cover. .
ed with papers, which he appeared to be
examining.
“ I ſent for you, Emily,” ſaid Montoni,
raiſing his head, “ that you might be a
witneſs in ſome buſineſs, which I am tranſ.
1
acting


( 107 )
acting with my friend Orfino. All that
is required of you will be to ſign your
name to this paper :" he then took one up,
hurried unintelligibly over ſome lines, and,
laying it before her on the table, offered
her a pen. She took it, and was going to
write-- when the deſign of Montoni came
upon her mind like a falh of lightning ;
ſhe trembled, let the pen fall, and re-
fuſed to ſign what ſhe had not read. Mon.
toni affected to laugh at her ſcruples, and
taking up the paper again pretended to
read; but Emily, who ſtill trembled on
perceiving her danger, and was aſtoniſhed,
that her own credulity had ſo nearly be-
trayed her, poſitively refuſed to ſign any
paper whatever. Montoni, for ſome time,
perſevered in affecting to ridicule this re-
fuſal; but, when he perceived by her ſteady
perſeverance, that ſhe underſtood his de-
fign, he changed his manner; and bade her:
follow him to another room. There he
told her, that he had been willing to ſpare
himſelf and her the trouble of uſeleſs con--
- F 6.
teſt,


( 108 )
OU
teſt, in an affair, where his will was juſtice,
and where ſhe ſhould find it law; and had,
therefore, endeavoured to perſuade, rather
than to compel, her to the practice of her
duty.
" I, as the huſband of the late Signora
Montoni," he added, “ am the heir of all
fhe poſſeſſed; the eſtates, therefore, which
ſhe refuſed to nie in her life-time, can no
longer be withheld, and, for your own fake,
I would undeceive you, reſpecting a fooliſh
affertion ſhe once made to you in my hear-
ing—that theſe eſtates would be yours, if
ſhe died without reſigning them to me.
She knew at that moinent, ſhe had no
power to withhold them from me, after
her deceaſe; and I think you have more
ſenſe, than to provoke my reſentment ly
advancing an unjuſt claim. Lam not in
the habit of flattering, and you will, theré-
fore, receive, as ſincere, the praiſe I beftow,
when I ſay, that you poffefs an under-
ſtanding ſuperior to that of your fex; and
that you have none of thoſe contemptible
foibles,
Yer


( 109 )
foibles, that frequently mark the female
character-ſuch as avarice and the love
of power, which latter makes women de-
light to contradict and to teaſe, when they
cannot conquer. If I underſtand your dif-
poſition and your mind, you hold in ſove-
reign contempt theſe common failings of
your ſex.”
Montoni pauſed; and Emily remained
ſilent and expecting; for the knew him
too well, to believe he would condeſcend
to ſuch flattery, unleſs he thought it would
promote his own intereſt; and, though he
had forborne to name vanity among the
foibles of women, it was evident, that he
conſidered it to be a predominant one,
fince he defigned to ſacrifice to hers the
character and underſtanding of her whole
fex.
" Judging as I do,” reſumed Montoni,
“ I cannot believe you will oppoſe, where
you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed,
that you would wiſh to conquer, or be ava.
ricious of any property, when you have
not


(III
in )
allowance; but, if you perfilt in this ſtrain
-you have every thing to fear from my
juſtice.”
« From your juſtice, Signor,” rejoined
Emily, “ I have nothing to fear-I have
only to hope.”
Montoni looked at her with vexation,
,and ſeemed conſidering what to ſay. “I
find that you are weak enough,” he reſum-
ed, “to credit the idle aſſertion I alluded
to! For your own ſake I lament this; as
to me, it is of little conſequence. Your
credulity can puniſh only yourſelf; and I
muſt pity the weakneſs of mind, which
leads you to ſo much ſuffering as you are
compelling me to prepare for you."
“ You may find, perhaps, Signor,” ſaid
Emily, with mild dignity, 6 that the
ſtrength of my mind is equal to the juſtice
of my cauſe; and that I can endure with
fortitude, when it is in reſiſtance of op-
preſſion.”
" You ſpeak like a heroine,” ſaid Mon-
toni,


( II 2
112
toni, contemptuouſly; “ we ſhall ſee whe-
ther you can ſuffer like one."
Emily was filent, and he left the room.
Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt's
fake ſhe had thus reſiſted, ſhe now ſmiled
complacently upon the threatened ſufferings,
and retired to the ſpot, which her aunt had
pointed out as the repoſitory of the papers,
relative to the eſtates, where ſhe found
them as deſcribed ; and, ſince ſhe knew of
no better place of concealment, than this,
returned them, without examining their
contents, being fearful of diſcovery, while
the ihould attempt a peruſal.
To her own folitary chamber the once
more returned, and there thought again of
the late converſation with Montoni, and
of the evil the inight expect from oppofi-
tion to his will. But his power did not
appear ſo terrible to her imagination, as id
was wont to do: a ſacred pride was in her
heart, that taught it to ſwell againſt the
preſſure of injuſtice, and almoſt to glory in
the


( 113 )
the quiet ſufferance of ills, in a cauſe, which
bad alſo the intereſt of Valancourt for its
object. For the firſt time, ſhe felt the full
extent of her own ſuperiority to Montoni,
and deſpiſed the authority, which, till now,
ſhe had only feared.
As ſhe ſat muſing, a peal of laughter
roſe from the terrace, and, on going to the
caſement, the faw, with inexpreſſible ſur-
priſe, three ladies, dreſſed in the gala habit
of Venice, walking with ſeveral gentlemen
below. She gazed in an aſtoniſhment
that made her remain at the window, re.
gardleſs of being obſerved, till the group
paffed under it; and, one of the ſtrangers
looking up, the perceived the features of
Signora Livona, with whoſe manners The
had been ſo much charmed, the day after
her arrival at Venice, and who had been
there introduced at the table of Montoni.
This diſcovery occaſioned her an emotion
of doubtful joy; for it was matter of joy and
comfort to know, that a perſon, of a mind
ſo gentle, as that of Signora Livona ſeem-
@d


( 114 ) -
ed to be, was near her; yet there was
fomething ſo extraordinary in her being at
this caſtle, circumſtanced as it now was,
and evidently, by the gaiecy of her air, with
her own conſent, that a very painful ſur.
miſe aroſe, concerning her character. But !
the thought was ſo ſhocking to Emily,
whoſe affection the faſcinating manners of
the Signora had won, and appeared ſo
improbable, when the remembered theſe
manners, that me diſiniffed it almoſt in-
ftantly.
On Annette's appearance, however, the
enquired, concerning theſe ſtrangers; and
the former was as eager to tell, as Emily
was to learn.
" They are juſt come, ma'am ſelle,” ſaid
Annette, 6 with two Signors from Venice,
and I was glad to ſee ſuch Chriſtian faces
once again. But what can they mean by
coming here? They muſt-ſurely be ſtark
mad to come freely to ſuch a place as this!
Yet they do come freely, for they ſeem
merry enough, I am ſure.”
. “They


( 115 )
" They were taken priſoners, perhaps?"
1., ſaid Emily.
« Taken priſoners !” exclaimed An.
nette; “ no, indeed, ma'amſelle, not they.
I remember one of them very well at Ve-
nice: ſhe came two or three times to the
Signor's, you know, ma'amſelle, and it was
ſaid, but I did not believe a word of it-it
was ſaid that the Signor liked her better
than he ſhould do. Then why, ſays 1,
bring her to my lady? Very true, ſaid
Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew
more, too."
Emily deſired Annette would endeavour
to learn who theſe ladies were, as well as all
ſhe could concerning them; and ſhe then
changed the ſubject, and ſpoke of diſtant
France.
“ Ah, ma'amſelle! we ſhall never ſee it
more !” ſaid Annette, almoſt weeping.“
6 I muſt come on my travels, forfooth !”.
Emily tried to footh and to cheer her,
with a hope, in which the ſcarcely herſelf
indulged.
---
66 How


( 116 )
" How-how, ma’amſelle, could you
leave France, and leave Monſ. Valancourt,
too?" ſaid Annetre, ſobbing. “1-1-
am ſure, if Ludovico had been in France,
I would never have left it.”
“Why do you lament quitting France,
then?" ſaid Emily, trying to ſmile, “ſince,
if you had remained there, you would not
have found Ludovico ?”
" Ah, ma'amſelle ! I only wiſh I was
out of this frightful caſtle, ſerving you in
France, and I would care about nothing
elſe !"
.." Thank you, my good Annette, for
your affectionate regard ; the time will
come, I hope, when you may remember
the expreſſion of that with with pleaſure."
Annette departed on her buſinefs, and
Emily fought to lofe the ſenſe of her own
cares, in the viſionary ſcenes of the poet ;
but ſhe had again to lament the irreſiſtible
force of circumſtances over the taſte and
powers of the mind; and that it requires
a fpirit at eaſe to be ſenſible even to the
abſtract
ers


( 117 )
abſtract pleaſures of pure intellect. The
enthuſiaſm of genius, with all its pictured
fcenes, now appeared cold, and dim. As
ſhe mufed upon the book before her, ſhe
involuntarily exclaimed, “ Are theſe, in-
deed, the paffages, that have ſo often given
me exquiſite delight ? Where did the
charm exiſt ?—Was it in my mind, or in
the imagination of the poet? It lived in
each,” ſaid the, pauſing. " But the fire of.
t'he poet is vain, if the mind of his reader
is not tempered like his own, however it
may be inferior to his in power,” het
Emily would have purſued this train of
thinking, becauſe it relieved her from more.
painful reflection, but ſhe found again, that
thought cannot always be controlled by
will; and hers returned to the confidera-
tion of her own ſituation.
In the evening, not chooſing to venture
down to the ramparts, where ſhe would be
expoſed to the rude gaze of Montoni's af-
ſociates, the walked for air in the gallery,
adjoining her chamber ; on reaching the
further
rea


( 118 )
further end of which the heard diſtant
ſounds of merriment and laughter. It was
the wild uproar of riot, not the cheering
gaiety of tempered mirth; and ſeemed to
come from that part of the caſtle where
Montoni uſually was. Such ſounds at this
time, when her aunt had been ſo few days
dead, particularly Mocked her, conſiſtent
as they were with the late conduct of Mon-
toni.
As ſhe liſtened, ſhe thought ſhe diſtin. -
guilhed female voices mingling with the
laughter, and this confirmed her worſt
ſurmiſe, concerning the character of Şig.
nora Livona and her companions. It was
evident, that they had not been brought
hither by compulſion; and ſhe beheld her.
ſelf in the remote wilds of the Apennine,
ſurrounded by men, whom ſhe conſidered
to be little leſs than ruffians, and their
worſt affociates, amid ſcenes of vice, from
which her ſoul recoiled in horror. It was at
this moment, when the ſcenes of the pre-
ſent and the future opened to her imagina-
i
tion,


( 119 )
tion, that the image of Valancourt failed in
its influence, and her reſolution ſhook with
dread. She thought ſhe underſtood all the
horrors, which Montoni was preparing for
her, and ſhrunk from an encounter with
ſuch remorſeleſs vengeance, as he could in.
flict. The diſputed eſtates the now alınoſt
determined to yield at once, whenever he
ſhould again call upon her, that Me might
regain ſafety and freedom; but, then, the
remembrance of Valancourt would ſteal to
her heart, and plunge her into the diſtrac-
tions of doubt.
She continued walking in the gallery,
till evening threw its melancholy twilight
through the painted caſements, and deep.
ened the gloom of the oak wainſcoting
around her ; while the diſtant perſpective
of the corridor was ſo much obſcured, as
to be diſcernible only by the glimmering
window, that terminated it.
Along the vaulted halls and paſſages be-
low, peals of laughter echoed faintly, at
intervals, to this rernote part of the caſtle,
and


( 120 )
mo
and ſeemed to render the ſucceeding ſtill.
neſs more dreary, Emily, however, un-
willing to return to her more forlorn chan-
ber, whither Annette was not yet come,
ftill paced the gallery. As ſhe paſſed the
door of the apartment, where ſhe had once
dared to lift the veil, which diſcovered to
her a ſpectacle ſo horrible, that me had
never after remembered it, but with emo-
tions of indeſcribable awe, this remem.
brance ſuddenly recurred. It now brought
with it reflections more terrible, than it had
yet done, which the late conduct of Mon-
toni occaſioned; and, haftening to quit the
gallery, while ſhe had power to do ſo, the
heard a ſudden ſtep behind her.--It'might
be that of Annette; but, turning fearfully
to look, the law, through the gloom, a tall
figure following her, and all the horrors of
that chamber ruſhed upon her mind. In
the next moment, ſhe found herſelf claſped
in the arms of ſome perſon, and heard a
deep voice murmur in her ear.
When ſhe had power to ſpeak, or to dif-
tinguiſh


( 121 121
)
tinguiſh articulated ſounds, the demanded
who detained her.
.. “ It is I,” replied the voice Why are
you thus alarmed ?"
She looked on the face of the perſon who
ſpoke, but the feeble light, that gleamed
through the high caſement at the end of
the gallery, did not permit her to diſtin-
guiſh the features.
« Whoever you are,” ſaid Emily, in a
. trembling voice, « for heaven's fake let
me go !”
“ My charming Emily,” ſaid the man,
“why will you ſhut yourſelf up in this ob-
ſcure place, when there is ſo much gaiety
below ? Return with me to the cedar par-
lour, where you will be the faireſt orna-
ment of the party ;-you ſhall not repent
the exchange.”
Emily diſdained to reply, and ſtill en-
deavoured to liberate herſelf.
“ Promiſe, that you will come,” he
"I continued, “ and I will releaſe you imme-
VOL. 111.
diately ;


( 122
122 )
diately; but firſt give me a reward for ſo
doing.”
~ Who are you?" demanded Emily, in
a tone of mingled terror and indignation,
while ſhe ſtill ſtruggled for liberty—“' who
are you, that have the cruelty thus to in-
ſult me?"
: " Why call me cruel?” faid the man,
16 I would remove you from this dreary
ſolitude to a merry party below. Do you
not know me?".
Emily now faintly remembered, that he
was one of the officers who were with
Montoni when ſhe attended him in the
morning. “I thank you for the kindneſs
of your intention,” ſhe replied, without
appearing to underſtand him, “ but I will
for nothing ſo much as that you would
leave me."
“ Charming. Emily !' ſaid he, “give up
this fooliſh whim for folitude, and come
with me to the company, and eclipſe the
beauties, who make part of it ; you, only,
i
. are
are
.
.


: ( 123 )
i
are worthy of my love." He attempted
to kiſs her hand, but the ſtrong impulſe of
her indignation gave her power to liberate
herſelf, and the fled towards the chamber.
She cloſed the door, before he reached it,
having ſecured which, ſhe ſunk in a chair,
overcome by terror and by the exertion
The had made, while ſhe heard his voice,
and his attempts to open the door, without
having the power to raiſe herſelf. At
length, ſhe perceived him depart, and had
remained, liſtening, for a conſiderable time,
and was ſomewhat revived by not hearing
any ſound, when ſuddenly ſhe remembered
the door of the private ſtair-caſe, and that
he might enter that way, ſince it was faſt-
ened only on the other ſide. She then em.
ployed herſelf in endeavouring to ſecure
it, in the manner The had formerly done.
· It appeared to her, that Montoni had al-
ready commenced his ſcheme of vengeancé,
by withdrawing from her his protection,
and the repented of the raſhneſs, that had
made her brave the power of ſuch a man.
.
G2
To


( 124 ) :
To retain the eſtates ſeemed to be now ut-
terly impoſſible; and to preſerve her life,
perhaps her honour, ſhe reſolved, if ſhe
ſhould eſcape the horrors of this night, to
give up all claims to the eſtates, on the
morrow, provided Montoni would ſuffer
her to depart from Udolphio. :
When ſhe had come to this deciſion,
her mind became more compoſed, though
ſhe ſtill anxiouſly liſtened, and often ſtarted
at ideal ſounds, that appeared to iſſue from
the ſtair-cafe.
Having fat in darkneſs for ſome hours,
during all which time Annette did not ap-
pear, ſhe began to have ſerious apprehen-
fions for her ; but, not daring to venture
down into the caſtle, was compelled to re-
main in uncertainty, as to the cauſe of this
unuſual abſence.
Emily often ſtole to the ſtair-cafe door,
to liſten if any ſtep approached, but ſtill no
ſound alarmed her; determining, however,
to watch, during the night, ſhe once more
reſted on her dark and deſolate couch,
and


(126)
ing, and re-aſſuring her :-“ Pleaſant as
the gale of ſpring, that fighs on the hun-
ter's ear, when he awakens from dreams
of jy, and has heard the mufic of the
fpirits of the hill *.”
But her emotion can ſcarcely be ima-
gined, when ſhe heard ſung, with the taſte
and fimplicity of true feeling, one of the po-
pular airs of her native province, to which
She had ſo often liſtened with delight,
when a child, and which ſhe had fo often
heard her father repeat ! To this well-
known ſong, never, till now, heard but in
her native country, her heart melted, while
the memory of paſt times returned. The
pleaſant, peaceful ſcenes of Gaſcony, the
tenderneſs and goodneſs of her parents, the
taſte and fimplicity of her former life-alt
roſe to her fancy, and formed a picture,
ſo ſweet and glowing, ſo ſtrikingly con-
trafted with the ſcenes, the characters and
the dangers, which now ſurrounded her
that her mind could not bear to pauſe upon
Offian
the


( 127 )
the retroſpect, and ſhrunk at the acuteneſs
of its own ſufferings.
Her ſighs were deep and convulfed ; The
could no longer liſten to the ſtrain, that
had ſo often charmed her to tranquillity,
and ſhe withdrew from the caſement to a
remole part of the chamber. But ſhe was
not yet beyond the reach of the muſic;
ſhe heard che meaſure change, and the
ſucceeding air called her again to the win-
dow, for ſhe immediately recollected it to
be the ſame ſhe had formerly heard in the
fiſhing houſe in Gaſcony. Affiſted, per-
haps, by the myſtery, which had then ac-
companied this ſtrain, it had made ſo deep
an impreſſion on her memory, that ſhe had
never ſince entirely forgotten it; and the
manner in which it was now ſung, con-
vinced her, however unaccountable the
circumſtance appeared, that this was the
ſame voice ſhe had then heard. Surpriſe
foon yielded to other emotions; a thought
darted, like lightning, upon her mind,
which diſcovered a train, of hopes, that re-
G4
vived


( 128 )
vived all her ſpirits. Yet theſe hopes were
ſo new, ſo unexpected, ſo aſtoniſhing; that
ſhe did not dare to truſt, though ſhe could
not reſolve to diſcourage them. She fat
down by the caſement, breathleſs, and
overcome with the alternate emotions of
hope and fear; then roſe again, leaned
from the window, that ſhe might catch a
nearer found, liſtened, now doubting and
then believing, foftly exclaimed the name
of Valancourt, and then funk again into
the chair. Yes, it was poſſible, that Va-
Jancourt was near her, and the recollected
circumſtances, which induced her to be-
lieve it was his voice ſhe had juſt heard.
She remembered he had more than once
faid that the fiſhing houſe, where ſhe had
formerly liſtened to this voice and air, and
where ſhe had ſeen pencilled fonnets, ad.
dreſſed to herſelf, had been his favourite
haunt, before he had been made known to
her; there, too, ſhe had herſelf unexpect-
edly met him. It appeared, from theſe cir-
cumſtances, more than probable, that he
i
.
as
was


( 129 )
..
was the muſician, who had formerly charm.
ed her attention, and the author of the
lines, which had expreſſed ſuch tender ad-
miration ;-who elſe, indeed, could it be?
She was unable, at that time, to form a
conjecture, as to the writer; but ſince her
acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever
he had mentioned the filhing-houſe to have
been known to him, ſhe had not ſcrupled
to believe that he was the author of the
fonnets.
As theſe conſiderations paſſed over her
mind, joy, fear and tenderneſs contended
at her heart; ſhe leaned again from the
caſement to catch the ſounds, which might
confirm, or deſtroy her hope, though ſhe
did not recollect to have ever heard him
fing; but the voice, and the inſtrument,
now ceaſed.
She conſidered for a moment whether
the ſhould venture to ſpeak : then, not
chooſing, left it ſhould be he, to mention
his name, and yet too much intereſted to
neglect the opportunity of enquiring, the
G 5
called


( 130 )
called from the caſement, “ Is that ſong
from Gaſcony?” Her anxious attention
was not cheered by any reply; every thing
semained ſilent. Her impatience increaſ-
ing with her fears, the repeated the queſ-
tion; but ſtill no ſound was heard, except
the fighings of the wind among the battle-
ments above; and ſhe endeavoured to
conſole herſelf with a belief, that the
ſtranger, whoever he was, had retired, be-
fore ſhe had ſpoken, beyond the reach
of her voice, which, it appeared certain,
had Valancourt heard and recognized, he
would inſtantly have replied to. Preſent-
ly, however, the conſidered, that a motive
of prudence, and not an accidental re-
moval, might occaſion his ſilence; but the
ſurmiſe, that led to this reflection, ſud.
denly changed her hope and joy to terror
and grief; for, if Valancourt were in the
caſtle, it was too probable, that he was
here a priſoner, taken with ſome of his
countrymen, many of whom were at that
time engaged in the wars of Italy, or in-
tercepted


( 131 )
· tercepted in ſome attempt to reach her.
Had he even recollected Emily's voiee,
he would have feared, in theſe circum-
ſtances, to reply to it, in the preſence of
the men, who guarded his priſon...
What fo lately ſhe had eagerly hoped
The now believed the dreaded ;-dreaded
to know, that Valancourt was near her ;
and, while ſhe was anxious to be relieved'
from her apprehenſion for his fafety, the
ſtill was unconſcious, that a hope of foon :
ſeeing him, ſtruggled with the fear.
She remained liſtening at the caſement,
till the air began to freſhen, and one high
mountain in the eaſt to glimmer with the
morning; when, wearied with anxiety, ſhe
retired to her couch, where ſhe found it
utterly impoſſible to ſleep, for joy, tender-
neſs, doubt and apprehenſion, diſtracted
her during the whole night. Now ſhe roſe
from the couch, and opened the caſement
to liſten; then ſhe would pace the room
with impatient ſteps, and, at length, rear
turn with deſpondence to her pillow. Never***
G6 - did


( 132 )
did hours appear to move ſo heavily, as
thoſe of this anxious night; after which
The hoped that Annette might appear, and
conclude her preſent ſtate of torturing fül-
penſe.
C H A P.


(
)
133
| C H A P.
VI.
"........... might we but hear
The folded flocks penn'd in their wattled cotes,
Or found of paſtoral reed with oaten ſtops,
Or whiſtle from the lodge, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery dames,
”Twould be ſome ſolace yet, fome little cheering
In this cloſe dungeon of innumerous boughs."
Milton.
In the morning, Emily was relieved from
her fcars for Annerte, who came at an early
hour,
“ Here were fine doings in the caſtle,
laſt night, ma'amſelle,” ſaid ſhe, as foon as
ſhe entered the room,—“fine doings, in-
deed! Was you not frightened, ma’amſelle,
at not ſeeing me?”
“ I was alarmed both on your account
and on my own," replied Emily--What
detained you?"
6. Aye,
01.
racc


( 134 )
« Aye, I ſaid fo, I told him ſo; but it
would not do. It was not my fault, in-
deed,, ma'amſelle, for I could not get
out. That rogue Ludovico locked me up
again.”
" Locked you up!” ſaid Emily, with
diſpleaſure, “ Why do you permit Ludo-
vico to lock you up?"
« Holy Saints !" exclaimed Annette,
" " how can I help it! If he will lock the
door, ma’amſelle, and take away the key,
how am I to get out, unleſs I jump through
the window? But that I ſhould not mind
ſo much, if the caſements here were not all
ſo high; one can hardly ſcramble, up to
them on the inſide, and one ſhould break
one's neck, I ſuppoſe, going down on the
outſide. But you know, I dare ſay, ma'am,
what a hurly burly the caſtle was in, laſt
night; you muſt have heard ſome of the
uproar.”
“ What, were they diſputing, then?”
faid Emily.
“No, ma’amſelle, not fighting, but al.
moſt


( 135 )
-.!
moſt as good, for I believe there was not
one of the Signors ſober ; and what is more,
not one of thoſe fine ladies ſober, either.
I thought, when I ſaw them firſt, that all
thoſe fine ſilks and fine veils, -why, ma'am-
ſelle, their veils were worked with ſilver !
and fine trimmings-boded no good-I
gueffed what they were !”
“Good God !” exclaimed Emily, “what
will become of me !"
“Aye, ma’am, Ludovico ſaid much the.
ſame thing of me. Good God! ſaid he,
Annette, what is to become of you, if you
are to go running about the caſtle among
all theſe drunken Signors ?”
“O! ſays I, for that matter, I only
want to go to my young lady's chamber,
and I have only to go, you know, along
the vaulted paſſage and acroſs the great
hall and up the marble ſtair.caſe and along
the north gallery and through the weſt
wing of the caſtle, and I am in the corri-
dor in a minute." " Are you ſo ? ſays
he, and what is to become of you, if
un
you


( 136 ).
you meet any of thoſe noble cavaliers in
the way ? Well, ſays I, if you think
there is danger, then, go with me, and
guard me; I am never afraid when you are
by.” “ What! ſays he, when I am ſcarce-
ly recovered of one wound, ſhall I pue
myſelf in the way of getting another for
if any of the cavaliers meet you, they will
fall a-fighting with me dire&tly. No, no,
ſays he, I will cut the way ſhorter, than
through the vaulted paſſage and up the
marble ſtair-caſe and along the north gal-
lery and through the weſt wing of the caſ-
:: tle, for you ſhall ſtay here, Annette ; you
fhall not go out of this room, to-night."
“ So, with that I ſays"
« Well, well,” ſaid Emily, impaciently,
and anxious to enquire on another ſubject,
ſo he locked you up ?”
“ Yes, he did indeed, ma’amſelle, not.
withſtanding all I could ſay to the contrary;
and Catarina and I and he ſtaid there all
night. And in a few minutes after I was
not ſo vexed, for there came Signor Ve-
rezzi


( 137 )
rezzi roaring along the paſſage, like a
mad bull, and he miſtook Ludovico's hall,
for old Carlo's ; ſo he tried to burſt open
the door, and called out for more wine,
for that he had drunk all the flaſks dry,
and was dying of thirſt. So we were all
as ſtill as night, that he might fuppofe
'there was nobody in the room; but the
Signor was ás cunning as the beſt of us,
and kept calling out at the door, “ Come
forth, my antient hero !” ſaid he, “ here
is no enemy at the gate, that you need
hide yourſelf: come forth, my valorous
Signor Steward !” Juſt then old Carlo
opened his door, and he came with a flaſk
in his hand; for, as ſoon as the Signor
'faw him, he was as tame as could be, and
followed him away as naturally as a dog
does a butcher with a piece of meat in his
baſket. All this I ſaw through the key-
hole. Well, Annette, ſaid Ludovico, jeer-
ingly, ſhall I let you out now? O no,
ſays I, I would not”-
" I have ſome queſtions to aſk you on
another
-
-
-
-
-


( 138 )
another ſubject," interrupted, Emily, quite
wearied by this ſtory. “ Do you know
whether there are any priſoners in the caſtle,
and whether they are confined at this end
of the edifice!”
“ I was not in the way, ma'àmfelle," reo
plied Annette, “when the firſt party came
in from the mountains, and the laſt party
is not come back yet, ſo I don'i know,
whether there are any priſoners; but it is
expected back to-night, or to-morrow, and
I thall know then, perhaps.”
Emily enquired if ſhe had ever heard
the ſervants talk of priſoners.
« Ah ma’amſelle !” ſaid Annette archly,
64. now I dare ſay you are thinking of Mone
fieur Valancourt, and that he may have.
come among the armies, which, they ſay,
are come from our country, to fight againſt
this ſtate, and that he has met with ſome of
our people, and is taken captive. O Lord !
how. glad I ſhould be, if it was ſo !”
“Would you, indeed; be glad ?** faid
Emily, in a tone of mournful reproache
of To:


- ( 139 ).
“ To be ſure I ſhould, ma'am," replied
Annette, “and would not you be glad too,
to fee Signor Valancourt? | don't know
any chevalier I like better, I have a very
great regard for the Signor, truly.”
" Your regard for him cannot be doubt.
ed,” faid Emily, “ ſince you wiſh to ſee
him a priſoner.”
• Why no, ma’amſelle, not a prifoner
either ; but one muſt be glad to ſee him,
you know. And it was only the other
night I dreamt I dreamt I ſaw him drive
into the caſtle-yard all in a coach and fix,
and dreſſed out, with a laced coat and a
ſword, like a lord as he is." .
Emily could not forbear ſmiling at An-
nette's ideas of Valancourt, and repeated
her enquiry, whether the had heard the
ſervants talk of priſoners. -
“ No, ma’amſelle," replied ſhe, “ never;
and lately they have done nothing but talk
of the apparition, that has been walking
about of a night on the ramparts, and that
frightened the ſentinels into fits. It came
among


( 140 )
among them like a fialh of fire, they ſay, and
they all.fell down in a row, till they came
to themſelves again ; and then it was gone,
and nothing to be ſeen but the old caſtle
walls ; ſo they helped one another up again
as faſt as they could. You would not be-
lieve, ma’amſelle, though I ſhewed you the
very cannon, where it uſed to appear.”
"And are you, indeed, ſo ſimple, An.
nette,” ſaid Emily, ſmiling at this curious
exaggeration of the circumſtance ſhe had
witneſſed, “ as to credit theſe ſtories ?”
« Credit them, ma'amfelle! why all the
world could not perſuade me out of them.
Roberto and Sebaſtian, and half a dozen
more of them went into fits ! To be ſure,
there was no occaſion for that ; I ſaid, my-
· felf, there was no need of that, for, fays
I, when the enemy comes, what a pretty
figure they will cut, if they are to fall
down in fits, all of a row! The enemy
won't be ſo civil, perhaps, as to walk off,
like the ghoſt, and leave them to help one
another up, but will fall to, cutting and
Naſhing,


( 141 )
Nalhing, till he makes them all riſe up dead
men: No, no, ſays I, there is reaſon in all
things : though I might have fallen down
in a fit, that was no rule for them, being,
becauſe it is no buſineſs of mine to look
gruff, and fight battles.”
Emily endeavoured to correct the fu.
perſtitious weakneſs of Annette, though
ſhe could not entirely ſubdue her own;
to which the latter only replied, “ Nay,.
ma’amſelle, you will believe nothing ; you
are almoſt as bad as the Signor himſelf,
who was in a great paſſion when they told
him of what had happened, and ſwore
that the firſt man, who repeated ſuch non-
ſenſe, ſhould be thrown into the dungeon
under the caſt turret. This was a hard
puniſhment too, for only talking nonſenſe,
as he called it ; but I dare ſay he had other
reaſons for calling it ſo, thạn you have,
ma'am.”
Emily looked diſpleaſed, and made no,
reply. As the muſed upon the recollected
appearance, which had lately ſo much
alarmed


( 142 )
alarmed her, and conſidered the circum-
ſtances of the figure having ſtationed itſelf
oppoſite to her caſement, ſhe was for a
moment inclined to believe it was Valan-
- court, whom the had ſeen. Yet, if it was
he, why did he not ſpeak to her, when he
had the opportunity of doing fo-and, if
he was a priſoner in the caſtle, and he
could be here in no other character, how
could he obtain the means of walking
abroad on the rampart? Thus ſhe was
· utterly unable to decide, whether the mu-
ſician and the form The had obferved, were
the ſame, or, if they were, whether this was
Valancourt. She, however, deſired that
Annette would endeavour to learn whether
any priſoners were in the caſtle, and alſo
their names.
"O dear, ma’amfelle !” ſaid Annette,
“ I forget to tell you what you bade me aſk
about, the ladies, as they call themſelves,
who are lately coine to Udolpho. Why
that Signora Livona, that the Signor
brought to ſee my late lady at Venice, is
.3
his.


( 144 )
that might be in the caſtle, bi
her to do it with caution, and on no ac-
count to mention her name, or that of
Monſieur Valancourt.
" Now I think of it, ma’aniſelle,” ſaid
Annette, " I do believe there are priſoners,
for I overheard one of the Signor's men,
yeſterday, in the ſervants hall, talking ſome-
thing about ranſoms, and ſaying what a
fine thing it was for his Excellenza to catch
up men, and they were as good booty as
any other, becauſe of the ranſoms. And
the other nian was grumbling, and ſaying
it was fine enough for the Signor, but none
ſo fine for his ſoldiers, becauſe, ſaid he, we
don't go ſhares there.”
This information heightened Emily's
impatience to know more, and Annette
immediately departed on her enquiry. .
. The late reſolution of Emily to reſign
her eſtates to Montoni, now gave way to
new conſiderations ; ihe puſſibility, that
Valancourt was near her, revived her for-
titude, and the determined to brave the
threatened
er nan


( 145 )
as
threatened vengeance, at leaſt, till the could
be aflored whether he was really in the
caitle. She was in this temper of mind,
when ſhe received a nieſſage from Montoni,
requiring her attendance in the cedar pars
lour, which ſhe obeyed with trembling,
and, on her way thither, endeavoured to
animate her fortitude with the idea of Va-
lancourt.
Montoni was alone. " I ſent for you,”:
ſaid he, “ to give you another opportunity
of retracting your late miſtaken affertions
concerning the Languedoc eſtates. I will
condeſcend to adviſe, where I may come
inand.-If you are really deluded by an
opinion, that you have any right to theſe
eſtates, at leaſt, do not perſiſt in the error
an error, which you may perceive, too late,
has been fatal to you. Dare my reſentment
no further, but ſign the papers.” . . .
: “ If I have no right in theſe eſtates, fir,”
ſaid Emily,“ of what ſervice can it be to
you, that I ſhould ſign any papers, con-
cerning them. If the lands are yours by
· Vol. III. . H : law,
"ror


( 146 )
law, you certainly may poſſeſs them, with-
out my interference, or my conſent.”
66. I will have no more argument,” ſaid.
Montoni, with a look that made her trem.
ble. " What had I but trouble to expect,
when I condeſcended to reaſon with a baby!
But I will be trifled with no longer : let
the recollection of your aunt's ſufferings,
in conſequence of her folly and obftinacy,
teach you a leſſon.-Sign the papers.”
Emily's reſolution was for a moment
awed :-he ſhrunk at the recollections he
revived, and from the vengeance he threat-
ened; but then, the image of Valancourt,
who ſo long had loved her, and who was
now, perhaps, ſo near her, came to her heart,
and, together with the ſtrong feelings of
indignation, with which ſhe had always,
from her infancy, regarded an act of in-
juſtice, inſpired her with a noble, though
imprudent, courage.
“ Sign the papers,” ſaid Montoni, more
impatiently than before.
“ Never, ſir,” replied Emily ; “ that re-
'^8
quest


( 347 ) ,
queſt would have proved to me the injuſtice
of your claim, had I even been ignorant of
my right.”
Montoni turned pale with anger, while
his. quivering lip and lurking eye made
her almoſt repent the boldneſs of her
ſpeech.
“ Then all my vengeance falls upon you," .
he exclaimed, with an horrible oath.“ And
think not it ſhall be delayed. Neither the
eſtates in Languedoc, or Gaſcony, ſhall be
yours ; you have dared to queſtion my
right,—now dare to queſtion my power.
1 have a puniſhment which you think not
of; it is terrible! This night-this very
night”_
* This night!" repeated another voice.
Montoni pauſed, and turned half round,
but, ſeeming to recollect himſelf, he pro-
ceeded in a lower tone.
6 You have lately ſeen one terrible ex-
ample of obſtinacy and folly; yet this, it
appears, has not been ſufficient to deter
you. I could tell you of others
H2 I could


( 148 )
I could make you tremble at the bare re,
ciral.”
He was interrupted by a groan, which
ſeemed to riſe from underneath the cham-
ber they were in ; and, as he threw a glance
round it, impatience and rage flalhed from
his eyes, yet ſomething like a ſhade of fear
paſſed over his countenance. Emily fat
down in a chair, near the door, for the
various emotions ſhe had ſuffered now al-
moſt overcame her; but Montoni pauſed
ſcarcely an inſtant, and, commanding his
features, reſumed his diſcourſe in a lower,
yet fterner voice.
“ I ſay, I could give you other inſtances
of my power and of my character, which
it ſeems you do not underſtand, or you
would not defy me.- I could tell you,
that when once my reſolution is taken
but I am talking to a baby. Let me, how.
ever, repeat, that terrible as are the exam-
ples I could recite, the recital could not
now benefit you; for, though your re-
pentance


( 149 )
pentance would put an immediate end to
oppoſition, it would not now appeaſe my
indignation. I will have vengeance as well
as juſtice."
Another groan filled the pauſe which
Montoni made.
“ Leave the room inſtantly !” ſaid he',
ſeeming not to notice this ſtrange cccur.
rence. Without power to implore bis
pity, ſhe roſe to go, but found that the
could not ſupport herſelf; awe and terror
ove:came her, and the funk again into the
chair.
" Quit my preſence !" cried Montoni.
• This affectation of fear ill becomes the
heroine who has juſt dared to brave my in-
dignation."
“ Did you hear nothing, Signor ?" ſaid
Emily, trembling, and ſtill unable to leave
the room.
" I heard my own voice," rejoined
Montoni, ſternly.
“ And nothing elſe?” ſaid Emily, ſpeak-
H 3
ing


( 150 )
ing with difficulty." There again! Do
you hear nothing now ?”
“ Obey my order," repeated Montoni.
« And for theſe fool's tricks I will ſoon
diſcover by whom they are practiſed.”
Emily again roſe, and exerted herſelf to
the utmoſt to leave the room, while Mon-
toni followed her; but, inſtead of calling
aloud to his ſervants to ſearch the chamber,
as he had formerly done on a ſimilar occur.
rence, paſſed to the ramparts.
As, in her way to the corridor, the reſt.
ed for a moment at an open caſement,
Emily ſaw a party of Montoni's troops : ,
winding down a diftant mountain, whom
The noticed no further than as they brought
to her mind the wretched priſoners they
were, perhaps, bringing to the caſtle. Ac
length, having reached her apartment, ſhe
threw herſelf upon the couch, overcome
with the new horrors of her fituation. Her
thoughts loſt in tumult and perplexity, the
could neither repent of, or approve, her
late


( 151 )
OS
3
late conduct ; ſhe could only remember,
that ſhe was in the power of a man, who
had no principle of action—but his will ;
and the aſtoniſhment and terrors of fuper-
ftition, which had, for a moment, ſo ſtrong.
ly aſſailed her, now yielded to thoſe of
reaſon.
She was, at length, rouſed from the re-
verie, which engaged her, by a confufion
of diſtant voices, and a clattering of hoofs,
that ſeemed to come, on the wind, from the
courts. A fudden hope, that ſome good
was approaching, ſeized her inind, till ſhe
remembered the troops ſhe had obſerved
from the caſement, and concluded this to
be the party, which Annette had ſaid were
expected at Udolpho. "
Soon after, ſhe heard voices faintly from
the halls, and the noiſe of horſes' feet funk
away in the wind ; ſilence enſued. Emily
liſtened anxiouſly for Annette's ſtep in the
corridor, but a pauſe of total ſtillneſs conti-
nued, till again the caſtle ſeemed to be all
tumul and confuſion. She heard the echoes
H4
of


( 152 )
of many footſteps, paſſing to and fro in the
halls and avenues below, and then buſy
tongues were loud on the rampart. Hav-
ing hurried to her caſement, ſhe perceived
Montoni, with ſome of his officers, leaning
on the walls, and pointing from them ; while
ſeveral ſoldiers were employed at the further
end of the rampart about ſome cannon;
and the continued to obſerve them, çareleſs
of the paſſing time.
Annette at length appeared, but brought
no intelligence of Valancourt,“For, ma'am-
felle," ſaid ſhe, “ all the people pretend to
know nothing about any priſoners. But
here is a fine piece of buſineſs! The reſt
of the party are juſt arrived, ma'am ; they
came fcampering in, as if they would have
broken their necks;, one ſcarcely knew
whether the man, or his horſe, would get
within the gates firſt. And they have
brought word--and ſuch news! they have
brought word, that a party of the enemy,
as they call them, are coming towards the
caſtle; ſo we ſhall have all the officers of
juſtice,


( 153 )
juſtice, I ſuppoſe; beſieging it! all thoſe
terrible-looking fellows one uſed to ſee at
Venice."
“ Thank God!” exclaimed Emily, fer-
vently, “ there is yet a hope left för me,
then !"
" What mean yol, ma’amſelle ? Do
you wiſh to fall into the hands of thoſe
ſad-looking men! Why I uſed to ſhudder
as I paſſed them, and ſhould have gueſſed
what they were, if Ludovico had not told
· me.”
“We cannot be in worſe hands than åt
preſent," replied Emily, unguardedly ;
.66 but what reaſon have you to ſuppoſe
theſe are officers of juſtice ?"
“Why our people, ma’am, are all in
ſuch a fright, and a fuſs; and I don't know
any thing but the fear of juſtice, that could
make them ſo. I uſed to think nothing on
earth could fluſter them, unleſs, indeed, it
was a ghoft, or ſo; but now, ſome of them
are for hiding down in the vaults under the
caſtle ;- but you muſt not sell the Signor
í si
H 5
orto this,


( 154 )
this, ma'amfelle, and I overheard two of
them talking Holy Mother! what
makes you look ſo fad, ma’amſelle? You
don't hear what I ſay !”
“ Yes, I do, Annette; pray proceed.”
"Well, ma'amſelle, all the caftle is in
ſuch hurly. burly. Some of the men are
loading the cannon, and ſome are examin-
ing the great gates, and the walls all round,
and are hammering and patching up, juſt
as if all thoſe repairs had never been made,
that were ſo long about. But what is to
become of me and you, .ma'amfelle, and
Ludovico ? O! when I hear the found of
the cannon, I ſhall die with fright. If I
could but catch the great gate open for one
minute, I would be even with it fór fhut.
ting me within theſe walls fo long !-it
ſhould never ſee me again."
Emily caught the latter words of An-
nette. “O! if you could find it open,
but for one moment !" ſhe exclaimed, “my
peace might yet. be ſaved !” The heavy
groan ſhe uttered, and the wildneſs of her
look, .


( 155 )
look, terrified Annette, ſtill more than her
words; who entreated Emily to explain the
meaning of them, to whom it ſuddenly oc-
curred, thax Ludovico might be of ſome
ſervice, if there ſhould be a poſſibility of
eſcape, and who repeated the ſụbſtance of
wbat had paſſed between Montoni and
herſelf, but conjured her to mention this
to no perſon except to Ludovico. “ It
may, perhaps, be in his power,” ſhe'added,
rs to effect our eſcape. Go to him, An-
netta, tell him what I have to apprehend,
and what I have already ſuffered ; but en-
treat him to be ſecret, and to loſe no time
in attempting to releaſe us. If he is wil-
ling to undertake this he ſhall be amply
rewarded. I cannot ſpeak with him my-
ſelf, for we might be obſerved, and then
effectual care would be taken to prevent
our flight. But be quick, Annette, and,
above all, be diſcreet - I will await your re-
turn in this apartment."
The girl, whoſe honeſt heart had been
much affected by the recital, was now as
H6
- eager


( 156 )
eager to obey, as Emily was to employ
her, and the immediately quitted the
room.
Emily's ſurpriſe increaſed, as the reflect-
ed upon Annette's intelligence. .“ Alas!"
faid me, " whát can the officers of juſtice
do againſt an armed caſtle? theſe cannot
be ſuch.” Upon further confideratiori,
however, the concluded, that, Montoni's
bands having plundered the country round,
the inhabitants had taken arins, and were
*coming with the officers of police and a
party of ſoldiers, to force their way into
the caſtle. “ But they know not,” thouglit
The, “ its ſtrength, or the armed numbers
within it. Alas! except from flight, I have
nothing to hope!"
· Montoni, though not preciſely whảo
Emily apprehended him to be—a captain
of banditti—had employed his troops in
enterpriſes not leſs daring, or leſs atrocious,
than ſuch a character would have under-
taken. They had not only pillaged, when-
.ever opportunity offered, the helpleſs' tra-
; veller,


( 157 )
veller, but had attacked, and plundered the
villas of ſeveral perſons, which, being fitu-
ated among the folitary receſſes of the
mountains, were totally unprepared for re-
fiſtance. In theſe expeditions the com.
manders of the party did not appear, and
the men, partly diſguiſed, had ſometimes
been miſlaken for common robbers, and,
at others, for bands of the foreign enemy,
who, at that period, invaded the country.
But, though they had already pillaged ſeve-
ral manſions, and brought honie conſidera-
ble treaſures, they had ventured to ap-
proach only one caſtle, in the attack of
which they were aſſiſted by other troops of
their own order; from this, however, they
were vigorouſly repulſed, and purſued by
ſome of the foreign enemy, who were in
league with the beſieged. Montoni's troops
fled precipitately towards Udolpho, but
were ſo cloſely tracked over the mountains,
that, when they reached one of the heights
in the neighbourhood of the caſtle, and
looked back upon the road, they perceived.
?? the


( 158 )
the enemy winding among the cliffs below,
and not more than a league diſtant. Upon
this diſcovery, they haftened forward with.
increaſed ſpeed, to prepare Montoni for the
enemy; and it was their arrival, which
had thrown the caſtle into ſuch confuſion
and tumult.
As Emily awaited anxiouſly fome in.
formation from below, ſhe now ſaw from
her caſernents a body of troops pour over
the neighbouring heights; and, though An-
nette had been gone a very ſhort time, and
had a difficult and dangerous buſineſs to
accompliſh, her impatience for intelligence
became painful: The liſtened ; opened her
door; and often went out upon the corridor
to meet her.
At length ſhe heard a footſtep approach
her chamber; and, on opening the door,
ſaw, not Annette, but old Carlo 1 New
fears ruſhed upon her mind. He ſaid he
came from the Signor, who had ordered
him to inform her, that ſhe muſt be ready
to depart from Udolpho immediately, for
that


( 159 )
10.
that the caſtle was about to be beſieged;
and that mules were preparing to convey
her, with her guides, to a place of ſafety.
“Of ſafety !” exclaimed Emily, thought-
leſsly ; “has, then, the Signor ſo much
conſideration for me?”
· Carlo looked upon the ground, and
made no reply. A thouſand oppoſite emo-
tions agitated Emily, ſucceſſively, as the
liſtened to old Carlo; thoſe of joy, grief,
diſtruſt and apprehenſion, appeared, and
vaniſhed from her mind, with the quick-
neſs of lightning. One moment, it ſeemed
impoſſible, that Montoni could take this
meaſure merely for her preſervation ; and
ſo very ſtrange was his ſending her from
the caſtle at all, that ſhe could attribute
it only to the deſign of carrying into exe-
cution the new ſcheme of vengeance, with
which he had menaced her. In the next
inſtant, it appeared ſo deſirable to quit the
caſtle, under any circumſtances, that ſhe
eould not but rejoice in the proſpect, be-
lieving that change muſt be for the better,


( 161
ſhe was employed about which Annette re-
turned.
0.66 O ma’amſelle !” ſaid ſhe, « nothing
can be done! Ludovico ſays the new por-
ter is more watchful even than Barnardine
was, and we might as well throw ourſelves
in the way of a dragon, as in his. Ludo-
vico is almoſt as broken-hearted as you are,
ma'am, on my account, he ſays, and I am
ſure I ſhall never live to hear the cannon fire
twice!” .
· She now began to weep, but revived upon
hearing of what had juſt occurred, and en.
treated Emily to take her with her. ' ;
“ That I will do moſt willingly,” replied
Emily, “if Signor Montoni permits it ;".
to which Annette made no reply, but ran
| out of the room, and immediately ſought
| Montoni, who was on the terrace, ſurround-
ed by his officers, where ſhe began her pe-
-tition. He fharply bade her go into the
caſtle, and abſolutely refuſed her requeſt.
Annette, however, not only pleaded for her-
ſelf, but for Ludovico ; and Montoni had
ordered


( 162 )
ordered ſome of his men to take her from
his preſence, before ſhe would retire.
In an agony of diſappointment, the rę.
turned to Emily, who foreboded little good
towards herſelf, from this refuſal to An-
nette, and who, ſoon after, received a ſum-
mons to repair to the great court, where
the mules, with her guides, were in wait-
ing. Emily here tried in vain to footh the
weeping Annette, who perfifted in ſaying,
that ſhe ſhould never ſee her dear young
lady again ; a fear, which her miſtreſs
ſecretly thought too well juſtified, but
which ſhe endeavoured to reſtrain, while,
with apparent compoſure, ſhe bade this
affectionate ſervant farewell. Annette, how.
ever, followed to the courts, which were
now thronged with people, buſy in prepa.
ration for the enemy; and, having ſeen her
mount her mule and depart, with her attend.
ants, through the portal, turned into the
caſtle and wept again. -
Emily, meanwhile, as the looked back
upon the gloomy courts of the caſtle, no
longer
00


( 163 )
longer filent as when ſhe had firſt entered
them, but reſounding with the noiſe of r.
preparation for their defence, as well as
crowded with foldiers and workmen, hurry-
ing to and fro; and, when ſhe paſſed once
more under the huge portcullis, which
had formerly ſtruck her' with terror and
diſmay; and, looking round, ſaw no walls
to confine her ſteps--felt, in ſpite of anti-
cipation, the ſudden joy of a priſoner, who
unexpectedly finds himſelf at liberty,
This emotion would not ſuffer her now to
look impartially on the dangers that awaited
her without; on mountains infeſted by
hoſtile parties, who ſeized every opportu-
nity for plunder; and on a journey com-
į menced under the guidance of men, whoſe
countenances certainly did not ſpeak fa-
vourably of their diſpoſitions. In the pre-
· ſent moments, ſhe could only rejoice, that
ì lhe was liberated from thoſe walls, which
The had entered with ſuch diſmal forebod.
ings; and, remembering the ſuperſtitious
preſentiment, which had then ſeized her,
the


( 164 )
1
ſhe could now ſmile at the impreſſion it had
made upon her mind.
As ſhe gazed, with theſe emotions, upon
the turrets of the caſtle, riſing high over
the woods, among which ſhe wound, the
ſtranger, whom ſhe believed to be con-
fined there, returned to her remembrance,
and anxiety and apprehenſion, left he
Thould be Valancourt, again paſſed like a
cloud upon her joy. She recollected every
circumſtance, concerning this unknown
perſon, ſince the night, when ſhe had firſt
heard him play the ſong of her native pro-
vince ;- circumſtances, which ſhe had ſo
often recollected, and compared before,
without extracting from them any thing
like conviction, and which ſtill only
prompted her to believe, that Valancourt !
- was a priſoner at Udolpho. It was poffi.
ble, however, that the men, who were
her conductors, might afford her informa-
tion on this ſubject ; but, fearing to queſ.
tion them immediately, left they ſhould
be unwilling to diſcover any circumſtance
to


( 165 )
to her in the preſence of each other, the
, watched for an opportunity of ſpeaking with
them ſeparately,
Soon after, a trumpet echoed faintly
from a diſtance; the guides ſtopped, and
looked toward the quarter whence it caine,
- but the thick woods, which ſurrounded
them, excluding all view of the country
- beyond, one of the men rode on to the
» point of: an eminence, that afforded a
more extenſive proſpect, to obſerve how
near the enemy, whoſe trumpet he gueſſed
this to be, were advanced ; the other,
meanwhile, remained with Emily, and to
him the put ſome queſtions, concerning
- the ſtranger at Udolpho. Ugo, for this
was his name, ſaid, that there were ſeve-
ral priſoners in the caſtle, but he neither
recollected their perſons, or the preciſe
time of their arrival, and could therefore
"give her no information. There was a
furlineſs in his manner, as he ſpoke, that
made it probable. he would not have ſatis-
fied


( 166 )
fied her enquiries, even if he could have
done ſo.
Having aſked him what priſoners had
been taken, about the time, as nearly as
ſhe could remember, when ſhe had firſt
heard the muſic, “ All that week,” ſaid
Ugo, “ I was out with a party, upon the
mountains, and knew nothing of what was
doing at the caſtle. We had enough upon
our hands, we had warm work of it.”
Bertrand, the other man, being now re-
turned, Emily enquired no further, and,
when he had related to his companion what
he had ſeen, they travelledon in deep ſilence ;
while Emily often caught, between the open-
ing woods, partial glimpſes of the caſtle
above the weſt towers, whoſe battlements
were now crowded with archers, and the
ramparts below, where ſoldiers were ſeen
hurrying along, or buſy upon the walls,
preparing the cannon.
· Having emerged from the woods, they
wound along the valley in an oppoſite di-
rection


( 167 )
rection to that, from whence the enemy
were approaching. Emily had now a full
view of Udolpho, with its gray walls, towers
and terraces, high-over-topping the preci-
pices and the dark woods, and glittering
partially with the arms of the condottieri, as
the ſun's rays, ſtreaming through an au.
tumnal cloud, glanced upon a part of the
edifice, whoſe remaining features ſtood in
darkened majeſty. She continued to gaze,
through her tears, upon walls that, per-
haps, confined Valancourt, and which now,
as the cloud floated away, were lighted
up with ſudden ſplendour, and then,
as ſuddenly were ſhrouded in gloom ;
while the paffing gleam fell on the wood-
tops below, and heightened the firſt tints
of autumn, that had begun to ſteal upon
the foliage. The winding mountains, at
length, ſhut Udolpho from her view,
and the turned, with mournful relucta:ice,
to other objects. The melancholy ſigh. ,
ing of the wind among the pines, that
waved high over the ſteeps, and the diſ-
tant
į


( 168 )
tant thunder of a torrent affiíted her mu.
fings, and conſpired with the wild ſcenery
around, to diffuſe over her mind emotions
ſolemn, yet not unpleaſing, but which
were ſoon interrupted by the distant roar
of cannon, echoing among the mountains.
The ſounds rolled along the wind, and
were repeated in faint and fainter reverbe-
ration, till they ſunk in fullen murmurs.
This was a ſignal, that the enemy had
reached the caſtle, and fear for Valancourt
again tormented Emily. She turned her
anxious eye towards that part of the coun-
try, where the edifice ſtood, but the inter-
vening heights concealed it from her
view; ſtill, however, ſhe ſaw the tall
head of a mountain, which immediately
fronted her late chamber, and on this the
fixed her gaze, as if it could have told her
of all that was palling in the ſcene it over-
looked. "The guides twice reminded her,
that ſhe was loſing time and that they had
far to go, before ſhe could turn from this
intereſting object, and, even when flie
again


( 169 )
ecra.
: again moved onward, ſhe often ſent a look
: back, till only its blue point, brightening
in a gleam of ſunſhine, appeared peeping
over other mountains.
The ſound of the cannon affected l'go,
as the blaſt of the trumpet does the war.
horſe; it called forth all the fire of his na-
ture; he was impatient to be in the midit
of the fight, and uttered frequent execra-
tions againſt Montoni for having ſent him
to a diſtance. The feelings of his com-
rade ſeemed to be very oppoſite, and adapt-
ed rather to the cruelties, than to the dan-
gers of war.
Emily aſked frequent queſtions, con-
cerning the place of her deſtination, but
could only learn, that ſhe was going to a
cottage in Tuſcany; and, whenever the
mentioned the ſubject, ſhe fancied ſhe per-
ceived, in the countenances of theſe men,
an expreſſion of malice and çunning that
alarmed her.
his. It was afternoon, when they had left the
the caſtle. During ſeveral hours, they travel-
Vol. III.
led


( 170 )
led through regions of profound ſolitude,
where no bleat of ſheep, or bark of watch-
dog, broke on ſilence, and they were now
too far off to hear even the faint thunder
of the cannon. Towards evening, they
wound down precipices, black with foreſts
of cypreſs, pine and cedar, into a glen ſo
ſavage and ſecluded, that, if Solitude ever
had local habitation, this might have been
“ her place of deareſt reſidence." To
Emily it appeared a ſpot exactly ſuited
for the retreat of banditti, and, in her ima-
gination, ſhe already ſaw them lurking un-
der the brow of ſome projecting rock,
whence their ſhadows, lengthened by the
ſetting fun, ſtretched acroſs the road, and
warned the traveller of his danger. She
ſhuddered at the idea, and, looking at her
conductors, to obſerve whether they were
armed, thought ſhe ſaw in them the ban-
ditti lhe dreaded !
It was in this glen, that they propoſed
to alight, “ For,” ſaid Ugo, “ night will
come on preſently, and then the wolves
will


( 171 )
will make it dangerous to ſtop.” This was
a new ſubject of alarm to Emily, but infe.
rior to what ſhe ſuffered from the thought
of being left in theſe wilds, at midnight,
with two ſuch men as her preſent conduce
tors. Dark and dreadful hints of what
might be Montoni’s purpoſe in ſending her
hither, came to her mind. She endea-
voured to diffuade the men from ſtopping,
and enquired, with anxiety, how far they
had yet to go.
" Many leagues yet,” replied Bertrand.
66 As for you, Signora, you may do as you
pleaſe about eating, but for us, we will
make a hearty ſupper, while we can. We
Thall have need of it, I warrant, before
we finiſh our journey. The ſun's going
down apace; let us alight under that rock,
yonder.” . in
*His comrade afſented, and, turning the
mules out of the road, they advanced to.
wards a cliff, overhung with cedars, Emi.
ly following in trembling ſilence. They
lifted her from her mule, and, having
I 2
ſeated


( 172 )
ſeated themſelves on the graſs, at the foot
of the rocks, drew ſome homely fare from
a wallet, of which Emily tried to eat a lit-
tle, the better to diſguiſe her apprehen-
fions.
The ſun was now funk behind the high
mountains in the weſt, upon which a pur-
ple haze began to ſpread, and the gloom
of twilight to draw over the ſurrounding
objects. To the low and ſullen murmur
of the breeze, paſſing among the woods,
ſhe no longer liſtened with any degree of
pleaſure, for it conſpired with the wildneſs
of the ſcene and the evening hour, to de-
preſs her ſpirits.
Suſpenſe had ſo much increaſed her
anxiety, as to the priſoner at Udolpho,
that, finding it impracticable to ſpeak
alone with Bertrand, on that ſubject, ſhe
renewed her queſtions in the preſence of
. Ugo; but he either was, or pretended to
be entirely ignorant, concerning the ſtran-
ger. When he had diſmiſſed the queſtion,
he talked with Ugo on ſome ſubject, which
led


( 173 )
led to the mention of Signor Orſino and
of the affair that had baniſhed him from
Venice; reſpecting which Emily had ven-
tured to aſk a few queſtions. Ugo ap-
peared to be well acquainted with the
circumſtances of that tragical event, and
related ſome minute particulars, that both
fhocked and ſurpriſed her; for it appeared
very extraordinary how ſuch particulars
could be known to any, but to perlons,
preſent when the aſſaſſination was com-
mitted.
“ He was of rank,” ſaid Bertrand, " or
the State would not have troubled itſelf to
enquire after his affalſins. The Signor has
been lucky hitherto; this is not the firſt
affair of the kind he has had upon his
hands; and to be ſure, when a gentleman
has no other way of getting redreſs-why
he muſt take this.”
“ Aye,” ſaid Ugo, « and why is not
this as good as another? This is the way
to have juſtice done at once, without more
ado. If you go to law, you muſt ſtay till
the


( 174 )
the judges pleaſe, and may loſe your cauſe,
at laſt. Why the beſt way, then, is to
make ſure of your right, while you can,
and execute juſtice yourſelf.”
“ Yes, yes,” rejoined Bertrand, “ if you
wait till juſtice is done you—you may ſtay
long enough. Why if I want a friend of
mine properly ſerved, how am I to get
my revenge? Ten to one they will tell me
he is in the right, and I am in the wrong.
Or, if a fellow has got poſſeſſion of pro-
perty, which I think ought to be mine,
why I may wait, till I ſtarve, perhaps, be-
fore the law will give it me, and then, after
all, the judge may ſay--the eſtate is his.
What is to be done then ?-Why the caſe
is plain enough, I muſt take it at laſt.”
Emily's horror at this converſation was
heightened by a ſuſpicion, that the latter
part of it was pointed againit herſelf, and
that theſe men had been commiſſioned by
Montoni to execute a ſimilar kind of juſtice,
in his cauſe.
" But I was ſpeaking of Signor Orſino,"
reſumed


( 175 )
reſumed Bertrand,“ he is one of thoſe, who
love to do juſtice at once. I remember,
about ten years ago, the Signor had a
quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan. The
ſtory was told me then, and it is ſtill freſh
in my head. They quarrelled about a
lady, that the Signor liked, and ſhe was
perverſe enough to prefer the gentleman
of Milan, and even carried her wbim ſo
far as to marry him. This provoked the
Signor, as well it might, for he had tried to
talk reaſon to her a long while, and uſed
to ſend people to ſerenade her, under her
windows, of a night; and uſed to make
verſes about her, and would ſwear ſhe was
the handſomeft lady in Milan-But all
would not do-nothing would bring her
to reaſon; and, as I ſaid, ſhe went ſo far
at laſt, as to marry this other cavaliero.
This made the Signor wroth, with a ven-
geance; he reſolved to be even with her
though, and he watched his opportunity,
and did not wait long, for ſoon after the
marriage, they ſet out for Padua, nothing
14 doubting,


( 176 )
doubting, I warrant, of what was preparing
for them. The cavaliero thought, to be
ſure, he was to be called to no account, but
was to go off triumphant; but he was ſoon
made to know another ſort of ſtory."
“What then, the lady had promiſed to
have Signor Orfino?” ſaid Ugo.
- Promiſed! No,” replied Bertrand,
“ ſhe had not wit enough even to tell him
The liked him, as I heard, but the contra-
ry, for the uſed to ſay, from the firſt, the
never meant to have him. And this was
what provoked the Signor, ſo, and with
good reaſon, for, who likes to be told that
he is diſagreeable and this was ſaying as
good. It was enough to tell him this; the
need not have gone, and married another."
“What, ſhe married, then, on purpoſe
to plague the Signor?” ſaid Ugo.
6 I don't know as for that,” replied Ber-
trand, “ they ſaid, indeed, that ſhe had had
a regard for the other gentleman a great
while; but that is nothing to the purpoſe,
The ſhould not have married him, and then
the


( 177 )
the Signor would not have been ſo much
provoked. She might have expected what
was to follow; it was not to be ſuppoſed
he would bear her ill uſage camely, and
ſhe might thank herſelf for what happened.
But, as I ſaid, they ſet out for Padua, the
and her huſband, and the road lay over
ſome barren mountains like theſe. This
ſuited the Signor's purpoſe well. He
watched the time of their departure, and
ſent his men after them, with directions
what to do. They kept their diſtance, till
they ſaw their opportunity, and this did
not happen, till the ſecond day's journey,
when, the gentleman having ſent his fer-
vants forward to the next town, may be,
to have horſes in readineſs, the Signor's
men quickened their pace, and overtook
the carriage, in a hollow, between two
mountains, where the woods prevented the
ſervants from ſeeing what paſſed, though
they were then not far off. When we
came up, we fired our tromboni, but
miſſed."
- 15
Emily


.' ( 178 )
Bertre
proceed
Bertrand
he alone
wice
Tor Gio
had do
thould
honelt
He ga
Emily turned pale, .at theſe words, and
then hoped ſhe had miſtaken them; while
Bertrand proceeded :
“The gentleman fired again, but he
was ſoon made to alight, and it was as he
turned to call his people, that he was
ftruck. It was the moſt dexterous feat you
ever ſaw he was ſtruck in the back with
three ſtilettos at once. He fell, and was
diſpatched in a minute; but the lady ef-
caped, for the ſervants had heard the firing,
and came up before ſhe could be taken care
of. • Bertrand,' ſaid the Signor, when his
men returned"
“ Bertrand !” exclaimed Emily, pale
with horror, on whom not a fyllable of this
narrative had been loſt.
- Bertrand, did I ſay" rejoined the man,
with ſome confufion—"No, Giovanni. But
I have forgot' where I was ; Bertrand,
ſaid the Signor".
“ Bertrand, again !" ſaid Emily, in a
faltering voice, “ Why do you repeat that
name?
Bertrand
enough
done !
“A


( 179 )
NI
Bertrand ſwore. “ What ſignifies it,” he
2 proceeded, “ what the man was called
Bertrand, or Giovanni-or Roberto ; it's
- all one for that. You have put me out
be twice with that queſtion. · Bertrand,'
or Giovanni-or what you will — Ber-
FO3 trand,' ſaid the Signor, if your comrades
the had done their duty, as well as you, I
ſhould not have loſt the lady. Go, my
honeſt fellow, and be happy with this.'
He gave him a purſe of gold-and little
enough too, conſidering the ſervice he had
done him.”
« Aye, aye,” ſaid Ugo, “ little enough
-- little enough." .,
Emily now breathed with difficulty, and ·
could ſcarcely ſupport herſelf. When firſt
ſhe ſaw theſe men, their appearance and
their connection with Montoni had been
ſufficient to impreſs her with diſtruſt; but
now, when one of them had betrayed him-
ſelf to be a murderer, and ſhe ſaw her-
felf, at the approach of night, under his
guidance, among wild and folitary moun- .
tains,
.
16


( 180 )
tains, and going the ſcarcely knew whither,
the moſt agonizing terror ſeized her, which
was the leſs ſupportable from the neceſ.
fity ſhe found herſelf under of concealing
all ſymptoms of it from her companions.
Reflecting on the character and the me.
naces of Montoni, it appeared not impro-
bable, that he had delivered her to them,
for the purpoſe of having her murdered,
and of thus ſecuring to himſelf, without
further oppoſition, or delay, the eſtates,
for which he had ſo long and ſo deſperately
contended. Yet, if this was his deſign,
there appeared no neceſſity for ſending her
to ſuch a diſtance from the caſtle ; for, if
any dread of diſcovery had made him un-
willing to perpetrate the deed there, a
much nearer place might have ſufficed for
the purpoſe of concealment. Theſe con-
ſiderations, however, did not immediately
occur to Emily, with whom ſo many
circumſtances conſpired to rouſe terror,
that ſhe had no power to oppoſe it, or
to enquire coolly into its grounds; and,
if


( 181 )
if The had done fo, ſtill there were many ap.
pearances which would too well have juſti.
fied her moſt terrible apprehenſions. She
did not now dare to ſpeak to her conductors,
at the ſound of whoſe voices ſhe trembled;
and when, now and then, ſhe ſtole a glance
at them, their countenances, ſeen imperfeet-
ly through the gloom of evening, ſerved
to confirm her fears.
The ſun had now been ſet ſome time;
heavy clouds, whoſe lower ſkirts were
tinged with ſulphureous crimſon, lingered
in the weſt, and threw a reddiſh tint upon
the pine foreſts, which ſent forth a ſolemn
found, as the breeze rolled over them.
The hollow moan ftruck upon Emily's
heart, and ſerved to render more gloomy
and terrific every object around her.
the mountains, ſhaded in twilight--the
gleaming torrent, hoarſely roaring—the.
black foreſts, and the deep glen, broken
into rocky receffes, high overſhadowed by
cypreſs and fycamore, and winding into
long obſcurity. To this glen, Emily, as
the


( 182 )
vas
The ſent forth her anxious eye, thought
there was no end ; no hamlet, or even
cottage, was ſeen, and ſtill no diſtant bark
of watch-dog, or even faint, far-off halloo
came on the wind. In a tremulous voice,
ſhe now ventured to remind the guides, that
it was growing late, and to aſk again how
far they had to go: but they were too
much occupied by their own diſcourſe to
attend to her queſtion, which the forbore
to repeat, left it ſhould provoke a ſurly.
anſwer. Having, however, ſoon after, fi-
niſhed their ſupper, the men collected the
fragments into their wallet, and proceed.
ed along this winding glen, in gloomy
filence ; while Emily again muſed upon
her own ſituation, and concerning the mod
tives of Montoni for involving her in it.
That it was for ſome evil purpoſe towards
herſelf, ſhe could not doubt; and it ſeemed,
that, if he did not intend to deſtroy her,
with a view of immediately ſeizing her el-
tates, he meant to reſerve her a while in
concealment, for ſome more terrible de-
fign,


( 183 )
ſign, for one that might equally gratify his
avarice and ſtill inore his deep revenge.
At this moment, remembering Signor Bro-
chio and his behaviour in the corridor, a
few preceding nights, the latter ſuppoſi-
tion, horrible as it was, ſtrengthened in her
belief. Yet, why remove her from the caf-
tle, where deeds of darkneſs had, ſhe feared,
been often executed with ſecrecy ?-from
chambers, perhaps
6. With many a foul, and midnight murder ſtain'd."
The dread of what ſhe might be going
to encounter was now ſo exceſſive, that it
ſometimes threatened her ſenſes; and,
often as ſhe went, ſhe thought of her late
father and of all he would have ſuffered,
could he have foreſeen the ſtrange and
dreadful events of her future life; and
how anxiouſly he would have avoided that
fatal confidence, which committed his
daughter to the care of a woman ſo weak
as was Madame Montoni. So romantic
and


( 184 )
and improbable, indeed, did her preſent
ſituation appear to Emily herſelf, particular-
ly wlien the compared it with the repoſe and
beauty of her early days, that there were
moments, when the could almoſt have be-
lieved herſelf the victim of frightful viſions,
glaring upon a diſordered fancy.
Reſtrained by the preſence of her guides
from expreſſing her terrors, their acute.
neſs was, at length, loſt in gloomy deſpair.
The dreadful view of what might await
her hereafter rendered her almoſt indiffer-
ent to the ſurrounding dangers. She nowe
looked, with little emotion, on the wild
dingles, and the gloomy road and moun-
tains, whoſe outlines only were diſtinguiſh.
able through the duſk ;-objects, which but
lately had affeCied her ſpirits ſo much, as
to awaken horrid views of the future, and
to tinge theſe with their own gloom.
It was now ſo nearly dark, that the tra.
vellers, who proceeded only by the Noweſt
pace, could ſcarcely diſcern their way.
The clouds, which ſeemed charged with
thunder,


( 185 )
thunder, paſſed ſlowly along the heavens,
Thewing, at intervals, the trembling ſtars ;
while the groves of cypreſs and fycamore,
that overhung the rocks, waved high in
the breeze, as it ſwept over the glen, and
then ruſhed among the diſtant woods. Emi-
ly ſhivered as it paſſed.
“ Where is the torch?” ſaid Ugo, “ Ic
grows dark.”
« Not ſo dark yet,” replied Bertrand,
« but we may find our way, and 'cis beſt not
light the torch, before we can help, for it
may betray us, if any ftraggling party of
the enemy is abroad.”
Ugo muttered ſomething, which Emily
did not underſtand, and they proceeded in
darkneſs, while ſhe almoſt wilhed, that the
enemy might diſcover them; for from
change there was ſomething to hope, ſince
ſhe could ſcarcely imagine any ſituation
more dreadful than her preſent one.
As they moved flowly along, her atten-
tion was ſurpriſed by a thin tapering Aar.e,
that appeared, by fits, at the point of the
enei
pike,


( 186 )
pike, which Bertrand carried, reſembling
what ſhe had obſerved on the lance of the
ſentinel, the night Madame Montoni died,
and which he had ſaid was an omen. The
event immediately following it appeared to
juſtify the affertion, and a ſuperſtitious im-
preſſion had remained on Emily's mind,
which the preſent appearance confirmed.
She thought it was an omen of her own fate,
and watched it ſucceſſively vaniſh and ree
turn, in gloomy ſilence, which was at length
interrupted by Bertrand.
"Let us light the torch,” ſaid he," and
get under ſhelter of the woods ;--a ſtorm
is coming on-look at my lance.”
He held it forth, with the flame tapering
at its point*.
« Aye,” ſaid Ugo, “ you are not one of
thoſe, that believe in omens: we have left
cowards at the caſtle, who would turn pale
at ſuch a ſight. I have often ſeen it before
a thunder ſtorm, it is an omen of that, and
* See the Abbé Berthelon on Electricity.
.
one


( 187 )
W
one is coming now, fure enough. The
clouds flaſh faſt already."
Emily was relieved by this converſation
from ſome of the terrors of ſuperſtition ;
but thoſe of reaſon increaſed, as, waiting
while Ugo ſearched for a flint, to ſtrike
fire, the watched the pale lightning gleam
over the woods they were about to enter,
and illumine the harſh countenances of
her companions. Ugo could not find a
flint, and Bertrand became impatient, for
the thunder ſounded hollowly at a diſtance,
and the lightning was more frequent.
Sometimes, it revealed the nearer receſſes
of the woods, or, diſplaying ſome opening
in their ſummits, illumined the ground be-
neath with partial ſplendour, the thick
foliage of the trees preſerving the ſurround-
ing ſcene in deep ſhadow. .
At length, Ugo found a flint, and the
torch was lighted. The men then diſ-
mounted, and, having aſlifted Emily, led
the mules towards the woods, that ſkirted
the glen, on the left, over broken ground,
fre-


( 188 )
frequently interrupted with bruſh - wood and
wild plants, which ſhe was often obliged to
makea circuit to avoid.
She could not approach theſe woods,
without experiencing keener ſenſe of her
danger. Their deep ſilence, except when
the wind ſwept among their branches, and
impenetrable glooms ſhewn partially by
the ſudden falh, and then, by the red
glare of the torch, which ſerved only to
make “ darkneſs viſible,” were circum-
ſtances, that contributed to renew all her
moſt terrible apprehenſions; ſhe thought,
too, that, at this moment, the countenances
of her conductors diſplayed more than
their uſual fierceneſs, mingled with a kind
of lurking exultation, which they ſeemed
endeavouring to diſguiſe. To her affright-
ed fancy it occurred, that they were lead-
ing her into theſe woods to complete the
will of Montoni by her murder. The
horrid ſuggeſtion called a groan from her
heart, which ſurpriſed her companions,
who turned round quickly towards her,
and


( 189 )
and the demanded why they led her thither,
beſeeching them to continue their way
along the open glen, which ſhe repreſented
to be leſs dangerous than the woods, in a
thunder ſtorm.
“ No, no,” ſaid Bertrand, “ we know
beſt where the danger lies. See how the
clouds open over our heads. Beſides, we
can glide under cover of the woods with leſs
hazard of being ſeen, ſhould any of the
enemy be wandering this way. By holy
St. Peter and all the reſt of them, I've as
ſtout a heart as the beſt, as many a poor
devil could tell, if he were alive again
but what can we do againſt numbers ?”
“ What are you whining about ?” ſaid
Ugo, contemptuouſly, “who fears num-
į bers! Let them come, though they were
as many as the Signor's caſtle could hold ; I
would ſhew the knaves what fighting is.
For you I would lay you quietly in a
dry ditch, where you might peep out, and
ſee me put the rogues to flight. Who talks
of fear !".
Ber-
ves


( 190 )
Bertrand replied, with an horrible oath,
that he did not like ſuch jeſting, and a
violent altercation enſued, which was, at
length, ſilenced by the thunder, whoſe deep
volley was heard afar, rolling onward till
it burſt over their heads in ſounds, that
ſeemed to ſhake the earth to its centre.
The ruffians pauſed, and looked upon each
other. Between the boles of the trees, the
blue lightning flaſhed and quivered along
the ground, while, as Emily looked under
the boughs, the mountains beyond fre-
quently appeared to be clothed in livid
flame. At this moment, perhaps, ſhe felt
leſs fear of the ſtorm, than did either of her
companions, for other terrors occupied her
mind.
The men now reſted under an enor.
mous cheſnut-tree, and fixed their pikes in
the ground, at ſome diſtance, on the iron
points of which Emily repeatedly obſerved
the lightning play, and then glide down
them into the earth.
6 I would we were well in the Signor's
caſtle !"


( 191 )
caſtle !” ſaid Bertrand, " I know not why
he ſhould ſend us on this buſineſs. Hark!
how it rattles above, there! I could almoſt
find in my heart to tụrn prieſt, and pray."
Ugo, haſt got a roſary?”.
“ No," replied Ugo, “I leave it to
cowards like thee, to carry roſaries—I carry
a ſword.”
• And much good may it do thee in
fighting againſt the ſtorm!” ſaid Bertrand.
Another peal, which was reverberated
in tremendous echoes among the mountains,
ſilenced them for a moment. As it rolled
away, Ugo propoſed going on. “ We are
only loſing time here,” ſaid he, “ for the
thick boughs of the woods will ſhelter uş as.
well as this cheſnut tree.”
They again led the inules forward, be-
tween the boles of the trees, and over path-
leſs graſs, that concealed their high knotted
roots. The riſing wind was now heard
contending with the thunder, as it ruſhed
furiouſly among the branches above, and
brightened the red flame of the torch,
noin
which


( 192 )
which threw a ſtronger light forward among
the woods, and ſhewed their gloomy recer.
ſes to be ſuitable reſorts for the wolves, of
which Ugo had formerly ſpoken..
At length, the ſtrength of the wind
ſeemed to drive the ſtorm before it, for the
thunder rolled away into diſtance, and was
only faintly heard. After travelling through
the woods for nearly an hour, during which
the elements ſeemed to have returned to re-
poſe, the travellers, gradually aſcending
from the glen, found themſelves upon the
open brow of a mountain, with a wide val-
ley, extending in miſty moon-light, at their
feet, and above, the blue ſky, trembling
through the few thin clouds, that lingered
after the ſtorm, and were ſinking flowly to
the verge of the horizon.
Emily's ſpirits, now that ſhe had quitted
the woods, began to revive; for ſhe con-
fidered, that, if theſe men had received an
order to deſtroy her, they would probably
have executed their barbarous purpoſe in
the ſolitary wild, from whence they had juſt
emerged,


( 193 )
emerged, where the deed would have been
ſhrouded from every human eye. Reaſſured
by this reflection, and by the quiet de-
meanour of her guides, Emily, as they
proceeded filently, in a kind of ſheep
track, that wound along the ſkirts of the
woods, which aſcended on the right, could
not ſurvey the ſleeping beauty of the vale,
to which they were declining, without a
momentary ſenſation of pleaſure. It ſeem-
ed varied with woods, paſtures, and ſloping
grounds, and was ſcreened to the north and
the eaſt by an amphitheatre of the Apen-
nines, whoſe outline on the horizon was
here broken into varied and elegant forms;
to the weſt and the ſouth, the landſcape
extended indiftinctly into the lowlands of
Tuſcany.
“ There is the ſea yonder,” ſaid Ber-
trand, as if he had known that Emily was
examining the twilight view, “ yonder in
the weſt, though we cannot fee it.”
Emily already perceived a change in the
climate, from that of the wild and moun-
VOL. III.
tainous


( 194 )
tainous tract ſhe had left; and as ſhe con-
tinued deſcending, the air became per-
fumed by the breath of a thouſand name-
leſs flowers among the graſs, called forth
by the late rain. So ſoothingly beautiful
was the ſcene around her, and ſo ſtrik-
ingly contraſted to the gloomy grandeur of
thoſe, to which ſhe had long been con-
fined, and to the manners of the people,
who moved among thein, that ſhe could
almoſt have fancied herſelf again at La
Vallée, and, wondering why Montoni had
ſent her hither, could ſcarcely believe, that
he had ſelected fo enchanting a ſpot for
any cruel deſign. It was, however, pro-
bably not the ſpot, but the perſons, who
happened to inhabit it, and to whoſe care
he could ſafely commit the execution of
his plans, whatever they might be, that
had determined his choice.
· She now ventured again to enquire,
whether they were near the place of their
deſtination, and was anſwered by Ugo, that
they had not far to go. “ Only to the
LS
wood


( 196 )
diately deſcended, let them into a neat ruſtic
cot, and called up his wife to ſet refreſh-
ments before the travellers. As this man
converſed, rather apart, with Bertrand,
Emily anxiouſly ſurveyed him. He was a
tall, but not robuſt, peaſant, of a' fallow
complexion, and had a ſhrewd and cun.
ning eye ; his countenance was not of a
character to win the ready confidence of
youth, and there was nothing in his man-
ner, that might conciliate a ſtranger.
Ugo called impatiently for ſupper, and
in a tone as if he knew his authority here
to be unqueſtionable. “I expected you
an hour ago," ſaid the peaſant, “ for I
have had Signor Montoni's letter theſe
three hours, and I and my wife had given
you up, and gone to bed. How did you
fare in the form ?”
“lli enough,” replied Ugo, “ill enough,
and we are like to fare ill enough here, too,
unleſs you will make more haſte. Get us
more wine, and let us ſee what you have
to eat."
The


( 197 )
The peaſant placed before them, all that
his cottage afforded-ham, wine, figs, and
grapes of ſuch ſize and flavour, as Emily
had ſeldom taſted.
After taking refreſhment, ſhe was ſhewn
by the peaſant's wife to her little bed-cham.
ber, where ſhe aſked fome queſtions con-
cerning Montoni, to which the woman,
whoſe name was Dorina, gave reſerved an-
ſwers, pretending ignorance of his Excel-
lenza's intention in ſending Emily hither,
but acknowledging that her huſband had
been apprized of the circumſtance. Per-
ceiving, that ſhe could obtain no intelli.
gence concerning her deſtination, Emily
diſmiffed Dorina, and retired to repoſe;
but all the buſy ſcenes of the paſt and the
anticipated ones of the future came to her
anxious mind, and conſpired with the ſenſe
of her new ſituation to baniſh ſleep.
K 3
CHAP.


( 198 )
CH A P. VII.
“ Was nought around but images of reſt,
Sleep-foothing groves, and quiet lawns between,
And flowery beds that ſlumbrous influence keſt,
From poppies breath'd, and banks of pleaſant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature ſeen.
Meantime unnumbered glittering ſtreamlets play'd,
And hurled every where their water's fheen,
That, as they bicker'd through the ſunny glade,
Though reſtleſs ſtill themſelves, a lulling murmur
made."
THOMSON
W HEN Emily, in the morning, open-
ed her caſement, ſhe was furpriſed to ob.
ſerve the beauties that ſurrounded it. The
cottage was nearly embowered in the woods,
which were chiefly of cheſnut, intermixed
with ſome cypreſs, larch and ſycamore.
Beneath the dark and ſpreading branches,
appeared, to the north, and to the eaſt,
the woody Apennines, riſing in majeſtic
amphitheatre, not black with pines, as ſhe
had been accuſtomed to ſee them, but their
loftieſt


( 199 )
loftieft fummits crowned with antient fo.
reſts of cheſnut, oak, and oriental plane,
now animated with the rich tints of au-
tumn, and which ſwept downward to the
valley uninterruptedly, except where ſome
bold rocky promontory looked out from
among the foliage, and caught the paſſing
gleam. Vineyards ſtretched along the feet
of the mountains, where the elegant villas
of the Tuſcan nobility frequently adorned
the ſcene, and overlooked ſlopes clothed
with groves of olive, mulberry, orange and
lemon. The plain, to which theſe declined,
was coloured with the riches of cultivation,
whoſe mingled hues were mellowed into
harmony by an Italian ſun. Vines, their
purple cluſters bluſhing between the ruffet
foliage, hung in luxuriant feſtoons from
the branches of ſtandard fig and cherry
trees, while paſtures of verdure, ſuch as
Emily had ſeldom ſeen in Italy, enriched
the banks of a ſtream that, after deſcending
from the mountains, wour.d along the land-
- fcape, which it reflected, to a bay of the
K4 .
ſea.


( 200 )
fea. Theré, far in the weſt, the waters,
fading into the fky, aſſumed a tint of the
fainteft purple, and the line of ſeparation
between them was, now and then, diſcern-
ible only by the progreſs of a fail, brighten-
ed with the ſun-beam, along the horizon.
The cottage, which was ſhaded by the
woods from the intenſer rays of the ſun,
and was open only to his evening light,
was covered entirely with vines, fig-trees
and jeffamine, whoſe flowers ſurpaſſed in
fize and fragrance any that Emily had ſeen.
Theſe and ripening cluſters of grapes hung
round her little caſement. The turf, that
grew under the woods, was inlaid with a
variety of wild flowers and perfumed herbs,
and, on the oppoſite margin of the ſtream,
whoſe current diffuſed freſhneſs beneath
the ſhades, rofe a grove of lemon and
orange trees. This, though nearly oppo-
ſite to Emily's window, did not interrupt
her proſpect, but rather heightened, by ]
its dark verdure, the effect of the perſpec-
tive; and to her this ſpot was a bower of
ſweets,


( 201 )
ſweets, whoſe charms communicated im-
perceptibly to her mind ſomewhat of their
own ſerenity.
She was ſoon fummoned to breakfaſt,
by the peaſant's daughter, a girl about ſe-
venteen, of a pleaſant countenance, which,
Emily was glad to obſerve, ſeemed ani-
mated with the pure affections of nature,
though the others, that ſurrounded her,
expreſſed, more or leſs, the worſt qualities
cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplici-
ty; of the latter ſtyle of countenance, ef-
pecially, were thoſe of the peaſant and his
wife. Maddelina ſpoke little, but what
ſhe ſaid was in a ſoft voice, and with an
air of modeſty and complacency, that inte-
reſted Emily, who breakfaſted at a ſepa-
rate table with Dorina, while Ugo and Ber-
trand were taking a repaſt of Tuſcany
bacon and wine with their hoft, near the
cottage door; when they had finiſhed which,
Ugo, riſing haſtily, enquired for his mule,
and Emily learned that he was to return to
Udolpho, while Bertrand remained at the
K 5. cottage;. -


( 202 )
cottage ; a circumſtance, which, though it.
did not ſurpriſe, diſtreſſed her.
When Ugo was departed, Emily pro-
poſed to walk in the neighbouring woods ;
but, on being told, that Ne muſt not quit
the cottage, without having Bertrand for
her attendant, ſhe withdrew to her own:
room. There, as her eyes ſettled on the.
towering Apennines, ſhe recollected the ter:
rific ſcenery they had exhibited and the.
horrors ſhe had ſuffered, on the preceding
night, particularly at the moment when:
Bertrand had betrayed himſelf to be an al-
ſaſſin ; and theſe remembrances awakened
a train of images, which, ſince they ab-
ſtracted her from a conſideration of her own.
ſituation, ſhe purſued for ſome time, and,
then arranged in the following lines ;.
pleaſed to have diſcovered any innocent
means, by which ſhe could beguile an hour.
of misfortune.
THE


( 203 )
THE PILGRIM*.
Slow o'er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,
A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,
To deck the Lady of Loretto's ſeat
W ith all the little wealth his zeal could pay.
From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray, .
And, ſtretch'd in twilight, ſlept the vale below;
And now the laſt, laſt purple ſtreaks of day.
Along the melancholy Weſt fade flow.
High o'er his head, the reſtleſs pines complain,
As on their ſummic rolls the breeze of night;
Beneath, the hoarſe ſtream chides the rocks in vain :
The Pilgrim pauſes on the dizzy height.
Then to the vale his cautious ſtep he preſs’d,
For there a hermit's croſs was dimly ſeen,
Creſting the rock, and there his limbs might reſt,
Cheer'd in the good man's cave, by faggot's ſheen,
On leafy beds, nor guile his ſleep moleit.
Unhappy Luke! he truſts a treacherous clue !"
Behind the cliff the lurking robber ſtood;
No friendly moon his giant ſhadow threw
Athwart the road, to ſave the Pilgrim's blood;
On as he went a veſper-hymn he ſang,
The hymn, that nightly footh'd him to repoſe.
Fierce on his harmleſs prey the ruffian fprang!
The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids cloſe.
Yet his meek ſpirit knew no vengeful care,
but, dying, for his murd'rer breath'd-a ſainted
pray'r!
* This poem and that entitled The Traveller, in vol. ji. have
already appeared in a periodical publication.
K 6
Preferring


( 204 )
Preferring the ſolitude of her room to the
company of the perſons below ftairs, Emi-
ly dined above, and Maddelina was ſuffered
to attend her, from whoſe finple converſa-
tion ſhe learned, that the peaſant and his
wife were old inhabitants of this cottage,
which had been purchaſed for them by Mon-
toni, in reward of ſome ſervice, rendered
him, many years before, by Marco, to whom
Carlo, the ſteward at the caſtle, was nearly
related. “So many years ago, Signora,”
added Maddelina, “ that I know nothing
about it; but my father did the Signor a
great good, for my mother has often ſaid
to him, this cottage was the leaſt he ought
to have had.”
To the mention of this circumſtance
Emily liſtened with a painful intereſt fince,
it appeared to give a frightful colour to
the character of Marco, whoſe ſervice, thus
rewarded by Montoni, ſhe could ſcarcely
doubt had been criminal ;; and, if ſo, had
too much reaſon to believe, that ſhe had
been committed into his hands for ſome
deſperate purpoſe. 6 Did you ever hear
how


( 205 )
how many years it is,” ſaid Emily, who
was conſidering of Signora Laurentini's.
diſappearance from Udolpho, “ſince your
father performed the ſervices you ſpoke of?""
“ It was a lit:le before he cane to live ac
the cottage, Signora,” replied Maddelina,
“ and that is about eighteen years ago.”
This was near the period, when Signora
Laurentini had been ſaid to diſappear, and
it occurred to Emily, that Marco had al-
fifted in that myſterious affair, and, pero
haps, had been employed in a murder !!
This horrible ſuggeſtion fixed her in ſuch
profound reverie, that Maddelina quitted
the room, unperceived by her, and ſhe
remained unconſcious of all around her,
for a conſiderable time. Tears, at length,
came to her relief, after indulging which,
her ſpirits becoming calmer, ſhe ceaſed to
tremble at a view of evils, that might ne-
ver arrive; and had ſufficient reſolution
to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts
from the contemplation of her own in-
terefts. Remembering the few books,
which


( 206 )
which even in the hurry of her departure
from Udolpho ſhe had put into her little
package, ſhe ſat down with one of them
at her pleaſant caſement, whence her eyes
often wandered from the page to the land.
ſcape, whoſe beauty gradually foothed her
mind into gentle melancholy.
Here, ſhe remained alone, till evening,
and ſaw the ſun deſcend the weſtern ſky,
throw all his pomp of light and ſhadow
upon the mountains, and gleam upon the
diſtant ocean and the ſtealing fails; as he
ſunk amidſt the waves. Then, at the mu-
ſing hour of twilight, her ſoftened thoughts
returned to Valancourt ; le again recol.
lected every circumſtance, connected with
the midnight muſic, and all that might al-
fiſt her conjecture, concerning his impriſon-
ment at the caſtle, and, becoming confirm
ed in the ſuppoſition, that it was his voice
ſhe had heard there, ſhe looked back to
that gloomy abode with emotions of grief
and momentary regret.
Refreſhed by the cool and fragrant air,
and


( 207 )
and her ſpirits ſoothed to a ſtate of gentle
melancholy by the ſtilly murmur of the
brook below and of the woods around, ſhe
lingered at her cafement long after the ſun
had ſet, watching the valley finking into
obſcurity, till only the grand outline of the
furro:inling mountains, ſhadowed upon
the horizon, remained viſible. But a clear
moon-light, that ſucceeded, gave to the
landſcape, what time gives to the ſcenes
of paſt life, when it ſoftens all their harſh-
er features, and throws over the whole the
mellowing ſhade of diſtant contemplation.
The ſcenes of La Vallée; in the early
morn of her life, when ſhe was protected
and beloved by parents equally loved, ap-
peared in Emily's memory tenderly beauti-
ful, like the proſpect before her, and
awakened mournfut compariſons. Unwil.
ling to encounter the coarſe behaviour of
the peaſant’s wife, the remained ſupperleſs
in her room, while ſhe wept again over
her forlorn and perilous ſituation, a review
of which entirely overcame the ſmall re-
ema
OV
ver
mains


( 208 )
mains of her fortitude, and, reducing her
to temporary deſpondence, ſhe wiſhed to be
releaſed from this heavy load of life, that
had ſo long oppreſſed her, and prayed to
Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her
parents.
Wearied with weeping, fhe, at length,
lay down on her mattreſs, and ſunk to
ſleep, but was ſoon awakened by a knock-
ing at her chamber door, and, ſtarting up
in terror, ſhe heard a voice calling her.
The image of Bertrand, with a ſtiletto in
his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy,
and the neither opened the door, or an-
ſwered, but liſtened in profound ſilence,
till, the voice repeating her name in the
ſame low tone, ſhe demanded who called.
6 It is I, Signora,” replied the voice, which
ſhe now diſtinguiſhed to be Maddelina's,
“ pray open the door. Don't be frighten-
ed, it is 1.”
“ And what brings you here'fo late,
Maddelina ?” ſaid Emily, as ſhe let her in.
“Huſh ! Signora, for heaven's fake huſh!
- if


( 209
if we are overheard I ſhall never be for
given. My father and mother and Ber-
trand are all gone to bed," continued
Maddelina, as the gently ſhut the door,
and crept forward, “ and I have brought
you ſome ſupper, for you had none, you
know, Signora, below ſtairs. Here are
fome grapes and figs and half a cup of
wine.” Emily thanked her, but expreſſed
apprehenſion left this kindnefs ſhould draw
upon her the reſentment of Dorina, when
The perceived the fruit was gone.“ Take it
back, therefore, Maddelina,” added Emily,
" I ſhall fuffer much leſs from the want of
it, than I ſhould do, if this act of good-
nature was to fubject you to your mother's
diſpleaſure."
“O Signora ! there is no danger of that,"
replied Maddelina, “my mother cannot
miſs the fruit, for I ſaved it from my own
ſupper. You will make me very unhappy,
if you refuſe to take iv, Signora." Emily
was ſo much affected by this inſtance of
the good girl's generoſity, that the remained
for


( 210 )
1
for ſome time unable to reply, and Mad
delina watched her in filence, till, miſtak.
ing the cauſe of her emotion, ſhe ſaid, “ Do
not weep ſo, Signora ! My mother, to be
ſure, is a little croſs, ſometimes, but then
it is ſoon over,—ſo don't take it ſo much to
heart. She often ſcolds me, too, but then
I have learned to bear it, and, when ſhe
has done, if I can but ſteal out into the
woods, and play upon my ficcado, I for-
get it all directly."
Emily, ſmiling through her tears, told
Maddelina, that ſhe was a good girl, and
then accepted her offering. She wilhed
anxiouſly to know, whether Bertrand and
Dorina had ſpoken of Montoni, or of his
deſigns, concerning herſelf, in the preſence
of Maddelina, but diſdained to tempe the
innocent girl to a conduct ſo mean, as that
of betraying the private converſation of her
parents. When ſhe was departing, Emily
requeſted, that ſhe would come to her
room as often as the dared without offend-
ing her mother; and Maddelina, after pro-
miſing,
000 a


( 213 )
- hos
Nor leſs ſo were the varied ſhades and
warm colouring of the Apennines, as the
evening ſun threw his fanting rays athwart
their broken ſurface. Emily followed the
courſe of the ſtream, under the ſhades,
E, that overhung its graffy margin. On the
- oppoſite banks, the paſtures were animated
with herds of cattle of a beautiful cream-
colour; and, beyond, were groves of le-
mon and orange, with fruit glowing on the
branches, frequent almoſt as the leaves,
which partly concealed it. She purſued
her way towards the ſea, which reflected
the warm glow of ſun-ſer, while the cliffs,
that roſe over its edge, were tinted with
the laſt rays. The valley was terminated
> on the right by a lofty promontory, whoſe
ſummit, impending over the waves, was
crowned with a ruined tower, now ſerving
for the purpoſe of a beacon, whoſe lhát-
tered battlements and the extended wings
of ſome ſea-fowl, that circled near it, were ,
ſtill illumined by the upward beams of the
ſun, though his diſk was now ſunk beneath
the


( 215 )
its tall fails reflected in the water, is, per-
haps, bound for France ! Happy-happy
bark!” She continued to gaze upon it,
with warm emotion, till the gray of twi-
light obſcured the diſtance, and veiled it
from her view. The melancholy ſound of
the waves at her feet aſſiſted the tender-
neſs, that occaſioned her tears, and this
was the only ſound, that broke upon the
hour, till, having followed the windings
of the beach, for ſome time, a chorus of
voices paſſed her on the air. She pauſed
a moment, wiſhing to hear more, yet fear-
ing to be ſeen, and, for the firſt time, looked
back to Bertrand, as her protector, who
was following, at a ſhort diſtance, in com-
pany with ſome other perſon. Reaſſured
by this circumſtance, the advanced to.
wards the ſounds, which ſeemed to ariſe
from behind a high promontory, that
projected athwart the beach. There was
now a ſudden pauſe in the muſic, and then
one female voice was heard to ſing in a
kind of chant. Emily quickened her
ſteps,


( 216 )
{teps, and, winding round the rock, law,
within the ſweeping bay, beyond, which
was hung with woods from the borders of
the beach to the very ſummit of the cliffs,
two groups of peaſants, one ſeated beneath
the ſhades, and the other ſtanding on the
edge of the ſea, round the girl, who was
ſinging, and who held in her hand a chap-
let of flowers, which ſhe ſeemed about to
drop into the waves.
Emily, liſtening with ſurpriſe and atten-
tion, diſtinguiſhed the following invocation
delivered in the pure and elegant tongue
of Tuſcany, and accompanied by a few paſ-
toral inſtruments.
TO A SEA-NYMPH.
nymph! who loves to float on the green wave,
When Neptune ſleeps beneath the moon-light hour,
Lull’d by thy muſic's melancholy pow'r,
nymph, ariſe from out thy pearly cave !
For Heſper beamsamid the twilight ſhade,
And ſoon ſhall Cynthia tremble o'er the tide,
Gleam on theſe cliffs, that bound the ocean's pride,
And lonely filence all the air pervade.
Then,


( 217 )
Then, let thy tender voice at diſtance ſwell,
And ſteal along this ſolitary ſhore,
Sink on the breeze, till dying-heard no more
Thou wak'ſt the ſudden magic of thy thell.
While the long coaſt in echo ſweet replies,..
Thy foothing ſtrains the penſive heart beguile,
And bid the viſions of the future ſmile,
O nymph! from out thy pearly cave-ariſe!
(Chorus) — Ariſe! '
(Semi-chorus) – Arife!
The laſt words being repeated by the
ſurrounding group, the garland of flowers
was thrown into the waves, and the chorus,
ſinking gradually into a chant, died away
in ſilence.
- What can this mean, Maddelina?” ſaid
Emily, awakening from the pleaſing trance,
into which the muſic had lulled her. “This
is the eve of a feſtival, Signora," replied
Maddelina; “ and the peaſants then amuſe
themſelves with all kinds of ſports.”
“ But they talked of a ſea-nyinph," ſaid
Emily: “ how came theſe good people to
think of a ſea-nymph ?”
VOL. III.
“O,


( 218.)
“ O, Signora,” rejoined Maddelina,
miſtaking the reaſon of Emily's ſurpriſe,
“ nobody believes in ſuch things, but our
old ſongs tell of them, and, when we are at
our ſports, we fometimes ſing to them, and .
throw garlands into the ſea.”
Emily had been early taught to venerate
Florence as the ſeat of literature and of the
fine arts; but, that its taſte for claſſic ſtory
ſhould deſcend to the peaſants of the coun-
try, occaſioned her both ſurpriſe and admi-
ration. The Arcadian air of the girls next
attracted her attention. Their dreſs was a
very ſhort full petticoat of light green,
with a boddice of white ſilk; the leeves
looſe, and tied up at the ſhoulders with
ribbons and bunches of flowers. Their
hair, falling in ringlets on their necks, was
alſo ornamented with flowers, and with a
ſmall ſtraw hat, which, ſet rather back-
ward and on one ſide of the head, gave an
expreſſion of gaiety and ſmartneſs to the
whole figure. When the ſong had con-
cluded, ſeveral of theſe girls approached
. Emily,
-


; ( 219 )
Einily, and, inviting her to fit down among
them, offered her, and Maddelina, whom
they knew, grapes and figs,
Emily accepted their courteſy, much
pleaſed with the gentleneſs and grace of
their manners, which appeared to be per-
fectly natural to them: and when Ber-
trand, ſoon after, approached, and was
haſtily drawing her away, a peaſant, hold.
ing up a flaſk, invited him to drink; a
temptation which Bertrand was ſeldom very
valiant in reſiſting.
“Let the young lady join in the dance,
my friend,” ſaid the peaſant, " while we
empty this flaſk. They are going to begin
directly. Strike up! my lads, ſtrike up
your tambourines and merry flutes !”
· They founded gaily; and the younger
peaſants formed themſelves into a circle,
which Emily would readily have joined,
had her ſpirits been in uniſon with their
mirth. Maddelina, however, tripped it
lightly, and Emily, as the looked on the
happy group, loſt the ſenſe of her misfor-
L2.
tunes


(220
220)
tunes in that of a benevolent pleaſure. But
the penſive melancholy of her mind return-
ed, as ſhe fat rather apart from the com-
pany, liſtening to the mellow muſic, which
the breeze Toftened as it bore it away, and
watching the moon, ſtealing its tremulous
light over the wayes and on the woody
Yummits of the cliffs, that wound along
theſe Tuſcan ſhores.
Meanwhile, Bertrand was ſo well pleaſed
with his firſt flaſk, that he very willingly
commenced the attack of a ſecond, and it
was late before Emily, not without fonie
apprehenſion, returned to the cottage.
· After this evening, the frequently walked
with Maddelina, but was never unattended
by Bertrand; and her mind became by
degrees as tranquil as the circumſtances of
her ſituation would permit. The quiet, in
which ſhe was ſuffered to live, encouraged
her to hope, that ſhe was not ſent hither
with an evil deſign; and, had it not ap-
peared probable, tlrat Valancourt was at
this time an inhabitant of Udolpho, The
would


( 221
221 )
would have wiſhed to remain at the cot-
tage, till an opportunity ſhould offer of
returning to her native country. But,
concerning Montoni’s-motive for ſending
her into Tuſcany, ſhe was more than ever
perplexed, nor could the believe that any
conſideration for her ſafety had influenced
him on this occaſion.
She had been ſome time at the cottage,
before ſhe recollected, that, in the hurry
of leaving Udolpho, ſhe had forgotten the
papers committed to her by her late aunt,
relative to the Languedoc eſtates ; þut,
though this remembrance occaſioned her
much uneaſineſs, ſhe had ſome hope, that,
in the obſcure place where they were depo-
Sted, they would eſcape the detection of
Montoni.
L3
CHAP.


( 222 )
CH A P. VIII.
“ My tongue hath but a heavier tale to ſay. '
I play the torturer, by ſmall and ſmall,
To lengthen out the worſt that muſt be fpoken.”
RICHARD II,
was
W e now return, for a moment, to
Venice, where Count Morano was ſuffer='
ing under an accumulation of misfortunes.
Soon after his arrival in that city, he had
been arreſted by order of the Senate, and,
without knowing of what he was fufpected,
was conveyed to a place of confinement,
whither the moſt ſtrenuous enquiries of
his friends had been unable to trace him.
Who the enemy was, that had occaſioned
him this calamity, he had not been able to
gueſs, unleſs, indeed, it was Montoni, on
whom his ſuſpicions reſted, and not only
with much apparent probability, but with
juſtice,


( 223 )
In the affair of the poiſoned cup, Mona
roni had ſuſpected Morano; but, being un-
able to obtain the degree of proof, which
was neceſſary to convict him of a guilty in-
tention, he had recourſe to means of other
Revenge, than he could hope to obtain by
proſecution. He employed a perſon, in
whom he believed he might confide, to
drop a letter of accufation into the Denunzie
Jesrete, or lions' mouths, which are fixed in
a gallery of the Doge's palace, as recepia-
· eles for anonymous information concerning
perſons who may be diſaifected towards the
State. As, on theſe occaſions, the accuſer
is not confronted with che accuſed, a man
may falſely impeach his enemy, and accom-
pliſh , an unjuſt revenge, without fear of
puniſhment, or detection. That Montoni
fhould have recourſe to theſe diabolical
means of ruining a perſon, whom he ſufe
pected of having attempted his life, is not
in the leaſt ſurpriſing. In the letter, which
he had employed as the inſtrument of his
· revenge, he accuſed Morano of deſigns
· L 4
againſt -


( 224 )
W
againſt the State, which he attem
prove, with all the plauſible fimplicity of
which he was maſter; and the Senate, with
whom a fufpicion was, at that time, almoſt
equal to a proof, arreſted the Count, in
conſequence of this accuſation; and, with:
out even hinting to him his crime, threw
him into one of thoſe ſecret priſons, which
were the terror of the Venetians, and in
which perſons often languiſhed, and ſome-
tiines died, without being diſcovered by
their friends. ,
Morano had incurred the perſonal re-
ſentment of many members of the State ;
his habits of life had rendered him obnoxi-
Ous to ſome; and his ambition, and the
bold rivalihip, which he diſcovered, on,
ſeveral public occaſions,-to others; and
it was not to be expected, that mercy
would foften the rigour of a law, which
was to be diſpenſed from the hands of his ·
enemies. :
Montoni, meantime, was beſet by dan-
gers of another kind. His caſtle was be-
ſieged


( 225 )
ſieged by troops, who ſeemed willing to
dare every thing, and to ſuffer patiently
any hardſhips in purſuit of victory. The
ſtrength of the fortreſs, however, withſtood
their attack, and this, with the vigorous
defence of the garriſon, and the ſcarcity of
proviſion on theſe wild mountains, foon com-
pelled the aſſailants to raiſe the fiege.
When Udolpho was once more left to
the quiet poffeffion of Montoni, he dif-
pacched Ugo into Tuſcany for Emily,
whom he had ſent, from conſiderations of
her perſonal ſafety, to a place of greater
ſecurityi' than a caſtle, which was, at that
time, liable to be overrun by his enemies.
Tranquillity being once more reſtored
to Udolpho, he was impatient to fecure
her again under his roof, and had com-
miſſioned Ugo to affift Bertrand in guard-
ing her back to the caſtle. Thus compel.
led to return, Emily bade the kind Mad-
delina farewell, with regret, and, after
about a fortnight's ſtay in Tuſcany, where :
The had experienced an interval of quiet,
which
L 5


( 226 )
which was abſolutely neceſſary to ſuſtain
her long-haraſſed ſpirits, began once more
to aſcend the Apennines, from whoſe
heights ſhe gave a long and ſorrowful look
'to the beautiful country that extended at
their feet, and to the diſtant Mediterranean,
whoſe waves ſhe had ſo often wilhed would
bear her back to France. The diſtreſs ſhe
felt, on her return towards the place of her
former ſufferings, was, however, .ſoftened
by a conjecture, that Valancourt was there,
and the found fome degree of comfort in
the thought of being near him, notwich-
ſtanding the confideration, that he was pro
bably a priſoner.
'It was noon, when ſhe had left the cot.
tage, and the evening was cloſed, long be-
fore ſhe came within the neighbourhood
of Udolpho. There was a moon, but it
fhone only at intervals, for the night was
cloudy; and, lighted by the torch, which
Ugo carried, the travellers paced filently
along, Emily muſing on her ſituation, and
Bertrand and Ugo ancicipating the comforts
3
of


( 227 )
of a faſk of wine and a good fire, for they
had perceived for ſome time the difference
between the warm climate of the lowlands
of Tuſcany and the nipping air of theſe
upper regions. Emily was, at length, rouſed
from her reverie by the far-off ſound of the
caſtle clock, to which ſhe liſtened not with-
out ſome degree of awe, as it rolled away
on the breeze. Another and another note
fucceeded, and died in fullen murmur
among the mountains :-10 lier mournful
imagination it ſeemed a knell meaſuring out
fome fateful period for her.
: " Aye, there is the old clock," ſaid Ber:
Erand,“ there he is ſtill; the cannons have
not ſilenced him!” .
: " No," anſwered Ugo,“ he crowed as:
loud as the beſt of them in the midſt of it
all. There he was roaring out in the hot-
teſt fire I have ſeen this many a day! I ſaid
that ſome of them would have a hit at the
old fellow, but he eſcaped, and the tower
too."
· The road winding round the bafe of a
į
L6 ' mountain,


( 228 )
mountain, they now came within view of
the caſtle, which was ſhewn in the perſpec-
tive of the valley by a gleam of moon-
ſhine, and then vanilhed in Thade; while
even a tranſient view of it had awakened
the poignancy of Emily's feelings. . Its
maffy and gloomy walls gave her terrible
ideas of impriſonment and ſuffering : yet,
as ſhe advanced, ſome degree of hope
mingled with her terror; for, though this was
certainly the reſidence of Montoni, it was
poffibly, alſo, that of Valancourt, and ſhe
could not approach a place, where he might
be, without experiencing ſomewhat of the
joy of hope.
They continued to wind along the valley,
and, ſoon after, ſhe ſaw again the old walls-
and moon-light towers, riſing over the
woods : the ſtrong rays enabled her, alſo,
to perceive the ravages which the fiege
had made, with the broken walls, and
ſhattered battlements; for they were
now at the foot of the ſteep, on which
Udolpho ſtood. Maffy fragments had
- rolled
i


( 229 )
rolled down among the woods, through
which the travellers now began to aſcend,
and there mingled with the looſe earth,
and pieces of rock they had brought with
them. The woods, too, had ſuffered much
from the batteries above, for here the
enemy had endeavoured to ſcreen them.
ſelves from the fire of the ramparts. Many
noble trees were levelled with the ground,
and others, to a wide extent, were entirely
ſtripped of their upper branches. “We
had better. diſmount,” ſaid Ugo, « and
lead the mules up the hill, or we ſhall get
into ſome of the holes which the balls have
left. Here are plenty of them. Give me
the torch,” continued Ugo, after they had
diſmounted, “and take care you don't
ſtumble over any thing that lies in your
· way, for the ground is not yet cleared of
the enemy."
“How !” exclaimed Emily, “ are any of
whe enemy here, then?”
. * Nay, I don't know for that, now,” he
replied,


( 230 )
replied, " but when I came away, I ſaw one
or two of them lying under the trees.”
As they proceeded, the torch threw a
gloomy light upon the ground, and far
among the receffes of the woods, and Emily
feared to look forward, leſt ſome object of
horror ſhould meet her eye. The path was
often ſtrewn with broken heads of arrows,
and with ſhattered remains of armour, ſuch
as at that period was mingled with the light-
er dreſs of tbe foldiers. « Bring the light
hicher,” ſaid Bertrand, " I have ſtumbled
over ſomething that rattles loud enough."*
Ugo holding up the torch, they perceived
a ſteel breaſt- plate on the ground, which
Bertrand raiſed, and they ſaw that it was
pierced through, and that the lining was
entirely covered with blood; but upon
Emily's earneſt entreaties that they would
proceed, Bertrand, uttering ſome joke upon
the unfortunate perſon to whom it had be-
longed, threw it hard upon the ground, and
they paſſed on.
At


( 231 )
At every ſtep ſhe took, Emily feared to
ſee ſome veftige of death. Coming ſoon
after to an opening in the woods, Bertrand
ſtopped to ſurvey the ground, which was
encumbered with mafly trunks and branches
of the trees, that had fo lately adorned it,
and ſeemed to have been a ſpot particularly
fatal to the beſiegers; for it was evident,
from the deſtruction of the trees, that here
the hotteſt fire of the garriſon had been
directed. As Ugo held again forth the
torch, ſteel glittered between the fallen
trees; the ground beneath was covered
with broken arms, and with the torn veſt-
ments of ſoldiers, whoſe mangled forms
Emily- almoſt expected to fee; and ſhe
again entreated her companions to proceed,
who were, however, too intent in their exa-
mination, to 'regard her, and ſhe turned
her eyes from this deſolated ſcene to the
caſtle above, where ſhe obſerved lights
gliding along the ramparts. Preſently,
the caſtle clock ſtruck twelve, and then a
trumpet


( 232 )
trumpet founded, of which Emily enquired
the occaſion. .
"O! they are only changing watch,"
replied Ugo. “ I do not remember this
trumpet," ſaid Emily, “ It is a new cul-
tom.” “ It is only an old one revived,
lady; we always uſe it in time of war. We
have founded it, at inidnight, ever lince the
place was beſieged.”
66 'Hark!” ſaid Emily, as the trumpet
founded again; and, in the next moment,
ſhe heard a faint claſh of arms, and then
the watch-word paſſed along the terrace
above, and was anſwered from a diſtant
part of the caſtle;. after which all was again
Atill. She complained of cold, and begged;
to go on.“ Preſently, lady,” ſaid Bertrand,
turning over ſome broken arms with the
pike he uſually carried. " What have we.
here?”
“Hark !" cried Emily, “what noiſe was
that ?" ,
• What noiſe was it?” ſaid Ugo, ſtarting
up and liſtening
6. Huh!”


( 233 )
" Huſh !" repeated Emily. “ It furely
came from the ramparts above;" and, on
looking up, they perceived a light moving
along the walls, while, in'the next inſtant,
the breeze ſwelling, the voice founded
louder than before.
“ Who goes yonder ?” cried a ſentinel
of the caſtle. “ Speak, or it will be worſe
for you.” Bertrand uttered a ſhout of joy.
“ Ha! my brave comrade, is it you?”
ſaid he, and he blew a ſhrill whiſtle, which
ſignal was anſwered by another from the
ſoldier on watch; and the party, then
paffing forward, ſoon after emerged from
the woods upon the broken road, that led
immediately to the caſtle gates, and Emily
faw, with renewed terror, the whole of that
ſtupendous ſtructure. " Alas !” ſaid ſhe to
herſelf, “ I am going again into my
priſon !”
- Here has been warm work, by St.
Marco !” cried Bertrand, waving the torch
over the ground ; " the balls have torn up
the earth here, with a vengeance.”
" Aye,
12


( 234 )
Los Aye,” replied Ugo, “ they were fired
from that redoubt, yonder, and rare exe-
cution they did. The enemy made a fu-
rious attack upon the great gates; but they
might have gueſſed they could never carry
it there ; for, beſides the cannon from the
walls, our archers, on the two round towers,
Showered down upon them at ſuch a rate,
that, by holy Peter ! there was no ſtanding
it. I never faw a better fight in my life ;
I laughed, till my fides ached, to ſee how
the knaves ſcampered. Bertrand, my good
fellow, thou ſhouldſt have been among
them; I warrant chou wouldſt have won
the race !"
. ..
“ Hah! you are at your old tricks
again,” faid Bertrand in a furly tone. “ It
is well for thee thou art ſo near the caſtle;
chou knowelt I have killed my man before
now.”. Ugo replied only by a laugh, and
then gave ſome further account of the fiege,
to which as Emily liſtened, the was ſtruck
by the ſtrong contraſt of the preſent ſcene
with


( 235 )
with that which had ſo lately been acted
here.
The mingled uproar of cannon, drums,
and trumpets, the groans of the conquered,
and the ſhouts of the conquerors, were now
funk into a filence fo 'profound, that it
feemed as if death had triuinphed alike
over the vanquiſhed and the victor. The
ſhattered condition of one of the towers of
the great gates by no means confirmed the
valiant account juſt given by Ugo of the
ſcampering party, who, it was evident, had
not only made a ſtand, but had done much
- miſchief before they took to flight ; for this
tower appeared, as far as Emily could
judge by the dim moon-light that fell
upon it, to be laid open, and the battle-
ments were nearly demoliſhed. While the
gazed, a light glimmered through one of
the lower loop- holes, and diſappeared ; buty
in the next moment, the perceived through
the broken wall a ſoldier, with a lamp, aſ-
> cending the narrow ſtair-cafe, that wound
: within the tower, and, remembering that
narro


it was the ſame ſhe had paſſed up, on the
night, when Barnardine had deluded her
with a proiniſe of ſeeing Madame Montoni,
fancy gave her fomewhat of the terror ſhe
had then ſuffered. She was now very
near the gates, over which the foldier
having opened the door of the portal.
chamber, the lamp he carried gave her a
duſky view of that terrible apartment, and
the almoſt funk under the recollected hora
rors of the moment, when ſhe had drawn
aſide the curtain, and diſcovered the object
it was meant to conceal.
"Perhaps,” faid ſhe to herſelf, « it is
now uſed for a ſimilar purpoſe; perhaps,
that ſoldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch
over the corpſe of his friend !" The little:
remains of her fortitude now gave way to
the uniced force of remembered and antici-
pated horrors, for the melancholy fate of Ma-
dame Montoni appeared to foretell her own.
She conſidered, that, though the Langue.
doc eſtates, if ſhe relinquiſhed them, would
fatisfy Montoni's avarice, they might noç
appeaſe


( 237 )
appeafe his vengeance, which was feldom
pacified but by a terrible ſacrifice; and ſhe
even thought, that, were ſhe to reſign them,
the fear of juſtice might urge him either to
detain her a priſoner, or to take away her
life.
They were now arrived at the gates,
where Bertrand, obſerving the light glim- ,
mer through a ſmall caſement of the por-
tal-chamber, called aloud ; and the ſoldier,
looking out, demanded who was there.
• Here, I have brought you a priſoner,"
ſaid Ugo,“ open the gate, and let us -
in.”
« Tell me firſt who it is, that demands
entrance,” replied the ſoldier.“ What! my
old comrade,” cried Ugo, « don't you
know me ? not know Ugo? I have brought
home a priſoner here, bound hand and foot
-a fellow, who has been drinking Tuſcany
wine, while we here have been fighting."
“ You will not reſt till you meet with
your match,” ſaid Bertrar.d ſullenly.“ Hah!
. my


( 238 )
my comrade, is it you?” ſaid the ſoldier
“ l'll be with you directly.”
Emily preſently heard his ſteps deſcend-
ing the ſtairs within, and then the heavy
chain fall, and the bolts undraw of a ſmall
poſtern door, which he opened to admit
the party. He held the lamp low, to
ſhew the ſtep of the gate, and ſhe found
- herſelf once more beneath the gloomy arch,
and heard the door cloſe, that ſeemed to
fhut her from the world for ever. In the
next moment ſhe was in the firſt court of -
the caſtle, where ſhe ſurveyed the ſpacio
and ſolitary area, with a kind of calm de-
ſpair ; while the dead hour of the night,
the goihic gloom of the ſurrounding build-
ings, and the hollow and imperfect echoes,
'which they returned, as Ugo and the fol-
dier converſed together, affifted to increaſe
the melancholy forebodings of her heart.
Paſſing on to the ſecond court, a diſtant
found broke feebly on the ſilence, and gra-
dually ſwelling louder, as they advanced,
. ..
Emily


( 239 )
- Emily diſtinguiſhed voices of revelry and
daughter, but they were to her far other
than ſounds of joy. “ Why, you have
got ſome Tuſcany wine among you, here,”
{aid Bertrand, “ if one may judge by the
uproar that is going forward. Ugo has
taken a larger fare of that than of light-
ing, I'll be ſworn. Who is carouſing at
this late hour ?”
“ His Excellenza and the Signors,” re-
plied the ſoldier : “ it is a ſign you are a
ſtranger at the caſtle, or you would not
need to aſk the queſtion. They are brave
ſpirits, that do without ſeep--they gene-
rally paſs the night in good cheer; would
that we, who keep the watch, had a little
of it! It is cold work, pacing the ramparts
ſo many hours of the night, if one has no
good liquor to warm one's heart.”
" Courage, my lad, courage ought to
warm your heart,” ſaid Ugo.“ Courage !"
replied the foldier (harply, with a menacing,
air, which Ugo perceiving, prevented his
ſaying more, by returning to the ſubject of
the


( 240 )
3
the caroufal. - This is a new cuſtom,”
ſaid he ; " when I left the caſtle, the Sig-
nors uſed to ſit up counſelling."
“ Aye, and for that matter, carouſing
too,” ſaid Bertrand ; " but, ſince the ſiege,
they have done nothing but make merry :
and if I was they, I would ſettle accounts
with myſelf, for all my hard fighting, the
fame way.”
They had now croſſed the ſecond court,
and reached the hall door, when the fol-
dier, bidding them good night, haſtened
back to his poft ; and, while they waited
for admittance, Emily conſidered how ſhe
might avoid ſeeing Montoni, and retire un-
noticed to her former apartment, for the
ſhrunk from the thought of encountering
either him, or any of his party, at this
hour. The uproar within the caſtle was
now ſo loud, that, though Ugo knocked
repeatedly at the hall-door, he was not heard
by any of the ſervants, a circunſtance,
which increaſed Emily's alarm, while it al.
lowed her time to deliberate on the means
I of


( 241 )
of retiring unobſerved; for, though the
might, perhaps, paſs up the great ſtair-caſe
unſeen, it was impoſſible ſhe could find
the way to her chamber, without a light,
the difficulty of procuring which, and the
danger of wandering about the caſtle, with-
out one, immediately ſtruck her. Ber-
trand had only a torch, and ſhe knew,
that the ſervants never brought a taper to
the door, for the hall. was ſufficiently light-
ed by the large tripod lamp, which hung
in the vaulted roof; and, while ſhe ſhould
wait till Annette could bring a taper, Mon-
toni, or ſome of his companions, inight diſa
cover her.
The door was now opened by Carlo; and
Emily, having requeſted him to ſend Ana i
nette immediately with a light to the great
gallery, where ſhe determinel to await her,
paſſed on with hafty ſteps towards the ſtair-
caſe ; while Bertrand and Ugo, with the
torch, followed old Carlo to the ſervants'
hall, impatient for ſupper and the warm
blaze of a wood fire. Emily, lighted only
Vol. III. M
ir
by


( 242 )
by the feeble rays, which the lanıp above
threw between the arches of this extenſive
hall, endeavoured to find her way to the
ſtair-cafe, now hid in obſcurity; while the
Thours of merriment, that burſt from a
remote apartment, ſerved, by heightening
her terror, to increaſe her perplexity, and
the expected, every inſtant, to ſee the door
of that room open, and Montoni and his
companions iſſue forth. Having, at length,
reached the ſtair-caſe, and found her way
to the top, ſhe ſeated herſelf on the laſt
ſtair, to await the arrival of Annette ; for
the profound darkneſs of the gallery de-
terred her from proceeding farther, and,
while ſhe liſtened for her footſtep, the heard
only diſtant ſounds of revelry, which roſe
in fullen echoes from among the arcades.
below. Once ſhe thought ſhe heard a low
found from the dark gallery behind her;
and, turning her eyes, fancied ſhe ſaw ſome-
thing luminous move in it; and, ſince ſhe
could not, at this moment, ſubdue the
weakneſs that cauſed her fears, the quitted
her


( 243 )
her ſeat, and crept ſoftly down à few ſtairs
lower.
Annette not yet appearing, Emily now
concluded, that ſhe was gone to bed, and
that nobody choſe to call her up; and the
proſpect, that preſented itſelf, of paffing the
night in darkneſs, in this place, or in ſome
other equally forlorn (før ſhe knew it would
be impracticable to find her way through .
the intricacies of the galleries to her cham- ;
ber), drew tears of mingled terror and de-.
fpondency from her eyes.
. While thus the fat, the fancied ſhe heard
again an odd found from the gallery, and
· The liſtened, ſcarcely daring to breathe, but
the increaſing voices below overcame every
other found. Soon after, ſhe heard Mon-
toni' and his companions burſt into the
hall; who ſpoke, as if they were much in-
toxicated, and ſeemed to be advancing to- .
wards the ſtair-caſe. She now remembered,
that they muſt come this way to their
chambers, and, forgetting all the terrors of
the gallery, hurried towards it with an in-
M2
tention


( 244 )
antion of ſecreting herſelf in ſome of the
paſſages, that opened beyond, and of en-
deavouring, when the Signors were retired,
to find her way to her own room, or to that
of Annette, which was in a remote part of
the caſtle.
With extended arms, ſhe crept along the
gallery, ſtill hearing the voices of perſons
below, who ſeemed to ſtop in converſation
at the foot of the ſtair-caſe; and then paul-
ing for a moment to liſten, half fearful
of going further into the darkneſs of the
gallery, where ſhe ſtill imagined, from the
noiſe ſhe had heard, that ſome perſon was
lurking, “ They are already informed of
my arrival,” faid ſhe, “and Montoni is
coming himſelf to ſeek me! In the preſent
ftate of his mind, his purpofe muft be def-
perate.” Then, recollecting the ſcene, that
had paſſed in the corridor, on the night
preceding her departure from the caſtle,
6 O Valancourt !” ſaid ſhe, “ I muſt then
reſign you for ever. To brave any longer
the injuſtice of Montoni, would not be
fortitude,


( 245 )
fortitude, but raſhneſs." Still the voices
below did not draw nearer, but they be-
came louder, and the diſtinguiſhed thoſe
of Verezzi and Bertolini above the reſt,
while the few words ſhe caught made her
liften more anxiouſly for others. The con-
verſation feemed to concern herſelf; and,
having ventured to ſtep a few paces nearer.
to the ſtair-caſe, the diſcovered, that they
were diſputing about her, each ſeeming
to claim ſome former promiſe of Mon-
toni, who appeared, at firſt, inclined to
appeaſe and to perſuade them to return to
their wine, but afterwards to be weary of
the diſpute, and, ſaying that he left them
to ſettle it as they could, was returning
with the reſt of the party to the apartment
he had juft quitted. Verezzi then ſtopped
him.. " Where is ſhe, Signor?” ſaid he, in
- a voice of impatience: “ tell us where ſhe
is.” “ I have already told you that I do
not know,” replied Montoni, who ſeemed
to be ſomewhat overcome with wine; " but
the is moſt probably gone to her apart-
- ment.".
M 3


(246)
ment.” Verezzi and Bertolini now deſiſted
from their enquiries, and ſprang to the ſtair-
caſe together, while Emily, who, during
this diſcourſe, had trembled ſo exceſſively,
that ſhe had with difficulty ſupported her-
felf, ſeemed inſpired with new ſtrength,
the moment ſhe heard the bound of their
ſteps, and ran along the gallery, dark as it
was, with the fleetneſs of a fawn. But,
long before ſhe reached its extremity, the
light, which Verezzi carried, flaſhed upon
the walls; both appeared, and, inſtantly
perceiving Emily, purſued her. At this
moment, Bertolini, whoſe ſteps, though
ſwift, were not ſteady, and whoſe impa-
tience overcame what little caution he had
hitherto uſed, ſtumbled, and fell at his.
length. The lamp fell with him, and was
preſently expiring on the floor; but Verez-
zi, regardleſs of ſaving it, ſeized the advan-
tage this accident gave him over his rival,
and followed Emily, to whom, however,
the light had ſhown one of the paſſages that
branched from the gallery, and ſhe inſtantly
turned


( 248 )
that ſhe was compelled to reſt, for a few
minutes, at the end of the paſſage, and
Itill ſhe heard no ſteps approaching. As
thus ſhe ſtood, light glimmered under an
oppoſite door of the gallery, and, from its
dituation, ſhe knew, that it was the door of
that myſterious chamber, where ſhe had
made a diſcovery ſo ſhocking, that the
never remembered it but with the utmoſt
horror. That there ſhould be light in this
chamber, and at this hour, excited her
ftrong ſurpriſe, and the felt a momentary
terror concerning it, which did not permit
her to look again, for her ſpirits were now
in ſuch a ſtate of weakneſs, that ſhe almoſt
expected to ſee the door flowly open, and
ſome horrible object appear at it. Still
The liſtened for a ſtep along the paſſage,
and looked up it, where not a ray of light
appearing, ſhe concluded, that Verezzi
had gone back for the lamp; and, be-
lieving that he would ſhortly be there, ſhe
again conſidered which way the thould go,
or


. ( 249 )
or rather which way ſhe could find in the
dark.
A faint ray ſtill glimmered under the
oppoſite door, but ſo great, and, perhaps,
fo juſt was her horror of that chamber,
that ſhe would not again have tempted its
ſecrets, though ſhe had been certain of ob-
taining the light ſo important to her ſafety.
She was ſtill breathing with difficulty, and
reſting at the end of the paſſage, when ſhe
heard a ruſtling ſound, and then a low
voice, ſo very near her, that it ſeemed
cloſe to her ear; but the had preſence of
mind to check her emotions, and to re-
main quite ftill; in the next moment, ſhe
perceived it to be the voice of Verezzi,
who did not appear to know, that ſhe was
chere, but to have ſpoken to himſelf. “ The
air is freſher here,” ſaid he: “ this ſhould
be the corridor.” Perhaps, he was one
of thoſe heroes, whoſe courage can defy
an enemy better than darkneſs, and he
tried to rally his ſpirits with the ſound of
his own voice. However this might bę,
M5
he


( 250 )
he turned to the right, and proceeded, with
the ſame ſtealing ſteps, towards Emily's
apartment, apparently forgetting, that, in
darkneſs, ſhe could eaſily elude his ſearch,
even in her chamber; and, like an intoxi-
cated perſon, he followed pertinaciouſly the
one idea, that had poſſeſſed his imagina-
tion.
The moment ſhe heard his ſteps ſteal
away, ſhe left her ſtation, and moved ſoftly
to the other end of the corridor, deter-
mined to truſt again to chance, and to quit
it by the firſt avenue ſhe could find;
but before ſhe could effect this, light
broke upon the walls of the gallery, and,
looking back, ſhe ſaw Verezzi croſſing it
towards her chamber. She now glided into
a paſſage, that opened on the left, with-
out, as ſhe thought, being perceived; but,
in the next inſtant, another light, glim-
mering at the further end of this paf-
ſage, threw her into new terror. While ſhe
ſtopped and heſitated which way to go,
, the pauſe allowed her to perceive, that it
was


(:251)
was Annette, who advanced, and ſhe hur.
ried to meet her : but her imprudence again
alar ned Emily, on perceiving whom, the
burſt into a ſcream of joy, and it was
ſome minutes, before ſhe could be pre-
vailed with to be filent, or to releaſe her
miſtreſs from the ardent claſp, in which ſhe
held her. When, at length, Emily made
Annette comprehend her danger, they hur-
ried towards Annette's room, which was
in a diſtant part of the caſtle. No appre-
henſions, however, could yet filence the
latter. "Oh dear ma'amfelle,” ſaid ſhe,
as they paſſed along," what a terrified time
have I had of it! Oh! I thought I ſhould
have died an hundred times! I never
thought I ſhould live to ſee you again !
and I never was ſo glad to ſee any body in
my whole life, as I am to ſee you now.”,
“ Hark!” cried Emily, “ we are pur-
ſued ; that was the echo of ſteps !” “No,
ma'amfelle,” ſaid Annette, ” it was only
the echo of a door ſhutting; found runs
along theſe vaulted paffages ſo, that one
M6
is


: ( 252 )
is continually deceived by it; if one does
but ſpeak, or cough, it makes a noiſe as
loud as a cannon." “ Then there is the
greater neceſſity for us to be filent," ſaid
Emily : “ Prythee fay no more till we
reach your chamber.” Here, at length,
they arrived, without interruption, and,
Annette having faſtened the door, Einily
ſat down on her little bed, to recover
breath and compoſure. To her enquiry,
whether Valancourt was among the priſon-
ers in the caſtle, Annette replied, that ſhe
had not been able to hear, but that ſhe
knew there were ſeveral perſons confined.
She then proceeded, in her tedious way,
to give an account of the fiege, or rather
a detail of her terrors and various ſuffer-
ings, during the attack. « But,” added
fhe, « when I heard the ſhouis of victory
from the ramparts, I thought we were all
taken, and gave myfelf up for loft, inſtead
of which, we had driven the enemy away.
I went then to the north gallery, and ſaw
a great many of them ſcampering away
among


( 253 )
among the mountains ; but the 'rampart
walls were all in ruins, as one may ſay,
and there was a diſinal ſight to ſee down
among the woods below, where the poor
fellows were lying in heaps, but were car-
ried off preſently by their comrades. While
the ſiege was going on, the Signor was here,
and there, and every where, at the ſame
time, as Ludovico told me, for he would
not let me ſee any thing hardly, and locked
me up, as he has often done before, in a
room in the middle of the caſtle, and uſed
to bring me food, and come and talk with
me as often as he could; and I muſt ſay,
if it had not been for Ludovico, I ſhould
have died outright.”
« Well, Annette,” ſaid Emily, - and
how have affairs gone on, ſince the liege ?”
“O! ſad hurly burly doings, ma'am-
ſelle,” replied Annette ; "the Signors have
done nothing but fit and drink and gaine,
ever fince. They fit up all night, and
play among themfelves, for all thoſe riches
and fine things, they brought in ſome time
fince,


( 254 )
fince, when they uſed to go out a-robbing,
or as good, for days together ; and then
they have dreadful quarrels about, who loſes,
and who wins. That fierce Signor Verezzi
is always loſing, as they tell me, and Signor
Orſino wins from bim, and thus makes him
very wroth, and they have had ſeveral hard
ſet-to's about it. Then, all thoſe fine ladies
are at the caſtle ſtill; and I declare I am
frighted, whenever I meet any of thein in
the paſſages.”—
“ Surely, Annette,” ſaid Emily ſtart-
ing, “ I heard a noiſe : liſten.” After
a long pauſe, “No, ma'amſelle,” ſaid
Annette, “it was only the wind in the
gallery ; I often hear it, when it ſhakes
the cld doors, at the other end. But
won't you go to bed, ma’amſelle ? you
ſurely will not ſit up ſtarving, all night.”
Emily now laid herſelf down on the mat-
treſs, and deſired Annette to leave the
lamp burning on the hearth; having done
which, the latter placed herſelf beſide
Emily, who, however, was not ſuffered


( 256 )
tain, that it was be alone ; with whom
Annette, at length, talked for ſome time,
and learned, that he was come to enquire
after herſelf, whom he had let out of her
room to go to Emily, and that he was now
returned to lock her in again. Emily,
fearful of being overheard, if they con.
verſed any longer through the door, con-
ſented that it ſhould be opened, and a
young man appeared, whoſe open coun.
tenance confirmed the favourable opinion
of him, which his care of Annette had al-
ready prompted her to form. She en-
treated his protection, thould Verezzi
make this requiſite; and Ludovico offered
to paſs the night in an old chamber, ad-
joining, that opened from the gallery, and,
on the firſt alarm, to come to their de-
fence.
Emily was much ſoothed by this pro-
poſal ; and Ludovico, having lighted his
lamp, went to his ſtation, while ſhe, once
more, endeavoured to repoſe on her mat-
Breſs. But a variety of intereſts preſſed
upon


( 257 )
d
upon her attention, and prevented fleep.
She thought much on what Annette had
told her of the diffolute manners of Mon-
toni and his affociates, and more of his
preſent conduct towards herſelf, and of
the danger, from which ſhe had juſt eſ-
caped. From the view of her preſent fitli-
ation ſhe ſhrunk, as from a new picture of
terror. 'She ſaw herſelf in a caſtle, inha.
bited by vice and violence, ſeated beyond
the reach of law, or juſtice, and in the
power of a man, whoſe perſeverance was
equal to every occaſion, and in whom paf-
fions, of which revenge was not the weak.
eſt, entirely ſupplied the place of principles,
She was compelled, once more, to ac-
knowledge, that it would be folly, and
not fortitude,' any longer to darehis
power; and, reſigning all hopes of future
happineſs with Valancourt, ſhe determined,
that, on the following morning, ſhe would
compromiſe with Montoni, and give up her
eftates, on condition, that he would permit
her immediate return to France. Such con-
fiderations


( 258 )
ſiderations kept her waking for many hours;
but the night paffed, without further alarm
from Verezzi.
On the next morning, Emily had a long
converſation with Ludovico, in which the
heard circumſtances concerning the caſtle,
and received hints of the deſigns of Mon-
toni, that conſiderably increaſed her alarms.
On expreſſing her ſurpriſe, that Ludovico,
who ſeemed to be ſo ſenſible of the evils of
his ſituation, ſhould continue in it, he in-
formed her, that it was not his intention to
do ſo, and ſhe then ventured to aſk him, if
he would affiſt her to eſcape from the caf-
tle. Ludovico aſſured her of his readineſs
to attempt this, but ſtrongly repreſented
the difficulty of the enterpriſe, and the cere
tain deſtruction which muſt enſue, ſhould
Montoni overtake them, before they had
paſſed the mountains ; he, however, pro-
miſed to be watchful of every circumſtance,
that might contribute to the ſucceſs of the
att empt, and to think upon ſome plan of !
departure.
Emily


(259)
Emily now confided to him the name of
Valancourt, and begged he would enquire
for ſuch a perſon among the priſoners in
the caſtle; for the faint hope, which this
converſation awakened, made her now re-
cede from her reſolution of an immediate
compromiſe with Montoni. She deter-
mined, if poſſible, to delay this, till ſhe
heard further from Ludovico, and, if his
deſigns were found to be impracticable, to
reſign the eſtates at once. Her thoughts
were on this ſubject, when Montoni, who
was now recovered from the intoxication of
the preceding night, ſent for her, and the
immediately obeyed the ſummons. He was
alone. “I find,” ſaid he, “ that you were
not in your chamber, laſt night; where
were you?” Emily related to him ſome
circumſtances of her alarm, and entreated
his protection from a repetition of them.
“ You know the terms of my protection,”
ſaid he ; " if you really value this, you will
ſecure it." His open declaration, that he
would only conditionally protect her, while
The


( 260 )
Me remained a priſoner in the caſtle, ſhew.
ed Emily the neceſſity of an immediate
compliance with his terms; but ſhe firſt
demanded, whether he would permit her
immediately to depart, if the gave up her
claim to the conteſted eſtates. In a very
ſolemn manner he then afſured her, that he
would, and iminediately laid before her a
paper, which was to transfer the right of
thoſe eſtates to himſelf.
- She was, for a conſiderable time, unable
to ſign it, and her heart was torn with con-
tending intereſts, for ſhe was about to re-
fign the happineſs of all her future years--
the hope, which had ſuſtained her in ſo
many hours of adverſity.
.
After hearing from Montoni a recapitu-
lation of the conditions of her compliance,
and a remonftrance, that his time was va-
luable, ſhe put her hand to the paper;
when ſhe had done which, ſhe fell back in
her chair, but ſoon recovered, and de-
ſired, that he would give orders for her
departure, and that he would allow An.
nette


( 261 )
nette to accompany her. Montoni ſmiled.
" It was neceſſary to deceive you,” ſaid
he," there was no other way of making
you act reaſonably; you ſhall go, but it
muſt not be at preſent. I muſt firſt ſecure
theſe eſtates by poſſeſſion : when that
is done, you may return to France if you
will."
- The deliberate villany, with which he
violated the folemn engagement he had
juſt entered into, ſhocked Emily as much,
as the certainty, that ſhe had made a fruit-
leſs facrifice, and muſt ſtill remain his pri-
ſoner. She had no words to expreſs what
ſhe felt, and knew, that it would have been
uſeleſs, if ſhe had. As ſhe looked piteouſly
at Montoni, he turned away, and at the
ſame time deſired ſhe would withdraw to
her apartment; but, unable to leave the:
room, the ſat down in a chair near the
door, and ſighed heavily. She had neither
words nor tears.
« Why will you indulge this childiſh
grief?” ſaid he. “ Endeavour to ſtrengthen
your


ſ 262 )
your mind, to bear patiently what cannot
now be avoided ; you have no real evil to
lament; be patient, and you will be ſent
back to France. At preſent retire to your
apartment.” .
“I dare not go, fir," ſaid ſhe, " where
I ſhall be liable to the intruſion of Signor
Verezzi.” “ Have I not promiſed to pro-
tect you?" ſaid Monroni. “ You have pro-
miſed, ſir," replied Emily, after
fome heſitation. “And is not my promiſe
ſufficient ?” added he ſternly. " You will
recollect your former promiſe, Signor,"
ſaid Emily, trembling, “ and may de-
termine for me, whether I ought to rely
upon this.” “ Will you provoke me to
declare to you, that I will not protect you
then?" ſaid Montoni, in a tone of haughty
diſpleaſure. “ If that will ſatisfy you, I
will do it immediately. Withdraw to your
chamber, before I retract my promiſe;
you have nothing to fear there.” Emily
· left the room, and moved ſlowly into the
· hall, where the fear of meeting Verezzi,
or


[ 263 )
i
or Bertolini, made her quicken her ſteps,
though ſhe could ſcarcely ſupport herſelf ;'
and ſoon after the reached once more her
own apartment. Having looked fearfully
round her to examine if any perſon was
there, and having ſearched every part of
it, ſhe faſtened the door, and ſat down by
one of the caſements. Here, while ſhe
looked out for ſome hope to ſupport her
fainting ſpirits, which had been ſo long
haraſſed and oppreffed, that, if the had
not now ſtruggled much againſt misfor-
tune, they would have left her, perhaps,
for ever, ſhe endeavoured to believe, that
Montoni did really intend to permit her
return to France as ſoon as he had ſecured
her property, and that he would, in the
mean time, protect her from inſult; but
her chief hope reſted with Ludovico, who,
ſhe doubted not, would be zealous in her
cauſe, though he ſeemed almoſt in deſpair
of ſucceſs in it. One circumſtance, how-
ever, ſhe had to rejoice in. Her pru.
dence, or rather her fears, had faved her
from


( 264 )
Co
from mentioning the name of Valancourt
to Montoni, which Me was ſeveral times
on the point of doing, before the ſigned
the paper, and of ftipulating for his re-
leaſe, if he ſhould be really a priſoner in
the caſtle. Had me done this, Montoni's
jealous fears would now probably have
loaded Valancourt with new feverities, and
have ſuggeſted the advantage of holding
him a captive for life.
Thus paſſed the melancholy day, as ſhe
had before paſſed many in the ſame cham-
ber. When night drew on, ſhe would
have withdrawn herſelf to Annette's bed,
had noi a particular intereſt inclined her
to remain in this chamber, in ſpite of her
fears ; for, when the caſtle ſhould be ſtill,
and the cuſtomary hour arrived, ſhe de.
termined to watch for the muſic, which
The had formerly heard. Though its
ſounds might not enable her poſitively to
determine, whether Valancourt was there,
they would perhaps ſtrengthen her opi.
nion that he was, and impart the comfort,


( 265 )
fo neceſſary to her preſent ſupport.--But,
on the other hand, if all ſhould be ſilent !
-She hardly dared to ſuffer her thoughts
to glance that way, but waited, with im-
patient expectation, the approaching hour.
The night was ſtormy; the battlements
of the caſtle appeared to rock in the wind,
and, at intervals, long groans ſeemed to
paſs on the air, ſuch as thoſe, which often
deceive the melancholy mind, in tempeſts,
and amidſt ſcenes of deſolation. Emily
heard, as formerly, the ſentinels paſs along
the terrace to their poſts, and, looking out
from her caſement, obſerved, that the
watch was doubled; a precaution, which
appeared neceſſary enough, when ſhe threw
her eyes on the walls, and ſaw their ſhat-
tered condition. The well-known ſounds
of the ſoldiers' march, and of their diſtant
voices, which paſſed her in the wind, and
were loſt again, recalled to her memory
the melancholy ſenſation ſhe had ſuffered,
whien the formerly heard the ſame ſounds;
and occaſioned almoſt involuntary com-
Vol. III. . N
pariſons


( 266 ) :
DOV
pariſons between her preſent, and her late
ſituation. But this was no ſubject for con-
gratulation, and the wiſely checked the-
courſe of her thoughts, while, as the hour
was not yet come, in which ſhe had been
accuſtomed to hear the muſic, ſhe cloſed
the caſement, and endeavoured to await it
in patience. The door of the ſtair-cafe
ſhe tried to ſecure, as uſual, with ſome
of the furniture of the room; but this ex-
pedient her fears now repreſented to her co
be very inadequate to the power and per-
feverance of Verezzi; and ſhe often looked
at a large and heavy cheſt, that ſtood in
the chamber, with wiſhes that ſhe and
Annette had ſtrength enough to move it.
While ſhe blamed the long ſtay of this
girl, who was ſtill with Ludovico and ſome
other of the ſervants, ſhe trimmed her
wood fire, to make the room appear leſs
deſolate, and ſat down beſide it with a
book, which her eyes peruſed, while her
thoughts, wandered to Valancourt, and her
own misfortunes. As the fat thus, the
thought,
CO


( 267 )
'thought, in a pauſe of the wind, ſhe dif-.
tinguiſhed muſic, and went to the caſe-
'ment to liſten, but the loud ſwell of the
guſt overcame every other ſound. When
the wind ſunk again, the heard diſtinctly,
in the deep pauſe that ſucceeded, the ſweet
ſtrings of a lute; but again the riſing tem-
peſt bore away the notes, and again was
ſucceeded by a ſolemn pauſe. Emily,
Trembling with hope and fear, opened her
caſement to liſten, and to try whether her
own voice could be heard by the muſician;
for to endure any longer this ſtate of
torturing ſuſpenſe concerning Valancourt,
feemed to be utterly impoſſible. There
was a kind of breathleſs ſtillneſs in the
chambers, that permitted her to diſtinguiſh
from below the tender notes of the very
fute ſhe had formerly heard, and with it,
2 plaintive voice, made ſweeter by the low
ruſtling found, that now began to creep
along the wood-tops, till it was loſt in the
riſing wind. Their tall heads then began
to wave, while, through a foreſt of pine,
Wa
·
N2
on


( 268 )
on the left, the wind, groaning heavily,
rolled onward over the woods below,
bending them almoſt to their roots; and,
as the long-reſounding gale ſwept away,
other woods, on the right, ſeemed to an-
ſwer the “ loud lament;" then, others,
further ſtill, ſoftened it into a murmur,
that died into ſilence, Emily liſtened, with
mingled awe and expectation, hope and
fear; and again the melting ſweetnels of
the lute was heard, and the ſame ſolemn-
breathing voice. Convinced that theſe
came from an apartment underneath, the
leaned far' out of her window, that ſhe
might diſcover whether any light was
there; but the caſements below, as well
as thoſe above, were funk ſo deep in the
thick walls of the caſtle, that the could
not ſee them, or even the faint' ray, that
probably glimmered through their bars.
She then ventured to call; but the wind
bore her voice to the other end of the
terrace, and then the muſic was heard as
before, in the pauſe of the guít. Suddenly,
. the


( 269 )
ſhe thought ſhe heard a noiſe in her cham-
ber, and the drew herſelf within the caſe-
ment; but, in a moment after, diſtinguiſh-
ing Annette's voice at the door, me con-
cluded it was her ſhe had heard before,
and the let her in. " Move ſoftly, An-
nette, to the caſement,” ſaid ſhe, “ and
liften with me; the muſic is returned.”
They were filent, till, the meaſure chang-
ing, Annette exclaimed, « Holy Virgin!
I know that ſong well; it is a French ſong,
one of the favourite ſongs of my dear
country." This was the ballad Emily had
heard on a former night, though not the
one ſhe had firſt liſtened to from the fiſh-
ing-houſe in Gaſcony. “ O! it is a
Frenchman, that fings,” ſaid Annette : "it
muſt be Monſieur Valancourt.” “Hark !
Annette, do not ſpeak ſo loud,” ſaid
Emily, " we may be overheard.” 66 What!
by the Chevalier ?” ſaid Annette. “No,”
replied Emily mournfully, “ but by ſome-
body, who may report us to the Signor.
What reaſon have you to think it is Mon-
fieur
N 3


(270)
ſieur Valancourt, who fings? But hark !
now the voice ſwells louder! Do you re.
collect thoſe cones? I fear to truſt my
own judgment.” “I never happened to
hear the Chevalier fing, mademoiſelle,”
replied Annette, who, as Emily was diſ-
appointed to perceive, had no ſtronger
reaſon for concluding this to be Valan-
court, than that the muſician muſt be a
Frenchman. Soon after, ſhe heard the
ſong of the fiſhing-houſe, and diſtinguiſhed
her own name, which was repeated ſo dif-
cinctly, that Annette had heard it alſo.
She trembled, ſunk into a chair by the
window, and Annette called aloud, “ Mon-
ſieur Valancourt! Monſieur Valancourt !"
while Emily endeavoured to check her,
but ſhe repeated the call more loudly than
before, and the lute and the voice ſudden-
ly ſtopped. Emily liſtened, for ſome time,
· in a ſtate of intolerable ſuſpenſe ; but, no
anſwer being returned, “ It does not fig.
nify, mademoiſelle,” ſaid Annette ; " it is
the Chevalier, and I will ſpeak to him.”
a No,


( 271 )
« No, Annette,” ſaid Emily, “ I think I
will ſpeak myſelf; if it is he, he will
know my voice, and ſpeak again.” “ Who
is it,” ſaid the, “s that fings at this late
hour?!
A long filence enſued, and, having re-
peated the queſtion, the perceived ſome
faint-accents, mingling in the blaſt, that
fwept by ;- but the founds were fo diſtant,
and paſſed ſo ſuddenly, that ſhe could
fcárcely hear them, much leſs diſtinguiſh
the words they uttered, or recogniſe the
voice. After another' pauſe, Emily called
again ; and again'they heard a voice, but
ás faintly as before ; and they perceived,
that there were other circumſtances, be-
kides the ſtrength, and direction of the
wind, to contend with; for the great depth,
at which the caſements were fixed in the
caitle - walls, contributed, ftill more than
the diſtance, to prevent articulated founds
from being underſtood, though general
ones were eaſily heard. Emily, however,
ventured to believe, from the circumſtance
N 4
of


( 272 )
of her voice alone having been anſwered,
that the ſtranger was Valancourt, as well
as that he knew her, and ſhe gave herſelf
up to ſpeechleſs joy. Annette, however,
was not ſpeechleſs.--She renewed her calls,
but received no anſwer; and Emily, fear-
ing, that a further attempt, which certainly
was, at preſent, highly dangerous, might
expoſe them to the guards of the caſtle,
while it could not perhaps terminate her
fuſpenſe, infifted on Annette's dropping
the enquiry for this night ; though the de-
termined herſelf to queſtion Ludovico, on
the ſubject, in the morning, more urgently
than ſhe had yet done. She was now en-
abled to ſay, that the ſtranger, whom the
had formerly heard, was ſtill in the caſtle,
and to direct Ludovico to that part of it,
in which he was confined.
Emily, attended by Annette, continued
at the caſement, for ſome time, but all re-
mained ſtill; they heard neither lute or
voice again, and Emily was now as much
oppreſſed by anxious joy, as the lately
was


( 273 )
was by a ſenſe of her misfortunes. With
haſty ſteps ſhe paced the room, now half
calling on Valancourt's name, then ſud-
denly ſtopping, and now going to the
caſement and liſtening, where, however,
the heard nothing but the folemn waving
of the woods. Sometimes her impatience
to ſpeak to Ludovico prompted her to
fend Annette to call him; but a ſenſe of
the impropriety of this at midnight re-
ſtrained her. Annette, meanwhile, as im-
patient as her miſtreſs, went as often to
the caſement to liſten, and returned almoſt
as much diſappointed. She, at length,
mentioned Signor Verezzi, and her fear,
leſt he ſhould enter the chamber by the
ſtaircaſe door. " But the night is now
almoft paſt, mademoiſelle,” ſaid ſhe, re-
collecting herſelf: “ there is the morning
light, beginning to peep over thoſe moun-
tains yonder in the eaſt.”.
Emily had forgotten, till this moment,
that ſuch a perſon exiſted as Verezzi, and
all the danger that had appeared to threaten
:: N 5 . lier;


( 274 )
her ; but the mention of his name renewed
her alarm, and the remembered the old
cheſt, that ſhe had wilhed to place againſt
the door, which ſhe now, with Annette,
attempted to move, but it was ſo heavy,
that they could not lift it from the floor.
“ What is in this great old cheſt, made-
moiſelle,” ſaid Annette, « that makes it
So weighty ?” Emily having replied, “ that
ſhe found it in the chamber, when the firſt
came to the caſtle, and had never examined
it,”_". Then I will, ma'amfelle," faid
Annette, and ſhe tried to lift the lid; but
this was held by a lock, for which ſhe had
no key, and which, indeed, appeared, from
its peculiar conſtruction, to open with a
ſpring. The morning now glimmered
through the cafements, and the wind had
funk into a calm. Emily looked out upon
the duſky woods, and on the twilight
mountains, juſt ſtealing on the eye, and
faw the whole ſcene, after the ſtorm, lying
in profound ſtillneſs, the woods motion-
leſs, and the clouds above, through which
3
the


( 275 )
the dawn trembled, ſcarcely appearing to
move along the heavens. One ſoldier was
pacing the terrace beneath, with meaſured
ſteps; and two, more diſtant, were ſunk
aſeep' on the walls, wearied with the
night's watch. Having inhaled, for ia
while, the pure ſpirit of the air, and of
vegetation, which the late rains had called
forth; and having liſtened, once more,
for a note of muſic, the now cloſed the
caſement, and retired to reſt. : : :
N 6
CHAP.


( 276
),
CHAP. IX.
.
| “Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, .
For many a long month loſt in ſnow profound,
When Sol from Cancer ſends the feafons bland,
And in their northern cave the ſtorms hath bound;
From filent mountains, ſtraight, with ſtartling ſound,
Torrents are hurld, green hills emerge, and lo,
The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs are crown'd;
- Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;
And wonder, love, and joy, the peaſant's heart o’erflow.”
BEATTIE.
SEVERAL of her ſucceeding days paſſed
in ſuſpenſe, for Ludovico could only learn
from the ſoldiers, that there was a priſoner
in the apartment, deſcribed to him by
Emily, and that he was a Frenchman,
whom they had taken in one of their ſkir-
miſhes, with a party of his countrymen.
During this interval, Emily eſcaped the
perſecutions of Bertolini, and Verezzi, by :
confining herſelf to her apartment; except
that ſometimes, in an evening, lhe ven-
tured


( 278 )
make his conference with the priſoner a
very ſhort one.
Emily awaited the reſult in her own
apartment, Ludovico having promiſed to
accompany Annette to the corridor, in the
evening ; where, after ſeveral hours impa.
tiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having
then uttered the name of Valancourt, could
articulate no more, but heſitated in trem-
bling expectation. « The Chevalier would
not entruſt me with his name, Signora,"
replied Ludovico; “but, when I juſt
mentioned yours, he ſeemed overwhelmed
with joy, though he was not ſo much ſur-
priſed as I expected.” “ Does he then
remember me?” ſhe exclaimed.
. "O! it is Monf.Valancourt,"faid Annette,
and looked impatiently at Ludovico, who
underſtood her look, and replied to Emily :
« Yes, lady, the Chevalier does, indeed, re.
member you, and, I am ſure, has a very
great regard for you, and I made bold to
fay you had for him. He then enquired
how


( 279 )
how you came to know he was in the caſtle,
and whether you ordered me to ſpeak to him.
The firſt queſtion I could not anſwer, but
the ſecond I did ; and then he went off into:
his ecftafies again. I was afraid his joy
would have betrayed him to the ſentinel
at the door.”
“But how does he look, Ludovico ?”in.
terrupted Emily: " is he not melancholy
and ill with his long confinement?”-
“Why, as to melancholy, I ſaw no ſymp..
tom of that, lady, while I was with him,
for he ſeemed in the fineſt ſpirits I ever
law any body in, in all my life. His
countenance was all joy, and, if one may.
judge from that, he was very well; but
I did not aſk him." * Did he fend me
no meſſage ?” ſaid Emily. “O yes, Sig.
nora, and fomething beſides,” replied Lu-
dovico, who ſearched his pockets. « Sure-
Jy, I have not loſt it," added he. " The
Chevalier ſaid, he would have written, ma-
dam, if he had had pen and ink, and was
going to have ſent a very long meſſage,
when
as


(280)
when the ſentinel entered the room, but
not before he had given me this.” Lu-
dovico then drew forth a miniature from
his bofom, which Emily received with a
trembling hand, and perceived to be a
portrait of herſelf-the very picture, which
her mother had loft ſo ſtrangely in the
fiſhing-houſe at La Vallée.
Tears of mingled joy and tenderneſs
flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico pro-
ceeded— “ Tell your lady, ſaid the
Chevalier, as he gave me the picture, 'chat
this has been my companion, and only fo-
lace in all my misfortunes. Tell her, that
I have worn it next my heart, and that I
ſend it her as the pledge of an affection,
which can never die ; , that I would not
part with it, but to her, for the wealth of
worlds; and that I now part with it, only
in the hope of foon receiving it from her
hands. Tell her'— Juſt then, Signora,
the ſentinel came in, and the Chevalier
ſaid no more ; but he had before aſked
me to contrive an interview for him with
you;


( 281 )
· you; and when I told him, how little hope
I had of prevailing with the guard to affift
ine, he ſaid, that was not, perhaps, of
ſo much conſequence as I imagined, and
bade me contrive to bring back your an-
fwer, and he would inform me of more
than he choſe to do then. So this, I think,
lady, is the whole of what paſſed."
« How, Ludovico, ſhall I reward you
for your zeal?” ſaid Emily: " but, in-'
deed, I do not now poſſeſs the means.
When can you ſee the Chevalier again ?"
« That is uncertain, Signora,” replied he.
« It depends upon who ſtands guard next:
there are not more than one or two among
them, from whom I would dare to aſk ad-
mittance to the priſon-chamber."
“I need not bid you remember, L
dovico," reſumed Emily, “ how very
much intereſted I am in your ſeeing the
Chevalier ſoon; and, when you do ſo, tell
him, that I have received the picture, and,
with the ſentiments he wiſhed. Tell him
I have ſuffered much, and ſtill ſuffer"
She


( 282 )
She pauſed. “But ſhall I tell him you
will ſee him, lady?” ſaid Ludovico.
“ Moſt certainly I will," replied Emily.
“But when, Signora, and where?” «. That
muſt depend upon circumſtances, returne
ed Emily. “ The place, and the hour,
muſt be regulated by his opportunities.”
" As to the place, mademoiſelle,” ſaid
Annette, « there is no other place in the
caſtle, beſides this corridor, where we can
ſee him in ſafety, you know; and, as for-
the hour,-it muſt be when all the Signors:
are aſleep, if that ever happens-!”«You
may mention theſe circumſtances to the
Chevalier, Ludovico," ſaid The, checking
the flippancy of Annette, “and leave them
to his judgment and opportunity. Tell
him, my heart is unchanged. But, above
all, let him ſee you again as foon as poſ-
fible ; and, Ludovico, I think it is need
leſs to tell you I ſhall very anxiouſly look
for you.” Having then wiſhed her good
night, Ludovico deſcended the ſtair-caſe,
and Emily retired to reſt, but not to fleeps
for


(284 )
lier,--ſuch as ſhe had formerly dreaded.
Her name was frequently mentioned in the
converſations, which Bertolini and Verezzi
held together, and, at thoſe times, they
were frequently in contention. Montoni
had loft large ſums to Verezzi, ſo that
there was a dreadful poflibility of his de-
ſigning her to be a ſubſtitute for the debt;
but, as ſhe was ignorant, that he had for-
-merly encouraged the hopes of Bertolini
alſo, concerning herſelf, after the latter
had done him ſome ſignal ſervice, ſhe knew
not how to account for chefe contentions
between Bertolini and Verezzi. The cauſe
of them, however, appeared to be of little
conſequence, for ſhe thought ſhe ſaw de-
ſtruction approaching in many forms, and
her entreaties to Ludovico to contrive an
eſcape and to ſee the priſoner again, were
more urgent etran ever.
At length, he informed her, that he had
.again viſited the. Chevalier, who had di-
rected him to confide in the guard of the
priſon, from whom he had already re.
!
ceived


( 285 )
ceived ſome inſtances of kindneſs, and
who had promiſed to permit his going into
the caſtle for half an hour, on the en-
ſuing night, when Montoni and his com:
panions ſhould be engaged at their carou-
ſals. " This was kind, to be ſure,” added
Ludovico : « but Sebaſtian knows he runs
no riſque in letting the Chevalier out, for,
if he can get beyond the bars and iron
; doors of the caſtle, he muſt be cunning
1 indeed. But the Chevalier deſired me,
I Signora, to go to you inmediarely, and
to beg you would allow him to viſit you,
as this night, if it was only for a moment,
ty for that he could no longer live under the
ſame roof, without ſeeing you ; the hour,
he ſaid, he could not mention, for it muſt
depend on circumſtances (juſt as you ſaid,
Signora); and the place he deſired you
would appoint, as knowing which was beſt -
for your own ſafety."
Emily was now ſo much agitated by the
near proſpect of meeting Valancourt, that
it was ſome time, before the could give
any


. ( 286 )
any anſwer to Ludovico, or conſider of the
place of meeting; when ſhe did, me ſaw
none, that promiſed ſo much ſecurity, as
the corridor, near her own apartment,
which he was checked from leaving, by
the apprehenſion of meeting any of Mon-
toni's gueſts, on their way to their rooms;
and the diſmiſſed the ſcruples, which deli-
cacy oppoſed, now that a ſerious danger
was to be avoided by encountering them,
It was ſettled; therefore, that the Cheva-
lier Mould meet her in the corridor, at
that hour of the night, which Ludovico,
who was to be upon the watch, ſhould
judge ſafeſt: and Emily, as may be ima-
gined, paſſed this interval in a tumult
of hope and joy, anxiety and impatience.
Never, ſince her reſidence in the caſtle,
had the watched, with ſo much pleaſure,
the ſun ſet behind the mountains, and twi.
light ſhade, and darkneſs veil the ſcene,
as on this evening. She counted the notes
of the great clock, and liſtened to the ſteps
of the ſentinels, as they changed the watch,
only


- ( 237 )
only to rejoice, that another hour was gone.
<<0, Valancourt !” ſaid ihe, “ after all I
have ſuffered ; after our long, long ſepa-
ration, when I thought I ſhould never
never foe you more--we are ſtill to meet
again! O! I have endured grief, and
anxiety and terror, and let me, then, not
fink beneath this joy !” Theſe were mo-
ments, when it was impoſſible for her to
feel emoțions of regret, or melancholy, for
any ordinary intereſts ;-even the reflec-
tion, that ſhe had reſigned the eſtates, which
would have been a proviſion for herſelf
and Valancourt for life, threw only a light
and tranſient Thade upon her ſpirits. The
idea of Valancourt, and that ſhe ſhould fee
him ſo ſoon, alone occupied her heart.
At length the clock ſtruck twelve; the
opened the door to liſten, if any noiſe was
in the caſtle, and heard only diſtant ſhouts
of riot and laughter, echoed feebly along
the gallery. She gueſſed, that the Signor.
and his gueſts were at the banquet. “ They
are now engaged for the night,” ſaid ſhe ;
" and


( 288 )
WI
ro and Valancourt will ſoon be here."-
Having ſoftly cloſed the door, the paced
the room with impatient ſteps, and often
went to the caſement to liſten for the lute;
but all was filent, and, her agitation every
moment increaſing, ſhe was at length
unable to ſupport herſelf, and ſat down
by the window. Annette, whom ſhe de-
tained, was, in the mean time, as loquacious
as uſual ; but Emily heard ſcarcely any
thing ſhe faid, and having at length riſen to
the caſement, the diſtinguiſhed the chords
of the lute, ſtruck with an expreſſive hand,
and then the voice, ſhe had formerly liſtened
to, accompanied it.
“ Now riſing love they fann’d, now pleafing dole
They breath'd in tender muſings through the heart ;
And now a graver, facred ſtrain they ſtole,
As when ſeraphic hands an hymn impart!" ,
Emily wept in doubtful joy and tender-
neſs; and, when the ſtrain ceaſed, the con-
ſidered it as a ſignal, that Valancourt was
about to leave the priſon. Soon after, me
COU
beard
IL Y


. (289)
ce
heard, ſteps in the corridor ;-they were
the light, quick ſteps of hope ; ſhe could
ſcarcely ſupport herſelf, as they approach-
ed, bus, opening the door of the apart-
ment, the advanced to meet Valancourt,
and, in the next moment, ſunk in the arms
of a ſtranger. His voice_his countenance
inſtantly convinced her, and ſhe fainted
away.
On reviving, ſhe found herſelf ſupport-
ed by the ſtranger, who was watching over
her recovery, with a countenance of inef-
fable tenderneſs and anxiety. She had no
ſpirits for reply, or enquiry ; ſhe aſked na
queſtions, but burſt into tears, and diſen.
gaged herſelf from his arms; when the ex-
preſſion of his countenance changed to ſur,
priſe and diſappointment, and he turned
to Ludovico, for an explanation ; Annette
foon gave the information, which Ludo-
vico could not. 60, fir!” luid the, in a
voice, interrupted with lobs; “O, ſir!
you are not the other chevalier. We ex-
- pected Monſieur Valancourt, but you are
VOL. III. . O
no


( 290 )
not he! O Ludovico ! how could you de-
ceive us fo? my poor lady will never re-
cover it-never !” The ſtranger, who now
appeared much agitated, attempted to ſpeak,
but his words faltered ; and then ſtriking
his hand againſt his forehead, as if in ſud-
'den deſpair, he walked abruptly to the
other end of the corridor.
Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and
ſpoke to Ludovico. “ But, perhaps,"
ſaid ſhe, 6 after all, the other chevalier is
not this : perhaps the chevalier Valan- .
court is ſtill below." Emily raiſed her
head. "No," replied Ludovico, “ Mon-
fieur Valancourt never was below, if this
gentleman is not he.” “ If you, fir,"
faid Ludovico, addreſſing the ſtranger,
« would but have had the goodneſs to truſt
me with your name, this miſtake had been
avoided.” “ Moſt true," replied the ſtran.
ger, ſpeaking in broken Italian, “ but it
was of the utmoſt conſequence to me,
that my name ſhould be concealed from
Montoni. Madam,” added he then, ad-
dreſſing


!
( 291 )
►
oman
dreſſing Emily in French, “ will you per-
mit me to apologize for the pain I have
occaſioned you, and to explain to you
alone my name, and the circumſtance,
which has led me into this error? I am of
France ;-I am your countryman ;-we
are met in a foreign land.” Emily tried
to compoſe her ſpirits; yet ſhe heſitated to
grant his requeſt. At length, defiring,
that Ludovico would wait on the ſtair-
caſe, and detaining Annette, ſhe told the
ſtranger, that her woman underſtood very
little Italian, and begged he would com-
municate what he wiſhed to ſay, in that
language.--Having withdrawn to a diſtant
part of the corridor, he ſaid, with a long-
drawn figh, “ You, madam, are no ftran-
ger tó me, though I am ſo unhappy as to be
unknown to you.—My name is Du Pont;
I am of France, of Gaſcony, your native
province, and have long admired,—and
'why ſhould I affect to diſguiſe it ?-have
long loved you.” He pauſed, but, in the
next moment, proceeded. “ My family,
O2 madam,
\
.


( 232 )
malar, is probaby cot unknown to you,
for ve lived with a few miles of La
Vallée, and I have, fome:imes, had the
barriacis ci mezing you, ca sites in the
neighbourhood. I sill not offend you by
repearing how much you intereſted me;
how much I loved to wander in the ſcenes
you frequented; how often I viſited your
farourite filoing-bouſe and lamented the
circumitance, which, at that time, forbade
nie to reveal my pafion. I will not ex-
plain how I ſurrendered to temptation, and
became poſſeſſed of a treaſure, which was
to me ineſtimable; a treaſure, which I
committed to your meſſenger, a few days
ago, with expectations very different from
my preſent ones. I will ſay nothing of
theſe circumſtances, for I know they will
avail me little ; let me only ſupplicate from
you forgiveneſs, and the picture which I
ſo unwarily returned. Your generoſity
will pardon the theft, anii reſtore the
prize. My crime has been my puniſh-
ment; for the portrait I ſtole has contri-
buted


( 293 )
NCO
buted to nouriſh a paſſion, which muft ftill
be my torment.” :
· Emily now interrupted him. “ I think,
fir, I may leave it to your-integrity to de.
termine, whether, after what has juſt ap-
peared, concerning Monſ. Valancourt, I
ought to return the picture. I think you
will acknowledge, that this would not be
generoſity; and you will allow me to add,
that it would be doing myſelf an injuſtice.
I muſt conſider iyſelf hồnoured by your
good opinion, but”- and the heſitated,
" the miſtake of this evening makes it
unneceſſary for me to ſay more.”
." It does, madam,malas! it does !”
ſaid the ſtranger, who, after a long pauſe,
proceeded.--". But you will allow me to
Mew my diſintereſtedneſs, though not my
love, and will accept the ſervices I offer.
Yet, alas! what ſervices can I offer? I am
myſelf a priſoner, a ſufferer, like you. But,
dear as liberty is to me, I would not ſeek
it through half the hazards I would en.
counter to deliver you from this receſs of
03
vice.
со


( 294 ) :
vice. Accept the offered ſervices of a
friend; do not refuſe me the reward of
having, at leaſt, attempted to deſerve your
thanks,”
“ You deſerve them already, fir,” ſaid
Emily; “ the wilh deſerves my warmeſt
thanks. But you will excuſe me for re.
minding you of the danger you incur by
prolonging this interview. It will be a
great conſolation to me to remember, whe.
ther your friendly attempts to releaſe me.
ſucceed or not, that I have a countryman,
who would ſo generouſly protect me."-
Monſieur Du Pont took her hand, which"
ſhe but feebly attempted to withdraw, and
preſſed it reſpectfully to his lips. - Al.
low me to breathe another fervent figh for
your happineſs," ſaid he, “ and to ap.
plaud myſelf for an affection, which I can.
not conquer.” ! As he ſaid this, Emily
heard a noiſe from her apartment, and,
turning round, ſaw the door from the ſtair.
caſe open, and a man ruſh into her cham-
ber. "I will teach you to conquer it,"
furinn
cried


( 295 )
cried he, as he advanced into the corridor,
and drew a filetto, which he aimed at Du
Pònt, who was unarmed, but who, ſtep-
ping back, avoided the blow, and then
ſprung upon Verezzi, from whom he
wrenched the ſtiletto. While they ſtrug-
gled in each other's graſp, Emily, followed
by Annette, ran further into the corridor,
calling on Ludovico, who was, however,
gone from the ſtair-cafe, and, as ſhe ad.
vanced, terrified and uncertain what to do,
'a diſtant noiſe, that ſeemed to ariſe from
the hall, reminded her of the danger The
was incurring; and, fending Annette for
ward in ſearch of Ludovico, ſhe returned
to the ſpot whère Du Pont and Verezzi
were ſtill ſtruggling for victory. It was
her own cauſe which was to be decided
i' with that of the former, whoſe conduct,
independently of this circumſtance, would,
however, have intereſted her in his ſucceſs,
even had ſhe not diſliked and dreaded
Verezzi. She threw herſelf in a chair,
and ſupplicated them to delift from fur-
ther
-
O
4


( 297 )
- She immediately followed him, accom-
panied by Monſ. Du Pont, down the ſtair-
caſe, and along a vaulted paſſage, when
ſuddenly ſhe recollected Annette, and en-
quired for her. “ She awaits us further on,
Signora,” ſaid Ludovico, almoſt breath-
leſs with haſte; “ the gates were open, a
moment ſince, to a party juſt come in from
the mountains: they will be ſhut, I fear,
before we can reach them! Through this
door, Signora,” added Ludovico, holding.
down the lamp, “ take care, here are two
ſteps.”
Emily followed, trembling ſtill more,
than before ſhe had underſtood, that her
eſcape from the caſtle depended upon the
preſent moment; while Du Pont ſupported
her, and endeavoured, as they paſſed along,
to cheer her ſpirits.
- Speak low, Signor,” ſaid Ludovico,
" theſe paſſages ſend echoes all round the
caſtle."
“ Take care of the light,” cried Emily,
05
" you


( 298 )
" you go ſo faſt, that the air will extin-
guiſh it.”
Ludovico now opened another door,
where they found Annette, and the party
then deſcended a ſhort flight of ſteps into
a paſſage, which, Ludovico ſaid, led round:
the inner court of the caſtle, and opened
into the outer one. As they advanced,
confuſed and tumultuous ſounds, that
ſeemed to come from the inner court,
alarmed Emily. « Nay, Signora,” ſaid
Ludovico, “ our only hope is in that tu.
mult; while the Signor's people are buſied
about the men, who are juſt arrived, we
may, perhaps, paſs unnoticed through the
gates. But huſh !" he added, as they
approached the ſmall door, that opened
into the outer court, “ if you will remain
here a moment, I will go to ſee whether the
gates are open, and any body is in the way.
Pray extinguiſh the light, Signor, if you
heàr me talking;” continued Ludovico,
delivering the lamp to Du Pont, “and
remain quite ſtill.”
CI
Saying


( 300 )
again liſtening to what was going on with-
out, they heard Ludovico ſay, “ I'll watch
the gates the while.”
“ Stay a minute,” replied the ſentinel,
" and you need not have the trouble, for
the horſes will be ſent round to the outer
ſtables, then the gates will be ſhut, and I
can leave my poſt.” “I don't mind the
trouble, comrade,” ſaid Ludovico, “ you
will do ſuch another good turn for me,
ſome time. Go-go, and fetch the wine;
the rogues, that are juſt come in, will drink
it all elſe.”
· The ſoldier heſitated, and then called
aloud to the people in the ſecond court, to
know why they did not ſend out the horſes,
that the gates might be ſhut; but they were
too much engaged, to attend to him, even
if they had heard his voice.
« Ayemaye,” ſaid Ludovico, “ they
know better than that; they are ſharing it
all among them; if you wait till the horſes
come out, you muſt wait till the wine is
drunk. I have had my ſhare already, but,
ſince


( 301 )
fince you do not care about yours, I ſee
no reaſon why I would not have that too."
.“ Hold, hold, not ſo faſt,” cried the
ſentinel, “ do watch ther, for a moment:
l'II be with you preſently.”.
" Don't hurry yourſelf,” ſaid Ludovico,
coolly, “I have kept guard before now.
But you may leave me your * trombone,
that, if the caſtle Nould be attacked, yout
know, I may be able to defend the pafs,
like a hero.”
" There, my good fellow," returned the .
ſoldier, “there, take it—it has ſeen fer-
vice, though it could do little in defend.
ing the caſtle. I'll tell you a good ſtory,
though, about this fame trombone.”
" You'll tell it better when you have .
had the wine," ſaid Ludovico. “ There !
they are coming out from the court al-
ready.”
is I'll have the wine, though,” ſaid the
fentinel, running off. “I won't keep you -
a minute.”
* A kind of blunderbuſs.
« Take


( 302)
« Take your time, I am in no hafte,"
replied Ludovico, who was already hurry.
ing acroſs the court, when the ſoldier came
back. 6 Whither ſo faſt, friend-whither
ſo faſt ?” ſaid the latter. ( What! is this
the way you keep watch? I muſt ſtand to
my poſt myſelf, I fee.” .
" Aye, well,” replied Ludovico, “ you
have ſaved me the trouble of following
you further, for I want to tell you, if
you have a mind to drink the Tuſcany
wine, you muſt go to Sebaſtian, he is deal-
ing it out; the other that Federico has, is
not worth having. But you are not likely
to have any, I ſee, for they are all coming
out."
- By St. Peter! ſo they are,” ſaid the
ſoldier, and again ran off, while Ludo.
vico, once more at liberty, haſtened to the
door of the paſſage, where Emily was fink-
ing under the anxiety this long diſcourſe
had occafioned; but, on his telling them
the court was clear, they followed him to
the gates, without waiting another inſtant,
yet


( 303 )
SD
(
yet not before he had ſeized two horſes,
that had ſtrayed from the ſecond court,
and were picking a ſcanty meal along the
graſs, which grew between the pavement
of the firſt.
They paſſed, without interruption, the
dreadful gates, and took the road that led
down among the woods, Emily, Monſieur
Du Pont and Annette on foot, and Lu-
dovico, who was mounted on one horſe,
leading the other. Having reached them,
they ſtopped, while Emily and Annette
were placed on horſeback with their two
protectors, when Ludovico leading the
way, they ſet off as faſt as the broken road,
and the feeble light, which a riſing moon
threw among the foliage, would permit.
Emily was ſo much altonilhed by this
ſudden departure, that ſhe ſcarcely dared to
believe herſelf awake; and the yet much
doubted whether this adventure would ter-
minate in eſcape,---a doubt, which had too
much probability to juſtify it ; for, before
they quitted the woods, they heard thouts
i
in


( 304 )
in the wind, and, on emerging from them,
faw lights moving quickly near the caſtle
above. Du Pont whipped his horſe, and
with ſome difficulty compelled him to go
faſter.
“Ah! poor beaſt,” ſaid Ludovico," he
is weary enough; he has been out all
day; but, Signor, we muſt fly for it, now;
for yonder are the lights coming this way.”
Having given his own horſe a laſh, they
now both ſet off on a full gallop ; and,
when they again looked back, the lights
were ſo diſtant as ſcarcely to be diſcerned,
and the voices were ſunk into ſilence. The
travellers then abated their pace, and, con-
fulting whither they ſhould direct their
courſe, it was determined they ſhould de-
fcend into Tuſcany, and endeavour to reach
the Mediterranean, where they could rea-
dily embark for France. Thither Du Pont
meant to attend Emily, if he ſhould learn,
that the regiment he had accompanied
into Italy, was returned to his native
country.
They


( 306 )
narrow glen, through which they wander-
ed, and afforded them light ſufficient to dif.
tinguiſh their way, and to avoid the looſe
and broken ſtones, that frequently croſſed
it. They now travelled leiſurely, and in
profound ſilence; for they had ſcarcely yet
recovered from the aſtoniſhment, into which
this ſudden eſcape had thrown them:
Emily's mind, eſpecially, was ſunk, after
the various emotions it had ſuffered, into a
kind of muſing ſtillneſs, which the repof.
ing beauty of the ſurrounding ſcene and
the creeping murmur of the night breeze
among the foliage above contributed to
prolong. She thought of Valancourt and
of France, with hope, and ſhe would have
thought of them with joy, had nor the firſt
events of this evening haraſſed her ſpirits
too much, to permit her now to feel ſo
lively a ſenſation. Meanwhile, Emily was
alone the object of Du Poni’s melancholy
conſideration ; yet, with the deſpondency
he ſuffered, as he muſed on his recent difa
appointment, was mingled a ſweet plea-
fure,


( 308)
aſked by Du Pont, concerning the road, or
a remark uttered hy Annetre, reſpecting
objects, ſeen imperfectly in the twilight.
At length lights were perceived twinkling
on the ſide of a mountain, and Ludovico
had no doubt, that they proceeded from
the town he had mentioned, while his com-
panions, ſatisfied by this aſſurance, funk
again into ſilence. Annette was the firſt
who interrupted this. “ Holy Peter !” ſaid
ſhe, “ what ſhall we do for money on our
journey ? for I know neither I, or my lady,
have a ſingle ſequin; the Signor took care
of that!"
This remark produced a ſerious enquiry,
which ended in as ſerious an embarraff-
ment, for Du Pont had been rifled of
nearly all his money, when he was taken
priſoner ; the reir.ainder he had given to
the ſentinel, who had enabled hi n occa-
ſionally to leave the priſon-chamber; and
Ludovico, who had for ſome time found
a difficulty, in procuring any part of the
wages due to him, had now ſcarcely caſh
ſufficient


(309)
ſufficient to procure neceſſary refreſhment
at the firſt town, in which they ſhould
arrive.
Their poverty was the more dillreſſing,
fince it would detain them among the
mountains, where, even in a town, they
could ſcarcely conſider theinſelves ſafe from
Montoni. The travellers, however, had
only to proceed and dare the future ; and
they continued their way through lonely
wilds and duſky vallies, where the over-
hanging foliage now admitted, and then
excluded the moon-light ;-wilds ſo delo.
late, that they appeared, on the firſt glance,
as if no humin being had ever trode them
before. Even the road, in which the party
were, did but ſlightly contradict this error,
for the high graſs and other luxuriant vege-
tation, with which it was over-grown, told
how very ſeldom the foot of a traveller had
paffed it.
At length, from a diſtance, was heard
the faint tinkling of a ſheep-bell; and, ſoon
after, the bleat of flocks, and the party
then


( 310 )
then knew, that they were near ſome human
habitation, for the light, which Ludovico
had fancied to proceed from a town, had
long been concealed by intervening moun-
tains. Cheered by this hope, they quickened
their pace along the narrow paſs they were
winding, and it opened upon one of thoſe
paſtoral vallies' of the Apennines, which
might be painted for a ſcene of Arcadia,
1 and whoſe beauty and ſimplicity are finely
contraſted by the grandeur of the ſnow-topt
mountains above.
The morning light, now glimmering in
the horizon, ſhewed faintly, at a little dif-
tance, upon the brow of a hill, which
ſeemed to peep from “ under the opening
eye lids of the morn,” the town they were
in ſearch of, and which they ſoon after
reached. It was not without ſome difficulty
that they there found a houſe, which could
afford ſhelter for themſelves and their
horſes ; and Emily deſired they might not
reft longer than was neceſſary for refreſh-
ment. Her appearance excited ſome ſur-
priſe ;


( 311 )
priſe ; for ſhe was i without a hat, having
had time only to throw on her veil before
ſhe left the caſtle, à circumſtance that com-
pelled her to regret again the.wantof money,
without which it was impoſſibie to procure
this neceſſary article of dreſs. .
Ludovico, on examining his purſe, found
it even inſufficient to ſupply preſent re-
freſhment, and Du Pont, at length, ven-
tured to inform the landlord, whoſe coun-
tenance was ſimple and honeſt, of their ex-
act ſituation, and requeſted, that he would
aſſiſt them to purſue their journey ; a pur-
poſe, which he promiſed to comply with,
as far as he was able, when he learned that
they were priſoners eſcaping from Montoni,
whom he had too much reaſon to hate.
But, though he conſented to lend them freſh
horſes to carry them to the next town, he
was too poor himſelf to truſt them with
money, and they were again lamenting their
poverty, when Ludovico, who had been
with his tired horſes to the hovel which
ſerved for a ſtable, entered the room, half
frantic


(312)
{
1
frantic with joy, in which his auditors ſoon
participated. On removing the fiddle from
one of the horſes, he had found beneath it
a ſmall bag, containing, no doubt, the
booty of one of the condottieri, who had
returned from a plundering excurſion, juſt
before Ludovico left the caſtle, and whoſe
borſe having ſtrayed from the inner court,
u hile his maſter was engaged in drinking,
had brought away the treaſure, which the
ruffian had conſidered the reward of his
exploit.
On counting over this, Du Pont found
that it would be more than ſufficient to
carry them all to France, where he now
determined to accompany. Emily, whether
he ſhould obtain intelligence of his régi-
ment, or not; for, though he had as
much confidence in the integrity of Ludo.
vico, as his ſmall knowledge of him al-
lowed, he could not endure the thought
of committing her to his care for the
voyage; nor, perhaps, had he reſolution
enough to deny himſelf the dangerous
pleaſure
me
1
en
US


( 313 )
as
pleaſure, which he might derive from her
preſence.
He now conſulted them concerning the
ſea port, to which they ſhould direct their
way; and Ludovico, better informed of the
geography of the country, ſaid, that Leg-
horn was the neareſt port of conſequence,
which Du Pont knew alſo to be the moſt
likely of any in Italy to aſſiſt their plan,
ſince from thence veſſels of all nations
were continually departing. Thither, there-
fore, it was determined, that they ſhould
proceed.
Emily, having purchaſed a little ſtraw
hat, ſuch as was worn by the peaſant
girls of Tuſcany, and ſome other little
neceſſary equipments for the journey, and
the travellers, having exchanged their tired
horſes for others better able to carry them,
re-commenced their joyous way, as the
ſun was riſing over the mountains, and,
after travelling through the romantic coun-
try, for ſeveral hours, began to deſcend
into the vale of Arno. And here Emily
Vol. III. ,
beheld


( 314 )
beheld all the charms of ſylvan and paſto-
ral landſcape united, adorned with the ele.
gant villas of the Florentine nobles, and
diverſified with the various riches of culo
tivation. How vivid the ſhrubs, that em-
bowered the slopes, with the woods, that
ſtretched amphitheatrically along the moun-
tains ! and, above all, how elegant the out-
line of theſe waving Apennines, now ſoften-
ing from the wildneſs, which their interior
regions exhibited ! At a diſtance, in the eaſt,
Emily diſcovered Florence, with its towers
riſing on the brilliant horizon, and its lux.
uriant plain ſpreading to the feet of the
Apennines, fpeckled with gardens and
magnificent villas, or coloured with groves
of orange and lemon, with vines, corn,
and plantations of olives and mulberry;
while, to the weſt, the vale opened to the
waters of the Mediterranean, ſo diſtant,
that they were known only by a blueiſh
line, that appeared upon the horizon, and
by the light marine vapour, which juſt
ſtained the æther above.
With


( 315 )
With a full heart, Emily hailed the
waves, that were to bear her back to her
native country, the remembrance of which,
however, brought with it a pang , for
ſhe had there no home to receive, no pa-
rents to welcome her, but was going, like
a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the fad
Spot, where he, who was her father, lay
interred. Nor were her ſpirits cheered,
when the conſidered how long it would
probably be before ſhe ſhould ſee Valan-
court, who might be ſtationed with his re-
giment in a diſtant part of France, and
that, when they did meet, it would be
only to lament the ſucceſsful villany of
Montoni ; yet, ſtill ſhe would have felt in-
expreſſible delight at the thought of being
once more in the ſame country with Valan.
court, had it even been certain, that ſhe
could not ſee him.
The intenſe heat, for it was now noon,
obliged the travellers to look out for a
Thady receſs, where they might reſt, for a
· few hours, and the neighbouring thickets,
P 2 abounding


( 316 )
Ura
abounding with wild grapes, raſpberries,
and figs, promiſed them grateful refreſh-
ment. Soon after, they turned from the
road into a grove, whoſe thick foliage
entirely excluded the ſun-beams, and
where a ſpring, guſhing from the rock,
gave coolneſs to the air; and, having
alighted and turned the horſes to graze,
Annette and Ludovico ran to gather fruit
from the ſurrounding thickets, of which
they ſoon returned with an abundance. The
travellers, feated under the ſhade of a pine
and cypreſs grove and, on turf, enriched
with ſuch a profuſion of fragrant flowers,
as Emily had ſcarcely ever ſeen, even
among the Pyrenées, took their fimple
repaſt, and viewed, with new delight,
beneath the dark umbrage of gigantic
pines, the glowing landſcape ſtretching to
the ſea.
Emily and Du Pont gradually became
thoughtful and ſilent ; but Annette was all
joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay,
without forgetting the reſpectful diſtance,
- which


( 317 ) :
which was due to his companions. The
repaſt being over, Du Pont recommend.
ed Emily to endeavour to ſleep, during
theſe ſultry hours, and, deſiring the fer-
vants would do the ſame, ſaid he would
watch the while; but Ludovico wiſhed
to ſpare hin this trouble; and Emily
and Annette, wearied with travelling, tried
to repoſe, while he ſtood guard with his
trombone. .
When Emily, refreſhed by Slumber,
awoke, ſhe found the ſentinel aſleep on
his poſt and Du Pont awake, but loſt in
melancholy thought. As the ſun was yet
too high to allow them to continue their
journey, and as it was neceffáry, that Lu-
dovico, after the toils and trouble he had
fuffered, Should finiſh his fleep, Emily
took this opportunity of enquiring by what
accident Du Pont became Montoni’s pri-
ſoner, and he, pleaſed with the intereſt
this enquiry expreſſed and with the excuſe
it gave him for talking to her of himſelf,
immediately anſwered her curioſity.
" I came
P 3


( 318 )
Us
.“ I came into Italy, madam,” ſaid Du
Pont, “in the ſervice of my country. In an
adventure among the mountains our party,
engaging with the bands of Montoni, was
routed, and I, with a few of my comrades,
was taken priſoner. When they told me,
whoſe captive I was, the name of Montoni
ftruck me, for I remembered, that Madame
Cheron, your aunt, had married an Italian
of that name, and that you had accompa-
nied them into Italy. It was not, how.
ever, till ſome time after, that I became
convinced this was the ſame Montoni, or
learned that you, madam, was under the
ſame roof with myſelf. I will not pain
you by deſcribing what were my emotions
upon this diſcovery, which I owed to a
fentinel, whom I had ſo far won to my
intereſt, that he granted me many induf-
gences, one of which was very important
to me, and ſomewhat dangerous to him-
felf; but he perſiſted in refuſing to con-
vey any letter, or notice of my fituation
to you, for he juſtly dreaded a diſco-
very


( 319)
very and the conſequent vengeance of
Montoni. He however enabled me to
ſee you more than once. You are fur-
priſed, madam, and I will explain my-
felf. My health and ſpirits ſuffered exo
tremely from want of air and exerciſe, and,
at length, I gained fo far upon the pity, or
the avarice of the man, that he gave me
the means of walking on the terrace.”
Emily now liſtened, with very anxious
attention, to the narrative of Du Pont, who
proceeded : .
“ In granting this indulgence, he knew,
that he had nothing to apprehend from a
chance of my eſcaping from a caſtle, which
was vigilantly guarded, and the neareſt ter-
race of which rofe over a perpendicular rock;
he ſhewed me alſo," continued Du Pont;
6 a door concealed in the cedar wainſcot
of the apartment where I was confined,
which he inſtructed me how to open ;
and which, leading into a paſſage, formed
within the thickneſs of the wall, that ex.
tended far along the caſtle, finally opened
P 4
in


(320)
in an obſcure corner of the eaſtern rain part.
I have ſince been informed, that there are
many paſſages of the ſame kind concealed
within the prodigious walls of that edifice,
and which were, undoubtedly, contrived
for the purpoſe of facilitating eſcapes in
time of war. Through this avenue, at
the dead of night, I often ſtole to the ter-
race, where I walked with the utmoſt cau.
tion, left my ſteps ſhould betray me to the
ſentinels on duty in diftant parts; for this
end of it, being guarded by high build.
ings, was not . watched by ſoldiers. In
one of theſe midnight wanderings, I ſaw
light in a caſement that overlooked the
rampart, and which, I obſerved, was im-
mediately over my priſon-chamber. It
occurred to me, that you might be in that
apartment, and, with the hope of ſeeing
you, I placed myſelf oppoſite to the win-
dow.”
Emily, remembering the figure that
had formerly appeared on the terrace, and
which had occaſioned her ſo much anxiety,
exclaimed,


(321)
exclaimed, “ It was you, then, Monſieur
Du Pont, who occaſioned me much fool,
iſh terror ; iny ſpirits were, at that time,
ſo much weakened by long ſuffering, that
they took alarm at every hint.” Du Pont,
after lamenting, that he had occaſioned
her any apprehenſion, added, “ As I
feſted on the wall, oppoſite to your caſe-
ment, the conſideration of your melan-
choly ſituation and of my own, called
from me involuntary ſounds of lamenta.
tion, which drew you; I fancy, to the
caſement ; I ſaw there a perſon whom I
believed to be you. O! I will ſay no-
thing of my emotion at that moment ; I
wiſhed to ſpeak, but prudence reſtrained
me; till the diſtant footſtep of a ſentinel
compelled me ſuddenly to quit my ſtao
tion.
" It was ſome time before I had ano-
ther opportunity of walking, for I could
only leave my priſon, when it happened
to be the turn of one man to guard me;
· meanwhile I became convinced from ſome:
. P5
circumt.


(322)
circumſtances related by him, that your
apartment was over mine, and, when
again I ventured forth, I returned to your
caſement, where again I ſaw you, but
without daring to ſpeak. I waved my
hand, and you ſuddenly diſappeared; then
it was that I forgot my prudence, and
yielded to lamentation ; again you ap-
peared-you ſpoke I heard the well-
known accent of your voice! and, at that
moment, my diſcretion would have for-
ſaken me again, had I not heard alſo the
approaching ſteps of a ſoldier, when I in-
ſtantly quitted the place, though not be-
fore the man had ſeen me. He followed
down the terrace, and gained ſo faſt upon
me, that I was compelled to make uſe of
a ſtratagem, ridiculous enough, to ſave
myſelf. I had heard of the ſuperſtition of
many of theſe men, and I uttered a ſtrange
noiſe, with a hope that my purſuer would
miſtake it for ſomething ſupernatural, and
defiſt from purſuit. Luckily for myſelf
I ſucceeded; the man, it ſeems, was fub-
ject


, ( 323 )
ject to fits, and the terror he ſuffered threw
him into one, by which accident I ſecured
my retreat. A ſenſe of the danger I had
eſcaped, and the increaſed watchfulneſs,
which my appearance had occaſioned a-
mong the fentinels, deterred me ever after
from walking on the terrace; but, in the
ſtillneſs of night, I frequently beguiled my-
ſelf with an old lute, procured for me by
a ſoldier, which I ſometimes accompanied
with my voice, and ſometimes, I will ac-
knowledge, with a hope of making myſelf
lieard by you ; but it was only a few even-
ings ago, that this hope was anſwered. I
then thought I heard a voice in the wind,
calling me; yet, even then I feared to re-
ply, left the ſentinel at the priſon door
ſhould hear me. Was I right; madam, in
this conjecture was it you who ſpoke?”
: “ Yes,” ſaid Emily, with an involun--
tary figh, “ you was right indeed.”
Dù Pont, obferving the painful emo-
tions, which this queſtion revived, now
changed the ſubject. “ In one of'my ex-
P: 6
curſions
e


( 324 )
curſions through the paſſage, which I have
mentioned, I overheard a fingular conver-
fation,” faid he.
“ In the paſſage !” faid Emily, with
furpriſe.
“I heard it in the paffage,” ſaid Du
Pont, “ but it proceeded from an apart-
ment adjoining the wall, within which the
paſläge wound, and the ſhell of the wall
was there fo thin, and was alſo fomewhat
decayed, that I could diftinctly hear every
word, fpoken on the other ſide. It happened
thac Montoni and his companions were af-
ſembled in the room, and Montoni began
to relate the extraordinary hiſtory of the
lady, his predeceffor, in the caſtle. He
did, indeed, mention ſome very ſurpriſing
circumſtances, and whether they were
ſtrictly true, his conſcience muſt decide;
I fear it will determine againſt him. But
you, madam, have doubtleſs heard the re-
part, which he deſigns ſhould circulate,
on the ſubject of that lady's myſterious
fate.”
« I have,


(325)
“I have, fir," replied Emily, « and I
perceive, that you doubt it.”
« I doubted it before the period I am
ſpeaking of,” rejoined Du Pont ;-- but
fome circumſtances, mentioned by Mon-
toni, greatly contributed to my ſuſpicions.
The account I then heard, almoſt con-
vinced me, that he was a murderer. I
trembled for you ;-the more ſo that I had
heard the gueſts mention your name in a
manner that threatened your repoſe ; and,
knowing that the moſt impious men are
often the moſt fuperftitious, I determined
to try whether I could not awaken their
conſciences, and awe them from the com-
miſſion of the crime I dreaded. I liſtened
cloſely to Montoni, and in the moſt ſtrik--
ing paſſages of his ſtory, I joined my voice,
and repeated his laſt words, in a diſguiſed.
and hollow tone."
“ But was you not afraid of being diſ-
covered?” ſaid Emily.
“ I was not,” replied Du Pont; “for
I knew, that, if Montoni had been ac-
quainted


( 326 )
quainted with the ſecret of this paſſage, he
would not have confined me in the apart-
ment, to which it led. I knew alſo, from
better authority; that he was ignorant of it.
The party, for ſome time, appeared inat-
tentive to my voice; but, at length, were
fo' much alarmed, that they quitted the
apartment; and, having heard Montoni
order his ſervants to ſearch it, I returnedi
to my priſon; which was very diſtant from
this part of the paſſage.” “ I remember
perfectly to have heard of the converſation
you mention,” ſaid Emily; “it ſpread a
general alarm among Montoni's people,
and I will own I was weak enough to par-
take of it."
Monſieur Du Pont and Emily. thus
continued to converſe of Montoni, and
thien of France, and of the plan of their
voyage; when Emily told him, that it
was her intention to retire to a convent in
Languedoc, where ſhe had been formerly
treated with much kindneſs, and from
thence to write to her relation Monſieur
Queſnel,


( 327 )
pag Queſnel, and inform him of her conduct,
idea There ſhe deſigned to wait till La Vallée
2.0, ſhould again be her own, whither the
ants hoped her income would ſome time per:
ed: mit her to return; for Du Pont now taught
her to expect, that the eſtate, of which
Montoni had attempted to defraud her,
was not irrecoverably loſt, and he agair
congratulated her on her efcape from Mon
toni, who, he had not a doubt, meant to
- have detained her for life. The poſſibility
of recovering her aunt's eſtates for Valan-
court and herſelf, lighted up a joy in
Emily's heart, ſuch as ſhe had not known
for many months; but ſhe endeavoured to
conceal this from Monſieur Du Pont, left
it fhould lead him to a. painful remem-
brance of his rival.
They continued to converſe, till the
ſun was declining in the weſt, when
Du Pont awoke Ludovico, and they
ſet forward on their journey. Gradually
deſcending the lower ſlopes of the valley,
they reached the Arno, and wound along
its


( 328 )
its paſtoral margin, for many miles, de-
lighted with the ſcenery around them, and
with the remembrances, which its claffic
waves revived. At a diſtance, they heard
the gay ſong of the peaſants among the
vineyards, and obferved the ſetting fun.
tint the waves with yellow luſtre, and twie
light draw a duſky purple over the moun-
tains, which, at length, deepened into
night. Then the lucciola, the fire-fly of
Tuſcany, was ſeen to flaſh its fudden ſparks
among the foliage, while the cicala, with
its ſhrill note, became more clamorous
than even during the noon-day beat, love
ing beſt the hour, when the Englich beetle,
with leſs offenſive ſound,
........." winds
His ſmall but ſullen horn,
· As: oft he riſes 'midſt the twilight path,
Againſt the pilgrim borne in heedleſs hum *."
The travellers croſſed the Arno by
moon-light, at a ferry, and, learning, that
Piſa was diſtant only a few miles down the
* Collins,
river,


( 329 )
va
river, they wiſhed to have proceeded this
ther in a boat ; but, as none could be pro-
cured, they ſet out on their wearied horſes
for that city. As they approached it, the
vale expanded into a plain, variegated
with vineyards, corn, olives and mulberry
groves; but it was late, before they reached
its gates, where Emily was ſurpriſed to
hear the bufy found of footſteps and the
tones of muſical inſtruments, as well as to
ſee the lively groups, that filled the ſtreets,
and ſhe almoſt fancied herſelf again at
Venice; but here was no moon-light ſea-
no gay gondolas, daſhing the waves,-nº
Palladian palaces, to throw enchantment
over the fancy and lead it into ihe wilds
of fairy ſtory. The Arno rolled through
the town, but no muſic trembled from bal.
conies over its waters; it gave only the
buſy voices of failors on board veſſels juſt
arrived from the Mediterranean; the me-
łancholy heaving of the anchor, and the
boatſwain's Thrill whiſtle ;-founds, which,
fince that period, have there ſunk almoſt
into


(331)
fcended them, looked down delighted on
Leghorn, and its ſpacious bay, filled with
vefſels, and crowned with theſe beautiful
hills.
She was no leſs ſurpriſed and amuſed;
on entering this town, to find it crowded
with perſons in the dreſſes of all nations ;
a ſcene, which reminded her of a Venerian
mafquerade, fuch as ſhe had witneffed at
the time of the Carnival; but here, was
buſtle, without gaiety, and noiſe inſtead
of muſic, while elegance was to be looked
for only in the waving outlines of the ſur-
rounding hills.
Monſieur. Du Pont, immediately on
their arrival, went down to the quay, where
he heard of ſeveral French veſſels, and of
one, that was to fail, in a few days, for
Marſeilles, from whence another veffel
could be procured, without difficulty, to
take them acroſs the gulf of Lyons towards
Narbonne, on the coaſt not many leagues
from which city he underſtood the convent
was ſeated, to which Emily wiſhed to retire,
He,


( 332 )
He, therefore, immediately engaged with
the captain to take them to Marſeilles, and
Emily was delighted to hear, that her paff
age to France was ſecured. Her mind
was now relieved from the terror of pur-
fuit; and the pleaſing hope of foon feeing
her native country--that country which
held Valancourt--reſtored to her ſpirits a
degree of cheerfulneſs, ſuch as ſhe had
fcarcely known, ſince the death of her fa-
ther. At Leghorn alſo, Du Pont heard of
his regiment, and that it had embarked
for France; a circumſtance, which gave
him great fatisfaction, for he could now
accompany Emily thither, without re-
proach to his conſcience, or apprehenſion
of diſpleaſure from his commander. Dur-
ing theſe days, he fcrupulouſly forbore to
diſtreſs her by a mention of his paſſion,
and ſhe was compelled to eſteem and pity,
though ſhe could not love, him. He en-
deavoured to amuſe her by ſhewing the
environs of the town, and they often walk-
ed together on the ſea-ſhore, and on the
buſy


( 333 )
buſy quays, where Emily was frequently
intereſted by the arrival and departure of
veſſels, participating in the joy of meeting
friends, and, ſometimes, ſhedding a ſympa-
thetic tear to the ſorrow of thoſe, that were
ſeparating. It was after having witneſſed
a ſcene of the latter kind, that ſhe arranged
the following ſtanzas:
THE MARINER.
Soft came the breath of ſpring; ſmooth flow'd the tide;
And blue the heaven in its mirror ſmild ;
The white fail trembled, ſwell’d, expanded wide,
The buſy failors at the anchor toil'd.
With anxious friends, that ſhed the parting tear,
The deck was throng'd-how ſwift the moments fly!
The veſſel heaves, the farewell figns appear ;
Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!
The laſt dread moment comes !—The ſailor-youth
Hides the big drop, and ſmiles amid his pain,
Sooths his fad bride, and vows eternal truth,
“ Farewell, my love--we ſhall-Shall meet again!"
Long


(334 )
Long on the ſtern, with waving hand, he ſtood;
The crowded ſhore finks, leſſening, from his view,
As gradual glides the bark along the flood;
His bride is ſeen no more - Adieu !-adieu !"
The breeze of Eve moans low, her ſmile is o'er,
Dim ſteals her twilight down the crimſon'd weſt,
He climbs the top-moſt maſt, to ſeek once more
The far-feen coaſt, where all his wiſhes reſt.
He views its dark line on the diſtant ſky,
And Fancy lea ls him to his little home,
He ſees his weeping love, he hears her figh,
He fooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.
Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,
In one vaſt ſhade the ſeas and ſhores repoſe;
He turns his aching eyes,--his ſpirit.fails,
The chill tear falls ;- ſad to the deck he goes!
The ſtorm of midnight ſwells, the fails are furl'd,
Deep ſounds the lead, but finds no friendly ſhore,
Faſt o'er the waves the wretched bark is hurl'd,
“ O Ellen, Ellen! we muſt meet no more !"
Lightnings, that ſhew the vaſt and foamy deep,
The rending thunders, as they onwa d roll,
The loud, loud winds, that o'er the sillows fweep-
Shake the firm nerve, appall the braveſt ſoul!
Ah!


( 335 )
Ah! what avails the ſeamen's toiling care !
The ſtraining cordage burſts, the malt is riv'n;
The ſounds of terror groan along the air,
Then ſink afar ;-the bark on rocks is driv'n!
Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters paſs’d,
The helpleſs-crew ſunk in the roaring main!
Henry's faint accents trembled in the blaft-
“ . Farewell, my love !--we ne'er ſhall meet again !"
Oft, at the calm and filent evening hour,
When ſummer-breezes linger on the wave,
A melancholy voice is heard to pour
Its lonely ſweetneſs-o’er poor Henry's grave!
And oft, at midnight, airy ftrains are heard
Around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid;
Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd,
For lovers' ſpirits guard the holy ſhade! .
СНАР.


( 336 )
C H A P.
A.
C......“Oh! the joy
Of young ideas, painted on the mind : .
In the warm glowing colours fancy ſpreads
On objects not yet known, when all is new,
And all is lovely!”
SACRED DRAMAS.
W E now return to Languedoc and to
the mention of Count De Villefort, the
nobleman, who ſucceeded to an eſtate of
the Marquis De Villeroi, ſituated near the
monaſtery of St. Claire. It may be re-
collected, that this chateau was uninha-
bited, when St. Aubert and his daughter
were in the neighbourhood, and that the
former was much affected on diſcovering
himſelf to be ſo near Chateau-le-Blanc,
a place, concerning which the good old
La Voiſin afterwards dropped ſome hints,
that had alarmed Emily's curioſity.
It was in the year 1584, the beginning
of that, in which St. Aubert died, that
Francis Beauveau, Count De Villefort,
came


( 337 )
came into poffeffion of the manſion and
extenſive domain called Chateau-le-Blanc,
ſituated in the province of Languedoc, on
the ſhore of the Mediterranean. This
eſtate, which, during ſome centuries, had
belonged to his family, now deſcended to
him on the deceaſe of his relative, the
Marquis De Villeroi, who had been lat.
terly a man of reſerved manners and auf-
tere character ; circumſtances, which, to-
gether with the duties of his profeſſion,
that often called him into the field, had
prevented any degree of intimacy with his
ceufin, the Count De Villefort. For many
years, they had known little of each other,
and the Count received the firſt intelli-
gence of his death, which happened in a
diſtant part of France, together with the
inſtruments, that gave him poffeffion of
the domain of Chateau le-Blanc; but it was
not till the following year, that he deter-
mined to viſit that eſtate, when he deſign-
ed to paſs the autumn' there. The ſcenes
of Chateau-le-Blanc often came to his
VOL. III.
remem-
.


( 333 )
remembrance, heightened by the touches,
which a warm imagination gives to the
recollection of early pleaſures ; for, many
years before, in the life-time of the Mar-
chioneſs, and at that age when the mind
is particularly ſenſible to impreſſions of
gaiety and delight, he had once viſited this
ſpot, and, though he had paſſed a long
intervening period amidſt the vexacions
and tumults of public affairs, which too
frequently corrode the heart, and vitiate
the taſte, the ſhades of Languedoc and the
grandeur of its diſtant ſcenery had never
been remembered by him with indiffe-
rence.
During many years, the chateau had been
abandoned by the late Marquis, and, being
inhabited only by an old ſteward and his
wife, had been ſuffered to fall much into
decay. To ſuperintend the repairs, that
would be requiſite to make it a comfort-
able reſidence, had been a principal mo-
tive with the Count for paſſing the autum- ve
nal months in Languedoc; and neither
: the


(340)
pleaſure to a heart, in which even the feel-
ings of ordinary benevolence had long
fince decayed under the corruptions of
Juxury.
The Count had a ſon and a daughter,
the children of a former marriage, who, he
deſigned, lhould accompany him to the
ſouth of France ; Henri, who was in his
twentieth year, was in the French ſervice ;
and Blanche, who was not yet eighteen,
had been hitherto confined to the convent,
where ſhe had been placed immediately
on her father's ſecond marriage. The pre.
ſent Counteſs, who had neither ſufficient
ability, or inclination, to ſuperintend the
education of her daughter-in-law, had ad-
viſed this ſtep, and the dread of ſuperior
beauty had ſince urged her to employ every
art, that might prevail on the Count to pre-
long the period of Blanche's feclufion; it
was, therefore, with extreme mortification,
that ſhe now underſtood he would no longer
ſubmit on this fubject, yet it afforded her
ſome conſolation to conſider, that, though
the


( 343 )
all its enchantment; was it a moment,
then, for tears of regret ?. Yet is was ſo..
She turned, with an altered and dejected
countenance, to her young companions,
who were come to bid her farewell, and
wept! Even my lady abbeſs, ſo ſtately
and ſo folemn, ſhe ſaluted with a degree of
forrow, which, an hour before, ſhe would
have believed it impoſſible to feel, and
which may be accounted for by conſidering,
how reluctantly we all part, even with un.
pleaſing objects, when the ſeparation is
conſciouſly for ever. Again, ſhe kiſſed the
poor nuns, and then followed the Counteſs
from that ſpot with tears, which ſhe ex.
pected to leave only with ſmiles,
But the preſence of her father and the
variety of objects, on the road, foon en-
gaged her attention, and diffipated the
ſhade, which cender regret had thrown
upon her ſpirits. Inattentive to a conver-
ſation, which was paffing between the
Counteſs and a Mademoiſelle Bearn, her
friend, Blanche fat, loft in pleaſing reverie,
Q4


. 345 )
points with various colouring, while the
blueilh tint, that pervaded their ſhadowy
receſſes, gave the ſtrength of contraſt to
the fplendour of light. The plains of Lan-
guedoc, bluſhing with the purple vine and
diverſified with groves of mulberry, al-
mond and olives, ſpread far to the north
and the eaſt; to the ſouth appeared the
Mediterranean, clear as cryſtal, and blue as
the heavens it reflected, bea ringon its bo-
ſom veſſels, whoſe white fails caught the
ſun-beams, and gave animation to the
ſcene. On a high promontory, waſhed
by the waters of the Mediterranean, ſtood
her father's manfion, almoft fecluded from
the eye by woods of intermingled pine,
oak and cheſnut, which crowned the emi-
nence, and Noped towards the plains, on
one fide; while, on the other, they extend.
ed to a conſiderable diſtance along the ſea-
Thores.
As Blanche drew nearer, the gochić
features of this ancient manſion ſucceſſively
appeared firſt an embattled turret, riſing
Q5. above


( 346 )
7
.
above the trees—then the broken à rch !
of an immenſe gate-way, retiring beyond )
them; and ſhe almoſt fancied herſelf ap-
proaching a caſtle, ſuch as is often cele-
brated in early ſtory, where the knights
look out from the battlements on ſome
champion below, who, clothed in black
armour, coines, with his companions, to
reſcue the fair lady of his love from tlie
oppreſſion of his rival, a ſort of legends,
to which ſhe had once or twiće obtained
acceſs in the library of her convent, that,
like many others, belonging to the monks,
was ſtored with theſe reliques of romantic
fictionis "
The carriages ſtopped ar á gate, which
led into the domain of the chateau, but
which was now faſtened; and the great
bell, that had formerly ſerved to announce
the arrival of ftrangers, having long ſince
fallen fron; its ſtation, a ſervant climbed
over a ruined part of the adjoining wall,
to give notice to thoſe within of the arrival
of their lord. ''.
As


:347 )
di S.
i Aş Blanche leaned from the coach wine
dow, ſhe réſigned herfelf to the ſweet and
gentle emotions, which the hour, and the
ſcenery awakened. The ſun had now: left
the earth, and twilight began to darken
the mountains; while the diſtant waters,
reflecting the bluſh chat ſtill glowed in the
weſt, appeared like a line of light, ſkirting
the horizon. The low murmur of waves,
breaking on the ſhore, came in the breeze,
and, now and then, the melancholy daih-
ing of oars was feebly heard from a dita
tance. She was ſuffered to indulge her
penſive mood, for the thoughts of the reſt
of the party were filently engaged upon the
fubjects of their ſeveral intereſts. Mean-
while, the Counteſs, reflecting, with regret,
upon the gay parties ſhe had left at Paris,
ſurveyed, with diſgult, what ſhe thought
the gloomy woods and ſolitary wildneſs of
the ſcene; and, ſhrinking from the pro-
ſpect of being ſhut up in an old caſtle, was
prepared to meet every object with dif-
pleaſure. The feelings of Henri were
QO
fome.


( 348 )
fomewhat fimilar to thoſe of the Counters;
he gave a mournful ſigh to the delights
of the capital, and to the remembrance of
a lady, who, he believed, had engaged his
affections, and who had certainly faſci-
nated his imagination ; but the ſurround-
ing country, and the mode of life, on
which he was entering, had, for him, at
leaſt, the charm of novelty, and his regret
was ſoftened by the gay expectations of
youth.
The gates being at length unharred, the
carriage moved Nowly on, under ſpreading
cheſnuts, that almofi excluded the remains
of day, following what had been formerly
a road, but which now, overgrown with
luxuriant vegetation, could be traced only
by the boundary, formed by trees, on ei-
ther ſide, and which wound for near half a
mile among the woods, before it reached
the chateau. This was the very avenue
that St. Aubert and Emily had formerly
entered, on their firſt arrival in the neigh-
bourhood, with the hope of finding a houſe,
that


(350)
flýle, but that it had additions of a more
modern date; the large and gloomy hall,
however, into which ſhe now entered, was
entirely gothic, and ſumptuous tapeſtry,
which it was now too dark to diſtinguiſh,
hung upon the walls, and depictured ſcenes
from fome of the ancient Provençal ro-
nances. · A vaſt.gothic window, embroi-
dered with clematis and eglantine, that af-
cended to the fouth, led the eye, now. chat
the caſements were thrown open, through
this verdant ſhade, over a floping lawn,
to the tops of dark woods, that hung upon
the brow of the promontory. Beyond, ap- :
peared the waters of the Mediterranean,
ftretching far to the ſouth, and to the eart,
where they were loſt in the horizon ; while
to the north-eaſt, they were bounded by the
luxuriant ſhores of Languedoc and Pro.
vence, enriched with wood, and gay with
vines and ſloping paſtures;" and, to the
ſouth-weſt, by the majeſtic Pyrenées, now
fading from the eye, beneath the gradual
gloom.
Blanche,


( 351 Y
***Blanche, as ſhe croſſed the hall, ſtopped
a moment to obſerve this lovely proſpect,
which the evening twilight obſcured, yet
did not conceal. But ſhe' was quickly.
awakened from the complacent delight,
which this ſcene had diffuſed upon her
mind, by the Counteſs, who, diſcontented
with every object around, and impatient
for refreſhment and repoſe, haſtened for-
ward to a large parlour, whoſe cedar wain-
ſcot, narrow pointed caſements, and dark
ceiling of carved cypreſs wood, gave it an
aſpect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy
green velvet of the chairs and couches,
fringed with tarnilhed gold, had once been
deſigned to enliven...
While the Counteſs enquired for refreſh-
ment, the Count, attended by his ſon,
went to look over ſome part of the chateau,
and Lady Blanche reluctantly remained to
witneſs the diſcontent and ill humour of her
ſtep-mother.
:“ How long have you lived in this deſo-
late place ?" ſaid her ladyſhip, to the old
houſe-


( 352 )
houſe-keeper, who came to pay her duty.
“ Above twenty years, your ladyſhip, on
the next feaſt of St. Jerome.”
" How happened it, that you have lived
here ſo long, and almoſt alone, too? I un-
derſtood, that the chateau had been ſhut up
for ſome years?"
«Yes madam, it was for many years
after my late lord, the Count, went to
the wars; but it is above twenty years,
ſince I and my huſband came into his ſer-
vice. The place is fo farge, and has of
Tate been ſo lonely, that we were loſt in it,
and, after ſome tiine, we went to live in a
cottage at the end of the woods, near
ſome of the tenants, and caine to look af.
ter the chateau, every now and then.
When my ford returned to France from
the wars, he took a diſlike to the place,
and never came to live here again, and lo
he was ſatisfied with our remaining at the
cottage. Alas-alas ! how the chateau is
changed from what it once was! What
delight my late lady uſed to take in it! I
well
.
ever Cd
du


(353 )
well remember when ſhe came here a bride,
and how fine it was. Now, it has been ne-
glected ſo long, and is gone into ſuch decay!
I ſhall never ſee thoſe days again !""
The Counteſs appearing to be ſomewhat.
offended by the thoughtleſs fimplicity,
with which the old woman regretted former
tines, Dorothée added." But the chateau
will now be inhabited, and cheerful again ;
not all the world could tempt me to live in
it alone."
Well, the cxperiment will not be
made, I believe," ſaid the Counteſs, dil-
pleaſed that her own ſilence had been un-
able to awe the loquacity of this ruſtic
old houſekeeper, now ſpared from further
attendance by the entrance of the Count,
who ſaid he had been viewing part of the
chateau, and found, that it would require
conſiderable repairs and fome alterations,
before it would be perfectly comfortable,
as a place of reſidence. “ I am ſorry to
hear it, my lord,” replied the Counteſs.
" And why ſorry, madain?” “ Becauſe
the


(354 )
W
the place will ill repay your trouble; and
were it even a paradiſe, it would be inſuffer-
able at ſuch a diſtance from Paris."
The Count made no reply, but walked
abruptly to a window. " There are win-
dows, my lord, but they neither admit en-
tertainment, or light; they ſhew only a fcene
of ſavage nature."
“I am at a loſs, madam,” ſaid the Count,
" to conjecture what you mean by ſavage
nature. Do thoſe plains, or thoſe woods,
or that fine expanſe of water, deſerve the
name?"
"Thoſe mountains certainly do, my
lord,” rejoined the Counteſs, pointing to
the Pyrenées, “ and this chateau, though
not a work of rude nature, is, to my taſte,
at leaſt, one of ſavage art.” The Count
coloured highly. « This place, madam,
was the work of my anceſtors,” ſaid he,
" and you muſt allow nie to ſay, that your
preſent converſation diſcovers neither good
taſte, or good manners.” Blanche, now
Thocked ac an altercation, which appeared
-
to


( 355 )
to be increaſing to a ſerious diſagreement
roſe to leave the room, when her mother's
wonan entered it, and the Counteſs, im-
mediately deliling to be ſhewn to her own
apartment, withdrew, attended by Made-
moiſelle Bearn.
Lady Blanche, it being not yet dark,
took this opportunity of exploring new
ſcenes, and, leaving the parlour, ſhe paſſed
from the hall into a wide gallery, whoſe
walls were decorated by marble pilaſters,
which fupported an arched roof, compoſed
of a rich moſaic work. Through a dife:
tant window, that ſeemed to terminate the
gallery, were ſeen the purple clouds of even-
ing and a landſcape, whoſe features, thin-
ly veiled in twilight, no longer apppeared-
diſtinctly, but, blended into one grand
maſs, .ſtretched to the horizon, coloured
only with a tint of ſolemn grey.
The gallery terminated in a ſaloon, to
which the window ſhe had ſeen through an
open door, belonged ; but the increaſing
duſk permitted her only an imperfect view
of


( 356
ere nu.
of this apartment, which ſeemed to be
magnificent and of modern architecture;
though it had been either ſuffered to fall
into decay, or had never been properly
finiſhed. The windows, which were nu-
merous and large, deſcended low, and af-
forded a very extenſive, and, what Blanche's
fancy repreſented to be, a very lovely
profpect; and the ſtood for ſome time,
ſurveying the grey obſcurity, and depic-
turing imaginary woods- and mountains;
vallies and rivers, on this ſcene of night ;
her folemn ſenſations rather afliſted, than
interrupted, by the diſtant bark of a watch
dog, and by the breeze, as it trembled
- upon the light foliage of the ſhrubs. Now
and then appeared for a moment, among
the woods, a cottage light ; and, at length,
was heard, afar off, the evening bell of a
convent, dying on the air. When ſhe with.
drew her thoughts from theſe fubjects of
fanciful delight, the gloom and ſilence of
che ſaloon ſomewhat awed her; and, hay-
ing fought the door of the gallery, and
purſued


il 357 )
1e
purſued, for a conſiderable time, a dark
paffage, ſhe came to a hall, but one to.
tally different from that ſhe had formerly
ſeen. By ihe twilight, admitted through
an open partico, ſhe could juit diſtinguiſh
this apartment to be of very light and airy
architecture, and that it was paved with
white marble, pillars of which ſupported
- she roof, that roſe into arches built in the
Moonth ſtyle. While Blanche ſtood on
the ſteps of this portico, the moon roſe
over the ſea, and gradually diſcloſed, in
partial light, the beauties of the eminence,
on which the ſtood, whence a lawn, now
itude and overgrown with high graſs, ſloped
to the woods, thar, almoſt ſurrounding the
chateau; extended in a grand ſweep down the
fouthern fides of the promontory, to the sery
margin of the ocean. Beyond the woods,
on the north fide, appeared a long tract of
the plains of Languedoc; and, to the eaſt,
-the landſcape ſhe had before dimly-feen,
- with the rowers of 'a monaſtery, illumined
by the moon, rifing over dark groves.
The


-
( 358 )
The ſoft and ſhadowy tint, that overe
ſpread the ſcene, the waves, undulating in
the moon-light, and their low and meaſured
murmurs on the beach, were circumſtances,
that united to elevate the unaccuftoined
mind of Blanche to enthulaſm. .
" And have I lived in this glorious
world ſo long,” ſaid ſhe, “ and never till
now beheld ſuch a proſpect-never expe-
rienced theſe delights ! Every peaſant girl,
on my father's domain, has viewed from
her infancy the face of nature ; has ranged,
at liberty, her romantic wilds, while I
have been ſhut in a cloiſter from the
view of theſe beautiful appearances, which
were deſigned to enchant all eyes, and
awaken all, hearts. How can the poor
nume and friars feel the full feryaur of de-
votion, if : they never ſee the fun rife,
or ſet ? Never, till this evening, did I
know what true devotion is ; for, never
þefore did I ſee the ſun link below the
vaft earth! To-marrow, for the firſt time
in my life, I will ſee it riſe. O who
would


( 359 )
would live in Paris, to look upon black
walls and dirty ſtreets, when, in the country,
they might gaze on the blue heavens, and
all the green earth!”
This enthuſiaſtic foliloquy was inter-
rupted by a ruſtling noiſe in the hall; and,
while the lonelineſs of the place made her
ſenſible to fear, ſhe thought the perceived
ſomething moving between the pillars.
For a moment, ſhe continued ſilently
obſerving it, till, alhamed of her ridicu-
Elous apprehenſions, the recollected courage
enough to demand who was there."
my young lady, is it you?” ſaid the old
houſekeeper, who was come to ſhut the win-
dows, “ I am glad it is you.” The man-
ner in which ſhe ſpoke this, with a faint
breath, rather ſurpriſed Blanche, who ſaid,
“ You ſeem frightened, Dorothée, wnat is
the matter???
: “ No, not frightened, ma’amſelle,” re-
plied Dorothée, heſitating, and trying to
appear compoſed, “but I am old, and T -
- a little maſter ftartles me.”: The Lady
Blanche


e 360)
Blanche ſmiled at the diſtinction. I am
glad that my lord the Count is come to
live at the chateau, ma’amfelle,” continued
Dorothée, “ for it has been many a year
deſerted, and dreary enough; now, the
place will look a little as it uſed to do,
when my poor lady was alive.” Blanche
enquired how long it was, ſince the Mar-
chioneſs, died ? * Alas! my lady,” re.
plied Dorothée, " fo long—that I have
ceaſed to count the years! The place, to
my mind, has mourned ever ſince, and I
am ſure my lord's vaſſals have! But yori
have loft yourſelf; ma’amſelle, -hall I
Thew you to the other ſide of the cha-
teau »
Blanche enquired how long this part of
the edifice had been built. “ Soon after
my lord's marriage, ma’am,” replied Do.
rothée, « The place was large enough
without this addition, for many rooms of
- the old building were even then never
made uſe of, and my lord had a princely
houſehold too; but he thought the antient
manſion


( 365 )
to expreſs, long ſince mouldered into duſt,
a train of melancholy ideas paſſed over her
mind, and ſhe almoſt wept.
Having given her woman a ſtrict in-
junction to awaken her before ſun-rile,
the diſmiſſed her; and then, to diſlipate
the gloom, which reflection had caſt upon
her ſpirits, opened one of the high caſe-
ments, and was agiin cheere.} by the face
of living nature. The madowy earth,
the air, and ocean--all was ſtill. Along
the deep ferene of the heavens, a few
light clouds floated flowly, through whoſe
ſkirts the ſtars now ſeemned to tremble,
and now to emerge with purer fplendour.
Blanche's thoughts aroſe involuntarily to
the Great Author of the ſublime objects
the contemplated, and ſhe breathed a prayer
of finer devotion, than any lhe had ever
uttered beneath the vaulted roof of a cloiſ-
ter. At this caſement, the re inained vill the
glooms of midnight were ſtretched over the
proſpect. She then retired to her pillow,
and,
R 3


( 366 ;
and, “ with gay viſions of to.morrow," 10
thoſe ſweet ſlumbers, which health and hap-
py innocence only know. ..
“ To-morrow to frefh woods and paſtures new.”
CHAP.


( 367
C H A P.
XY.
What tranſport to retrace our early plays,
Our eaſy bliſs, when each thing joy ſupplied,
The woods, the mountains and the warbling maze
Of the wild brooks!”
THUMBON,
BLANCHE's ſlumbers continued, till
long after the hour, which ſhe had fo im-
patiently anticipated, for her woman, fa-
tigued with travelling, did not call her,
till breakfaſt was nearly ready. Her dif-
appointment, however, was inſtantly for-
gotten, when, on opening the caſement,
ſhe faw, on one hand, the wide fea ſpark-
ling in the morning rays, with its ſtealing
fails and glancing oars ; and, on the other;
the freſh woods, the plains far-ſtretching
and the blue mountains, all glowing with
the ſplendour of the day,
As ſhe inſpired the pure breeze, health
R4
ſpread


( 368)
ſpread a deeper bluſh upon her countenance,
and pleaſure danced in her eyes.
.“ Who could firſt invent convents !"
faid ſhe, “and who could firſt perſuade
people to go into them? and to make re-
ligion a pretence, too, where all that
ſhould inſpire it, is ſo carefully ſhut out !
God is beſt pleaſed with the homage of a
grateful heart, and, when we view his
glories, we feel moſt grateful. I never
felt ſo much devotion, during the many
dull years I was in the convent, as I have
done in the few hours, that I have been
here, where I need only look on all around
mesto adore God in my inmoſt-heart !” :
Saying this, ſhe left the window, bound-
ed along the gallery, and, in the next mo.
ment, was in the breakfaſt-room, where
the Count was already ſeated. The cheer-
fulneſs of a bright ſun-ſhine had diſperſed
the melancholy glooms of his reflections,
a pleaſant ſmile was on his countenance,
and he ſpoke in an enlivening voice to
Blanche, whoſe heart, echoed back the
tones.


( 370 )
which was fitted up with airy elegance ;
and, as the windows opened upon balco-
nies, that fronted the ſea, ſhe was there
ſaved from a view of the borrid Pyrenées.
Here, while ſhe reclined on a ſofa, and,
caſting her languid eyes over the ccean,
which appeared beyond the wood-tops,
indulged in the luxuries of ennui, her com-
panion read aloud a ſentimental novel,
on ſome faſhionable ſyſtem of philoſophy,
or the Counteſs was herſelf ſomewhat of a
I hiloſopher, eſpecially as to infidelity, and
among a certain circle her opinions were
waited for with impatience, and received as
doctrines.
The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, haftened -
to indulge, amidſt the wild wood-walks
around the chateau, her new enthuſiaſm,
where, as ſhe wandered under the ſhades,
her gay ſpirits gradually yielded to penſive
,complacency. Now, ſhe moved with ſolenn
ſteps, beneath the gloom of thickly inter-
woven branches, where the freſh dew ſtill
hung upon every flower, that peeped from
6.
among


( 372 )
the freſh flowers; and, while Blanche watch
ed a butterfly flitting from bud to bud, the
indulged herſelf in imagining the pleaſures
of its ſhort day, till ſhe had compoſed the
following ſtanzas.
THE BUTTER-FLY TO HIS LOVE.
What bowery dell, with fragrant breath,
Courts thee to ſtay thy airy flight;
Nor ſeek again the purple heath,
So oft the ſcene of gay delight ?
Long I've watch'd i' the lily's bell,
Whoſe whiteneſs ſtole the morning's beam ;
No fluttering ſounds thy coming tell,
No waving wings, at diſtance, gleam.
But fountain freſh, nor breathing grove,
Nor ſunny mead, nor bloſſom'd tree,
So fweet as lily's cell ſhall prove,
The bower of conſtant love and me.
When April buds begin to blow, '
The prim-roſe, and the hare-bell blue,
That on the verdant moſs-bank grow,
With violet cups, that weep in dew;
When


(375 )
cme
van-
When Lady Blanche returned to the cha-
teau, inſtead of going to the apartment of
the Counteſs, ſhe ainuſed herſelf with wan-
dering over that part of the edifice which
ſhe had not yet examined, of which the
moſt antient firſt attracted her curioſity;
for, though what ſhe had ſeen of the mo.
dern was gay and elegant, there was ſome-
thing in the former more intereſting to her
imagination. Having paſſed up the great
ftair-eaſe, and through the oak gallery, ſhe
entered upon a long ſuite of chambers,
wņoſe walls were either hung with tapeſtry,
or wainſcoted with cedar, the furniture of
which looked almoſt as antient as the rooms
themſelves; the ſpacious fire-places, where
no mark of ſocial cheer remained, pre-
ſented an image of cold deſolation ; and
the whole ſuite had ſo much the air of ne-
glect and defertion, that it ſeemed as if the
venerable perſons, whoſe portraits hung
upon the walls, had been the laſt to inhabit.
them.
· On leaving theſe rooms, ſhe found her.
ſelf
S


( 376 )
ſelf in another gallery, one end of which
was terminated by a back ſtair-caſe, and the
other by a door, that ſeemed to cominu-
nicate with the north ſide of the chateau,
but which being faſtened, ſhe deſcended the
ftair caſe, and, opening a door in the wall,
a few ſteps down, found herſelf in a ſmall
ſquare room, that formed part of the weſt
turret of the caſtle. Three windows pre-
ſented each a ſeparate and beautiful pro.
fpect ; that to the north, overlooking Lan-
guedoc; another to the weſt, the hills af-
cending towards the Pyrenées, whoſe awful
ſummits crowned the landſcape; and a third,
fronting the ſouth, gave the Mediterranean,
and a part of the wild ſhores of Rouſillon,
to the eye.
Having left the turret, and deſcended
the narrow ſtair-caſe, ſhe found herſelf in
a duſky paſſage, where ſhe wandered, un-
able to find her way, till impatience yield-
ed to apprehenſion, and the called for al-
fiſtance. Preſently ſteps approached, and
light glimmered through a door at the
other


( 377 )
other extremity of the paſſage, which was
opened with caution by ſome perſon, who
did not venture beyond it, and whom
Blanche obſerved in ſilence, till the door
was cloſing, when ſhe called aloud, and,
haſtening towards it, perceived the old
houſekeeper.
Dear ma'amſelle ! is it you ?” ſaid
Dorothée, “ How could you find your way
hither?" Had Blanche been leſs occupied
by her own fears, ſhe would probably have
obſerved the ſtrong expreſſions of terror
. and ſurpriſe on Dorothée's countenance,
who now led her through a long ſucceſſion
of paſſages and rooms, that looked as if
they had been uninhabited for a century,
till they reached that appropriated to the
houſekeeper, where Dorothée entreated ſhe
would fit down and take refreſhment.
Blanche accepted the ſweetmeats offered to
her, mentioned her diſcovery of the plea-
ſant turret, and her wiſh to appropriate
it to her own uſe. Whether Dorothée's
talte was not ſo ſenſible to the beauties of
landſcape


( 378 )
OC
landſcape as her young lady's, or that
the conſtant view of lovely ſcenery had
deadened it, ſhe forbore to praiſe the ſub-
ject of Blanche's enthuſiaſm, which, how.
ever, her filence did not reprels. To Lady
Blanche's enquiry, of whither the door ſhe
had found faſtened at the end of the gal.
lery led, ſhe replied, that it opened to a
ſuite of rooms, which had not been entered
during many years, “ For," added the,
“ my late lady died in one of them, and
I could never find in my heart to go into
them ſince."
Blanche, though ſhe wilhed to fee theſe
chambers, forbore, on obſerving that Do-
rothée's eyes were filled with tears, to aſk
her to unlock them, and, foon after, went
to dreſs for dinner, at which the whole
party met in good fpirits and good hu.
mour, except the Counteſs, whoſe vacant
mind, overcome by the languor of idle-
neſs, would neither ſuffer her to be happy
herſelf, or to contribute to the happineſs
of others. Mademoiſelle Bearn, attempt-
ing


(379)
.
ing to be witty, directed her badinage
againſt Henri, who anſwered becauſe he
could not well avoid it, rather than
from any inclination to notice her, whoſe
livelineſs ſometimes amuſed, but whoſe
conceit and inſenſibility often diſguſted
him.
The cheerfulneſs with which Blanche re-
joined the party vaniſhed, on her reaching
the margin of the ſea ; lhe gazed with ap-
prehenſion upon the immenſe expanſe of
waters, which, at a diſtance, ſhe had beheld
only with delight and aſtoniſhment, and it
was by a ſtrong effort, that ſhe ſo far over-
came her fears as to follow her father into
the boat.
As ſhe filently furveyed the vaſt horizon,
bendinground the diſtant verge of theocean,
an emotion of ſublimeſt rapture ſtruggled
to overcome a fenſe of perſonal danger.
A light breeze played on the water, and
on the filk awning of the boat, and waved
the foliage of the receding woods, that
crowned


( 381 )
The Counteſs felt leſs unhappy than the
had done, ſince the moment of her leaving
Paris ; for her mind was now under ſome
degree of reſtraint; ſhe feared to indulge
its wayward humours, and even wilhed to
recover the Count's good opinion. On
his family, and on the ſurrounding ſcene,
he looked with tempered pleaſure and be-
nevolent ſatisfaction, while his ſon exhibited
the gay ſpirits of youth, anticipating new
delights, and regretleſs of thoſe that were
paſſed.
After near an hour's rowing, the party
landed, and afcended a little path, over-
grown with vegetation. At a little diſtance
from the point of the eminence, within the
- ſhadowy receſs of the woods, appeared the
pavilion, which Blanche perceived, as ſhe
caught a glimpſe of its portico between
the trees, to be built of variegated marble.
As The followed the Counteſs, ſhe often
turned her eyes with rapture towards the
ocean, ſeen beneath the dark foliage, far
below, and from thence upon the deep
woods,
mine


( 382 )
woods, whoſe filence and impenetrable
gloom awakened emotions more ſolemn,
but ſcarcely leſs delightful.
The pavilion had been prepared, as far
as was poſſible, on a very ſhort notice, for
the reception of its viſitors; but the faded
colours of its painted walls and ceiling,
and the decayed drapery of its once mag.
nificent furniture, declared how long it
had been neglected, and abandoned to the
einpire of the changing ſeaſons. While
the party partook of a collation of fruit
and coffee, the horns, placed in a diſtant
part of the woods, where an echo ſweetened
and prolonged their melancholy tones,
broke ſoftly on the ſtillneſs of the ſcene.
This ſpot ſeemed to attract even the admi.
tation of the Counters, or, perhaps, it was
merely the pleaſure of planning furniture
and decorations, that made her dwell ſo
long on the neceſſity of repairing and
adorning it; while the Count, never hap-
pier than when he ſaw her mind engaged
by natural and ſimple objects, acquieſced
in
.


( 383 )
-
and in
in all her deſigns concerning the pavilion.
The paintings on the walls and coved
ceiling were to be renewed; the canopies
and ſofas were to be of light green damafk;
marble ſtatues of wood-nymphs, bearing
on their heads baſkets of living flowers,
were to adorn the receſſes between the
windows, which, deſcending to the ground,
were to admit to every part of the room,
and it was of octagonal form, the various
landicape. One window opened upon á
romantie glade, where the eye roved among
woody receffes, and the ſcene was bounded
only by a lengthened pomp of groves ;
from another, the woods receding dif-
cloſed the diſtant ſummits of the Pyrenées;
'a third fronted an avenue, beyond which
the grey towers of Chateau-le-Blanc, and
a pictureſque part of its ruin, were ſeen
partially among the foliage; while a fourth
gave, between the trees, a glimpſe of the
green paitures and villages; that diverſify
the banks of the Aude. The Mediterra-
nean, with the bold cliffs, that overlooked
its


( 384 )
its ſhores, were the grand objects of a fif.h
window, and the others gave, in different
points of view, the wild ſcenery of the
woods.
After wandering, for ſome time, in theſe,
the party returned to the ſhore and em-
barked; and, the beauty of the evening
tempting them to extend their excurſion,
they proceeded further up the bay. A
dead calm had ſucceeded the light breeze,
that wafied them hither, and the men cook
to their oars.' Around, the waters were
fpread into one vaſt expanſe of polilhed
mirror, reflecting the gray cliffs and fea-
thery woods, that over-hung its ſurface, the
glow of the weſtern horizon and the dark
clouds, that came flowly from the eaſt.
Blanche loved to ſee the dipping oars im-
print the water, and to watch the ſpread-
ing circles they left, which gave a tremu-
lous motion to the reflected landſcape,
without deſtroying the harmony of its
features.
Above the darkneſs of the woods, her
eye


(385 )
eye now caught a cluſter of high towers,
touched with the ſplendour of the ſetting
rays; and, ſoon after, the horns being then
filent, ſhe heard the faint ſwell of choral
voices from a diſtance.
« What voices are thoſe, upon the air?”
ſaid the Count, looking round, and liften.
ing; but the ſtrain had ceaſed. " It ſeein-
ed to be a veſper-hymn, which I have often
heard in my convent,” ſaid Blanche.
“ We are near the monaſtery, then,”
obſerved the Count; and, the boat foon
after doubling a lofty head-land, the mo-
naſtery of St. Claire appeared, ſeated near
the margin of the ſea, where the cliffs,
ſuddenly ſinking, formed a low ſhore with-
in a ſmall bay, almoſt encircled with woods,
among which partial features of the edifice
were ſeen ;--the great gate and gothic
window of the hall, the cloiſters and
the ſide of a chapel more remote ; while
a venerable arch, which had once led to
. a part of the fabric, now demoliſhed, ſtood
a majeſic ruin detached from the main
Vol. III,
building,


( 386 )
building, beyond which appeared a grand
perſpective of the woods. On the gray
'walls, the moſs had faſtened, and, round
the pointed windows of the chapel, the ivy
and the briony hung in many a fantaſtic
wreath.
All without was filent and forſaken;
but, while Blanche gazed with admiration
on this 'venerable pile, whoſe effect was
heightened by the ſtrong lights and ſha-
dows thrown athwart it by a cloudy ſun-
ſet, a ſound of many voices, Nowly chant-
ing, aroſe from within. The Courit bade
his men reſt on their oars. The monks
were ſinging the hymn of veſpers, and
fome female voices mingled with the ſtrain,
which roſe by ſoft degrees, till the high
organ and the choral ſounds ſwelled into
full and folemn harmony. The ſtrain,
ſoon after, dropped into ſudden ſilence, and
was renewed in a low and ſtill more ſo.
lemn key, till, at length, the holy chorus
died away, and was heard no more.
Blanche ſighed, tears trembled in her eyes,
bars.
We
and


( 387 )
and her thoughts ſeemed wafted with the
founds to heaven. While a rapt ſtillneſs
prevailed in the boat, a train of friars, and
then of nuns, veiled in white, iſſued from
the cloiſters, and paſſed, under the ſhade
of the woods, to the main body of the edi-
fice.
The Counteſs was the firſt of her party
to awaken from this pauſe of filence.
“ Theſe diſmal hymns and friars make
one quite melancholy," ſaid ſhe ; "twi-
light is coming on; pray let us return, or
it will be dark before we get home.” .
The Count, looking up, now perceived,
that the twilight of evening was anticipated
by an approaching ſtorm. In the eaſt a
tempeft was collecting; a heavy gloom
came on, oppofing and contraſting the
glowing ſplendour of the ſetting fun. The
clamorous ſea fowl ſkimmed in fleeť cir-
cles upon the ſurface of the ſea, dipping
their light pinions in the wave, as they fled
away in fearch of ſhelter. The boatmen
pulled hard at their oars; but the thunder,
S 2
thar


( 388 )
that now muttered at a diſtance, and the
heavy drops, that began to dimple the wa-
ter, made the Count determine to put back
to the monaſtery for ſhelter, and the courſe
of the boat was immediately changed. As
the clouds approached the weſt, their lurid
darkneſs changed to a deep ruddy glow,
which, by reflection, ſeemed to fire the tops
of the woods and the ſhattered towers of the
monaſtery.
The appearance of the heavens alarmed
the Counteſs and Mademoiſelle Bearn, whoſe
expreſſions of apprehenſion diſtreſſed the
Count, and perplexed his men; while
Blanche continued ſilent, now agitated with
fear, and now with admiration, as the viewed
the grandeur of the clouds, and their effect
on the ſcenery, and liſtened to the long, long
peals of thunder, that rolled through the
air.
The boat having reached the lawn be.
fore the monaftery, the Count ſent a fer-
vant to announce his arrival, and to en-
treat Melter of the Superior, who, foon
after,


(392)
Vav
bell of the monaſtery ſoon after ringing
out, ſummoned the inhabitants to prayer.
As Blanche paſſed the windows, ſhe gave
another look to the ocean, where, by the
momentary flaſh, that illumined the vaſt
body of the waters, the diſtinguiſhed the
vefſel ſhe had obſerved before, amidſt a
ſea of foam, breaking the billows, the maſt
now bowing to the waves, and then rifing
high in air.
She fighed fervently as the gazed, and
then followed the Lady Abbeſs and the
Counteſs to the ckapel. Meanwhile, fome
of the Count's ſervants, having gone by
land to the chateau for carriages, returned
ſoon after vefpers had concluded, when, the
ſtorm being ſomewhat abated, the Count
and his family returned home. Blanche
was ſurpriſed to diſcover how much the
windings of the ſhore had deceived her,
concerning the diſtance of the chateau from
the monaſtery, whoſe veſper bell Me had
heard, on the preceding evening, from the
windows of the weſt ſaloon, and whoſe
towers
l


( 393)
towers ſhe would alſo have ſeen from
thence, had not cwilight veiled them.
On their arrival at the chateau, the
Counteſs, affecting more fatigue than ſhe
really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and
the Count, with his daughter and Henri,
went to the ſupper-room, where they had
not been long, when they heard, in a
pauſe of the guſt, a firing of guns, which
the Count underſtanding to be ſignals of
diſtreſs from ſome veſſel in the ſtorm,
went to a window, that opened towards
the Mediterranean, to obſerve further;
but the ſea was now involved in utter dark-
neſs, and the loud howlings of the tempeſt
had again overcome every other ſound.
Blanche, remembering the bark, which ſhe
had before ſeen, now joined her father,
with trembling anxiety. In a few mo-
inents, the report of guns was again borne
along the wind, and as ſuddently wafied:
away ; a tremendous burſt of thunder fol-
lowed, and, in the flaſh, that had preceded
it, and which ſeemed to quiver over the
S 5.
whole


( 394 )
whole furface of the waters, a veſſel was
diſcovered, toſling amidſt the white foam
of the waves at ſome diſtance from the
ſhore. Impenetrable darkneſs again in-
volved the ſcene, but ſoon a ſecond flaſh
ſhewed the bark, with one ſail unfurled,
driving towards the coaſt. Blanche hung
upon her father's arm, with looks full of
the agony of united terror and pity, which
were unneceſſary to awaken the heart of the
Count, who gazed upon the ſea with a pi.
teous expreſſion, and, perceiving, that no
boat could live in the ſtorm, forbore to
fend one ; but he gave orders to his people
to carry torches out upon the cliffs, hoping
they might prove a kind of beacon to
the vefſel, or, at leaſt, warn the crew of
the rocks they were approaching. While
Henri went out to direct on what part of
the cliffs the lights ſhould appear, Blanche
remained, with her father, at the window,
catching, every now and then, as the
lightnings flaſhed, a glimpſe oft he veſſel z
and lhe foon faw, with reviving hope, the
torches


( 395 )
SET
torches flaming on the blackneſs of night,
and, as they waved over the cliffs, caſting
a red gleam on the gaſping billows. When
the firing of guns was repeated, the torches
were tofled high in the air, as if aniwer-
ing the ſignal, and the firing was then re-
doubled ; but, though the wind bore the
ſound away, ſhe fancied, as the lightnings,
glanced, that the veſſel was much nearer the
Thore.
The Count's ſervants were now ſeen,
running to and fro, on the rocks; ſome
venturing almoſt to the point of the crags,
and bending over, held out their torches.
faſtened to long poles; while others, whoſe
ſteps could be traced only by the courſe of
the lights, deſcended the ſteep and danger-
qus pach, that wound to the margin of
the fea, and, with loud halloos, hailed the
mariners, whoſe thrill whiſtle, and then
feeble voices, were heard, ar intervals,
mingling with the ſtorm.. Sudden ſhouts
from the people on the rocks increaſed the
anxiety of Blanche to an almoſt intolerable
degree: but her ſuſpenſe, concerning the
S 6
fåte.
04


( 396 ) .
fate of the mariners, was foon over, when
Henri, running breathleſs into the room,
told that the veſſel was anchored in the bay
below, but in ſo fhattered a condition,
that it was feared ſhe would part before
the crew could diſembark. The Count
immediately gave orders for his own boats
to aſſiſt in bringing them to ſhore, and
that fuch of thefe unfortunate ſtrangers as
could not be accommodated in the ad-
jacent hamler ſhould be entertained at the
chateau. Among the latter, were Emily
St. Aubert, Monſieur Du Pont, Ludovico
and Annetre, who, having embarked at
Leghorn and reached Marſeilles, were
from thence croſſing the Gulf of Lyons,
when this ſtorm overtook them. They
were received by the Count witih his uſual
benignity, who, though Emily wiſhed to
have proceeded immediately to the monaſ-
tery of St. Claire, would not allow her to
leave the chateau, that night; and, indeed,
the terror and fatigue the had ſuffered
would ſcarcely have permitted her to go
farther.
CC


(397 )
In Monſieur Du Pont the Count diſcos
vered an old acquaintance, and much joy
and congratulation palled between them;
after which Emily was introduced by name
to the Count's family, whoſe hoſpitable
benevolence diffipated the little embar-
raſſment, which her ſituation had occa-
fioned her, and the party were foon ſeated
at the ſupper-table. The unaffected kind-
neſs of Blanche, and the lively joy The ex-
preſſed on the eſcape of the ſtrangers, for
whom her pity had been fo much intereſted,
gradually revived Emily's languid ſpirits;
and Du Pont, relieved from his terrors for
her and for hiinſelf, felt the full contraſt,
between his late fituation on a dark and
tremendous ocean, and his preſent one;
in a cheerful manſion, where he was ſur.
rounded with plenty, elegance, and ſmiles
of welcome.
Annette, meanwhile, in the ſervants' hall;
was telling of all the dangers ſhe had en-
countered, and congratulating herſelf fo
heartily upon her own and Ludovico's
. eſcape,
•
TO


( 403 )
eai
COnveni
round me, I think you would not.” Emily,
ſmiling at the warinth, with which the
Lady Blanche ſpoke, obſerved that ſhe did
not mean to confine herſelf to a convent
for life.
“ No, you may not intend it now,”
ſaid Blanche; “ but you do not know to
what the nuns may perſuade you to con-
ſent: I know how kind they will appear,
and how happy, for I have feen too much
of their art."
When they returned to the chareau,
Lady Blanche conducted Emily to her
favourite turret, and from thence they
rambled through the ancient chambers,
which Blanche had viſited before. Emily
was amuſed by obſerving the ſtructure of
theſe apartments, and the faſhion of their
old but ſtill magnificent furniture, and by
comparing them with thoſe of the caſtle
of Udolpho, which were yet more antique
and groteſque. She was alſo intereſted by
Dorothée the houſekeeper, who attended
them; whoſe appearance was almoſt as an-
tique


( 404 )
tique as the objects around her; and who
ſeemed no leſs intereſted by Emily, on
whom ſhe frequently gazed with ſo much
deep attention as fcarcely to hear what was
faid to her.
While Emily looked from one of the
caſements, the perceived, with ſurpriſe,
ſome objects that were familiar to her me-
mory ;-the fields and woods, with the
gleaming brook, which ſhe had paſſed with.
La Voiſin, one evening, ſoon after the
death of Monſ. St. Aubert, in her way
from the monaſtery to her cottage ; and ſhe
now knew this to be the chateau, which ſhe
had then avoided, and concerning which he.
had dropped ſome remarkable hints.
Shocked by this diſcovery, yet ſcarcely
knowing why, ſhe mufed for ſome time in
filence, and remembered the emotion which
her father had betrayed on finding himſelf
fo near this manſion, and ſome other cir-
cumſtances of his conduct, that now greatly
intereſted her. The muſic, too, which ſhe
had formerly heard, and, re g which
Liban


( 405 )
La Voiſin had given ſuch an odd account,
occurred to her, and, deſirous of knowing
more, concerning it, ſhe aſked Dorothée
whether it returned at midnight, as uſual,
and whether the muſician had yet been
diſcovered.
« Yes, ma'amſelle," replied Dorothée,
66 that muſic is ſtill heard, but the muſician
has never been found out, nor ever will,
I believe; though there are ſome people
who can gueſs.”
“ Indeed !” ſaid Emily, “then why do
they not purſue the enquiry?”
“Ah, young lady ! enquiry enough has
been made—but who can purſue a ſpirit?”
Emily ſmiled, and, remembering how
lately ſhe had ſuffered herſelf to be led
away by ſuperſtition, determined now to
reſiſt its contagion; yet, in ſpite of her
efforts, ſhe felt awe mingled with her curio-
fity on this ſubject; and Blanche, who had
hitherto liſtened in ſilence, now enquired
what this muſic was, and how long it had
been heard.
« Ever


( 408 )
-
much as at the horrible appearance, dif-
cloſed by the black veil.
The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable
to prevail with Dorothée to explain the
ſubject of her late hints, had deſired, on
reaching the door, that terminated the gal-
lery, and which ſhe found faſtened on the
preceding day, to ſee the ſuite of rooms
beyond. “ Dear young lady,” ſaid the
· houſekeeper, “I have told you my reaſon
for not opening them ; I have never ſeen
them, lince my dear lady died; and it
would go hard with me to ſee them now.
Pray, madam, do not aſk me again."
.66 Certainly I will not,” replied Blanche,
e if that is really your objection.” -
6 Alas! it is," ſaid the old woman :
66 we all loved her well, and I ſhall always
grieve for her. Time runs round! it is
now many years, ſince ſhe died; but I re-
member every thing, that happened then,
as if it was but yeſterday. Many things,
that have paſſed of late years, are gone
quite from my memory, while thoſe ſo
long


( 409 )
long ago, I can ſee as if in a glaſs." She
pauſed, but afterwards, as they walked up
the gallery, added of Einily, “ This young
lady ſometimes brings the late Marchionels
to my mind; I can remember, when ſhe
looked juſt as blooming, and very like her,
when ſhe fimiles. Poor lady! how gay
ſhe was, when the firſt caine to the cha-
teau !”
" And was the not gay, afterwards ?"
faid Blanche.
Dorothée ſhook her head ; and Einily
obſerved her, with eyes ſtrongly expreſ-
ſive of the intereſt ſhe now felt. « Let
us fit down in this window,” ſaid the Lady
Blanche, on reaching the oppoſite end of
the gallery : "and pray, Dorothée, if it is
not painful to you, rell us ſomething more
about the Marchioneſs. I ſhould like to
look into the glaſs you ſpoke of juſt now,
and ſee a few of the circumſtances, which
you ſay often paſs over it.”
" No, my lady," replied Dorothée ;
“ if you knew as much as I do, you would
VOL. III.
T
not,
w
as 1


( 410 )
not, for you would find there a diſmal
train of theni ; I often wiſh I could ſhut
them out, but they will riſe to my mind.
I ſee my dear lady on her death-bed,-her
very look,--and remember all ſhe faid-it
was a terrible ſcene !”
“ Why was it ſo terrible?” ſaid Emily
with emotion.
." Ah, dear young lady! is not death
always terrible?” replied Dorothée,
: To ſome further enquiries of Blanche
Dorothée was filent; and Emily, obſerving
the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the
ſubject, and endeavoured to withdraw the
attention of her young friend to ſome ob-
ject in the gardens, where the Count with
the Counteſs and Monſieur Du Pont, ap. 1
pearing, they went down to join them.
When he perceived Emily, he advanced
to meet her, and preſented her to the
Counteſs, in a manner ſo benign, that it
recalled moſt powerfully to her mind the
idea of her late father, and ſhe felt more
gratitude to him than enibarraſſment to-
ann
i
wards


( 412 )
2.
er
CO
ſuch friendly fincerity, that, though the
much wiſhed to ſee her old friends at the
monaſtery, and to ſigh, once more, over
her father's grave, le conſented to remain
a few days at the chateau.
To the abbeſs, however, the immedi-
ately wrote, mentioning her arrival in
Languedoc and her wiſh to be received
into the convent, as a boarder ; lhe alſo
ſent letters to Monſieur Queſnel and to
Valancourt, whom ſhe merely informed of
her arrival in France; and, as ſhe knew
not where the latter might be ſtationed,
ſhe directed her letter to his brother's ſeat
in Gaſcony.
In the evening, Lady Blanche and Monſ.
Du Pont walked with Emily to the cottage
of La Voiſin, which ſhe had now a melan-
choly pleaſure in approaching, for time
had foftened her grief for the loſs of St.
Auberi, though it could not annihilate it,
and the felt a ſoothing ſadneſs in indul-
ging the recollections, which this ſcene re-
called. La Voiſin was ſtill living, and
ſeemed


( 414 )
and Emily, pirying the ſelf-deluſion, which
diſarmed him of the will to depart, de.
termined to withdraw herſelf as ſoon as the
reſpect the owed the Count and Counteſs
De Villefort would permit. Tbe dejection
of his friend ſoon alarmed the anxiety of
the Count, to whom Du Pont, at length,
confided the ſecret of his hopeleſs affece
tion, which, however, the former could
only commiſerate, though he ſecretly de-
termined to befriend his fuit, if an oppor.
cunity of doing ſo ſhould ever occur. Con.
lidering the dangerous ſituation of Du
Pont, he but feebly oppoſed his intention
of leaving Chateau-le-Blanc, on the fol.
lowing day, but drew from him a promiſe
of a longer viſit, when he could return
with ſafety to his peace. Emily herſelf,
though ſhe could not encourage his affec-
tion, eſteemed him both for the many vira
tues he poſſeſſed, and for the ſervices ſhe
had received from him ; and it was not
without tender emotions of gratitude and
pity, that ſhe now ſaw him depart for his
family


( 415 )
vas
family feat in Gaſcony; while he took
leave of her with a countenance ſo expreſ-
five of love and grief, as to intereſt the
Count more warmly in his cauſe than be-
fore.
In a few days, Emily alſo left the cha-
teau, but not before the Count and Coun-
teſs had received her promiſe to repeat her
viſit very ſoon; and ſhe was welcomed by
the abbeſs, with the ſame maternal kindneſs
ſhe had formerly experienced, and by the -
nuns, with much expreſſion of regard. The
well known ſcenes of the convent occa.
fioned her many melancholy recollections,
but with theſe were mingled others, that
inſpired gratitude for having eſcaped the
various dangers, that had purſued her,
ſince ſhe quitted it, and for the good,
which ſhe yet pofſeffed ; and, though me
once more wept over her father's grave,
with tears of tender affection, her grief was
foftened from its former acuteneſs.
Some time after her return to the monaſ-
T 4
tery,


( 411 )
711
been engaged, was nearly expired; but,
without inviting her to his own houſe,
added, that her circumſtances would by no
means allow her to reſide there, and ear-
neſtly adviſed her to remain, for the pre-
ſent, in the convent of St. Claire.
To her enquiries, reſpecting poor old
Thereſa, her late father's ſervant, he gave
no anſwer. In the poſtſcript to his letter,
Monſieur Queſnel mentioned M. Motte-
ville, in whoſe hands the late St. Albert
had placed the chief of his perſonal pro-
perty, as being likely to arrange his affairs
nearly to the faiisfaction of his creditors,
and that Emily would recover much more
of her fortune, than ſhe had formerly rea-
fon to expect. The letter alſo incloſed to
Emily an order upon a merchant at Nar-
bonne, for a ſmall ſum of money.
The tranquillity of the monaſtery, and
she liberty ſhe was ſuffered to enjoy, in
wandering among the woods and ſhores of
this delightful province, gradually reſtored
15
her


( 419 )..
CH A P. XIII.
“ As when a wave, that from a cloud impends,
And, ſwell’d with tempefts, on the ſhip deſcends,
White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud
Howl o'er the mafts, and fing through ev'ry ſhroud :
Pale, trembling, tir’d, the ſailors freeze with fears,
And inſtant death on ev'ry wave appears."
Pope's HOMER.
THE Lady Blanche, meanwhile, who
was left much alone, became impatient
for the company of her new friend, whom
ſhe wiſhed to obſerve ſharing in the de-
light ſhe received from the beautiful ſce-
nery around. She had now no perſon, to
whom ſhe could expreſs her admiration
and communicate her pleaſures, no eye,
that ſparkled to her ſmile, or countenance,
that reflected her happineſs; and the be.
came fpiritleſs and penſive. The Count,
obſerving her diſſatisfaction, readily yield.
ed to her entreaties, and reminded Emily
of her promiſed viſit; but the filence of
T6
Valancourt,


( 420 :
Valancourt, which was now prolonged far
beyond the period, when a letter night
have arrived from Eſtuviere, oppreſſed
Emily with ſevere anxiety, and, rendering
her averſe to ſociety, ſhe would willingly
have deferred her acceptance of this invi-
tation, till her ſpirits ſhould be relieved.
The Count and his family, however, preſſ-
ed to ſee her; and, as the circumſtances,
that prompted her wiſh for folicude, could
not be explained, there was an appearance
of caprice in her refuſal, which ſhe could
not perſevere in, without offending the
friends, whoſe eſteem the valued. At
length, therefore, the returned upon a ſe-
cond viſit to Chateau-le-Blanc. Here the
friendly manner of Count de Villefort en-
couraged Emily to mention to him her fitu-
ation, reſpecting the eſtates of her late
aunt, and to conſult him on the means of
recovering them. He had little doubt,
that the law would decide in her favour,
and, adviſing her to apply to it, offered
firſt to write to an advocate at Avignon,
: 4
on


1 421 )
on whoſe opinion he thought he could
rely. His kindneſs was gratefully accepted
by Emily, who, foothed by the courteſy ſhe
daily experienced, would have been once
more happy, could ſhe have been aſſured
of Valancourt's welfare and unaltered af-
fection. She had now been above a week
at the chateau, without receiving intelli-
gence of him, and, though ſhe knew, that,
if he was abſent from his brother's relidence,
it was ſcarcely probable her letter had yet
reached him, the could not forbear to ad-
niit doubts and fears, that deſtroyed her
peace, Again the would conſider of all,
that might have happened in the long pe-
riod, ſince her firſt ſecluſion at Udolpho,
and her mind was fometimes ſo over-
whelmed with an apprehenſion, that la-
lancourt was no more, or that he lived no
longer for her, that the company even of
Blanche became intolerably oppreſſive, and
The would ſit alone in her apartment for hours
together, when the engagements of the fami.'
ly allowed her to do ſo, without incivility.
In


(422 )
In one of theſe folitary hours, the un-
locked a little box, which contained fome.
letters of Valancourt, with ſome drawings
ſhe had ſketched, during her ſtay in Tuſ-
cany, the latter of which were no longer
intereſting to her ; but, in the letters, ſhe
now, with melancholy indulgence, meant
to retrace the tenderneſs, that had ſo often
ſoothed her, and rendered her, for a mo-
ment, inſenſible of the diſtance, which fe-
parated her from the writer. But their
effect was now changed; the affection they
expreſſed appealed ſo forcibly to her heart,
when ſhe conſidered that it had, perhaps,
yielded to the powers of time and abſence,
and even the view of the hand-writing re-
called ſo many painful recollections, that
ſhe found herſelf unable to go through
the firſt ſhe had opened, and fat muling,
with her cheek reſting on her arm, and
tears ſtealing from her eyes, when old
Dorothée entered the room to inform her,
that dinner would be ready, an hour be-
fore the uſual time. Emily ſtarted on per-
ceiving


( 424 )
UU2
ſelf! juſt as ſhe looked a little before ſhe
died !”
Emily, ftill more alarmed, began now
to fear, that Dorothée was ſeized with ſud-
den phrenſy, but entreated her to explain
herſelf.
" That picture !” ſaid ſhe, “ where did
you find it, lady? it is my bleſſed miſtreſs
herſelf!"
She laid on the table the miniature,
which Emily had long ago found among
the papers her father had enjoined her to
deſtroy, and over which ihe had once
feen him med ſuch tender and affecting
tears; and, recollecting all the various
circumſtances of his conduct, that had
long perplexed her, her emotions in-
creaſed to an exceſs, which deprived her
of all power to aſk the queſtions ſhe trem-
bled to have anſwered, and ſhe could
only enquire, whether Dorothée was cer-
tain the picture reſembled the late Mar-
chioneſs.
“0,


( 426 )
10, ma'amſelle !” ſaid ſhe, “how came
it to ſtrike me ſo, the inſtant I ſaw it, if it
was not my lady's likeneſs? Ah !” added
the, taking up the miniature, « theſe are
her own blue eyes-looking ſo ſweet and
ſo mild; and there is her very look, ſuch
as I have often ſeen it, when ſhe had ſač
thinking for a long while, and then, the
tears would often ſteal down her cheeks
but ſhe never would complain! It was
that look ſo meek, as it were, and reſign-
ed, that uſed to break my heart and make
me love her ſo!"
." Dorothée !" ſaid Emily folemnly, “I
am intereſted in the cauſe of that grief,
more ſo, perhaps, than you may imagine ;
and I entreat, that you will no longer re-
fuſe to indulge my curioſity ;-it is not a
common one.”.
As Emily ſaid this, ſhe remembered the
papers, with which the picture had been
found, and had ſcarcely a doubt, that
they had concerned the Marchioneſs de
Villeroi ; but with this ſuppoſition came a
fcruple,


( 426 )
ſcruple, whether the oug'it to enquire
further on a ſubject, which might prove
to be the ſame, that her father had ſo
carefully endeavoured to conceal. Her
curioſity, concerning the Marchioneſs, -
powerful as it was, it is probable the would
now have refifted, as ſhe had formerly
done, on unwarily obſerving the few ter-
rible words in the papers, which had never
ſince been eraſed from her memory, had
ſhe been certain that the hiſtory of that
lady was the ſubject of thoſe papers, or,
that ſuch ſimple particulars only as it was
probable Dorothée could relate were in-
cluded in her father's command. What
was known to her could be no ſecret to
many other perſons; and, ſince it appear-
ed very unlikely, that St. Aubert ſhould
attempt to conceal what Emily might
learn by ordinary means, lhe at length con.
· cluded, that, if the papers had related to
the ſtory of the Marchioneſs, it was not
thoſe circumſtances of it, which Dorothée
could diſcloſe, that he had thought fuf-
ficiently


ſubject, and am willing 10 bind myſelf,
in the moſt folemn manner, never to men.
tion what you ſhall with me to conceal.”
Dorothée ſeemed ſurpriſed at the ear-
neftneſs of Emily's manner, and, after re-
garding her for ſome moments, in ſilence,
ſaid, “ Young lady! that look of yours
pleads for you—it is ſo like my dear mil-
treſs's, that I can almoſt fancy I ſee her
before me; if you were her daughter, you
could not remind me of her more. But
dinner will be ready-had you not better
ĝo down"
" You will firſt promiſe to grant my
requeſt,” ſaid Emily,
" And ought not you firſt to tell me,
ma’amſelle, how this picture fell into your
hands, and the reaſons you ſay you have
for curioſity about my lady ?”
“ Why, no, Dorothée,” replied Emily,
recollecting herſelf, “ I have alſo particu-
lar reaſons for obſerving filence, on theſe
ſubjects, at leaſt, till I know further; and,
reinember, I do not promiſe ever to ſpeak
upon


( 429 )
upon them; therefore, do not let me in-
duce you to ſatisfy my curioſity, from an
expectation, that I ſhall gratify yours.
What I may judge proper to conceal, does
· not concern myſelf alone, or I ſhould have
leſs ſcruple in revealing it: let a confi-
dence in my honour alone perſuade you to
diſcloſe what I requeſt.”
“Well, lady!” replied Dorothée, after
a long pauſe, during which her eyes were
fixed upon Emily, “ you ſeem ſo much
intereſted,—and this picture and that face
of yours make me think you liave ſome
reaſon to be ſo, that I will truſt you~
and tell ſome things, that I never told before
to any body, but my huſband, though there
are people, who have ſuſpected as much.
I will tell you the particulars of my lady's
death, too, and ſome of my own fufpi-
cions; but you muſt firſt promiſe me by
all the ſaints”
Emily, interrupting her, folemnly pro-
miſed never to reveal what ſhould be con-
fided to her, without Dorothée's conſent..
“ But


( 431 )
" Ah! is it the dance of the vintage ?"
ſaid Emily, with a deep ſigh, remember.
ing, that it was on the evening of this
feſtival, in the preceding year, that St.
Aubert and herſelf had arrived in the
neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc. She
pauſed a moment, overcome by the ſud-
den recollection, and then, recovering her.
felf, added But this dance is in the
open woods; you, therefore, will not be
wanted, and can eaſily come to me.”
Dorothée replied, that ſhe had been ac-
cuſtomned to be preſent at the dance of the
vintage, and ſhe did not wilh to be abſent
now; “ but if I can get away, madam, I
will,” ſaid ſhe
Emily then haſtened to the dining-room,
where the Count conducted himſelf with
the courteſy, which is inſeparable from
true dignity, and of which the Counteſs
frequently practiſed liitle, though her man.
ner to Enily was an exception to her, uſual
habit. But, if ſhe retained few of the or-
namental virtues, the cheriſhed other qua-
lities,


(434)
called forth a broader laugh, and heighten-
ed the ruſtic ſpirit of the ſcene.
The Count was highly delighted with
the happineſs he witneſſed, to which his
bounty had largely contributed, and the
Lady Blanche joined the dance with a
young gentleman of her father's party.
Du Pont requeſted Emily's hand, but her
ſpirits were too much depreſſed to permit
her to engage in the preſent feſtivity, which
called to her remembrance that of the pre-
ceding year, when St. Aubert was living,
and of the melancholy ſcenes, which had
immediately followed it.
Overcome by theſe recollections, ſhe, at
length, left the ſpot, and walked ſlowly
into the woods, where the ſoftened muſic,
floating at a diſtance, ſoothed her melan-
choly mind. The moon threw a mellow
light among the foliage; the air was balmy
and cool, and Emily, loſt in thought,
ſtrolled on, without obſerving whither, till
ſhe perceived the ſounds ſinking afar off,
and an awful fillneſs round her, excepc
that,


( 436 )
woods were occaſionally the haunt of ban-
ditri. She, therefore, turned back, and
was haſtily purſuing her way to the dancers,
when ſhe heard ſteps approaching from the
avenue; and, being ſtill beyond the call
of the peaſants on the green, for ſhe could
neither hear their voices, or their muſic,
The quickened her pace ; but the perſons
following gained faſt upon her, and; at
length, diſtinguiſhing the voice of Henri,
ſhe walked leiſurely, till he came up. He
expreſſed ſome ſurpriſe at meeting her ſo
far from the company ; and, on her fay-
ing, that the pleaſant moon-light had be-
guiled her to walk farther than ſhe in-
tended, an exclamation burſt from the lips
of his companion, and ſhe thought ſhe
heard Valancourt ſpeak! It was, indeed,
he! and the meeting was ſuch as may be
imagined, between perſons ſo affectionate,
and ſo long ſeparated as they had been.
In the joy of theſe moments, Emily
forgot all her paſt ſufferings, and Valan-
court ſeemed to have forgotten, that any
perſon


( 437 )
perſon but Emily exiſted; while Henri
was a ſilent and aſtoniſhed ſpectator of the
ſcene. -
Valancourt aſked a thouſand queſtions,
concerning herſelf and Montoni, which
there was now no time to anſwer ; but Me
learned, that her letter had been forwarded
to Paris, while he was on the way to Gaf-
cony, where, however, at length, it inform-
ed him of her arrival in France, and he had
immediately ſet out for Languedoc. On
reaching the monaſtery, whence ſhe had
dated this letter, he found, to his extreme
diſappointment, that the gates were already
cloſed for the night ; and believing, that
he Mould not ſee Emily, till the morrow,
he was returning to his little inn, with the
intention of writing to her, when he was
overtaken by Henri, with whom he had
been intimate at Paris, and was led to her,
whom he was ſecretly lamenting that he
ſhould not ſee, till the following day.
Emily, with Valancourt and Henri, now
returned
U
3


(439)
vas
ar intervals, anxiety contract, and melan-
choly fix the features of Valancourt ; fome.
times, too, he fell into a momentary mu-
ſing, and then appeared anxious to diſſipate
thought; while, at others, as he fixed his
eyes on Emily, a ſudden kind of horror
ſeemed to croſs his mind. In her he per-
ceived the ſame goodneſs and beautiful fim-
plicity, that had charmed him, on their firſt
acquaintance. The bloom of her counte-
nance was ſomewhat faded, but all its
Tweetneſs remained, and it was rendered
more intereſting, than ever, by the faint
expreſſion of melancholy, that ſometimes
mingled with her ſmile.
At his requeſt, ſhe related the moſt im-
portant circumſtances, that had occurred
to her, ſince ſhe left France, and emotions
of pity and indignation alternately pre-
vailed in his mind, when he heard how
much ſhe had ſuffered from the villany of
Montoni. More than once, when ſhe was
ſpeaking of his conduct, of which the
guilt was rather ſoftened, thàn exaggerated,
U4
by


( 440 )
C Was
by her repreſentation, he fiarted from his
feat and walked away, apparently over-
come as much by ſelf-accuſation as by re-
ſentnient. Her ſufferings alone were men-
tioned in the few words, which he could
addreſs to her, and he liſtened not to the
account, which ſhe was careful to give as
diſtinctly as poffible, of the preſent loſs of
Madame Montoni's eſtates, and of the lit-
tle reaſon there was to expect their reſto-
ration. At length, Valancourt remained
loſt in thought, and then ſome ſecret cauſe
ſeemed to overcome him with anguiſh.
Again he abruptly left her. When he
returned, ſhe perceived, that he had been
weeping, and tenderly begged, that he
would compoſe himſelf. “ My ſufferings
are all paſſed now,” ſaid ſhe, “ for I have
eſcaped from the tyranny of Montoni, and
I ſee you well-let me alſo ſee you happy."
Valancourt was more agitated, than be-
fore. “I am unworthy of you, Emily,"
ſaid he, “ I am unworthy of you;"-
'words, by his manner of littering which
Emily


( 441 )
Emily was then more thocked than by their
import. She fixed on him a mournful and
enquiring eye. “ Do not look thus on me,”
ſaid he, turning away and preſſing her
hand ; “ I cannot bear thoſe looks.”
" I would aſk,” ſaid Emily, in a gentle,
but agitated voice, “the meaning of your
words ; but I perceive, that the queſtion
would diſtreſs you now. Let us talk on
other ſubjects. To-morrow, perhaps, you
may be more compoſed. Obſerve thoſe
moon-light woods, and the towers, which
appear obſcurely in the perſpective. You
uſed to be a great adınirer of landſcape,
and I have heard you ſay, that the faculty
of deriving confolation, under misfortune,
from the ſublime proſpects, which neither
oppreſſion, or poverty, with-hold from us,
was the peculiar bleſſing of the innocent.”
Valancourt was deeply affected. « Yes,"
replied he, “ I had once a taſte for inno-
cent and elegant delights--I had once an
uncorrupted heart.” Then, checking him-
ſelf,
U
5


(442)
ſelf, he added, “ Do you remember our
journey together in the Pyrenées ?”
“ Can I forget it ?” faid Emily:
“ Would that I could !” he replied ;
“ that was the happieft period of my life.
I then loved with enthuſiaſm, whatever
was truly great, or good.” It was ſome
time before Emily could repreſs her tears,
and try to command her emotions. “ If you
wiſh to forget that journey,” ſaid ſhe, “ it
muſt certainly be my wiſh to forget it
alſo.” She pauſed, and then added, “ You
make me very uneaſy ; but this is not the
time for further enquiry ;-yet, how can I
bear to believe, even for a moment, that
you are leſs worthy of my eſteem than
formerly? I have ſtill fufficient confidence
in your candour, to believe, that, when I
fhall aſk for an explanation, you will give
it me.”—"Yes,” ſaid Valancourt, “yes,
Emily : I have not yet loft my candour:
if I had, I could better have difguiſed my
emotions, on learning what were your ſuf-
ferings


( 443 )
ferings-your virtues,—while I--I-but I
will ſay no more. I did not mean to have
ſaid even ſo much I have been ſurpriſed
into the ſelf-accuſation. Tell me, Emily,
that you will not forget that journey—will
not wiſh to forget it, and I ſhall be tran-
quil. I would not loſe the remembrance
of it for the whole earth.”
66 How contradictory is this !” ſaid
Emily ;—" but we may be over-heard.
My recollection of it ſhall depend upon
yours; I will endeavour to forget, or to
recollect it, as you may do. Let us join
the Count.”—“Tell me, firſt,” ſaid Valan-
court, “ that you forgive the uneaſineſs I
have occafioned you this evening, and that
you will ſtill love me.”-" I ſincerely for-
give you,” replied Emily. “ You beſt
know whether I ſhall continue to love
you, for you know whether you deſerve
my efteem. At preſent, I will believe that
you do. It is unneceſſary to ſay,” added
ſhe, obſerving his dejection, “ how much
pain it would give me to believe other-
U 6
wiſe,
1


(444)
wiſe.—The young lady, who approaches,
is 'e Count's daughter.”
Valancourt and Emily now joined the
Lady Blanche; and the party, ſoon after,
ſat down with the Count, his ſon, and the
Chevalier Du Pont, at a banquet, ſpread
under a gay awning, beneath the trees.
At the table alſo were ſeated ſeveral of the
moſt venerable of the Count's tenants, and
it was a feſtive repaſt to all but Valancourt
and Emily. When the Count retired to
the chateau, he did not invite Valancourt
to accompany hin, who, therefore, took
leave of Emily, and retired to his folitary
inn for the night: meanwhile, the foon
withdrew to her own apartment, where ſhe
muſed, with deep anxiety and concern, on
his behaviour, and on the Count's recep-
tion of him. Her attention was thus fo
wholly engaged, that the forgot Dorothée
and her appointment, till morning was
far advanced, when, knowing that the
good old woman would not come, ſhe re-
tired for a few hours, to repoſe.
On


( 445 )
On the following day, when the Count
had accidentally joined Emily in one of
the walks, they talked of the feſtival of
the preceding evening, and this led him
to a mention of Valancourt. " That is a
young man of talents," ſaid he ; “ you
were formerly acquainted with him, I per-
ceive.” Emily ſaid, that ſhe was. “He
was introduced to me, at Paris," ſaid the
Count, " and I was much pleafed with
him, on our firſt acquaintance.” He pauſ.
ed, and Emily trembled, between the de.
fire of hearing more and the fear of thew. .
ing the Count, that ſhe felt an intereſt on
the ſubject. « May I aſk,” ſaid he, at
length,“ how long you have known Mon,
ſieur Valancourt ?"-" Will you allow
me to aſk your reaſon for the queſtion, fir?"
faid ſhe ; 6s and I will anſwer it imme.
diately,"-" Certainly,” ſaid the Count,
" that is but juft. I will tell you my rea,
fon. I cannot but perceive, that Monſieur
Valancourt admires you ; in that, how-
ever, there is nothing extraordinary; every
perſon,


( 446 )
perfon, who ſees you, muſt do the ſame.
I am above uſing common-place compli.
ments; I ſpeak with ſincerity. What I
fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer.”—
-"Why do you fear it, fir?” ſaid Emily,
endeavouring to conceal her emotion.-
“ Becauſe,” replied the Count, “ I think
bim not worthy of your favour.” Emily,
greatly agitated, entreated further explana-
tion. “I will give it,” ſaid he, “ if you
will believe, that nothing but a ſtrong in-
tereſt in your welfare could induce me to
hazard that aſſertion."-" I muſt believe
ſo, ſir," replied Emily.
- But let us reft under theſe trees,"con-
tinued the Count, obſerving the paleneſs of
her countenance; “ here is a feat—you are
fatigued.” They ſat down, and the Count
proceeded. “ Many young ladies, cir-
cumſtanced as you are, would think my
conduct, on this occaſion, and on ſo ſhort
an acquaintance, impertinent, inſtead of
friendly; from what I have obſerved of
your temper and underſtanding, I do not
fear


( 447 )
fear ſuch a return from you. Our ac.
quaintance has been ſhort, but long enough
to make me eſteem you, and feel a lively
intereſt in your happinefs. You deſerve
to be very happy, and I truſt that you will
be ſo.” Emily fighed ſoftly, and bowed
her thanks. The Count pauſed again. “I
am unpleaſantly circumſtanced,” ſaid he;
6 but an opportunity of rendering you im-
portant ſervice fhall overcome inferior con-
fiderations. Will you inform me of the
manner of your firſt acquaintance with the
Chevalier Valancourt, if the ſubject is not
too painful ?”
Emily briefly related the accident of their
meeting in the preſence of her father, and
then ſo earneſtly entreated the Count not
to heſitate in declaring what he knew, that
he perceived the violent emotion, againſt
which ſhe was contending, and, regarding
her with a look of tender compaſſion, con-
ſidered how he might communicate his in-
formation with leaſt pain to his anxious -
auditor.
" The
S3
2
-
DE "


( 448 )
W1
19
" The Chevalier and my ſon,” faid he,
“ were introduced to each other, at the
table of a brother officer, at whoſe houſe I
alſo met him, and invited him to my own,
whenever he ſhould be diſengaged. I did not
then know that he had formed an acquaint-
ance with a ſet of men, a diſgrace to their
ſpecies, who live by plunder and paſs their
Jives in continual debauchery. I knew fe-
veral of the Chevalier's family, reſident at
Paris, and conſidered them as ſufficient
pledges for his introduction to my own.
But you are ill; I will leave the ſubject.”—
“ No, fir," ſaid Emily, “I beg you will
proceed: I am only diſtreſſed.”—“Only!"
ſaid the Count, with emphaſis; “ however,
I will proceed. I ſoon learned, that theſe,
his aſſociates, had drawn him into a courſe
of diſſipation, from which he appeared to
have neither the power, or the inclina-
tion, to extricate himſelf. He loft large
fums at the gaming-table; he became in-
fatuated with play, and was ruined. I
ſpoke tenderly of this to his friends, who
aſſured


(449)
aſſured me, that they had remonſtrated
with him, till they were weary. I after-
wards learned, that, in conſideration of his
talents for play, which were generally ſuca
ceſsful, when unoppoſed by the tricks of
villany,--that in conſideration of theſe, the
party had initiated him into the ſecrets of
- their trade, and allotted him a ſhare of their
profits.” “ Impoffible !” ſaid Emily ſud-
denly; " but-pardon me, fir, I ſcarcely
know what I ſay; allow for the diſtreſs of
my mind. I muſt, indeed, I muſt believe,
that you have not been truly informed.
The Chevalier had, doubtleſs, enemies,
who mifrepreſented him."-" I ſhould be
moſt happy to believe ſo," replied the
Count, “ but I cannot. Nothing ſhort of
conviction, and a regard for your welfare,
could have urged me to repeat theſe un-
pleaſant reports.”
Emily was filent. She recollected Va.
Jancourt's ſayings, on the preceding even-
ing, which diſcovered the pangs of ſelf-
reproach, and feemned to confirm all that
the


( 451 )
tione, contradicted her firſt aſſertion; and
The felt, that time and effort only could era-
dicate an affection, which had been forined
on virtuous eſteem, and cheriſhed by habit
and difficulty.
" I will truſt you then," ſaid the Count,
“ for conviction is neceſſary to your future
peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained,
without this confidence. My ſon has too
often been an eye-witneſs of the Chevalier's
ill conduct; he was very near being drawn
in by it; he was, indeed, drawn in to the
commiſſion of many follies, but I reſcued
him from guilt and deſtruction. Judge
then, Mademoiſelle St. Aubert, whether a
father, who had nearly loſt his only fon by
the example of the Chevalier, has not, from
conviction, reaſon to warn thoſe, whom he
eſteems, againſt truſting their happineſs in
ſuch hands. I have myſelf ſeen the Cheva.
lier engaged in deep play with men, whom
I almoſt ſhuddered to look upon. If you ·
ſtill doubt, I will refer you to my ſon."
“ I muſt


( 452 )
“I muſt not doubt what you have your-
ſelf witneſſed,” replied Emily, finking with
grief, “ or what you affert. But the Che-
valier has, perhaps, been drawn only into a
tranſient folly, which he may never repeat.
If you had known the juſtneſs of his former
principles, you would allow for my preſent
incredulity.”
..“ Alas !” obſerved the Count, « it is
difficult to believe that which will make us
wretched. But I will not footh you by
flattering and falſe hopes. We all know
how faſcinating the vice of gaming is, and
how difficult it is, alſo, to conquer habit;
the Chevalier might, perhaps, reform for
a while, but he would ſoon relapſe into
diffipation-for, I fear, not only the bonds
of habit would be powerful, but that his
morals are corrupted. And-why ſhould
I conceat from you, that play is not his
only vice? he appears to have a taſte for
every vicious pleaſure."
The Count heſitated and pauſed; while
Emily endeavoured to ſupport herſelf, as,
22
te
with


( 453 )
TOT
with increaſing perturbation, ſhe expected
what he might further ſay. A long pauſe
of ſilence enſued, during which he was viſi.
bly agitated; at length, he ſaid, “ It would
be a cruel delicacy, that could prevail
with me to be filent--and I will informi
you, that the Chevalier's extravagance has
brought him twice into the priſons of Paris,
from whence he was laſt extricated, as I
was told upon authority, which I cannot
doubi, by a well-known Pariſian Counteſs,
with whom he continued to reſide, when I
left Paris.”
He pauſed again ; and, looking at Emily,
perceived her countenance change, and
that ſhe was falling from the ſeat; he
caught her, but ſhe had fainted, and be
called loudly for aid. They were, how-
ever, beyond the hearing of his ſervants
at the chateau, and he feared to leave her
while he went thither for aſliſtance, yet
knew not how otherwiſe to obtain it ; till
a fountain at no great diſtance caught his
eye, and he endeavoured to ſupport Emily
againſt
was
-
-
-
-
-
-
-


( 454 )
Inc
CIU
againſt the tree, under which ſhe had been
fitting, while he went thither for water.
Again he was perplexed, for he had no-
thing near him, in which water could be
brought; but while, with increaſed anxiety,
he watched her, he thought he perceived
in her countenance ſymptoms of returning
life.
It was long, however, before the revived,
and ſhe then found herſelf ſupported not
by the Count, but by Valancourt, who was
obſerving her with looks of earneſt appre-
henſion, and who now ſpoke to her in a tone
tremulous with his anxiety. At the found
of his well-known voice ſhe raiſed her eyes,
but prelently cloſed them, and a faintnefs
again came over her.
The Count, with a look ſomewhat ſtern,
waved him to withdraw; but he only ſighed
heavily, and called on the name of Emily,
as he again held the water, that had been
brought, to her lips. On the Count's re-
peating his action, and accompanying it
with words, Valancourt anſwered him with
a look


( 456 )
Emily, without replying, but with in-
creaſed emotion, quickened her ſteps.
“ What has thus diſordered you, Emily?”
ſaid he, as he ſtill walked by her ſide :
66 give me a few moments' converſation, I
entreat you;—I am very miſerable !”
Though this was ſpoken in a low voice,
it was overheard by the Count, who im-
mediately replied, that Mademoiſelle St.
Aubert was then too much indiſpoſed, to
attend to any converſation, but that he
would venture to promiſe ſhe would ſee
Monſieur Valancourt on the morrow, if ſhe
was beiter.
Valancourt's cheek was crimſoned : he
looked haughtily at the Count, and then
at Emily, with ſucceſſive expreſſion of ſur-
priſe, grief, and ſupplication, which ſhe
could neither miſunderſtand, or reſiſt, and
ſhe ſaid languidly-" I fall be better to-
morrow, and if you wiſh to accept the
Count's permiſſion, I will ſee you then.”
" See me !” exclaimed Valancourt, as
he threw a glance of mingled pride and
reſent-


( 457 )
reſentment upon the Count; and then,
ſeeming to recollect himſelf, he added
“ But I will come, madam ; I will accept
the Count's permiſſion.”
When they reached the door of the cha-
teau, he lingered a moment, for his re-
fentment was now fled; and then, with a
look ſo expreſſive of tenderneſs and grief,
that Emily's heart was not proof againſt it,
he bade her good morning, and, bowing
Nightly to the Count, diſappeared.
Emily withdrew to her own apartment,
under ſuch oppreſſion of heart as ſhe had
ſeldom known, when ſhe endeavoured to
recollect all that the Count had told, to
examine the probability of the circum.
ſtances he himſelf believed, and to conſi..
der of her future conduct towards Valan-
court. But, when ſhe attempted to think,
her mind refuſed controul, and ſhe could
only feel that ſhe was miſerable. One mo.
ment, ſhe funk under the conviction, that
Valancourt was no longer the ſame, whom
ſhe had ſo tenderly loved, the idea of
Vol. III, X
whom


( 458)
whom had hitherto ſupported her under
affliction, and cheered her with the hope
of happier days,—but a fallen, a worth-
leſs character, whom ſhe muſt teach her-
ſelf to deſpiſe-if ſhe could not forget.,
Then, unable to endure this terrible fup-
poſition, ſhe rejected it, and diſdained to
believe him capable of conduct, ſuch as
the Count had deſcribed, to whom ſhe
believed he had been miſrepreſented by
ſome artful enemy; and there were mo-
ments, when ſhe even ventured to doubt
the integrity of the Count himſelf, and to
ſuſpect, that he was infuenced by ſome
ſelfiſh motive, to break her connection with
Valancourt. But this was the error of an
inſtant, only; the Count's character, which
Mhe had heard ſpoken of by Du l'ont and
many other perſons, and had herſelf ob-
ſerved, enabled her to judge, and forbade
the fuppofition; had her confidence, in-
deed, been leſs, there appeared to be no
temptation to betray him into conduct fo
treacherous, and ſo cruel. Nor did reflec-
tion


( 459 )
cion fuffer her to preſerve the hope, that
Valancourt had been iniſrepreſented to the
Count, who had ſaid, that he ſpoke chief.
ly from his own obſervation, and from his
fon's experience. She muſt part from Va-
lancourt, therefore, for ever-for what of
either happineſs or tranquillity could the
expect with a man, whoſe taſtes were dege-
nerated into low inclinations, and to whom
vice was become habitual? whom ſhe muſt
no longer eſteem, though the reme.nbrance
of what he once was, and the long habit
of loving him, would render it very difficult
for her to deſpiſe him.
"O Valancourt !” ſhe would exclaim,
“ having been ſeparated ſo long— do we
meet only to be miſerable-only to part
for ever?”
Amidſt all the tumule of her mind,
the remembered pertinaciouſly the ſeeming
candour and fimplicity of his conduct, on
the preceding night; and, had lhe dared
to truſt her own heart, it would have led
her to hope much from this. Still the
X 2
could
a


(460 )
.
could not reſolve to diſmiſs him for ever,
without obtaining further proof of his ill
conduct ; yet the faw no probability of pro-
curing it, if, indeed, proof more poſitive
· was poſſible. Something, however, it was
neceſſary to decide upon, and ſhe almoſt
determined to be guided in her opinion
ſolely by the manner, with which Valan-
court ſhould receive her hints concerning
his late conduct.
Thus paffed the hours till dinner-time;
when Emily, firuggling againſt the preſ.
ſure of her grief, dried her tears, and
joined the family at table, where the Count
preſerved towards her the moſt delicate at-
tention ; but the Counteſs and Mademoi-
ſelle Bearn, having looked, for a moment,
with ſurpriſe, on her dejected countenance,
began, as uſual, to talk of trifles, while the
eyes of Lady Blanche afked inuch of her
friend, who could only reply by a mournful
ſmile.
Emily withdrew as ſoon after dinner as
poſſible, and was followed by the Lady
Blanche,


(462)
and which robbed her even of the ſolitary
image her heart ſo long had cheriſhed.
I hele painful reflections were interrupted,
for a moment, by a note from Valancourt,
written in evident diſtraction of mind, en-
treating, that ſhe would permit him to ſee
her on the approaching evening, inſtead of
the following morning; a requeſt, which
occaſioned her ſo much agitation, that the
was unable to anſwer it. She wiſhed to
ſee him, and to terminate her preſent'ſtate
of ſuſpenſe, yet ſhrunk from the interview,
and, incapable of deciding for herſelf, ſhe,
at length, ſent to beg a few moments' con.
verſation with the Count in his library,
where the delivered to him the note, and re-
queſted his advice. After reading it, he
ſaid, that, if ſhe believed herſelf well
enough to ſupport the interview, his opi-
nion was, that, for the relief of both parties
it ought to take place, that evening.
:6 His affection for you cannot be doubt-
ed," added the Count; " and he appears
ſo much diſtreſſed, and you, my amiable
friends


( 463 )
UL
friend, are ſo ill at eaſe that the ſooner
the affair is decided, the better."
Emily replied, therefore, to Valancourt,
that ſhe would ſee him, and then exerted
herſelf in endeavours to attain fortitude
and compoſure, to bear her through the
approaching ſcene-a ſcene ſo afflictingly
the reverſe of any, to which ſhe had looked
forward!
IC TP
$
200
END OF THE THIRD VOLUME,





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