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The Mysteries of Udolpho

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Section 3

The Mysteries of Udolpho

by Ann Radcliffe

CHAPTER V

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 sullen sound.
     MASON

When 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 anxiously avoided his presence,
and watched, during two days and two nights, with little
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 conduct to herself; and, remembering
only her sufferings, thought of her only with tender compassion.
Sometimes, however, she could not avoid musing upon the strange
infatuation that had proved so fatal to her aunt, and had involved
herself in a labyrinth of misfortune, from which she saw no means of
escaping,--the marriage with Montoni. But, when she considered this
circumstance, it was 'more in sorrow than in anger,'--more for the
purpose of indulging lamentation, than reproach.

In her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not only
avoided the chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but
that part of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a
contagion in death. He seemed to have 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. 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 shrunk from the
circumstance of following them to the cold vault, to which they were
to be carried by men, whose air and countenances seemed to stamp them
for murderers, at the midnight hour of 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, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it in
cerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside
it, till past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of
the men, who 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 countenances 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, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence
and gloom of these courts had now little power over Emily's mind,
occupied as it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard
the low and dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the
ivyed battlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of
the bat, which frequently crossed her way. But, when, having entered
the chapel, and passed between the mouldering pillars of the aisles,
the bearers stopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low
arched door, and, their comrade having descended to unlock 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 lost
in emotions of inexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean
upon Annette, who was cold and trembling like herself, and she
lingered so long on the summit of the flight, that the gleam of the
torch began 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 considered to be her duty
overcoming her reluctance, she descended to the vaults, following 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 the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered the
vaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men 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 observe, 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 solemn and affecting, 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
condottieri, bending with their torches over the grave, into which
the corpse was descending, were contrasted by the venerable figure of
the monk, wrapt in long black garments, his cowl thrown back from his
pale face, on which the light gleaming strongly shewed the lines of
affliction softened by piety, and the few grey locks, which time had
spared on his temples: while, beside him, stood the softer form of
Emily, who leaned 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 solemn as admitted not of
tears, while she thus saw committed untimely to the earth her last
relative and friend. The gleams, 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
obscurity 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 service was over, the friar regarded 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 the courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy
order, which he endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted
safely 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 Emily 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
supplication, that Montoni had consented to allow a priest to perform
the last rites for his deceased wife, knew nothing concerning this
person, till Annette now informed her, that he belonged to a
monastery, situated among the mountains at a few miles distance. The
Superior, who regarded Montoni and his associates, not only with
aversion, but with terror, had probably feared to offend him 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 performing what he considered to be his duty, and, as the
chapel was built on consecrated ground, had not objected to commit to
it the remains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni.

Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion, 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 scarcely dare to conjecture; but it was too
certain that he did so, and the absolute refusal he had formerly
given to her departure allowed 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 mention of this subject; and at last she
was awakened from her inactivity only by a message from him, desiring
her attendance at a certain hour. She began 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 stratagem for obtaining them, and
that he would detain her his prisoner, till he succeeded. This
thought, instead of overcoming her with despondency, roused all the
latent powers of her fortitude into action; 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 should ever compel
her to give to Montoni. For Valancourt's sake also she determined to
preserve these estates, since they would afford that competency, by
which she hoped to secure the comfort of their future lives. As she
thought of this, she indulged the tenderness of tears, and
anticipated the delight of that moment, when, with affectionate
generosity, she might tell him they were his own. She saw the smile,
that lighted up his features--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 since her
aunt's death, the papers relative to the estates in question, she
determined to search for them, as soon as her interview with Montoni
was over.

With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited
to hear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were
Orsino and another officer, and both were standing near a table,
covered 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 transacting with my
friend Orsino. 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 flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen
fall, and refused to sign what she had not read. Montoni 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 betrayed her,
positively refused to sign any paper whatever. Montoni, for some
time, persevered in affecting to ridicule this refusal; but, when he
perceived by her steady perseverance, that she understood his design,
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 contest, 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 she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused
to me in her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own
sake, I would undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once
made to you in my hearing--that these estates would be yours, if she
died without resigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had
no power to withhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you
have more sense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust
claim. I am not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore,
receive, as sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you
possess an understanding superior to that of your sex; and that you
have none of those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the
female character--such as avarice and the love of power, which latter
makes women delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot
conquer. If I understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in
sovereign contempt these common failings of your sex.'

Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she 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, since he designed to
sacrifice to hers the character and understanding of her whole sex.

'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 avaricious of any property, when you have not
justice on your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you
with the alternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in
question, you shall be allowed a safe conveyance to France, within a
short period; but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late
assertion of the Signora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are
convinced of your error.'

Emily calmly said,

'I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to be
misled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present
instance, gives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall
never betray my right.'

'I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,' rejoined
Montoni, sternly. 'You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a
subject, which you do not understand. For once, I am willing to
pardon the conceit of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from
which, it seems, you are not exempt, claims some allowance; but, if
you persist 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 resumed, '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, '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 oppression.'

'You speak like a heroine,' said Montoni, contemptuously; 'we shall
see whether you can suffer like one.'

Emily was silent, and he left the room.

Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt's sake 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 she should attempt a
perusal.

To her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thought
again of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she
might expect from opposition to his will. But his power did not
appear so terrible to her imagination, as it 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 quiet sufferance of
ills, in a cause, which had 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, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, 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, regardless of being observed, till the group passed
under it; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the
features of Signora Livona, with whose manners she 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
seemed to be, was near her; yet there was something so extraordinary
in her being at this castle, circumstanced as it now was, and
evidently, by the gaiety of her air, with her own consent, that a
very painful surmise 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 she
remembered these manners, that she dismissed it almost instantly.

On Annette's appearance, however, she enquired, concerning these
strangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to
learn.

'They are just come, ma'amselle,' said Annette, '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 were taken prisoners, perhaps?' said Emily.

'Taken prisoners!' exclaimed Annette; 'no, indeed, ma'amselle, not
they. I remember one of them very well at Venice: 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 I, 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.--'I must come on my travels, forsooth!'

Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she
scarcely herself indulged.

'How--how, ma'amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons.
Valancourt, too?' said Annette, sobbing. 'I--I--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 wish
with pleasure.'

Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose 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 spirit at ease
to be sensible even to the abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The
enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured scenes, now appeared
cold, and dim. As she mused upon the book before her, she
involuntarily exclaimed, 'Are these, indeed, the passages, 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 she, pausing. 'But the fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of
his reader is not tempered like his own, however it may be inferior
to his in power.'

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
consideration 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 associates, she
walked for air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the
further end of which she 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 shocked her, consistent as
they were with the late conduct of Montoni.

As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices mingling
with the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning
the character of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident,
that they had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld
herself in the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom
she considered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst
associates, amid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in
horror. It was at this moment, when the scenes of the present and
the future opened to her imagination, 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 inflict. The disputed estates she now almost
determined to yield at once, whenever he should again call upon her,
that she might regain safety and freedom; but then, the remembrance
of Valancourt would steal to her heart, and plunge her into the
distractions of doubt.

She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its
melancholy twilight through the painted casements, and deepened 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 below, peals of laughter echoed
faintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed
to render the succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however,
unwilling to return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was
not yet come, still 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 she had never after
remembered it, but with emotions of indescribable awe, this
remembrance suddenly recurred. It now brought with it reflections
more terrible, than it had yet done, which the late conduct of
Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit the gallery, while she had
power to do so, she heard a sudden step behind her.--It might be that
of Annette; but, turning fearfully to look, she saw, 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 distinguish articulated sounds,
she 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 distinguish the features.

'Whoever you are,' said Emily, in a trembling voice, 'for heaven's
sake let me go!'

'My charming Emily,' said the man, 'why will you shut yourself up in
this obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return with
me to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of
the party;--you shall not repent the exchange.'

Emily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself.

'Promise, that you will come,' he continued, 'and I will release you
immediately; 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 insult me?'

'Why call me cruel?' said the man, '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 wish for nothing so much as that you would
leave me.'

'Charming Emily!' said he, 'give up this foolish whim for solitude,
and come with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make
part of it; you, only, 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 she 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 she 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 fastened only on the other side. She then employed
herself in endeavouring to secure it, in the manner she had formerly
done. It appeared to her, that Montoni had already commenced his
scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing from her his protection, and she
repented of the rashness, that had made her brave the power of such a
man. To retain the estates seemed to be now utterly 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 Udolpho.

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-case.

Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette
did not appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but,
not daring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain
in uncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence.

Emily often stole to the stair-case 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 bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She
thought of her deceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt,
and frequently called upon their names; for the profound stillness,
that now reigned, was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind.

While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant
music, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving this
to be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose,
and stepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to
come from a lower room.

In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so
full of pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its
sweet and peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before;
yet, if this was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint
recollection. It stole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her
present suffering, like a celestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring
her;--'Pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter's
ear, when he awakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the music of
the spirits of the hill.'*

(*Ossian. [A. R.])

But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with
the taste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of
her native province, to which she had so often listened with delight,
when a child, and which she had so 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 simplicity of her former life--all rose
to her fancy, and formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so
strikingly contrasted with the scenes, the characters and the
dangers, which now surrounded her--that her mind could not bear to
pause upon the retrospect, and shrunk at the acuteness of its own
sufferings.

Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the
strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she
withdrew from the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she
was not yet beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure
change, and the succeeding air called her again to the window, for
she immediately recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard
in the fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery,
which had then accompanied 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, convinced her, however
unaccountable the circumstances appeared, that this was the same
voice she had then heard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a
thought darted, like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a
train of hopes, that revived 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 sat 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 sound, listened, now doubting and then
believing, softly exclaimed the name of Valancourt, and then sunk
again into the chair. Yes, it was possible, that Valancourt was near
her, and she recollected circumstances, which induced her to believe
it was his voice she had just heard. She remembered he had more than
once said that the fishing-house, where she had formerly listened to
this voice and air, and where she had seen pencilled sonnets,
addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt, before he had
been made known to her; there, too, she had herself unexpectedly met
him. It appeared, from these circumstances, more than probable, that
he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her attention, and the
author of the lines, which had expressed such tender admiration;--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 fishing-house to have been
known to him, she had not scrupled to believe that he was the author
of the sonnets.

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 sing; but the voice, and
the instrument, now ceased.

She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak:
then, not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and
yet too much interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she
called from the casement, 'Is that song from Gascony?' Her anxious
attention was not cheered by any reply; every thing remained silent.
Her impatience increasing with her fears, she repeated the question;
but still no sound was heard, except the sighings of the wind among
the battlements above; and she endeavoured to console herself with a
belief, that the stranger, whoever he was, had retired, before she
had spoken, beyond the reach of her voice, which, it appeared
certain, had Valancourt heard and recognized, he would instantly have
replied to. Presently, however, she considered, that a motive of
prudence, and not an accidental removal, might occasion his silence;
but the surmise, that led to this reflection, suddenly 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 intercepted in some attempt to reach her. Had he
even recollected Emily's voice, he would have feared, in these
circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, who
guarded his prison.

What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed she dreaded;--
dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while she was
anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, she
still was unconscious, that a hope of soon 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, tenderness, 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, return with
despondence to her pillow. Never did hours appear to move so
heavily, as those of this anxious night; after which she hoped that
Annette might appear, and conclude her present state of torturing
suspense.

CHAPTER VI

     might we but hear
The folded flocks penn'd in their watled cotes,
Or sound 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, some little cheering
In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs.
     MILTON

In the morning, Emily was relieved from her fears for Annette, who
came at an early hour.

'Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, ma'amselle,' said
she, as soon as she entered the room,--'fine doings, indeed! 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?'

'Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do. It was not my
fault, indeed, 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
Ludovico 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?' said Emily.

'No, ma'amselle, nor fighting, but almost 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'amselle, their
veils were worked with silver! and fine trimmings--boded no good--I
guessed 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
corridor in a minute.' 'Are you so? says he, and what is to become
of you, if 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
scarcely recovered of one wound, shall I put myself in the way of
getting another? for if any of the cavaliers meet you, they will fall
a-fighting with me directly. 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 gallery and through the west wing of the
castle, for you shall stay here, Annette; you shall not go out of
this room, to-night.' 'So, with that I says'--

'Well, well,' said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire on
another subject,--'so he locked you up?'

'Yes, he did indeed, ma'amselle, notwithstanding all I could say to
the contrary; and Caterina and I and he staid there all night. And
in a few minutes after I was not so vexed, for there came Signor
Verezzi 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 suppose there was nobody in the room; but the Signor was as
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 saw 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, jeeringly, shall I let you out now? O
no, says I, I would not'--

'I have some questions to ask you on 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'amselle,' replied Annette, 'when the first
party came in from the mountains, and the last party is not come back
yet, so I don't know, whether there are any prisoners; but it is
expected back to-night, or to-morrow, and I shall know then,
perhaps.'

Emily enquired if she had ever heard the servants talk of prisoners.

'Ah ma'amselle!' said Annette archly, 'now I dare say you are
thinking of Monsieur 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?' said Emily, in a tone of mournful
reproach.

'To be sure I should, ma'am,' replied Annette, 'and would not you be
glad too, to see Signor Valancourt? I don't know any chevalier I
like better, I have a very great regard for the Signor, truly.'

'Your regard for him cannot be doubted,' said Emily, 'since you wish
to see him a prisoner.'

'Why no, ma'amselle, not a prisoner 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 six,
and dressed out, with a laced coat and a sword, like a lord as he
is.'

Emily could not forbear smiling at Annette's ideas of Valancourt, and
repeated her enquiry, whether she 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 them like a flash 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 believe,
ma'amselle, though I shewed you the very cannon, where it used to
appear.'

'And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette,' said Emily, smiling at
this curious exaggeration of the circumstances she had witnessed, 'as
to credit these stories?'

'Credit them, ma'amselle! 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,
myself, there was no need of that, for, says 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 slashing, 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 superstitious 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 of what had happened, and swore that the first man, who
repeated such nonsense, should be thrown into the dungeon under the
east 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, than you have, ma'am.'

Emily looked displeased, and made no reply. As she mused upon the
recollected appearance, which had lately so much alarmed her, and
considered the circumstances of the figure having stationed itself
opposite to her casement, she was for a moment inclined to believe it
was Valancourt, whom she had seen. Yet, if it was he, why did he not
speak to her, when he had the opportunity of doing so--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 musician and the form
she had observed, 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'amselle!' said Annette, 'I forget to tell you what you
bade me ask about, the ladies, as they call themselves, who are
lately come to Udolpho. Why that Signora Livona, that the Signor
brought to see my late lady at Venice, is his mistress now, and was
little better then, I dare say. And Ludovico says (but pray be
secret, ma'am) that his excellenza introduced her only to impose upon
the world, that had begun to make free with her character. So when
people saw my lady notice her, they thought what they had heard must
be scandal. The other two are the mistresses of Signor Verezzi and
Signor Bertolini; and Signor Montoni invited them all to the castle;
and so, yesterday, he gave a great entertainment; and there they
were, all drinking Tuscany wine and all sorts, and laughing and
singing, till they made the castle ring again. But I thought they
were dismal sounds, so soon after my poor lady's death too; and they
brought to my mind what she would have thought, if she had heard
them--but she cannot hear them now, poor soul! said I.'

Emily turned away to conceal her emotion, and then desired Annette to
go, and make enquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might be in the
castle, but conjured her to do it with caution, and on no account to
mention her name, or that of Monsieur Valancourt.

'Now I think of it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'I do believe there
are prisoners, for I overheard one of the Signor's men, yesterday, in
the servants hall, talking something 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
man 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; the possibility, that Valancourt was
near her, revived her fortitude, and she determined to brave the
threatened vengeance, at least, till she could be assured whether he
was really in the castle. She was in this temper of mind, when she
received a message from Montoni, requiring her attendance in the
cedar parlour, which she obeyed with trembling, and, on her way
thither, endeavoured to animate her fortitude with the idea of
Valancourt.

Montoni was alone. 'I sent for you,' said he, 'to give you another
opportunity of retracting your late mistaken assertions concerning
the Languedoc estates. I will condescend to advise, where I may
command.--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, sir,' said Emily, 'of what
service can it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning
them? If the lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them,
without my interference, or my consent.'

'I will have no more argument,' said Montoni, with a look that made
her tremble. '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 obstinacy, teach you a lesson.--Sign the papers.'

Emily's resolution was for a moment awed:--she shrunk at the
recollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; 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 injustice, inspired her with a noble,
though imprudent, courage.

'Sign the papers,' said Montoni, more impatiently than before.

'Never, sir,' replied Emily; 'that request 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. I 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 proceeded in a lower tone.

'You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly;
yet this, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you.--I could
tell you of others--I could make you tremble at the bare recital.'

He was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath
the chamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it,
impatience and rage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade
of fear passed over his countenance. Emily sat down in a chair, near
the door, for the various emotions she had suffered, now almost
overcame her; but Montoni paused scarcely an instant, and, commanding
his features, resumed his discourse in a lower, yet sterner 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, however, repeat, that terrible
as are the examples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit
you; for, though your repentance 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 occurrence. Without power to implore his pity, she rose to
go, but found that she could not support herself; awe and terror
overcame her, and she sunk again into the chair.

'Quit my presence!' cried Montoni. 'This affectation of fear ill
becomes the heroine who has just dared to brave my indignation.'

'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, speaking 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 Montoni followed her; but, instead of calling aloud to
his servants to search the chamber, as he had formerly done on a
similar occurrence, passed to the ramparts.

As, in her way to the corridor, she rested for a moment at an open
casement, Emily saw a party of Montoni's troops winding down a
distant mountain, whom she noticed no further, than as they brought
to her mind the wretched prisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to
the castle. At length, having reached her apartment, she threw
herself upon the couch, overcome with the new horrors of her
situation. Her thoughts lost in tumult and perplexity, she could
neither repent of, or approve, her 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
superstition, which had, for a moment, so strongly assailed her, now
yielded to those of reason.

She was, at length, roused from the reverie, which engaged her, by a
confusion of distant voices, and a clattering of hoofs, that seemed
to come, on the wind, from the courts. A sudden hope, that some good
was approaching, seized her mind, 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 sunk away in the wind; silence ensued. Emily listened
anxiously for Annette's step in the corridor, but a pause of total
stillness continued, till again the castle seemed to be all tumult
and confusion. She heard the echoes of many footsteps, passing to
and fro in the halls and avenues below, and then busy tongues were
loud on the rampart. Having 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 she continued to
observe them, careless of the passing time.

Annette at length appeared, but brought no intelligence of
Valancourt, 'For, ma'amselle,' 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
scampering 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, I suppose,
besieging it! all those terrible-looking fellows one used to see at
Venice.'

'Thank God!' exclaimed Emily, fervently, 'there is yet a hope left
for me, then!'

'What mean you, 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 at present,' replied Emily,
unguardedly; '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 ghost, or so; but now, some of them are for hiding
down in the vaults under the castle; but you must not tell the Signor
this, ma'amselle, and I overheard two of them talking--Holy Mother!
what makes you look so sad, ma'amselle? You don't hear what I say!'

'Yes, I do, Annette; pray proceed.'

'Well, ma'amselle, all the castle is in such hurly-burly. Some of
the men are loading the cannon, and some are examining 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'amselle, and
Ludovico? O! when I hear the sound 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 for shutting me within these walls so long!--it
should never see me again.'

Emily caught the latter words of Annette. '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,
terrified Annette, still more than her words; who entreated Emily to
explain the meaning of them, to whom it suddenly occurred, that
Ludovico might be of some service, if there should be a possibility
of escape, and who repeated the substance of what 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,
'to effect our escape. Go to him, Annette, tell him what I have to
apprehend, and what I have already suffered; but entreat him to be
secret, and to lose no time in attempting to release us. If he is
willing to undertake this he shall be amply rewarded. I cannot speak
with him myself, 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 return in this apartment.'

The girl, whose honest heart had been much affected by the recital,
was now as eager to obey, as Emily was to employ her, and she
immediately quitted the room.

Emily's surprise increased, as she reflected upon Annette's
intelligence. 'Alas!' said she, 'what can the officers of justice do
against an armed castle? these cannot be such.' Upon further
consideration, however, she concluded, that, Montoni's bands having
plundered the country round, the inhabitants had taken arms, and were
coming with the officers of police and a party of soldiers, to force
their way into the castle. 'But they know not,' thought she, 'its
strength, or the armed numbers within it. Alas! except from flight,
I have nothing to hope!'

Montoni, though not precisely what 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
undertaken. They had not only pillaged, whenever opportunity
offered, the helpless traveller, but had attacked, and plundered the
villas of several persons, which, being situated among the solitary
recesses of the mountains, were totally unprepared for resistance.
In these expeditions the commanders of the party did not appear, and
the men, partly disguised, had sometimes been mistaken 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
several mansions, and brought home considerable treasures, they had
ventured to approach 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 enemy winding among the cliffs below, and at not more
than a league distant. Upon this discovery, they hastened 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 some information from below, she now saw
from her casements a body of troops pour over the neighbouring
heights; and, though Annette had been gone a very short time, and had
a difficult and dangerous business to accomplish, her impatience for
intelligence became painful: she 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! 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 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, thoughtlessly; 'has, then, the Signor
so much consideration for me?'

Carlo looked upon the ground, and made no reply. A thousand opposite
emotions agitated Emily, successively, as she listened to old Carlo;
those of joy, grief, distrust and apprehension, appeared, and
vanished from her mind, with the quickness 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 execution 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 could not but
rejoice in the prospect, believing that change must be for the
better, till she remembered the probability of Valancourt being
detained in it, when sorrow and regret usurped her mind, and she
wished, much more fervently than she had yet done, that it might not
be his voice which she had heard.

Carlo having reminded her, that she had no time to lose, for that the
enemy were within sight of the castle, Emily entreated him to inform
her whither she was to go; and, after some hesitation, he said he had
received no orders to tell; but, on her repeating the question,
replied, that he believed she was to be carried into Tuscany.'

'To Tuscany!' exclaimed Emily--'and why thither?'

Carlo answered, that he knew nothing further, than that she was to be
lodged in a cottage on the borders of Tuscany, at the feet of the
Apennines--'Not a day's journey distant,' said he.

Emily now dismissed him; and, with trembling hands, prepared the
small package, that she meant to take with her; while she was
employed about which Annette returned.

'O ma'amselle!' said she, 'nothing can be done! Ludovico says the
new porter is more watchful even than Barnardine was, and we might as
well throw ourselves in the way of a dragon, as in his. Ludovico 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 entreated 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, surrounded by
his officers, where she began her petition. He sharply bade her go
into the castle, and absolutely refused her request. Annette,
however, not only pleaded for herself, but for Ludovico; and Montoni
had ordered some of his men to take her from his presence, before she
would retire.

In an agony of disappointment, she returned to Emily, who foreboded
little good towards herself, from this refusal to Annette, and who,
soon after, received a summons to repair to the great court, where
the mules, with her guides, were in waiting. Emily here tried in
vain to sooth the weeping Annette, who persisted 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, however, followed to
the courts, which were now thronged with people, busy in preparation
for the enemy; and, having seen her mount her mule and depart, with
her attendants, through the portal, turned into the castle and wept
again.

Emily, meanwhile, as she looked back upon the gloomy courts of the
castle, no longer silent as when she had first entered them, but
resounding with the noise of preparation for their defence, as well
as crowded with soldiers and workmen, hurrying 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 anticipation, 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 opportunity for plunder; and on a journey commended
under the guidance of men, whose countenances certainly did not speak
favourably of their dispositions. In the present moments, she could
only rejoice, that she was liberated from those walls, which she had
entered with such dismal forebodings; and, remembering the
superstitious presentiment, which had then seized her, 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 confined there, returned to her remembrance, and
anxiety and apprehension, lest he should 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 province;--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
possible, however, that the men, who were her conductors, might
afford her information, on this subject; but, fearing to question
them immediately, lest they should be unwilling to discover any
circumstance to her in the presence of each other, she 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 came, 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 she put some questions,
concerning the stranger at Udolpho. Ugo, for this was his name,
said, that there were several 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 surliness in
his manner, as he spoke, that made it probable he would not have
satisfied 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 returned, Emily enquired no
further, and, when he had related to his companion what he had seen,
they travelled on in deep silence; while Emily often caught, between
the opening 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 direction to that, from whence the enemy were approaching.
Emily now had a full view of Udolpho, with its gray walls, towers and
terraces, high over-topping the precipices and the dark woods, and
glittering partially with the arms of the condottieri, as the sun's
rays, streaming through an autumnal 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, perhaps,
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 passing 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 she turned, with mournful reluctance, to other objects.
The melancholy sighing of the wind among the pines, that waved high
over the steeps, and the distant thunder of a torrent assisted her
musings, 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 reverberation, till they sunk in sullen murmurs.
This was a signal, that the enemy had reached the castle, and fear
for Valancourt again tormented Emily. She turned her anxious eyes
towards that part of the country, where the edifice stood, but the
intervening 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 she fixed her gaze, as if it could have told her
of all that was passing in the scene it overlooked. 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
she 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 Ugo, as the blast of the trumpet
does the war-horse; it called forth all the fire of his nature; he
was impatient to be in the midst of the fight, and uttered frequent
execrations against Montoni for having sent him to a distance. The
feelings of his comrade seemed to be very opposite, and adapted
rather to the cruelties, than to the dangers of war.

Emily asked frequent questions, concerning the place of her
destination, but could only learn, that she was going to a cottage in
Tuscany; and, whenever she mentioned the subject, she fancied she
perceived, in the countenances of these men, an expression of malice
and cunning, that alarmed her.

It was afternoon, when they had left the castle. During several
hours, they travelled 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 imagination, she already saw
them lurking under the brow of some projecting rock, whence their
shadows, lengthened by the setting sun, 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 banditti she dreaded!

It was in this glen, that they proposed to alight, 'For,' said Ugo,
'night will come on presently, and then the wolves will make it
dangerous to stop.' This was a new subject of alarm to Emily, but
inferior to what she suffered from the thought of being left in these
wilds, at midnight, with two such men as her present conductors.
Dark and dreadful hints of what might be Montoni's purpose in sending
her hither, came to her mind. She endeavoured to dissuade the men
from stopping, and enquired, with anxiety, how far they had yet to
go.

'Many leagues yet,' replied Bertrand. '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 shall have need of it, I warrant, before we
finish our journey. The sun's going down apace; let us alight under
that rock, yonder.'

His comrade assented, and, turning the mules out of the road, they
advanced towards a cliff, overhung with cedars, Emily following in
trembling silence. They lifted her from her mule, and, having 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 little, the better
to disguise her apprehensions.

The sun was now sunk behind the high mountains in the west, upon
which a purple 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 depress 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 stranger. When he had dismissed the question, he talked with Ugo
on some subject, which led to the mention of Signor Orsino and of the
affair that had banished him from Venice; respecting which Emily had
ventured to ask a few questions. Ugo appeared to be well acquainted
with the circumstances of that tragical event, and related some
minute particulars, that both shocked and surprised her; for it
appeared very extraordinary how such particulars could be known to
any, but to persons, present when the assassination was committed.

'He was of rank,' said Bertrand, 'or the State would not have
troubled itself to enquire after his assassins. 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 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 property, which I think ought to be mine, why I may
wait, till I starve, perhaps, before 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 against 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 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 whim 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 handsomest 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 wrath, with a vengeance; 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
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 Orsino?' said Ugo.

'Promised! No,' replied Bertrand, 'she had not wit enough even to
tell him she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to
say, from the first, she 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; she need not have gone, and married
another.'

'What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?' said Ugo.

'I don't know as for that,' replied Bertrand, 'they said, indeed,
that she had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; but
that is nothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and
then 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 tamely, and she might thank herself for what happened.
But, as I said, they set out for Padua, she 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
servants 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.'

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 struck. It was the
most dexterous feat you ever saw--he was struck in the back with
three stillettos at once. He fell, and was dispatched in a minute;
but the lady escaped, 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 syllable
of this narrative had been lost.

'Bertrand, did I say?' rejoined the man, with some confusion--'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 swore. 'What signifies it,' he proceeded, 'what the man was
called--Bertrand, or Giovanni--or Roberto? it's all one for that.
You have put me out twice with that--question. "Bertrand," or
Giovanni--or what you will--"Bertrand," said the Signor, "if your
comrades 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 game
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 himself to be a
murderer, and she saw herself, at the approach of night, under his
guidance, among wild and solitary mountains, and going she scarcely
knew whither, the most agonizing terror seized her, which was the
less supportable from the necessity she found herself under of
concealing all symptoms of it from her companions. Reflecting on the
character and the menaces of Montoni, it appeared not improbable,
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 unwilling to perpetrate the
deed there, a much nearer place might have sufficed for the purpose
of concealment. These considerations, 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 she had done so, still there were many
appearances which would too well have justified 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 imperfectly 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
sound, as the breeze rolled over them. The hollow moan struck 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 recesses, high overshadowed by cypress and sycamore
and winding into long obscurity. To this glen, Emily, as she 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 she forbore to
repeat, lest it should provoke a surly answer. Having, however, soon
after, finished their supper, the men collected the fragments into
their wallet, and proceeded along this winding glen, in gloomy
silence; while Emily again mused upon her own situation, and
concerning the motives 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 estates, he meant to reserve her a while in
concealment, for some more terrible design, for one that might
equally gratify his avarice and still more his deep revenge. At this
moment, remembering Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the corridor,
a few preceding nights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was,
strengthened in her belief. Yet, why remove her from the castle,
where deeds of darkness had, she feared, been often executed with
secrecy?--from chambers, perhaps

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 improbable, indeed, did
her present situation appear to Emily herself, particularly when she
compared it with the repose and beauty of her early days, that there
were moments, when she could almost have believed herself the victim
of frightful visions, glaring upon a disordered fancy.

Restrained by the presence of her guides from expressing her terrors,
their acuteness was, at length, lost in gloomy despair. The dreadful
view of what might await her hereafter rendered her almost
indifferent to the surrounding dangers. She now looked, with little
emotion, on the wild dingles, and the gloomy road and mountains,
whose outlines were only distinguishable through the dusk;--objects,
which but lately had affected 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 travellers, who proceeded only by
the slowest pace, could scarcely discern their way. The clouds,
which seemed charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens,
shewing, at intervals, the trembling stars; while the groves of
cypress and sycamore, that overhung the rocks, waved high in the
breeze, as it swept over the glen, and then rushed among the distant
woods. Emily shivered as it passed.

'Where is the torch?' said Ugo, 'It grows dark.'

'Not so dark yet,' replied Bertrand, 'but we may find our way, and
'tis best not light the torch, before we can help, for it may betray
us, if any straggling party of the enemy is abroad.'

Ugo muttered something, which Emily did not understand, and they
proceeded in darkness, while she almost wished, 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 slowly along, her attention was surprised by a thin
tapering flame, that appeared, by fits, at the point of the 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 assertion, and a superstitious impression 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 return,
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.*

(*See the Abbe Berthelon on Electricity. [A. R.])

'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 one is coming now, sure 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, she 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 beneath with partial
splendour, the thick foliage of the trees preserving the surrounding
scene in deep shadow.

At length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch was lighted. The men
then dismounted, and, having assisted Emily, led the mules towards
the woods, that skirted the glen, on the left, over broken ground,
frequently interrupted with brush-wood and wild plants, which she was
often obliged to make a 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
flash, and then, by the red glare of the torch, which served only to
make 'darkness visible,' were circumstances, 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 affrighted fancy
it occurred, that they were leading 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 she 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
numbers! 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!'

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, frequently 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 enormous 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.

'I would we were well in the Signor's 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 turn 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 us as well as this chesnut-
tree.'

They again led the mules forward, between the boles of the trees, and
over pathless 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, which threw a stronger light forward among the woods, and
shewed their gloomy recesses 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 repose, the travellers,
gradually ascending from the glen, found themselves upon the open
brow of a mountain, with a wide valley, 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
slowly to the verge of the horizon.

Emily's spirits, now that she had quitted the woods, began to revive;
for she considered, 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,
where the deed would have been shrouded from every human eye.
Reassured by this reflection, and by the quiet demeanour of her
guides, Emily, as they proceeded silently, 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
seemed varied with woods, pastures, and sloping grounds, and was
screened to the north and the east by an amphitheatre of the
Apennines, whose outline on the horizon was here broken into varied
and elegant forms; to the west and the south, the landscape extended
indistinctly into the lowlands of Tuscany.

'There is the sea yonder,' said Bertrand, as if he had known that
Emily was examining the twilight view, 'yonder in the west, though we
cannot see it.'

Emily already perceived a change in the climate, from that of the
wild and mountainous tract she had left; and, as she continued
descending, the air became perfumed by the breath of a thousand
nameless flowers among the grass, called forth by the late rain. So
soothingly beautiful was the scene around her, and so strikingly
contrasted to the gloomy grandeur of those, to which she had long
been confined, and to the manners of the people, who moved among
them, that she could almost have fancied herself again at La Vallee,
and, wondering why Montoni had sent her hither, could scarcely
believe, that he had selected so enchanting a spot for any cruel
design. It was, however, probably 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 wood of chesnuts in the valley yonder,' said he,
'there, by the brook, that sparkles with the moon; I wish I was once
at rest there, with a flask of good wine, and a slice of Tuscany
bacon.'

Emily's spirits revived, when she heard, that the journey was so
nearly concluded, and saw the wood of chesnuts in an open part of the
vale, on the margin of the stream.

In a short time, they reached the entrance of the wood, and
perceived, between the twinkling leaves, a light, streaming from a
distant cottage window. They proceeded along the edge of the brook
to where the trees, crowding over it, excluded the moon-beams, but a
long line of light, from the cottage above, was seen on its dark
tremulous surface. Bertrand now stepped on first, and Emily heard
him knock, and call loudly at the door. As she reached it, the small
upper casement, where the light appeared, was unclosed by a man, who,
having enquired what they wanted, immediately descended, let them
into a neat rustic cot, and called up his wife to set refreshments
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 sallow complexion, and had a shrewd and cunning
eye; his countenance was not of a character to win the ready
confidence of youth, and there was nothing in his manner, 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 storm?'

'Ill 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 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-chamber, where she asked some questions concerning
Montoni, to which the woman, whose name was Dorina, gave reserved
answers, pretending ignorance of his excellenza's intention in
sending Emily hither, but acknowledging that her husband had been
apprized of the circumstance. Perceiving, that she could obtain no
intelligence concerning her destination, Emily dismissed Dorina, and
retired to repose; but all the busy scenes of her 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.

CHAPTER VII

     Was nought around but images of rest,
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between,
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept,
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 sheen,
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
     THOMSON

When Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprised to
observe 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 summits
crowned with antient forests of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now
animated with the rich tints of autumn, 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
russet 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, wound along the landscape, which
it reflected, to a bay of the sea. There, far in the west, the
waters, fading into the sky, assumed a tint of the faintest purple,
and the line of separation between them was, now and then,
discernible only by the progress of a sail, brightened with the
sunbeam, 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 jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in size
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, rose a grove of lemon and
orange trees. This, though nearly opposite to Emily's window, did
not interrupt her prospect, but rather heightened, by its dark
verdure, the effect of the perspective; and to her this spot was a
bower of sweets, whose charms communicated imperceptibly to her mind
somewhat of their own serenity.

She was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant's daughter, a girl
about seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad to
observe, seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, though
the others, that surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worst
qualities--cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter
style of countenance, especially, 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 interested Emily,
who breakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while Ugo and
Bertrand were taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their
host, 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 cottage; a
circumstance, which, though it did not surprise, distressed her.

When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring
woods; but, on being told, that she 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 terrific 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 assassin; and these
remembrances awakened a train of images, which, since they abstracted
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 PILGRIM*

Slow o'er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,
A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,
To deck the Lady of Loretto's seat
With 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 slow.
High o'er his head, the restless pines complain,
As on their summit 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 prest,
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 molest.
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 sooth'd him to repose.
Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang!
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. ii, have already
appeared in a periodical publication. [A. R.])

Preferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons
below stairs, Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend
her, from whose simple conversation she learned, that the peasant and
his wife were old inhabitants of this cottage, which had been
purchased for them by Montoni, 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, since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the
character of Marco, whose service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she
could scarcely doubt have been criminal; and, if so, had too much
reason to believe, that she had been committed into his hands for
some desperate purpose. 'Did you ever hear 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 little before he came to live at 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 assisted in that
mysterious affair, and, perhaps, 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
never arrive; and had sufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw
her thoughts from the contemplation of her own interests.
Remembering the few books, 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 landscape, whose beauty gradually soothed 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 sails,
as he sunk amidst the waves. Then, at the musing hour of twilight,
her softened thoughts returned to Valancourt; she again recollected
every circumstance, connected with the midnight music, and all that
might assist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the
castle, and, becoming confirmed 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 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 casement long after the
sun had set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only
the grand outline of the surrounding 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 harsher features, and throws over the whole
the mellowing shade of distant contemplation. The scenes of La
Vallee, in the early morn of her life, when she was protected and
beloved by parents equally loved, appeared in Emily's memory tenderly
beautiful, like the prospect before her, and awakened mournful
comparisons. Unwilling to encounter the coarse behaviour of the
peasant's wife, she remained supperless in her room, while she wept
again over her forlorn and perilous situation, a review of which
entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude, and, reducing
her to temporary despondence, she wished to be released from the
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, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and
sunk to sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber
door, and, starting up in terror, she heard a voice calling her. The
image of Bertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appeared to her
alarmed fancy, and she neither opened the door, or answered, but
listened in profound silence, till, the voice repeating her name in
the same low tone, she demanded who called. 'It is I, Signora,'
replied the voice, which she now distinguished to be Maddelina's,
'pray open the door. Don't be frightened, it is I.'

'And what brings you here so late, Maddelina?' said Emily, as she let
her in.

'Hush! signora, for heaven's sake hush!--if we are overheard I shall
never be forgiven. My father and mother and Bertrand are all gone to
bed,' continued Maddelina, as she 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 some grapes and figs and half
a cup of wine.' Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lest
this kindness should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when she
perceived the fruit was gone. 'Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,'
added Emily, 'I shall suffer much less from the want of it, than I
should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject 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 it, Signora.' Emily
was so much affected by this instance of the good girl's generosity,
that she remained for some time unable to reply, and Maddelina
watched her in silence, till, mistaking 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 sticcado, I forget it all directly.'

Emily, smiling through her tears, told Maddelina, that she was a good
girl, and then accepted her offering. She wished anxiously to know,
whether Bertrand and Dori