prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Em and Annette prepare Madame M. for burial. They bring in a friar from outside the castle walls. Montoni tries to get Em to sign the papers using some Class A trickery, but Em is too smart for him. When she refuses to sign, Montoni tells her to watch out: she speaks like a heroine, but can she suffer like a heroine? Muahahaha. Signora Livona and some of Montoni's other lady friends arrive from Venice, and Em notices they might not be the classiest of ladies. Going back to her chamber, Em notices a tall figure following her. It's one of Montoni's buds. He tries to kiss Em, who realizes that Montoni may have sent him to make good on his promise. When she finally gets back to her chamber, she hears the mysterious music again. Em decides to talk to the anonymous musician. She yells, "Hey, is that music from Gascony?" No answer.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Annette tells Em that Montoni and all of his friends were super-drunk last night and carousing with the women. Signora Livona is actually Montoni's new mistress. That guy moves fast. Montoni argues with Em once again about signing the papers, but she refuses. All of a sudden, they both hear the mysterious groaning. Preparations are continuing for battle, but Em notices things seem a little more urgent. Old Carlo comes to Em and tells her Montoni has decided to send her away to Tuscany. But wait, this isn't a punishment. Montoni wants to send her away for her own safety while Udolpho is under siege. Annette and Em get ready to go, but Em has one big reservation: she has reason to believe that Valancourt is a prisoner in Montoni's dungeon. The plot thickens. Ugo and Bertrand, the two thugs taking Em to Tuscany, are almost certainly murderers--scratch that, they're definitely Montoni's hired assassins. While Ugo and Bertrand are gossiping during the journey, they let slip that they murdered one of Signor Orsino's romantic rivals. Oopsies. Em's getting the sense that Ugo and Bertrand might murder her in the woods. Y'know, a Snow White and the huntsmen type of deal. Luckily for Em, the group gets to Tuscany without any kind of murdering incident. Looks like they're going to be staying at a local peasant's house. Dorina, the kindly peasant, shows Em to a room.