prompt:
Chapter: VOLUME 3 CHAPTER I

 I will advise you where to plant yourselves;
 Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time,
 The moment on 't; for 't must be done to-night.
     MACBETH

Emily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that Annette
had heard of Madame Montoni's confinement in the chamber over the
portal, as well as of her purposed visit there, on the approaching
night. That the circumstance, which Barnardine had so solemnly enjoined
her to conceal, he had himself told to so indiscreet an hearer as
Annette, appeared very improbable, though he had now charged her with
a message, concerning the intended interview. He requested, that Emily
would meet him, unattended, on the terrace, at a little after midnight,
when he himself would lead her to the place he had promised; a proposal,
from which she immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague fears darted
athwart her mind, such as had tormented her on the preceding night,
and which she neither knew how to trust, or to dismiss. It frequently
occurred to her, that Barnardine might have deceived her, concerning
Madame Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; and that he had
deceived her by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw her into some
of the desperate designs of the latter. The terrible suspicion, that
Madame Montoni no longer lived, thus came, accompanied by one not less
dreadful for herself. Unless the crime, by which the aunt had suffered,
was instigated merely by resentment, unconnected with profit, a motive,
upon which Montoni did not appear very likely to act, its object must be
unattained, till the niece was also dead, to whom Montoni knew that
his wife's estates must descend. Emily remembered the words, which had
informed her, that the contested estates in France would devolve to her,
if Madame Montoni died, without consigning them to her husband, and the
former obstinate perseverance of her aunt made it too probable, that
she had, to the last, withheld them. At this instant, recollecting
Barnardine's manner, on the preceding night, she now believed, what she
had then fancied, that it expressed malignant triumph. She shuddered at
the recollection, which confirmed her fears, and determined not to
meet him on the terrace. Soon after, she was inclined to consider these
suspicions as the extravagant exaggerations of a timid and harassed
mind, and could not believe Montoni liable to such preposterous
depravity as that of destroying, from one motive, his wife and her
niece. She blamed herself for suffering her romantic imagination to
carry her so far beyond the bounds of probability, and determined to
endeavour to check its rapid flights, lest they should sometimes extend
into madness. Still, however, she shrunk from the thought of meeting
Barnardine, on the terrace, at midnight; and still the wish to be
relieved from this terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to see her,
and to sooth her sufferings, made her hesitate what to do.

'Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass to the terrace at that
hour?' said she, recollecting herself, 'the sentinels will stop me, and
Signor Montoni will hear of the affair.'

'O ma'amselle! that is well thought of,' replied Annette. 'That is
what Barnardine told me about. He gave me this key, and bade me say it
unlocks the door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens near the
end of the east rampart, so that you need not pass any of the men on
watch. He bade me say, too, that his reason for requesting you to come
to the terrace was, because he could take you to the place you want
to go to, without opening the great doors of the hall, which grate so
heavily.'

Emily's spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which seemed
to be honestly given to Annette. 'But why did he desire I would come
alone, Annette?' said she.

'Why that was what I asked him myself, ma'amselle. Says I, Why is my
young lady to come alone?--Surely I may come with her!--What harm can I
do? But he said "No--no--I tell you not," in his gruff way. Nay, says I,
I have been trusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant, and it's a
hard matter if _I_ can't keep a secret now. Still he would say nothing
but--"No--no--no." Well, says I, if you will only trust me, I will
tell you a great secret, that was told me a month ago, and I have never
opened my lips about it yet--so you need not be afraid of telling me.
But all would not do. Then, ma'amselle, I went so far as to offer him a
beautiful new sequin, that Ludovico gave me for a keep sake, and I would
not have parted with it for all St. Marco's Place; but even that would
not do! Now what can be the reason of this? But I know, you know, ma'am,
who you are going to see.'

'Pray did Barnardine tell you this?'

'He! No, ma'amselle, that he did not.'

Emily enquired who did, but Annette shewed, that she COULD keep a
secret.

During the remainder of the day, Emily's mind was agitated with doubts
and fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of meeting this
Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance,
she scarcely knew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety for herself
alternately swayed her determination, and night came, before she
had decided upon her conduct. She heard the castle clock strike
eleven--twelve--and yet her mind wavered. The time, however, was now
come, when she could hesitate no longer: and then the interest she felt
for her aunt overcame other considerations, and, bidding Annette follow
her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there await her
return, she descended from her chamber. The castle was perfectly
still, and the great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene of
dreadful contention, now returned only the whispering footsteps of the
two solitary figures gliding fearfully between the pillars, and gleamed
only to the feeble lamp they carried. Emily, deceived by the long
shadows of the pillars and by the catching lights between, often
stopped, imagining she saw some person, moving in the distant obscurity
of the perspective; and, as she passed these pillars, she feared to turn
her eyes toward them, almost expecting to see a figure start out from
behind their broad shaft. She reached, however, the vaulted gallery,
without interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand,
and, charging Annette not to quit it and to keep it a little open, that
she might be heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp, which
she did not dare to take herself because of the men on watch, and,
alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace. Every thing was so still,
that she feared, lest her own light steps should be heard by the distant
sentinels, and she walked cautiously towards the spot, where she had
before met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and looking onward through
the gloom in search of him. At length, she was startled by a deep voice,
that spoke near her, and she paused, uncertain whether it was his, till
it spoke again, and she then recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine,
who had been punctual to the moment, and was at the appointed place,
resting on the rampart wall. After chiding her for not coming sooner,
and saying, that he had been waiting nearly half an hour, he desired
Emily, who made no reply, to follow him to the door, through which he
had entered the terrace.

While he unlocked it, she looked back to that she had left, and,
observing the rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, was
certain, that Annette was still there. But her remote situation could
little befriend Emily, after she had quitted the terrace; and, when
Barnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of the passage beyond,
shewn by a torch burning on the pavement, made her shrink from following
him alone, and she refused to go, unless Annette might accompany her.
This, however, Barnardine absolutely refused to permit, mingling at the
same time with his refusal such artful circumstances to heighten the
pity and curiosity of Emily towards her aunt, that she, at length,
consented to follow him alone to the portal.

He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the
extremity of which he unlocked another door, whence they descended,
a few steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch
to light her, Emily observed to be in ruins, and she immediately
recollected a former conversation of Annette, concerning it, with very
unpleasant emotions. She looked fearfully on the almost roofless walls,
green with damps, and on the gothic points of the windows, where the ivy
and the briony had long supplied the place of glass, and ran mantling
among the broken capitals of some columns, that had once supported the
roof. Barnardine stumbled over the broken pavement, and his voice, as he
uttered a sudden oath, was returned in hollow echoes, that made it more
terrific. Emily's heart sunk; but she still followed him, and he turned
out of what had been the principal aisle of the chapel. 'Down these
steps, lady,' said Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appeared
to lead into the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a
tremulous tone, whither he was conducting her.

'To the portal,' said Barnardine.

'Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal?' said Emily.

'No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don't choose to
unlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently.'

Emily still hesitated; fearing not only to go on, but, since she had
gone thus far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to go further.

'Come, lady,' said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of the
flight, 'make a little haste; I cannot wait here all night.'

'Whither do these steps lead?' said Emily, yet pausing.

'To the portal,' repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone, 'I will wait no
longer.' As he said this, he moved on with the light, and Emily, fearing
to provoke him by further delay, reluctantly followed. From the steps,
they proceeded through a passage, adjoining the vaults, the walls of
which were dropping with unwholesome dews, and the vapours, that crept
along the ground, made the torch burn so dimly, that Emily expected
every moment to see it extinguished, and Barnardine could scarcely find
his way. As they advanced, these vapours thickened, and Barnardine,
believing the torch was expiring, stopped for a moment to trim it. As he
then rested against a pair of iron gates, that opened from the passage,
Emily saw, by uncertain flashes of light, the vaults beyond, and, near
her, heaps of earth, that seemed to surround an open grave. Such an
object, in such a scene, would, at any time, have disturbed her; but
now she was shocked by an instantaneous presentiment, that this was the
grave of her unfortunate aunt, and that the treacherous Barnardine was
leading herself to destruction. The obscure and terrible place, to which
he had conducted her, seemed to justify the thought; it was a place
suited for murder, a receptacle for the dead, where a deed of horror
might be committed, and no vestige appear to proclaim it. Emily was so
overwhelmed with terror, that, for a moment, she was unable to determine
what conduct to pursue. She then considered, that it would be vain to
attempt an escape from Barnardine, by flight, since the length and the
intricacy of the way she had passed would soon enable him to overtake
her, who was unacquainted with the turnings, and whose feebleness
would not suffer her to run long with swiftness. She feared equally
to irritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions, which a refusal to
accompany him further certainly would do; and, since she was already
as much in his power as it was possible she could be, if she proceeded,
she, at length, determined to suppress, as far as she could, the
appearance of apprehension, and to follow silently whither he designed
to lead her. Pale with horror and anxiety, she now waited till
Barnardine had trimmed the torch, and, as her sight glanced again upon
the grave, she could not forbear enquiring, for whom it was prepared.
He took his eyes from the torch, and fixed them upon her face without
speaking. She faintly repeated the question, but the man, shaking the
torch, passed on; and she followed, trembling, to a second flight of
steps, having ascended which, a door delivered them into the first court
of the castle. As they crossed it, the light shewed the high black walls
around them, fringed with long grass and dank weeds, that found a scanty
soil among the mouldering stones; the heavy buttresses, with, here and
there, between them, a narrow grate, that admitted a freer circulation
of air to the court, the massy iron gates, that led to the castle, whose
clustering turrets appeared above, and, opposite, the huge towers and
arch of the portal itself. In this scene the large, uncouth person of
Barnardine, bearing the torch, formed a characteristic figure. This
Barnardine was wrapt in a long dark cloak, which scarcely allowed
the kind of half-boots, or sandals, that were laced upon his legs, to
appear, and shewed only the point of a broad sword, which he usually
wore, slung in a belt across his shoulders. On his head was a heavy flat
velvet cap, somewhat resembling a turban, in which was a short feather;
the visage beneath it shewed strong features, and a countenance furrowed
with the lines of cunning and darkened by habitual discontent.

The view of the court, however, reanimated Emily, who, as she crossed
silently towards the portal, began to hope, that her own fears, and not
the treachery of Barnardine, had deceived her. She looked anxiously
up at the first casement, that appeared above the lofty arch of the
portcullis; but it was dark, and she enquired, whether it belonged to
the chamber, where Madame Montoni was confined. Emily spoke low, and
Barnardine, perhaps, did not hear her question, for he returned no
answer; and they, soon after, entered the postern door of the gate-way,
which brought them to the foot of a narrow stair-case, that wound up one
of the towers.

'Up this stair-case the Signora lies,' said Barnardine.

'Lies!' repeated Emily faintly, as she began to ascend.

'She lies in the upper chamber,' said Barnardine.

As they passed up, the wind, which poured through the narrow cavities in
the wall, made the torch flare, and it threw a stronger gleam upon the
grim and sallow countenance of Barnardine, and discovered more fully the
desolation of the place--the rough stone walls, the spiral stairs, black
with age, and a suit of antient armour, with an iron visor, that hung
upon the walls, and appeared a trophy of some former victory.

Having reached a landing-place, 'You may wait here, lady,' said he,
applying a key to the door of a chamber, 'while I go up, and tell the
Signora you are coming.'

'That ceremony is unnecessary,' replied Emily, 'my aunt will rejoice to
see me.'

'I am not so sure of that,' said Barnardine, pointing to the room he had
opened: 'Come in here, lady, while I step up.'

Emily, surprised and somewhat shocked, did not dare to oppose him
further, but, as he was turning away with the torch, desired he would
not leave her in darkness. He looked around, and, observing a tripod
lamp, that stood on the stairs, lighted and gave it to Emily, who
stepped forward into a large old chamber, and he closed the door. As
she listened anxiously to his departing steps, she thought he descended,
instead of ascending, the stairs; but the gusts of wind, that whistled
round the portal, would not allow her to hear distinctly any other
sound. Still, however, she listened, and, perceiving no step in the
room above, where he had affirmed Madame Montoni to be, her anxiety
increased, though she considered, that the thickness of the floor in
this strong building might prevent any sound reaching her from the upper
chamber. The next moment, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished
Barnardine's step descending to the court, and then thought she heard
his voice; but, the rising gust again overcoming other sounds, Emily, to
be certain on this point, moved softly to the door, which, on attempting
to open it, she discovered was fastened. All the horrid apprehensions,
that had lately assailed her, returned at this instant with redoubled
force, and no longer appeared like the exaggerations of a timid spirit,
but seemed to have been sent to warn her of her fate. She now did not
doubt, that Madame Montoni had been murdered, perhaps in this very
chamber; or that she herself was brought hither for the same purpose.
The countenance, the manners and the recollected words of Barnardine,
when he had spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worst fears. For some
moments, she was incapable of considering of any means, by which she
might attempt an escape. Still she listened, but heard footsteps neither
on the stairs, or in the room above; she thought, however, that she
again distinguished Barnardine's voice below, and went to a grated
window, that opened upon the court, to enquire further. Here, she
plainly heard his hoarse accents, mingling with the blast, that swept
by, but they were lost again so quickly, that their meaning could not be
interpreted; and then the light of a torch, which seemed to issue from
the portal below, flashed across the court, and the long shadow of a
man, who was under the arch-way, appeared upon the pavement. Emily,
from the hugeness of this sudden portrait, concluded it to be that
of Barnardine; but other deep tones, which passed in the wind, soon
convinced her he was not alone, and that his companion was not a person
very liable to pity.

When her spirits had overcome the first shock of her situation, she
held up the lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a possibility of an
escape. It was a spacious room, whose walls, wainscoted with rough oak,
shewed no casement but the grated one, which Emily had left, and no
other door than that, by which she had entered. The feeble rays of the
lamp, however, did not allow her to see at once its full extent; she
perceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron chair, fastened in the
centre of the chamber, immediately over which, depending on a chain from
the ceiling, hung an iron ring. Having gazed upon these, for some time,
with wonder and horror, she next observed iron bars below, made for the
purpose of confining the feet, and on the arms of the chair were rings
of the same metal. As she continued to survey them, she concluded, that
they were instruments of torture, and it struck her, that some poor
wretch had once been fastened in this chair, and had there been starved
to death. She was chilled by the thought; but, what was her agony, when,
in the next moment, it occurred to her, that her aunt might have been
one of these victims, and that she herself might be the next! An acute
pain seized her head, she was scarcely able to hold the lamp, and,
looking round for support, was seating herself, unconsciously, in the
iron chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where she was, she started
from it in horror, and sprung towards a remote end of the room. Here
again she looked round for a seat to sustain her, and perceived only a
dark curtain, which, descending from the ceiling to the floor, was drawn
along the whole side of the chamber. Ill as she was, the appearance of
this curtain struck her, and she paused to gaze upon it, in wonder and
apprehension.

It seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet dreaded,
to lift it, and to discover what it veiled: twice she was withheld by
a recollection of the terrible spectacle her daring hand had formerly
unveiled in an apartment of the castle, till, suddenly conjecturing,
that it concealed the body of her murdered aunt, she seized it, in a fit
of desperation, and drew it aside. Beyond, appeared a corpse, stretched
on a kind of low couch, which was crimsoned with human blood, as was
the floor beneath. The features, deformed by death, were ghastly and
horrible, and more than one livid wound appeared in the face. Emily,
bending over the body, gazed, for a moment, with an eager, frenzied eye;
but, in the next, the lamp dropped from her hand, and she fell senseless
at the foot of the couch.

When her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, among
whom was Barnardine, who were lifting her from the floor, and then bore
her along the chamber. She was sensible of what passed, but the extreme
languor of her spirits did not permit her to speak, or move, or even to
feel any distinct fear. They carried her down the stair-case, by which
she had ascended; when, having reached the arch-way, they stopped, and
one of the men, taking the torch from Barnardine, opened a small door,
that was cut in the great gate, and, as he stepped out upon the road,
the light he bore shewed several men on horseback, in waiting. Whether
it was the freshness of the air, that revived Emily, or that the objects
she now saw roused the spirit of alarm, she suddenly spoke, and made an
ineffectual effort to disengage herself from the grasp of the ruffians,
who held her.

Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch, while distant voices
answered, and several persons approached, and, in the same instant, a
light flashed upon the court of the castle. Again he vociferated for the
torch, and the men hurried Emily through the gate. At a short distance,
under the shelter of the castle walls, she perceived the fellow, who had
taken the light from the porter, holding it to a man, busily employed
in altering the saddle of a horse, round which were several horsemen,
looking on, whose harsh features received the full glare of the torch;
while the broken ground beneath them, the opposite walls, with the
tufted shrubs, that overhung their summits, and an embattled watch-tower
above, were reddened with the gleam, which, fading gradually away, left
the remoter ramparts and the woods below to the obscurity of night.

'What do you waste time for, there?' said Barnardine with an oath, as he
approached the horsemen. 'Dispatch--dispatch!'

'The saddle will be ready in a minute,' replied the man who was buckling
it, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for his negligence, and Emily,
calling feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses, while the
ruffians disputed on which to place her, the one designed for her not
being ready. At this moment a cluster of lights issued from the great
gates, and she immediately heard the shrill voice of Annette above
those of several other persons, who advanced. In the same moment, she
distinguished Montoni and Cavigni, followed by a number of ruffian-faced
fellows, to whom she no longer looked with terror, but with hope, for,
at this instant, she did not tremble at the thought of any dangers, that
might await her within the castle, whence so lately, and so anxiously
she had wished to escape. Those, which threatened her from without, had
engrossed all her apprehensions.

A short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni,
however, were presently victors, and the horsemen, perceiving that
numbers were against them, and being, perhaps, not very warmly
interested in the affair they had undertaken, galloped off, while
Barnardine had run far enough to be lost in the darkness, and Emily was
led back into the castle. As she re-passed the courts, the remembrance
of what she had seen in the portal-chamber came, with all its horror, to
her mind; and when, soon after, she heard the gate close, that shut
her once more within the castle walls, she shuddered for herself, and,
almost forgetting the danger she had escaped, could scarcely think, that
any thing less precious than liberty and peace was to be found beyond
them.

Montoni ordered Emily to await him in the cedar parlour, whither he soon
followed, and then sternly questioned her on this mysterious affair.
Though she now viewed him with horror, as the murderer of her aunt, and
scarcely knew what she said in reply to his impatient enquiries, her
answers and her manner convinced him, that she had not taken a voluntary
part in the late scheme, and he dismissed her upon the appearance of his
servants, whom he had ordered to attend, that he might enquire further
into the affair, and discover those, who had been accomplices in it.

Emily had been some time in her apartment, before the tumult of her mind
allowed her to remember several of the past circumstances. Then, again,
the dead form, which the curtain in the portal-chamber had disclosed,
came to her fancy, and she uttered a groan, which terrified Annette the
more, as Emily forbore to satisfy her curiosity, on the subject of
it, for she feared to trust her with so fatal a secret, lest her
indiscretion should call down the immediate vengeance of Montoni on
herself.

Thus compelled to bear within her own mind the whole horror of the
secret, that oppressed it, her reason seemed to totter under the
intolerable weight. She often fixed a wild and vacant look on Annette,
and, when she spoke, either did not hear her, or answered from the
purpose. Long fits of abstraction succeeded; Annette spoke repeatedly,
but her voice seemed not to make any impression on the sense of the long
agitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent, except that, now and then, she
heaved a heavy sigh, but without tears.

Terrified at her condition, Annette, at length, left the room, to inform
Montoni of it, who had just dismissed his servants, without having made
any discoveries on the subject of his enquiry. The wild description,
which this girl now gave of Emily, induced him to follow her immediately
to the chamber.

At the sound of his voice, Emily turned her eyes, and a gleam of
recollection seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for she immediately rose
from her seat, and moved slowly to a remote part of the room. He spoke
to her in accents somewhat softened from their usual harshness, but
she regarded him with a kind of half curious, half terrified look,
and answered only 'yes,' to whatever he said. Her mind still seemed to
retain no other impression, than that of fear.

Of this disorder Annette could give no explanation, and Montoni, having
attempted, for some time, to persuade Emily to talk, retired, after
ordering Annette to remain with her, during the night, and to inform
him, in the morning, of her condition.

When he was gone, Emily again came forward, and asked who it was, that
had been there to disturb her. Annette said it was the Signor-Signor
Montoni. Emily repeated the name after her, several times, as if she
did not recollect it, and then suddenly groaned, and relapsed into
abstraction.

With some difficulty, Annette led her to the bed, which Emily examined
with an eager, frenzied eye, before she lay down, and then, pointing,
turned with shuddering emotion, to Annette, who, now more terrified,
went towards the door, that she might bring one of the female servants
to pass the night with them; but Emily, observing her going, called her
by name, and then in the naturally soft and plaintive tone of her voice,
begged, that she, too, would not forsake her.--'For since my father
died,' added she, sighing, 'every body forsakes me.'

'Your father, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'he was dead before you knew
me.'

'He was, indeed!' rejoined Emily, and her tears began to flow. She now
wept silently and long, after which, becoming quite calm, she at length
sunk to sleep, Annette having had discretion enough not to interrupt
her tears. This girl, as affectionate as she was simple, lost in these
moments all her former fears of remaining in the chamber, and watched
alone by Emily, during the whole night.

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

completion: Em's creeped out, but she makes the meeting. Barnardine takes her through the castle and tells her to hold on a sec: he has to make sure Madame Montoni wants to see her. While waiting for Barnardine to check, Em examines the chamber she's been left in. She sees what look like torture devices and a dark curtain drawn across part of the room. Scary stuff. Of course, our favorite gal can't help but peek behind the curtain. Ugh, there's a bloodied body. Em passes out faster than a speeding bullet. She wakes up to Barnardine and some strange men carrying her to a horse. Count Morano is up to his usual tricks, it seems. But wait--Annette brings Montoni and others from the castle to intercept the second attempted kidnapping. There's a scuffle, but Em is brought back into the castle. She's so shocked that she makes crazy eyes at Annette and scares the bejeebies out of her. Montoni tries to interrogate Em on what happened, but all she can say is "Yes." She cries herself to sleep.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER II

     unfold
 What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
 Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook
 Her mansion in this fleshly nook!
     IL PENSEROSO

Emily's mind was refreshed by sleep. On waking in the morning, she
looked with surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair beside the
bed, and then endeavoured to recollect herself; but the circumstances of
the preceding night were swept from her memory, which seemed to retain
no trace of what had passed, and she was still gazing with surprise on
Annette, when the latter awoke.

'O dear ma'amselle! do you know me?' cried she.

'Know you! Certainly,' replied Emily, 'you are Annette; but why are you
sitting by me thus?'

'O you have been very ill, ma'amselle,--very ill indeed! and I am sure I
thought--'

'This is very strange!' said Emily, still trying to recollect the
past.--'But I think I do remember, that my fancy has been haunted by
frightful dreams. Good God!' she added, suddenly starting--'surely it
was nothing more than a dream!'

She fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who, intending to quiet her,
said 'Yes, ma'amselle, it was more than a dream, but it is all over
now.'

'She IS murdered, then!' said Emily in an inward voice, and shuddering
instantaneously. Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of the
circumstance to which Emily referred, she attributed her manner to a
disordered fancy; but, when she had explained to what her own speech
alluded, Emily, recollecting the attempt that had been made to carry her
off, asked if the contriver of it had been discovered. Annette replied,
that he had not, though he might easily be guessed at; and then told
Emily she might thank her for her deliverance, who, endeavouring to
command the emotion, which the remembrance of her aunt had occasioned,
appeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, in truth, she heard
scarcely a word that was said.

'And so, ma'amselle,' continued the latter, 'I was determined to be even
with Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret, by finding it out
myself; so I watched you, on the terrace, and, as soon as he had opened
the door at the end, I stole out from the castle, to try to follow you;
for, says I, I am sure no good can be planned, or why all this secrecy?
So, sure enough, he had not bolted the door after him, and, when I
opened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the torch, at the other end of the
passage, which way you were going. I followed the light, at a distance,
till you came to the vaults of the chapel, and there I was afraid to go
further, for I had heard strange things about these vaults. But then,
again, I was afraid to go back, all in darkness, by myself; so by the
time Barnardine had trimmed the light, I had resolved to follow you, and
I did so, till you came to the great court, and there I was afraid he
would see me; so I stopped at the door again, and watched you across to
the gates, and, when you was gone up the stairs, I whipt after. There,
as I stood under the gate-way, I heard horses' feet without, and several
men talking; and I heard them swearing at Barnardine for not bringing
you out, and just then, he had like to have caught me, for he came down
the stairs again, and I had hardly time to get out of his way. But I had
heard enough of his secret now, and I determined to be even with him,
and to save you, too, ma'amselle, for I guessed it to be some new scheme
of Count Morano, though he was gone away. I ran into the castle, but I
had hard work to find my way through the passage under the chapel, and
what is very strange, I quite forgot to look for the ghosts they had
told me about, though I would not go into that place again by myself for
all the world! Luckily the Signor and Signor Cavigni were up, so we had
soon a train at our heels, sufficient to frighten that Barnardine and
his rogues, all together.'

Annette ceased to speak, but Emily still appeared to listen. At length
she said, suddenly, 'I think I will go to him myself;--where is he?'

Annette asked who was meant.

'Signor Montoni,' replied Emily. 'I would speak with him;' and Annette,
now remembering the order he had given, on the preceding night,
respecting her young lady, rose, and said she would seek him herself.

This honest girl's suspicions of Count Morano were perfectly just;
Emily, too, when she thought on the scheme, had attributed it to
him; and Montoni, who had not a doubt on this subject, also, began
to believe, that it was by the direction of Morano, that poison had
formerly been mingled with his wine.

The professions of repentance, which Morano had made to Emily, under the
anguish of his wound, was sincere at the moment he offered them; but
he had mistaken the subject of his sorrow, for, while he thought he was
condemning the cruelty of his late design, he was lamenting only the
state of suffering, to which it had reduced him. As these sufferings
abated, his former views revived, till, his health being re-established,
he again found himself ready for enterprise and difficulty. The porter
of the castle, who had served him, on a former occasion, willingly
accepted a second bribe; and, having concerted the means of drawing
Emily to the gates, Morano publicly left the hamlet, whither he had been
carried after the affray, and withdrew with his people to another
at several miles distance. From thence, on a night agreed upon by
Barnardine, who had discovered from the thoughtless prattle of Annette,
the most probable means of decoying Emily, the Count sent back his
servants to the castle, while he awaited her arrival at the hamlet, with
an intention of carrying her immediately to Venice. How this, his second
scheme, was frustrated, has already appeared; but the violent, and
various passions with which this Italian lover was now agitated, on his
return to that city, can only be imagined.

Annette having made her report to Montoni of Emily's health and of her
request to see him, he replied, that she might attend him in the cedar
room, in about an hour. It was on the subject, that pressed so heavily
on her mind, that Emily wished to speak to him, yet she did not
distinctly know what good purpose this could answer, and sometimes
she even recoiled in horror from the expectation of his presence. She
wished, also, to petition, though she scarcely dared to believe the
request would be granted, that he would permit her, since her aunt was
no more, to return to her native country.

As the moment of interview approached, her agitation increased so much,
that she almost resolved to excuse herself under what could scarcely
be called a pretence of illness; and, when she considered what could
be said, either concerning herself, or the fate of her aunt, she was
equally hopeless as to the event of her entreaty, and terrified as
to its effect upon the vengeful spirit of Montoni. Yet, to pretend
ignorance of her death, appeared, in some degree, to be sharing its
criminality, and, indeed, this event was the only ground, on which Emily
could rest her petition for leaving Udolpho.

While her thoughts thus wavered, a message was brought, importing, that
Montoni could not see her, till the next day; and her spirits were
then relieved, for a moment, from an almost intolerable weight of
apprehension. Annette said, she fancied the Chevaliers were going out
to the wars again, for the court-yard was filled with horses, and she
heard, that the rest of the party, who went out before, were expected at
the castle. 'And I heard one of the soldiers, too,' added she, 'say
to his comrade, that he would warrant they'd bring home a rare deal of
booty.--So, thinks I, if the Signor can, with a safe conscience, send
his people out a-robbing--why it is no business of mine. I only wish
I was once safe out of this castle; and, if it had not been for poor
Ludovico's sake, I would have let Count Morano's people run away with
us both, for it would have been serving you a good turn, ma'amselle, as
well as myself.'

Annette might have continued thus talking for hours for any interruption
she would have received from Emily, who was silent, inattentive,
absorbed in thought, and passed the whole of this day in a kind
of solemn tranquillity, such as is often the result of faculties
overstrained by suffering.

When night returned, Emily recollected the mysterious strains of music,
that she had lately heard, in which she still felt some degree of
interest, and of which she hoped to hear again the soothing sweetness.
The influence of superstition now gained on the weakness of her
long-harassed mind; she looked, with enthusiastic expectation, to the
guardian spirit of her father, and, having dismissed Annette for the
night, determined to watch alone for their return. It was not yet,
however, near the time when she had heard the music on a former night,
and anxious to call off her thoughts from distressing subjects, she sat
down with one of the few books, that she had brought from France; but
her mind, refusing controul, became restless and agitated, and she went
often to the casement to listen for a sound. Once, she thought she heard
a voice, but then, every thing without the casement remaining still, she
concluded, that her fancy had deceived her.

Thus passed the time, till twelve o'clock, soon after which the distant
sounds, that murmured through the castle, ceased, and sleep seemed to
reign over all. Emily then seated herself at the casement, where she
was soon recalled from the reverie, into which she sunk, by very unusual
sounds, not of music, but like the low mourning of some person in
distress. As she listened, her heart faltered in terror, and she became
convinced, that the former sound was more than imaginary. Still,
at intervals, she heard a kind of feeble lamentation, and sought to
discover whence it came. There were several rooms underneath, adjoining
the rampart, which had been long shut up, and, as the sound probably
rose from one of these, she leaned from the casement to observe, whether
any light was visible there. The chambers, as far as she could perceive,
were quite dark, but, at a little distance, on the rampart below, she
thought she saw something moving.

The faint twilight, which the stars shed, did not enable her to
distinguish what it was; but she judged it to be a sentinel, on watch,
and she removed her light to a remote part of the chamber, that she
might escape notice, during her further observation.

The same object still appeared. Presently, it advanced along the
rampart, towards her window, and she then distinguished something like
a human form, but the silence, with which it moved, convinced her it
was no sentinel. As it drew near, she hesitated whether to retire; a
thrilling curiosity inclined her to stay, but a dread of she scarcely
knew what warned her to withdraw.

While she paused, the figure came opposite to her casement, and was
stationary. Every thing remained quiet; she had not heard even a
foot-fall; and the solemnity of this silence, with the mysterious form
she saw, subdued her spirits, so that she was moving from the casement,
when, on a sudden, she observed the figure start away, and glide down
the rampart, after which it was soon lost in the obscurity of night.
Emily continued to gaze, for some time, on the way it had passed, and
then retired within her chamber, musing on this strange circumstance,
and scarcely doubting, that she had witnessed a supernatural appearance.

When her spirits recovered composure, she looked round for some other
explanation. Remembering what she had heard of the daring enterprises of
Montoni, it occurred to her, that she had just seen some unhappy
person, who, having been plundered by his banditti, was brought hither a
captive; and that the music she had formerly heard, came from him.
Yet, if they had plundered him, it still appeared improbable, that they
should have brought him to the castle, and it was also more consistent
with the manners of banditti to murder those they rob, than to make them
prisoners. But what, more than any other circumstance, contradicted
the supposition, that it was a prisoner, was that it wandered on the
terrace, without a guard: a consideration, which made her dismiss
immediately her first surmise.

Afterwards, she was inclined to believe, that Count Morano had obtained
admittance into the castle; but she soon recollected the difficulties
and dangers, that must have opposed such an enterprise, and that, if he
had so far succeeded, to come alone and in silence to her casement at
midnight was not the conduct he would have adopted, particularly since
the private stair-case, communicating with her apartment, was known to
him; neither would he have uttered the dismal sounds she had heard.

Another suggestion represented, that this might be some person, who had
designs upon the castle; but the mournful sounds destroyed, also, that
probability. Thus, enquiry only perplexed her. Who, or what, it could be
that haunted this lonely hour, complaining in such doleful accents and
in such sweet music (for she was still inclined to believe, that the
former strains and the late appearance were connected,) she had no means
of ascertaining; and imagination again assumed her empire, and roused
the mysteries of superstition.

She determined, however, to watch on the following night, when her
doubts might, perhaps, be cleared up; and she almost resolved to address
the figure, if it should appear again.

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

completion: Annette fills Em in on how she knew Barnardine was bad: she watched from the terrace as the evil porter tried to kidnap Em. Em wants to see Montoni ASAP, but he puts off seeing her for a day. Meanwhile, Em hears more than strange music at night. There's the distinct sound of moaning around midnight. Naturally, Em wants to know who's moaning. She leans over the casement and sees a human form creeping below her window. With her imagination running wild, Em thinks it could be a captive from the dungeon.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER III

 Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,
 Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,
 Lingering, and sitting, by a new-made grave.
     MILTON

On the following day, Montoni sent a second excuse to Emily, who was
surprised at the circumstance. 'This is very strange!' said she to
herself. 'His conscience tells him the purport of my visit, and he
defers it, to avoid an explanation.' She now almost resolved to throw
herself in his way, but terror checked the intention, and this day
passed, as the preceding one, with Emily, except that a degree of awful
expectation, concerning the approaching night, now somewhat disturbed
the dreadful calmness that had pervaded her mind.

Towards evening, the second part of the band, which had made the first
excursion among the mountains, returned to the castle, where, as they
entered the courts, Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their loud
shouts and strains of exultation, like the orgies of furies over
some horrid sacrifice. She even feared they were about to commit some
barbarous deed; a conjecture from which, however, Annette soon relieved
her, by telling, that the people were only exulting over the plunder
they had brought with them. This circumstance still further confirmed
her in the belief, that Montoni had really commenced to be a captain of
banditti, and meant to retrieve his broken fortunes by the plunder of
travellers! Indeed, when she considered all the circumstances of his
situation--in an armed, and almost inaccessible castle, retired far
among the recesses of wild and solitary mountains, along whose distant
skirts were scattered towns, and cities, whither wealthy travellers were
continually passing--this appeared to be the situation of all others
most suited for the success of schemes of rapine, and she yielded to
the strange thought, that Montoni was become a captain of robbers. His
character also, unprincipled, dauntless, cruel and enterprising, seemed
to fit him for the situation. Delighting in the tumult and in the
struggles of life, he was equally a stranger to pity and to fear; his
very courage was a sort of animal ferocity; not the noble impulse of
a principle, such as inspirits the mind against the oppressor, in the
cause of the oppressed; but a constitutional hardiness of nerve, that
cannot feel, and that, therefore, cannot fear.

Emily's supposition, however natural, was in part erroneous, for she was
a stranger to the state of this country and to the circumstances, under
which its frequent wars were partly conducted. The revenues of the many
states of Italy being, at that time, insufficient to the support of
standing armies, even during the short periods, which the turbulent
habits both of the governments and the people permitted to pass in
peace, an order of men arose not known in our age, and but faintly
described in the history of their own. Of the soldiers, disbanded at
the end of every war, few returned to the safe, but unprofitable
occupations, then usual in peace. Sometimes they passed into other
countries, and mingled with armies, which still kept the field.
Sometimes they formed themselves into bands of robbers, and occupied
remote fortresses, where their desperate character, the weakness of the
governments which they offended, and the certainty, that they could
be recalled to the armies, when their presence should be again wanted,
prevented them from being much pursued by the civil power; and,
sometimes, they attached themselves to the fortunes of a popular chief,
by whom they were led into the service of any state, which could settle
with him the price of their valour. From this latter practice arose
their name--CONDOTTIERI; a term formidable all over Italy, for a period,
which concluded in the earlier part of the seventeenth century, but of
which it is not so easy to ascertain the commencement.

Contests between the smaller states were then, for the most part,
affairs of enterprize alone, and the probabilities of success were
estimated, not from the skill, but from the personal courage of the
general, and the soldiers. The ability, which was necessary to the
conduct of tedious operations, was little valued. It was enough to
know how a party might be led towards their enemies, with the greatest
secrecy, or conducted from them in the compactest order. The officer was
to precipitate himself into a situation, where, but for his example,
the soldiers might not have ventured; and, as the opposed parties knew
little of each other's strength, the event of the day was frequently
determined by the boldness of the first movements. In such services the
condottieri were eminent, and in these, where plunder always followed
success, their characters acquired a mixture of intrepidity and
profligacy, which awed even those whom they served.

When they were not thus engaged, their chief had usually his own
fortress, in which, or in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksome
rest; and, though their wants were, at one time, partly supplied from
the property of the inhabitants, the lavish distribution of their
plunder at others, prevented them from being obnoxious; and the peasants
of such districts gradually shared the character of their warlike
visitors. The neighbouring governments sometimes professed, but seldom
endeavoured, to suppress these military communities; both because it was
difficult to do so, and because a disguised protection of them ensured,
for the service of their wars, a body of men, who could not otherwise
be so cheaply maintained, or so perfectly qualified. The commanders
sometimes even relied so far upon this policy of the several powers, as
to frequent their capitals; and Montoni, having met them in the gaming
parties of Venice and Padua, conceived a desire to emulate their
characters, before his ruined fortunes tempted him to adopt their
practices. It was for the arrangement of his present plan of life, that
the midnight councils were held at his mansion in Venice, and at which
Orsino and some other members of the present community then assisted
with suggestions, which they had since executed with the wreck of their
fortunes.

On the return of night, Emily resumed her station at the casement. There
was now a moon; and, as it rose over the tufted woods, its yellow light
served to shew the lonely terrace and the surrounding objects, more
distinctly, than the twilight of the stars had done, and promised Emily
to assist her observations, should the mysterious form return. On this
subject, she again wavered in conjecture, and hesitated whether to speak
to the figure, to which a strong and almost irresistible interest urged
her; but terror, at intervals, made her reluctant to do so.

'If this is a person who has designs upon the castle,' said she, 'my
curiosity may prove fatal to me; yet the mysterious music, and the
lamentations I heard, must surely have proceeded from him: if so, he
cannot be an enemy.'

She then thought of her unfortunate aunt, and, shuddering with grief
and horror, the suggestions of imagination seized her mind with all
the force of truth, and she believed, that the form she had seen was
supernatural. She trembled, breathed with difficulty, an icy coldness
touched her cheeks, and her fears for a while overcame her judgment.
Her resolution now forsook her, and she determined, if the figure should
appear, not to speak to it.

Thus the time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by expectation,
and by the gloom and stillness of midnight; for she saw obscurely in
the moon-light only the mountains and woods, a cluster of towers, that
formed the west angle of the castle, and the terrace below; and heard
no sound, except, now and then, the lonely watch-word, passed by the
centinels on duty, and afterwards the steps of the men who came to
relieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on the rampart by their
pikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then, by the few short words,
in which they hailed their fellows of the night. Emily retired within
her chamber, while they passed the casement. When she returned to
it, all was again quiet. It was now very late, she was wearied with
watching, and began to doubt the reality of what she had seen on the
preceding night; but she still lingered at the window, for her mind was
too perturbed to admit of sleep. The moon shone with a clear lustre,
that afforded her a complete view of the terrace; but she saw only a
solitary centinel, pacing at one end of it; and, at length, tired with
expectation, she withdrew to seek rest.

Such, however, was the impression, left on her mind by the music, and
the complaining she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure, which
she fancied she had seen, that she determined to repeat the watch, on
the following night.

Montoni, on the next day, took no notice of Emily's appointed visit, but
she, more anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to enquire, at
what hour he would admit her. He mentioned eleven o'clock, and Emily
was punctual to the moment; at which she called up all her fortitude
to support the shock of his presence and the dreadful recollections it
enforced. He was with several of his officers, in the cedar room;
on observing whom she paused; and her agitation increased, while he
continued to converse with them, apparently not observing her, till some
of his officers, turning round, saw Emily, and uttered an exclamation.
She was hastily retiring, when Montoni's voice arrested her, and, in a
faultering accent, she said,--'I would speak with you, Signor Montoni,
if you are at leisure.'

'These are my friends,' he replied, 'whatever you would say, they may
hear.'

Emily, without replying, turned from the rude gaze of the chevaliers,
and Montoni then followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a small
room, of which he shut the door with violence. As she looked on his dark
countenance, she again thought she saw the murderer of her aunt; and
her mind was so convulsed with horror, that she had not power to recall
thought enough to explain the purport of her visit; and to trust herself
with the mention of Madame Montoni was more than she dared.

Montoni at length impatiently enquired what she had to say? 'I have no
time for trifling,' he added, 'my moments are important.'

Emily then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came to
beg, that he would permit her to do so.--But when he looked surprised,
and enquired for the motive of the request, she hesitated, became paler
than before, trembled, and had nearly sunk at his feet. He observed
her emotion, with apparent indifference, and interrupted the silence
by telling her, he must be gone. Emily, however, recalled her spirits
sufficiently to enable her to repeat her request. And, when Montoni
absolutely refused it, her slumbering mind was roused.

'I can no longer remain here with propriety, sir,' said she, 'and I may
be allowed to ask, by what right you detain me.'

'It is my will that you remain here,' said Montoni, laying his hand on
the door to go; 'let that suffice you.'

Emily, considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore to
dispute his right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to be
just. 'While my aunt lived, sir,' said she, in a tremulous voice, 'my
residence here was not improper; but now, that she is no more, I may
surely be permitted to depart. My stay cannot benefit you, sir, and will
only distress me.'

'Who told you, that Madame Montoni was dead?' said Montoni, with an
inquisitive eye. Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, and
she did not dare to avow the having seen that spectacle in the
portal-chamber, which had compelled her to the belief.

'Who told you so?' he repeated, more sternly.

'Alas! I know it too well,' replied Emily: 'spare me on this terrible
subject!'

She sat down on a bench to support herself.

'If you wish to see her,' said Montoni, 'you may; she lies in the east
turret.'

He now left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to the
cedar chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen
Emily, began to rally him, on the discovery they had made; but Montoni
did not appear disposed to bear this mirth, and they changed the
subject.

Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion, which
he meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they should lie
in wait for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed, reproached
Orsino with want of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni would let him
lead on fifty men, he would conquer all that should oppose him.

Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also listened.
Verezzi then proceeded with vehement declamation and assertion, till he
was stopped by an argument of Orsino, which he knew not how to answer
better than by invective. His fierce spirit detested the cunning caution
of Orsino, whom he constantly opposed, and whose inveterate, though
silent, hatred he had long ago incurred. And Montoni was a calm observer
of both, whose different qualifications he knew, and how to bend their
opposite character to the perfection of his own designs. But Verezzi,
in the heat of opposition, now did not scruple to accuse Orsino of
cowardice, at which the countenance of the latter, while he made no
reply, was overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who watched
his lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom. But
Verezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking contrast to
the complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and continued boldly
declaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily laughing at his
vehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino, when the latter,
retiring a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to stab his
adversary in the back. Montoni arrested his half-extended arm, and, with
a significant look, made him return the poinard into his bosom, unseen
by all except himself; for most of the party were disputing at a
distant window, on the situation of a dell where they meant to form an
ambuscade.

When Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on the
features of his opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicion
of his intention, he laid his hand on his sword, and then, seeming to
recollect himself, strode up to Montoni.

'Signor,' said he, with a significant look at Orsino, 'we are not a
band of assassins; if you have business for brave men employ me on this
expedition: you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you have
only work for cowards--keep him,' pointing to Orsino, 'and let me quit
Udolpho.'

Orsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and rushed
towards Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his sword, when
Montoni and the rest of the party interfered and separated them.

'This is the conduct of a boy,' said Montoni to Verezzi, 'not of a man:
be more moderate in your speech.'

'Moderation is the virtue of cowards,' retorted Verezzi; 'they are
moderate in every thing--but in fear.'

'I accept your words,' said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce and
haughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard.

'With all my heart,' cried Verezzi, 'though I did not mean them for
you.'

He directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villain
Orsino made another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented.

The combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and
violent dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino,
whom he detained in private consultation for a considerable time.

Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for the
moment, his declaration, that she should continue in the castle, while
she thought of her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid in
the east turret. In suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus long
unburied, there appeared a degree of brutality more shocking than she
had suspected even Montoni could practise.

After a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to visit
the turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with which
design she returned to her chamber, and, while she waited for Annette
to accompany her, endeavoured to acquire fortitude sufficient to support
her through the approaching scene; for, though she trembled to encounter
it, she knew that to remember the performance of this last act of duty
would hereafter afford her consoling satisfaction.

Annette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former
endeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was,
with much difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret; but
no consideration could make her promise to enter the chamber of death.

They now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the
stair-case, which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared she
would go no further, and Emily proceeded alone. When she saw the track
of blood, which she had before observed, her spirits fainted, and, being
compelled to rest on the stairs, she almost determined to proceed no
further. The pause of a few moments restored her resolution, and she
went on.

As she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber opened,
she remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and apprehended,
that it might still be so. In this expectation, however, she was
mistaken; for the door opened at once, into a dusky and silent chamber,
round which she fearfully looked, and then slowly advanced, when a
hollow voice spoke. Emily, who was unable to speak, or to move from
the spot, uttered no sound of terror. The voice spoke again; and, then,
thinking that it resembled that of Madame Montoni, Emily's spirits were
instantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, that stood in a remote part
of the room, and drew aside the curtains. Within, appeared a pale and
emaciated face. She started back, then again advanced, shuddered as she
took up the skeleton hand, that lay stretched upon the quilt; then let
it drop, and then viewed the face with a long, unsettled gaze. It
was that of Madame Montoni, though so changed by illness, that the
resemblance of what it had been, could scarcely be traced in what it now
appeared. She was still alive, and, raising her heavy eyes, she turned
them on her niece.

'Where have you been so long?' said she, in the same tone, 'I
thought you had forsaken me.'

'Do you indeed live,' said Emily, at length, 'or is this but a terrible
apparition?' she received no answer, and again she snatched up the hand.
'This is substance,' she exclaimed, 'but it is cold--cold as marble!'
She let it fall. 'O, if you really live, speak!' said Emily, in a voice
of desperation, 'that I may not lose my senses--say you know me!'

'I do live,' replied Madame Montoni, 'but--I feel that I am about to
die.'

Emily clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned. They were
both silent for some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe her, and
enquired what had reduced her to this present deplorable state.

Montoni, when he removed her to the turret under the improbable
suspicion of having attempted his life, had ordered the men employed on
the occasion, to observe a strict secrecy concerning her. To this he was
influenced by a double motive. He meant to debar her from the comfort
of Emily's visits, and to secure an opportunity of privately dispatching
her, should any new circumstances occur to confirm the present
suggestions of his suspecting mind. His consciousness of the hatred he
deserved it was natural enough should at first led him to attribute to
her the attempt that had been made upon his life; and, though there
was no other reason to believe that she was concerned in that atrocious
design, his suspicions remained; he continued to confine her in the
turret, under a strict guard; and, without pity or remorse, had suffered
her to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a raging fever, till it had
reduced her to the present state.

The track of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed from
the unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame Montoni,
and which he had received in the late affray. At night these men, having
contented themselves with securing the door of their prisoner's room,
had retired from guard; and then it was, that Emily, at the time of her
first enquiry, had found the turret so silent and deserted.

When she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was
sleeping, and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed to
delude her into a belief, that she was no more; yet had her terror
permitted her to persevere longer in the call, she would probably
have awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared much suffering. The
spectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed Emily's
horrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen in the
affray, and the same which had been borne into the servants' hall, where
she took refuge from the tumult. This man had lingered under his wounds
for some days; and, soon after his death, his body had been removed
on the couch, on which he died, for interment in the vault beneath the
chapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had passed to the chamber.

Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning
herself, left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest
she felt for her aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment her
remonstrances might draw upon herself, and of the improbability of his
granting what she meant to entreat.

'Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,' said Emily, as soon as she saw
him--'Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment!
Suffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment,
and to have necessary comforts administered.'

'Of what service will that be, if she is dying?' said Montoni, with
apparent indifference.

'The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs
of conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same situation,'
said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni soon made her
sensible, by commanding her to quit his presence. Then, forgetting her
resentment, and impressed only by compassion for the piteous state of
her aunt, dying without succour, she submitted to humble herself to
Montoni, and to adopt every persuasive means, that might induce him to
relent towards his wife.

For a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all she
looked; but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily's eyes,
seemed to touch his heart. He turned away, ashamed of his better
feelings, half sullen and half relenting; but finally consented, that
his wife should be removed to her own apartment, and that Emily should
attend her. Dreading equally, that this relief might arrive too late,
and that Montoni might retract his concession, Emily scarcely staid to
thank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, she quickly prepared Madame
Montoni's bed, and they carried her a cordial, that might enable her
feeble frame to sustain the fatigue of a removal.

Madame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was
given by her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but Emily,
thankful that she had made such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it,
as well as that a second removal would instantly prove fatal, and he
suffered his wife to continue where she was.

During this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare such
little nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her, and
which Madame Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she seemed
sensible that they could not save her from approaching dissolution, and
scarcely appeared to wish for life. Emily meanwhile watched over her
with the most tender solicitude, no longer seeing her imperious aunt in
the poor object before her, but the sister of her late beloved father,
in a situation that called for all her compassion and kindness. When
night came, she determined to sit up with her aunt, but this the latter
positively forbade, commanding her to retire to rest, and Annette alone
to remain in her chamber. Rest was, indeed, necessary to Emily, whose
spirits and frame were equally wearied by the occurrences and exertions
of the day; but she would not leave Madame Montoni, till after the turn
of midnight, a period then thought so critical by the physicians.

Soon after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to call
her, should any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully bade
Madame Montoni good night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits were
more than usually depressed by the piteous condition of her aunt, whose
recovery she scarcely dared to expect. To her own misfortunes she saw no
period, inclosed as she was, in a remote castle, beyond the reach of any
friends, had she possessed such, and beyond the pity even of strangers;
while she knew herself to be in the power of a man capable of any
action, which his interest, or his ambition, might suggest.

Occupied by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, she
did not retire immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her open
casement. The scene before her of woods and mountains, reposing in the
moon-light, formed a regretted contrast with the state of her mind;
but the lonely murmur of these woods, and the view of this sleeping
landscape, gradually soothed her emotions and softened her to tears.

She continued to weep, for some time, lost to every thing, but to
a gentle sense of her misfortunes. When she, at length, took the
handkerchief from her eyes, she perceived, before her, on the terrace
below, the figure she had formerly observed, which stood fixed and
silent, immediately opposite to her casement. On perceiving it, she
started back, and terror for some time overcame curiosity;--at length,
she returned to the casement, and still the figure was before it, which
she now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly unable to speak,
as she had formerly intended. The moon shone with a clear light, and
it was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that prevented her
distinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, the form before her. It
was still stationary, and she began to doubt, whether it was really
animated.

Her scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her, that
her light exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was stepping
back to remove it, when she perceived the figure move, and then wave
what seemed to be its arm, as if to beckon her; and, while she gazed,
fixed in fear, it repeated the action. She now attempted to speak, but
the words died on her lips, and she went from the casement to remove her
light; as she was doing which, she heard, from without, a faint groan.
Listening, but not daring to return, she presently heard it repeated.

'Good God!--what can this mean!' said she.

Again she listened, but the sound came no more; and, after a long
interval of silence, she recovered courage enough to go to the casement,
when she again saw the same appearance! It beckoned again, and again
uttered a low sound.

'That groan was surely human!' said she. 'I WILL speak.' 'Who is it,'
cried Emily in a faint voice, 'that wanders at this late hour?'

The figure raised its head but suddenly started away, and glided down
the terrace. She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly in
the moon-light, but heard no footstep, till a sentinel from the other
extremity of the rampart walked slowly along. The man stopped under
her window, and, looking up, called her by name. She was retiring
precipitately, but, a second summons inducing her to reply, the
soldier then respectfully asked if she had seen any thing pass. On
her answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down the
terrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in the
distance. But, as he was on guard, she knew he could not go beyond the
rampart, and, therefore, resolved to await his return.

Soon after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; and
then a voice still more distant answered, and, in the next moment, the
watch-word was given, and passed along the terrace. As the soldiers
moved hastily under the casement, she called to enquire what had
happened, but they passed without regarding her.

Emily's thoughts returning to the figure she had seen, 'It cannot be a
person, who has designs upon the castle,' said she; 'such an one would
conduct himself very differently. He would not venture where sentinels
were on watch, nor fix himself opposite to a window, where he perceived
he must be observed; much less would he beckon, or utter a sound of
complaint. Yet it cannot be a prisoner, for how could he obtain the
opportunity to wander thus?'

If she had been subject to vanity, she might have supposed this figure
to be some inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under her casement in
the hope of seeing her, and of being allowed to declare his admiration;
but this opinion never occurred to Emily, and, if it had, she would have
dismissed it as improbable, on considering, that, when the opportunity
of speaking had occurred, it had been suffered to pass in silence; and
that, even at the moment in which she had spoken, the form had abruptly
quitted the place.

While she mused, two sentinels walked up the rampart in earnest
conversation, of which she caught a few words, and learned from these,
that one of their comrades had fallen down senseless. Soon after, three
other soldiers appeared slowly advancing from the bottom of the terrace,
but she heard only a low voice, that came at intervals. As they drew
near, she perceived this to be the voice of him, who walked in the
middle, apparently supported by his comrades; and she again called
to them, enquiring what had happened. At the sound of her voice, they
stopped, and looked up, while she repeated her question, and was told,
that Roberto, their fellow of the watch, had been seized with a fit, and
that his cry, as he fell, had caused a false alarm.

'Is he subject to fits?' said Emily.

'Yes, Signora,' replied Roberto; 'but if I had not, what I saw was
enough to have frightened the Pope himself.'

'What was it?' enquired Emily, trembling.

'I cannot tell what it was, lady, or what I saw, or how it vanished,'
replied the soldier, who seemed to shudder at the recollection.

'Was it the person, whom you followed down the rampart, that has
occasioned you this alarm?' said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her own.

'Person!' exclaimed the man,--'it was the devil, and this is not the
first time I have seen him!'

'Nor will it be the last,' observed one of his comrades, laughing.

'No, no, I warrant not,' said another.

'Well,' rejoined Roberto, 'you may be as merry now, as you please; you
was none so jocose the other night, Sebastian, when you was on watch
with Launcelot.'

'Launcelot need not talk of that,' replied Sebastian, 'let him remember
how he stood trembling, and unable to give the WORD, till the man was
gone, If the man had not come so silently upon us, I would have seized
him, and soon made him tell who he was.'

'What man?' enquired Emily.

'It was no man, lady,' said Launcelot, who stood by, 'but the devil
himself, as my comrade says. What man, who does not live in the castle,
could get within the walls at midnight? Why, I might just as well
pretend to march to Venice, and get among all the Senators, when they
are counselling; and I warrant I should have more chance of getting
out again alive, than any fellow, that we should catch within the gates
after dark. So I think I have proved plainly enough, that this can be
nobody that lives out of the castle; and now I will prove, that it can
be nobody that lives in the castle--for, if he did--why should he be
afraid to be seen? So after this, I hope nobody will pretend to tell
me it was anybody. No, I say again, by holy Pope! it was the devil, and
Sebastian, there, knows this is not the first time we have seen him.'

'When did you see the figure, then, before?' said Emily half smiling,
who, though she thought the conversation somewhat too much, felt an
interest, which would not permit her to conclude it.

'About a week ago, lady,' said Sebastian, taking up the story.

'And where?'

'On the rampart, lady, higher up.'

'Did you pursue it, that it fled?'

'No, Signora. Launcelot and I were on watch together, and every thing
was so still, you might have heard a mouse stir, when, suddenly,
Launcelot says--Sebastian! do you see nothing? I turned my head a
little to the left, as it might be--thus. No, says I. Hush! said
Launcelot,--look yonder--just by the last cannon on the rampart! I
looked, and then thought I did see something move; but there being no
light, but what the stars gave, I could not be certain. We stood quite
silent, to watch it, and presently saw something pass along the castle
wall just opposite to us!'

'Why did you not seize it, then?' cried a soldier, who had scarcely
spoken till now.

'Aye, why did you not seize it?' said Roberto.

'You should have been there to have done that,' replied Sebastian. 'You
would have been bold enough to have taken it by the throat, though it
had been the devil himself; we could not take such a liberty, perhaps,
because we are not so well acquainted with him, as you are. But, as I
was saying, it stole by us so quickly, that we had not time to get rid
of our surprise, before it was gone. Then, we knew it was in vain to
follow. We kept constant watch all that night, but we saw it no more.
Next morning, we told some of our comrades, who were on duty on other
parts of the ramparts, what we had seen; but they had seen nothing, and
laughed at us, and it was not till to-night, that the same figure walked
again.'

'Where did you lose it, friend?' said Emily to Roberto.

'When I left you, lady,' replied the man, 'you might see me go down the
rampart, but it was not till I reached the east terrace, that I saw
any thing. Then, the moon shining bright, I saw something like a shadow
flitting before me, as it were, at some distance. I stopped, when I
turned the corner of the east tower, where I had seen this figure not
a moment before,--but it was gone! As I stood, looking through the
old arch, which leads to the east rampart, and where I am sure it had
passed, I heard, all of a sudden, such a sound!--it was not like a
groan, or a cry, or a shout, or any thing I ever heard in my life. I
heard it only once, and that was enough for me; for I know nothing that
happened after, till I found my comrades, here, about me.'

'Come,' said Sebastian, 'let us go to our posts--the moon is setting.
Good night, lady!'

'Aye, let us go,' rejoined Roberto. 'Good night, lady.'

'Good night; the holy mother guard you!' said Emily, as she closed her
casement and retired to reflect upon the strange circumstance that had
just occurred, connecting which with what had happened on former nights,
she endeavoured to derive from the whole something more positive, than
conjecture. But her imagination was inflamed, while her judgment was not
enlightened, and the terrors of superstition again pervaded her mind.

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

completion: The next day, Montoni puts off seeing Em once again. Big surprise. Em hears a band of men coming back to the castle, bragging about all the plunder they took from neighboring castle. Something tells us this won't end well. Always big on jumping to conclusions, Em assumes Montoni is a captain of robbers. Well, the narrator tells us, she's not that far off. Quickie historical context from the narrator: since Italy didn't have enough moolah to support its armies, some ex-soldiers turned to robbery. Some of them even turned outlaw and took over fortresses where they could stash their ill-gotten cash. These folks are called the Condittieri. Anyway, Em listens again at night for the strange music. No luck, though. Finally, Em has a meeting with Montoni. He's with several of his officers and won't dismiss them. Em wants to leave the castle, but Montoni forbids it. Em lets it slip that she thinks Madame M. is dead. Montoni tells Em her aunt is alive, if not totally well. He gives her permission to go see her in the east turret. Meanwhile, you could cut the tension with a knife among Montoni and his officers. Verezzi wants Orsino gone pronto. The two guys start fighting after Em leaves the room. Em visits Madame M., who is not in fact dead. But she's actually pretty close to dying. Remember that body Em saw? Yeah, it was someone who died during the fray in the castle. So Em goes to work persuading Montoni to move her sick aunt out of the east turret. She gets lucky and succeeds, then goes to work taking care of her dear auntie. The same night, Em sees the human form again. She's not crazy, either, because the watchmen of the castle also see a strange figure wandering about.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER IV

     There is one within,
 Besides the things, that we have heard and seen,
 Recounts most horrid sights, seen by the watch.
     JULIUS CAESAR

In the morning, Emily found Madame Montoni nearly in the same condition,
as on the preceding night; she had slept little, and that little had
not refreshed her; she smiled on her niece, and seemed cheered by her
presence, but spoke only a few words, and never named Montoni, who,
however, soon after, entered the room. His wife, when she understood
that he was there, appeared much agitated, but was entirely silent, till
Emily rose from a chair at the bed-side, when she begged, in a feeble
voice, that she would not leave her.

The visit of Montoni was not to sooth his wife, whom he knew to be
dying, or to console, or to ask her forgiveness, but to make a last
effort to procure that signature, which would transfer her estates in
Languedoc, after her death, to him rather than to Emily. This was a
scene, that exhibited, on his part, his usual inhumanity, and, on that
of Madame Montoni, a persevering spirit, contending with a feeble frame;
while Emily repeatedly declared to him her willingness to resign all
claim to those estates, rather than that the last hours of her aunt
should be disturbed by contention. Montoni, however, did not leave the
room, till his wife, exhausted by the obstinate dispute, had fainted,
and she lay so long insensible, that Emily began to fear that the spark
of life was extinguished. At length, she revived, and, looking feebly
up at her niece, whose tears were falling over her, made an effort to
speak, but her words were unintelligible, and Emily again apprehended
she was dying. Afterwards, however, she recovered her speech, and, being
somewhat restored by a cordial, conversed for a considerable time, on
the subject of her estates in France, with clearness and precision. She
directed her niece where to find some papers relative to them, which she
had hitherto concealed from the search of Montoni, and earnestly charged
her never to suffer these papers to escape her.

Soon after this conversation, Madame Montoni sunk into a dose, and
continued slumbering, till evening, when she seemed better than she
had been since her removal from the turret. Emily never left her, for a
moment, till long after midnight, and even then would not have quitted
the room, had not her aunt entreated, that she would retire to rest. She
then obeyed, the more willingly, because her patient appeared somewhat
recruited by sleep; and, giving Annette the same injunction, as on the
preceding night, she withdrew to her own apartment. But her spirits
were wakeful and agitated, and, finding it impossible to sleep, she
determined to watch, once more, for the mysterious appearance, that had
so much interested and alarmed her.

It was now the second watch of the night, and about the time when
the figure had before appeared. Emily heard the passing steps of the
sentinels, on the rampart, as they changed guard; and, when all was
again silent, she took her station at the casement, leaving her lamp in
a remote part of the chamber, that she might escape notice from without.
The moon gave a faint and uncertain light, for heavy vapours surrounded
it, and, often rolling over the disk, left the scene below in total
darkness. It was in one of these moments of obscurity, that she observed
a small and lambent flame, moving at some distance on the terrace. While
she gazed, it disappeared, and, the moon again emerging from the lurid
and heavy thunder clouds, she turned her attention to the heavens, where
the vivid lightnings darted from cloud to cloud, and flashed silently on
the woods below. She loved to catch, in the momentary gleam, the gloomy
landscape. Sometimes, a cloud opened its light upon a distant mountain,
and, while the sudden splendour illumined all its recesses of rock and
wood, the rest of the scene remained in deep shadow; at others, partial
features of the castle were revealed by the glimpse--the antient arch
leading to the east rampart, the turret above, or the fortifications
beyond; and then, perhaps, the whole edifice with all its towers, its
dark massy walls and pointed casements would appear, and vanish in an
instant.

Emily, looking again upon the rampart, perceived the flame she had
seen before; it moved onward; and, soon after, she thought she heard a
footstep. The light appeared and disappeared frequently, while, as she
watched, it glided under her casements, and, at the same instant, she
was certain, that a footstep passed, but the darkness did not permit her
to distinguish any object except the flame. It moved away, and then, by
a gleam of lightning, she perceived some person on the terrace. All the
anxieties of the preceding night returned. This person advanced, and the
playing flame alternately appeared and vanished. Emily wished to speak,
to end her doubts, whether this figure were human or supernatural; but
her courage failed as often as she attempted utterance, till the light
moved again under the casement, and she faintly demanded, who passed.

'A friend,' replied a voice.

'What friend?' said Emily, somewhat encouraged 'who are you, and what is
that light you carry?'

'I am Anthonio, one of the Signor's soldiers,' replied the voice.

'And what is that tapering light you bear?' said Emily, 'see how it
darts upwards,--and now it vanishes!'

'This light, lady,' said the soldier, 'has appeared to-night as you see
it, on the point of my lance, ever since I have been on watch; but what
it means I cannot tell.'

'This is very strange!' said Emily.

'My fellow-guard,' continued the man, 'has the same flame on his arms;
he says he has sometimes seen it before. I never did; I am but lately
come to the castle, for I have not been long a soldier.'

'How does your comrade account for it?' said Emily.

'He says it is an omen, lady, and bodes no good.'

'And what harm can it bode?' rejoined Emily.

'He knows not so much as that, lady.'

Whether Emily was alarmed by this omen, or not, she certainly was
relieved from much terror by discovering this man to be only a soldier
on duty, and it immediately occurred to her, that it might be he,
who had occasioned so much alarm on the preceding night. There were,
however, some circumstances, that still required explanation. As far
as she could judge by the faint moon-light, that had assisted her
observation, the figure she had seen did not resemble this man either
in shape or size; besides, she was certain it had carried no arms. The
silence of its steps, if steps it had, the moaning sounds, too, which
it had uttered, and its strange disappearance, were circumstances of
mysterious import, that did not apply, with probability, to a soldier
engaged in the duty of his guard.

She now enquired of the sentinel, whether he had seen any person besides
his fellow watch, walking on the terrace, about midnight; and then
briefly related what she had herself observed.

'I was not on guard that night, lady,' replied the man, 'but I heard of
what happened. There are amongst us, who believe strange things. Strange
stories, too, have long been told of this castle, but it is no business
of mine to repeat them; and, for my part, I have no reason to complain;
our Chief does nobly by us.'

'I commend your prudence,' said Emily. 'Good night, and accept this from
me,' she added, throwing him a small piece of coin, and then closing the
casement to put an end to the discourse.

When he was gone, she opened it again, listened with a gloomy pleasure
to the distant thunder, that began to murmur among the mountains, and
watched the arrowy lightnings, which broke over the remoter scene. The
pealing thunder rolled onward, and then, reverbed by the mountains,
other thunder seemed to answer from the opposite horizon; while the
accumulating clouds, entirely concealing the moon, assumed a red
sulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent storm.

Emily remained at her casement, till the vivid lightning, that now,
every instant, revealed the wide horizon and the landscape below, made
it no longer safe to do so, and she went to her couch; but, unable
to compose her mind to sleep, still listened in silent awe to the
tremendous sounds, that seemed to shake the castle to its foundation.

She had continued thus for a considerable time, when, amidst the uproar
of the storm, she thought she heard a voice, and, raising herself to
listen, saw the chamber door open, and Annette enter with a countenance
of wild affright.

'She is dying, ma'amselle, my lady is dying!' said she.

Emily started up, and ran to Madame Montoni's room. When she entered,
her aunt appeared to have fainted, for she was quite still, and
insensible; and Emily with a strength of mind, that refused to yield to
grief, while any duty required her activity, applied every means that
seemed likely to restore her. But the last struggle was over--she was
gone for ever.

When Emily perceived, that all her efforts were ineffectual, she
interrogated the terrified Annette, and learned, that Madame Montoni
had fallen into a doze soon after Emily's departure, in which she had
continued, until a few minutes before her death.

'I wondered, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'what was the reason my lady did
not seem frightened at the thunder, when I was so terrified, and I went
often to the bed to speak to her, but she appeared to be asleep; till
presently I heard a strange noise, and, on going to her, saw she was
dying.'

Emily, at this recital, shed tears. She had no doubt but that the
violent change in the air, which the tempest produced, had effected this
fatal one, on the exhausted frame of Madame Montoni.

After some deliberation, she determined that Montoni should not be
informed of this event till the morning, for she considered, that he
might, perhaps, utter some inhuman expressions, such as in the present
temper of her spirits she could not bear. With Annette alone, therefore,
whom she encouraged by her own example, she performed some of the last
solemn offices for the dead, and compelled herself to watch during the
night, by the body of her deceased aunt. During this solemn period,
rendered more awful by the tremendous storm that shook the air, she
frequently addressed herself to Heaven for support and protection, and
her pious prayers, we may believe, were accepted of the God, that giveth
comfort.

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

completion: Montoni makes a last-ditch effort to get a signature from Madame M. before she dies, but it's no use. Once Montoni's out of the way, Madame M. directs Em to some papers she concealed from her rotten husband. Remember, all the lands go straight to Em when her auntie dies. Em watches again for the strange figure and thinks she hears a voice. She demands to know who goes there. Eh, it's just Anthonio, one Montoni's soldiers. Madame M. finally passes away, leaving Em in one big mess with her step-uncle, Montoni.