prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER X

 And shall no lay of death
 With pleasing murmur sooth
 Her parted soul?
 Shall no tear wet her grave?
     SAYERS

On the following morning, Emily went early to the apartment of Madame
Montoni, who had slept well, and was much recovered. Her spirits had
also returned with her health, and her resolution to oppose Montoni's
demands revived, though it yet struggled with her fears, which Emily,
who trembled for the consequence of further opposition, endeavoured to
confirm.

Her aunt, as has been already shewn, had a disposition, which delighted
in contradiction, and which taught her, when unpleasant circumstances
were offered to her understanding, not to enquire into their truth, but
to seek for arguments, by which she might make them appear false. Long
habit had so entirely confirmed this natural propensity, that she
was not conscious of possessing it. Emily's remonstrances and
representations, therefore, roused her pride, instead of alarming, or
convincing her judgment, and she still relied upon the discovery of
some means, by which she might yet avoid submitting to the demand of her
husband. Considering, that, if she could once escape from his castle,
she might defy his power, and, obtaining a decisive separation, live in
comfort on the estates, that yet remained for her, she mentioned this to
her niece, who accorded with her in the wish, but differed from her, as
to the probability of its completion. She represented the impossibility
of passing the gates, secured and guarded as they were, and the extreme
danger of committing her design to the discretion of a servant, who
might either purposely betray, or accidentally disclose it.--Montoni's
vengeance would also disdain restraint, if her intention was detected:
and, though Emily wished, as fervently as she could do, to regain her
freedom, and return to France, she consulted only Madame Montoni's
safety, and persevered in advising her to relinquish her settlement,
without braving further outrage.

The struggle of contrary emotions, however, continued to rage in her
aunt's bosom, and she still brooded over the chance of effecting an
escape. While she thus sat, Montoni entered the room, and, without
noticing his wife's indisposition, said, that he came to remind her of
the impolicy of trifling with him, and that he gave her only till the
evening to determine, whether she would consent to his demand, or compel
him, by a refusal, to remove her to the east turret. He added, that a
party of cavaliers would dine with him, that day, and that he expected
that she would sit at the head of the table, where Emily, also, must
be present. Madame Montoni was now on the point of uttering an absolute
refusal, but, suddenly considering, that her liberty, during this
entertainment, though circumscribed, might favour her further plans, she
acquiesced, with seeming reluctance, and Montoni, soon after, left the
apartment. His command struck Emily with surprise and apprehension, who
shrank from the thought of being exposed to the gaze of strangers, such
as her fancy represented these to be, and the words of Count Morano, now
again recollected, did not sooth her fears.

When she withdrew to prepare for dinner, she dressed herself with even
more simplicity than usual, that she might escape observation--a policy,
which did not avail her, for, as she re-passed to her aunt's apartment,
she was met by Montoni, who censured what he called her prudish
appearance, and insisted, that she should wear the most splendid dress
she had, even that, which had been prepared for her intended nuptials
with Count Morano, and which, it now appeared, her aunt had carefully
brought with her from Venice. This was made, not in the Venetian, but,
in the Neapolitan fashion, so as to set off the shape and figure, to the
utmost advantage. In it, her beautiful chestnut tresses were negligently
bound up in pearls, and suffered to fall back again on her neck. The
simplicity of a better taste, than Madame Montoni's, was conspicuous in
this dress, splendid as it was, and Emily's unaffected beauty never had
appeared more captivatingly. She had now only to hope, that Montoni's
order was prompted, not by any extraordinary design, but by an
ostentation of displaying his family, richly attired, to the eyes
of strangers; yet nothing less than his absolute command could have
prevailed with her to wear a dress, that had been designed for such an
offensive purpose, much less to have worn it on this occasion. As she
descended to dinner, the emotion of her mind threw a faint blush over
her countenance, and heightened its interesting expression; for timidity
had made her linger in her apartment, till the utmost moment, and,
when she entered the hall, in which a kind of state dinner was spread,
Montoni and his guests were already seated at the table. She was then
going to place herself by her aunt; but Montoni waved his hand, and two
of the cavaliers rose, and seated her between them.

The eldest of these was a tall man, with strong Italian features, an
aquiline nose, and dark penetrating eyes, that flashed with fire, when
his mind was agitated, and, even in its state of rest, retained somewhat
of the wildness of the passions. His visage was long and narrow, and his
complexion of a sickly yellow.

The other, who appeared to be about forty, had features of a different
cast, yet Italian, and his look was slow, subtle and penetrating; his
eyes, of a dark grey, were small, and hollow; his complexion was a
sun-burnt brown, and the contour of his face, though inclined to oval,
was irregular and ill-formed.

Eight other guests sat round the table, who were all dressed in an
uniform, and had all an expression, more or less, of wild fierceness,
of subtle design, or of licentious passions. As Emily timidly surveyed
them, she remembered the scene of the preceding morning, and again
almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; then, looking back to
the tranquillity of her early life, she felt scarcely less astonishment,
than grief, at her present situation. The scene, in which they sat,
assisted the illusion; it was an antient hall, gloomy from the style
of its architecture, from its great extent, and because almost the only
light it received was from one large gothic window, and from a pair of
folding doors, which, being open, admitted likewise a view of the west
rampart, with the wild mountains of the Apennine beyond.

The middle compartment of this hall rose into a vaulted roof, enriched
with fretwork, and supported, on three sides, by pillars of marble;
beyond these, long colonnades retired in gloomy grandeur, till their
extent was lost in twilight. The lightest footsteps of the servants,
as they advanced through these, were returned in whispering echoes,
and their figures, seen at a distance imperfectly through the dusk,
frequently awakened Emily's imagination. She looked alternately
at Montoni, at his guests and on the surrounding scene; and then,
remembering her dear native province, her pleasant home and the
simplicity and goodness of the friends, whom she had lost, grief and
surprise again occupied her mind.

When her thoughts could return from these considerations, she fancied
she observed an air of authority towards his guests, such as she had
never before seen him assume, though he had always been distinguished
by an haughty carriage; there was something also in the manners of the
strangers, that seemed perfectly, though not servilely, to acknowledge
his superiority.

During dinner, the conversation was chiefly on war and politics. They
talked with energy of the state of Venice, its dangers, the character of
the reigning Doge and of the chief senators; and then spoke of the state
of Rome. When the repast was over, they rose, and, each filling his
goblet with wine from the gilded ewer, that stood beside him, drank
'Success to our exploits!' Montoni was lifting his goblet to his lips to
drink this toast, when suddenly the wine hissed, rose to the brim, and,
as he held the glass from him, it burst into a thousand pieces.

To him, who constantly used that sort of Venice glass, which had the
quality of breaking, upon receiving poisoned liquor, a suspicion, that
some of his guests had endeavoured to betray him, instantly occurred,
and he ordered all the gates to be closed, drew his sword, and, looking
round on them, who stood in silent amazement, exclaimed, 'Here is a
traitor among us; let those, that are innocent, assist in discovering
the guilty.'

Indignation flashed from the eyes of the cavaliers, who all drew their
swords; and Madame Montoni, terrified at what might ensue, was hastening
from the hall, when her husband commanded her to stay; but his further
words could not now be distinguished, for the voice of every person rose
together. His order, that all the servants should appear, was at length
obeyed, and they declared their ignorance of any deceit--a protestation
which could not be believed; for it was evident, that, as Montoni's
liquor, and his only, had been poisoned, a deliberate design had been
formed against his life, which could not have been carried so far
towards its accomplishment, without the connivance of the servant, who
had the care of the wine ewers.

This man, with another, whose face betrayed either the consciousness
of guilt, or the fear of punishment, Montoni ordered to be chained
instantly, and confined in a strong room, which had formerly been used
as a prison. Thither, likewise, he would have sent all his guests,
had he not foreseen the consequence of so bold and unjustifiable a
proceeding. As to those, therefore, he contented himself with swearing,
that no man should pass the gates, till this extraordinary affair
had been investigated, and then sternly bade his wife retire to her
apartment, whither he suffered Emily to attend her.

In about half an hour, he followed to the dressing-room; and Emily
observed, with horror, his dark countenance and quivering lip, and heard
him denounce vengeance on her aunt.

'It will avail you nothing,' said he to his wife, 'to deny the fact;
I have proof of your guilt. Your only chance of mercy rests on a full
confession;--there is nothing to hope from sullenness, or falsehood;
your accomplice has confessed all.'

Emily's fainting spirits were roused by astonishment, as she heard her
aunt accused of a crime so atrocious, and she could not, for a moment,
admit the possibility of her guilt. Meanwhile Madame Montoni's agitation
did not permit her to reply; alternately her complexion varied from
livid paleness to a crimson flush; and she trembled,--but, whether with
fear, or with indignation, it were difficult to decide.

'Spare your words,' said Montoni, seeing her about to speak, 'your
countenance makes full confession of your crime.--You shall be instantly
removed to the east turret.'

'This accusation,' said Madame Montoni, speaking with difficulty, 'is
used only as an excuse for your cruelty; I disdain to reply to it. You
do not believe me guilty.'

'Signor!' said Emily solemnly, 'this dreadful charge, I would answer
with my life, is false. Nay, Signor,' she added, observing the severity
of his countenance, 'this is no moment for restraint, on my part; I do
not scruple to tell you, that you are deceived--most wickedly deceived,
by the suggestion of some person, who aims at the ruin of my aunt:--it
is impossible, that you could yourself have imagined a crime so
hideous.'

Montoni, his lips trembling more than before, replied only, 'If you
value your own safety,' addressing Emily, 'you will be silent. I shall
know how to interpret your remonstrances, should you persevere in them.'

Emily raised her eyes calmly to heaven. 'Here is, indeed, then, nothing
to hope!' said she.

'Peace!' cried Montoni, 'or you shall find there is something to fear.'

He turned to his wife, who had now recovered her spirits, and who
vehemently and wildly remonstrated upon this mysterious suspicion: but
Montoni's rage heightened with her indignation, and Emily, dreading
the event of it, threw herself between them, and clasped his knees in
silence, looking up in his face with an expression, that might have
softened the heart of a fiend. Whether his was hardened by a conviction
of Madame Montoni's guilt, or that a bare suspicion of it made him
eager to exercise vengeance, he was totally and alike insensible to the
distress of his wife, and to the pleading looks of Emily, whom he made
no attempt to raise, but was vehemently menacing both, when he was
called out of the room by some person at the door. As he shut the door,
Emily heard him turn the lock and take out the key; so that Madame
Montoni and herself were now prisoners; and she saw that his designs
became more and more terrible. Her endeavours to explain his motives
for this circumstance were almost as ineffectual as those to sooth the
distress of her aunt, whose innocence she could not doubt; but she, at
length, accounted for Montoni's readiness to suspect his wife by his own
consciousness of cruelty towards her, and for the sudden violence of
his present conduct against both, before even his suspicions could be
completely formed, by his general eagerness to effect suddenly whatever
he was led to desire and his carelessness of justice, or humanity, in
accomplishing it.

Madame Montoni, after some time, again looked round, in search of a
possibility of escape from the castle, and conversed with Emily on the
subject, who was now willing to encounter any hazard, though she forbore
to encourage a hope in her aunt, which she herself did not admit. How
strongly the edifice was secured, and how vigilantly guarded, she knew
too well; and trembled to commit their safety to the caprice of
the servant, whose assistance they must solicit. Old Carlo was
compassionate, but he seemed to be too much in his master's interest to
be trusted by them; Annette could of herself do little, and Emily knew
Ludovico only from her report. At present, however, these considerations
were useless, Madame Montoni and her niece being shut up from all
intercourse, even with the persons, whom there might be these reasons to
reject.

In the hall, confusion and tumult still reigned. Emily, as she listened
anxiously to the murmur, that sounded along the gallery, sometimes
fancied she heard the clashing of swords, and, when she considered the
nature of the provocation, given by Montoni, and his impetuosity, it
appeared probable, that nothing less than arms would terminate the
contention. Madame Montoni, having exhausted all her expressions of
indignation, and Emily, hers of comfort, they remained silent, in that
kind of breathless stillness, which, in nature, often succeeds to the
uproar of conflicting elements; a stillness, like the morning, that
dawns upon the ruins of an earthquake.

An uncertain kind of terror pervaded Emily's mind; the circumstances
of the past hour still came dimly and confusedly to her memory; and her
thoughts were various and rapid, though without tumult.

From this state of waking visions she was recalled by a knocking at the
chamber-door, and, enquiring who was there, heard the whispering voice
of Annette.

'Dear madam, let me come in, I have a great deal to say,' said the poor
girl.

'The door is locked,' answered the lady.

'Yes, ma'am, but do pray open it.'

'The Signor has the key,' said Madame Montoni.

'O blessed Virgin! what will become of us?' exclaimed Annette.

'Assist us to escape,' said her mistress. 'Where is Ludovico?'

'Below in the hall, ma'am, amongst them all, fighting with the best of
them!'

'Fighting! Who are fighting?' cried Madame Montoni.

'Why the Signor, ma'am, and all the Signors, and a great many more.'

'Is any person much hurt?' said Emily, in a tremulous voice. 'Hurt!
Yes, ma'amselle,--there they lie bleeding, and the swords are clashing,
and--O holy saints! Do let me in, ma'am, they are coming this way--I
shall be murdered!'

'Fly!' cried Emily, 'fly! we cannot open the door.'

Annette repeated, that they were coming, and in the same moment fled.

'Be calm, madam,' said Emily, turning to her aunt, 'I entreat you to be
calm, I am not frightened--not frightened in the least, do not you be
alarmed.'

'You can scarcely support yourself,' replied her aunt; 'Merciful God!
what is it they mean to do with us?'

'They come, perhaps, to liberate us,' said Emily, 'Signor Montoni
perhaps is--is conquered.'

The belief of his death gave her spirits a sudden shock, and she grew
faint as she saw him in imagination, expiring at her feet.

'They are coming!' cried Madame Montoni--'I hear their steps--they are
at the door!'

Emily turned her languid eyes to the door, but terror deprived her of
utterance. The key sounded in the lock; the door opened, and Montoni
appeared, followed by three ruffian-like men. 'Execute your orders,'
said he, turning to them, and pointing to his wife, who shrieked, but
was immediately carried from the room; while Emily sunk, senseless, on
a couch, by which she had endeavoured to support herself. When she
recovered, she was alone, and recollected only, that Madame Montoni had
been there, together with some unconnected particulars of the preceding
transaction, which were, however, sufficient to renew all her terror.
She looked wildly round the apartment, as if in search of some means of
intelligence, concerning her aunt, while neither her own danger, or an
idea of escaping from the room, immediately occurred.

When her recollection was more complete, she raised herself and went,
but with only a faint hope, to examine whether the door was unfastened.
It was so, and she then stepped timidly out into the gallery, but paused
there, uncertain which way she should proceed. Her first wish was to
gather some information, as to her aunt, and she, at length, turned her
steps to go to the lesser hall, where Annette and the other servants
usually waited.

Every where, as she passed, she heard, from a distance, the uproar of
contention, and the figures and faces, which she met, hurrying along the
passages, struck her mind with dismay. Emily might now have appeared,
like an angel of light, encompassed by fiends. At length, she reached
the lesser hall, which was silent and deserted, but, panting for breath,
she sat down to recover herself. The total stillness of this place was
as awful as the tumult, from which she had escaped: but she had now time
to recall her scattered thoughts, to remember her personal danger, and
to consider of some means of safety. She perceived, that it was useless
to seek Madame Montoni, through the wide extent and intricacies of the
castle, now, too, when every avenue seemed to be beset by ruffians; in
this hall she could not resolve to stay, for she knew not how soon it
might become their place of rendezvous; and, though she wished to go to
her chamber, she dreaded again to encounter them on the way.

Thus she sat, trembling and hesitating, when a distant murmur broke on
the silence, and grew louder and louder, till she distinguished voices
and steps approaching. She then rose to go, but the sounds came along
the only passage, by which she could depart, and she was compelled to
await in the hall, the arrival of the persons, whose steps she heard.
As these advanced, she distinguished groans, and then saw a man borne
slowly along by four others. Her spirits faltered at the sight, and she
leaned against the wall for support. The bearers, meanwhile, entered the
hall, and, being too busily occupied to detain, or even notice Emily,
she attempted to leave it, but her strength failed, and she again sat
down on the bench. A damp chillness came over her; her sight became
confused; she knew not what had passed, or where she was, yet the groans
of the wounded person still vibrated on her heart. In a few moments, the
tide of life seemed again to flow; she began to breathe more freely, and
her senses revived. She had not fainted, nor had ever totally lost her
consciousness, but had contrived to support herself on the bench; still
without courage to turn her eyes upon the unfortunate object, which
remained near her, and about whom the men were yet too much engaged to
attend to her.

When her strength returned, she rose, and was suffered to leave
the hall, though her anxiety, having produced some vain enquiries,
concerning Madame Montoni, had thus made a discovery of herself. Towards
her chamber she now hastened, as fast as her steps would bear her, for
she still perceived, upon her passage, the sounds of confusion at a
distance, and she endeavoured, by taking her way through some obscure
rooms, to avoid encountering the persons, whose looks had terrified her
before, as well as those parts of the castle, where the tumult might
still rage.

At length, she reached her chamber, and, having secured the door of the
corridor, felt herself, for a moment, in safety. A profound stillness
reigned in this remote apartment, which not even the faint murmur of
the most distant sounds now reached. She sat down, near one of the
casements, and, as she gazed on the mountain-view beyond, the deep
repose of its beauty struck her with all the force of contrast, and she
could scarcely believe herself so near a scene of savage discord. The
contending elements seemed to have retired from their natural spheres,
and to have collected themselves into the minds of men, for there alone
the tempest now reigned.

Emily tried to tranquillize her spirits, but anxiety made her constantly
listen for some sound, and often look out upon the ramparts, where all,
however, was lonely and still. As a sense of her own immediate danger
had decreased, her apprehension concerning Madame Montoni heightened,
who, she remembered, had been fiercely threatened with confinement in
the east turret, and it was possible, that her husband had satisfied his
present vengeance with this punishment. She, therefore, determined, when
night should return, and the inhabitants of the castle should be asleep,
to explore the way to the turret, which, as the direction it stood in
was mentioned, appeared not very difficult to be done. She knew, indeed,
that although her aunt might be there, she could afford her no effectual
assistance, but it might give her some comfort even to know, that she
was discovered, and to hear the sound of her niece's voice; for
herself, any certainty, concerning Madame Montoni's fate, appeared more
tolerable, than this exhausting suspense.

Meanwhile, Annette did not appear, and Emily was surprised, and somewhat
alarmed for her, whom, in the confusion of the late scene, various
accidents might have befallen, and it was improbable, that she would
have failed to come to her apartment, unless something unfortunate had
happened.

Thus the hours passed in solitude, in silence, and in anxious
conjecturing. Being not once disturbed by a message, or a sound, it
appeared, that Montoni had wholly forgotten her, and it gave her some
comfort to find, that she could be so unnoticed. She endeavoured to
withdraw her thoughts from the anxiety, that preyed upon them, but they
refused controul; she could neither read, or draw, and the tones of her
lute were so utterly discordant with the present state of her feelings,
that she could not endure them for a moment.

The sun, at length, set behind the western mountains; his fiery beams
faded from the clouds, and then a dun melancholy purple drew over them,
and gradually involved the features of the country below. Soon after,
the sentinels passed on the rampart to commence the watch.

Twilight had now spread its gloom over every object; the dismal
obscurity of her chamber recalled fearful thoughts, but she remembered,
that to procure a light she must pass through a great extent of the
castle, and, above all, through the halls, where she had already
experienced so much horror. Darkness, indeed, in the present state of
her spirits, made silence and solitude terrible to her; it would also
prevent the possibility of her finding her way to the turret, and
condemn her to remain in suspense, concerning the fate of her aunt; yet
she dared not to venture forth for a lamp.

Continuing at the casement, that she might catch the last lingering
gleam of evening, a thousand vague images of fear floated on her fancy.
'What if some of these ruffians,' said she, 'should find out the private
stair-case, and in the darkness of night steal into my chamber!' Then,
recollecting the mysterious inhabitant of the neighbouring apartment,
her terror changed its object. 'He is not a prisoner,' said she, 'though
he remains in one chamber, for Montoni did not fasten the door, when he
left it; the unknown person himself did this; it is certain, therefore,
he can come out when he pleases.'

She paused, for, notwithstanding the terrors of darkness, she considered
it to be very improbable, whoever he was, that he could have any
interest in intruding upon her retirement; and again the subject of her
emotion changed, when, remembering her nearness to the chamber, where
the veil had formerly disclosed a dreadful spectacle, she doubted
whether some passage might not communicate between it and the insecure
door of the stair-case.

It was now entirely dark, and she left the casement. As she sat with
her eyes fixed on the hearth, she thought she perceived there a spark
of light; it twinkled and disappeared, and then again was visible. At
length, with much care, she fanned the embers of a wood fire, that had
been lighted in the morning, into flame, and, having communicated it to
a lamp, which always stood in her room, felt a satisfaction not to be
conceived, without a review of her situation. Her first care was to
guard the door of the stair-case, for which purpose she placed against
it all the furniture she could move, and she was thus employed, for
some time, at the end of which she had another instance how much more
oppressive misfortune is to the idle, than to the busy; for, having then
leisure to think over all the circumstances of her present afflictions,
she imagined a thousand evils for futurity, and these real and ideal
subjects of distress alike wounded her mind.

Thus heavily moved the hours till midnight, when she counted the sullen
notes of the great clock, as they rolled along the rampart, unmingled
with any sound, except the distant foot-fall of a sentinel, who came
to relieve guard. She now thought she might venture towards the turret,
and, having gently opened the chamber door to examine the corridor, and
to listen if any person was stirring in the castle, found all around
in perfect stillness. Yet no sooner had she left the room, than she
perceived a light flash on the walls of the corridor, and, without
waiting to see by whom it was carried, she shrunk back, and closed her
door. No one approaching, she conjectured, that it was Montoni going to
pay his mid-night visit to her unknown neighbour, and she determined to
wait, till he should have retired to his own apartment.

When the chimes had tolled another half hour, she once more opened
the door, and, perceiving that no person was in the corridor, hastily
crossed into a passage, that led along the south side of the castle
towards the stair-case, whence she believed she could easily find her
way to the turret. Often pausing on her way, listening apprehensively to
the murmurs of the wind, and looking fearfully onward into the gloom of
the long passages, she, at length, reached the stair-case; but there her
perplexity began. Two passages appeared, of which she knew not how to
prefer one, and was compelled, at last, to decide by chance, rather than
by circumstances. That she entered, opened first into a wide gallery,
along which she passed lightly and swiftly; for the lonely aspect of the
place awed her, and she started at the echo of her own steps.

On a sudden, she thought she heard a voice, and, not distinguishing
from whence it came, feared equally to proceed, or to return. For some
moments, she stood in an attitude of listening expectation, shrinking
almost from herself and scarcely daring to look round her. The voice
came again, but, though it was now near her, terror did not allow her to
judge exactly whence it proceeded. She thought, however, that it was the
voice of complaint, and her belief was soon confirmed by a low moaning
sound, that seemed to proceed from one of the chambers, opening into
the gallery. It instantly occurred to her, that Madame Montoni might be
there confined, and she advanced to the door to speak, but was checked
by considering, that she was, perhaps, going to commit herself to a
stranger, who might discover her to Montoni; for, though this person,
whoever it was, seemed to be in affliction, it did not follow, that he
was a prisoner.

While these thoughts passed over her mind, and left her still in
hesitation, the voice spoke again, and, calling 'Ludovico,' she then
perceived it to be that of Annette; on which, no longer hesitating, she
went in joy to answer her.

'Ludovico!' cried Annette, sobbing--'Ludovico!'

'It is not Ludovico, it is I--Mademoiselle Emily.'

Annette ceased sobbing, and was silent.

'If you can open the door, let me in,' said Emily, 'here is no person to
hurt you.'

'Ludovico!--O, Ludovico!' cried Annette.

Emily now lost her patience, and her fear of being overheard increasing,
she was even nearly about to leave the door, when she considered, that
Annette might, possibly, know something of the situation of Madame
Montoni, or direct her to the turret. At length, she obtained a reply,
though little satisfactory, to her questions, for Annette knew nothing
of Madame Montoni, and only conjured Emily to tell her what was become
of Ludovico. Of him she had no information to give, and she again asked
who had shut Annette up.

'Ludovico,' said the poor girl, 'Ludovico shut me up. When I ran away
from the dressing-room door to-day, I went I scarcely knew where, for
safety; and, in this gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who hurried me into
this chamber, and locked me up to keep me out of harm, as he said. But
he was in such a hurry himself, he hardly spoke ten words, but he told
me he would come, and let me out, when all was quiet, and he took away
the key with him. Now all these hours are passed, and I have neither
seen, or heard a word of him; they have murdered him--I know they have!'

Emily suddenly remembered the wounded person, whom she had seen borne
into the servants' hall, and she scarcely doubted, that he was Ludovico,
but she concealed the circumstance from Annette, and endeavoured to
comfort her. Then, impatient to learn something of her aunt, she again
enquired the way to the turret.

'O! you are not going, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'for Heaven's sake, do
not go, and leave me here by myself.'

'Nay, Annette, you do not think I can wait in the gallery all night,'
replied Emily. 'Direct me to the turret; in the morning I will endeavour
to release you.'

'O holy Mary!' exclaimed Annette, 'am I to stay here by myself all
night! I shall be frightened out of my senses, and I shall die of
hunger; I have had nothing to eat since dinner!'

Emily could scarcely forbear smiling at the heterogeneous distresses of
Annette, though she sincerely pitied them, and said what she could to
sooth her. At length, she obtained something like a direction to the
east turret, and quitted the door, from whence, after many intricacies
and perplexities, she reached the steep and winding stairs of the
turret, at the foot of which she stopped to rest, and to re-animate her
courage with a sense of her duty. As she surveyed this dismal place, she
perceived a door on the opposite side of the stair-case, and, anxious
to know whether it would lead her to Madame Montoni, she tried to undraw
the bolts, which fastened it. A fresher air came to her face, as she
unclosed the door, which opened upon the east rampart, and the sudden
current had nearly extinguished her light, which she now removed to a
distance; and again, looking out upon the obscure terrace, she perceived
only the faint outline of the walls and of some towers, while, above,
heavy clouds, borne along the wind, seemed to mingle with the stars, and
wrap the night in thicker darkness. As she gazed, now willing to defer
the moment of certainty, from which she expected only confirmation of
evil, a distant footstep reminded her, that she might be observed by
the men on watch, and, hastily closing the door, she took her lamp,
and passed up the stair-case. Trembling came upon her, as she ascended
through the gloom. To her melancholy fancy this seemed to be a place of
death, and the chilling silence, that reigned, confirmed its character.
Her spirits faltered. 'Perhaps,' said she, 'I am come hither only to
learn a dreadful truth, or to witness some horrible spectacle; I feel
that my senses would not survive such an addition of horror.'

The image of her aunt murdered--murdered, perhaps, by the hand of
Montoni, rose to her mind; she trembled, gasped for breath--repented
that she had dared to venture hither, and checked her steps. But, after
she had paused a few minutes, the consciousness of her duty returned,
and she went on. Still all was silent. At length a track of blood, upon
a stair, caught her eye; and instantly she perceived, that the wall and
several other steps were stained. She paused, again struggled to support
herself, and the lamp almost fell from her trembling hand. Still
no sound was heard, no living being seemed to inhabit the turret; a
thousand times she wished herself again in her chamber; dreaded to
enquire farther--dreaded to encounter some horrible spectacle, and
yet could not resolve, now that she was so near the termination of her
efforts, to desist from them. Having again collected courage to proceed,
after ascending about half way up the turret, she came to another door,
but here again she stopped in hesitation; listened for sounds within,
and then, summoning all her resolution, unclosed it, and entered a
chamber, which, as her lamp shot its feeble rays through the darkness,
seemed to exhibit only dew-stained and deserted walls. As she stood
examining it, in fearful expectation of discovering the remains of her
unfortunate aunt, she perceived something lying in an obscure corner of
the room, and, struck with an horrible conviction, she became, for
an instant, motionless and nearly insensible. Then, with a kind of
desperate resolution, she hurried towards the object that excited her
terror, when, perceiving the clothes of some person, on the floor,
she caught hold of them, and found in her grasp the old uniform of a
soldier, beneath which appeared a heap of pikes and other arms. Scarcely
daring to trust her sight, she continued, for some moments, to gaze
on the object of her late alarm, and then left the chamber, so much
comforted and occupied by the conviction, that her aunt was not there,
that she was going to descend the turret, without enquiring farther;
when, on turning to do so, she observed upon some steps on the second
flight an appearance of blood, and remembering, that there was yet
another chamber to be explored, she again followed the windings of
the ascent. Still, as she ascended, the track of blood glared upon the
stairs.

It led her to the door of a landing-place, that terminated them, but she
was unable to follow it farther. Now that she was so near the sought-for
certainty, she dreaded to know it, even more than before, and had not
fortitude sufficient to speak, or to attempt opening the door.

Having listened, in vain, for some sound, that might confirm, or destroy
her fears, she, at length, laid her hand on the lock, and, finding it
fastened, called on Madame Montoni; but only a chilling silence ensued.

'She is dead!' she cried,--'murdered!--her blood is on the stairs!'

Emily grew very faint; could support herself no longer, and had scarcely
presence of mind to set down the lamp, and place herself on a step.

When her recollection returned, she spoke again at the door, and again
attempted to open it, and, having lingered for some time, without
receiving any answer, or hearing a sound, she descended the turret,
and, with all the swiftness her feebleness would permit, sought her own
apartment.

As she turned into the corridor, the door of a chamber opened, from
whence Montoni came forth; but Emily, more terrified than ever to behold
him, shrunk back into the passage soon enough to escape being noticed,
and heard him close the door, which she had perceived was the same she
formerly observed. Having here listened to his departing steps, till
their faint sound was lost in distance, she ventured to her apartment,
and, securing it once again, retired to her bed, leaving the lamp
burning on the hearth. But sleep was fled from her harassed mind, to
which images of horror alone occurred. She endeavoured to think it
possible, that Madame Montoni had not been taken to the turret; but,
when she recollected the former menaces of her husband and the terrible
spirit of vengeance, which he had displayed on a late occasion; when she
remembered his general character, the looks of the men, who had forced
Madame Montoni from her apartment, and the written traces on the stairs
of the turret--she could not doubt, that her aunt had been carried
thither, and could scarcely hope, that she had not been carried to be
murdered.

The grey of morning had long dawned through her casements, before Emily
closed her eyes in sleep; when wearied nature, at length, yielded her a
respite from suffering.

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

completion: The next morning, Madame Montoni is as determined as ever not to give up her property to her husband. While Madame Montoni recovers, Em has to go to dinner with a bunch of Montoni's new guests. She tries to dress simply, but Montoni makes her wear a flashy outfit. Dinner is a bust. All of Montoni's guests are wild-looking and scary, and all they want to talk about is war and politics. Montoni proposes a toast to the group and is about to drink when his wine hisses and the glass breaks into thousands of pieces. Someone's trying to poison him! Montoni declares a traitor in the midst, and everyone draws their swords. We're about to have another Inigo Montoya moment. Montoni orders anyone suspicious-looking to be chained in the dungeon. Nice guy. He's already pretty mad, so it's no surprise when he locks Em and Madame Montoni in a room by themselves. He still plans to send his wife to the east turret, BTW. Annette tries to get Em to open the door, not realizing that Montoni locked them in. She tells Em and Madame Montoni that it's total sword-fighting chaos in the castle. Montoni sends his thugs to take Madame Montoni to the east turret, leaving Em to faint out of fear on a couch. Good going, Em. When she wakes up, she tests the door to see if it's open. It is, so she wanders around the castle to see what's going on. Someone's bawling inside a locked room in the castle. It's the hysterical Annette. Looks like her sweetheart Ludovico locked her in to protect her from all the fighting and never came back. Em bails when she can't open the door. Sorry, Netters! Em is having some problems keeping it together, too. She's pretty sure Madame Montoni has been murdered. Scratch that, she's sure Madame Montoni has been murdered. Em hides in a corner as Montoni passes by. He might be a murderer, after all! She goes back to her room to freak out.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XI

 Who rears the bloody hand?
     SAYERS

Emily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, without
receiving any notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except the
armed men, who sometimes passed on the terrace below. Having tasted no
food since the dinner of the preceding day, extreme faintness made her
feel the necessity of quitting the asylum of her apartment to obtain
refreshment, and she was also very anxious to procure liberty for
Annette. Willing, however, to defer venturing forth, as long as
possible, and considering, whether she should apply to Montoni, or to
the compassion of some other person, her excessive anxiety concerning
her aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of his presence, and she
determined to go to him, and to entreat, that he would suffer her to see
Madame Montoni.

Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that some
accident had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in confinement;
Emily, therefore, resolved also to visit the chamber, where she had
spoken to her, on the preceding night, and, if the poor girl was yet
there, to inform Montoni of her situation.

It was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and went
first to the south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a single
person, or hearing a sound, except, now and then, the echo of a distant
footstep.

It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audible
upon the first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own and
Ludovico's fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved to
death, if she was not let out immediately. Emily replied, that she
was going to beg her release of Montoni; but the terrors of hunger now
yielded to those of the Signor, and, when Emily left her, she was loudly
entreating, that her place of refuge might be concealed from him.

As Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the people
she met in the passages renewed her alarm. The latter, however, were
peaceable, and did not interrupt her, though they looked earnestly at
her, as she passed, and sometimes spoke. On crossing the hall towards
the cedar room, where Montoni usually sat, she perceived, on the
pavement, fragments of swords, some tattered garments stained with
blood, and almost expected to have seen among them a dead body; but
from such a spectacle she was, at present, spared. As she approached
the room, the sound of several voices issued from within, and a dread
of appearing before many strangers, as well as of irritating Montoni
by such an intrusion, made her pause and falter from her purpose. She
looked up through the long arcades of the hall, in search of a servant,
who might bear a message, but no one appeared, and the urgency of what
she had to request made her still linger near the door. The voices
within were not in contention, though she distinguished those of several
of the guests of the preceding day; but still her resolution failed,
whenever she would have tapped at the door, and she had determined to
walk in the hall, till some person should appear, who might call Montoni
from the room, when, as she turned from the door, it was suddenly opened
by himself. Emily trembled, and was confused, while he almost started
with surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance unfolded
themselves. She forgot all she would have said, and neither enquired for
her aunt, or entreated for Annette, but stood silent and embarrassed.

After closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she had
not been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had overheard; an
accusation, which revived her recollection so far, that she assured
him she had not come thither with an intention to listen to his
conversation, but to entreat his compassion for her aunt, and for
Annette. Montoni seemed to doubt this assertion, for he regarded her
with a scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidently arose from no trifling
interest. Emily then further explained herself, and concluded with
entreating him to inform her, where her aunt was placed, and to permit,
that she might visit her; but he looked upon her only with a malignant
smile, which instantaneously confirmed her worst fears for her aunt,
and, at that moment, she had not courage to renew her entreaties.

'For Annette,' said he,--'if you go to Carlo, he will release the
girl; the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday.' Emily
shuddered.--'But my aunt, Signor'--said she, 'O tell me of my aunt!'

'She is taken care of,' replied Montoni hastily, 'I have no time to
answer idle questions.'

He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could not
be wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame Montoni was;
while he paused, and she anxiously watched his countenance, a trumpet
sounded, and, in the next moment, she heard the heavy gates of the
portal open, and then the clattering of horses' hoofs in the court, with
the confusion of many voices. She stood for a moment hesitating whether
she should follow Montoni, who, at the sound of the trumpet, had passed
through the hall, and, turning her eyes whence it came, she saw through
the door, that opened beyond a long perspective of arches into the
courts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the distance
and her embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen depart, a
few days before. But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when the trumpet
sounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room, and men came
running into the hall from every quarter of the castle. Emily once more
hurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she was still pursued
by images of horror. She re-considered Montoni's manner and words, when
he had spoken of his wife, and they served only to confirm her most
terrible suspicions. Tears refused any longer to relieve her distress,
and she had sat for a considerable time absorbed in thought, when a
knocking at the chamber door aroused her, on opening which she found old
Carlo.

'Dear young lady,' said he, 'I have been so flurried, I never once
thought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and wine,
and I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.'

'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, 'this is very good of you Did the Signor
remind you of me?'

'No, Signora,' replied Carlo, 'his excellenza has business enough on his
hands.' Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, but
Carlo had been employed at the other end of the castle, during the time,
that she was removed, and he had heard nothing since, concerning her.

While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knew
whether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the truth
from a fear of offending his master. To several questions, concerning
the contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited answers; but told,
that the disputes were now amicably settled, and that the Signor
believed himself to have been mistaken in his suspicions of his guests.
'The fighting was about that, Signora,' said Carlo; 'but I trust I shall
never see such another day in this castle, though strange things are
about to be done.'

On her enquiring his meaning, 'Ah, Signora!' added he, 'it is not for me
to betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.'

She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described the
chamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey her
immediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were the
persons just arrived. Her late conjecture was right; it was Verezzi,
with his party.

Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with Carlo;
for, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to hear the
accents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy.

An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping and
sobbing. 'O Ludovico--Ludovico!' cried she.

'My poor Annette!' said Emily, and made her sit down.

'Who could have foreseen this, ma'amselle? O miserable, wretched,
day--that ever I should live to see it!' and she continued to moan and
lament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of grief.
'We are continually losing dear friends by death,' said she, with
a sigh, that came from her heart. 'We must submit to the will of
Heaven--our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!'

Annette took the handkerchief from her face.

'You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,' added Emily.

'Yes--yes,--ma'amselle,' sobbed Annette, 'but I hope I shall meet him
again in this--though he is so wounded!'

'Wounded!' exclaimed Emily, 'does he live?'

'Yes, ma'am, but--but he has a terrible wound, and could not come to
let me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been rightly
himself, till within this hour.'

'Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.'

'Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!'

Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thought
implied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily endeavoured
to encourage her. To enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, she could
give no satisfactory answers.

'I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma'amselle,' said she, 'for I
could think of nobody but poor Ludovico.'

Annette's grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to make
enquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain no
intelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant of
her fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal it.

This day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her aunt;
but she was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now that Annette
was liberated, she obtained food, without exposing herself to danger, or
impertinence.

Two following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by any
occurrence, during which she obtained no information of Madame Montoni.
On the evening of the second, having dismissed Annette, and retired to
bed, her mind became haunted by the most dismal images, such as her long
anxiety, concerning her aunt, suggested; and, unable to forget herself,
for a moment, or to vanquish the phantoms, that tormented her, she
rose from her bed, and went to one of the casements of her chamber, to
breathe a freer air.

All without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light,
which was only the faint glimmer of the stars, shewing imperfectly
the outline of the mountains, the western towers of the castle and the
ramparts below, where a solitary sentinel was pacing. What an image of
repose did this scene present! The fierce and terrible passions, too,
which so often agitated the inhabitants of this edifice, seemed now
hushed in sleep;--those mysterious workings, that rouse the elements of
man's nature into tempest--were calm. Emily's heart was not so; but her
sufferings, though deep, partook of the gentle character of her mind.
Hers was a silent anguish, weeping, yet enduring; not the wild energy of
passion, inflaming imagination, bearing down the barriers of reason and
living in a world of its own.

The air refreshed her, and she continued at the casement, looking on the
shadowy scene, over which the planets burned with a clear light, amid
the deep blue aether, as they silently moved in their destined course.
She remembered how often she had gazed on them with her dear father, how
often he had pointed out their way in the heavens, and explained their
laws; and these reflections led to others, which, in an almost equal
degree, awakened her grief and astonishment.

They brought a retrospect of all the strange and mournful events, which
had occurred since she lived in peace with her parents. And to Emily,
who had been so tenderly educated, so tenderly loved, who once knew
only goodness and happiness--to her, the late events and her present
situation--in a foreign land--in a remote castle--surrounded by vice
and violence--seemed more like the visions of a distempered imagination,
than the circumstances of truth. She wept to think of what her parents
would have suffered, could they have foreseen the events of her future
life.

While she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she observed the same
planet, which she had seen in Languedoc, on the night, preceding her
father's death, rise above the eastern towers of the castle, while she
remembered the conversation, which has passed, concerning the probable
state of departed souls; remembered, also, the solemn music she had
heard, and to which the tenderness of her spirits had, in spite of her
reason, given a superstitious meaning. At these recollections she wept
again, and continued musing, when suddenly the notes of sweet music
passed on the air. A superstitious dread stole over her; she stood
listening, for some moments, in trembling expectation, and then
endeavoured to re-collect her thoughts, and to reason herself into
composure; but human reason cannot establish her laws on subjects, lost
in the obscurity of imagination, any more than the eye can ascertain the
form of objects, that only glimmer through the dimness of night.

Her surprise, on hearing such soothing and delicious sounds, was, at
least, justifiable; for it was long--very long, since she had listened
to any thing like melody. The fierce trumpet and the shrill fife were
the only instruments she had heard, since her arrival at Udolpho.

When her mind was somewhat more composed, she tried to ascertain from
what quarter the sounds proceeded, and thought they came from below; but
whether from a room of the castle, or from the terrace, she could not
with certainty judge. Fear and surprise now yielded to the enchantment
of a strain, that floated on the silent night, with the most soft
and melancholy sweetness. Suddenly, it seemed removed to a distance,
trembled faintly, and then entirely ceased.

She continued to listen, sunk in that pleasing repose, which soft music
leaves on the mind--but it came no more. Upon this strange circumstance
her thoughts were long engaged, for strange it certainly was to hear
music at midnight, when every inhabitant of the castle had long since
retired to rest, and in a place, where nothing like harmony had been
heard before, probably, for many years. Long-suffering had made her
spirits peculiarly sensible to terror, and liable to be affected by the
illusions of superstition.--It now seemed to her, as if her dead father
had spoken to her in that strain, to inspire her with comfort and
confidence, on the subject, which had then occupied her mind. Yet reason
told her, that this was a wild conjecture, and she was inclined to
dismiss it; but, with the inconsistency so natural, when imagination
guides the thoughts, she then wavered towards a belief as wild. She
remembered the singular event, connected with the castle, which had
given it into the possession of its present owner; and, when she
considered the mysterious manner, in which its late possessor had
disappeared, and that she had never since been heard of, her mind was
impressed with an high degree of solemn awe; so that, though there
appeared no clue to connect that event with the late music, she was
inclined fancifully to think they had some relation to each other. At
this conjecture, a sudden chillness ran through her frame; she looked
fearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber, and the dead silence, that
prevailed there, heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect.

At length, she left the casement, but her steps faltered, as she
approached the bed, and she stopped and looked round. The single lamp,
that burned in her spacious chamber, was expiring; for a moment, she
shrunk from the darkness beyond; and then, ashamed of the weakness,
which, however, she could not wholly conquer, went forward to the bed,
where her mind did not soon know the soothings of sleep. She still mused
on the late occurrence, and looked with anxiety to the next night, when,
at the same hour, she determined to watch whether the music returned.
'If those sounds were human,' said she, 'I shall probably hear them
again.'

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

completion: Em wakes up from a little nappy-nap and decides to finally ask Montoni about letting Annette out of the room. Nice of her to be in such a hurry. She sees remnants of the battle strewn all about. Em runs into Montoni in the hallway. He's worried that she overheard something he was saying, but promises to get Annette out of the room. When Annette finally gets out, she's all shaken up about Ludovico. It seems he's received a near-mortal wound. Em's indulging in her favorite habit when she hears some strange music from afar. It's actually comforting to the poor girl, who's reminded of her dearly departed dad.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XII

  Then, oh, you blessed ministers above,
 Keep me in patience; and, in ripen'd time,
 Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up
 In countenance.
     SHAKESPEARE

Annette came almost breathless to Emily's apartment in the morning. 'O
ma'amselle!' said she, in broken sentences, 'what news I have to tell! I
have found out who the prisoner is--but he was no prisoner, neither;--he
that was shut up in the chamber I told you of. I must think him a ghost,
forsooth!'

'Who was the prisoner?' enquired Emily, while her thoughts glanced back
to the circumstance of the preceding night.

'You mistake, ma'am,' said Annette; 'he was not a prisoner, after all.'

'Who is the person, then?'

'Holy Saints!' rejoined Annette; 'How I was surprised! I met him just
now, on the rampart below, there. I never was so surprised in my life!
Ah! ma'amselle! this is a strange place! I should never have done
wondering, if I was to live here an hundred years. But, as I was saying,
I met him just now on the rampart, and I was thinking of nobody less
than of him.'

'This trifling is insupportable,' said Emily; 'prythee, Annette, do not
torture my patience any longer.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, guess--guess who it was; it was somebody you know very
well.'

'I cannot guess,' said Emily impatiently.

'Nay, ma'amselle, I'll tell you something to guess by--A tall Signor,
with a longish face, who walks so stately, and used to wear such a high
feather in his hat; and used often to look down upon the ground, when
people spoke to him; and to look at people from under his eyebrows, as
it were, all so dark and frowning. You have seen him, often and often,
at Venice, ma'am. Then he was so intimate with the Signor, too. And, now
I think of it, I wonder what he could be afraid of in this lonely old
castle, that he should shut himself up for. But he is come abroad now,
for I met him on the rampart just this minute. I trembled when I saw
him, for I always was afraid of him, somehow; but I determined I would
not let him see it; so I went up to him, and made him a low curtesy,
"You are welcome to the castle, Signor Orsino," said I.'

'O, it was Signor Orsino, then!' said Emily.

'Yes, ma'amselle, Signor Orsino, himself, who caused that Venetian
gentleman to be killed, and has been popping about from place to place,
ever since, as I hear.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, recovering from the shock of this
intelligence; 'and is HE come to Udolpho! He does well to endeavour to
conceal himself.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, but if that was all, this desolate place would conceal
him, without his shutting himself up in one room. Who would think of
coming to look for him here? I am sure I should as soon think of going
to look for any body in the other world.'

'There is some truth in that,' said Emily, who would now have concluded
it was Orsino's music, which she had heard, on the preceding night,
had she not known, that he had neither taste, or skill in the art. But,
though she was unwilling to add to the number of Annette's surprises, by
mentioning the subject of her own, she enquired, whether any person in
the castle played on a musical instrument?

'O yes, ma'amselle! there is Benedetto plays the great drum to
admiration; and then, there is Launcelot the trumpeter; nay, for that
matter, Ludovico himself can play on the trumpet;--but he is ill now. I
remember once'--

Emily interrupted her; 'Have you heard no other music since you came to
the castle--none last night?'

'Why, did YOU hear any last night, ma'amselle?'

Emily evaded this question, by repeating her own.

'Why, no, ma'am,' replied Annette; 'I never heard any music here, I
must say, but the drums and the trumpet; and, as for last night, I did
nothing but dream I saw my late lady's ghost.'

'Your LATE lady's,' said Emily in a tremulous voice; 'you have heard
more, then. Tell me--tell me all, Annette, I entreat; tell me the worst
at once.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, you know the worst already.'

'I know nothing,' said Emily.

'Yes, you do, ma'amselle; you know, that nobody knows any thing about
her; and it is plain, therefore, she is gone, the way of the first lady
of the castle--nobody ever knew any thing about her.'

Emily leaned her head upon her hand, and was, for some time, silent;
then, telling Annette she wished to be alone, the latter left the room.

The remark of Annette had revived Emily's terrible suspicion, concerning
the fate of Madame Montoni; and she resolved to make another effort to
obtain certainty on this subject, by applying to Montoni once more.

When Annette returned, a few hours after, she told Emily, that the
porter of the castle wished very much to speak with her, for that he had
something of importance to say; her spirits had, however, of late been
so subject to alarm, that any new circumstance excited it; and this
message from the porter, when her first surprise was over, made her look
round for some lurking danger, the more suspiciously, perhaps, because
she had frequently remarked the unpleasant air and countenance of this
man. She now hesitated, whether to speak with him, doubting even, that
this request was only a pretext to draw her into some danger; but a
little reflection shewed her the improbability of this, and she blushed
at her weak fears.

'I will speak to him, Annette,' said she; 'desire him to come to the
corridor immediately.'

Annette departed, and soon after returned.

'Barnardine, ma'amselle,' said she, 'dare not come to the corridor, lest
he should be discovered, it is so far from his post; and he dare not
even leave the gates for a moment now; but, if you will come to him
at the portal, through some roundabout passages he told me of, without
crossing the courts, he has that to tell, which will surprise you. But
you must not come through the courts, lest the Signor should see you.'

Emily, neither approving these 'roundabout passage,' nor the other part
of the request, now positively refused to go. 'Tell him,' said she,
'if he has any thing of consequence to impart, I will hear him in the
corridor, whenever he has an opportunity of coming thither.'

Annette went to deliver this message, and was absent a considerable
time. When she returned, 'It won't do, ma'amselle,' said she.
'Barnardine has been considering all this time what can be done, for it
is as much as his place is worth to leave his post now. But, if you will
come to the east rampart in the dusk of the evening, he can, perhaps,
steal away, and tell you all he has to say.'

Emily was surprised and alarmed, at the secrecy which this man seemed
to think so necessary, and hesitated whether to meet him, till,
considering, that he might mean to warn her of some serious danger, she
resolved to go.

'Soon after sun-set,' said she, 'I will be at the end of the east
rampart. But then the watch will be set,' she added, recollecting
herself, 'and how can Barnardine pass unobserved?'

'That is just what I said to him, ma'am, and he answered me, that he had
the key of the gate, at the end of the rampart, that leads towards
the courts, and could let himself through that way; and as for the
sentinels, there were none at this end of the terrace, because the place
is guarded enough by the high walls of the castle, and the east turret;
and he said those at the other end were too far off to see him, if it
was pretty duskyish.'

'Well,' said Emily, 'I must hear what he has to tell; and, therefore,
desire you will go with me to the terrace, this evening.'

'He desired it might be pretty duskyish, ma'amselle,' repeated Annette,
'because of the watch.'

Emily paused, and then said she would be on the terrace, an hour after
sun-set;--'and tell Barnardine,' she added, 'to be punctual to the
time; for that I, also, may be observed by Signor Montoni. Where is the
Signor? I would speak with him.'

'He is in the cedar chamber, ma'am, counselling with the other Signors.
He is going to give them a sort of treat to-day, to make up for what
passed at the last, I suppose; the people are all very busy in the
kitchen.'

Emily now enquired, if Montoni expected any new guests? and Annette
believed that he did not. 'Poor Ludovico!' added she, 'he would be as
merry as the best of them, if he was well; but he may recover yet. Count
Morano was wounded as bad, as he, and he is got well again, and is gone
back to Venice.'

'Is he so?' said Emily, 'when did you hear this?'

'I heard it, last night, ma'amselle, but I forgot to tell it.'

Emily asked some further questions, and then, desiring Annette would
observe and inform her, when Montoni was alone, the girl went to deliver
her message to Barnardine.

Montoni was, however, so much engaged, during the whole day, that Emily
had no opportunity of seeking a release from her terrible suspense,
concerning her aunt. Annette was employed in watching his steps, and in
attending upon Ludovico, whom she, assisted by Caterina, nursed with
the utmost care; and Emily was, of course, left much alone. Her
thoughts dwelt often on the message of the porter, and were employed
in conjecturing the subject, that occasioned it, which she sometimes
imagined concerned the fate of Madame Montoni; at others, that it
related to some personal danger, which threatened herself. The cautious
secrecy which Barnardine observed in his conduct, inclined her to
believe the latter.

As the hour of appointment drew near, her impatience increased. At
length, the sun set; she heard the passing steps of the sentinels going
to their posts; and waited only for Annette to accompany her to the
terrace, who, soon after, came, and they descended together. When Emily
expressed apprehensions of meeting Montoni, or some of his guests, 'O,
there is no fear of that, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'they are all set
in to feasting yet, and that Barnardine knows.'

They reached the first terrace, where the sentinels demanded who passed;
and Emily, having answered, walked on to the east rampart, at the
entrance of which they were again stopped; and, having again replied,
were permitted to proceed. But Emily did not like to expose herself to
the discretion of these men, at such an hour; and, impatient to withdraw
from the situation, she stepped hastily on in search of Barnardine. He
was not yet come. She leaned pensively on the wall of the rampart,
and waited for him. The gloom of twilight sat deep on the surrounding
objects, blending in soft confusion the valley, the mountains, and the
woods, whose tall heads, stirred by the evening breeze, gave the only
sounds, that stole on silence, except a faint, faint chorus of distant
voices, that arose from within the castle.

'What voices are those?' said Emily, as she fearfully listened.

'It is only the Signor and his guests, carousing,' replied Annette.

'Good God!' thought Emily, 'can this man's heart be so gay, when he has
made another being so wretched; if, indeed, my aunt is yet suffered to
feel her wretchedness? O! whatever are my own sufferings, may my heart
never, never be hardened against those of others!'

She looked up, with a sensation of horror, to the east turret, near
which she then stood; a light glimmered through the grates of the lower
chamber, but those of the upper one were dark. Presently, she perceived
a person moving with a lamp across the lower room; but this circumstance
revived no hope, concerning Madame Montoni, whom she had vainly
sought in that apartment, which had appeared to contain only soldiers'
accoutrements. Emily, however, determined to attempt the outer door
of the turret, as soon as Barnardine should withdraw; and, if it was
unfastened, to make another effort to discover her aunt.

The moments passed, but still Barnardine did not appear; and Emily,
becoming uneasy, hesitated whether to wait any longer. She would have
sent Annette to the portal to hasten him, but feared to be left alone,
for it was now almost dark, and a melancholy streak of red, that still
lingered in the west, was the only vestige of departed day. The strong
interest, however, which Barnardine's message had awakened, overcame
other apprehensions, and still detained her.

While she was conjecturing with Annette what could thus occasion his
absence, they heard a key turn in the lock of the gate near them, and
presently saw a man advancing. It was Barnardine, of whom Emily hastily
enquired what he had to communicate, and desired, that he would tell her
quickly, 'for I am chilled with this evening air,' said she.

'You must dismiss your maid, lady,' said the man in a voice, the deep
tone of which shocked her, 'what I have to tell is to you only.'

Emily, after some hesitation, desired Annette to withdraw to a little
distance. 'Now, my friend, what would you say?'

He was silent a moment, as if considering, and then said,--

'That which would cost me my place, at least, if it came to the Signor's
ears. You must promise, lady, that nothing shall ever make you tell a
syllable of the matter; I have been trusted in this affair, and, if it
was known, that I betrayed my trust, my life, perhaps, might answer
it. But I was concerned for you, lady, and I resolved to tell you.' He
paused.--

Emily thanked him, assured him that he might repose on her discretion,
and entreated him to dispatch.

'Annette told us in the hall how unhappy you was about Signora Montoni,
and how much you wished to know what was become of her.'

'Most true,' said Emily eagerly, 'and you can inform me. I conjure you
tell me the worst, without hesitation.' She rested her trembling arm
upon the wall.

'I can tell you,' said Barnardine, and paused.--

Emily had no power to enforce her entreaties.

'I CAN tell you,' resumed Barnardine,--'but'--

'But what?' exclaimed Emily, recovering her resolution.

'Here I am, ma'amselle,' said Annette, who, having heard the eager tone,
in which Emily pronounced these words, came running towards her.

'Retire!' said Barnardine, sternly; 'you are not wanted;' and, as Emily
said nothing, Annette obeyed.

'I CAN tell you,' repeated the porter,--'but I know not how--you was
afflicted before.'--

'I am prepared for the worst, my friend,' said Emily, in a firm and
solemn voice. 'I can support any certainty better than this suspense.'

'Well, Signora, if that is the case, you shall hear.--You know, I
suppose, that the Signor and his lady used sometimes to disagree. It is
none of my concerns to enquire what it was about, but I believe you know
it was so.'

'Well,' said Emily, 'proceed.'

'The Signor, it seems, had lately been very wrath against her. I saw
all, and heard all,--a great deal more than people thought for; but it
was none of my business, so I said nothing. A few days ago, the Signor
sent for me. "Barnardine," says he, "you are--an honest man, I think I
can trust you." I assured his excellenza that he could. "Then," says he,
as near as I can remember, "I have an affair in hand, which I want you
to assist me in."--Then he told me what I was to do; but that I shall
say nothing about--it concerned only the Signora.'

'O Heavens!' exclaimed Emily--'what have you done?'

Barnardine hesitated, and was silent.

'What fiend could tempt him, or you, to such an act!' cried Emily,
chilled with horror, and scarcely able to support her fainting spirits.

'It was a fiend,' said Barnardine in a gloomy tone of voice. They
were now both silent;--Emily had not courage to enquire further, and
Barnardine seemed to shrink from telling more. At length he said, 'It
is of no use to think of the past; the Signor was cruel enough, but he
would be obeyed. What signified my refusing? He would have found others,
who had no scruples.'

'You have murdered her, then!' said Emily, in a hollow and inward
voice--'I am talking with a murderer!' Barnardine stood silent; while
Emily turned from him, and attempted to leave the place.

'Stay, lady!' said he, 'You deserve to think so still--since you can
believe me capable of such a deed.'

'If you are innocent, tell me quickly,' said Emily, in faint accents,
'for I feel I shall not be able to hear you long.'

'I will tell you no more,' said he, and walked away. Emily had just
strength enough to bid him stay, and then to call Annette, on whose arm
she leaned, and they walked slowly up the rampart, till they heard steps
behind them. It was Barnardine again.

'Send away the girl,' said he, 'and I will tell you more.'

'She must not go,' said Emily; 'what you have to say, she may hear.'

'May she so, lady?' said he. 'You shall know no more, then;' and he was
going, though slowly, when Emily's anxiety, overcoming the resentment
and fear, which the man's behaviour had roused, she desired him to stay,
and bade Annette retire.

'The Signora is alive,' said he, 'for me. She is my prisoner, though;
his excellenza has shut her up in the chamber over the great gates of
the court, and I have the charge of her. I was going to have told you,
you might see her--but now--'

Emily, relieved from an unutterable load of anguish by this speech, had
now only to ask Barnardine's forgiveness, and to conjure, that he would
let her visit her aunt.

He complied with less reluctance, than she expected, and told her, that,
if she would repair, on the following night, when the Signor was retired
to rest, to the postern-gate of the castle, she should, perhaps, see
Madame Montoni.

Amid all the thankfulness, which Emily felt for this concession,
she thought she observed a malicious triumph in his manner, when he
pronounced the last words; but, in the next moment, she dismissed the
thought, and, having again thanked him, commended her aunt to his
pity, and assured him, that she would herself reward him, and would
be punctual to her appointment, she bade him good night, and retired,
unobserved, to her chamber. It was a considerable time, before
the tumult of joy, which Barnardine's unexpected intelligence had
occasioned, allowed Emily to think with clearness, or to be conscious of
the real dangers, that still surrounded Madame Montoni and herself.
When this agitation subsided, she perceived, that her aunt was yet the
prisoner of a man, to whose vengeance, or avarice, she might fall a
sacrifice; and, when she further considered the savage aspect of the
person, who was appointed to guard Madame Montoni, her doom appeared to
be already sealed, for the countenance of Barnardine seemed to bear the
stamp of a murderer; and, when she had looked upon it, she felt inclined
to believe, that there was no deed, however black, which he might not be
prevailed upon to execute. These reflections brought to her remembrance
the tone of voice, in which he had promised to grant her request to
see his prisoner; and she mused upon it long in uneasiness and doubt.
Sometimes, she even hesitated, whether to trust herself with him at the
lonely hour he had appointed; and once, and only once, it struck her,
that Madame Montoni might be already murdered, and that this ruffian was
appointed to decoy herself to some secret place, where her life also
was to be sacrificed to the avarice of Montoni, who then would claim
securely the contested estates in Languedoc. The consideration of the
enormity of such guilt did, at length, relieve her from the belief
of its probability, but not from all the doubts and fears, which a
recollection of Barnardine's manner had occasioned. From these subjects,
her thoughts, at length, passed to others; and, as the evening advanced,
she remembered, with somewhat more than surprise, the music she had
heard, on the preceding night, and now awaited its return, with more
than curiosity.

She distinguished, till a late hour, the distant carousals of Montoni
and his companions--the loud contest, the dissolute laugh and the choral
song, that made the halls re-echo. At length, she heard the heavy gates
of the castle shut for the night, and those sounds instantly sunk into
a silence, which was disturbed only by the whispering steps of persons,
passing through the galleries to their remote rooms. Emily now judging
it to be about the time, when she had heard the music, on the preceding
night, dismissed Annette, and gently opened the casement to watch
for its return. The planet she had so particularly noticed, at the
recurrence of the music, was not yet risen; but, with superstitious
weakness, she kept her eyes fixed on that part of the hemisphere, where
it would rise, almost expecting, that, when it appeared, the sounds
would return. At length, it came, serenely bright, over the eastern
towers of the castle. Her heart trembled, when she perceived it, and she
had scarcely courage to remain at the casement, lest the returning
music should confirm her terror, and subdue the little strength she yet
retained. The clock soon after struck one, and, knowing this to be about
the time, when the sounds had occurred, she sat down in a chair, near
the casement, and endeavoured to compose her spirits; but the anxiety
of expectation yet disturbed them. Every thing, however, remained still;
she heard only the solitary step of a sentinel, and the lulling murmur
of the woods below, and she again leaned from the casement, and again
looked, as if for intelligence, to the planet, which was now risen high
above the towers.

Emily continued to listen, but no music came. 'Those were surely no
mortal sounds!' said she, recollecting their entrancing melody. 'No
inhabitant of this castle could utter such; and, where is the feeling,
that could modulate such exquisite expression? We all know, that it
has been affirmed celestial sounds have sometimes been heard on earth.
Father Pierre and Father Antoine declared, that they had sometimes heard
them in the stillness of night, when they alone were waking to offer
their orisons to heaven. Nay, my dear father himself, once said, that,
soon after my mother's death, as he lay watchful in grief, sounds of
uncommon sweetness called him from his bed; and, on opening his window,
he heard lofty music pass along the midnight air. It soothed him, he
said; he looked up with confidence to heaven, and resigned her to his
God.'

Emily paused to weep at this recollection. 'Perhaps,' resumed she,
'perhaps, those strains I heard were sent to comfort,--to encourage me!
Never shall I forget those I heard, at this hour, in Languedoc!
Perhaps, my father watches over me, at this moment!' She wept again in
tenderness. Thus passed the hour in watchfulness and solemn thought; but
no sounds returned; and, after remaining at the casement, till the
light tint of dawn began to edge the mountain-tops and steal upon the
night-shade, she concluded, that they would not return, and retired
reluctantly to repose.

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

completion: Annette has big news for Em about a new guest at the castle. That would be Orsino, otherwise known as the outlaw who killed a guy in Venice. Yup. Montoni is harboring a fugitive. But what Em really wants to know is where that strange music is coming from. She asks Annette about musicians in the castle, but gets nada. Annette does have a little tidbit for Em: Barnardine, the castle porter, says he can get Em to see her aunt in the east turret. There's only one catch. Em has to meet Barnardine late at night, totally alone, and he'll take her to see Madame Montoni. Danger, Will Robinson.