prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER VII

     Was nought around but images of rest,
 Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between,
 And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept,
 From poppies breath'd, and banks of pleasant green,
 Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
 Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets play'd,
 And hurled every where their water's sheen,
 That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
 Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
     THOMSON

When Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprised
to observe the beauties, that surrounded it. The cottage was nearly
embowered in the woods, which were chiefly of chesnut intermixed
with some cypress, larch and sycamore. Beneath the dark and spreading
branches, appeared, to the north, and to the east, the woody Apennines,
rising in majestic amphitheatre, not black with pines, as she had been
accustomed to see them, but their loftiest summits crowned with antient
forests of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now animated with the rich
tints of autumn, and which swept downward to the valley uninterruptedly,
except where some bold rocky promontory looked out from among the
foliage, and caught the passing gleam. Vineyards stretched along the
feet of the mountains, where the elegant villas of the Tuscan nobility
frequently adorned the scene, and overlooked slopes clothed with
groves of olive, mulberry, orange and lemon. The plain, to which these
declined, was coloured with the riches of cultivation, whose mingled
hues were mellowed into harmony by an Italian sun. Vines, their purple
clusters blushing between the russet foliage, hung in luxuriant festoons
from the branches of standard fig and cherry trees, while pastures of
verdure, such as Emily had seldom seen in Italy, enriched the banks of
a stream that, after descending from the mountains, wound along the
landscape, which it reflected, to a bay of the sea. There, far in the
west, the waters, fading into the sky, assumed a tint of the faintest
purple, and the line of separation between them was, now and then,
discernible only by the progress of a sail, brightened with the sunbeam,
along the horizon.

The cottage, which was shaded by the woods from the intenser rays of the
sun, and was open only to his evening light, was covered entirely with
vines, fig-trees and jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in size and
fragrance any that Emily had seen. These and ripening clusters of grapes
hung round her little casement. The turf, that grew under the woods, was
inlaid with a variety of wild flowers and perfumed herbs, and, on the
opposite margin of the stream, whose current diffused freshness beneath
the shades, rose a grove of lemon and orange trees. This, though nearly
opposite to Emily's window, did not interrupt her prospect, but rather
heightened, by its dark verdure, the effect of the perspective; and
to her this spot was a bower of sweets, whose charms communicated
imperceptibly to her mind somewhat of their own serenity.

She was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant's daughter, a girl
about seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad to
observe, seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, though
the others, that surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worst
qualities--cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter style
of countenance, especially, were those of the peasant and his wife.
Maddelina spoke little, but what she said was in a soft voice, and
with an air of modesty and complacency, that interested Emily, who
breakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while Ugo and Bertrand
were taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their host, near
the cottage door; when they had finished which, Ugo, rising hastily,
enquired for his mule, and Emily learned that he was to return to
Udolpho, while Bertrand remained at the cottage; a circumstance, which,
though it did not surprise, distressed her.

When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring woods;
but, on being told, that she must not quit the cottage, without having
Bertrand for her attendant, she withdrew to her own room. There, as her
eyes settled on the towering Apennines, she recollected the terrific
scenery they had exhibited and the horrors she had suffered, on the
preceding night, particularly at the moment when Bertrand had betrayed
himself to be an assassin; and these remembrances awakened a train of
images, which, since they abstracted her from a consideration of her own
situation, she pursued for some time, and then arranged in the following
lines; pleased to have discovered any innocent means, by which she could
beguile an hour of misfortune.

  THE PILGRIM*

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

(* This poem and that entitled THE TRAVELLER in vol. ii, have already
appeared in a periodical publication. [A. R.])

Preferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons below
stairs, Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend her,
from whose simple conversation she learned, that the peasant and his
wife were old inhabitants of this cottage, which had been purchased for
them by Montoni, in reward of some service, rendered him, many years
before, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the steward at the castle, was nearly
related. 'So many years ago, Signora,' added Maddelina, 'that I know
nothing about it; but my father did the Signor a great good, for my
mother has often said to him, this cottage was the least he ought to
have had.'

To the mention of this circumstance Emily listened with a painful
interest, since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the character
of Marco, whose service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she could scarcely
doubt have been criminal; and, if so, had too much reason to believe,
that she had been committed into his hands for some desperate
purpose. 'Did you ever hear how many years it is,' said Emily, who was
considering of Signora Laurentini's disappearance from Udolpho, 'since
your father performed the services you spoke of?'

'It was a little before he came to live at the cottage, Signora,'
replied Maddelina, 'and that is about eighteen years ago.'

This was near the period, when Signora Laurentini had been said to
disappear, and it occurred to Emily, that Marco had assisted in that
mysterious affair, and, perhaps, had been employed in a murder! This
horrible suggestion fixed her in such profound reverie, that Maddelina
quitted the room, unperceived by her, and she remained unconscious of
all around her, for a considerable time. Tears, at length, came to her
relief, after indulging which, her spirits becoming calmer, she
ceased to tremble at a view of evils, that might never arrive; and had
sufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts from the
contemplation of her own interests. Remembering the few books, which
even in the hurry of her departure from Udolpho she had put into her
little package, she sat down with one of them at her pleasant casement,
whence her eyes often wandered from the page to the landscape, whose
beauty gradually soothed her mind into gentle melancholy.

Here, she remained alone, till evening, and saw the sun descend the
western sky, throw all his pomp of light and shadow upon the mountains,
and gleam upon the distant ocean and the stealing sails, as he sunk
amidst the waves. Then, at the musing hour of twilight, her softened
thoughts returned to Valancourt; she again recollected every
circumstance, connected with the midnight music, and all that might
assist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the castle, and,
becoming confirmed in the supposition, that it was his voice she had
heard there, she looked back to that gloomy abode with emotions of grief
and momentary regret.

Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air, and her spirits soothed to a
state of gentle melancholy by the stilly murmur of the brook below and
of the woods around, she lingered at her casement long after the sun
had set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only the
grand outline of the surrounding mountains, shadowed upon the horizon,
remained visible. But a clear moon-light, that succeeded, gave to the
landscape, what time gives to the scenes of past life, when it softens
all their harsher features, and throws over the whole the mellowing
shade of distant contemplation. The scenes of La Vallee, in the early
morn of her life, when she was protected and beloved by parents equally
loved, appeared in Emily's memory tenderly beautiful, like the prospect
before her, and awakened mournful comparisons. Unwilling to encounter
the coarse behaviour of the peasant's wife, she remained supperless in
her room, while she wept again over her forlorn and perilous situation,
a review of which entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude,
and, reducing her to temporary despondence, she wished to be released
from the heavy load of life, that had so long oppressed her, and prayed
to Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her parents.

Wearied with weeping, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and sunk
to sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber door,
and, starting up in terror, she heard a voice calling her. The image of
Bertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy,
and she neither opened the door, or answered, but listened in profound
silence, till, the voice repeating her name in the same low tone, she
demanded who called. 'It is I, Signora,' replied the voice, which she
now distinguished to be Maddelina's, 'pray open the door. Don't be
frightened, it is I.'

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

'Hush! signora, for heaven's sake hush!--if we are overheard I shall
never be forgiven. My father and mother and Bertrand are all gone
to bed,' continued Maddelina, as she gently shut the door, and crept
forward, 'and I have brought you some supper, for you had none, you
know, Signora, below stairs. Here are some grapes and figs and half a
cup of wine.' Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lest
this kindness should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when she
perceived the fruit was gone. 'Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,'
added Emily, 'I shall suffer much less from the want of it, than
I should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject you to your
mother's displeasure.'

'O Signora! there is no danger of that,' replied Maddelina, 'my mother
cannot miss the fruit, for I saved it from my own supper. You will make
me very unhappy, if you refuse to take it, Signora.' Emily was so
much affected by this instance of the good girl's generosity, that she
remained for some time unable to reply, and Maddelina watched her in
silence, till, mistaking the cause of her emotion, she said, 'Do not
weep so, Signora! My mother, to be sure, is a little cross, sometimes,
but then it is soon over,--so don't take it so much to heart. She often
scolds me, too, but then I have learned to bear it, and, when she has
done, if I can but steal out into the woods, and play upon my sticcado,
I forget it all directly.'

Emily, smiling through her tears, told Maddelina, that she was a good
girl, and then accepted her offering. She wished anxiously to know,
whether Bertrand and Dorina had spoken of Montoni, or of his designs,
concerning herself, in the presence of Maddelina, but disdained to tempt
the innocent girl to a conduct so mean, as that of betraying the private
conversations of her parents. When she was departing, Emily requested,
that she would come to her room as often as she dared, without offending
her mother, and Maddelina, after promising that she would do so, stole
softly back again to her own chamber.

Thus several days passed, during which Emily remained in her own room,
Maddelina attending her only at her repast, whose gentle countenance and
manners soothed her more than any circumstance she had known for many
months. Of her pleasant embowered chamber she now became fond, and
began to experience in it those feelings of security, which we naturally
attach to home. In this interval also, her mind, having been undisturbed
by any new circumstance of disgust, or alarm, recovered its tone
sufficiently to permit her the enjoyment of her books, among which she
found some unfinished sketches of landscapes, several blank sheets of
paper, with her drawing instruments, and she was thus enabled to amuse
herself with selecting some of the lovely features of the prospect,
that her window commanded, and combining them in scenes, to which her
tasteful fancy gave a last grace. In these little sketches she generally
placed interesting groups, characteristic of the scenery they animated,
and often contrived to tell, with perspicuity, some simple and affecting
story, when, as a tear fell over the pictured griefs, which her
imagination drew, she would forget, for a moment, her real sufferings.
Thus innocently she beguiled the heavy hours of misfortune, and, with
meek patience, awaited the events of futurity.

A beautiful evening, that had succeeded to a sultry day, at length
induced Emily to walk, though she knew that Bertrand must attend her,
and, with Maddelina for her companion, she left the cottage, followed by
Bertrand, who allowed her to choose her own way. The hour was cool and
silent, and she could not look upon the country around her, without
delight. How lovely, too, appeared the brilliant blue, that coloured all
the upper region of the air, and, thence fading downward, was lost in
the saffron glow of the horizon! Nor less so were the varied shades and
warm colouring of the Apennines, as the evening sun threw his slanting
rays athwart their broken surface. Emily followed the course of the
stream, under the shades, that overhung its grassy margin. On the
opposite banks, the pastures were animated with herds of cattle of a
beautiful cream-colour; and, beyond, were groves of lemon and orange,
with fruit glowing on the branches, frequent almost as the leaves,
which partly concealed it. She pursued her way towards the sea, which
reflected the warm glow of sun-set, while the cliffs, that rose over its
edge, were tinted with the last rays. The valley was terminated on the
right by a lofty promontory, whose summit, impending over the waves, was
crowned with a ruined tower, now serving for the purpose of a beacon,
whose shattered battlements and the extended wings of some sea-fowl,
that circled near it, were still illumined by the upward beams of the
sun, though his disk was now sunk beneath the horizon; while the lower
part of the ruin, the cliff on which it stood and the waves at its foot,
were shaded with the first tints of twilight.

Having reached this headland, Emily gazed with solemn pleasure on the
cliffs, that extended on either hand along the sequestered shores,
some crowned with groves of pine, and others exhibiting only barren
precipices of grayish marble, except where the crags were tufted with
myrtle and other aromatic shrubs. The sea slept in a perfect calm;
its waves, dying in murmurs on the shores, flowed with the gentlest
undulation, while its clear surface reflected in softened beauty the
vermeil tints of the west. Emily, as she looked upon the ocean, thought
of France and of past times, and she wished, Oh! how ardently, and
vainly--wished! that its waves would bear her to her distant, native
home!

'Ah! that vessel,' said she, 'that vessel, which glides along so
stately, with its tall sails reflected in the water is, perhaps, bound
for France! Happy--happy bark!' She continued to gaze upon it, with warm
emotion, till the gray of twilight obscured the distance, and veiled it
from her view. The melancholy sound of the waves at her feet assisted
the tenderness, that occasioned her tears, and this was the only sound,
that broke upon the hour, till, having followed the windings of the
beach, for some time, a chorus of voices passed her on the air. She
paused a moment, wishing to hear more, yet fearing to be seen, and,
for the first time, looked back to Bertrand, as her protector, who
was following, at a short distance, in company with some other person.
Reassured by this circumstance, she advanced towards the sounds, which
seemed to arise from behind a high promontory, that projected athwart
the beach. There was now a sudden pause in the music, and then one
female voice was heard to sing in a kind of chant. Emily quickened
her steps, and, winding round the rock, saw, within the sweeping bay,
beyond, which was hung with woods from the borders of the beach to the
very summit of the cliffs, two groups of peasants, one seated beneath
the shades, and the other standing on the edge of the sea, round the
girl, who was singing, and who held in her hand a chaplet of flowers,
which she seemed about to drop into the waves.

Emily, listening with surprise and attention, distinguished the
following invocation delivered in the pure and elegant tongue of
Tuscany, and accompanied by a few pastoral instruments.

  TO A SEA-NYMPH

 O nymph! who loves to float on the green wave,
 When Neptune sleeps beneath the moon-light hour,
 Lull'd by the music's melancholy pow'r,
 O nymph, arise from out thy pearly cave!

 For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade,
 And soon shall Cynthia tremble o'er the tide,
 Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean's pride,
 And lonely silence all the air pervade.

 Then, let thy tender voice at distance swell,
 And steal along this solitary shore,
 Sink on the breeze, till dying--heard no more--
 Thou wak'st the sudden magic of thy shell.

 While the long coast in echo sweet replies,
 Thy soothing strains the pensive heart beguile,
 And bid the visions of the future smile,
 O nymph! from out thy pearly cave--arise!

  (Chorus)--ARISE!
  (Semi-chorus)--ARISE!

The last words being repeated by the surrounding group, the garland of
flowers was thrown into the waves, and the chorus, sinking gradually
into a chant, died away in silence.

'What can this mean, Maddelina?' said Emily, awakening from the pleasing
trance, into which the music had lulled her. 'This is the eve of a
festival, Signora,' replied Maddelina; 'and the peasants then amuse
themselves with all kinds of sports.'

'But they talked of a sea-nymph,' said Emily: 'how came these good
people to think of a sea-nymph?'

'O, Signora,' rejoined Maddelina, mistaking the reason of Emily's
surprise, 'nobody BELIEVES in such things, but our old songs tell of
them, and, when we are at our sports, we sometimes sing to them, and
throw garlands into the sea.'

Emily had been early taught to venerate Florence as the seat of
literature and of the fine arts; but, that its taste for classic story
should descend to the peasants of the country, occasioned her both
surprise and admiration. The Arcadian air of the girls next attracted
her attention. Their dress was a very short full petticoat of light
green, with a boddice of white silk; the sleeves loose, and tied up at
the shoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers. Their hair, falling
in ringlets on their necks, was also ornamented with flowers, and with a
small straw hat, which, set rather backward and on one side of the head,
gave an expression of gaiety and smartness to the whole figure. When
the song had concluded, several of these girls approached Emily, and,
inviting her to sit down among them, offered her, and Maddelina, whom
they knew, grapes and figs.

Emily accepted their courtesy, much pleased with the gentleness and
grace of their manners, which appeared to be perfectly natural to them;
and when Bertrand, soon after, approached, and was hastily drawing her
away, a peasant, holding up a flask, invited him to drink; a temptation,
which Bertrand was seldom very valiant in resisting.

'Let the young lady join in the dance, my friend,' said the peasant,
'while we empty this flask. They are going to begin directly. Strike up!
my lads, strike up your tambourines and merry flutes!'

They sounded gaily; and the younger peasants formed themselves into a
circle, which Emily would readily have joined, had her spirits been in
unison with their mirth. Maddelina, however, tripped it lightly,
and Emily, as she looked on the happy group, lost the sense of her
misfortunes in that of a benevolent pleasure. But the pensive melancholy
of her mind returned, as she sat rather apart from the company,
listening to the mellow music, which the breeze softened as it bore it
away, and watching the moon, stealing its tremulous light over the waves
and on the woody summits of the cliffs, that wound along these Tuscan
shores.

Meanwhile, Bertrand was so well pleased with his first flask, that he
very willingly commenced the attack on a second, and it was late before
Emily, not without some apprehension, returned to the cottage.

After this evening, she frequently walked with Maddelina, but was never
unattended by Bertrand; and her mind became by degrees as tranquil as
the circumstances of her situation would permit. The quiet, in which
she was suffered to live, encouraged her to hope, that she was not sent
hither with an evil design; and, had it not appeared probable, that
Valancourt was at this time an inhabitant of Udolpho, she would have
wished to remain at the cottage, till an opportunity should offer of
returning to her native country. But, concerning Montoni's motive for
sending her into Tuscany, she was more than ever perplexed, nor could
she believe that any consideration for her safety had influenced him on
this occasion.

She had been some time at the cottage, before she recollected, that, in
the hurry of leaving Udolpho, she had forgotten the papers committed
to her by her late aunt, relative to the Languedoc estates; but, though
this remembrance occasioned her much uneasiness, she had some hope,
that, in the obscure place, where they were deposited, they would escape
the detection of Montoni.

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

completion: Em wakes up in the morning in Tuscany and realizes life ain't bad. She meets Dorina's daughter, Maddelina, and the two quickly become bosom buddies. Em figures out that Maddelina's dad, Marco, probably performed some services for Montoni at some point. Her immediate conclusion: he totally murdered Signora Laurentini. In her hurry to leave Udolpho, Em totally forgot about hiding the papers Madame Montoni told her to keep. Let's hope for everyone's sake that Montoni doesn't dig them up.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER VIII

 My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
 I play the torturer, by small and small,
 To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.
     RICHARD II

We now return, for a moment, to Venice, where Count Morano was suffering
under an accumulation of misfortunes. Soon after his arrival in that
city, he had been arrested by order of the Senate, and, without knowing
of what he was suspected, was conveyed to a place of confinement,
whither the most strenuous enquiries of his friends had been unable to
trace him. Who the enemy was, that had occasioned him this calamity, he
had not been able to guess, unless, indeed, it was Montoni, on whom his
suspicions rested, and not only with much apparent probability, but with
justice.

In the affair of the poisoned cup, Montoni had suspected Morano; but,
being unable to obtain the degree of proof, which was necessary to
convict him of a guilty intention, he had recourse to means of other
revenge, than he could hope to obtain by prosecution. He employed
a person, in whom he believed he might confide, to drop a letter of
accusation into the DENUNZIE SECRETE, or lions' mouths, which are
fixed in a gallery of the Doge's palace, as receptacles for anonymous
information, concerning persons, who may be disaffected towards the
state. As, on these occasions, the accuser is not confronted with the
accused, a man may falsely impeach his enemy, and accomplish an unjust
revenge, without fear of punishment, or detection. That Montoni should
have recourse to these diabolical means of ruining a person, whom he
suspected of having attempted his life, is not in the least surprising.
In the letter, which he had employed as the instrument of his revenge,
he accused Morano of designs against the state, which he attempted to
prove, with all the plausible simplicity of which he was master; and
the Senate, with whom a suspicion was, at that time, almost equal to
a proof, arrested the Count, in consequence of this accusation; and,
without even hinting to him his crime, threw him into one of those
secret prisons, which were the terror of the Venetians, and in which
persons often languished, and sometimes died, without being discovered
by their friends.

Morano had incurred the personal resentment of many members of the
state; his habits of life had rendered him obnoxious to some; and his
ambition, and the bold rivalship, which he discovered, on several public
occasions,--to others; and it was not to be expected, that mercy would
soften the rigour of a law, which was to be dispensed from the hands of
his enemies.

Montoni, meantime, was beset by dangers of another kind. His castle
was besieged by troops, who seemed willing to dare every thing, and to
suffer patiently any hardships in pursuit of victory. The strength
of the fortress, however, withstood their attack, and this, with the
vigorous defence of the garrison and the scarcity of provision on these
wild mountains, soon compelled the assailants to raise the siege.

When Udolpho was once more left to the quiet possession of Montoni,
he dispatched Ugo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had sent from
considerations of her personal safety, to a place of greater security,
than a castle, which was, at that time, liable to be overrun by his
enemies. Tranquillity being once more restored to Udolpho, he was
impatient to secure her again under his roof, and had commissioned Ugo
to assist Bertrand in guarding her back to the castle. Thus compelled to
return, Emily bade the kind Maddelina farewell, with regret, and,
after about a fortnight's stay in Tuscany, where she had experienced
an interval of quiet, which was absolutely necessary to sustain her
long-harassed spirits, began once more to ascend the Apennines, from
whose heights she gave a long and sorrowful look to the beautiful
country, that extended at their feet, and to the distant Mediterranean,
whose waves she had so often wished would bear her back to France.
The distress she felt, on her return towards the place of her former
sufferings, was, however, softened by a conjecture, that Valancourt was
there, and she found some degree of comfort in the thought of being near
him, notwithstanding the consideration, that he was probably a prisoner.

It was noon, when she had left the cottage, and the evening was closed,
long before she came within the neighbourhood of Udolpho. There was a
moon, but it shone only at intervals, for the night was cloudy, and,
lighted by the torch, which Ugo carried, the travellers paced silently
along, Emily musing on her situation, and Bertrand and Ugo anticipating
the comforts of a flask of wine and a good fire, for they had perceived
for some time the difference between the warm climate of the lowlands
of Tuscany and the nipping air of these upper regions. Emily was, at
length, roused from her reverie by the far-off sound of the castle
clock, to which she listened not without some degree of awe, as it
rolled away on the breeze. Another and another note succeeded, and died
in sullen murmur among the mountains:--to her mournful imagination it
seemed a knell measuring out some fateful period for her.

'Aye, there is the old clock,' said Bertrand, 'there he is still; the
cannon have not silenced him!'

'No,' answered Ugo, 'he crowed as loud as the best of them in the midst
of it all. There he was roaring out in the hottest fire I have seen this
many a day! I said that some of them would have a hit at the old fellow,
but he escaped, and the tower too.'

The road winding round the base of a mountain, they now came within view
of the castle, which was shewn in the perspective of the valley by a
gleam of moon-shine, and then vanished in shade; while even a transient
view of it had awakened the poignancy of Emily's feelings. Its massy and
gloomy walls gave her terrible ideas of imprisonment and suffering:
yet, as she advanced, some degree of hope mingled with her terror; for,
though this was certainly the residence of Montoni, it was possibly,
also, that of Valancourt, and she could not approach a place, where he
might be, without experiencing somewhat of the joy of hope.

They continued to wind along the valley, and, soon after, she saw again
the old walls and moon-lit towers, rising over the woods: the strong
rays enabled her, also, to perceive the ravages, which the siege had
made,--with the broken walls, and shattered battlements, for they were
now at the foot of the steep, on which Udolpho stood. Massy fragments
had rolled down among the woods, through which the travellers now began
to ascend, and there mingled with the loose earth, and pieces of rock
they had brought with them. The woods, too, had suffered much from the
batteries above, for here the enemy had endeavoured to screen themselves
from the fire of the ramparts. Many noble trees were levelled with the
ground, and others, to a wide extent, were entirely stripped of their
upper branches. 'We had better dismount,' said Ugo, 'and lead the mules
up the hill, or we shall get into some of the holes, which the balls
have left. Here are plenty of them. Give me the torch,' continued Ugo,
after they had dismounted, 'and take care you don't stumble over any
thing, that lies in your way, for the ground is not yet cleared of the
enemy.'

'How!' exclaimed Emily, 'are any of the enemy here, then?'

'Nay, I don't know for that, now,' he replied, 'but when I came away I
saw one or two of them lying under the trees.'

As they proceeded, the torch threw a gloomy light upon the ground, and
far among the recesses of the woods, and Emily feared to look forward,
lest some object of horror should meet her eye. The path was often
strewn with broken heads of arrows, and with shattered remains of
armour, such as at that period was mingled with the lighter dress of the
soldiers. 'Bring the light hither,' said Bertrand, 'I have stumbled over
something, that rattles loud enough.' Ugo holding up the torch, they
perceived a steel breastplate on the ground, which Bertrand raised, and
they saw, that it was pierced through, and that the lining was entirely
covered with blood; but upon Emily's earnest entreaties, that they would
proceed, Bertrand, uttering some joke upon the unfortunate person, to
whom it had belonged, threw it hard upon the ground, and they passed on.

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

'O! they are only changing watch,' replied Ugo. 'I do not remember
this trumpet,' said Emily, 'it is a new custom.' 'It is only an old one
revived, lady; we always use it in time of war. We have sounded it, at
midnight, ever since the place was besieged.'

'Hark!' said Emily, as the trumpet sounded again; and, in the next
moment, she heard a faint clash of arms, and then the watchword passed
along the terrace above, and was answered from a distant part of the
castle; after which all was again still. She complained of cold, and
begged to go on. 'Presently, lady,' said Bertrand, turning over some
broken arms with the pike he usually carried. 'What have we here?'

'Hark!' cried Emily, 'what noise was that?'

'What noise was it?' said Ugo, starting up and listening.

'Hush!' repeated Emily. 'It surely came from the ramparts above:' and,
on looking up, they perceived a light moving along the walls, while,
in the next instant, the breeze swelling, the voice sounded louder than
before.

'Who goes yonder?' cried a sentinel of the castle. 'Speak or it will be
worse for you.' Bertrand uttered a shout of joy. 'Hah! my brave comrade,
is it you?' said he, and he blew a shrill whistle, which signal was
answered by another from the soldier on watch; and the party, then
passing forward, soon after emerged from the woods upon the broken road,
that led immediately to the castle gates, and Emily saw, with renewed
terror, the whole of that stupendous structure. 'Alas!' said she to
herself, 'I am going again into my prison!'

'Here has been warm work, by St. Marco!' cried Bertrand, waving a
torch over the ground; 'the balls have torn up the earth here with a
vengeance.'

'Aye,' replied Ugo, 'they were fired from that redoubt, yonder, and
rare execution they did. The enemy made a furious attack upon the great
gates; but they might have guessed they could never carry it there; for,
besides the cannon from the walls, our archers, on the two round towers,
showered down upon them at such a rate, that, by holy Peter! there was
no standing it. I never saw a better sight in my life; I laughed,
till my sides aked, to see how the knaves scampered. Bertrand, my good
fellow, thou shouldst have been among them; I warrant thou wouldst have
won the race!'

'Hah! you are at your old tricks again,' said Bertrand in a surly tone.
'It is well for thee thou art so near the castle; thou knowest I have
killed my man before now.' Ugo replied only by a laugh, and then gave
some further account of the siege, to which as Emily listened, she was
struck by the strong contrast of the present scene with that which had
so lately been acted here.

The mingled uproar of cannon, drums, and trumpets, the groans of the
conquered, and the shouts of the conquerors were now sunk into a silence
so profound, that it seemed as if death had triumphed alike over the
vanquished and the victor. The shattered condition of one of the towers
of the great gates by no means confirmed the VALIANT account just given
by Ugo of the scampering party, who, it was evident, had not only made
a stand, but had done much mischief before they took to flight; for this
tower appeared, as far as Emily could judge by the dim moon-light
that fell upon it, to be laid open, and the battlements were nearly
demolished. While she gazed, a light glimmered through one of the lower
loop-holes, and disappeared; but, in the next moment, she perceived
through the broken wall, a soldier, with a lamp, ascending the narrow
staircase, that wound within the tower, and, remembering that it was the
same she had passed up, on the night, when Barnardine had deluded her
with a promise of seeing Madame Montoni, fancy gave her somewhat of
the terror she had then suffered. She was now very near the gates, over
which the soldier having opened the door of the portal-chamber, the lamp
he carried gave her a dusky view of that terrible apartment, and she
almost sunk under the recollected horrors of the moment, when she had
drawn aside the curtain, and discovered the object it was meant to
conceal.

'Perhaps,' said she to herself, 'it is now used for a similar purpose;
perhaps, that soldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch over the corpse
of his friend!' The little remains of her fortitude now gave way to the
united force of remembered and anticipated horrors, for the melancholy
fate of Madame Montoni appeared to foretell her own. She considered,
that, though the Languedoc estates, if she relinquished them, would
satisfy Montoni's avarice, they might not appease his vengeance, which
was seldom pacified but by a terrible sacrifice; and she even thought,
that, were she to resign them, the fear of justice might urge him either
to detain her a prisoner, or to take away her life.

They were now arrived at the gates, where Bertrand, observing the light
glimmer through a small casement of the portal-chamber, called aloud;
and the soldier, looking out, demanded who was there. 'Here, I have
brought you a prisoner,' said Ugo, 'open the gate, and let us in.'

'Tell me first who it is, that demands entrance,' replied the soldier.
'What! my old comrade,' cried Ugo, 'don't you know me? not know Ugo? I
have brought home a prisoner here, bound hand and foot--a fellow, who
has been drinking Tuscany wine, while we here have been fighting.'

'You will not rest till you meet with your match,' said Bertrand
sullenly. 'Hah! my comrade, is it you?' said the soldier--'I'll be with
you directly.'

Emily presently heard his steps descending the stairs within, and then
the heavy chain fall, and the bolts undraw of a small postern door,
which he opened to admit the party. He held the lamp low, to shew the
step of the gate, and she found herself once more beneath the gloomy
arch, and heard the door close, that seemed to shut her from the world
for ever. In the next moment, she was in the first court of the castle,
where she surveyed the spacious and solitary area, with a kind of calm
despair; while the dead hour of the night, the gothic gloom of the
surrounding buildings, and the hollow and imperfect echoes, which
they returned, as Ugo and the soldier conversed together, assisted to
increase the melancholy forebodings of her heart. Passing on to the
second court, a distant sound broke feebly on the silence, and gradually
swelling louder, as they advanced, Emily distinguished voices of revelry
and laughter, but they were to her far other than sounds of joy. 'Why,
you have got some Tuscany wine among you, HERE,' said Bertrand, 'if one
may judge by the uproar that is going forward. Ugo has taken a larger
share of that than of fighting, I'll be sworn. Who is carousing at this
late hour?'

'His excellenza and the Signors,' replied the soldier: 'it is a sign you
are a stranger at the castle, or you would not need to ask the question.
They are brave spirits, that do without sleep--they generally pass the
night in good cheer; would that we, who keep the watch, had a little of
it! It is cold work, pacing the ramparts so many hours of the night, if
one has no good liquor to warm one's heart.'

'Courage, my lad, courage ought to warm your heart,' said Ugo.
'Courage!' replied the soldier sharply, with a menacing air, which Ugo
perceiving, prevented his saying more, by returning to the subject of
the carousal. 'This is a new custom,' said he; 'when I left the castle,
the Signors used to sit up counselling.'

'Aye, and for that matter, carousing too,' replied the soldier, 'but,
since the siege, they have done nothing but make merry: and if I was
they, I would settle accounts with myself, for all my hard fighting, the
same way.'

They had now crossed the second court, and reached the hall door, when
the soldier, bidding them good night, hastened back to his post; and,
while they waited for admittance, Emily considered how she might avoid
seeing Montoni, and retire unnoticed to her former apartment, for she
shrunk from the thought of encountering either him, or any of his party,
at this hour. The uproar within the castle was now so loud, that, though
Ugo knocked repeatedly at the hall door, he was not heard by any of
the servants, a circumstance, which increased Emily's alarm, while it
allowed her time to deliberate on the means of retiring unobserved; for,
though she might, perhaps, pass up the great stair-case unseen, it was
impossible she could find the way to her chamber, without a light, the
difficulty of procuring which, and the danger of wandering about the
castle, without one, immediately struck her. Bertrand had only a torch,
and she knew, that the servants never brought a taper to the door, for
the hall was sufficiently lighted by the large tripod lamp, which hung
in the vaulted roof; and, while she should wait till Annette could bring
a taper, Montoni, or some of his companions, might discover her.

The door was now opened by Carlo; and Emily, having requested him to
send Annette immediately with a light to the great gallery, where
she determined to await her, passed on with hasty steps towards the
stair-case; while Bertrand and Ugo, with the torch, followed old Carlo
to the servants' hall, impatient for supper and the warm blaze of a wood
fire. Emily, lighted only by the feeble rays, which the lamp above threw
between the arches of this extensive hall, endeavoured to find her way
to the stair-case, now hid in obscurity; while the shouts of merriment,
that burst from a remote apartment, served, by heightening her terror,
to increase her perplexity, and she expected, every instant, to see
the door of that room open, and Montoni and his companions issue forth.
Having, at length, reached the stair-case, and found her way to the top,
she seated herself on the last stair, to await the arrival of Annette;
for the profound darkness of the gallery deterred her from proceeding
farther, and, while she listened for her footstep, she heard only
distant sounds of revelry, which rose in sullen echoes from among the
arcades below. Once she thought she heard a low sound from the dark
gallery behind her; and, turning her eyes, fancied she saw something
luminous move in it; and, since she could not, at this moment, subdue
the weakness that caused her fears, she quitted her seat, and crept
softly down a few stairs lower.

Annette not yet appearing, Emily now concluded, that she was gone
to bed, and that nobody chose to call her up; and the prospect, that
presented itself, of passing the night in darkness, in this place, or
in some other equally forlorn (for she knew it would be impracticable to
find her way through the intricacies of the galleries to her chamber),
drew tears of mingled terror and despondency from her eyes.

While thus she sat, she fancied she heard again an odd sound from
the gallery, and she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but the
increasing voices below overcame every other sound. Soon after, she
heard Montoni and his companions burst into the hall, who spoke, as
if they were much intoxicated, and seemed to be advancing towards the
stair-case. She now remembered, that they must come this way to their
chambers, and, forgetting all the terrors of the gallery, hurried
towards it with an intention of secreting herself in some of the
passages, that opened beyond, and of endeavouring, when the Signors were
retired, to find her way to her own room, or to that of Annette, which
was in a remote part of the castle.

With extended arms, she crept along the gallery, still hearing the
voices of persons below, who seemed to stop in conversation at the foot
of the stair-case, and then pausing for a moment to listen, half fearful
of going further into the darkness of the gallery, where she still
imagined, from the noise she had heard, that some person was lurking,
'They are already informed of my arrival,' said she, 'and Montoni is
coming himself to seek me! In the present state of his mind, his purpose
must be desperate.' Then, recollecting the scene, that had passed in
the corridor, on the night preceding her departure from the castle, 'O
Valancourt!' said she, 'I must then resign you for ever. To brave any
longer the injustice of Montoni, would not be fortitude, but rashness.'
Still the voices below did not draw nearer, but they became louder, and
she distinguished those of Verezzi and Bertolini above the rest, while
the few words she caught made her listen more anxiously for others. The
conversation seemed to concern herself; and, having ventured to step
a few paces nearer to the stair-case, she discovered, that they were
disputing about her, each seeming to claim some former promise of
Montoni, who appeared, at first, inclined to appease and to persuade
them to return to their wine, but afterwards to be weary of the dispute,
and, saying that he left them to settle it as they could, was returning
with the rest of the party to the apartment he had just quitted.
Verezzi then stopped him. 'Where is she? Signor,' said he, in a voice of
impatience: 'tell us where she is.' 'I have already told you that I
do not know,' replied Montoni, who seemed to be somewhat overcome with
wine; 'but she is most probably gone to her apartment.' Verezzi
and Bertolini now desisted from their enquiries, and sprang to the
stair-case together, while Emily, who, during this discourse, had
trembled so excessively, that she had with difficulty supported herself,
seemed inspired with new strength, the moment she heard the sound
of their steps, and ran along the gallery, dark as it was, with the
fleetness of a fawn. But, long before she reached its extremity, the
light, which Verezzi carried, flashed upon the walls; both appeared,
and, instantly perceiving Emily, pursued her. At this moment, Bertolini,
whose steps, though swift, were not steady, and whose impatience
overcame what little caution he had hitherto used, stumbled, and fell
at his length. The lamp fell with him, and was presently expiring on the
floor; but Verezzi, regardless of saving it, seized the advantage this
accident gave him over his rival, and followed Emily, to whom, however,
the light had shown one of the passages that branched from the gallery,
and she instantly turned into it. Verezzi could just discern the way she
had taken, and this he pursued; but the sound of her steps soon sunk
in distance, while he, less acquainted with the passage, was obliged
to proceed through the dark, with caution, lest he should fall down
a flight of steps, such as in this extensive old castle frequently
terminated an avenue. This passage at length brought Emily to the
corridor, into which her own chamber opened, and, not hearing any
footstep, she paused to take breath, and consider what was the safest
design to be adopted. She had followed this passage, merely because it
was the first that appeared, and now that she had reached the end of it,
was as perplexed as before. Whither to go, or how further to find her
way in the dark, she knew not; she was aware only that she must not seek
her apartment, for there she would certainly be sought, and her danger
increased every instant, while she remained near it. Her spirits and her
breath, however, were so much exhausted, that she was compelled to rest,
for a few minutes, at the end of the passage, and still she heard no
steps approaching. As thus she stood, light glimmered under an opposite
door of the gallery, and, from its situation, she knew, that it was
the door of that mysterious chamber, where she had made a discovery so
shocking, that she never remembered it but with the utmost horror. That
there should be light in this chamber, and at this hour, excited her
strong surprise, and she felt a momentary terror concerning it, which
did not permit her to look again, for her spirits were now in such a
state of weakness, that she almost expected to see the door slowly open,
and some horrible object appear at it. Still she listened for a
step along the passage, and looked up it, where, not a ray of light
appearing, she concluded, that Verezzi had gone back for the lamp; and,
believing that he would shortly be there, she again considered which way
she should go, or rather which way she could find in the dark.

A faint ray still glimmered under the opposite door, but so great, and,
perhaps, so just was her horror of that chamber, that she would not
again have tempted its secrets, though she had been certain of obtaining
the light so important to her safety. She was still breathing with
difficulty, and resting at the end of the passage, when she heard a
rustling sound, and then a low voice, so very near her, that it seemed
close to her ear; but she had presence of mind to check her emotions,
and to remain quite still; in the next moment, she perceived it to be
the voice of Verezzi, who did not appear to know, that she was there,
but to have spoken to himself. 'The air is fresher here,' said he: 'this
should be the corridor.' Perhaps, he was one of those heroes, whose
courage can defy an enemy better than darkness, and he tried to rally
his spirits with the sound of his own voice. However this might be,
he turned to the right, and proceeded, with the same stealing steps,
towards Emily's apartment, apparently forgetting, that, in darkness,
she could easily elude his search, even in her chamber; and, like an
intoxicated person, he followed pertinaciously the one idea, that had
possessed his imagination.

The moment she heard his steps steal away, she left her station and
moved softly to the other end of the corridor, determined to trust
again to chance, and to quit it by the first avenue she could find; but,
before she could effect this, light broke upon the walls of the gallery,
and, looking back, she saw Verezzi crossing it towards her chamber.
She now glided into a passage, that opened on the left, without, as
she thought, being perceived; but, in the next instant, another light,
glimmering at the further end of this passage, threw her into new
terror. While she stopped and hesitated which way to go, the pause
allowed her to perceive, that it was Annette, who advanced, and
she hurried to meet her: but her imprudence again alarmed Emily,
on perceiving whom, she burst into a scream of joy, and it was some
minutes, before she could be prevailed with to be silent, or to release
her mistress from the ardent clasp, in which she held her. When, at
length, Emily made Annette comprehend her danger, they hurried
towards Annette's room, which was in a distant part of the castle.
No apprehensions, however, could yet silence the latter. 'Oh dear
ma'amselle,' said she, as they passed along, 'what a terrified time have
I had of it! Oh! I thought I should have died an hundred times! I never
thought I should live to see you again! and I never was so glad to see
any body in my whole life, as I am to see you now.' 'Hark!' cried Emily,
'we are pursued; that was the echo of steps!' 'No, ma'amselle,' said
Annette, 'it was only the echo of a door shutting; sound runs along
these vaulted passages so, that one is continually deceived by it; if
one does but speak, or cough, it makes a noise as loud as a cannon.'
'Then there is the greater necessity for us to be silent,' said Emily:
'pr'ythee say no more, till we reach your chamber.' Here, at length,
they arrived, without interruption, and, Annette having fastened the
door, Emily sat down on her little bed, to recover breath and composure.
To her enquiry, whether Valancourt was among the prisoners in the
castle, Annette replied, that she had not been able to hear, but that
she knew there were several persons confined. She then proceeded, in her
tedious way, to give an account of the siege, or rather a detail of her
terrors and various sufferings, during the attack. 'But,' added she,
'when I heard the shouts of victory from the ramparts, I thought we were
all taken, and gave myself up for lost, instead of which, WE had driven
the enemy away. I went then to the north gallery, and saw a great many
of them scampering away among the mountains; but the rampart walls were
all in ruins, as one may say, and there was a dismal sight to see down
among the woods below, where the poor fellows were lying in heaps, but
were carried off presently by their comrades. While the siege was going
on, the Signor was here, and there, and every where, at the same time,
as Ludovico told me, for he would not let me see any thing hardly, and
locked me up, as he has often done before, in a room in the middle of
the castle, and used to bring me food, and come and talk with me as
often as he could; and I must say, if it had not been for Ludovico, I
should have died outright.'

'Well, Annette,' said Emily, 'and how have affairs gone on, since the
siege?'

'O! sad hurly burly doings, ma'amselle,' replied Annette; 'the Signors
have done nothing but sit and drink and game, ever since. They sit up,
all night, and play among themselves, for all those riches and fine
things, they brought in, some time since, when they used to go out
a-robbing, or as good, for days together; and then they have dreadful
quarrels about who loses, and who wins. That fierce Signor Verezzi is
always losing, as they tell me, and Signor Orsino wins from him, and
this makes him very wroth, and they have had several hard set-to's about
it. Then, all those fine ladies are at the castle still; and I declare I
am frighted, whenever I meet any of them in the passages.'--

'Surely, Annette,' said Emily starting, 'I heard a noise: listen.' After
a long pause, 'No, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'it was only the wind in
the gallery; I often hear it, when it shakes the old doors, at the other
end. But won't you go to bed, ma'amselle? you surely will not sit up
starving, all night.' Emily now laid herself down on the mattress, and
desired Annette to leave the lamp burning on the hearth; having done
which, the latter placed herself beside Emily, who, however, was not
suffered to sleep, for she again thought she heard a noise from the
passage; and Annette was again trying to convince her, that it was only
the wind, when footsteps were distinctly heard near the door. Annette
was now starting from the bed, but Emily prevailed with her to remain
there, and listened with her in a state of terrible expectation. The
steps still loitered at the door, when presently an attempt was made on
the lock, and, in the next instant, a voice called. 'For heaven's sake,
Annette, do not answer,' said Emily softly, 'remain quite still; but I
fear we must extinguish the lamp, or its glare will betray us.' 'Holy
Virgin!' exclaimed Annette, forgetting her discretion, 'I would not be
in darkness now for the whole world.' While she spoke, the voice became
louder than before, and repeated Annette's name; 'Blessed Virgin!' cried
she suddenly, 'it is only Ludovico.' She rose to open the door, but
Emily prevented her, till they should be more certain, that it was he
alone; with whom Annette, at length, talked for some time, and learned,
that he was come to enquire after herself, whom he had let out of her
room to go to Emily, and that he was now returned to lock her in again.
Emily, fearful of being overheard, if they conversed any longer through
the door, consented that it should be opened, and a young man appeared,
whose open countenance confirmed the favourable opinion of him, which
his care of Annette had already prompted her to form. She entreated his
protection, should Verezzi make this requisite; and Ludovico offered
to pass the night in an old chamber, adjoining, that opened from the
gallery, and, on the first alarm, to come to their defence.

Emily was much soothed by this proposal; and Ludovico, having lighted
his lamp, went to his station, while she, once more, endeavoured to
repose on her mattress. But a variety of interests pressed upon her
attention, and prevented sleep. She thought much on what Annette had
told her of the dissolute manners of Montoni and his associates, and
more of his present conduct towards herself, and of the danger, from
which she had just escaped. From the view of her present situation she
shrunk, as from a new picture of terror. She saw herself in a castle,
inhabited by vice and violence, seated beyond the reach of law or
justice, and in the power of a man, whose perseverance was equal to
every occasion, and in whom passions, of which revenge was not the
weakest, entirely supplied the place of principles. She was compelled,
once more, to acknowledge, that it would be folly, and not fortitude,
any longer to dare his power; and, resigning all hopes of future
happiness with Valancourt, she determined, that, on the following
morning, she would compromise with Montoni, and give up her estates,
on condition, that he would permit her immediate return to France. Such
considerations kept her waking for many hours; but, the night passed,
without further alarm from Verezzi.

On the next morning, Emily had a long conversation with Ludovico, in
which she heard circumstances concerning the castle, and received hints
of the designs of Montoni, that considerably increased her alarms. On
expressing her surprise, that Ludovico, who seemed to be so sensible of
the evils of his situation, should continue in it, he informed her, that
it was not his intention to do so, and she then ventured to ask him, if
he would assist her to escape from the castle. Ludovico assured her of
his readiness to attempt this, but strongly represented the difficulty
of the enterprise, and the certain destruction which must ensue,
should Montoni overtake them, before they had passed the mountains;
he, however, promised to be watchful of every circumstance, that might
contribute to the success of the attempt, and to think upon some plan of
departure.

Emily now confided to him the name of Valancourt, and begged he would
enquire for such a person among the prisoners in the castle; for the
faint hope, which this conversation awakened, made her now recede from
her resolution of an immediate compromise with Montoni. She determined,
if possible, to delay this, till she heard further from Ludovico, and,
if his designs were found to be impracticable, to resign the estates
at once. Her thoughts were on this subject, when Montoni, who was now
recovered from the intoxication of the preceding night, sent for her,
and she immediately obeyed the summons. He was alone. 'I find,' said he,
'that you were not in your chamber, last night; where were you?' Emily
related to him some circumstances of her alarm, and entreated his
protection from a repetition of them. 'You know the terms of my
protection,' said he; 'if you really value this, you will secure it.'
His open declaration, that he would only conditionally protect her,
while she remained a prisoner in the castle, shewed Emily the necessity
of an immediate compliance with his terms; but she first demanded,
whether he would permit her immediately to depart, if she gave up her
claim to the contested estates. In a very solemn manner he then assured
her, that he would, and immediately laid before her a paper, which was
to transfer the right of those estates to himself.

She was, for a considerable time, unable to sign it, and her heart
was torn with contending interests, for she was about to resign the
happiness of all her future years--the hope, which had sustained her in
so many hours of adversity.

After hearing from Montoni a recapitulation of the conditions of her
compliance, and a remonstrance, that his time was valuable, she put her
hand to the paper; when she had done which, she fell back in her chair,
but soon recovered, and desired, that he would give orders for her
departure, and that he would allow Annette to accompany her. Montoni
smiled. 'It was necessary to deceive you,' said he,--'there was no other
way of making you act reasonably; you shall go, but it must not be at
present. I must first secure these estates by possession: when that is
done, you may return to France if you will.'

The deliberate villany, with which he violated the solemn engagement he
had just entered into, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty, that she
had made a fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his prisoner. She
had no words to express what she felt, and knew, that it would have been
useless, if she had. As she looked piteously at Montoni, he turned away,
and at the same time desired she would withdraw to her apartment; but,
unable to leave the room, she sat down in a chair near the door, and
sighed heavily. She had neither words nor tears.

'Why will you indulge this childish grief?' said he. 'Endeavour to
strengthen your mind, to bear patiently what cannot now be avoided; you
have no real evil to lament; be patient, and you will be sent back to
France. At present retire to your apartment.'

'I dare not go, sir,' said she, 'where I shall be liable to the
intrusion of Signor Verezzi.' 'Have I not promised to protect you?'
said Montoni. 'You have promised, sir,'--replied Emily, after some
hesitation. 'And is not my promise sufficient?' added he sternly. 'You
will recollect your former promise, Signor,' said Emily, trembling,
'and may determine for me, whether I ought to rely upon this.' 'Will you
provoke me to declare to you, that I will not protect you then?' said
Montoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure. 'If that will satisfy you,
I will do it immediately. Withdraw to your chamber, before I retract my
promise; you have nothing to fear there.' Emily left the room, and moved
slowly into the hall, where the fear of meeting Verezzi, or Bertolini,
made her quicken her steps, though she could scarcely support herself;
and soon after she reached once more her own apartment. Having looked
fearfully round her, to examine if any person was there, and having
searched every part of it, she fastened the door, and sat down by one of
the casements. Here, while she looked out for some hope to support her
fainting spirits, which had been so long harassed and oppressed, that,
if she had not now struggled much against misfortune, they would have
left her, perhaps, for ever, she endeavoured to believe, that Montoni
did really intend to permit her return to France as soon as he had
secured her property, and that he would, in the mean time, protect her
from insult; but her chief hope rested with Ludovico, who, she doubted
not, would be zealous in her cause, though he seemed almost to despair
of success in it. One circumstance, however, she had to rejoice in. Her
prudence, or rather her fears, had saved her from mentioning the name
of Valancourt to Montoni, which she was several times on the point of
doing, before she signed the paper, and of stipulating for his release,
if he should be really a prisoner in the castle. Had she done this,
Montoni's jealous fears would now probably have loaded Valancourt
with new severities, and have suggested the advantage of holding him a
captive for life.

Thus passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in this
same chamber. When night drew on, she would have withdrawn herself to
Annette's bed, had not a particular interest inclined her to remain
in this chamber, in spite of her fears; for, when the castle should be
still, and the customary hour arrived, she determined to watch for the
music, which she had formerly heard. Though its sounds might not enable
her positively to determine, whether Valancourt was there, they would
perhaps strengthen her opinion that he was, and impart the comfort, so
necessary to her present support.--But, on the other hand, if all should
be silent--! She hardly dared to suffer her thoughts to glance that way,
but waited, with impatient expectation, the approaching hour.

The night was stormy; the battlements of the castle appeared to rock in
the wind, and, at intervals, long groans seemed to pass on the air,
such as those, which often deceive the melancholy mind, in tempests,
and amidst scenes of desolation. Emily heard, as formerly, the sentinels
pass along the terrace to their posts, and, looking out from her
casement, observed, that the watch was doubled; a precaution, which
appeared necessary enough, when she threw her eyes on the walls, and saw
their shattered condition. The well-known sounds of the soldiers' march,
and of their distant voices, which passed her in the wind, and were lost
again, recalled to her memory the melancholy sensation she had
suffered, when she formerly heard the same sounds; and occasioned almost
involuntary comparisons between her present, and her late situation.
But this was no subject for congratulations, and she wisely checked the
course of her thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet come, in which
she had been accustomed to hear the music, she closed the casement,
and endeavoured to await it in patience. The door of the stair-case she
tried to secure, as usual, with some of the furniture of the room; but
this expedient her fears now represented to her to be very inadequate to
the power and perseverance of Verezzi; and she often looked at a large
and heavy chest, that stood in the chamber, with wishes that she and
Annette had strength enough to move it. While she blamed the long
stay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico and some other of the
servants, she trimmed her wood fire, to make the room appear less
desolate, and sat down beside it with a book, which her eyes perused,
while her thoughts wandered to Valancourt, and her own misfortunes. As
she sat thus, she thought, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished
music, and went to the casement to listen, but the loud swell of the
gust overcame every other sound. When the wind sunk again, she heard
distinctly, in the deep pause that succeeded, the sweet strings of a
lute; but again the rising tempest bore away the notes, and again was
succeeded by a solemn pause. Emily, trembling with hope and fear, opened
her casement to listen, and to try whether her own voice could be
heard by the musician; for to endure any longer this state of torturing
suspense concerning Valancourt, seemed to be utterly impossible. There
was a kind of breathless stillness in the chambers, that permitted her
to distinguish from below the tender notes of the very lute she had
formerly heard, and with it, a plaintive voice, made sweeter by the low
rustling sound, that now began to creep along the wood-tops, till it
was lost in the rising wind. Their tall heads then began to wave, while,
through a forest of pine, on the left, the wind, groaning heavily,
rolled onward over the woods below, bending them almost to their roots;
and, as the long-resounding gale swept away, other woods, on the
right, seemed to answer the 'loud lament;' then, others, further still,
softened it into a murmur, that died into silence. Emily listened,
with mingled awe and expectation, hope and fear; and again the melting
sweetness of the lute was heard, and the same solemn-breathing voice.
Convinced that these came from an apartment underneath, she leaned far
out of her window, that she might discover whether any light was there;
but the casements below, as well as those above, were sunk so deep in
the thick walls of the castle, that she could not see them, or even the
faint ray, that probably glimmered through their bars. She then ventured
to call; but the wind bore her voice to the other end of the terrace,
and then the music was heard as before, in the pause of the gust.
Suddenly, she thought she heard a noise in her chamber, and she drew
herself within the casement; but, in a moment after, distinguishing
Annette's voice at the door, she concluded it was her she had heard
before, and she let her in. 'Move softly, Annette, to the casement,'
said she, 'and listen with me; the music is returned.' They were silent
till, the measure changing, Annette exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin! I know that
song well; it is a French song, one of the favourite songs of my dear
country.' This was the ballad Emily had heard on a former night, though
not the one she had first listened to from the fishing-house in Gascony.
'O! it is a Frenchman, that sings,' said Annette: 'it must be Monsieur
Valancourt.' 'Hark! Annette, do not speak so loud,' said Emily, 'we may
be overheard.' 'What! by the Chevalier?' said Annette. 'No,' replied
Emily mournfully, 'but by somebody, who may report us to the Signor.
What reason have you to think it is Monsieur Valancourt, who sings? But
hark! now the voice swells louder! Do you recollect those tones? I fear
to trust my own judgment.' 'I never happened to hear the Chevalier
sing, Mademoiselle,' replied Annette, who, as Emily was disappointed to
perceive, had no stronger reason for concluding this to be Valancourt,
than that the musician must be a Frenchman. Soon after, she heard the
song of the fishing-house, and distinguished her own name, which was
repeated so distinctly, that Annette had heard it also. She trembled,
sunk into a chair by the window, and Annette called aloud, 'Monsieur
Valancourt! Monsieur Valancourt!' while Emily endeavoured to check her,
but she repeated the call more loudly than before, and the lute and the
voice suddenly stopped. Emily listened, for some time, in a state
of intolerable suspense; but, no answer being returned, 'It does not
signify, Mademoiselle,' said Annette; 'it is the Chevalier, and I will
speak to him.' 'No, Annette,' said Emily, 'I think I will speak myself;
if it is he, he will know my voice, and speak again.' 'Who is it,' said
she, 'that sings at this late hour?'

A long silence ensued, and, having repeated the question, she perceived
some faint accents, mingling in the blast, that swept by; but the sounds
were so distant, and passed so suddenly, that she could scarcely hear
them, much less distinguish the words they uttered, or recognise the
voice. After another pause, Emily called again; and again they heard
a voice, but as faintly as before; and they perceived, that there were
other circumstances, besides the strength, and direction of the wind, to
content with; for the great depth, at which the casements were fixed in
the castle walls, contributed, still more than the distance, to prevent
articulated sounds from being understood, though general ones were
easily heard. Emily, however, ventured to believe, from the circumstance
of her voice alone having been answered, that the stranger was
Valancourt, as well as that he knew her, and she gave herself up to
speechless joy. Annette, however, was not speechless.--She renewed
her calls, but received no answer; and Emily, fearing, that a further
attempt, which certainly was, as present, highly dangerous, might expose
them to the guards of the castle, while it could not perhaps terminate
her suspense, insisted on Annette's dropping the enquiry for this night;
though she determined herself to question Ludovico, on the subject, in
the morning, more urgently than she had yet done. She was now enabled
to say, that the stranger, whom she had formerly heard, was still in
the castle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it, in which he was
confined.

Emily, attended by Annette, continued at the casement, for some time,
but all remained still; they heard neither lute or voice again, and
Emily was now as much oppressed by anxious joy, as she lately was by a
sense of her misfortunes. With hasty steps she paced the room, now half
calling on Valancourt's name, then suddenly stopping, and now going to
the casement and listening, where, however, she heard nothing but
the solemn waving of the woods. Sometimes her impatience to speak to
Ludovico prompted her to send Annette to call him; but a sense of the
impropriety of this at midnight restrained her. Annette, meanwhile, as
impatient as her mistress, went as often to the casement to listen, and
returned almost as much disappointed. She, at length, mentioned
Signor Verezzi, and her fear, lest he should enter the chamber by the
staircase, door. 'But the night is now almost past, Mademoiselle,' said
she, recollecting herself; 'there is the morning light, beginning to
peep over those mountains yonder in the east.'

Emily had forgotten, till this moment, that such a person existed as
Verezzi, and all the danger that had appeared to threaten her; but the
mention of his name renewed her alarm, and she remembered the old chest,
that she had wished to place against the door, which she now, with
Annette, attempted to move, but it was so heavy, that they could not
lift it from the floor. 'What is in this great old chest, Mademoiselle,'
said Annette, 'that makes it so weighty?' Emily having replied, 'that
she found it in the chamber, when she first came to the castle, and had
never examined it.'--'Then I will, ma'amselle,' said Annette, and she
tried to lift the lid; but this was held by a lock, for which she had
no key, and which, indeed, appeared, from its peculiar construction, to
open with a spring. The morning now glimmered through the casements, and
the wind had sunk into a calm. Emily looked out upon the dusky woods,
and on the twilight mountains, just stealing in the eye, and saw the
whole scene, after the storm, lying in profound stillness, the woods
motionless, and the clouds above, through which the dawn trembled,
scarcely appearing to move along the heavens. One soldier was pacing the
terrace beneath, with measured steps; and two, more distant, were sunk
asleep on the walls, wearied with the night's watch. Having inhaled, for
a while, the pure spirit of the air, and of vegetation, which the late
rains had called forth; and having listened, once more, for a note of
music, she now closed the casement, and retired to rest.

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

completion: Once again, it's time to clear up some fuzzy stuff from earlier on. Count Morano's been having a heck of a time since he failed to kidnap Em. Back when Montoni suspected someone of poisoning his cup, he had a pretty good hunch that Morano was somehow involved. Bingo, Montoni. Since Montoni's a powerful guy, he got someone to drop off an anonymous letter accusing Morano of crimes against the state. Meanwhile, Udolpho is still under siege. Turns out, lots of people hold a grudge against Montoni. But while Em is still hanging in Tuscany, the siege draws to a close. Time for Em to go back to her favorite place. Bertrand and Ugo haul Em all the way back to Udolpho, bellyaching the whole way. When they finally get back, the castle seems almost deserted. Em's trying to make her way back to her room when she hears Verezzi and Bertolini looking for her. Em wants nothing to do with those sketchy guys, so she books it back to her room where Annette is waiting. The next morning, Em meets with Montoni once again about signing away her rights. This is getting to be a drag, but Em still refuses to sign the paper. Montoni hints that he'll let Verezzi and Bertolini do anything they want to her if she doesn't sign. Plus, he basically promises her she can go home to France if she does what he wants. Fine, Em's hands are tied. She signs away her rights to the estates with a heavy heart. But Montoni's a sly guy who doesn't have any intention of sending Em home. She got bamboozled by a con man. It's not all bad, though. Remember how Em thinks Valancourt is a prisoner at Udolpho? She thinks she hears a familiar song from back home playing in the distance. Clearly Valancourt, right?