Chapter: CHAPTER III



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sat down on a bench to support herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Is he subject to fits?' said Emily.

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

'What was it?' enquired Emily, trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What man?' enquired Emily.

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

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

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

'And where?'

'On the rampart, lady, higher up.'

'Did you pursue it, that it fled?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

