Chapter: VOLUME 3 CHAPTER I



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

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

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

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

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

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

'Pray did Barnardine tell you this?'

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

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

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

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

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

'To the portal,' said Barnardine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

