Chapter: CHAPTER X



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'The door is locked,' answered the lady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annette ceased sobbing, and was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

