The Mysteries of Udolpho

  CHAPTER V

  The midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell Of Death beats slow! heard ye the note profound? It pauses now; and now, with rising knell, Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound. MASON

  When Montoni was informed of the death of his wife, and consideredthat she had died without giving him the signature so necessary tothe accomplishment of his wishes, no sense of decency restrained theexpression of his resentment. Emily anxiously avoided his presence, andwatched, during two days and two nights, with little intermission, bythe corpse of her late aunt. Her mind deeply impressed with the unhappyfate of this object, she forgot all her faults, her unjust and imperiousconduct to herself; and, remembering only her sufferings, thought ofher only with tender compassion. Sometimes, however, she could not avoidmusing upon the strange infatuation that had proved so fatal to heraunt, and had involved herself in a labyrinth of misfortune, from whichshe saw no means of escaping,--the marriage with Montoni. But, whenshe considered this circumstance, it was 'more in sorrow than inanger,'--more for the purpose of indulging lamentation, than reproach.

  In her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not onlyavoided the chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but thatpart of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a contagionin death. He seemed to have given no orders respecting the funeral,and Emily began to fear he meant to offer a new insult to the memory ofMadame Montoni; but from this apprehension she was relieved, when, onthe evening of the second day, Annette informed her, that the intermentwas to take place that night. She knew, that Montoni would not attend;and it was so very grievous to her to think that the remains of herunfortunate aunt would pass to the grave without one relative, or friendto pay them the last decent rites, that she determined to be deterredby no considerations for herself, from observing this duty. She wouldotherwise have shrunk from the circumstance of following them to thecold vault, to which they were to be carried by men, whose air andcountenances seemed to stamp them for murderers, at the midnight hourof silence and privacy, which Montoni had chosen for committing, ifpossible, to oblivion the reliques of a woman, whom his harsh conducthad, at least, contributed to destroy.

  Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted byAnnette, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it incerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside it,till past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of themen, who were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was with difficulty, thatEmily overcame her emotion, when, the door of the chamber being thrownopen, their gloomy countenances were seen by the glare of the torch theycarried, and two of them, without speaking, lifted the body on theirshoulders, while the third preceding them with the light, descendedthrough the castle towards the grave, which was in the lower vault ofthe chapel within the castle walls.

  They had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle,which, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence andgloom of these courts had now little power over Emily's mind, occupiedas it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard the lowand dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the ivyedbattlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of the bat,which frequently crossed her way. But, when, having entered the chapel,and passed between the mouldering pillars of the aisles, the bearersstopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low arched door, and,their comrade having descended to unlock it, she saw imperfectly thegloomy abyss beyond;--saw the corpse of her aunt carried down thesesteps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood with a torch at thebottom to receive it--all her fortitude was lost in emotions ofinexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean upon Annette, who wascold and trembling like herself, and she lingered so long on the summitof the flight, that the gleam of the torch began to die away on thepillars of the chapel, and the men were almost beyond her view. Then,the gloom around her awakening other fears, and a sense of what sheconsidered to be her duty overcoming her reluctance, she descended tothe vaults, following the echo of footsteps and the faint ray, thatpierced the darkness, till the harsh grating of a distant door, that wasopened to receive the corpse, again appalled her.

  After the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered thevaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down thebody near the edge of an open grave, where stood another of Montoni'smen and a priest, whom she did not observe, till he began the burialservice; then, lifting her eyes from the ground, she saw the venerablefigure of the friar, and heard him in a low voice, equally solemn andaffecting, perform the service for the dead. At the moment, in whichthey let down the body into the earth, the scene was such as only thedark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could have done justice to. Thefierce features and wild dress of the condottieri, bending with theirtorches over the grave, into which the corpse was descending, werecontrasted by the venerable figure of the monk, wrapt in long blackgarments, his cowl thrown back from his pale face, on which the lightgleaming strongly shewed the lines of affliction softened by piety, andthe few grey locks, which time had spared on his temples: while,beside him, stood the softer form of Emily, who leaned for support uponAnnette; her face half averted, and shaded by a thin veil, that fellover her figure; and her mild and beautiful countenance fixed ingrief so solemn as admitted not of tears, while she thus saw committeduntimely to the earth her last relative and friend. The gleams, thrownbetween the arches of the vaults, where, here and there, the brokenground marked the spots in which other bodies had been recentlyinterred, and the general obscurity beyond were circumstances, thatalone would have led on the imagination of a spectator to scenesmore horrible, than even that, which was pictured at the grave of themisguided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.

  When the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention andsurprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was restrainedby the presence of the condottieri, who, as they now led the way tothe courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy order, whichhe endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted safely to hisconvent, and to which Emily listened with concern and even horror. Whenthey reached the court, the monk gave her his blessing, and, after alingering look of pity, turned away to the portal, whither one of themen carried a torch; while Annette, lighting another, preceded Emily toher apartment. The appearance of the friar and the expression of tendercompassion, with which he had regarded her, had interested Emily, who,though it was at her earnest supplication, that Montoni had consentedto allow a priest to perform the last rites for his deceased wife, knewnothing concerning this person, till Annette now informed her, that hebelonged to a monastery, situated among the mountains at a few milesdistance. The Superior, who regarded Montoni and his associates, notonly with aversion, but with terror, had probably feared to offend himby refusing his request, and had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiateat the funeral, who, with the meek spirit of a christian, had overcomehis reluctance to enter the walls of such a castle, by the wish ofperforming what he considered to be his duty, and, as the chapel wasbuilt on consecrated ground, had not objected to commit to it theremains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni.

  Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion, and in a state ofmind partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the departed.She, at length, determined to make other efforts to persuade Montoni topermit her return to France. Why he should wish to detain her, she couldscarcely dare to conjecture; but it was too certain that he did so, andthe absolute refusal he had formerly given to her departure allowed herlittle hope, that he would now consent to it. But the horror, which hispresence inspired, made her defer, from day to day, the mention of thissubject; and at last she was awakened from her inactivity only by amessage from him, desiring her attendance at a certain hour. She beganto hope he meant to resign, now that her aunt was no more, the authorityhe had usurped over her; till she recollected, that the estates, whichhad occasioned so much contention, were now hers, and she then fearedMontoni was about to
employ some stratagem for obtaining them, andthat he would detain her his prisoner, till he succeeded. This thought,instead of overcoming her with despondency, roused all the latentpowers of her fortitude into action; and the property, which she wouldwillingly have resigned to secure the peace of her aunt, she resolved,that no common sufferings of her own should ever compel her to give toMontoni. For Valancourt's sake also she determined to preserve theseestates, since they would afford that competency, by which she hoped tosecure the comfort of their future lives. As she thought of this, sheindulged the tenderness of tears, and anticipated the delight of thatmoment, when, with affectionate generosity, she might tell him theywere his own. She saw the smile, that lighted up his features--theaffectionate regard, which spoke at once his joy and thanks; and, atthis instant, she believed she could brave any suffering, which the evilspirit of Montoni might be preparing for her. Remembering then, for thefirst time since her aunt's death, the papers relative to the estatesin question, she determined to search for them, as soon as her interviewwith Montoni was over.

  With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited tohear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were Orsinoand another officer, and both were standing near a table, covered withpapers, which he appeared to be examining.

  'I sent for you, Emily,' said Montoni, raising his head, 'that you mightbe a witness in some business, which I am transacting with my friendOrsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name to thispaper:' he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some lines,and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen. She took it,and was going to write--when the design of Montoni came upon her mindlike a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen fall, and refusedto sign what she had not read. Montoni affected to laugh at herscruples, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to read; but Emily,who still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was astonished, thather own credulity had so nearly betrayed her, positively refused to signany paper whatever. Montoni, for some time, persevered in affectingto ridicule this refusal; but, when he perceived by her steadyperseverance, that she understood his design, he changed his manner, andbade her follow him to another room. There he told her, that he had beenwilling to spare himself and her the trouble of useless contest, in anaffair, where his will was justice, and where she should find it law;and had, therefore, endeavoured to persuade, rather than to compel, herto the practice of her duty.

  'I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,' he added, 'am the heirof all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused to mein her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own sake, Iwould undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once made to youin my hearing--that these estates would be yours, if she died withoutresigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had no power towithhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you have moresense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust claim. Iam not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore, receive,as sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you possess anunderstanding superior to that of your sex; and that you have noneof those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the femalecharacter--such as avarice and the love of power, which latter makeswomen delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot conquer. IfI understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in sovereigncontempt these common failings of your sex.'

  Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knewhim too well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless hethought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had forborneto name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident, that heconsidered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to sacrifice tohers the character and understanding of her whole sex.

  'Judging as I do,' resumed Montoni, 'I cannot believe you will oppose,where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would wish toconquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not justiceon your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you with thealternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in question, youshall be allowed a safe conveyance to France, within a short period;but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late assertion of theSignora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are convinced of yourerror.'

  Emily calmly said,

  'I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to bemisled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present instance,gives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall never betray myright.'

  'I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,' rejoinedMontoni, sternly. 'You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a subject,which you do not understand. For once, I am willing to pardon theconceit of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from which, itseems, you are not exempt, claims some allowance; but, if you persist inthis strain--you have every thing to fear from my justice.'

  'From your justice, Signor,' rejoined Emily, 'I have nothing to fear--Ihave only to hope.'

  Montoni looked at her with vexation, and seemed considering what tosay. 'I find that you are weak enough,' he resumed, 'to credit the idleassertion I alluded to! For your own sake I lament this; as to me, itis of little consequence. Your credulity can punish only yourself; and Imust pity the weakness of mind, which leads you to so much suffering asyou are compelling me to prepare for you.'

  'You may find, perhaps, Signor,' said Emily, with mild dignity, 'thatthe strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that Ican endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression.'

  'You speak like a heroine,' said Montoni, contemptuously; 'we shall seewhether you can suffer like one.'

  Emily was silent, and he left the room.

  Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt's sake she had thus resisted,she now smiled complacently upon the threatened sufferings, and retiredto the spot, which her aunt had pointed out as the repository of thepapers, relative to the estates, where she found them as described; and,since she knew of no better place of concealment, than this, returnedthem, without examining their contents, being fearful of discovery,while she should attempt a perusal.

  To her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thoughtagain of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she mightexpect from opposition to his will. But his power did not appear soterrible to her imagination, as it was wont to do: a sacred pride wasin her heart, that taught it to swell against the pressure of injustice,and almost to glory in the quiet sufferance of ills, in a cause, whichhad also the interest of Valancourt for its object. For the first time,she felt the full extent of her own superiority to Montoni, and despisedthe authority, which, till now, she had only feared.

  As she sat musing, a peal of laughter rose from the terrace, and, ongoing to the casement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, threeladies, dressed in the gala habit of Venice, walking with severalgentlemen below. She gazed in an astonishment that made her remain atthe window, regardless of being observed, till the group passed underit; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the features ofSignora Livona, with whose manners she had been so much charmed, the dayafter her arrival at Venice, and who had been there introduced at thetable of Montoni. This discovery occasioned her an emotion of doubtfuljoy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to know, that a person, of amind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona seemed to be, was near her;yet there was something so extraordinary in her being at this castle,circumstanced as it now was, and evidently, by the gaiety of her air,with her own consent, that a very painful surmise arose, concerning hercharacter. But the thought was so shocking to Emily, whose affection thefascinating manners of the Signora had won, and appeared so improbable,when she remembered these manners, that she dismissed it almostinstantly.

  On Annette's appearance, however, she enquired, concerning thesestrangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to learn.

  'They are just come, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'with two Signors f
romVenice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again.--Butwhat can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark mad to comefreely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for they seemmerry enough, I am sure.'

  'They were taken prisoners, perhaps?' said Emily.

  'Taken prisoners!' exclaimed Annette; 'no, indeed, ma'amselle, not they.I remember one of them very well at Venice: she came two or three times,to the Signor's you know, ma'amselle, and it was said, but I did notbelieve a word of it--it was said, that the Signor liked her better thanhe should do. Then why, says I, bring her to my lady? Very true, saidLudovico; but he looked as if he knew more, too.'

  Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were, aswell as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the subject,and spoke of distant France.

  'Ah, ma'amselle! we shall never see it more!' said Annette, almostweeping.--'I must come on my travels, forsooth!'

  Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which shescarcely herself indulged.

  'How--how, ma'amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons.Valancourt, too?' said Annette, sobbing. 'I--I--am sure, if Ludovico hadbeen in France, I would never have left it.'

  'Why do you lament quitting France, then?' said Emily, trying to smile,'since, if you had remained there, you would not have found Ludovico.'

  'Ah, ma'amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful castle, servingyou in France, and I would care about nothing else!'

  'Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time willcome, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish withpleasure.'

  Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense ofher own cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had again tolament the irresistible force of circumstances over the taste and powersof the mind; and that it requires a spirit at ease to be sensible evento the abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The enthusiasm of genius,with all its pictured scenes, now appeared cold, and dim. As she musedupon the book before her, she involuntarily exclaimed, 'Are these,indeed, the passages, that have so often given me exquisite delight?Where did the charm exist?--Was it in my mind, or in the imaginationof the poet? It lived in each,' said she, pausing. 'But the fire of thepoet is vain, if the mind of his reader is not tempered like his own,however it may be inferior to his in power.'

  Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved herfrom more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought cannotalways be controlled by will; and hers returned to the consideration ofher own situation.

  In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where shewould be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni's associates, she walkedfor air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the furtherend of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and laughter. It wasthe wild uproar of riot, not the cheering gaiety of tempered mirth; andseemed to come from that part of the castle, where Montoni usually was.Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt had been so few days dead,particularly shocked her, consistent as they were with the late conductof Montoni.

  As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices minglingwith the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning thecharacter of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident, thatthey had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld herselfin the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom sheconsidered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst associates,amid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in horror. It was atthis moment, when the scenes of the present and the future opened to herimagination, that the image of Valancourt failed in its influence, andher resolution shook with dread. She thought she understood all thehorrors, which Montoni was preparing for her, and shrunk from anencounter with such remorseless vengeance, as he could inflict. Thedisputed estates she now almost determined to yield at once, wheneverhe should again call upon her, that she might regain safety and freedom;but then, the remembrance of Valancourt would steal to her heart, andplunge her into the distractions of doubt.

  She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its melancholytwilight through the painted casements, and deepened the gloom ofthe oak wainscoting around her; while the distant perspective ofthe corridor was so much obscured, as to be discernible only by theglimmering window, that terminated it.

  Along the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoedfaintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed torender the succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however, unwillingto return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was not yet come,still paced the gallery. As she passed the door of the apartment, whereshe had once dared to lift the veil, which discovered to her a spectacleso horrible, that she had never after remembered it, but with emotionsof indescribable awe, this remembrance suddenly recurred. It now broughtwith it reflections more terrible, than it had yet done, which the lateconduct of Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit the gallery, whileshe had power to do so, she heard a sudden step behind her.--It mightbe that of Annette; but, turning fearfully to look, she saw, through thegloom, a tall figure following her, and all the horrors of that chamberrushed upon her mind. In the next moment, she found herself clasped inthe arms of some person, and heard a deep voice murmur in her ear.

  When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds, shedemanded who detained her.

  'It is I,' replied the voice--'Why are you thus alarmed?'

  She looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light,that gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, didnot permit her to distinguish the features.

  'Whoever you are,' said Emily, in a trembling voice, 'for heaven's sakelet me go!'

  'My charming Emily,' said the man, 'why will you shut yourself up inthis obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return withme to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of theparty;--you shall not repent the exchange.'

  Emily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself.

  'Promise, that you will come,' he continued, 'and I will release youimmediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.'

  'Who are you?' demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror andindignation, while she still struggled for liberty--'who are you, thathave the cruelty thus to insult me?'

  'Why call me cruel?' said the man, 'I would remove you from this drearysolitude to a merry party below. Do you not know me?'

  Emily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who werewith Montoni when she attended him in the morning. 'I thank you forthe kindness of your intention,' she replied, without appearing tounderstand him, 'but I wish for nothing so much as that you would leaveme.'

  'Charming Emily!' said he, 'give up this foolish whim for solitude, andcome with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make part ofit; you, only, are worthy of my love.' He attempted to kiss her hand,but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to liberateherself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the door, beforehe reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a chair, overcome byterror and by the exertion she had made, while she heard his voice,and his attempts to open the door, without having the power to raiseherself. At length, she perceived him depart, and had remained,listening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat revived by nothearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the door of the privatestair-case, and that he might enter that way, since it was fastened onlyon the other side. She then employed herself in endeavouring to secureit, in the manner she had formerly done. It appeared to her, thatMontoni had already commenced his scheme of vengeance, by withdrawingfrom her his protection, and she repented of the rashness, that had madeher brave the power of such a man. To retain the estates seemed to benow utterly impossible, and to preserve her life, perhaps her honour,she resolved, if she should escape the horrors of this night, to give upall claims to the estates, on the mor
row, provided Montoni would sufferher to depart from Udolpho.

  When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed,though she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal sounds,that appeared to issue from the stair-case.

  Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette didnot appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but, notdaring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain inuncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence.

  Emily often stole to the stair-case door, to listen if any stepapproached, but still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, towatch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and desolatecouch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She thought of herdeceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt, and frequentlycalled upon their names; for the profound stillness, that now reigned,was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind.

  While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distantmusic, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving thisto be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose, andstepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to comefrom a lower room.

  In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so fullof pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its sweetand peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before; yet, ifthis was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint recollection. Itstole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her present suffering, like acelestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring her;--'Pleasant as the galeof spring, that sighs on the hunter's ear, when he awakens from dreamsof joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill.'*

  (*Ossian. [A. R.])

  But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with thetaste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of hernative province, to which she had so often listened with delight, whena child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! To thiswell-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native country, herheart melted, while the memory of past times returned. The pleasant,peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness of her parents,the taste and simplicity of her former life--all rose to her fancy, andformed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so strikingly contrastedwith the scenes, the characters and the dangers, which now surroundedher--that her mind could not bear to pause upon the retrospect, andshrunk at the acuteness of its own sufferings.

  Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to thestrain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrewfrom the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yetbeyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and thesucceeding air called her again to the window, for she immediatelyrecollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in thefishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which hadthen accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on hermemory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and the manner,in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable thecircumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had thenheard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted,like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, thatrevived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected,so astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could notresolve to discourage them. She sat down by the casement, breathless,and overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and fear; then roseagain, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound,listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name ofValancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible,that Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances,which induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard. Sheremembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, whereshe had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seenpencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt,before he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herselfunexpectedly met him. It appeared, from these circumstances, morethan probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed herattention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tenderadmiration;--who else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, atthat time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, sinceher acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned thefishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled to believethat he was the author of the sonnets.

  As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tendernesscontended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch thesounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she didnot recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and theinstrument, now ceased.

  She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak: then,not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and yet toomuch interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she called fromthe casement, 'Is that song from Gascony?' Her anxious attention wasnot cheered by any reply; every thing remained silent. Her impatienceincreasing with her fears, she repeated the question; but still no soundwas heard, except the sighings of the wind among the battlements above;and she endeavoured to console herself with a belief, that the stranger,whoever he was, had retired, before she had spoken, beyond the reachof her voice, which, it appeared certain, had Valancourt heard andrecognized, he would instantly have replied to. Presently, however, sheconsidered, that a motive of prudence, and not an accidental removal,might occasion his silence; but the surmise, that led to thisreflection, suddenly changed her hope and joy to terror and grief; for,if Valancourt were in the castle, it was too probable, that he was herea prisoner, taken with some of his countrymen, many of whom were at thattime engaged in the wars of Italy, or intercepted in some attempt toreach her. Had he even recollected Emily's voice, he would have feared,in these circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, whoguarded his prison.

  What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed shedreaded;--dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while shewas anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, shestill was unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled withthe fear.

  She remained listening at the casement, till the air began to freshen,and one high mountain in the east to glimmer with the morning; when,wearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch, where she foundit utterly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt andapprehension, distracted her during the whole night. Now she rose fromthe couch, and opened the casement to listen; then she would pace theroom with impatient steps, and, at length, return with despondence toher pillow. Never did hours appear to move so heavily, as those of thisanxious night; after which she hoped that Annette might appear, andconclude her present state of torturing suspense.