The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Title: The Mysteries of Udolpho

Author: Ann Radcliffe

Release Date: February 28, 2009 [EBook #3268]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO ***

Produced by Karalee Coleman, and David Widger

THE MYSTERIESOF UDOLPHO

A RomanceInterspersed With Some

Pieces of Poetry

By Ann Radcliffe

Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns, And, as the portals open to receive me, Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts, Tells of a nameless deed.

Contents

VOLUME 1

CHAPTER I

CHAPTERII

CHAPTERIII

CHAPTERIV

CHAPTERV

CHAPTERVI

CHAPTERVII

CHAPTERVIII

CHAPTERIX

CHAPTER

VOLUME 2

CHAPTER I

CHAPTERII

CHAPTERIII

CHAPTERIV

CHAPTERV

CHAPTERVI

CHAPTERVII

CHAPTERVIII

CHAPTERIX

VOLUME 3

CHAPTER I

CHAPTERII

CHAPTERIII

CHAPTERIV

CHAPTERV

CHAPTERVI

CHAPTERVII

CHAPTERVIII

CHAPTERIV

CHAPTER

VOLUME 4

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTERIV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTERVI

CHAPTERVII

CHAPTERVIII

CHAPTERIV

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTERXII

CHAPTERX

CHAPTERXI

CHAPTERXII

CHAPTERXIII

CHAPTERX

CHAPTERXI

CHAPTERXII

CHAPTERX

CHAPTERXI

CHAPTERXII

CHAPTERXIII

XII

CHAPTERXIII

CHAPTERXIV

CHAPTERXV

CHAPTERXVI

CHAPTERXVII

CHAPTERXVIII

CHAPTERXIX

VOLUME 1

CHAPTER I home is the resort Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where, Supporting and supported, polish'd friends And dear relations mingle into bliss.* *Thomson

On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in theprovince of Gascony, stood, in the year 1584,the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From itswindows were seen the pastoral landscapes ofGuienne and Gascony stretching along theriver, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, andplantations of olives. To the south, the view wasbounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whosesummits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awfulforms, seen, and lost again, as the partialvapours rolled along, were sometimes barren,and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, andsometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine,that swept downward to their base. Thesetremendous precipices were contrasted by thesoft green of the pastures and woods that hungupon their skirts; among whose flocks, andherds, and simple cottages, the eye, afterhaving scaled the cliffs above, delighted torepose. To the north, and to the east, the plainsof Guienne and Languedoc were lost in the mistof distance; on the west, Gascony was boundedby the waters of Biscay.

M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wifeand daughter, on the margin of the Garonne,and to listen to the music that floated on itswaves. He had known life in other forms thanthose of pastoral simplicity, having mingled inthe gay and in the busy scenes of the world; butthe flattering portrait of mankind, which his hearthad delineated in early youth, his experiencehad too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst thechanging visions of life, his principles remainedunshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and heretired from the multitude 'more in PITY than inanger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure

delights of literature, and to the exercise ofdomestic virtues.

He was a descendant from the youngerbranch of an illustrious family, and it wasdesigned, that the deficiency of his patrimonialwealth should be supplied either by a splendidalliance in marriage, or by success in theintrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had toonice a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope,and too small a portion of ambition to sacrificewhat he called happiness, to the attainment ofwealth. After the death of his father he marrieda very amiable woman, his equal in birth, andnot his superior in fortune. The late Monsieur St.Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had somuch involved his affairs, that his son found itnecessary to dispose of a part of the familydomain, and, some years after his marriage, hesold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of hiswife, and retired to a small estate in Gascony,where conjugal felicity, and parental duties,divided his attention with the treasures ofknowledge and the illuminations of genius.

To this spot he had been attached from hisinfancy. He had often made excursions to itwhen a boy, and the impressions of delightgiven to his mind by the homely kindness of thegrey-headed peasant, to whom it was intrusted,and whose fruit and cream never failed, had notbeen obliterated by succeeding circumstances.The green pastures along which he had sooften bounded in the exultation of health, andyouthful freedom—the woods, under whoserefreshing shade he had first indulged thatpensive melancholy, which afterwards made astrong feature of his character—the wild walksof the mountains, the river, on whose waves hehad floated, and the distant plains, whichseemed boundless as his early hopes—werenever after remembered by St. Aubert but withenthusiasm and regret. At length hedisengaged himself from the world, and retiredhither, to realize the wishes of many years.

The building, as it then stood, was merely a

summer cottage, rendered interesting to astranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty ofthe surrounding scene; and considerableadditions were necessary to make it acomfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt akind of affection for every part of the fabric,which he remembered in his youth, and wouldnot suffer a stone of it to be removed, so thatthe new building, adapted to the style of the oldone, formed with it only a simple and elegantresidence. The taste of Madame St. Aubertwas conspicuous in its internal finishing, wherethe same chaste simplicity was observable inthe furniture, and in the few ornaments of theapartments, that characterized the manners ofits inhabitants.

The library occupied the west side of thechateau, and was enriched by a collection ofthe best books in the ancient and modernlanguages. This room opened upon a grove,which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity,that fell towards the river, and the tall trees gaveit a melancholy and pleasing shade; while fromthe windows the eye caught, beneath thespreading branches, the gay and luxuriantlandscape stretching to the west, andoverlooked on the left by the bold precipices ofthe Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was agreen-house, stored with scarce and beautifulplants; for one of the amusements of St. Aubertwas the study of botany, and among theneighbouring mountains, which afforded aluxurious feast to the mind of the naturalist, heoften passed the day in the pursuit of hisfavourite science. He was sometimesaccompanied in these little excursions byMadame St. Aubert, and frequently by hisdaughter; when, with a small osier basket toreceive plants, and another filled with coldrefreshments, such as the cabin of theshepherd did not afford, they wandered awayamong the most romantic and magnificentscenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature'slowly children to abstract them from theobservance of her stupendous works. When

weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemedscarcely accessible but to the steps of theenthusiast, and where no track appeared on thevegetation, but what the foot of the izard hadleft; they would seek one of those greenrecesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosomof these mountains, where, under the shade ofthe lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed theirsimple repast, made sweeter by the waters ofthe cool stream, that crept along the turf, and bythe breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants,that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the grass.

Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the plains ofLanguedoc, was a room, which Emily calledhers, and which contained her books, herdrawings, her musical instruments, with somefavourite birds and plants. Here she usuallyexercised herself in elegant arts, cultivated onlybecause they were congenial to her taste, andin which native genius, assisted by theinstructions of Monsieur and Madame St.Aubert, made her an early proficient. Thewindows of this room were particularly pleasant;they descended to the floor, and, opening uponthe little lawn that surrounded the house, the eyewas led between groves of almond, palm-trees,flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distantlandscape, where the Garonne wandered.

The peasants of this gay climate were oftenseen on an evening, when the day's labour wasdone, dancing in groups on the margin of theriver. Their sprightly melodies, debonnairesteps, the fanciful figure of their dances, with thetasteful and capricious manner in which the girlsadjusted their simple dress, gave a character tothe scene entirely French.

The front of the chateau, which, having asouthern aspect, opened upon the grandeur ofthe mountains, was occupied on the groundfloor by a rustic hall, and two excellent sittingrooms. The first floor, for the cottage had nosecond story, was laid out in bed-chambers,except one apartment that opened to a balcony,

and which was generally used for a breakfast-room.

In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert hadmade very tasteful improvements; yet, such washis attachment to objects he had rememberedfrom his boyish days, that he had in someinstances sacrificed taste to sentiment. Therewere two old larches that shaded the building,and interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert hadsometimes declared that he believed he shouldhave been weak enough to have wept at theirfall. In addition to these larches he planted alittle grove of beech, pine, and mountain-ash.On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bankof the river, rose a plantation of orange, lemon,and palm-trees, whose fruit, in the coolness ofevening, breathed delicious fragrance. Withthese were mingled a few trees of otherspecies. Here, under the ample shade of aplane-tree, that spread its majestic canopytowards the river, St. Aubert loved to sit in thefine evenings of summer, with his wife andchildren, watching, beneath its foliage, thesetting sun, the mild splendour of its light fadingfrom the distant landscape, till the shadows oftwilight melted its various features into one tintof sober grey. Here, too, he loved to read, andto converse with Madame St. Aubert; or to playwith his children, resigning himself to theinfluence of those sweet affections, which areever attendant on simplicity and nature. He hasoften said, while tears of pleasure trembled inhis eyes, that these were moments infinitelymore delightful than any passed amid thebrilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courtedby the world. His heart was occupied; it had,what can be so rarely said, no wish for ahappiness beyond what it experienced. Theconsciousness of acting right diffused aserenity over his manners, which nothing elsecould impart to a man of moral perceptions likehis, and which refined his sense of everysurrounding blessing.

The deepest shade of twilight did not sendhim from his favourite plane-tree. He loved the

soothing hour, when the last tints of light dieaway; when the stars, one by one, tremblethrough aether, and are reflected on the darkmirror of the waters; that hour, which, of allothers, inspires the mind with pensivetenderness, and often elevates it to sublimecontemplation. When the moon shed her softrays among the foliage, he still lingered, and hispastoral supper of cream and fruits was oftenspread beneath it. Then, on the stillness ofnight, came the song of the nightingale,breathing sweetness, and awakeningmelancholy.

The first interruptions to the happiness hehad known since his retirement, wereoccasioned by the death of his two sons. Helost them at that age when infantine simplicity isso fascinating; and though, in consideration ofMadame St. Aubert's distress, he restrainedthe expression of his own, and endeavoured tobear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he had, intruth, no philosophy that could render him calmto such losses. One daughter was now his onlysurviving child; and, while he watched theunfolding of her infant character, with anxiousfondness, he endeavoured, with unremittingeffort, to counteract those traits in herdisposition, which might hereafter lead her fromhappiness. She had discovered in her earlyyears uncommon delicacy of mind, warmaffections, and ready benevolence; but withthese was observable a degree of susceptibilitytoo exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As sheadvanced in youth, this sensibility gave apensive tone to her spirits, and a softness toher manner, which added grace to beauty, andrendered her a very interesting object topersons of a congenial disposition. But St.Aubert had too much good sense to prefer acharm to a virtue; and had penetration enoughto see, that this charm was too dangerous to itspossessor to be allowed the character of ablessing. He endeavoured, therefore, tostrengthen her mind; to enure her to habits ofself-command; to teach her to reject the first

impulse of her feelings, and to look, with coolexamination, upon the disappointments hesometimes threw in her way. While heinstructed her to resist first impressions, and toacquire that steady dignity of mind, that canalone counterbalance the passions, and bearus, as far as is compatible with our nature,above the reach of circumstances, he taughthimself a lesson of fortitude; for he was oftenobliged to witness, with seeming indifference,the tears and struggles which his cautionoccasioned her.

In person, Emily resembled her mother;having the same elegant symmetry of form, thesame delicacy of features, and the same blueeyes, full of tender sweetness. But, lovely aswas her person, it was the varied expression ofher countenance, as conversation awakenedthe nicer emotions of her mind, that threw sucha captivating grace around her:

Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye, And, in the world's contagious circle, die.

St. Aubert cultivated her understanding withthe most scrupulous care. He gave her ageneral view of the sciences, and an exactacquaintance with every part of elegantliterature. He taught her Latin and English,chiefly that she might understand the sublimityof their best poets. She discovered in her earlyyears a taste for works of genius; and it was St.Aubert's principle, as well as his inclination, topromote every innocent means of happiness. 'Awell-informed mind,' he would say, 'is the bestsecurity against the contagion of folly and ofvice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch forrelief, and ready to plunge into error, to escapefrom the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas,teach it the pleasure of thinking; and thetemptations of the world without, will becounteracted by the gratifications derived fromthe world within. Thought, and cultivation, arenecessary equally to the happiness of a countryand a city life; in the first they prevent theuneasy sensations of indolence, and afford a

sublime pleasure in the taste they create for thebeautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they makedissipation less an object of necessity, andconsequently of interest.'

It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures toramble among the scenes of nature; nor was itin the soft and glowing landscape that she mostdelighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks,that skirted the mountain; and still more themountain's stupendous recesses, where thesilence and grandeur of solitude impressed asacred awe upon her heart, and lifted herthoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN ANDEARTH. In scenes like these she would oftenlinger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, tillthe last gleam of day faded from the west; tillthe lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distantbark of a watch-dog, were all that broke on thestillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of thewoods; the trembling of their leaves, atintervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting on thetwilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and nowlost—were circumstances that awakened hermind into effort, and led to enthusiasm andpoetry.

Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert, in a woody glen,on the margin of a rivulet that descended fromthe Pyrenees, and, after foaming among theirrocks, wound its silent way beneath the shadesit reflected. Above the woods, that screenedthis glen, rose the lofty summits of thePyrenees, which often burst boldly on the eyethrough the glades below. Sometimes theshattered face of a rock only was seen,crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabinseated on a cliff, overshadowed by darkcypress, or waving ash. Emerging from thedeep recesses of the woods, the glade openedto the distant landscape, where the richpastures and vine-covered slopes of Gasconygradually declined to the plains; and there, onthe winding shores of the Garonne, groves, andhamlets, and villas—their outlines softened bydistance, melted from the eye into one rich

harmonious tint.

This, too, was the favourite retreat of St.Aubert, to which he frequently withdrew from thefervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter, andhis books; or came at the sweet evening hour towelcome the silent dusk, or to listen for themusic of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, hebrought music of his own, and awakened everyfairy echo with the tender accents of his oboe;and often have the tones of Emily's voice drawnsweetness from the waves, over which theytrembled.

It was in one of these excursions to this spot,that she observed the following lines written witha pencil on a part of the wainscot:

SONNET

Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs! Go—tell the Goddess of the fairy scene, When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green, Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise; Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes, The sweet expression of her pensive face, The light'ning smile, the animated grace— The portrait well the lover's voice supplies; Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say: Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel! How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal The drug that steals the vital spark away! And who that gazes on that angel-smile, Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!

These lines were not inscribed to any person;Emily therefore could not apply them to herself,though she was undoubtedly the nymph of theseshades. Having glanced round the little circle ofher acquaintance without being detained by asuspicion as to whom they could be addressed,she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; anuncertainty which would have been more painfulto an idle mind than it was to hers. She had noleisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at first,to swell into importance by frequentremembrance. The little vanity it had excited (forthe incertitude which forbade her to presumeupon having inspired the sonnet, forbade her

also to disbelieve it) passed away, and theincident was dismissed from her thoughts amidher books, her studies, and the exercise ofsocial charities.

Soon after this period, her anxiety wasawakened by the indisposition of her father,who was attacked with a fever; which, thoughnot thought to be of a dangerous kind, gave asevere shock to his constitution. Madame St.Aubert and Emily attended him with unremittingcare; but his recovery was very slow, and, as headvanced towards health, Madame seemed todecline.

The first scene he visited, after he was wellenough to take the air, was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent thither,with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tacklehe had no use, for he never could findamusement in torturing or destroying.

After employing himself, for about an hour, inbotanizing, dinner was served. It was a repast,to which gratitude, for being again permitted tovisit this spot, gave sweetness; and familyhappiness once more smiled beneath theseshades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed withunusual cheerfulness; every object delighted hissenses. The refreshing pleasure from the firstview of nature, after the pain of illness, and theconfinement of a sick-chamber, is above theconceptions, as well as the descriptions, ofthose in health. The green woods and pastures;the flowery turf; the blue concave of theheavens; the balmy air; the murmur of the limpidstream; and even the hum of every little insect ofthe shade, seem to revivify the soul, and makemere existence bliss.

Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by thecheerfulness and recovery of her husband, wasno longer sensible of the indisposition whichhad lately oppressed her; and, as shesauntered along the wood-walks of thisromantic glen, and conversed with him, and withher daughter, she often looked at them

alternately with a degree of tenderness, thatfilled her eyes with tears. St. Aubert observedthis more than once, and gently reproved her forthe emotion; but she could only smile, clasp hishand, and that of Emily, and weep the more. Hefelt the tender enthusiasm stealing upon himselfin a degree that became almost painful; hisfeatures assumed a serious air, and he couldnot forbear secretly sighing—'Perhaps I shallsome time look back to these moments, as tothe summit of my happiness, with hopelessregret. But let me not misuse them by uselessanticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mournthe loss of those who are dearer to me than life.'

To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensivetemper of his mind, he bade Emily fetch the luteshe knew how to touch with such sweet pathos.As she drew near the fishing-house, she wassurprised to hear the tones of the instrument,which were awakened by the hand of taste, anduttered a plaintive air, whose exquisite melodyengaged all her attention. She listened inprofound silence, afraid to move from the spot,lest the sound of her steps should occasion herto lose a note of the music, or should disturb themusician. Every thing without the building wasstill, and no person appeared. She continued tolisten, till timidity succeeded to surprise anddelight; a timidity, increased by a remembranceof the pencilled lines she had formerly seen,and she hesitated whether to proceed, or toreturn.

While she paused, the music ceased; and,after a momentary hesitation, she re-collectedcourage to advance to the fishing-house, whichshe entered with faltering steps, and foundunoccupied! Her lute lay on the table; everything seemed undisturbed, and she began tobelieve it was another instrument she hadheard, till she remembered, that, when shefollowed M. and Madame St. Aubert from thisspot, her lute was left on a window seat. She feltalarmed, yet knew not wherefore; themelancholy gloom of evening, and the profoundstillness of the place, interrupted only by the

light trembling of leaves, heightened her fancifulapprehensions, and she was desirous ofquitting the building, but perceived herself growfaint, and sat down. As she tried to recoverherself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot mether eye; she started, as if she had seen astranger; but, endeavouring to conquer thetremor of her spirits, rose, and went to thewindow. To the lines before noticed she nowperceived that others were added, in which hername appeared.

Though no longer suffered to doubt that theywere addressed to herself, she was asignorant, as before, by whom they could bewritten. While she mused, she thought sheheard the sound of a step without the building,and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, andhurried away. Monsieur and Madame St.Aubert she found in a little path that woundalong the sides of the glen.

Having reached a green summit, shadowedby palm-trees, and overlooking the vallies andplains of Gascony, they seated themselves onthe turf; and while their eyes wandered over theglorious scene, and they inhaled the sweetbreath of flowers and herbs that enriched thegrass, Emily played and sung several of theirfavourite airs, with the delicacy of expression inwhich she so much excelled.

Music and conversation detained them in thisenchanting spot, till the sun's last light sleptupon the plains; till the white sails that glidedbeneath the mountains, where the Garonnewandered, became dim, and the gloom ofevening stole over the landscape. It was amelancholy but not unpleasing gloom. St.Aubert and his family rose, and left the placewith regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew notthat she left it for ever.

When they reached the fishing-house shemissed her bracelet, and recollected that shehad taken it from her arm after dinner, and hadleft it on the table when she went to walk. After a

long search, in which Emily was very active, shewas compelled to resign herself to the loss of it.What made this bracelet valuable to her was aminiature of her daughter to which it wasattached, esteemed a striking resemblance,and which had been painted only a few monthsbefore. When Emily was convinced that thebracelet was really gone, she blushed, andbecame thoughtful. That some stranger hadbeen in the fishing-house, during her absence,her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, hadalready informed her: from the purport of theselines it was not unreasonable to believe, that thepoet, the musician, and the thief were the sameperson. But though the music she had heard,the written lines she had seen, and thedisappearance of the picture, formed acombination of circumstances very remarkable,she was irresistibly restrained from mentioningthem; secretly determining, however, neveragain to visit the fishing-house without Monsieuror Madame St. Aubert.

They returned pensively to the chateau, Emilymusing on the incident which had just occurred;St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude, onthe blessings he possessed; and Madame St.Aubert somewhat disturbed, and perplexed, bythe loss of her daughter's picture. As they drewnear the house, they observed an unusualbustle about it; the sound of voices wasdistinctly heard, servants and horses were seenpassing between the trees, and, at length, thewheels of a carriage rolled along. Having comewithin view of the front of the chateau, a landau,with smoking horses, appeared on the littlelawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the liveriesof his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he foundMonsieur and Madame Quesnel alreadyentered. They had left Paris some days before,and were on the way to their estate, only tenleagues distant from La Vallee, and whichMonsieur Quesnel had purchased several yearsbefore of St. Aubert. This gentleman was theonly brother of Madame St. Aubert; but the tiesof relationship having never been strengthened

by congeniality of character, the intercoursebetween them had not been frequent. M.Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; hisaim had been consequence; splendour was theobject of his taste; and his address andknowledge of character had carried himforward to the attainment of almost all that hehad courted. By a man of such a disposition, itis not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubertshould be overlooked; or that his pure taste,simplicity, and moderated wishes, wereconsidered as marks of a weak intellect, and ofconfined views. The marriage of his sister withSt. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition,for he had designed that the matrimonialconnection she formed should assist him toattain the consequence which he so muchdesired; and some offers were made her bypersons whose rank and fortune flattered hiswarmest hope. But his sister, who was thenaddressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, orthought she perceived, that happiness andsplendour were not the same, and she did nothesitate to forego the last for the attainment ofthe former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thoughtthem the same, or not, he would readily havesacrificed his sister's peace to the gratificationof his own ambition; and, on her marriage withSt. Aubert, expressed in private his contempt ofher spiritless conduct, and of the connectionwhich it permitted. Madame St. Aubert, thoughshe concealed this insult from her husband, felt,perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted inher heart; and, though a regard for her owndignity, united with considerations of prudence,restrained her expression of this resentment,there was ever after a mild reserve in hermanner towards M. Quesnel, which he bothunderstood and felt.

In his own marriage he did not follow hissister's example. His lady was an Italian, and anheiress by birth; and, by nature and education,was a vain and frivolous woman.

They now determined to pass the night withSt. Aubert; and as the chateau was not large

enough to accommodate their servants, thelatter were dismissed to the neighbouringvillage. When the first compliments were over,and the arrangements for the night made M.Quesnel began the display of his intelligenceand his connections; while St. Aubert, who hadbeen long enough in retirement to find thesetopics recommended by their novelty, listened,with a degree of patience and attention, whichhis guest mistook for the humility of wonder.The latter, indeed, described the few festivitieswhich the turbulence of that period permitted tothe court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness,that somewhat recompensed for hisostentation; but, when he came to speak of thecharacter of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secrettreaty, which he knew to be negotiating with thePorte, and of the light in which Henry of Navarrewas received, M. St. Aubert recollected enoughof his former experience to be assured, that hisguest could be only of an inferior class ofpoliticians; and that, from the importance of thesubjects upon which he committed himself, hecould not be of the rank to which he pretendedto belong. The opinions delivered by M.Quesnel, were such as St. Aubert forebore toreply to, for he knew that his guest had neitherhumanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive,what is just.

Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, wasexpressing to Madame St. Aubert herastonishment, that she could bear to pass herlife in this remote corner of the world, as shecalled it, and describing, from a wish, probably,of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls,banquets, and processions which had just beengiven by the court, in honour of the nuptials ofthe Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta ofLorrain, the sister of the Queen. She describedwith equal minuteness the magnificence shehad seen, and that from which she had beenexcluded; while Emily's vivid fancy, as shelistened with the ardent curiosity of youth,heightened the scenes she heard of; andMadame St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt,

as a tear stole to her eye, that though splendourmay grace happiness, virtue only can bestow it.

'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M.Quesnel, 'since I purchased your familyestate.'—'Somewhere thereabout,' replied St.Aubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is near five yearssince I have been there,' resumed Quesnel; 'forParis and its neighbourhood is the only place inthe world to live in, and I am so immersed inpolitics, and have so many affairs of moment onmy hands, that I find it difficult to steal awayeven for a month or two.' St. Aubert remainingsilent, M. Quesnel proceeded: 'I havesometimes wondered how you, who have livedin the capital, and have been accustomed tocompany, can exist elsewhere;—especially inso remote a country as this, where you canneither hear nor see any thing, and can in shortbe scarcely conscious of life.'

'I live for my family and myself,' said St.Aubert; 'I am now contented to know onlyhappiness;—formerly I knew life.'

'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousandlivres on improvements,' said M. Quesnel,without seeming to notice the words of St.Aubert; 'for I design, next summer, to bring heremy friends, the Duke de Durefort and theMarquis Ramont, to pass a month or two withme.' To St. Aubert's enquiry, as to theseintended improvements, he replied, that heshould take down the whole east wing of thechateau, and raise upon the site a set ofstables. 'Then I shall build,' said he, 'a SALLE AMANGER, a SALON, a SALLE AUCOMMUNE, and a number of rooms forservants; for at present there is notaccommodation for a third part of my ownpeople.'

'It accommodated our father's household,'said St. Aubert, grieved that the old mansionwas to be thus improved, 'and that was not asmall one.'

'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since

those days,' said M. Quesnel;—'what was thenthought a decent style of living would not now beendured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed atthese words, but his anger soon yielded tocontempt. 'The ground about the chateau isencumbered with trees; I mean to cut some ofthem down.'

'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert.

'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt myprospects. There is a chesnut which spreads itsbranches before the whole south side of thechateau, and which is so ancient that they tellme the hollow of its trunk will hold a dozen men.Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that therecan be either use, or beauty, in such a saplessold tree as this.'

'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surelywill not destroy that noble chesnut, which hasflourished for centuries, the glory of the estate! Itwas in its maturity when the present mansionwas built. How often, in my youth, have I climbedamong its broad branches, and sat emboweredamidst a world of leaves, while the heavyshower has pattered above, and not a rain dropreached me! How often I have sat with a bookin my hand, sometimes reading, andsometimes looking out between the branchesupon the wide landscape, and the setting sun,till twilight came, and brought the birds home totheir little nests among the leaves! How often—but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollectingthat he was speaking to a man who couldneither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'Iam talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare thatvenerable tree.'

'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel;'I believe I shall plant some Lombardy poplarsamong the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leaveof the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to thepoplar, and tells me how much it adorns a villaof her uncle, not far from Venice.'

'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,'

continued St. Aubert, 'where its spiry form isintermingled with the pine, and the cypress, andwhere it plays over light and elegant porticosand colonnades, it, unquestionably, adorns thescene; but among the giants of the forest, andnear a heavy gothic mansion—'

'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will notdispute with you. You must return to Parisbefore our ideas can at all agree. But A-PROPOS of Venice, I have some thoughts ofgoing thither, next summer; events may call meto take possession of that same villa, too, whichthey tell me is the most charming that can beimagined. In that case I shall leave theimprovements I mention to another year, and Imay, perhaps, be tempted to stay some time inItaly.'

Emily was somewhat surprised to hear himtalk of being tempted to remain abroad, after hehad mentioned his presence to be sonecessary at Paris, that it was with difficulty hecould steal away for a month or two; but St.Aubert understood the self-importance of theman too well to wonder at this trait; and thepossibility, that these projected improvementsmight be deferred, gave him a hope, that theymight never take place.

Before they separated for the night, M.Quesnel desired to speak with St. Aubert alone,and they retired to another room, where theyremained a considerable time. The subject ofthis conversation was not known; but, whateverit might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to thesupper-room, seemed much disturbed, and ashade of sorrow sometimes fell upon hisfeatures that alarmed Madame St. Aubert.When they were alone she was tempted toenquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy ofmind, which had ever appeared in his conduct,restrained her: she considered that, if St.Aubert wished her to be acquainted with thesubject of his concern, he would not wait on herenquiries.

On the following day, before M. Quesneldeparted, he had a second conference with St.Aubert.

The guests, after dining at the chateau, setout in the cool of the day for Epourville, whitherthey gave him and Madame St. Aubert apressing invitation, prompted rather by thevanity of displaying their splendour, than by awish to make their friends happy.

Emily returned, with delight, to the libertywhich their presence had restrained, to herbooks, her walks, and the rational conversationof M. and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed torejoice, no less, that they were delivered fromthe shackles, which arrogance and frivolity hadimposed.

Madame St. Aubert excused herself fromsharing their usual evening walk, complainingthat she was not quite well, and St. Aubert andEmily went out together.

They chose a walk towards the mountains,intending to visit some old pensioners of St.Aubert, which, from his very moderate income,he contrived to support, though it is probable M.Quesnel, with his very large one, could not haveafforded this.

After distributing to his pensioners theirweekly stipends, listening patiently to thecomplaints of some, redressing the grievancesof others, and softening the discontents of all,by the look of sympathy, and the smile ofbenevolence, St. Aubert returned home throughthe woods,

where At fall of eve the fairy-people throng, In various games and revelry to pass The summer night, as village stories tell.* *Thomson

'The evening gloom of woods was alwaysdelightful to me,' said St. Aubert, whose mindnow experienced the sweet calm, which resultsfrom the consciousness of having done a

beneficent action, and which disposes it toreceive pleasure from every surrounding object.'I remember that in my youth this gloom used tocall forth to my fancy a thousand fairy visions,and romantic images; and, I own, I am not yetwholly insensible of that high enthusiasm, whichwakes the poet's dream: I can linger, withsolemn steps, under the deep shades, sendforward a transforming eye into the distantobscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to themystic murmuring of the woods.'

'O my dear father,' said Emily, while a suddentear started to her eye, 'how exactly youdescribe what I have felt so often, and which Ithought nobody had ever felt but myself! Buthark! here comes the sweeping sound over thewood-tops;—now it dies away;—how solemnthe stillness that succeeds! Now the breezeswells again. It is like the voice of somesupernatural being—the voice of the spirit of thewoods, that watches over them by night. Ah!what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now itgleams again, near the root of that largechestnut: look, sir!'

'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St.Aubert, 'and so little acquainted with herappearances as not to know that for the glow-worm? But come,' added he gaily, 'step a littlefurther, and we shall see fairies, perhaps; theyare often companions. The glow-worm lends hislight, and they in return charm him with music,and the dance. Do you see nothing trippingyonder?'

Emily laughed. 'Well, my dear sir,' said she,'since you allow of this alliance, I may venture toown I have anticipated you; and almost dareventure to repeat some verses I made oneevening in these very woods.'

'Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss theALMOST, and venture quite; let us hear whatvagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. Ifshe has given you one of her spells, you neednot envy those of the fairies.'

'If it is strong enough to enchant yourjudgment, sir,' said Emily, 'while I disclose herimages, I need NOT envy them. The lines go ina sort of tripping measure, which I thought mightsuit the subject well enough, but I fear they aretoo irregular.'

THE GLOW-WORM

How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er; When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade, And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!

But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest, And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest, Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour, Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves, And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r, The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.

Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done, But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend; And often as her dying notes their pity have won, They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star, And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere, How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, came not near!

Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love! For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way, And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove, They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out, While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground, And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout, Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!

But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn, And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string; Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.

Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen, Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,

That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green, To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells canfree.

And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute; If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand, And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.

O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil, And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind, I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile, And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar, And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear, Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, come not near!

Whatever St. Aubert might think of thestanzas, he would not deny his daughter thepleasure of believing that he approved them;and, having given his commendation, he sunkinto a reverie, and they walked on in silence.

A faint erroneous ray Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things, Flung half an image on the straining eye; While waving woods, and villages, and streams, And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene, Uncertain if beheld.* *Thomson.

St. Aubert continued silent till he reached thechateau, where his wife had retired to herchamber. The languor and dejection, that hadlately oppressed her, and which the exertioncalled forth by the arrival of her guests hadsuspended, now returned with increased effect.On the following day, symptoms of feverappeared, and St. Aubert, having sent formedical advice, learned, that her disorder wasa fever of the same nature as that, from whichhe had lately recovered. She had, indeed, takenthe infection, during her attendance upon him,and, her constitution being too weak to throwout the disease immediately, it had lurked in herveins, and occasioned the heavy languor ofwhich she had complained. St. Aubert, whose

anxiety for his wife overcame every otherconsideration, detained the physician in hishouse. He remembered the feelings and thereflections that had called a momentary gloomupon his mind, on the day when he had lastvisited the fishing-house, in company withMadame St. Aubert, and he now admitted apresentiment, that this illness would be a fatalone. But he effectually concealed this from her,and from his daughter, whom he endeavouredto re-animate with hopes that her constantassiduities would not be unavailing. Thephysician, when asked by St. Aubert for hisopinion of the disorder, replied, that the event ofit depended upon circumstances which hecould not ascertain. Madame St. Aubertseemed to have formed a more decided one;but her eyes only gave hints of this. Shefrequently fixed them upon her anxious friendswith an expression of pity, and of tenderness,as if she anticipated the sorrow that awaitedthem, and that seemed to say, it was for theirsakes only, for their sufferings, that sheregretted life. On the seventh day, the disorderwas at its crisis. The physician assumed agraver manner, which she observed, and tookoccasion, when her family had once quitted thechamber, to tell him, that she perceived herdeath was approaching. 'Do not attempt todeceive me,' said she, 'I feel that I cannot longsurvive. I am prepared for the event, I have long,I hope, been preparing for it. Since I have notlong to live, do not suffer a mistakencompassion to induce you to flatter my familywith false hopes. If you do, their affliction willonly be the heavier when it arrives: I willendeavour to teach them resignation by myexample.'

The physician was affected; he promised toobey her, and told St. Aubert, somewhatabruptly, that there was nothing to expect. Thelatter was not philosopher enough to restrain hisfeelings when he received this information; buta consideration of the increased affliction whichthe observance of his grief would occasion his

wife, enabled him, after some time, tocommand himself in her presence. Emily was atfirst overwhelmed with the intelligence; then,deluded by the strength of her wishes, a hopesprung up in her mind that her mother would yetrecover, and to this she pertinaciously adheredalmost to the last hour.

The progress of this disorder was marked,on the side of Madame St. Aubert, by patientsuffering, and subjected wishes. Thecomposure, with which she awaited her death,could be derived only from the retrospect of alife governed, as far as human frailty permits, bya consciousness of being always in thepresence of the Deity, and by the hope of ahigher world. But her piety could not entirelysubdue the grief of parting from those whomshe so dearly loved. During these her lasthours, she conversed much with St. Aubert andEmily, on the prospect of futurity, and on otherreligious topics. The resignation sheexpressed, with the firm hope of meeting in afuture world the friends she left in this, and theeffort which sometimes appeared to concealher sorrow at this temporary separation,frequently affected St. Aubert so much as tooblige him to leave the room. Having indulgedhis tears awhile, he would dry them and returnto the chamber with a countenance composedby an endeavour which did but increase hisgrief.

Never had Emily felt the importance of thelessons, which had taught her to restrain hersensibility, so much as in these moments, andnever had she practised them with a triumph socomplete. But when the last was over, she sunkat once under the pressure of her sorrow, andthen perceived that it was hope, as well asfortitude, which had hitherto supported her. St.Aubert was for a time too devoid of comforthimself to bestow any on his daughter.

CHAPTER II I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul. SHAKESPEARE

Madame St. Aubert was interred in theneighbouring village church; her husband anddaughter attended her to the grave, followed bya long train of the peasantry, who were sinceremourners of this excellent woman.

On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shuthimself in his chamber. When he came forth, itwas with a serene countenance, though pale insorrow. He gave orders that his family shouldattend him. Emily only was absent; who,overcome with the scene she had justwitnessed, had retired to her closet to weepalone. St. Aubert followed her thither: he tookher hand in silence, while she continued toweep; and it was some moments before hecould so far command his voice as to speak. Ittrembled while he said, 'My Emily, I am going toprayers with my family; you will join us. We mustask support from above. Where else ought weto seek it—where else can we find it?'

Emily checked her tears, and followed herfather to the parlour, where, the servants beingassembled, St. Aubert read, in a low andsolemn voice, the evening service, and added aprayer for the soul of the departed. During this,his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon thebook, and at length he paused. But the sublimeemotions of pure devotion gradually elevatedhis views above this world, and finally broughtcomfort to his heart.

When the service was ended, and theservants were withdrawn, he tenderly kissedEmily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teachyou, from your earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you the greatimportance of it through life, not only as itpreserves us in the various and dangerous

temptations that call us from rectitude andvirtue, but as it limits the indulgences which aretermed virtuous, yet which, extended beyond acertain boundary, are vicious, for theirconsequence is evil. All excess is vicious; eventhat sorrow, which is amiable in its origin,becomes a selfish and unjust passion, ifindulged at the expence of our duties—by ourduties I mean what we owe to ourselves, as wellas to others. The indulgence of excessive griefenervates the mind, and almost incapacitates itfor again partaking of those various innocentenjoyments which a benevolent God designedto be the sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily,recollect and practise the precepts I have sooften given you, and which your own experiencehas so often shewn you to be wise.

'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive thisas merely a commonplace remark, but letreason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I wouldnot annihilate your feelings, my child, I wouldonly teach you to command them; for whatevermay be the evils resulting from a toosusceptible heart, nothing can be hoped froman insensible one; that, on the other hand, is allvice—vice, of which the deformity is notsoftened, or the effect consoled for, by anysemblance or possibility of good. You know mysufferings, and are, therefore, convinced thatmine are not the light words which, on theseoccasions, are so often repeated to destroyeven the sources of honest emotion, or whichmerely display the selfish ostentation of a falsephilosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I canpractise what I advise. I have said thus much,because I cannot bear to see you wasting inuseless sorrow, for want of that resistancewhich is due from mind; and I have not said it tillnow, because there is a period when allreasoning must yield to nature; that is past: andanother, when excessive indulgence, havingsunk into habit, weighs down the elasticity of thespirits so as to render conquest nearlyimpossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, willshew that you are willing to avoid it.'

Emily smiled through her tears upon herfather: 'Dear sir,' said she, and her voicetrembled; she would have added, 'I will shewmyself worthy of being your daughter;' but amingled emotion of gratitude, affection, andgrief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her toweep without interruption, and then began totalk on common topics.

The first person who came to condole with St.Aubert was a M. Barreaux, an austere andseemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botanyhad introduced them to each other, for they hadfrequently met in their wanderings among themountains. M. Barreaux had retired from theworld, and almost from society, to live in apleasant chateau, on the skirts of the woods,near La Vallee. He also had been disappointedin his opinion of mankind; but he did not, like St.Aubert, pity and mourn for them; he felt moreindignation at their vices, than compassion fortheir weaknesses.

St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to seehim; for, though he had often pressed him tocome to the chateau, he had never till nowaccepted the invitation; and now he camewithout ceremony or reserve, entering theparlour as an old friend. The claims ofmisfortune appeared to have softened down allthe ruggedness and prejudices of his heart. St.Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole ideathat occupied his mind. It was in manners, morethan in words, that he appeared to sympathizewith his friends: he spoke little on the subject oftheir grief; but the minute attention he gavethem, and the modulated voice, and softenedlook that accompanied it, came from his heart,and spoke to theirs.

At this melancholy period St. Aubert waslikewise visited by Madame Cheron, his onlysurviving sister, who had been some years awidow, and now resided on her own estate nearTholouse. The intercourse between them hadnot been very frequent. In her condolements,words were not wanting; she understood not the

magic of the look that speaks at once to thesoul, or the voice that sinks like balm to theheart: but she assured St. Aubert that shesincerely sympathized with him, praised thevirtues of his late wife, and then offered whatshe considered to be consolation. Emily weptunceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert wastranquil, listened to what she said in silence,and then turned the discourse upon anothersubject.

At parting she pressed him and her niece tomake her an early visit. 'Change of place willamuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong to giveway to grief.' St. Aubert acknowledged the truthof these words of course; but, at the same time,felt more reluctant than ever to quit the spotwhich his past happiness had consecrated. Thepresence of his wife had sanctified everysurrounding scene, and, each day, as itgradually softened the acuteness of hissuffering, assisted the tender enchantment thatbound him to home.

But there were calls which must be compliedwith, and of this kind was the visit he paid to hisbrother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of aninteresting nature made it necessary that heshould delay this visit no longer, and, wishing torouse Emily from her dejection, he took her withhim to Epourville.

As the carriage entered upon the forest thatadjoined his paternal domain, his eyes oncemore caught, between the chesnut avenue, theturreted corners of the chateau. He sighed tothink of what had passed since he was lastthere, and that it was now the property of a manwho neither revered nor valued it. At length heentered the avenue, whose lofty trees had sooften delighted him when a boy, and whosemelancholy shade was now so congenial withthe tone of his spirits. Every feature of theedifice, distinguished by an air of heavygrandeur, appeared successively between thebranches of the trees—the broad turret, thearched gate-way that led into the courts, the

drawbridge, and the dry fosse whichsurrounded the whole.

The sound of carriage wheels brought a troopof servants to the great gate, where St. Aubertalighted, and from which he led Emily into thegothic hall, now no longer hung with the armsand ancient banners of the family. These weredisplaced, and the oak wainscotting, andbeams that crossed the roof, were paintedwhite. The large table, too, that used to stretchalong the upper end of the hall, where themaster of the mansion loved to display hishospitality, and whence the peal of laughter,and the song of conviviality, had so oftenresounded, was now removed; even thebenches that had surrounded the hall were nolonger there. The heavy walls were hung withfrivolous ornaments, and every thing thatappeared denoted the false taste andcorrupted sentiments of the present owner.

St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant toa parlour, where sat Mons. and MadameQuesnel, who received him with a statelypoliteness, and, after a few formal words ofcondolement, seemed to have forgotten thatthey ever had a sister.

Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and thenresentment checked them. St. Aubert, calm anddeliberate, preserved his dignity withoutassuming importance, and Quesnel wasdepressed by his presence without exactlyknowing wherefore.

After some general conversation, St. Aubertrequested to speak with him alone; and Emily,being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learnedthat a large party was invited to dine at thechateau, and was compelled to hear thatnothing which was past and irremediable oughtto prevent the festivity of the present hour.

St. Aubert, when he was told that companywere expected, felt a mixed emotion of disgustand indignation against the insensibility ofQuesnel, which prompted him to return home

immediately. But he was informed, thatMadame Cheron had been asked to meet him;and, when he looked at Emily, and consideredthat a time might come when the enmity of heruncle would be prejudicial to her, he determinednot to incur it himself, by conduct which wouldbe resented as indecorous, by the very personswho now showed so little sense of decorum.

Among the visitors assembled at dinner weretwo Italian gentlemen, of whom one was namedMontoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel,a man about forty, of an uncommonly handsomeperson, with features manly and expressive, butwhose countenance exhibited, upon the whole,more of the haughtiness of command, and thequickness of discernment, than of any othercharacter.

Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to beabout thirty—inferior in dignity, but equal to himin penetration of countenance, and superior ininsinuation of manner.

Emily was shocked by the salutation withwhich Madame Cheron met her father—'Dearbrother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see youlook so very ill; do, pray, have advice!' St.Aubert answered, with a melancholy smile, thathe felt himself much as usual; but Emily's fearsmade her now fancy that her father lookedworse than he really did.

Emily would have been amused by the newcharacters she saw, and the variedconversation that passed during dinner, whichwas served in a style of splendour she hadseldom seen before, had her spirits been lessoppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni waslately come from Italy, and he spoke of thecommotions which at that period agitated thecountry; talked of party differences with warmth,and then lamented the probable consequencesof the tumults. His friend spoke with equalardour, of the politics of his country; praised thegovernment and prosperity of Venice, andboasted of its decided superiority over all the

other Italian states. He then turned to the ladies,and talked with the same eloquence, ofParisian fashions, the French opera, andFrench manners; and on the latter subject hedid not fail to mingle what is so particularlyagreeable to French taste. The flattery was notdetected by those to whom it was addressed,though its effect, in producing submissiveattention, did not escape his observation. Whenhe could disengage himself from the assiduitiesof the other ladies, he sometimes addressedEmily: but she knew nothing of Parisianfashions, or Parisian operas; and her modesty,simplicity, and correct manners formed adecided contrast to those of her femalecompanions.

After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room toview once more the old chesnut which Quesneltalked of cutting down. As he stood under itsshade, and looked up among its branches, stillluxuriant, and saw here and there the blue skytrembling between them; the pursuits andevents of his early days crowded fast to hismind, with the figures and characters of friends—long since gone from the earth; and he nowfelt himself to be almost an insulated being, withnobody but his Emily for his heart to turn to.

He stood lost amid the scenes of years whichfancy called up, till the succession closed withthe picture of his dying wife, and he startedaway, to forget it, if possible, at the socialboard.

St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an earlyhour, and Emily observed, that he was morethan usually silent and dejected on the wayhome; but she considered this to be the effectof his visit to a place which spoke so eloquentlyof former times, nor suspected that he had acause of grief which he concealed from her.

On entering the chateau she felt moredepressed than ever, for she more than evermissed the presence of that dear parent, who,whenever she had been from home, used to

welcome her return with smiles and fondness;now, all was silent and forsaken.

But what reason and effort may fail to do,time effects. Week after week passed away,and each, as it passed, stole something fromthe harshness of her affliction, till it wasmellowed to that tenderness which the feelingheart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on thecontrary, visibly declined in health; thoughEmily, who had been so constantly with him,was almost the last person who observed it. Hisconstitution had never recovered from the lateattack of the fever, and the succeeding shock itreceived from Madame St. Aubert's death hadproduced its present infirmity. His physiciannow ordered him to travel; for it was perceptiblethat sorrow had seized upon his nerves,weakened as they had been by the precedingillness; and variety of scene, it was probable,would, by amusing his mind, restore them totheir proper tone.

For some days Emily was occupied inpreparations to attend him; and he, byendeavours to diminish his expences at homeduring the journey—a purpose whichdetermined him at length to dismiss hisdomestics. Emily seldom opposed her father'swishes by questions or remonstrances, or shewould now have asked why he did not take aservant, and have represented that his infirmhealth made one almost necessary. But when,on the eve of their departure, she found that hehad dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary,and detained only Theresa the oldhousekeeper, she was extremely surprised,and ventured to ask his reason for having doneso. 'To save expences, my dear,' he replied—'we are going on an expensive excursion.'

The physician had prescribed the air ofLanguedoc and Provence; and St. Aubertdetermined, therefore, to travel leisurely alongthe shores of the Mediterranean, towardsProvence.

They retired early to their chamber on thenight before their departure; but Emily had afew books and other things to collect, and theclock had struck twelve before she had finished,or had remembered that some of her drawinginstruments, which she meant to take with her,were in the parlour below. As she went to fetchthese, she passed her father's room, and,perceiving the door half open, concluded thathe was in his study—for, since the death ofMadame St. Aubert, it had been frequently hiscustom to rise from his restless bed, and gothither to compose his mind. When she wasbelow stairs she looked into this room, butwithout finding him; and as she returned to herchamber, she tapped at his door, and receivingno answer, stepped softly in, to be certainwhether he was there.

The room was dark, but a light glimmeredthrough some panes of glass that were placedin the upper part of a closet-door. Emilybelieved her father to be in the closet, and,surprised that he was up at so late an hour,apprehended he was unwell, and was going toenquire; but, considering that her suddenappearance at this hour might alarm him, sheremoved her light to the stair-case, and thenstepped softly to the closet. On looking throughthe panes of glass, she saw him seated at asmall table, with papers before him, some ofwhich he was reading with deep attention andinterest, during which he often wept and sobbedaloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learnwhether her father was ill, was now detainedthere by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness.She could not witness his sorrow, without beinganxious to know the subject of; and shetherefore continued to observe him in silence,concluding that those papers were letters of herlate mother. Presently he knelt down, and with alook so solemn as she had seldom seen himassume, and which was mingled with a certainwild expression, that partook more of horrorthan of any other character, he prayed silentlyfor a considerable time.

When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on hiscountenance. Emily was hastily retiring; but shesaw him turn again to the papers, and shestopped. He took from among them a smallcase, and from thence a miniature picture. Therays of light fell strongly upon it, and sheperceived it to be that of a lady, but not of hermother.

St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly uponhis portrait, put it to his lips, and then to hisheart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emilycould scarcely believe what she saw to be real.She never knew till now that he had a picture ofany other lady than her mother, much less thathe had one which he evidently valued so highly;but having looked repeatedly, to be certain thatit was not the resemblance of Madame St.Aubert, she became entirely convinced that itwas designed for that of some other person.

At length St. Aubert returned the picture to itscase; and Emily, recollecting that she wasintruding upon his private sorrows, softlywithdrew from the chamber.

CHAPTER III O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even; All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of heaven; O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!..... These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart. THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert, instead of taking the more directroad, that ran along the feet of the Pyrenees toLanguedoc, chose one that, winding over theheights, afforded more extensive views andgreater variety of romantic scenery. He turned alittle out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux,whom he found botanizing in the wood near hischateau, and who, when he was told thepurpose of St. Aubert's visit, expressed adegree of concern, such as his friend hadthought it was scarcely possible for him to feelon any similar occasion. They parted withmutual regret.

'If any thing could have tempted me from myretirement,' said M. Barreaux, 'it would havebeen the pleasure of accompanying you on thislittle tour. I do not often offer compliments; youmay, therefore, believe me, when I say, that Ishall look for your return with impatience.'

The travellers proceeded on their journey. Asthey ascended the heights, St. Aubert oftenlooked back upon the chateau, in the plainbelow; tender images crowded to his mind; hismelancholy imagination suggested that heshould return no more; and though he checkedthis wandering thought, still he continued tolook, till the haziness of distance blended hishome with the general landscape, and St.Aubert seemed to

Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.

He and Emily continued sunk in musingsilence for some leagues, from whichmelancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and heryoung fancy, struck with the grandeur of theobjects around, gradually yielded to delightfulimpressions. The road now descended intoglens, confined by stupendous walls of rock,grey and barren, except where shrubs fringedtheir summits, or patches of meagre vegetationtinted their recesses, in which the wild goat wasfrequently browsing. And now, the way led to thelofty cliffs, from whence the landscape wasseen extending in all its magnificence.

Emily could not restrain her transport as shelooked over the pine forests of the mountainsupon the vast plains, that, enriched with woods,towns, blushing vines, and plantations ofalmonds, palms, and olives, stretched along, tilltheir various colours melted in distance into oneharmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth withheaven. Through the whole of this gloriousscene the majestic Garonne wandered;descending from its source among thePyrenees, and winding its blue waves towardsthe Bay of Biscay.

The ruggedness of the unfrequented roadoften obliged the wanderers to alight from theirlittle carriage, but they thought themselvesamply repaid for this inconvenience by thegrandeur of the scenes; and, while the muleteerled his animals slowly over the broken ground,the travellers had leisure to linger amid thesesolitudes, and to indulge the sublimereflections, which soften, while they elevate, theheart, and fill it with the certainty of a presentGod! Still the enjoyment of St. Aubert wastouched with that pensive melancholy, whichgives to every object a mellower tint, andbreathes a sacred charm over all around.

They had provided against part of the evil tobe encountered from a want of convenient inns,by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage,

so that they might take refreshment on anypleasant spot, in the open air, and pass thenights wherever they should happen to meetwith a comfortable cottage. For the mind, also,they had provided, by a work on botany, writtenby M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin andItalian poets; while Emily's pencil enabled her topreserve some of those combinations of forms,which charmed her at every step.

The loneliness of the road, where, only nowand then, a peasant was seen driving his mule,or some mountaineer-children at play amongthe rocks, heightened the effect of the scenery.St. Aubert was so much struck with it, that hedetermined, if he could hear of a road, topenetrate further among the mountains, and,bending his way rather more to the south, toemerge into Rousillon, and coast theMediterranean along part of that country toLanguedoc.

Soon after mid-day, they reached the summitof one of those cliffs, which, bright with theverdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, thetremendous walls of the rocks, and whichoverlooked the greater part of Gascony, andpart of Languedoc. Here was shade, and thefresh water of a spring, that, gliding among theturf, under the trees, thence precipitated itselffrom rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs werelost in the abyss, though its white foam was longseen amid the darkness of the pines below.

This was a spot well suited for rest, and thetravellers alighted to dine, while the mules wereunharnessed to browse on the savoury herbsthat enriched this summit.

It was some time before St. Aubert or Emilycould withdraw their attention from thesurrounding objects, so as to partake of theirlittle repast. Seated in the shade of the palms,St. Aubert pointed out to her observation thecourse of the rivers, the situation of great towns,and the boundaries of provinces, whichscience, rather than the eye, enabled him to

describe. Notwithstanding this occupation,when he had talked awhile he suddenly becamesilent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled to hiseyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathyof her own heart told her their cause. The scenebefore them bore some resemblance, though itwas on a much grander scale, to a favouriteone of the late Madame St. Aubert, within viewof the fishing-house. They both observed this,and thought how delighted she would havebeen with the present landscape, while theyknew that her eyes must never, never moreopen upon this world. St. Aubert rememberedthe last time of his visiting that spot in companywith her, and also the mournfully presagingthoughts which had then arisen in his mind, andwere now, even thus soon, realized! Therecollections subdued him, and he abruptly rosefrom his seat, and walked away to where noeye could observe his grief.

When he returned, his countenance hadrecovered its usual serenity; he took Emily'shand, pressed it affectionately, withoutspeaking, and soon after called to the muleteer,who sat at a little distance, concerning a roadamong the mountains towards Rousillon.Michael said, there were several that way, buthe did not know how far they extended, or evenwhether they were passable; and St. Aubert,who did not intend to travel after sun-set, askedwhat village they could reach about that time.The muleteer calculated that they could easilyreach Mateau, which was in their present road;but that, if they took a road that sloped more tothe south, towards Rousillon, there was ahamlet, which he thought they could gain beforethe evening shut in.

St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determinedto take the latter course, and Michael, havingfinished his meal, and harnessed his mules,again set forward, but soon stopped; and St.Aubert saw him doing homage to a cross, thatstood on a rock impending over their way.Having concluded his devotions, he smackedhis whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough

road, and the pain of his poor mules, which hehad been lately lamenting, rattled, in a fullgallop, along the edge of a precipice, which itmade the eye dizzy to look down. Emily wasterrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert,apprehending still greater danger fromsuddenly stopping the driver, was compelled tosit quietly, and trust his fate to the strength anddiscretion of the mules, who seemed topossess a greater portion of the latter qualitythan their master; for they carried the travellerssafely into the valley, and there stopped uponthe brink of the rivulet that watered it.

Leaving the splendour of extensiveprospects, they now entered this narrow valleyscreened by

Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell, Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green.

The scene of barrenness was here and thereinterrupted by the spreading branches of thelarch and cedar, which threw their gloom overthe cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in thevale. No living creature appeared, except theizard, scrambling among the rocks, and oftenhanging upon points so dangerous, that fancyshrunk from the view of them. This was such ascene as SALVATOR would have chosen, hadhe then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert,impressed by the romantic character of theplace, almost expected to see banditti startfrom behind some projecting rock, and he kepthis hand upon the arms with which he alwaystravelled.

As they advanced, the valley opened; itssavage features gradually softened, and,towards evening, they were among heathymountains, stretched in far perspective, alongwhich the solitary sheep-bell was heard, and thevoice of the shepherd calling his wanderingflocks to the nightly fold. His cabin, partlyshadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex, whichSt. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regionsof the air than any other trees, except the fir,was all the human habitation that yet appeared.

Along the bottom of this valley the most vividverdure was spread; and, in the little hollowrecesses of the mountains, under the shade ofthe oak and chestnut, herds of cattle weregrazing. Groups of them, too, were often seenreposing on the banks of the rivulet, or lavingtheir sides in the cool stream, and sipping itswave.

The sun was now setting upon the valley; itslast light gleamed upon the water, andheightened the rich yellow and purple tints of theheath and broom, that overspread themountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michael thedistance to the hamlet he had mentioned, butthe man could not with certainty tell; and Emilybegan to fear that he had mistaken the road.Here was no human being to assist, or directthem; they had left the shepherd and his cabinfar behind, and the scene became so obscuredin twilight, that the eye could not follow thedistant perspective of the valley in search of acottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the horizon stillmarked the west, and this was of some little useto the travellers. Michael seemed endeavouringto keep up his courage by singing; his music,however, was not of a kind to dispersemelancholy; he sung, in a sort of chant, one ofthe most dismal ditties his present auditors hadever heard, and St. Aubert at length discoveredit to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.

They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtfulmelancholy, with which twilight and solitudeimpress the mind. Michael had now ended hisditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsymurmur of the breeze among the woods, and itslight flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage.They were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called to the muleteer to stop,and they listened. The noise was not repeated;but presently they heard a rustling among thebrakes. St. Aubert drew forth a pistol, andordered Michael to proceed as fast aspossible; who had not long obeyed, before ahorn sounded, that made the mountains ring.He looked again from the window, and then

saw a young man spring from the bushes intothe road, followed by a couple of dogs. Thestranger was in a hunter's dress. His gun wasslung across his shoulders, the hunter's hornhung from his belt, and in his hand was a smallpike, which, as he held it, added to the manlygrace of his figure, and assisted the agility ofhis steps.

After a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert againstopped the carriage, and waited till he cameup, that they might enquire concerning thehamlet they were in search of. The strangerinformed him, that it was only half a leaguedistant, that he was going thither himself, andwould readily shew the way. St. Aubert thankedhim for the offer, and, pleased with hischevalier-like air and open countenance, askedhim to take a seat in the carriage; which thestranger, with an acknowledgment, declined,adding that he would keep pace with the mules.'But I fear you will be wretchedlyaccommodated,' said he: 'the inhabitants ofthese mountains are a simple people, who arenot only without the luxuries of life, but almostdestitute of what in other places are held to beits necessaries.'

'I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants,sir,' said St. Aubert.

'No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.'

The carriage drove on, and the increasingdusk made the travellers very thankful that theyhad a guide; the frequent glens, too, that nowopened among the mountains, would likewisehave added to their perplexity. Emily, as shelooked up one of these, saw something at agreat distance like a bright cloud in the air.'What light is yonder, sir?' said she.

St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it wasthe snowy summit of a mountain, so muchhigher than any around it, that it still reflected thesun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade.

At length, the village lights were seen to

twinkle through the dusk, and, soon after, somecottages were discovered in the valley, or ratherwere seen by reflection in the stream, on whosemargin they stood, and which still gleamed withthe evening light.

The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert,on further enquiry, found not only that there wasno inn in the place, but not any sort of house ofpublic reception. The stranger, however, offeredto walk on, and enquire for a cottage toaccommodate them; for which further civility St.Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, asthe village was so near, he would alight, andwalk with him. Emily followed slowly in thecarriage.

On the way, St. Aubert asked his companionwhat success he had had in the chase. 'Notmuch, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I ampleased with the country, and mean to saunteraway a few weeks among its scenes. My dogs Itake with me more for companionship than forgame. This dress, too, gives me an ostensiblebusiness, and procures me that respect fromthe people, which would, perhaps, be refused toa lonely stranger, who had no visible motive forcoming among them.'

'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if Iwas a younger man, should like to pass a fewweeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am awanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits areexactly like yours—I go in search of health, asmuch as of amusement.' St. Aubert sighed, andpaused; and then, seeming to recollect himself,he resumed: 'If I can hear of a tolerable road,that shall afford decent accommodation, it is myintention to pass into Rousillon, and along thesea-shore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to beacquainted with the country, and can, perhaps,give me information on the subject.'

The stranger said, that what information hecould give was entirely at his service; and thenmentioned a road rather more to the east,which led to a town, whence it would be easy to

proceed into Rousillon.

They now arrived at the village, andcommenced their search for a cottage, thatwould afford a night's lodging. In several, whichthey entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirthseemed equally to prevail; and the owners eyedSt. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity andtimidity. Nothing like a bed could be found, andhe had ceased to enquire for one, when Emilyjoined him, who observed the languor of herfather's countenance, and lamented, that he hadtaken a road so ill provided with the comfortsnecessary for an invalid. Other cottages, whichthey examined, seemed somewhat less savagethan the former, consisting of two rooms, if suchthey could be called; the first of these occupiedby mules and pigs, the second by the family,which generally consisted of six or eightchildren, with their parents, who slept on bedsof skins and dried beech leaves, spread upon amud floor. Here, light was admitted, and smokedischarged, through an aperture in the roof; andhere the scent of spirits (for the travellingsmugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, hadmade this rude people familiar with the use ofliquors) was generally perceptible enough.Emily turned from such scenes, and looked ather father with anxious tenderness, which theyoung stranger seemed to observe; for,drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offerof his own bed. 'It is a decent one,' said he,'when compared with what we have just seen,yet such as in other circumstances I should beashamed to offer you.' St. Aubertacknowledged how much he felt himself obligedby this kindness, but refused to accept it, till theyoung stranger would take no denial. 'Do notgive me the pain of knowing, sir,' said he, 'thatan invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while Isleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusalwounds my pride; I must believe you think myoffer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shewyou the way. I have no doubt my landlady canaccommodate this young lady also.'

St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this

could be done, he would accept his kindness,though he felt rather surprised, that the strangerhad proved himself so deficient in gallantry, asto administer to the repose of an infirm man,rather than to that of a very lovely young woman,for he had not once offered the room for Emily.But she thought not of herself, and the animatedsmile she gave him, told how much she feltherself obliged for the preference of her father.

On their way, the stranger, whose name wasValancourt, stepped on first to speak to hishostess, and she came out to welcome St.Aubert into a cottage, much superior to any hehad seen. This good woman seemed verywilling to accommodate the strangers, whowere soon compelled to accept the only twobeds in the place. Eggs and milk were the onlyfood the cottage afforded; but against scarcityof provisions St. Aubert had provided, and herequested Valancourt to stay, and partake withhim of less homely fare; an invitation, which wasreadily accepted, and they passed an hour inintelligent conversation. St. Aubert was muchpleased with the manly frankness, simplicity,and keen susceptibility to the grandeur ofnature, which his new acquaintance discovered;and, indeed, he had often been heard to say,that, without a certain simplicity of heart, thistaste could not exist in any strong degree.

The conversation was interrupted by a violentuproar without, in which the voice of themuleteer was heard above every other sound.Valancourt started from his seat, and went toenquire the occasion; but the dispute continuedso long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself,and found Michael quarrelling with the hostess,because she had refused to let his mules lie ina little room where he and three of her sonswere to pass the night. The place was wretchedenough, but there was no other for these peopleto sleep in; and, with somewhat more ofdelicacy than was usual among the inhabitantsof this wild tract of country, she persisted inrefusing to let the animals have the same BED-CHAMBER with her children. This was a tender

point with the muleteer; his honour waswounded when his mules were treated withdisrespect, and he would have received a blow,perhaps, with more meekness. He declaredthat his beasts were as honest beasts, and asgood beasts, as any in the whole province; andthat they had a right to be well treated whereverthey went. 'They are as harmless as lambs,'said he, 'if people don't affront them. I neverknew them behave themselves amiss aboveonce or twice in my life, and then they had goodreason for doing so. Once, indeed, they kickedat a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, andbroke it; but I told them they were out there, andby St. Anthony! I believe they understood me,for they never did so again.'

He concluded this eloquent harangue withprotesting, that they should share with him, gowhere he would.

The dispute was at length settled byValancourt, who drew the hostess aside, anddesired she would let the muleteer and hisbeasts have the place in question tothemselves, while her sons should have the bedof skins designed for him, for that he wouldwrap himself in his cloak, and sleep on thebench by the cottage door. But this she thoughtit her duty to oppose, and she felt it to be herinclination to disappoint the muleteer.Valancourt, however, was positive, and thetedious affair was at length settled.

It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retiredto their rooms, and Valancourt to his station atthe door, which, at this mild season, hepreferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins.St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to find inhis room volumes of Homer, Horace, andPetrarch; but the name of Valancourt, written inthem, told him to whom they belonged.

CHAPTER IV In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene, In darkness, and in storm he found delight; Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen. Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul; And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to controul. THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshedby sleep, and desirous to set forward. Heinvited the stranger to breakfast with him; and,talking again of the road, Valancourt said, that,some months past, he had travelled as far asBeaujeu, which was a town of someconsequence on the way to Rousillon. Herecommended it to St. Aubert to take that route,and the latter determined to do so.

'The road from this hamlet,' said Valancourt,'and that to Beaujeu, part at the distance ofabout a league and a half from hence; if you willgive me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. Imust wander somewhere, and your companywould make this a pleasanter ramble than anyother I could take.'

St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, andthey set out together, the young stranger onfoot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert totake a seat in his little carriage.

The road wound along the feet of themountains through a pastoral valley, bright withverdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak,beech and sycamore, under whose branchesherds of cattle reposed. The mountain-ash too,and the weeping birch, often threw theirpendant foliage over the steeps above, wherethe scanty soil scarcely concealed their roots,and where their light branches waved to everybreeze that fluttered from the mountains.

The travellers were frequently met at this earlyhour, for the sun had not yet risen upon thevalley, by shepherds driving immense flocksfrom their folds to feed upon the hills. St. Auberthad set out thus early, not only that he mightenjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that hemight inhale the first pure breath of morning,which above all things is refreshing to the spiritsof the invalid. In these regions it was particularlyso, where an abundance of wild flowers andaromatic herbs breathed forth their essence onthe air.

The dawn, which softened the scenery with itspeculiar grey tint, now dispersed, and Emilywatched the progress of the day, first tremblingon the tops of the highest cliffs, then touchingthem with splendid light, while their sides andthe vale below were still wrapt in dewy mist.Meanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern cloudsbegan to blush, then to redden, and then to glowwith a thousand colours, till the golden lightdarted over all the air, touched the lower pointsof the mountain's brow, and glanced in longsloping beams upon the valley and its stream.All nature seemed to have awakened fromdeath into life; the spirit of St. Aubert wasrenovated. His heart was full; he wept, and histhoughts ascended to the Great Creator.

Emily wished to trip along the turf, so greenand bright with dew, and to taste the full delightof that liberty, which the izard seemed to enjoyas he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; whileValancourt often stopped to speak with thetravellers, and with social feeling to point out tothem the peculiar objects of his admiration. St.Aubert was pleased with him: 'Here is the realingenuousness and ardour of youth,' said he tohimself; 'this young man has never been atParis.'

He was sorry when they came to the spotwhere the roads parted, and his heart took amore affectionate leave of him than is usualafter so short an acquaintance. Valancourttalked long by the side of the carriage; seemed

more than once to be going, but still lingered,and appeared to search anxiously for topics ofconversation to account for his delay. At lengthhe took leave. As he went, St. Aubert observedhim look with an earnest and pensive eye atEmily, who bowed to him with a countenancefull of timid sweetness, while the carriage droveon. St. Aubert, for whatever reason, soon afterlooked from the window, and saw Valancourtstanding upon the bank of the road, resting onhis pike with folded arms, and following thecarriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, andValancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie,returned the salute, and started away.

The aspect of the country now began tochange, and the travellers soon foundthemselves among mountains covered fromtheir base nearly to their summits with forests ofgloomy pine, except where a rock of graniteshot up from the vale, and lost its snowy top inthe clouds. The rivulet, which had hithertoaccompanied them, now expanded into a river;and, flowing deeply and silently along, reflected,as in a mirror, the blackness of the impendingshades. Sometimes a cliff was seen lifting itsbold head above the woods and the vapours,that floated mid-way down the mountains; andsometimes a face of perpendicular marble rosefrom the water's edge, over which the larchthrew his gigantic arms, here scathed withlightning, and there floating in luxuriant foliage.

They continued to travel over a rough andunfrequented road, seeing now and then at adistance the solitary shepherd, with his dog,stalking along the valley, and hearing only thedashing of torrents, which the woods concealedfrom the eye, the long sullen murmur of thebreeze, as it swept over the pines, or the notesof the eagle and the vulture, which were seentowering round the beetling cliff.

Often, as the carriage moved slowly overuneven ground, St. Aubert alighted, andamused himself with examining the curiousplants that grew on the banks of the road, and

with which these regions abound; while Emily,wrapt in high enthusiasm, wandered awayunder the shades, listening in deep silence tothe lonely murmur of the woods.

Neither village nor hamlet was seen for manyleagues; the goat-herd's or the hunter's cabin,perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were theonly human habitations that appeared.

The travellers again took their dinner in theopen air, on a pleasant spot in the valley, underthe spreading shade of cedars; and then setforward towards Beaujeu.

The road now began to descend, and,leaving the pine forests behind, wound amongrocky precipices. The evening twilight again fellover the scene, and the travellers were ignoranthow far they might yet be from Beaujeu. St.Aubert, however, conjectured that the distancecould not be very great, and comforted himselfwith the prospect of travelling on a morefrequented road after reaching that town, wherehe designed to pass the night. Mingled woods,and rocks, and heathy mountains were nowseen obscurely through the dusk; but soon eventhese imperfect images faded in darkness.Michael proceeded with caution, for he couldscarcely distinguish the road; his mules,however, seemed to have more sagacity, andtheir steps were sure.

On turning the angle of a mountain, a lightappeared at a distance, that illumined therocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It wasevidently a large fire, but whether accidental, orotherwise, there were no means of knowing. St.Aubert thought it was probably kindled by someof the numerous banditti, that infested thePyrenees, and he became watchful and anxiousto know whether the road passed near this fire.He had arms with him, which, on an emergency,might afford some protection, though certainly avery unequal one, against a band of robbers, sodesperate too as those usually were whohaunted these wild regions. While many

reflections rose upon his mind, he heard avoice shouting from the road behind, andordering the muleteer to stop. St. Aubert badehim proceed as fast as possible; but eitherMichael, or his mules were obstinate, for theydid not quit the old pace. Horses' feet were nowheard; a man rode up to the carriage, stillordering the driver to stop; and St. Aubert, whocould no longer doubt his purpose, was withdifficulty able to prepare a pistol for hisdefence, when his hand was upon the door ofthe chaise. The man staggered on his horse,the report of the pistol was followed by a groan,and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, whenin the next instant he thought he heard the faintvoice of Valancourt. He now himself bade themuleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name ofValancourt, was answered in a voice, that nolonger suffered him to doubt. St. Aubert, whoinstantly alighted and went to his assistance,found him still sitting on his horse, but bleedingprofusely, and appearing to be in great pain,though he endeavoured to soften the terror ofSt. Aubert by assurances that he was notmaterially hurt, the wound being only in his arm.St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted him todismount, and he sat down on the bank of theroad, where St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm,but his hands trembled so excessively that hecould not accomplish it; and, Michael being nowgone in pursuit of the horse, which, on beingdisengaged from his rider, had galloped off, hecalled Emily to his assistance. Receiving noanswer, he went to the carriage, and found hersunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between thedistress of this circumstance and that of leavingValancourt bleeding, he scarcely knew what hedid; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, andcalled to Michael to fetch water from the rivuletthat flowed by the road, but Michael was gonebeyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, whoheard these calls, and also the repeated nameof Emily, instantly understood the subject of hisdistress; and, almost forgetting his owncondition, he hastened to her relief. She wasreviving when he reached the carriage; and

then, understanding that anxiety for him hadoccasioned her indisposition, he assured her,in a voice that trembled, but not from anguish,that his wound was of no consequence. Whilehe said this St. Aubert turned round, andperceiving that he was still bleeding, the subjectof his alarm changed again, and he hastilyformed some handkerchiefs into a bandage.This stopped the effusion of the blood; but St.Aubert, dreading the consequence of thewound, enquired repeatedly how far they werefrom Beaujeu; when, learning that it was at twoleagues' distance, his distress increased, sincehe knew not how Valancourt, in his presentstate, would bear the motion of the carriage,and perceived that he was already faint fromloss of blood. When he mentioned the subjectof his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that hewould not suffer himself to be thus alarmed onhis account, for that he had no doubt he shouldbe able to support himself very well; and then hetalked of the accident as a slight one. Themuleteer being now returned with Valancourt'shorse, assisted him into the chaise; and, asEmily was now revived, they moved slowly ontowards Beaujeu.

St. Aubert, when he had recovered from theterror occasioned him by this accident,expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, whoexplained his unexpected appearance bysaying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for society;when you had left the hamlet, it did indeedappear a solitude. I determined, therefore,since my object was merely amusement, tochange the scene; and I took this road,because I knew it led through a more romantictract of mountains than the spot I have left.Besides,' added he, hesitating for an instant, 'Iwill own, and why should I not? that I had somehope of overtaking you.'

'And I have made you a very unexpectedreturn for the compliment,' said St. Aubert, wholamented again the rashness which hadproduced the accident, and explained thecause of his late alarm. But Valancourt seemed

anxious only to remove from the minds of hiscompanions every unpleasant feeling relative tohimself; and, for that purpose, still struggledagainst a sense of pain, and tried to conversewith gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, exceptwhen Valancourt particularly addressed her,and there was at those times a tremulous tonein his voice that spoke much.

They were now so near the fire, which hadlong flamed at a distance on the blackness ofnight, that it gleamed upon the road, and theycould distinguish figures moving about theblaze. The way winding still nearer, theyperceived in the valley one of those numerousbands of gipsies, which at that periodparticularly haunted the wilds of the Pyrenees,and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emilylooked with some degree of terror on thesavage countenances of these people, shewnby the fire, which heightened the romanticeffects of the scenery, as it threw a red duskygleam upon the rocks and on the foliage of thetrees, leaving heavy masses of shade andregions of obscurity, which the eye feared topenetrate.

They were preparing their supper; a large potstood by the fire, over which several figureswere busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind oftent, round which many children and dogs wereplaying, and the whole formed a picture highlygrotesque. The travellers saw plainly theirdanger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his handon one of St. Aubert's pistols; St. Aubert drewforth another, and Michael was ordered toproceed as fast as possible. They passed theplace, however, without being attacked; therovers being probably unprepared for theopportunity, and too busy about their supper tofeel much interest, at the moment, in any thingbesides.

After a league and a half more, passed indarkness, the travellers arrived at Beaujeu, anddrove up to the only inn the place afforded;which, though superior to any they had seen

since they entered the mountains, was badenough.

The surgeon of the town was immediatelysent for, if a surgeon he could be called, whoprescribed for horses as well as for men, andshaved faces at least as dexterously as he setbones. After examining Valancourt's arm, andperceiving that the bullet had passed throughthe flesh without touching the bone, he dressedit, and left him with a solemn prescription ofquiet, which his patient was not inclined toobey. The delight of ease had now succeededto pain; for ease may be allowed to assume apositive quality when contrasted with anguish;and, his spirits thus re-animated, he wished topartake of the conversation of St. Aubert andEmily, who, released from so manyapprehensions, were uncommonly cheerful.Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was obligedto go out with the landlord to buy meat forsupper; and Emily, who, during this interval, hadbeen absent as long as she could, uponexcuses of looking to their accommodation,which she found rather better than sheexpected, was compelled to return, andconverse with Valancourt alone. They talked ofthe character of the scenes they had passed, ofthe natural history of the country, of poetry, andof St. Aubert; a subject on which Emily alwaysspoke and listened to with peculiar pleasure.

The travellers passed an agreeable evening;but St. Aubert was fatigued with his journey;and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible ofpain, they separated soon after supper.

In the morning St. Aubert found thatValancourt had passed a restless night; that hewas feverish, and his wound very painful. Thesurgeon, when he dressed it, advised him toremain quietly at Beaujeu; advice which wastoo reasonable to be rejected. St. Aubert,however, had no favourable opinion of thispractitioner, and was anxious to commitValancourt into more skilful hands; but learning,upon enquiry, that there was no town within

several leagues which seemed more likely toafford better advice, he altered the plan of hisjourney, and determined to await the recoveryof Valancourt, who, with somewhat moreceremony than sincerity, made many objectionsto this delay.

By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did notgo out of the house that day; but St. Aubert andEmily surveyed with delight the environs of thetown, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps,that rose, some in abrupt precipices, andothers swelling with woods of cedar, fir, andcypress, which stretched nearly to their highestsummits. The cheerful green of the beech andmountain-ash was sometimes seen, like agleam of light, amidst the dark verdure of theforest; and sometimes a torrent poured itssparkling flood, high among the woods.

Valancourt's indisposition detained thetravellers at Beaujeu several days, during whichinterval St. Aubert had observed his dispositionand his talents with the philosophic inquiry sonatural to him. He saw a frank and generousnature, full of ardour, highly susceptible ofwhatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous,wild, and somewhat romantic. Valancourt hadknown little of the world. His perceptions wereclear, and his feelings just; his indignation of anunworthy, or his admiration of a generousaction, were expressed in terms of equalvehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled athis warmth, but seldom checked it, and oftenrepeated to himself, 'This young man has neverbeen at Paris.' A sigh sometimes followed thissilent ejaculation. He determined not to leaveValancourt till he should be perfectly recovered;and, as he was now well enough to travel,though not able to manage his horse, St. Aubertinvited him to accompany him for a few days inthe carriage. This he the more readily did, sincehe had discovered that Valancourt was of afamily of the same name in Gascony, withwhose respectability he was well acquainted.The latter accepted the offer with greatpleasure, and they again set forward among

these romantic wilds about Rousillon.

They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever ascene uncommonly grand appeared; frequentlyalighting to walk to an eminence, whither themules could not go, from which the prospectopened in greater magnificence; and oftensauntering over hillocks covered with lavender,wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and under theshades of woods, between those boles theycaught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyondany thing that Emily had ever imagined.

St. Aubert sometimes amused himself withbotanizing, while Valancourt and Emily strolledon; he pointing out to her notice the objects thatparticularly charmed him, and reciting beautifulpassages from such of the Latin and Italianpoets as he had heard her admire. In thepauses of conversation, when he thoughthimself not observed, he frequently fixed hiseyes pensively on her countenance, whichexpressed with so much animation the tasteand energy of her mind; and when he spokeagain, there was a peculiar tenderness in thetone of his voice, that defeated any attempt toconceal his sentiments. By degrees these silentpauses became more frequent; till Emily, only,betrayed an anxiety to interrupt them; and she;who had been hitherto reserved, would now talkagain, and again, of the woods and the valliesand the mountains, to avoid the danger ofsympathy and silence.

From Beaujeu the road had constantlyascended, conducting the travellers into thehigher regions of the air, where immenseglaciers exhibited their frozen horrors, andeternal snow whitened the summits of themountains. They often paused to contemplatethese stupendous scenes, and, seated onsome wild cliff, where only the ilex or the larchcould flourish, looked over dark forests of fir,and precipices where human foot had neverwandered, into the glen—so deep, that thethunder of the torrent, which was seen to foamalong the bottom, was scarcely heard to

murmur. Over these crags rose others ofstupendous height, and fantastic shape; someshooting into cones; others impending far overtheir base, in huge masses of granite, alongwhose broken ridges was often lodged aweight of snow, that, trembling even to thevibration of a sound, threatened to beardestruction in its course to the vale. Around, onevery side, far as the eye could penetrate, wereseen only forms of grandeur—the longperspective of mountain-tops, tinged withethereal blue, or white with snow; vallies of ice,and forests of gloomy fir. The serenity andclearness of the air in these high regions wereparticularly delightful to the travellers; it seemedto inspire them with a finer spirit, and diffusedan indescribable complacency over their minds.They had no words to express the sublimeemotions they felt. A solemn expressioncharacterized the feelings of St. Aubert; tearsoften came to his eyes, and he frequentlywalked away from his companions. Valancourtnow and then spoke, to point to Emily's noticesome feature of the scene. The thinness of theatmosphere, through which every object cameso distinctly to the eye, surprised and deludedher; who could scarcely believe that objects,which appeared so near, were, in reality, sodistant. The deep silence of these solitudeswas broken only at intervals by the scream ofthe vultures, seen cowering round some cliffbelow, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high inthe air; except when the travellers listened to thehollow thunder that sometimes muttered at theirfeet. While, above, the deep blue of theheavens was unobscured by the lightest cloud,half way down the mountains, long billows ofvapour were frequently seen rolling, now whollyexcluding the country below, and now opening,and partially revealing its features. Emilydelighted to observe the grandeur of theseclouds as they changed in shape and tints, andto watch their various effect on the lower world,whose features, partly veiled, were continuallyassuming new forms of sublimity.

After traversing these regions for manyleagues, they began to descend towardsRousillon, and features of beauty then mingledwith the scene. Yet the travellers did not lookback without some regret to the sublime objectsthey had quitted; though the eye, fatigued withthe extension of its powers, was glad to reposeon the verdure of woods and pastures, that nowhung on the margin of the river below; to viewagain the humble cottage shaded by cedars,the playful group of mountaineer-children, andthe flowery nooks that appeared among thehills.

As they descended, they saw at a distance,on the right, one of the grand passes of thePyrenees into Spain, gleaming with itsbattlements and towers to the splendour of thesetting rays, yellow tops of woods colouring thesteeps below, while far above aspired thesnowy points of the mountains, still reflecting arosy hue.

St. Aubert began to look out for the little townhe had been directed to by the people ofBeaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night;but no habitation yet appeared. Of its distanceValancourt could not assist him to judge, for hehad never been so far along this chain of Alpsbefore. There was, however, a road to guidethem; and there could be little doubt that it wasthe right one; for, since they had left Beaujeu,there had been no variety of tracks to perplex ormislead.

The sun now gave his last light, and St.Aubert bade the muleteer proceed with allpossible dispatch. He found, indeed, thelassitude of illness return upon him, after a dayof uncommon fatigue, both of body and mind,and he longed for repose. His anxiety was notsoothed by observing a numerous train,consisting of men, horses, and loaded mules,winding down the steeps of an oppositemountain, appearing and disappearing atintervals among the woods, so that its numberscould not be judged of. Something bright, like

arms, glanced in the setting ray, and the militarydress was distinguishable upon the men whowere in the van, and on others scattered amongthe troop that followed. As these wound into thevale, the rear of the party emerged from thewoods, and exhibited a band of soldiers. St.Aubert's apprehensions now subsided; he hadno doubt that the train before him consisted ofsmugglers, who, in conveying prohibited goodsover the Pyrenees, had been encountered, andconquered by a party of troops.

The travellers had lingered so long amongthe sublimer scenes of these mountains, thatthey found themselves entirely mistaken in theircalculation that they could reach Montigny atsun-set; but, as they wound along the valley, thesaw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united twolofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusing themselves with droppingpebbles into a torrent below, and watching thestones plunge into the water, that threw up itswhite spray high in the air as it received them,and returned a sullen sound, which the echoesof the mountains prolonged. Under the bridgewas seen a perspective of the valley, with itscataract descending among the rocks, and acottage on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. Itappeared, that they could not be far from somesmall town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop,and then called to the children to enquire if hewas near Montigny; but the distance, and theroaring of the waters, would not suffer his voiceto be heard; and the crags, adjoining thebridge, were of such tremendous height andsteepness, that to have climbed either wouldhave been scarcely practicable to a personunacquainted with the ascent. St. Aubert,therefore, did not waste more moments indelay. They continued to travel long after twilighthad obscured the road, which was so broken,that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride,they all alighted. The moon was rising, but herlight was yet too feeble to assist them. Whilethey stepped carefully on, they heard thevesper-bell of a convent. The twilight would not

permit them to distinguish anything like abuilding, but the sounds seemed to come fromsome woods, that overhung an acclivity to theright. Valancourt proposed to go in search ofthis convent. 'If they will not accommodate uswith a night's lodging,' said he, 'they maycertainly inform us how far we are fromMontigny, and direct us towards it.' He wasbounding forward, without waiting St. Aubert'sreply, when the latter stopped him. 'I am veryweary,' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing somuch as for immediate rest. We will all go to theconvent; your good looks would defeat ourpurpose; but when they see mine and Emily'sexhausted countenances, they will scarcelydeny us repose.'

As he said this, he took Emily's arm withinhis, and, telling Michael to wait awhile in theroad with the carriage, they began to ascendtowards the woods, guided by the bell of theconvent. His steps were feeble, and Valancourtoffered him his arm, which he accepted. Themoon now threw a faint light over their path,and, soon after, enabled them to distinguishsome towers rising above the tops of thewoods. Still following the note of the bell, theyentered the shade of those woods, lighted onlyby the moonbeams, that glided down betweenthe leaves, and threw a tremulous uncertaingleam upon the steep track they were winding.The gloom and the silence that prevailed,except when the bell returned upon the air,together with the wildness of the surroundingscene, struck Emily with a degree of fear,which, however, the voice and conversation ofValancourt somewhat repressed. When theyhad been some time ascending, St. Aubertcomplained of weariness, and they stopped torest upon a little green summit, where the treesopened, and admitted the moon-light. He satdown upon the turf, between Emily andValancourt. The bell had now ceased, and thedeep repose of the scene was undisturbed byany sound, for the low dull murmur of somedistant torrents might be said to sooth, rather

than to interrupt, the silence.

Before them, extended the valley they hadquitted; its rocks, and woods to the left, justsilvered by the rays, formed a contrast to thedeep shadow, that involved the opposite cliffs,whose fringed summits only were tipped withlight; while the distant perspective of the valleywas lost in the yellow mist of moon-light. Thetravellers sat for some time wrapt in thecomplacency which such scenes inspire.

'These scenes,' said Valancourt, at length,'soften the heart, like the notes of sweet music,and inspire that delicious melancholy which noperson, who had felt it once, would resign forthe gayest pleasures. They waken our best andpurest feelings, disposing us to benevolence,pity, and friendship. Those whom I love—Ialways seem to love more in such an hour asthis.' His voice trembled, and he paused.

St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived awarm tear fall upon the hand he held; she knewthe object of his thoughts; hers too had, forsome time, been occupied by theremembrance of her mother. He seemed by aneffort to rouse himself. 'Yes,' said he, with anhalf-suppressed sigh, 'the memory of those welove—of times for ever past! in such an hour asthis steals upon the mind, like a strain of distantmusic in the stillness of night;—all tender andharmonious as this landscape, sleeping in themellow moon-light.' After the pause of amoment, St. Aubert added, 'I have alwaysfancied, that I thought with more clearness, andprecision, at such an hour than at any other, andthat heart must be insensible in a great degree,that does not soften to its influence. But manysuch there are.'

Valancourt sighed.

'Are there, indeed, many such?' said Emily.

'A few years hence, my Emily,' replied St.Aubert, 'and you may smile at the recollection ofthat question—if you do not weep to it. But

come, I am somewhat refreshed, let usproceed.'

Having emerged from the woods, they saw,upon a turfy hillock above, the convent of whichthey were in search. A high wall, thatsurrounded it, led them to an ancient gate, atwhich they knocked; and the poor monk, whoopened it, conducted them into a smalladjoining room, where he desired they wouldwait while he informed the superior of theirrequest. In this interval, several friars came inseparately to look at them; and at length the firstmonk returned, and they followed him to aroom, where the superior was sitting in an arm-chair, with a large folio volume, printed in blackletter, open on a desk before him. He receivedthem with courtesy, though he did not rise fromhis seat; and, having asked them a fewquestions, granted their request. After a shortconversation, formal and solemn on the part ofthe superior, they withdrew to the apartmentwhere they were to sup, and Valancourt, whomone of the inferior friars civilly desired toaccompany, went to seek Michael and hismules. They had not descended half way downthe cliffs, before they heard the voice of themuleteer echoing far and wide. Sometimes hecalled on St. Aubert, and sometimes onValancourt; who having, at length, convincedhim that he had nothing to fear either forhimself, or his master; and having disposed ofhim, for the night, in a cottage on the skirts ofthe woods, returned to sup with his friends, onsuch sober fare as the monks thought it prudentto set before them. While St. Aubert was toomuch indisposed to share it, Emily, in heranxiety for her father, forgot herself; andValancourt, silent and thoughtful, yet neverinattentive to them, appeared particularlysolicitous to accommodate and relieve St.Aubert, who often observed, while his daughterwas pressing him to eat, or adjusting the pillowshe had placed in the back of his arm-chair,that Valancourt fixed on her a look of pensivetenderness, which he was not displeased to

understand.

They separated at an early hour, and retiredto their respective apartments. Emily wasshown to hers by a nun of the convent, whomshe was glad to dismiss, for her heart wasmelancholy, and her attention so muchabstracted, that conversation with a strangerwas painful. She thought her father dailydeclining, and attributed his present fatiguemore to the feeble state of his frame, than to thedifficulty of the journey. A train of gloomy ideashaunted her mind, till she fell asleep.

In about two hours after, she was awakenedby the chiming of a bell, and then heard quicksteps pass along the gallery, into which herchamber opened. She was so little accustomedto the manners of a convent, as to be alarmedby this circumstance; her fears, ever alive forher father, suggested that he was very ill, andshe rose in haste to go to him. Having paused,however, to let the persons in the gallery passbefore she opened her door, her thoughts, inthe mean time, recovered from the confusion ofsleep, and she understood that the bell was thecall of the monks to prayers. It had now ceased,and, all being again still, she forbore to go to St.Aubert's room. Her mind was not disposed forimmediate sleep, and the moon-light, thatshone into her chamber, invited her to open thecasement, and look out upon the country.

It was a still and beautiful night, the sky wasunobscured by any cloud, and scarce a leaf ofthe woods beneath trembled in the air. As shelistened, the mid-night hymn of the monks rosesoftly from a chapel, that stood on one of thelower cliffs, an holy strain, that seemed toascend through the silence of night to heaven,and her thoughts ascended with it. From theconsideration of His works, her mind arose tothe adoration of the Deity, in His goodness andpower; wherever she turned her view, whetheron the sleeping earth, or to the vast regions ofspace, glowing with worlds beyond the reach ofhuman thought, the sublimity of God, and the

majesty of His presence appeared. Her eyeswere filled with tears of awful love andadmiration; and she felt that pure devotion,superior to all the distinctions of human system,which lifts the soul above this world, and seemsto expand it into a nobler nature; such devotionas can, perhaps, only be experienced, when themind, rescued, for a moment, from thehumbleness of earthly considerations, aspiresto contemplate His power in the sublimity of Hisworks, and His goodness in the infinity of Hisblessings.

Is it not now the hour, The holy hour, when to the cloudless height Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon, And to this nether world in solemn stillness, Gives sign, that, to the list'ning ear of Heaven Religion's voice should plead? The very babe Knows this, and, chance awak'd, his little hands Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch Calls down a blessing.* *Caractacus

The midnight chant of the monks soon afterdropped into silence; but Emily remained at thecasement, watching the setting moon, and thevalley sinking into deep shade, and willing toprolong her present state of mind. At length sheretired to her mattress, and sunk into tranquilslumber.

CHAPTER V While in the rosy vale Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free. Thomson

St. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night'srepose to pursue his journey, set out in themorning, with his family and Valancourt, forRousillon, which he hoped to reach beforenight-fall. The scenes, through which they nowpassed, were as wild and romantic, as any theyhad yet observed, with this difference, thatbeauty, every now and then, softened thelandscape into smiles. Little woody recessesappeared among the mountains, covered withbright verdure and flowers; or a pastoral valleyopened its grassy bosom in the shade of thecliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along thebanks of a rivulet, that refreshed it withperpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent thehaving taken this fatiguing road, though he wasthis day, also, frequently obliged to alight, towalk along the rugged precipice, and to climbthe steep and flinty mountain. The wonderfulsublimity and variety of the prospects repaidhim for all this, and the enthusiasm, with whichthey were viewed by his young companions,heightened his own, and awakened aremembrance of all the delightful emotions ofhis early days, when the sublime charms ofnature were first unveiled to him. He found greatpleasure in conversing with Valancourt, and inlistening to his ingenuous remarks. The fire andsimplicity of his manners seemed to render hima characteristic figure in the scenes aroundthem; and St. Aubert discovered in hissentiments the justness and the dignity of anelevated mind, unbiased by intercourse with theworld. He perceived, that his opinions wereformed, rather than imbibed; were more theresult of thought, than of learning. Of the worldhe seemed to know nothing; for he believedwell of all mankind, and this opinion gave himthe reflected image of his own heart.

St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered toexamine the wild plants in his path, often lookedforward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt,as they strolled on together; he, with acountenance of animated delight, pointing toher attention some grand feature of the scene;and she, listening and observing with a look oftender seriousness, that spoke the elevation ofher mind. They appeared like two lovers whohad never strayed beyond these their nativemountains; whose situation had secluded themfrom the frivolities of common life, whose ideaswere simple and grand, like the landscapesamong which they moved, and who knew noother happiness, than in the union of pure andaffectionate hearts. St. Aubert smiled, andsighed at the romantic picture of felicity hisfancy drew; and sighed again to think, thatnature and simplicity were so little known to theworld, as that their pleasures were thoughtromantic.

'The world,' said he, pursuing this train ofthought, 'ridicules a passion which it seldomfeels; its scenes, and its interests, distract themind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, andlove cannot exist in a heart that has lost themeek dignity of innocence. Virtue and taste arenearly the same, for virtue is little more thanactive taste, and the most delicate affections ofeach combine in real love. How then are we tolook for love in great cities, where selfishness,dissipation, and insincerity supply the place oftenderness, simplicity and truth?'

It was near noon, when the travellers, havingarrived at a piece of steep and dangerousroad, alighted to walk. The road wound up anascent, that was clothed with wood, and,instead of following the carriage, they enteredthe refreshing shade. A dewy coolness wasdiffused upon the air, which, with the brightverdure of turf, that grew under the trees, themingled fragrance of flowers and of balm,thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and thegrandeur of the pines, beech, and chestnuts,

that overshadowed them, rendered this a mostdelicious retreat. Sometimes, the thick foliageexcluded all view of the country; at others, itadmitted some partial catches of the distantscenery, which gave hints to the imagination topicture landscapes more interesting, moreimpressive, than any that had been presentedto the eye. The wanderers often lingered toindulge in these reveries of fancy.

The pauses of silence, such as had formerlyinterrupted the conversations of Valancourt andEmily, were more frequent today than ever.Valancourt often dropped suddenly from themost animating vivacity into fits of deep musing,and there was, sometimes, an unaffectedmelancholy in his smile, which Emily could notavoid understanding, for her heart wasinterested in the sentiment it spoke.

St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, andthey continued to saunter under them, following,as nearly as they could guess, the direction ofthe road, till they perceived that they had totallylost it. They had continued near the brow of theprecipice, allured by the scenery it exhibited,while the road wound far away over the cliffabove. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, butheard no voice, except his own, echoing amongthe rocks, and his various efforts to regain theroad were equally unsuccessful. While theywere thus circumstanced, they perceived ashepherd's cabin, between the boles of thetrees at some distance, and Valancourtbounded on first to ask assistance. When hereached it, he saw only two little children, atplay, on the turf before the door. He looked intothe hut, but no person was there, and the eldestof the boys told him that their father was with hisflocks, and their mother was gone down into thevale, but would be back presently. As he stood,considering what was further to be done, on asudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forthmost manfully among the cliffs above, till hemade their echoes ring. Valancourtimmediately answered the call, andendeavoured to make his way through the

thicket that clothed the steeps, following thedirection of the sound. After much struggle overbrambles and precipices, he reached Michael,and at length prevailed with him to be silent,and to listen to him. The road was at aconsiderable distance from the spot where St.Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could noteasily return to the entrance of the wood, and,since it would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert toclimb the long and steep road to the placewhere it now stood, Valancourt was anxious tofind a more easy ascent, by the way he hadhimself passed.

Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approachedthe cottage, and rested themselves on a rusticbench, fastened between two pines, whichovershadowed it, till Valancourt, whose stepsthey had observed, should return.

The eldest of the children desisted from hisplay, and stood still to observe the strangers,while the younger continued his little gambols,and teased his brother to join in them. St.Aubert looked with pleasure upon this picture ofinfantine simplicity, till it brought to hisremembrance his own boys, whom he had lostabout the age of these, and their lamentedmother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness,which Emily observing, she immediately beganto sing one of those simple and lively airs hewas so fond of, and which she knew how to givewith the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubertsmiled on her through his tears, took her handand pressed it affectionately, and then tried todissipate the melancholy reflections thatlingered in his mind.

While she sung, Valancourt approached, whowas unwilling to interrupt her, and paused at alittle distance to listen. When she hadconcluded, he joined the party, and told them,that he had found Michael, as well as a way, bywhich he thought they could ascend the cliff tothe carriage. He pointed to the woody steepsabove, which St. Aubert surveyed with ananxious eye. He was already wearied by his

walk, and this ascent was formidable to him. Hethought, however, it would be less toilsome thanthe long and broken road, and he determined toattempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease,proposing that he should rest, and dine beforethey proceeded further, Valancourt went to thecarriage for the refreshments deposited there.

On his return, he proposed removing a littlehigher up the mountain, to where the woodsopened upon a grand and extensive prospect;and thither they were preparing to go, when theysaw a young woman join the children, andcaress and weep over them.

The travellers, interested by her distress,stopped to observe her. She took the youngestof the children in her arms, and, perceiving thestrangers, hastily dried her tears, andproceeded to the cottage. St. Aubert, onenquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learnedthat her husband, who was a shepherd, andlived here in the summer months to watch overthe flocks he led to feed upon these mountains,had lost, on the preceding night, his little all. Agang of gipsies, who had for some timeinfested the neighbourhood, had driven awayseveral of his master's sheep. 'Jacques,' addedthe shepherd's wife, 'had saved a little money,and had bought a few sheep with it, and nowthey must go to his master for those that arestolen; and what is worse than all, his master,when he comes to know how it is, will trust himno longer with the care of his flocks, for he is ahard man! and then what is to become of ourchildren!'

The innocent countenance of the woman, andthe simplicity of her manner in relating hergrievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe herstory; and Valancourt, convinced that it wastrue, asked eagerly what was the value of thestolen sheep; on hearing which he turned awaywith a look of disappointment. St. Aubert putsome money into her hand, Emily too gavesomething from her little purse, and they walkedtowards the cliff; but Valancourt lingered

behind, and spoke to the shepherd's wife, whowas now weeping with gratitude and surprise.He enquired how much money was yet wantingto replace the stolen sheep, and found, that itwas a sum very little short of all he had abouthim. He was perplexed and distressed. 'Thissum then,' said he to himself, 'would make thispoor family completely happy—it is in my powerto give it—to make them completely happy! Butwhat is to become of me?—how shall I contriveto reach home with the little money that willremain?' For a moment he stood, unwilling toforego the luxury of raising a family from ruin tohappiness, yet considering the difficulties ofpursuing his journey with so small a sum aswould be left.

While he was in this state of perplexity, theshepherd himself appeared: his children ran tomeet him; he took one of them in his arms, and,with the other clinging to his coat, came forwardwith a loitering step. His forlorn and melancholylook determined Valancourt at once; he threwdown all the money he had, except a very fewlouis, and bounded away after St. Aubert andEmily, who were proceeding slowly up thesteep. Valancourt had seldom felt his heart solight as at this moment; his gay spirits dancedwith pleasure; every object around himappeared more interesting, or beautiful, thanbefore. St. Aubert observed the uncommonvivacity of his countenance: 'What has pleasedyou so much?' said he. 'O what a lovely day,'replied Valancourt, 'how brightly the sun shines,how pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!' 'Itis indeed enchanting,' said St. Aubert, whomearly experience had taught to understand thenature of Valancourt's present feelings. 'Whatpity that the wealthy, who can command suchsunshine, should ever pass their days in gloom—in the cold shade of selfishness! For you, myyoung friend, may the sun always shine asbrightly as at this moment; may your ownconduct always give you the sunshine ofbenevolence and reason united!'

Valancourt, highly flattered by this

compliment, could make no reply but by a smileof gratitude.

They continued to wind under the woods,between the grassy knolls of the mountain, and,as they reached the shady summit, which hehad pointed out, the whole party burst into anexclamation. Behind the spot where they stood,the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall toa considerable height, and then branched outinto overhanging crags. Their grey tints werewell contrasted by the bright hues of the plantsand wild flowers, that grew in their fracturedsides, and were deepened by the gloom of thepines and cedars, that waved above. Thesteeps below, over which the eye passedabruptly to the valley, were fringed with thicketsof alpine shrubs; and, lower still, appeared thetufted tops of the chesnut woods, that clothedtheir base, among which peeped forth theshepherd's cottage, just left by the travellers,with its blueish smoke curling high in the air. Onevery side appeared the majestic summits ofthe Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendouscrags of marble, whose appearance waschanging every instant, as the varying lights fellupon their surface; others, still higher,displaying only snowy points, while their lowersteeps were covered almost invariably withforests of pine, larch, and oak, that stretcheddown to the vale. This was one of the narrowvallies, that open from the Pyrenees into thecountry of Rousillon, and whose green pastures,and cultivated beauty, form a decided andwonderful contrast to the romantic grandeur thatenvirons it. Through a vista of the mountainsappeared the lowlands of Rousillon, tinted withthe blue haze of distance, as they united withthe waters of the Mediterranean; where, on apromontory, which marked the boundary of theshore, stood a lonely beacon, over which wereseen circling flights of sea-fowl. Beyond,appeared, now and then, a stealing sail, whitewith the sun-beam, and whose progress wasperceivable by its approach to the light-house.Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant,

that it served only to mark the line of separationbetween the sky and the waves.

On the other side of the valley, immediatelyopposite to the spot where the travellers rested,a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here nosign of cultivation appeared. The rocks ofgranite, that screened the glen, rose abruptlyfrom their base, and stretched their barrenpoints to the clouds, unvaried with woods, anduncheered even by a hunter's cabin.Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw itslong shade over the precipice, and here andthere a cliff reared on its brow a monumentalcross, to tell the traveller the fate of him who hadventured thither before. This spot seemed thevery haunt of banditti; and Emily, as she lookeddown upon it, almost expected to see themstealing out from some hollow cave to look fortheir prey. Soon after an object not less terrificstruck her,—a gibbet standing on a point ofrock near the entrance of the pass, andimmediately over one of the crosses she hadbefore observed. These were hieroglyphics thattold a plain and dreadful story. She forbore topoint it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloomover her spirits, and made her anxious tohasten forward, that they might with certaintyreach Rousillon before night-fall. It wasnecessary, however, that St. Aubert should takesome refreshment, and, seating themselves onthe short dry turf, they opened the basket ofprovisions, while

by breezy murmurs cool'd, Broad o'er THEIR heads the verdant cedars wave, And high palmetos lift their graceful shade. ——-THEY draw Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales Profusely breathing from the piney groves, And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear The roaring floods, and cataracts.* *Thomson

St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by theserene air of this summit; and Valancourt wasso charmed with all around, and with theconversation of his companions, that he

seemed to have forgotten he had any further togo. Having concluded their simple repast, theygave a long farewell look to the scene, andagain began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoicedwhen he reached the carriage, which Emilyentered with him; but Valancourt, willing to takea more extensive view of the enchantingcountry, into which they were about to descend,than he could do from a carriage, loosened hisdogs, and once more bounded with them alongthe banks of the road. He often quitted it forpoints that promised a wider prospect, and theslow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowedhim to overtake them with ease. Whenever ascene of uncommon magnificence appeared,he hastened to inform St. Aubert, who, thoughhe was too much tired to walk himself,sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emilywent to the neighbouring cliff.

It was evening when they descended thelower alps, that bind Rousillon, and form amajestic barrier round that charming country,leaving it open only on the east to theMediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation oncemore beautified the landscape; for the lowlandswere coloured with the richest hues, which aluxuriant climate, and an industrious people canawaken into life. Groves of orange and lemonperfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing amongthe foliage; while, sloping to the plains,extensive vineyards spread their treasures.Beyond these, woods and pastures, andmingled towns and hamlets stretched towardsthe sea, on whose bright surface gleamedmany a distant sail; while, over the whole scene,was diffused the purple glow of evening. Thislandscape with the surrounding alps did,indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovelyand the sublime, of 'beauty sleeping in the lapof horror.'

The travellers, having reached the plains,proceeded, between hedges of flowering myrtleand pomegranate, to the town of Arles, wherethey proposed to rest for the night. They metwith simple, but neat accommodation, and

would have passed a happy evening, after thetoils and the delights of this day, had not theapproaching separation thrown a gloom overtheir spirit. It was St. Aubert's plan to proceed,on the morrow, to the borders of theMediterranean, and travel along its shores intoLanguedoc; and Valancourt, since he was nownearly recovered, and had no longer a pretencefor continuing with his new friends, resolved toleave them here. St. Aubert, who was muchpleased with him, invited him to go further, butdid not repeat the invitation, and Valancourt hadresolution enough to forego the temptation ofaccepting it, that he might prove himself notunworthy of the favour. On the followingmorning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubertto pursue his way to Languedoc, andValancourt to explore new scenes among themountains, on his return home. During thisevening he was often silent and thoughtful; St.Aubert's manner towards him was affectionate,though grave, and Emily was serious, thoughshe made frequent efforts to appear cheerful.After one of the most melancholy evenings theyhad yet passed together, they separated for thenight.

CHAPTER VI I care not, Fortune! what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shews her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave: Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. THOMSON

In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted withSt. Aubert and Emily, neither of whom seemedmuch refreshed by sleep. The languor of illnessstill hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fearshis disorder appeared to be increasing fastupon him. She watched his looks with anxiousaffection, and their expression was alwaysfaithfully reflected in her own.

At the commencement of their acquaintance,Valancourt had made known his name andfamily. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either,for the family estates, which were now in thepossession of an elder brother of Valancourt,were little more than twenty miles distant fromLa Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elderValancourt on visits in the neighbourhood. Thisknowledge had made him more willinglyreceive his present companion; for, though hiscountenance and manners would have won himthe acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was veryapt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes,with respect to countenances, he would not

have accepted these, as sufficient introductionsto that of his daughter.

The breakfast was almost as silent as thesupper of the preceding night; but their musingwas at length interrupted by the sound of thecarriage wheels, which were to bear away St.Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from hischair, and went to the window; it was indeed thecarriage, and he returned to his seat withoutspeaking. The moment was now come whenthey must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, thathe hoped he would never pass La Valleewithout favouring him with a visit; andValancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured himthat he never would; as he said which he lookedtimidly at Emily, who tried to smile away theseriousness of her spirits. They passed a fewminutes in interesting conversation, and St.Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emilyand Valancourt following in silence. The latterlingered at the door several minutes after theywere seated, and none of the party seemed tohave courage enough to say—Farewell. Atlength, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholyword, which Emily passed to Valancourt, whoreturned it, with a dejected smile, and thecarriage drove on.

The travellers remained, for some time, in astate of tranquil pensiveness, which is notunpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it byobserving, 'This is a very promising young man;it is many years since I have been so muchpleased with any person, on so short anacquaintance. He brings back to my memorythe days of my youth, when every scene was

new and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunkagain into a reverie; and, as Emily looked backupon the road they had passed, Valancourt wasseen, at the door of the little inn, following themwith his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved hishand; and she returned the adieu, till thewinding road shut her from his sight.

'I remember when I was about his age,'resumed St. Aubert, 'and I thought, and feltexactly as he does. The world was openingupon me then, now—it is closing.'

'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' saidEmily in a trembling voice, 'I hope you havemany, many years to live—for your own sake—for MY sake.'

'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thysake! Well—I hope it is so.' He wiped away atear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw asmile upon his countenance, and said in acheering voice, 'there is something in theardour and ingenuousness of youth, which isparticularly pleasing to the contemplation of anold man, if his feelings have not been entirelycorroded by the world. It is cheering andreviving, like the view of spring to a sick person;his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of theseason, and his eyes are lighted up with atransient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring tome.'

Emily, who pressed her father's handaffectionately, had never before listened with somuch pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no,not even when he had bestowed them onherself.

They travelled on, among vineyards, woods,and pastures, delighted with the romanticbeauty of the landscape, which was bounded,on one side, by the grandeur of the Pyrenees,and, on the other, by the ocean; and, soon afternoon, they reached the town of Colioure,situated on the Mediterranean. Here they dined,and rested till towards the cool of day, whenthey pursued their way along the shores—thoseenchanting shores!—which extend toLanguedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm onthe vastness of the sea, its surface varying, asthe lights and shadows fell, and on its woodybanks, mellowed with autumnal tints.

St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan,where he expected letters from M. Quesnel; andit was the expectation of these letters, that hadinduced him to leave Colioure, for his feebleframe had required immediate rest. Aftertravelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and Emily,who had put two or three books into thecarriage, on leaving La Vallee, had now theleisure for looking into them. She sought forone, in which Valancourt had been reading theday before, and hoped for the pleasure of re-tracing a page, over which the eyes of abeloved friend had lately passed, of dwelling onthe passages, which he had admired, and ofpermitting them to speak to her in the languageof his own mind, and to bring himself to herpresence. On searching for the book, she couldfind it no where, but in its stead perceived avolume of Petrarch's poems, that had belongedto Valancourt, whose name was written in it,and from which he had frequently readpassages to her, with all the pathetic

expression, that characterized the feelings ofthe author. She hesitated in believing, whatwould have been sufficiently apparent to almostany other person, that he had purposely left thisbook, instead of the one she had lost, and thatlove had prompted the exchange; but, havingopened it with impatient pleasure, andobserved the lines of his pencil drawn along thevarious passages he had read aloud, andunder others more descriptive of delicatetenderness than he had dared to trust his voicewith, the conviction came, at length, to her mind.For some moments she was conscious only ofbeing beloved; then, a recollection of all thevariations of tone and countenance, with whichhe had recited these sonnets, and of the soul,which spoke in their expression, pressed to hermemory, and she wept over the memorial of hisaffection.

They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset,where St. Aubert found, as he had expected,letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of whichso evidently and grievously affected him, thatEmily was alarmed, and pressed him, as far asher delicacy would permit, to disclose theoccasion of his concern; but he answered heronly by tears, and immediately began to talk onother topics. Emily, though she forbore to pressthe one most interesting to her, was greatlyaffected by her father's manner, and passed anight of sleepless solicitude.

In the morning they pursued their journeyalong the coast towards Leucate, another townon the Mediterranean, situated on the bordersof Languedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily

renewed the subject of the preceding night, andappeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert'ssilence and dejection, that he relaxed from hisreserve. 'I was unwilling, my dear Emily,' saidhe, 'to throw a cloud over the pleasure youreceive from these scenes, and meant,therefore, to conceal, for the present, somecircumstances, with which, however, you mustat length have been made acquainted. But youranxiety has defeated my purpose; you suffer asmuch from this, perhaps, as you will do from aknowledge of the facts I have to relate. M.Quesnel's visit proved an unhappy one to me;he came to tell me part of the news he has nowconfirmed. You may have heard me mention aM. Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know thatthe chief of my personal property was investedin his hands. I had great confidence in him, andI am yet willing to believe, that he is not whollyunworthy of my esteem. A variety ofcircumstances have concurred to ruin him, and—I am ruined with him.'

St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.

'The letters I have just received from M.Quesnel,' resumed he, struggling to speak withfirmness, 'enclosed others from Motteville,which confirmed all I dreaded.'

'Must we then quit La Vallee?' said Emily,after a long pause of silence. 'That is yetuncertain,' replied St. Aubert, 'it will dependupon the compromise Motteville is able tomake with his creditors. My income, you know,was never large, and now it will be reduced tolittle indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, mychild, that I am most afflicted.' His last words

faltered; Emily smiled tenderly upon him throughher tears, and then, endeavouring to overcomeher emotion, 'My dear father,' said she, 'do notgrieve for me, or for yourself; we may yet behappy;—if La Vallee remains for us, we mustbe happy. We will retain only one servant, andyou shall scarcely perceive the change in yourincome. Be comforted, my dear sir; we shall notfeel the want of those luxuries, which othersvalue so highly, since we never had a taste forthem; and poverty cannot deprive us of manyconsolations. It cannot rob us of the affection wehave for each other, or degrade us in our ownopinion, or in that of any person, whose opinionwe ought to value.'

St. Aubert concealed his face with hishandkerchief, and was unable to speak; butEmily continued to urge to her father the truths,which himself had impressed upon her mind.

'Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot depriveus of intellectual delights. It cannot deprive youof the comfort of affording me examples offortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delightof consoling a beloved parent. It cannot deadenour taste for the grand, and the beautiful, ordeny us the means of indulging it; for thescenes of nature—those sublime spectacles,so infinitely superior to all artificial luxuries! areopen for the enjoyment of the poor, as well as ofthe rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, solong as we are not in want of necessaries?Pleasures, such as wealth cannot buy, will stillbe ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries ofnature, and lose only the frivolous ones of art.'

St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to

his bosom, their tears flowed together, but—they were not tears of sorrow. After thislanguage of the heart, all other would have beenfeeble, and they remained silent for some time.Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if hismind had not recovered its natural tranquillity, itat least assumed the appearance of it.

They reached the romantic town of Leucateearly in the day, but St. Aubert was weary, andthey determined to pass the night there. In theevening, he exerted himself so far as to walkwith his daughter to view the environs thatoverlook the lake of Leucate, theMediterranean, part of Rousillon, with thePyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxuriantprovince of Languedoc, now blushing with theripened vintage, which the peasants werebeginning to gather. St. Aubert and Emily sawthe busy groups, caught the joyous song, thatwas wafted on the breeze, and anticipated, withapparent pleasure, their next day's journey overthis gay region. He designed, however, still towind along the sea-shore. To return homeimmediately was partly his wish, but from thishe was withheld by a desire to lengthen thepleasure, which the journey gave his daughter,and to try the effect of the sea air on his owndisorder.

On the following day, therefore, theyrecommenced their journey through Languedoc,winding the shores of the Mediterranean; thePyrenees still forming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on their rightwas the ocean, and, on their left, wide extendedplains melting into the blue horizon. St. Aubert

was pleased, and conversed much with Emily,yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial,and sometimes a shade of melancholy wouldsteal upon his countenance, and betray him.This was soon chased away by Emily's smile;who smiled, however, with an aching heart, forshe saw that his misfortunes preyed upon hismind, and upon his enfeebled frame.

It was evening when they reached a smallvillage of Upper Languedoc, where they meantto pass the night, but the place could not affordthem beds; for here, too, it was the time of thevintage, and they were obliged to proceed tothe next post. The languor of illness and offatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert,required immediate repose, and the eveningwas now far advanced; but from necessity therewas no appeal, and he ordered Michael toproceed.

The rich plains of Languedoc, whichexhibited all the glories of the vintage, with thegaieties of a French festival, no longerawakened St. Aubert to pleasure, whosecondition formed a mournful contrast to thehilarity and youthful beauty which surroundedhim. As his languid eyes moved over the scene,he considered, that they would soon, perhaps,be closed for ever on this world. 'Those distantand sublime mountains,' said he secretly, as hegazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretchedtowards the west, 'these luxuriant plains, thisblue vault, the cheerful light of day, will be shutfrom my eyes! The song of the peasant, thecheering voice of man—will no longer sound forme!'

The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to readwhat passed in the mind of her father, and shefixed them on his face, with an expression ofsuch tender pity, as recalled his thoughts fromevery desultory object of regret, and heremembered only, that he must leave hisdaughter without protection. This reflectionchanged regret to agony; he sighed deeply, andremained silent, while she seemed tounderstand that sigh, for she pressed his handaffectionately, and then turned to the window toconceal her tears. The sun now threw a lastyellow gleam on the waves of theMediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spreadfast over the scene, till only a melancholy rayappeared on the western horizon, marking thepoint where the sun had set amid the vapours ofan autumnal evening. A cool breeze now camefrom the shore, and Emily let down the glass;but the air, which was refreshing to health, wasas chilling to sickness, and St. Aubert desired,that the window might be drawn up. Increasingillness made him now more anxious than everto finish the day's journey, and he stopped themuleteer to enquire how far they had yet to goto the next post. He replied, 'Nine miles.' 'I feel Iam unable to proceed much further,' said St.Aubert; 'enquire, as you go, if there is anyhouse on the road that would accommodate usfor the night.' He sunk back in the carriage, andMichael, cracking his whip in the air, set off, andcontinued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert,almost fainting, called to him to stop. Emilylooked anxiously from the window, and saw apeasant walking at some little distance on theroad, for whom they waited, till he came up,when he was asked, if there was any house in

the neighbourhood that accommodatedtravellers. He replied, that he knew of none.'There is a chateau, indeed, among thosewoods on the right,' added he, 'but I believe itreceives nobody, and I cannot show you theway, for I am almost a stranger here.' St. Aubertwas going to ask him some further questionconcerning the chateau, but the man abruptlypassed on. After some consideration, heordered Michael to proceed slowly to thewoods. Every moment now deepened thetwilight, and increased the difficulty of findingthe road. Another peasant soon after passed.'Which is the way to the chateau in the woods?'cried Michael.

'The chateau in the woods!' exclaimed thepeasant—'Do you mean that with the turret,yonder?'

'I don't know as for the turret, as you call it,'said Michael, 'I mean that white piece of abuilding, that we see at a distance there,among the trees.'

'Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, thatyou are going thither?' said the man withsurprise.

St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, andobserving the peculiar tone in which it wasdelivered, looked out from the carriage. 'We aretravellers,' said he, 'who are in search of ahouse of accommodation for the night; is thereany hereabout?'

'None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind totry your luck yonder,' replied the peasant,

pointing to the woods, 'but I would not adviseyou to go there.'

'To whom does the chateau belong?'

'I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.'

'It is uninhabited, then?' 'No, not uninhabited;the steward and housekeeper are there, Ibelieve.'

On hearing this, St. Aubert determined toproceed to the chateau, and risque the refusalof being accommodated for the night; hetherefore desired the countryman would shewMichael the way, and bade him expect rewardfor his trouble. The man was for a momentsilent, and then said, that he was going on otherbusiness, but that the road could not be missed,if they went up an avenue to the right, to whichhe pointed. St. Aubert was going to speak, butthe peasant wished him good night, and walkedon.

The carriage now moved towards theavenue, which was guarded by a gate, andMichael having dismounted to open it, theyentered between rows of ancient oak andchesnut, whose intermingled branches formeda lofty arch above. There was something sogloomy and desolate in the appearance of thisavenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almostshuddered as she passed along; and,recollecting the manner in which the peasanthad mentioned the chateau, she gave amysterious meaning to his words, such as shehad not suspected when he uttered them.These apprehensions, however, she tried to

check, considering that they were probably theeffect of a melancholy imagination, which herfather's situation, and a consideration of herown circumstances, had made sensible toevery impression.

They passed slowly on, for they were nowalmost in darkness, which, together with theunevenness of the ground, and the frequentroots of old trees, that shot up above the soil,made it necessary to proceed with caution. Ona sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and,as St. Aubert looked from the window toenquire the cause, he perceived a figure atsome distance moving up the avenue. The duskwould not permit him to distinguish what it was,but he bade Michael go on.

'This seems a wild place,' said Michael;'there is no house hereabout, don't your honourthink we had better turn back?'

'Go a little farther, and if we see no housethen, we will return to the road,' replied St.Aubert.

Michael proceeded with reluctance, and theextreme slowness of his pace made St. Aubertlook again from the window to hasten him, whenagain he saw the same figure. He wassomewhat startled: probably the gloominess ofthe spot made him more liable to alarm thanusual; however this might be, he now stoppedMichael, and bade him call to the person in theavenue.

'Please your honour, he may be a robber,'said Michael. 'It does not please me,' replied

St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at thesimplicity of his phrase, 'and we will, therefore,return to the road, for I see no probability ofmeeting here with what we seek.'

Michael turned about immediately, and wasretracing his way with alacrity, when a voicewas heard from among the trees on the left. Itwas not the voice of command, or distress, buta deep hollow tone, which seemed to bescarcely human. The man whipped his mules tillthey went as fast as possible, regardless of thedarkness, the broken ground, and the necks ofthe whole party, nor once stopped till hereached the gate, which opened from theavenue into the high-road, where he went into amore moderate pace.

'I am very ill,' said St. Aubert, taking hisdaughter's hand. 'You are worse, then, sir!' saidEmily, extremely alarmed by his manner, 'youare worse, and here is no assistance. GoodGod! what is to be done!' He leaned his headon her shoulder, while she endeavoured tosupport him with her arm, and Michael wasagain ordered to stop. When the rattling of thewheels had ceased, music was heard on theirair; it was to Emily the voice of Hope. 'Oh! weare near some human habitation!' said she,'help may soon be had.'

She listened anxiously; the sounds weredistant, and seemed to come from a remotepart of the woods that bordered the road; and,as she looked towards the spot whence theyissued, she perceived in the faint moon-lightsomething like a chateau. It was difficult,however, to reach this; St. Aubert was now too

ill to bear the motion of the carriage; Michaelcould not quit his mules; and Emily, who stillsupported her father, feared to leave him, andalso feared to venture alone to such a distance,she knew not whither, or to whom. Something,however, it was necessary to determine uponimmediately; St. Aubert, therefore, told Michaelto proceed slowly; but they had not gone far,when he fainted, and the carriage was againstopped. He lay quite senseless.—'My dear,dear father!' cried Emily in great agony, whobegan to fear that he was dying, 'speak, if it isonly one word to let me hear the sound of yourvoice!' But no voice spoke in reply. In the agonyof terror she bade Michael bring water from therivulet, that flowed along the road; and, havingreceived some in the man's hat, with tremblinghands she sprinkled it over her father's face,which, as the moon's rays now fell upon it,seemed to bear the impression of death. Everyemotion of selfish fear now gave way to astronger influence, and, committing St. Aubertto the care of Michael, who refused to go farfrom his mules, she stepped from the carriagein search of the chateau she had seen at adistance. It was a still moon-light night, and themusic, which yet sounded on the air, directedher steps from the high road, up a shadowylane, that led to the woods. Her mind was forsome time so entirely occupied by anxiety andterror for her father, that she felt none for herself,till the deepening gloom of the overhangingfoliage, which now wholly excluded the moon-light, and the wildness of the place, recalled herto a sense of her adventurous situation. Themusic had ceased, and she had no guide butchance. For a moment she paused in terrified

perplexity, till a sense of her father's conditionagain overcoming every consideration forherself, she proceeded. The lane terminated inthe woods, but she looked round in vain for ahouse, or a human being, and as vainly listenedfor a sound to guide her. She hurried on,however, not knowing whither, avoiding therecesses of the woods, and endeavouring tokeep along their margin, till a rude kind ofavenue, which opened upon a moon-light spot,arrested her attention. The wildness of thisavenue brought to her recollection the oneleading to the turreted chateau, and she wasinclined to believe, that this was a part of thesame domain, and probably led to the samepoint. While she hesitated, whether to follow itor not, a sound of many voices in loudmerriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not thelaugh of cheerfulness, but of riot, and she stoodappalled. While she paused, she heard adistant voice, calling from the way she hadcome, and not doubting but it was that ofMichael, her first impulse was to hasten back;but a second thought changed her purpose; shebelieved that nothing less than the last extremitycould have prevailed with Michael to quit hismules, and fearing that her father was nowdying, she rushed forward, with a feeble hope ofobtaining assistance from the people in thewoods. Her heart beat with fearful expectation,as she drew near the spot whence the voicesissued, and she often startled when her stepsdisturbed the fallen leaves. The sounds led hertowards the moon-light glade she had beforenoticed; at a little distance from which shestopped, and saw, between the boles of thetrees, a small circular level of green turf,

surrounded by the woods, on which appeared agroup of figures. On drawing nearer, shedistinguished these, by their dress, to bepeasants, and perceived several cottagesscattered round the edge of the woods, whichwaved loftily over this spot. While she gazed,and endeavoured to overcome theapprehensions that withheld her steps, severalpeasant girls came out of a cottage; musicinstantly struck up, and the dance began. It wasthe joyous music of the vintage! the same shehad before heard upon the air. Her heart,occupied with terror for her father, could not feelthe contrast, which this gay scene offered to herown distress; she stepped hastily forwardtowards a group of elder peasants, who wereseated at the door of a cottage, and, havingexplained her situation, entreated theirassistance. Several of them rose with alacrity,and, offering any service in their power,followed Emily, who seemed to move on thewind, as fast as they could towards the road.

When she reached the carriage she found St.Aubert restored to animation. On the recoveryof his senses, having heard from Michaelwhither his daughter was gone, anxiety for herovercame every regard for himself, and he hadsent him in search of her. He was, however, stilllanguid, and, perceiving himself unable to travelmuch farther, he renewed his enquiries for aninn, and concerning the chateau in the woods.'The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir,'said a venerable peasant who had followedEmily from the woods, 'it is scarcely inhabited;but, if you will do me the honour to visit mycottage, you shall be welcome to the best bed it

affords.'

St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; hetherefore was not surprised at French courtesy;but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offerenhanced by the manner which accompanied it.He had too much delicacy to apologize, or toappear to hesitate about availing himself of thepeasant's hospitality, but immediately acceptedit with the same frankness with which it wasoffered.

The carriage again moved slowly on; Michaelfollowing the peasants up the lane, which Emilyhad just quitted, till they came to the moon-lightglade. St. Aubert's spirits were so far restoredby the courtesy of his host, and the nearprospect of repose, that he looked with a sweetcomplacency upon the moon-light scene,surrounded by the shadowy woods, throughwhich, here and there, an opening admitted thestreaming splendour, discovering a cottage, ora sparkling rivulet. He listened, with no painfulemotion, to the merry notes of the guitar andtamborine; and, though tears came to his eyes,when he saw the debonnaire dance of thepeasants, they were not merely tears ofmournful regret. With Emily it was otherwise;immediate terror for her father had nowsubsided into a gentle melancholy, which everynote of joy, by awakening comparison, servedto heighten.

The dance ceased on the approach of thecarriage, which was a phenomenon in thesesequestered woods, and the peasantry flockedround it with eager curiosity. On learning that itbrought a sick stranger, several girls ran across

the turf, and returned with wine and baskets ofgrapes, which they presented to the travellers,each with kind contention pressing for apreference. At length, the carriage stopped at aneat cottage, and his venerable conductor,having assisted St. Aubert to alight, led him andEmily to a small inner room, illuminated only bymoon-beams, which the open casementadmitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seatedhimself in an arm-chair, and his senses wererefreshed by the cool and balmy air, that lightlywaved the embowering honeysuckles, andwafted their sweet breath into the apartment.His host, who was called La Voisin, quitted theroom, but soon returned with fruits, cream, andall the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded;having set down which, with a smile ofunfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chairof his guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking aseat at the table, and, when the fruit had allayedthe fever of his palate, and he found himselfsomewhat revived, he began to converse withhis host, who communicated several particularsconcerning himself and his family, which wereinteresting, because they were spoken from theheart, and delineated a picture of the sweetcourtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by herfather, holding his hand, and, while she listenedto the old man, her heart swelled with theaffectionate sympathy he described, and hertears fell to the mournful consideration, thatdeath would probably soon deprive her of thedearest blessing she then possessed. The softmoon-light of an autumnal evening, and thedistant music, which now sounded a plaintivestrain, aided the melancholy of her mind. Theold man continued to talk of his family, and St.

Aubert remained silent. 'I have only onedaughter living,' said La Voisin, 'but she ishappily married, and is every thing to me. WhenI lost my wife,' he added with a sigh, 'I came tolive with Agnes, and her family; she has severalchildren, who are all dancing on the greenyonder, as merry as grasshoppers—and longmay they be so! I hope to die among them,monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect tolive long, but there is some comfort in dyingsurrounded by one's children.'

'My good friend,' said St. Aubert, while hisvoice trembled, 'I hope you will long livesurrounded by them.'

'Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!'replied the old man, and he paused: 'I canscarcely wish it,' he resumed, 'for I trust thatwhenever I die I shall go to heaven, where mypoor wife is gone before me. I can sometimesalmost fancy I see her of a still moon-light night,walking among these shades she loved so well.Do you believe, monsieur, that we shall bepermitted to revisit the earth, after we havequitted the body?'

Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of herheart; her tears fell fast upon her father's hand,which she yet held. He made an effort to speak,and at length said in a low voice, 'I hope weshall be permitted to look down on those wehave left on the earth, but I can only hope it.Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faithand hope are our only guides concerning it. Weare not enjoined to believe, that disembodiedspirits watch over the friends they have loved,but we may innocently hope it. It is a hope which

I will never resign,' continued he, while he wipedthe tears from his daughter's eyes, 'it willsweeten the bitter moments of death!' Tears fellslowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, andthere was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin,renewing the subject, said, 'But you believe, sir,that we shall meet in another world the relationswe have loved in this; I must believe this.' 'Thendo believe it,' replied St. Aubert, 'severe,indeed, would be the pangs of separation, if webelieved it to be eternal. Look up, my dearEmily, we shall meet again!' He lifted his eyestowards heaven, and a gleam of moon-light,which fell upon his countenance, discoveredpeace and resignation, stealing on the lines ofsorrow.

La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subjecttoo far, and he dropped it, saying, 'We are indarkness, I forgot to bring a light.'

'No,' said St. Aubert, 'this is a light I love. Sitdown, my good friend. Emily, my love, I findmyself better than I have been all day; this airrefreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, andthat music, which floats so sweetly at adistance. Let me see you smile. Who touchesthat guitar so tastefully? are there twoinstruments, or is it an echo I hear?'

'It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar isoften heard at night, when all is still, but nobodyknows who touches it, and it is sometimesaccompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad,one would almost think the woods werehaunted.' 'They certainly are haunted,' said St.Aubert with a smile, 'but I believe it is bymortals.' 'I have sometimes heard it at midnight,

when I could not sleep,' rejoined La Voisin, notseeming to notice this remark, 'almost under mywindow, and I never heard any music like it. Ithas often made me think of my poor wife till Icried. I have sometimes got up to the window tolook if I could see anybody, but as soon as Iopened the casement all was hushed, andnobody to be seen; and I have listened, andlistened till I have been so timorous, that eventhe trembling of the leaves in the breeze hasmade me start. They say it often comes to warnpeople of their death, but I have heard it thesemany years, and outlived the warning.'

Emily, though she smiled at the mention ofthis ridiculous superstition, could not, in thepresent tone of her spirits, wholly resist itscontagion.

'Well, but, my good friend,' said St. Aubert,'has nobody had courage to follow the sounds?If they had, they would probably havediscovered who is the musician.' 'Yes, sir, theyhave followed them some way into the woods,but the music has still retreated, and seemedas distant as ever, and the people have at lastbeen afraid of being led into harm, and wouldgo no further. It is very seldom that I have heardthese sounds so early in the evening. Theyusually come about midnight, when that brightplanet, which is rising above the turret yonder,sets below the woods on the left.'

'What turret?' asked St. Aubert withquickness, 'I see none.'

'Your pardon, monsieur, you do see oneindeed, for the moon shines full upon it;—up the

avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau itbelongs to is hid among the trees.'

'Yes, my dear sir,' said Emily, pointing, 'don'tyou see something glitter above the darkwoods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays fallupon.'

'O yes, I see what you mean; and who doesthe chateau belong to?'

'The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,'replied La Voisin, emphatically.

'Ah!' said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, 'arewe then so near Le-Blanc!' He appeared muchagitated.

'It used to be the Marquis's favouriteresidence,' resumed La Voisin, 'but he took adislike to the place, and has not been there formany years. We have heard lately that he isdead, and that it is fallen into other hands.' St.Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, wasroused by the last words. 'Dead!' he exclaimed,'Good God! when did he die?'

'He is reported to have died about five weekssince,' replied La Voisin. 'Did you know theMarquis, sir?'

'This is very extraordinary!' said St. Aubertwithout attending to the question. 'Why is it so,my dear sir?' said Emily, in a voice of timidcuriosity. He made no reply, but sunk again intoa reverie; and in a few moments, when heseemed to have recovered himself, asked whohad succeeded to the estates. 'I have forgot histitle, monsieur,' said La Voisin; 'but my lord

resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of hiscoming hither.'

'The chateau is shut up then, still?'

'Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper,and her husband the steward, have the care ofit, but they live generally in a cottage hard by.'

'The chateau is spacious, I suppose,' saidEmily, 'and must be desolate for the residenceof only two persons.'

'Desolate enough, mademoiselle,' replied LaVoisin, 'I would not pass one night in thechateau, for the value of the whole domain.'

'What is that?' said St. Aubert, roused againfrom thoughtfulness. As his host repeated hislast sentence, a groan escaped from St.Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it frombeing noticed, he hastily asked La Voisin howlong he had lived in this neighbourhood. 'Almostfrom my childhood, sir,' replied his host.

'You remember the late marchioness, then?'said St. Aubert in an altered voice.

'Ah, monsieur!—that I do well. There aremany besides me who remember her.'

'Yes—' said St. Aubert, 'and I am one ofthose.'

'Alas, sir! you remember, then, a mostbeautiful and excellent lady. She deserved abetter fate.'

Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes; 'Enough,'said he, in a voice almost stifled by the violence

of his emotions,—'it is enough, my friend.'

Emily, though extremely surprised by herfather's manner, forbore to express her feelingsby any question. La Voisin began to apologize,but St. Aubert interrupted him; 'Apology is quiteunnecessary,' said he, 'let us change the topic.You was speaking of the music we just nowheard.'

'I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again;listen to that voice!' They were all silent;

At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes, And stole upon the air, that even Silence Was took ere she was 'ware, and wished she might Deny her nature, and be never more Still, to be so displaced.* *Milton.

In a few moments the voice died into air, andthe instrument, which had been heard before,sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert nowobserved, that it produced a tone much morefull and melodious than that of a guitar, and stillmore melancholy and soft than the lute. Theycontinued to listen, but the sounds returned nomore. 'This is strange!' said St. Aubert, atlength interrupting the silence. 'Very strange!'said Emily. 'It is so,' rejoined La Voisin, andthey were again silent.

After a long pause, 'It is now about eighteenyears since I first heard that music,' said LaVoisin; 'I remember it was on a fine summer'snight, much like this, but later, that I was walkingin the woods, and alone. I remember, too, thatmy spirits were very low, for one of my boys

was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I hadbeen watching at his bed-side all the eveningwhile his mother slept; for she had sat up withhim the night before. I had been watching, andwent out for a little fresh air, the day had beenvery sultry. As I walked under the shades andmused, I heard music at a distance, and thoughtit was Claude playing upon his flute, as he oftendid of a fine evening, at the cottage door. But,when I came to a place where the treesopened, (I shall never forget it!) and stoodlooking up at the north-lights, which shot up theheaven to a great height, I heard all of a suddensuch sounds!—they came so as I cannotdescribe. It was like the music of angels, and Ilooked up again almost expecting to see themin the sky. When I came home, I told what I hadheard, but they laughed at me, and said it mustbe some of the shepherds playing on theirpipes, and I could not persuade them to thecontrary. A few nights after, however, my wifeherself heard the same sounds, and was asmuch surprised as I was, and Father Denisfrightened her sadly by saying, that it was musiccome to warn her of her child's death, and thatmusic often came to houses where there was adying person.'

Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with asuperstitious dread entirely new to her, andcould scarcely conceal her agitation from St.Aubert.

'But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of FatherDenis.'

'Father Denis!' said St. Aubert, who hadlistened to 'narrative old age' with patient

attention, 'are we near a convent, then?'

'Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at nogreat distance, on the sea shore yonder.'

'Ah!' said St. Aubert, as if struck with somesudden remembrance, 'the convent of St. Clair!'Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled witha faint expression of horror, gathering on hisbrow; his countenance became fixed, and,touched as it now was by the silver whiteness ofthe moon-light, he resembled one of thosemarble statues of a monument, which seem tobend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of thedead, shewn

by the blunted light That the dim moon through painted casements lends.* * The Emigrants.

'But, my dear sir,' said Emily, anxious todissipate his thoughts, 'you forget that repose isnecessary to you. If our kind host will give meleave, I will prepare your bed, for I know howyou like it to be made.' St. Aubert, recollectinghimself, and smiling affectionately, desired shewould not add to her fatigue by that attention;and La Voisin, whose consideration for hisguest had been suspended by the interestswhich his own narrative had recalled, nowstarted from his seat, and, apologizing for nothaving called Agnes from the green, hurried outof the room.

In a few moments he returned with hisdaughter, a young woman of pleasingcountenance, and Emily learned from her, whatshe had not before suspected, that, for theiraccommodation, it was necessary part of La

Voisin's family should leave their beds; shelamented this circumstance, but Agnes, by herreply, fully proved that she inherited, at least, ashare of her father's courteous hospitality. It wassettled, that some of her children and Michaelshould sleep in the neighbouring cottage.

'If I am better, to-morrow, my dear,' said St.Aubert when Emily returned to him, 'I mean toset out at an early hour, that we may rest, duringthe heat of the day, and will travel towardshome. In the present state of my health andspirits I cannot look on a longer journey withpleasure, and I am also very anxious to reachLa Vallee.' Emily, though she also desired toreturn, was grieved at her father's sudden wishto do so, which she thought indicated a greaterdegree of indisposition than he wouldacknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to rest,and Emily to her little chamber, but not toimmediate repose. Her thoughts returned to thelate conversation, concerning the state ofdeparted spirits; a subject, at this time,particularly affecting to her, when she had everyreason to believe that her dear father would erelong be numbered with them. She leanedpensively on the little open casement, and indeep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven,whose blue unclouded concave was studdedthick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits,unsphered of mortal mould. As her eyeswandered along the boundless aether, herthoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimityof the Deity, and to the contemplation of futurity.No busy note of this world interrupted thecourse of her mind; the merry dance hadceased, and every cottager had retired to his

home. The still air seemed scarcely to breatheupon the woods, and, now and then, the distantsound of a solitary sheep-bell, or of a closingcasement, was all that broke on silence. Atlength, even this hint of human being was heardno more. Elevated and enwrapt, while her eyeswere often wet with tears of sublime devotionand solemn awe, she continued at thecasement, till the gloom of mid-night hung overthe earth, and the planet, which La Voisin hadpointed out, sunk below the woods. She thenrecollected what he had said concerning thisplanet, and the mysterious music; and, as shelingered at the window, half hoping and halffearing that it would return, her mind was led tothe remembrance of the extreme emotion herfather had shewn on mention of the Marquis LaVilleroi's death, and of the fate of theMarchioness, and she felt strongly interestedconcerning the remote cause of this emotion.Her surprise and curiosity were indeed thegreater, because she did not recollect ever tohave heard him mention the name of Villeroi.

No music, however, stole on the silence ofthe night, and Emily, perceiving the lateness ofthe hour, returned to a scene of fatigue,remembered that she was to rise early in themorning, and withdrew from the window torepose.

CHAPTER VII Let those deplore their doom, Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn. But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb, Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn. Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return? Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?— Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn, And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed, Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead! BEATTIE

Emily, called, as she had requested, at anearly hour, awoke, little refreshed by sleep, foruneasy dreams had pursued her, and marredthe kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, whenshe opened her casement, looked out upon thewoods, bright with the morning sun, andinspired the pure air, her mind was soothed.The scene was filled with that cheeringfreshness, which seems to breathe the veryspirit of health, and she heard only sweet andPICTURESQUE sounds, if such an expressionmay be allowed—the matin-bell of a distantconvent, the faint murmur of the sea-waves, thesong of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, whichshe saw coming slowly on between the trunks oftrees. Struck with the circumstances of imageryaround her, she indulged the pensive tranquillitywhich they inspired; and while she leaned onher window, waiting till St. Aubert shoulddescend to breakfast, her ideas arrangedthemselves in the following lines:

THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING

How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade, When early twilight, from the eastern bound, Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade, And fades as morning spreads her blush around!

When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night, Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear, Expands its tender blossom to the light, And gives its incense to the genial air.

How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume, And swells the melody of waking birds; The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom, And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!

Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head, Seen through the parting foliage from afar; And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed, With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.

But, vain the sylvan shade—the breath of May, The voice of music floating on the gale, And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil, If health no longer bid the heart be gay! O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give, Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

Emily now heard persons moving below inthe cottage, and presently the voice of Michael,who was talking to his mules, as he led themforth from a hut adjoining. As she left her room,St. Aubert, who was now risen, met her at thedoor, apparently as little restored by sleep asherself. She led him down stairs to the littleparlour, in which they had supped on thepreceding night, where they found a neatbreakfast set out, while the host and hisdaughter waited to bid them good-morrow.

'I envy you this cottage, my good friends,'

said St. Aubert, as he met them, 'it is sopleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, thatone breathes—if any thing could restore losthealth, it would surely be this air.'

La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, withthe gallantry of a Frenchman, 'Our cottage maybe envied, sir, since you and Mademoisellehave honoured it with your presence.' St. Aubertgave him a friendly smile for his compliment,and sat down to a table, spread with cream,fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, whohad observed her father with attention andthought he looked very ill, endeavoured topersuade him to defer travelling till theafternoon; but he seemed very anxious to be athome, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly,and with an earnestness that was unusual withhim. He now said, he found himself as well ashe had been of late, and that he could beartravelling better in the cool hour of the morning,than at any other time. But, while he was talkingwith his venerable host, and thanking him for hiskind attentions, Emily observed hiscountenance change, and, before she couldreach him, he fell back in his chair. In a fewmoments he recovered from the suddenfaintness that had come over him, but felt so ill,that he perceived himself unable to set out, and,having remained a little while, struggling againstthe pressure of indisposition, he begged hemight be helped up stairs to bed. This requestrenewed all the terror which Emily had sufferedon the preceding evening; but, though scarcelyable to support herself, under the sudden shockit gave her, she tried to conceal herapprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her

trembling arm to assist him to the door of hischamber.

When he was once more in bed, he desiredthat Emily, who was then weeping in her ownroom, might be called; and, as she came, hewaved his hand for every other person to quitthe apartment. When they were alone, he heldout his hand to her, and fixed his eyes upon hercountenance, with an expression so full oftenderness and grief, that all her fortitudeforsook her, and she burst into an agony oftears. St. Aubert seemed struggling to acquirefirmness, but was still unable to speak; he couldonly press her hand, and check the tears thatstood trembling in his eyes. At length hecommanded his voice, 'My dear child,' said he,trying to smile through his anguish, 'my dearEmily!'—and paused again. He raised his eyesto heaven, as if in prayer, and then, in a firmertone, and with a look, in which the tenderness ofthe father was dignified by the pious solemnityof the saint, he said, 'My dear child, I wouldsoften the painful truth I have to tell you, but I findmyself quite unequal to the art. Alas! I would, atthis moment, conceal it from you, but that itwould be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot belong before we must part; let us talk of it, thatour thoughts and our prayers may prepare us tobear it.' His voice faltered, while Emily, stillweeping, pressed his hand close to her heart,which swelled with a convulsive sigh, but shecould not look up.

'Let me not waste these moments,' said St.Aubert, recovering himself, 'I have much to say.There is a circumstance of solemn

consequence, which I have to mention, and asolemn promise to obtain from you; when this isdone I shall be easier. You have observed, mydear, how anxious I am to reach home, butknow not all my reasons for this. Listen to what Iam going to say.—Yet stay—before I say moregive me this promise, a promise made to yourdying father!'—St. Aubert was interrupted;Emily, struck by his last words, as if for the firsttime, with a conviction of his immediate danger,raised her head; her tears stopped, and, gazingat him for a moment with an expression ofunutterable anguish, a slight convulsion seizedher, and she sunk senseless in her chair. St.Aubert's cries brought La Voisin and hisdaughter to the room, and they administeredevery means in their power to restore her, but,for a considerable time, without effect. Whenshe recovered, St. Aubert was so exhausted bythe scene he had witnessed, that it was manyminutes before he had strength to speak; hewas, however, somewhat revived by a cordial,which Emily gave him; and, being again alonewith her, he exerted himself to tranquilize herspirits, and to offer her all the comfort of whichher situation admitted. She threw herself intohis arms, wept on his neck, and grief made herso insensible to all he said, that he ceased tooffer the alleviations, which he himself could not,at this moment, feel, and mingled his silenttears with hers. Recalled, at length, to a senseof duty, she tried to spare her father from afarther view of her suffering; and, quitting hisembrace, dried her tears, and said something,which she meant for consolation. 'My dearEmily,' replied St. Aubert, 'my dear child, wemust look up with humble confidence to that

Being, who has protected and comforted us inevery danger, and in every affliction we haveknown; to whose eye every moment of our liveshas been exposed; he will not, he does not,forsake us now; I feel his consolations in myheart. I shall leave you, my child, still in his care;and, though I depart from this world, I shall bestill in his presence. Nay, weep not again, myEmily. In death there is nothing new, orsurprising, since we all know, that we are bornto die; and nothing terrible to those, who canconfide in an all-powerful God. Had my life beenspared now, after a very few years, in thecourse of nature, I must have resigned it; oldage, with all its train of infirmity, its privationsand its sorrows, would have been mine; andthen, at last, death would have come, and calledforth the tears you now shed. Rather, my child,rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering, andthat I am permitted to die with a mindunimpaired, and sensible of the comforts offaith and resignation.' St. Aubert paused,fatigued with speaking. Emily againendeavoured to assume an air of composure;and, in replying to what he had said, tried tosooth him with a belief, that he had not spokenin vain.

When he had reposed a while, he resumedthe conversation. 'Let me return,' said he, 'to asubject, which is very near my heart. I said I hada solemn promise to receive from you; let mereceive it now, before I explain the chiefcircumstance which it concerns; there areothers, of which your peace requires that youshould rest in ignorance. Promise, then, thatyou will perform exactly what I shall enjoin.'

Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of hismanner, dried her tears, that had begun againto flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them;and, looking eloquently at St. Aubert, boundherself to do whatever he should require by avow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why.

He proceeded: 'I know you too well, my Emily,to believe, that you would break any promise,much less one thus solemnly given; yourassurance gives me peace, and theobservance of it is of the utmost importance toyour tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going totell you. The closet, which adjoins my chamberat La Vallee, has a sliding board in the floor.You will know it by a remarkable knot in thewood, and by its being the next board, exceptone, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. Atthe distance of about a yard from that end,nearer the window, you will perceive a lineacross it, as if the plank had been joined;—theway to open it is this:—Press your foot upon theline; the end of the board will then sink, and youmay slide it with ease beneath the other. Below,you will see a hollow place.' St. Aubert pausedfor breath, and Emily sat fixed in deep attention.'Do you understand these directions, my dear?'said he. Emily, though scarcely able to speak,assured him that she did.

'When you return home, then,' he added witha deep sigh—

At the mention of her return home, all themelancholy circumstances, that must attend thisreturn, rushed upon her fancy; she burst intoconvulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself,

affected beyond the resistance of the fortitudewhich he had, at first, summoned, wept with her.After some moments, he composed himself.'My dear child,' said he, 'be comforted. When Iam gone, you will not be forsaken—I leave youonly in the more immediate care of thatProvidence, which has never yet forsaken me.Do not afflict me with this excess of grief; ratherteach me by your example to bear my own.' Hestopped again, and Emily, the more sheendeavoured to restrain her emotion, found itthe less possible to do so.

St. Aubert, who now spoke with pain,resumed the subject. 'That closet, my dear,—when you return home, go to it; and, beneath theboard I have described, you will find a packet ofwritten papers. Attend to me now, for thepromise you have given particularly relates towhat I shall direct. These papers you must burn—and, solemnly I command you, WITHOUTEXAMINING THEM.'

Emily's surprise, for a moment, overcame hergrief, and she ventured to ask, why this mustbe? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been rightfor him to explain his reasons, her late promisewould have been unnecessarily exacted. 'It issufficient for you, my love, to have a deep senseof the importance of observing me in thisinstance.' St. Aubert proceeded. 'Under thatboard you will also find about two hundred louisd'ors, wrapped in a silk purse; indeed, it was tosecure whatever money might be in thechateau, that this secret place was contrived, ata time when the province was over-run bytroops of men, who took advantage of the

tumults, and became plunderers.

'But I have yet another promise to receivefrom you, which is—that you will never, whatevermay be your future circumstances, SELL thechateau.' St. Aubert even enjoined her,whenever she might marry, to make it an articlein the contract, that the chateau should alwaysbe hers. He then gave her a more minuteaccount of his present circumstances than hehad yet done, adding, 'The two hundred louis,with what money you will now find in my purse,is all the ready money I have to leave you. I havetold you how I am circumstanced with M.Motteville, at Paris. Ah, my child! I leave youpoor—but not destitute,' he added, after a longpause. Emily could make no reply to any thinghe now said, but knelt at the bed-side, with herface upon the quilt, weeping over the hand sheheld there.

After this conversation, the mind of St. Aubertappeared to be much more at ease; but,exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunkinto a kind of doze, and Emily continued towatch and weep beside him, till a gentle tap atthe chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin,come to say, that a confessor from theneighbouring convent was below, ready toattend St. Aubert. Emily would not suffer herfather to be disturbed, but desired, that thepriest might not leave the cottage. When St.Aubert awoke from this doze, his senses wereconfused, and it was some moments before herecovered them sufficiently to know, that it wasEmily who sat beside him. He then moved hislips, and stretched forth his hand to her; as she

received which, she sunk back in her chair,overcome by the impression of death on hiscountenance. In a few minutes he recovered hisvoice, and Emily then asked, if he wished tosee the confessor; he replied, that he did; and,when the holy father appeared, she withdrew.They remained alone together above half anhour; when Emily was called in, she found St.Aubert more agitated than when she had lefthim, and she gazed, with a slight degree ofresentment, at the friar, as the cause of this;who, however, looked mildly and mournfully ather, and turned away. St. Aubert, in a tremulousvoice, said, he wished her to join in prayer withhim, and asked if La Voisin would do so too.The old man and his daughter came; they bothwept, and knelt with Emily round the bed, whilethe holy father read in a solemn voice theservice for the dying. St. Aubert lay with aserene countenance, and seemed to joinfervently in the devotion, while tears often stolefrom beneath his closed eyelids, and Emily'ssobs more than once interrupted the service.

When it was concluded, and extreme unctionhad been administered, the friar withdrew. St.Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to comenearer. He gave him his hand, and was, for amoment, silent. At length, he said, in a tremblingvoice, 'My good friend, our acquaintance hasbeen short, but long enough to give you anopportunity of shewing me much kind attention. Icannot doubt, that you will extend this kindnessto my daughter, when I am gone; she will haveneed of it. I entrust her to your care during thefew days she will remain here. I need say nomore—you know the feelings of a father, for you

have children; mine would be, indeed, severe ifI had less confidence in you.' He paused. LaVoisin assured him, and his tears boretestimony to his sincerity, that he would do all hecould to soften her affliction, and that, if St.Aubert wished it, he would even attend her intoGascony; an offer so pleasing to St. Aubert, thathe had scarcely words to acknowledge hissense of the old man's kindness, or to tell him,that he accepted it. The scene, that followedbetween St. Aubert and Emily, affected LaVoisin so much, that he quitted the chamber,and she was again left alone with her father,whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neitherhis senses, or his voice, yet failed him; and, atintervals, he employed much of these last awfulmoments in advising his daughter, as to herfuture conduct. Perhaps, he never had thoughtmore justly, or expressed himself more clearly,than he did now.

'Above all, my dear Emily,' said he, 'do notindulge in the pride of fine feeling, the romanticerror of amiable minds. Those, who reallypossess sensibility, ought early to be taught,that it is a dangerous quality, which iscontinually extracting the excess of misery, ordelight, from every surrounding circumstance.And, since, in our passage through this world,painful circumstances occur more frequentlythan pleasing ones, and since our sense of evilis, I fear, more acute than our sense of good,we become the victims of our feelings, unlesswe can in some degree command them. I knowyou will say, (for you are young, my Emily) Iknow you will say, that you are contentedsometimes to suffer, rather than to give up your

refined sense of happiness, at others; but, whenyour mind has been long harassed byvicissitude, you will be content to rest, and youwill then recover from your delusion. You willperceive, that the phantom of happiness isexchanged for the substance; for happinessarises in a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of atemperate and uniform nature, and can no moreexist in a heart, that is continually alive to minutecircumstances, than in one that is dead tofeeling. You see, my dear, that, though I wouldguard you against the dangers of sensibility, Iam not an advocate for apathy. At your age Ishould have said THAT is a vice more hatefulthan all the errors of sensibility, and I say so still.I call it a VICE, because it leads to positive evil;in this, however, it does no more than an ill-governed sensibility, which, by such a rule,might also be called a vice; but the evil of theformer is of more general consequence. I haveexhausted myself,' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'andhave wearied you, my Emily; but, on a subjectso important to your future comfort, I am anxiousto be perfectly understood.'

Emily assured him, that his advice was mostprecious to her, and that she would never forgetit, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it. St.Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfullyupon her. 'I repeat it,' said he, 'I would not teachyou to become insensible, if I could; I would onlywarn you of the evils of susceptibility, and pointout how you may avoid them. Beware, my love, Iconjure you, of that self-delusion, which hasbeen fatal to the peace of so many persons;beware of priding yourself on the gracefulnessof sensibility; if you yield to this vanity, your

happiness is lost for ever. Always rememberhow much more valuable is the strength offortitude, than the grace of sensibility. Do not,however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathycannot know the virtue. Remember, too, thatone act of beneficence, one act of realusefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment inthe world. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead ofan ornament, unless it lead us to good actions.The miser, who thinks himself respectable,merely because he possesses wealth, and thusmistakes the means of doing good, for theactual accomplishment of it, is not moreblameable than the man of sentiment, withoutactive virtue. You may have observed persons,who delight so much in this sort of sensibility tosentiment, which excludes that to the calls ofany practical virtue, that they turn from thedistressed, and, because their sufferings arepainful to be contemplated, do not endeavour torelieve them. How despicable is that humanity,which can be contented to pity, where it mightassuage!'

St. Aubert, some time after, spoke ofMadame Cheron, his sister. 'Let me inform youof a circumstance, that nearly affects yourwelfare,' he added. 'We have, you know, hadlittle intercourse for some years, but, as she isnow your only female relation, I have thought itproper to consign you to her care, as you willsee in my will, till you are of age, and torecommend you to her protection afterwards.She is not exactly the person, to whom I wouldhave committed my Emily, but I had noalternative, and I believe her to be upon thewhole—a good kind of woman. I need not

recommend it to your prudence, my love, toendeavour to conciliate her kindness; you willdo this for his sake, who has often wished to doso for yours.'

Emily assured him, that, whatever herequested she would religiously perform to theutmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in avoice interrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be allwhich remains for me; it will be almost my onlyconsolation to fulfil your wishes.'

St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as ifwould have spoken, but his spirit sunk a while,and his eyes became heavy and dull. She feltthat look at her heart. 'My dear father!' sheexclaimed; and then, checking herself, pressedhis hand closer, and hid her face with herhandkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St.Aubert heard her convulsive sobs. His spiritsreturned. 'O my child!' said he, faintly, 'let myconsolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know,that I am about to return to the bosom of myFather, who will still be your Father, when I amgone. Always trust in him, my love, and he willsupport you in these moments, as he supportsme.'

Emily could only listen, and weep; but theextreme composure of his manner, and the faithand hope he expressed, somewhat soothed heranguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon hisemaciated countenance, and saw the lines ofdeath beginning to prevail over it—saw his sunkeyes, still bent on her, and their heavy lidspressing to a close, there was a pang in herheart, such as defied expression, though itrequired filial virtue, like hers, to forbear the

attempt.

He desired once more to bless her; 'Whereare you, my dear?' said he, as he stretchedforth his hands. Emily had turned to the window,that he might not perceive her anguish; she nowunderstood, that his sight had failed him. Whenhe had given her his blessing, and it seemed tobe the last effort of expiring life, he sunk backon his pillow. She kissed his forehead; thedamps of death had settled there, and,forgetting her fortitude for a moment, her tearsmingled with them. St. Aubert lifted up his eyes;the spirit of a father returned to them, but itquickly vanished, and he spoke no more.

St. Aubert lingered till about three o'clock inthe afternoon, and, thus gradually sinking intodeath, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh.

Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisinand his daughter, who did what they could tocomfort her. The old man sat and wept with her.Agnes was more erroneously officious.

CHAPTER VIII O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve, Aerial forms shall sit at eve, and bend the pensive head. COLLINS

The monk, who had before appeared,returned in the evening to offer consolation toEmily, and brought a kind message from thelady abbess, inviting her to the convent. Emily,though she did not accept the offer, returned ananswer expressive of her gratitude. The holyconversation of the friar, whose mildbenevolence of manners bore someresemblance to those of St. Aubert, soothed theviolence of her grief, and lifted her heart to theBeing, who, extending through all place and alleternity, looks on the events of this little world ason the shadows of a moment, and beholdsequally, and in the same instant, the soul thathas passed the gates of death, and that, whichstill lingers in the body. 'In the sight of God,' saidEmily, 'my dear father now exists, as truly as heyesterday existed to me; it is to me only that heis dead; to God and to himself he yet lives!'

The good monk left her more tranquil thanshe had been since St. Aubert died; and,before she retired to her little cabin for the night,she trusted herself so far as to visit the corpse.Silent, and without weeping, she stood by itsside. The features, placid and serene, told thenature of the last sensations, that had lingeredin the now deserted frame. For a moment sheturned away, in horror of the stillness in which

death had fixed that countenance, never till nowseen otherwise than animated; then gazed on itwith a mixture of doubt and awful astonishment.Her reason could scarcely overcome aninvoluntary and unaccountable expectation ofseeing that beloved countenance stillsusceptible. She continued to gaze wildly; tookup the cold hand; spoke; still gazed, and thenburst into a transport of grief. La Voisin, hearingher sobs, came into the room to lead her away,but she heard nothing, and only begged that hewould leave her.

Again alone, she indulged her tears, and,when the gloom of evening obscured thechamber, and almost veiled from her eyes theobject of her distress, she still hung over thebody; till her spirits, at length, were exhausted,and she became tranquil. La Voisin againknocked at the door, and entreated that shewould come to the common apartment. Beforeshe went, she kissed the lips of St. Aubert, asshe was wont to do when she bade him goodnight. Again she kissed them; her heart felt as ifit would break, a few tears of agony started toher eyes, she looked up to heaven, then at St.Aubert, and left the room.

Retired to her lonely cabin, her melancholythoughts still hovered round the body of herdeceased parent; and, when she sunk into akind of slumber, the images of her waking mindstill haunted her fancy. She thought she saw herfather approaching her with a benigncountenance; then, smiling mournfully andpointing upwards, his lips moved, but, insteadof words, she heard sweet music borne on the

distant air, and presently saw his features glowwith the mild rapture of a superior being. Thestrain seemed to swell louder, and she awoke.The vision was gone, but music yet came to herear in strains such as angels might breathe.She doubted, listened, raised herself in thebed, and again listened. It was music, and notan illusion of her imagination. After a solemnsteady harmony, it paused; then rose again, inmournful sweetness, and then died, in acadence, that seemed to bear away thelistening soul to heaven. She instantlyremembered the music of the preceding night,with the strange circumstances, related by LaVoisin, and the affecting conversation it had ledto, concerning the state of departed spirits. Allthat St. Aubert had said, on that subject, nowpressed upon her heart, and overwhelmed it.What a change in a few hours! He, who thencould only conjecture, was now madeacquainted with truth; was himself become oneof the departed! As she listened, she waschilled with superstitious awe, her tearsstopped; and she rose, and went to the window.All without was obscured in shade; but Emily,turning her eyes from the massy darkness of thewoods, whose waving outline appeared on thehorizon, saw, on the left, that effulgent planet,which the old man had pointed out, setting overthe woods. She remembered what he had saidconcerning it, and, the music now coming atintervals on the air, she unclosed the casementto listen to the strains, that soon gradually sunkto a greater distance, and tried to discoverwhence they came. The obscurity prevented herfrom distinguishing any object on the greenplatform below; and the sounds became fainter

and fainter, till they softened into silence. Shelistened, but they returned no more. Soon after,she observed the planet trembling between thefringed tops of the woods, and, in the nextmoment, sink behind them. Chilled with amelancholy awe, she retired once more to herbed, and, at length, forgot for a while hersorrows in sleep.

On the following morning, she was visited bya sister of the convent, who came, with kindoffices and a second invitation from the ladyabbess; and Emily, though she could notforsake the cottage, while the remains of herfather were in it, consented, however painfulsuch a visit must be, in the present state of herspirits, to pay her respects to the abbess, in theevening.

About an hour before sun-set, La Voisinshewed her the way through the woods to theconvent, which stood in a small bay of theMediterranean, crowned by a woodyamphitheatre; and Emily, had she been lessunhappy, would have admired the extensivesea view, that appeared from the green slope,in front of the edifice, and the rich shores, hungwith woods and pastures, that extended oneither hand. But her thoughts were nowoccupied by one sad idea, and the features ofnature were to her colourless and without form.The bell for vespers struck, as she passed theancient gate of the convent, and seemed thefunereal note for St. Aubert. Little incidentsaffect a mind, enervated by sorrow; Emilystruggled against the sickening faintness, thatcame over her, and was led into the presence

of the abbess, who received her with an air ofmaternal tenderness; an air of such gentlesolicitude and consideration, as touched herwith an instantaneous gratitude; her eyes werefilled with tears, and the words she would havespoken faltered on her lips. The abbess led herto a seat, and sat down beside her, still holdingher hand and regarding her in silence, as Emilydried her tears and attempted to speak. 'Becomposed, my daughter,' said the abbess in asoothing voice, 'do not speak yet; I know all youwould say. Your spirits must be soothed. Weare going to prayers;—will you attend ourevening service? It is comfortable, my child, tolook up in our afflictions to a father, who seesand pities us, and who chastens in his mercy.'

Emily's tears flowed again, but a thousandsweet emotions mingled with them. The abbesssuffered her to weep without interruption, andwatched over her with a look of benignity, thatmight have characterized the countenance of aguardian angel. Emily, when she becametranquil, was encouraged to speak withoutreserve, and to mention the motive, that madeher unwilling to quit the cottage, which theabbess did not oppose even by a hint; butpraised the filial piety of her conduct, andadded a hope, that she would pass a few daysat the convent, before she returned to LaVallee. 'You must allow yourself a little time torecover from your first shock, my daughter,before you encounter a second; I will not affectto conceal from you how much I know your heartmust suffer, on returning to the scene of yourformer happiness. Here, you will have all, thatquiet and sympathy and religion can give, to

restore your spirits. But come,' added she,observing the tears swell in Emily's eyes, 'wewill go to the chapel.'

Emily followed to the parlour, where the nunswere assembled, to whom the abbesscommitted her, saying, 'This is a daughter, forwhom I have much esteem; be sisters to her.'

They passed on in a train to the chapel,where the solemn devotion, with which theservice was performed, elevated her mind, andbrought to it the comforts of faith andresignation.

Twilight came on, before the abbess'skindness would suffer Emily to depart, whenshe left the convent, with a heart much lighterthan she had entered it, and was reconductedby La Voisin through the woods, the pensivegloom of which was in unison with the temper ofher mind; and she pursued the little wild path, inmusing silence, till her guide suddenly stopped,looked round, and then struck out of the pathinto the high grass, saying he had mistaken theroad. He now walked on quickly, and Emily,proceeding with difficulty over the obscured anduneven ground, was left at some distance, tillher voice arrested him, who seemed unwillingto stop, and still hurried on. 'If you are in doubtabout the way,' said Emily, 'had we not betterenquire it at the chateau yonder, between thetrees?'

'No,' replied La Voisin, 'there is no occasion.When we reach that brook, ma'amselle, (yousee the light upon the water there, beyond thewoods) when we reach that brook, we shall be

at home presently. I don't know how I happenedto mistake the path; I seldom come this wayafter sun-set.'

'It is solitary enough,' said Emily, 'but youhave no banditti here.'

'No, ma'amselle—no banditti.'

'What are you afraid of then, my good friend?you are not superstitious?' 'No, notsuperstitious; but, to tell you the truth, lady,nobody likes to go near that chateau, afterdusk.' 'By whom is it inhabited,' said Emily, 'thatit is so formidable?' 'Why, ma'amselle, it isscarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, andthe lord of all these find woods, too, is dead. Hehad not once been in it, for these many years,and his people, who have the care of it, live in acottage close by.' Emily now understood this tobe the chateau, which La Voisin had formerlypointed out, as having belonged to the MarquisVilleroi, on the mention of which her father hadappeared so much affected.

'Ah! it is a desolate place now,' continued LaVoisin, 'and such a grand, fine place, as Iremember it!' Emily enquired what hadoccasioned this lamentable change; but the oldman was silent, and Emily, whose interest wasawakened by the fear he had expressed, andabove all by a recollection of her father'sagitation, repeated the question, and added, 'Ifyou are neither afraid of the inhabitants, mygood friend, nor are superstitious, how happensit, that you dread to pass near that chateau inthe dark?'

'Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious,ma'amselle; and, if you knew what I do, youmight be so too. Strange things have happenedthere. Monsieur, your good father, appeared tohave known the late Marchioness.' 'Pray informme what did happen?' said Emily, with muchemotion.

'Alas! ma'amselle,' answered La Voisin,'enquire no further; it is not for me to lay openthe domestic secrets of my lord.'—Emily,surprised by the old man's words, and hismanner of delivering them, forbore to repeat herquestion; a nearer interest, the remembrance ofSt. Aubert, occupied her thoughts, and she wasled to recollect the music she heard on thepreceding night, which she mentioned to LaVoisin. 'You was not alone, ma'amselle, in this,'he replied, 'I heard it too; but I have so oftenheard it, at the same hour, that I was scarcelysurprised.'

'You doubtless believe this music to havesome connection with the chateau,' said Emilysuddenly, 'and are, therefore, superstitious.' 'Itmay be so, ma'amselle, but there are othercircumstances, belonging to that chateau, whichI remember, and sadly too.' A heavy sighfollowed: but Emily's delicacy restrained thecuriosity these words revived, and she enquiredno further.

On reaching the cottage, all the violence ofher grief returned; it seemed as if she hadescaped its heavy pressure only while she wasremoved from the object of it. She passedimmediately to the chamber, where the remainsof her father were laid, and yielded to all the

anguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length,persuaded her to leave the room, and shereturned to her own, where, exhausted by thesufferings of the day, she soon fell into deepsleep, and awoke considerably refreshed.

When the dreadful hour arrived, in which theremains of St. Aubert were to be taken from herfor ever, she went alone to the chamber to lookupon his countenance yet once again, and LaVoisin, who had waited patiently below stairs,till her despair should subside, with the respectdue to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgenceof it, till surprise, at the length of her stay, andthen apprehension overcame his delicacy, andhe went to lead her from the chamber. Havingtapped gently at the door, without receiving ananswer, he listened attentively, but all was still;no sigh, no sob of anguish was heard. Yet morealarmed by this silence, he opened the door,and found Emily lying senseless across the footof the bed, near which stood the coffin. His callsprocured assistance, and she was carried toher room, where proper applications, at length,restored her.

During her state of insensibility, La Voisinhad given directions for the coffin to be closed,and he succeeded in persuading Emily toforbear revisiting the chamber. She, indeed, feltherself unequal to this, and also perceived thenecessity of sparing her spirits, and recollectingfortitude sufficient to bear her through theapproaching scene. St. Aubert had given aparticular injunction, that his remains should beinterred in the church of the convent of St. Clair,and, in mentioning the north chancel, near the

ancient tomb of the Villerois, had pointed outthe exact spot, where he wished to be laid. Thesuperior had granted this place for theinterment, and thither, therefore, the sadprocession now moved, which was met, at thegates, by the venerable priest, followed by atrain of friars. Every person, who heard thesolemn chant of the anthem, and the peal of theorgan, that struck up, when the body entered thechurch, and saw also the feeble steps, and theassumed tranquillity of Emily, gave herinvoluntary tears. She shed none, but walked,her face partly shaded by a thin black veil,between two persons, who supported her,preceded by the abbess, and followed by nuns,whose plaintive voices mellowed the swellingharmony of the dirge. When the processioncame to the grave the music ceased. Emilydrew the veil entirely over her face, and, in amomentary pause, between the anthem and therest of the service, her sobs were distinctlyaudible. The holy father began the service, andEmily again commanded her feelings, till thecoffin was let down, and she heard the earthrattle on its lid. Then, as she shuddered, agroan burst from her heart, and she leaned forsupport on the person who stood next to her. Ina few moments she recovered; and, when sheheard those affecting and sublime words: 'Hisbody is buried in peace, and his soul returns toHim that gave it,' her anguish softened intotears.

The abbess led her from the church into herown parlour, and there administered all theconsolations, that religion and gentle sympathycan give. Emily struggled against the pressure

of grief; but the abbess, observing herattentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, andrecommended her to retire to repose. She alsokindly claimed her promise to remain a fewdays at the convent; and Emily, who had nowish to return to the cottage, the scene of all hersufferings, had leisure, now that no immediatecare pressed upon her attention, to feel theindisposition, which disabled her fromimmediately travelling.

Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of theabbess, and the gentle attentions of the nunsdid all, that was possible, towards soothing herspirits and restoring her health. But the latterwas too deeply wounded, through the mediumof her mind, to be quickly revived. She lingeredfor some weeks at the convent, under theinfluence of a slow fever, wishing to returnhome, yet unable to go thither; often evenreluctant to leave the spot where her father'srelics were deposited, and sometimes soothingherself with the consideration, that, if she diedhere, her remains would repose beside thoseof St. Aubert. In the meanwhile, she sent lettersto Madame Cheron and to the oldhousekeeper, informing them of the sad event,that had taken place, and of her own situation.From her aunt she received an answer,abounding more in common-placecondolement, than in traits of real sorrow, whichassured her, that a servant should be sent toconduct her to La Vallee, for that her own timewas so much occupied by company, that shehad no leisure to undertake so long a journey.However Emily might prefer La Vallee toTholouse, she could not be insensible to the

indecorous and unkind conduct of her aunt, insuffering her to return thither, where she had nolonger a relation to console and protect her; aconduct, which was the more culpable, since St.Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron theguardian of his orphan daughter.

Madame Cheron's servant made theattendance of the good La Voisin unnecessary;and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations tohim, for all his kind attention to her late father,as well as to herself, was glad to spare him along, and what, at his time of life, must havebeen a troublesome journey.

During her stay at the convent, the peace andsanctity that reigned within, the tranquil beautyof the scenery without, and the delicateattentions of the abbess and the nuns, werecircumstances so soothing to her mind, thatthey almost tempted her to leave a world, whereshe had lost her dearest friends, and devoteherself to the cloister, in a spot, renderedsacred to her by containing the tomb of St.Aubert. The pensive enthusiasm, too, so naturalto her temper, had spread a beautiful illusionover the sanctified retirement of a nun, thatalmost hid from her view the selfishness of itssecurity. But the touches, which a melancholyfancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave tothe monastic scene, began to fade, as herspirits revived, and brought once more to herheart an image, which had only transiently beenbanished thence. By this she was silentlyawakened to hope and comfort and sweetaffections; visions of happiness gleamed faintlyat a distance, and, though she knew them to be

illusions, she could not resolve to shut them outfor ever. It was the remembrance of Valancourt,of his taste, his genius, and of the countenancewhich glowed with both, that, perhaps, alonedetermined her to return to the world. Thegrandeur and sublimity of the scenes, amidstwhich they had first met, had fascinated herfancy, and had imperceptibly contributed torender Valancourt more interesting by seemingto communicate to him somewhat of their owncharacter. The esteem, too, which St. Auberthad repeatedly expressed for him, sanctionedthis kindness; but, though his countenance andmanner had continually expressed hisadmiration of her, he had not otherwisedeclared it; and even the hope of seeing himagain was so distant, that she was scarcelyconscious of it, still less that it influenced herconduct on this occasion.

It was several days after the arrival ofMadame Cheron's servant before Emily wassufficiently recovered to undertake the journeyto La Vallee. On the evening preceding herdeparture, she went to the cottage to take leaveof La Voisin and his family, and to make them areturn for their kindness. The old man she foundsitting on a bench at his door, between hisdaughter, and his son-in-law, who was justreturned from his daily labour, and who wasplaying upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled anoboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man,and, before him, a small table with fruit andbread, round which stood several of hisgrandsons, fine rosy children, who were takingtheir supper, as their mother distributed it. Onthe edge of the little green, that spread before

the cottage, were cattle and a few sheepreposing under the trees. The landscape wastouched with the mellow light of the evening sun,whose long slanting beams played through avista of the woods, and lighted up the distantturrets of the chateau. She paused a moment,before she emerged from the shade, to gazeupon the happy group before her—on thecomplacency and ease of healthy age,depictured on the countenance of La Voisin; thematernal tenderness of Agnes, as she lookedupon her children, and the innocency ofinfantine pleasures, reflected in their smiles.Emily looked again at the venerable old man,and at the cottage; the memory of her fatherrose with full force upon her mind, and shehastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herselfwith a longer pause. She took an affectionateand affecting leave of La Voisin and his family;he seemed to love her as his daughter, andshed tears; Emily shed many. She avoidedgoing into the cottage, since she knew it wouldrevive emotions, such as she could not nowendure.

One painful scene yet awaited her, for shedetermined to visit again her father's grave; andthat she might not be interrupted, or observed inthe indulgence of her melancholy tenderness,she deferred her visit, till every inhabitant of theconvent, except the nun who promised to bringher the key of the church, should be retired torest. Emily remained in her chamber, till sheheard the convent bell strike twelve, when thenun came, as she had appointed, with the keyof a private door, that opened into the church,and they descended together the narrow

winding stair-case, that led thither. The nunoffered to accompany Emily to the grave,adding, 'It is melancholy to go alone at thishour;' but the former, thanking her for theconsideration, could not consent to have anywitness of her sorrow; and the sister, havingunlocked the door, gave her the lamp. 'You willremember, sister,' said she, 'that in the eastaisle, which you must pass, is a newly openedgrave; hold the light to the ground, that you maynot stumble over the loose earth.' Emily,thanking her again, took the lamp, and,stepping into the church, sister Mariettedeparted. But Emily paused a moment at thedoor; a sudden fear came over her, and shereturned to the foot of the stair-case, where, asshe heard the steps of the nun ascending, and,while she held up the lamp, saw her black veilwaving over the spiral balusters, she wastempted to call her back. While she hesitated,the veil disappeared, and, in the next moment,ashamed of her fears, she returned to thechurch. The cold air of the aisles chilled her,and their deep silence and extent, feebly shoneupon by the moon-light, that streamed through adistant gothic window, would at any other timehave awed her into superstition; now, griefoccupied all her attention. She scarcely heardthe whispering echoes of her own steps, orthought of the open grave, till she found herselfalmost on its brink. A friar of the convent hadbeen buried there on the preceding evening,and, as she had sat alone in her chamber attwilight, she heard, at distance, the monkschanting the requiem for his soul. This broughtfreshly to her memory the circumstances of herfather's death; and, as the voices, mingling with

a low querulous peal of the organ, swelledfaintly, gloomy and affecting visions had arisenupon her mind. Now she remembered them,and, turning aside to avoid the broken ground,these recollections made her pass on withquicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when inthe moon-light, that fell athwart a remote part ofthe aisle, she thought she saw a shadow glidingbetween the pillars. She stopped to listen, and,not hearing any footstep, believed that her fancyhad deceived her, and, no longer apprehensiveof being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert wasburied beneath a plain marble, bearing littlemore than his name and the date of his birthand death, near the foot of the statelymonument of the Villerois. Emily remained athis grave, till a chime, that called the monks toearly prayers, warned her to retire; then, shewept over it a last farewel, and forced herselffrom the spot. After this hour of melancholyindulgence, she was refreshed by a deepersleep, than she had experienced for a longtime, and, on awakening, her mind was moretranquil and resigned, than it had been since St.Aubert's death.

But, when the moment of her departure fromthe convent arrived, all her grief returned; thememory of the dead, and the kindness of theliving attached her to the place; and for thesacred spot, where her father's remains wereinterred, she seemed to feel all those tenderaffections which we conceive for home. Theabbess repeated many kind assurances ofregard at their parting, and pressed her toreturn, if ever she should find her conditionelsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also

expressed unaffected regret at her departure,and Emily left the convent with many tears, andfollowed by sincere wishes for her happiness.

She had travelled several leagues, before thescenes of the country, through which shepassed, had power to rouse her for a momentfrom the deep melancholy, into which she wassunk, and, when they did, it was only to remindher, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubertwas at her side, and to call up to herremembrance the remarks he had delivered onsimilar scenery. Thus, without any particularoccurrence, passed the day in languor anddejection. She slept that night in a town on theskirts of Languedoc, and, on the followingmorning, entered Gascony.

Towards the close of this day, Emily camewithin view of the plains in the neighbourhood ofLa Vallee, and the well-known objects of formertimes began to press upon her notice, and withthem recollections, that awakened all hertenderness and grief. Often, while she lookedthrough her tears upon the wild grandeur of thePyrenees, now varied with the rich lights andshadows of evening, she remembered, that,when last she saw them, her father partook withher of the pleasure they inspired. Suddenlysome scene, which he had particularly pointedout to her, would present itself, and the sicklanguor of despair would steal upon her heart.'There!' she would exclaim, 'there are the verycliffs, there the wood of pines, which he lookedat with such delight, as we passed this roadtogether for the last time. There, too, under thecrag of that mountain, is the cottage, peeping

from among the cedars, which he bade meremember, and copy with my pencil. O myfather, shall I never see you more!'

As she drew near the chateau, thesemelancholy memorials of past times multiplied.At length, the chateau itself appeared, amid theglowing beauty of St. Aubert's favouritelandscape. This was an object, which called forfortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, andprepared to meet with calmness the tryingmoment of her return to that home, where therewas no longer a parent to welcome her. 'Yes,'said she, 'let me not forget the lessons he hastaught me! How often he has pointed out thenecessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow; howoften we have admired together the greatnessof a mind, that can at once suffer and reason! Omy father! if you are permitted to look downupon your child, it will please you to see, thatshe remembers, and endeavours to practise,the precepts you have given her.'

A turn on the road now allowed a nearer viewof the chateau, the chimneys, tipped with light,rising from behind St. Aubert's favourite oaks,whose foliage partly concealed the lower part ofthe building. Emily could not suppress a heavysigh. 'This, too, was his favourite hour,' saidshe, as she gazed upon the long eveningshadows, stretched athwart the landscape.'How deep the repose, how lovely the scene!lovely and tranquil as in former days!'

Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, tillher ear caught the gay melody of the dance,which she had so often listened to, as shewalked with St. Aubert, on the margin of the

Garonne, when all her fortitude forsook her, andshe continued to weep, till the carriage stoppedat the little gate, that opened upon what wasnow her own territory. She raised her eyes onthe sudden stopping of the carriage, and sawher father's old housekeeper coming to openthe gate. Manchon also came running, andbarking before her; and when his youngmistress alighted, fawned, and played roundher, gasping with joy.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Theresa, andpaused, and looked as if she would haveoffered something of condolement to Emily,whose tears now prevented reply. The dog stillfawned and ran round her, and then flewtowards the carriage, with a short quick bark.'Ah, ma'amselle!—my poor master!' saidTheresa, whose feelings were more awakenedthan her delicacy, 'Manchon's gone to look forhim.' Emily sobbed aloud; and, on lookingtowards the carriage, which still stood with thedoor open, saw the animal spring into it, andinstantly leap out, and then with his nose on theground run round the horses.

'Don't cry so, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, 'itbreaks my heart to see you.' The dog nowcame running to Emily, then returned to thecarriage, and then back again to her, whiningand discontented. 'Poor rogue!' said Theresa,'thou hast lost thy master, thou mayst well cry!But come, my dear young lady, be comforted.What shall I get to refresh you?' Emily gave herhand to the old servant, and tried to restrain hergrief, while she made some kind enquiriesconcerning her health. But she still lingered in

the walk which led to the chateau, for within wasno person to meet her with the kiss of affection;her own heart no longer palpitated withimpatient joy to meet again the well-knownsmile, and she dreaded to see objects, whichwould recall the full remembrance of her formerhappiness. She moved slowly towards the door,paused, went on, and paused again. Howsilent, how forsaken, how forlorn did thechateau appear! Trembling to enter it, yetblaming herself for delaying what she could notavoid, she, at length, passed into the hall;crossed it with a hurried step, as if afraid tolook round, and opened the door of that room,which she was wont to call her own. The gloomof evening gave solemnity to its silent anddeserted air. The chairs, the tables, everyarticle of furniture, so familiar to her in happiertimes, spoke eloquently to her heart. Sheseated herself, without immediately observingit, in a window, which opened upon the garden,and where St. Aubert had often sat with her,watching the sun retire from the rich andextensive prospect, that appeared beyond thegroves.

Having indulged her tears for some time, shebecame more composed; and, when Theresa,after seeing the baggage deposited in herlady's room, again appeared, she had so farrecovered her spirits, as to be able to conversewith her.

'I have made up the green bed for you,ma'amselle,' said Theresa, as she set thecoffee upon the table. 'I thought you would like itbetter than your own now; but I little thought this

day month, that you would come back alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my heart,when it did come. Who would have believed,that my poor master, when he went from home,would never return again!' Emily hid her facewith her handkerchief, and waved her hand.

'Do taste the coffee,' said Theresa. 'My dearyoung lady, be comforted—we must all die. Mydear master is a saint above.' Emily took thehandkerchief from her face, and raised hereyes full of tears towards heaven; soon aftershe dried them, and, in a calm, but tremulousvoice, began to enquire concerning some of herlate father's pensioners.

'Alas-a-day!' said Theresa, as she pouredout the coffee, and handed it to her mistress, 'allthat could come, have been here every day toenquire after you and my master.' She thenproceeded to tell, that some were dead whomthey had left well; and others, who were ill, hadrecovered. 'And see, ma'amselle,' addedTheresa, 'there is old Mary coming up thegarden now; she has looked every day thesethree years as if she would die, yet she is alivestill. She has seen the chaise at the door, andknows you are come home.'

The sight of this poor old woman would havebeen too much for Emily, and she beggedTheresa would go and tell her, that she was tooill to see any person that night. 'To-morrow Ishall be better, perhaps; but give her this tokenof my remembrance.'

Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow.Not an object, on which her eye glanced, but

awakened some remembrance, that ledimmediately to the subject of her grief. Herfavourite plants, which St. Aubert had taught herto nurse; the little drawings, that adorned theroom, which his taste had instructed her toexecute; the books, that he had selected for heruse, and which they had read together; hermusical instruments, whose sounds he loved sowell, and which he sometimes awakenedhimself—every object gave new force tosorrow. At length, she roused herself from thismelancholy indulgence, and, summoning all herresolution, stepped forward to go into thoseforlorn rooms, which, though she dreaded toenter, she knew would yet more powerfullyaffect her, if she delayed to visit them.

Having passed through the green-house, hercourage for a moment forsook her, when sheopened the door of the library; and, perhaps,the shade, which evening and the foliage of thetrees near the windows threw across the room,heightened the solemnity of her feelings onentering that apartment, where every thingspoke of her father. There was an arm chair, inwhich he used to sit; she shrunk when sheobserved it, for she had so often seen himseated there, and the idea of him rose sodistinctly to her mind, that she almost fanciedshe saw him before her. But she checked theillusions of a distempered imagination, thoughshe could not subdue a certain degree of awe,which now mingled with her emotions. Shewalked slowly to the chair, and seated herself init; there was a reading-desk before it, on whichlay a book open, as it had been left by herfather. It was some moments before she

recovered courage enough to examine it; and,when she looked at the open page, sheimmediately recollected, that St. Aubert, on theevening before his departure from the chateau,had read to her some passages from this hisfavourite author. The circumstance now affectedher extremely; she looked at the page, wept,and looked again. To her the book appearedsacred and invaluable, and she would not havemoved it, or closed the page, which he had leftopen, for the treasures of the Indies. Still shesat before the desk, and could not resolve toquit it, though the increasing gloom, and theprofound silence of the apartment, revived adegree of painful awe. Her thoughts dwelt onthe probable state of departed spirits, and sheremembered the affecting conversation, whichhad passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin,on the night preceding his death.

As she mused she saw the door slowly open,and a rustling sound in a remote part of theroom startled her. Through the dusk she thoughtshe perceived something move. The subjectshe had been considering, and the present toneof her spirits, which made her imaginationrespond to every impression of her senses,gave her a sudden terror of somethingsupernatural. She sat for a moment motionless,and then, her dissipated reason returning,'What should I fear?' said she. 'If the spirits ofthose we love ever return to us, it is inkindness.'

The silence, which again reigned, made herashamed of her late fears, and she believed,that her imagination had deluded her, or that

she had heard one of those unaccountablenoises, which sometimes occur in old houses.The same sound, however, returned; and,distinguishing something moving towards her,and in the next instant press beside her into thechair, she shrieked; but her fleeting senseswere instantly recalled, on perceiving that it wasManchon who sat by her, and who now lickedher hands affectionately.

Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task shehad assigned herself of visiting the desertedrooms of the chateau this night, when she leftthe library, she walked into the garden, anddown to the terrace, that overhung the river. Thesun was now set; but, under the dark branchesof the almond trees, was seen the saffron glowof the west, spreading beyond the twilight ofmiddle air. The bat flitted silently by; and, nowand then, the mourning note of the nightingalewas heard. The circumstances of the hourbrought to her recollection some lines, whichshe had once heard St. Aubert recite on thisvery spot, and she had now a melancholypleasure in repeating them.

SONNET

Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve, That creeps, in shudd'ring fits, along the wave, And trembles 'mid the woods, and through the cave Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive; For oft, when melancholy charms his mind, He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears, Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears, To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind! Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew Falls silent round, and, o'er the mountain-cliff, The gleaming wave, and far-discover'd skiff,

Spreads the gray veil of soft, harmonious hue. So falls o'er Grief the dew of pity's tear Dimming her lonely visions of despair.

Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert'sfavourite plane-tree, where so often, at thishour, they had sat beneath the shade together,and with her dear mother so often hadconversed on the subject of a future state. Howoften, too, had her father expressed the comforthe derived from believing, that they should meetin another world! Emily, overcome by theserecollections, left the plane-tree, and, as sheleaned pensively on the wall of the terrace, sheobserved a group of peasants dancing gaily onthe banks of the Garonne, which spread inbroad expanse below, and reflected theevening light. What a contrast they formed tothe desolate, unhappy Emily! They were gayand debonnaire, as they were wont to be whenshe, too, was gay—when St. Aubert used tolisten to their merry music, with a countenancebeaming pleasure and benevolence. Emily,having looked for a moment on this sprightlyband, turned away, unable to bear theremembrances it excited; but where, alas!could she turn, and not meet new objects togive acuteness to grief?

As she walked slowly towards the house, shewas met by Theresa. 'Dear ma'amselle,' saidshe, 'I have been seeking you up and down thishalf hour, and was afraid some accident hadhappened to you. How can you like to wanderabout so in this night air! Do come into thehouse. Think what my poor master would havesaid, if he could see you. I am sure, when mydear lady died, no gentleman could take it more

to heart than he did, yet you know he seldomshed a tear.'

'Pray, Theresa, cease,' said Emily, wishing tointerrupt this ill-judged, but well-meaningharangue; Theresa's loquacity, however, wasnot to be silenced so easily. 'And when youused to grieve so,' she added, 'he often told youhow wrong it was—for that my mistress washappy. And, if she was happy, I am sure he isso too; for the prayers of the poor, they say,reach heaven.' During this speech, Emily hadwalked silently into the chateau, and Theresalighted her across the hall into the commonsitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth, withone solitary knife and fork, for supper. Emilywas in the room before she perceived that itwas not her own apartment, but she checkedthe emotion which inclined her to leave it, andseated herself quietly by the little supper table.Her father's hat hung upon the opposite wall;while she gazed at it, a faintness came overher. Theresa looked at her, and then at theobject, on which her eyes were settled, andwent to remove it; but Emily waved her hand—'No,' said she, 'let it remain. I am going to mychamber.' 'Nay, ma'amselle, supper is ready.' 'Icannot take it,' replied Emily, 'I will go to myroom, and try to sleep. Tomorrow I shall bebetter.'

'This is poor doings!' said Theresa. 'Dearlady! do take some food! I have dressed apheasant, and a fine one it is. Old MonsieurBarreaux sent it this morning, for I saw himyesterday, and told him you were coming. And Iknow nobody that seemed more concerned,

when he heard the sad news, then he.'

'Did he?' said Emily, in a tender voice, whileshe felt her poor heart warmed for a moment bya ray of sympathy.

At length, her spirits were entirely overcome,and she retired to her room.

CHAPTER IX Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye, Can Painting's glowing hand supply A charm so suited to my mind, As blows this hollow gust of wind? As drops this little weeping rill, Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill; While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day, Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray? MASON

Emily, some time after her return to LaVallee, received letters from her aunt, MadameCheron, in which, after some common-placecondolement and advice, she invited her toTholouse, and added, that, as her late brotherhad entrusted Emily's EDUCATION to her, sheshould consider herself bound to overlook herconduct. Emily, at this time, wished only toremain at La Vallee, in the scenes of her earlyhappiness, now rendered infinitely dear to her,as the late residence of those, whom she hadlost for ever, where she could weepunobserved, retrace their steps, and remembereach minute particular of their manners. But shewas equally anxious to avoid the displeasure ofMadame Cheron.

Though her affection would not suffer her toquestion, even a moment, the propriety of St.Aubert's conduct in appointing MadameCheron for her guardian, she was sensible, thatthis step had made her happiness depend, in agreat degree, on the humour of her aunt. In herreply, she begged permission to remain, at

present, at La Vallee, mentioning the extremedejection of her spirits, and the necessity shefelt for quiet and retirement to restore them.These she knew were not to be found atMadame Cheron's, whose inclinations led herinto a life of dissipation, which her amplefortune encouraged; and, having given heranswer, she felt somewhat more at ease.

In the first days of her affliction, she wasvisited by Monsieur Barreaux, a sinceremourner for St. Aubert. 'I may well lament myfriend,' said he, 'for I shall never meet with hisresemblance. If I could have found such a manin what is called society, I should not have left it.'

M. Barreaux's admiration of her fatherendeared him extremely to Emily, whose heartfound almost its first relief in conversing of herparents, with a man, whom she so muchrevered, and who, though with such anungracious appearance, possessed to muchgoodness of heart and delicacy of mind.

Several weeks passed away in quietretirement, and Emily's affliction began tosoften into melancholy. She could bear to readthe books she had before read with her father;to sit in his chair in the library—to watch theflowers his hand had planted—to awaken thetones of that instrument his fingers hadpressed, and sometimes even to play hisfavourite air.

When her mind had recovered from the firstshock of affliction, perceiving the danger ofyielding to indolence, and that activity alonecould restore its tone, she scrupulously

endeavoured to pass all her hours inemployment. And it was now that sheunderstood the full value of the education shehad received from St. Aubert, for in cultivatingher understanding he had secured her anasylum from indolence, without recourse todissipation, and rich and varied amusementand information, independent of the society,from which her situation secluded her. Nor werethe good effects of this education confined toselfish advantages, since, St. Aubert havingnourished every amiable qualify of her heart, itnow expanded in benevolence to all around her,and taught her, when she could not remove themisfortunes of others, at least to soften them bysympathy and tenderness;—a benevolence thattaught her to feel for all, that could suffer.

Madame Cheron returned no answer toEmily's letter, who began to hope, that sheshould be permitted to remain some timelonger in her retirement, and her mind had nowso far recovered its strength, that she venturedto view the scenes, which most powerfullyrecalled the images of past times. Amongthese was the fishing-house; and, to indulge stillmore the affectionate melancholy of the visit,she took thither her lute, that she might againhear there the tones, to which St. Aubert andher mother had so often delighted to listen. Shewent alone, and at that still hour of the eveningwhich is so soothing to fancy and to grief. Thelast time she had been here she was incompany with Monsieur and Madame St.Aubert, a few days preceding that, on which thelatter was seized with a fatal illness. Now, whenEmily again entered the woods, that surrounded

the building, they awakened so forcibly thememory of former times, that her resolutionyielded for a moment to excess of grief. Shestopped, leaned for support against a tree, andwept for some minutes, before she hadrecovered herself sufficiently to proceed. Thelittle path, that led to the building, wasovergrown with grass and the flowers which St.Aubert had scattered carelessly along theborder were almost choked with weeds—thetall thistle—the fox-glove, and the nettle. Sheoften paused to look on the desolate spot, nowso silent and forsaken, and when, with atrembling hand, she opened the door of thefishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing—every thing remains as when I left it last—left itwith those who never must return!' She went toa window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaningover it, with her eyes fixed on the current, wassoon lost in melancholy reverie. The lute shehad brought lay forgotten beside her; themournful sighing of the breeze, as it waved thehigh pines above, and its softer whispersamong the osiers, that bowed upon the banksbelow, was a kind of music more in unison withher feelings. It did not vibrate on the chords ofunhappy memory, but was soothing to the heartas the voice of Pity. She continued to muse,unconscious of the gloom of evening, and thatthe sun's last light trembled on the heightsabove, and would probably have remained somuch longer, if a sudden footstep, without thebuilding, had not alarmed her attention, and firstmade her recollect that she was unprotected. Inthe next moment, a door opened, and astranger appeared, who stopped on perceivingEmily, and then began to apologize for his

intrusion. But Emily, at the sound of his voice,lost her fear in a stronger emotion: its toneswere familiar to her ear, and, though she couldnot readily distinguish through the dusk thefeatures of the person who spoke, she felt aremembrance too strong to be distrusted.

He repeated his apology, and Emily thensaid something in reply, when the strangereagerly advancing, exclaimed, 'Good God! canit be—surely I am not mistaken—ma'amselleSt. Aubert?—is it not?'

'It is indeed,' said Emily, who was confirmedin her first conjecture, for she now distinguishedthe countenance of Valancourt, lighted up withstill more than its usual animation. A thousandpainful recollections crowded to her mind, andthe effort, which she made to support herself,only served to increase her agitation.Valancourt, meanwhile, having enquiredanxiously after her health, and expressed hishopes, that M. St. Aubert had found benefit fromtravelling, learned from the flood of tears, whichshe could no longer repress, the fatal truth. Heled her to a seat, and sat down by her, whileEmily continued to weep, and Valancourt tohold the hand, which she was unconscious hehad taken, till it was wet with the tears, whichgrief for St. Aubert and sympathy for herself hadcalled forth.

'I feel,' said he at length, 'I feel how insufficientall attempt at consolation must be on thissubject. I can only mourn with you, for I cannotdoubt the source of your tears. Would to God Iwere mistaken!'

Emily could still answer only by tears, till sherose, and begged they might leave themelancholy spot, when Valancourt, though hesaw her feebleness, could not offer to detainher, but took her arm within his, and led herfrom the fishing-house. They walked silentlythrough the woods, Valancourt anxious to know,yet fearing to ask any particulars concerning St.Aubert; and Emily too much distressed toconverse. After some time, however, sheacquired fortitude enough to speak of herfather, and to give a brief account of the mannerof his death; during which recital Valancourt'scountenance betrayed strong emotion, and,when he heard that St. Aubert had died on theroad, and that Emily had been left amongstrangers, he pressed her hand between his,and involuntarily exclaimed, 'Why was I notthere!' but in the next moment recollectedhimself, for he immediately returned to themention of her father; till, perceiving that herspirits were exhausted, he gradually changedthe subject, and spoke of himself. Emily thuslearned that, after they had parted, he hadwandered, for some time, along the shores ofthe Mediterranean, and had then returnedthrough Languedoc into Gascony, which washis native province, and where he usuallyresided.

When he had concluded his little narrative, hesunk into a silence, which Emily was notdisposed to interrupt, and it continued, till theyreached the gate of the chateau, when hestopped, as if he had known this to be the limitof his walk. Here, saying, that it was hisintention to return to Estuviere on the following

day, he asked her if she would permit him totake leave of her in the morning; and Emily,perceiving that she could not reject an ordinarycivility, without expressing by her refusal anexpectation of something more, was compelledto answer, that she should be at home.

She passed a melancholy evening, duringwhich the retrospect of all that had happened,since she had seen Valancourt, would rise toher imagination; and the scene of her father'sdeath appeared in tints as fresh, as if it hadpassed on the preceding day. Sheremembered particularly the earnest andsolemn manner, in which he had required her todestroy the manuscript papers, and, awakeningfrom the lethargy, in which sorrow had held her,she was shocked to think she had not yetobeyed him, and determined, that another dayshould not reproach her with the neglect.

CHAPTER X Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? MACBETH

On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire tobe lighted in the stove of the chamber, whereSt. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as shehad breakfasted, went thither to burn thepapers. Having fastened the door to preventinterruption, she opened the closet where theywere concealed, as she entered which, she feltan emotion of unusual awe, and stood for somemoments surveying it, trembling, and almostafraid to remove the board. There was a greatchair in one corner of the closet, and, oppositeto it, stood the table, at which she had seen herfather sit, on the evening that preceded hisdeparture, looking over, with so much emotion,what she believed to be these very papers.

The solitary life, which Emily had led of late,and the melancholy subjects, on which she hadsuffered her thoughts to dwell, had rendered herat times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' ofa mind greatly enervated. It was lamentable,that her excellent understanding should haveyielded, even for a moment, to the reveries ofsuperstition, or rather to those starts ofimagination, which deceive the senses intowhat can be called nothing less than momentarymadness. Instances of this temporary failure ofmind had more than once occurred since herreturn home; particularly when, wandering

through this lonely mansion in the eveningtwilight, she had been alarmed byappearances, which would have been unseenin her more cheerful days. To this infirm state ofher nerves may be attributed what sheimagined, when, her eyes glancing a secondtime on the arm-chair, which stood in anobscure part of the closet, the countenance ofher dead father appeared there. Emily stoodfixed for a moment to the floor, after which sheleft the closet. Her spirits, however, soonreturned; she reproached herself with theweakness of thus suffering interruption in an actof serious importance, and again opened thedoor. By the directions which St. Aubert hadgiven her, she readily found the board he haddescribed in an opposite corner of the closet,near the window; she distinguished also the linehe had mentioned, and, pressing it as he hadbade her, it slid down, and disclosed the bundleof papers, together with some scattered ones,and the purse of louis. With a trembling handshe removed them, replaced the board, pauseda moment, and was rising from the floor, when,on looking up, there appeared to her alarmedfancy the same countenance in the chair. Theillusion, another instance of the unhappy effectwhich solitude and grief had gradually producedupon her mind, subdued her spirits; she rushedforward into the chamber, and sunk almostsenseless into a chair. Returning reason soonovercame the dreadful, but pitiable attack ofimagination, and she turned to the papers,though still with so little recollection, that hereyes involuntarily settled on the writing of someloose sheets, which lay open; and she wasunconscious, that she was transgressing her

father's strict injunction, till a sentence ofdreadful import awakened her attention and hermemory together. She hastily put the papersfrom her; but the words, which had rousedequally her curiosity and terror, she could notdismiss from her thoughts. So powerfully hadthey affected her, that she even could notresolve to destroy the papers immediately; andthe more she dwelt on the circumstance, themore it inflamed her imagination. Urged by themost forcible, and apparently the mostnecessary, curiosity to enquire farther,concerning the terrible and mysterious subject,to which she had seen an allusion, she began tolament her promise to destroy the papers. For amoment, she even doubted, whether it couldjustly be obeyed, in contradiction to suchreasons as there appeared to be for furtherinformation. But the delusion was momentary.

'I have given a solemn promise,' said she, 'toobserve a solemn injunction, and it is not mybusiness to argue, but to obey. Let me hastento remove the temptation, that would destroy myinnocence, and embitter my life with theconsciousness of irremediable guilt, while Ihave strength to reject it.'

Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty,she completed the triumph of her integrity overtemptation, more forcible than any she had everknown, and consigned the papers to the flames.Her eyes watched them as they slowlyconsumed, she shuddered at the recollection ofthe sentence she had just seen, and at thecertainty, that the only opportunity of explainingit was then passing away for ever.

It was long after this, that she recollected thepurse; and as she was depositing it, unopened,in a cabinet, perceiving that it containedsomething of a size larger than coin, sheexamined it. 'His hand deposited them here,'said she, as she kissed some pieces of thecoin, and wetted them with her tears, 'his hand—which is now dust!' At the bottom of the pursewas a small packet, having taken out which,and unfolded paper after paper, she found to bean ivory case, containing the miniature of a—lady! She started—'The same,' said she, 'myfather wept over!' On examining thecountenance she could recollect no person thatit resembled. It was of uncommon beauty, andwas characterized by an expression ofsweetness, shaded with sorrow, and temperedby resignation.

St. Aubert had given no directionsconcerning this picture, nor had even named it;she, therefore, thought herself justified inpreserving it. More than once remembering hismanner, when he had spoken of theMarchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined tobelieve that this was her resemblance; yet thereappeared no reason why he should havepreserved a picture of that lady, or, havingpreserved it, why he should lament over it in amanner so striking and affecting as she hadwitnessed on the night preceding his departure.

Emily still gazed on the countenance,examining its features, but she knew not whereto detect the charm that captivated herattention, and inspired sentiments of such loveand pity. Dark brown hair played carelessly

along the open forehead; the nose was ratherinclined to aquiline; the lips spoke in a smile,but it was a melancholy one; the eyes wereblue, and were directed upwards with anexpression of peculiar meekness, while the softcloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibility ofthe temper.

Emily was roused from the musing mood intowhich the picture had thrown her, by the closingof the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes tothe window, she saw Valancourt comingtowards the chateau. Her spirits agitated by thesubjects that had lately occupied her mind, shefelt unprepared to see him, and remained a fewmoments in the chamber to recover herself.

When she met him in the parlour, she wasstruck with the change that appeared in his airand countenance since they had parted inRousillon, which twilight and the distress shesuffered on the preceding evening hadprevented her from observing. But dejectionand languor disappeared, for a moment, in thesmile that now enlightened his countenance, onperceiving her. 'You see,' said he, 'I haveavailed myself of the permission with which youhonoured me—of bidding YOU farewell, whom Ihad the happiness of meeting only yesterday.'

Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to saysomething, asked if he had been long inGascony. 'A few days only,' replied Valancourt,while a blush passed over his cheek. 'I engagedin a long ramble after I had the misfortune ofparting with the friends who had made mywanderings among the Pyrenees so delightful.'

A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourtsaid this, which he observed; and, anxious todraw off her attention from the remembrancethat had occasioned it, as well as shocked athis own thoughtlessness, he began to speak onother subjects, expressing his admiration of thechateau, and its prospects. Emily, who feltsomewhat embarrassed how to support aconversation, was glad of such an opportunityto continue it on indifferent topics. They walkeddown to the terrace, where Valancourt wascharmed with the river scenery, and the viewsover the opposite shores of Guienne.

As he leaned on the wall of the terrace,watching the rapid current of the Garonne, 'Iwas a few weeks ago,' said he, 'at the source ofthis noble river; I had not then the happiness ofknowing you, or I should have regretted yourabsence—it was a scene so exactly suited toyour taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, stillwilder and more sublime, I think, than any wepassed in the way to Rousillon.' He thendescribed its fall among the precipices of themountains, where its waters, augmented by thestreams that descend from the snowy summitsaround, rush into the Vallee d'Aran, betweenwhose romantic heights it foams along,pursuing its way to the north west till it emergesupon the plains of Languedoc. Then, washingthe walls of Tholouse, and turning again to thenorth west, it assumes a milder character, as itfertilizes the pastures of Gascony and Guienne,in its progress to the Bay of Biscay.

Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenesthey had passed among the Pyrenean Alps; as

he spoke of which there was often a tremuloustenderness in his voice, and sometimes heexpatiated on them with all the fire of genius,sometimes would appear scarcely conscious ofthe topic, though he continued to speak. Thissubject recalled forcibly to Emily the idea of herfather, whose image appeared in everylandscape, which Valancourt particularized,whose remarks dwelt upon her memory, andwhose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Hersilence, at length, reminded Valancourt hownearly his conversation approached to theoccasion of her grief, and he changed thesubject, though for one scarcely less affecting toEmily. When he admired the grandeur of theplane-tree, that spread its wide branches overthe terrace, and under whose shade they nowsat, she remembered how often she had satthus with St. Aubert, and heard him express thesame admiration.

'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,'said she; 'he used to love to sit under its foliagewith his family about him, in the fine evenings ofsummer.'

Valancourt understood her feelings, and wassilent; had she raised her eyes from the groundshe would have seen tears in his. He rose, andleaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, ina few moments, he returned to his seat, thenrose again, and appeared to be greatlyagitated; while Emily found her spirits so muchdepressed, that several of her attempts torenew the conversation were ineffectual.Valancourt again sat down, but was still silent,and trembled. At length he said, with a

hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!—I amgoing to leave—to leave you—perhaps forever! These moments may never return; Icannot resolve to neglect, though I scarcelydare to avail myself of them. Let me, however,without offending the delicacy of your sorrow,venture to declare the admiration I must alwaysfeel of your goodness—O! that at some futureperiod I might be permitted to call it love!'

Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply;and Valancourt, who now ventured to look up,observing her countenance change, expectedto see her faint, and made an involuntary effortto support her, which recalled Emily to a senseof her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits.Valancourt did not appear to notice herindisposition, but, when he spoke again, hisvoice told the tenderest love. 'I will not presume,'he added, 'to intrude this subject longer uponyour attention at this time, but I may, perhaps,be permitted to mention, that these partingmoments would lose much of their bitterness if Imight be allowed to hope the declaration I havemade would not exclude me from yourpresence in future.'

Emily made another effort to overcome theconfusion of her thoughts, and to speak. Shefeared to trust the preference her heartacknowledged towards Valancourt, and to givehim any encouragement for hope, on so shortan acquaintance. For though in this narrowperiod she had observed much that wasadmirable in his taste and disposition, andthough these observations had beensanctioned by the opinion of her father, they

were not sufficient testimonies of his generalworth to determine her upon a subject soinfinitely important to her future happiness asthat, which now solicited her attention. Yet,though the thought of dismissing Valancourtwas so very painful to her, that she couldscarcely endure to pause upon it, theconsciousness of this made her fear thepartiality of her judgment, and hesitate still moreto encourage that suit, for which her own hearttoo tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt,if not his circumstances, had been known to herfather, and known to be unexceptionable. Of hiscircumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as faras delicacy would permit, when he said he hadat present little else to offer but an heart, thatadored her. He had solicited only for a distanthope, and she could not resolve to forbid,though she scarcely dared to permit it; at length,she acquired courage to say, that she mustthink herself honoured by the good opinion ofany person, whom her father had esteemed.

'And was I, then, thought worthy of hisesteem?' said Valancourt, in a voice tremblingwith anxiety; then checking himself, he added,'But pardon the question; I scarcely know what Isay. If I might dare to hope, that you think me notunworthy such honour, and might be permittedsometimes to enquire after your health, I shouldnow leave you with comparative tranquillity.'

Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I willbe ingenuous with you, for I know you willunderstand, and allow for my situation; you willconsider it as a proof of my—my esteem that Iam so. Though I live here in what was my

father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas! nolonger a parent—a parent, whose presencemight sanction your visits. It is unnecessary forme to point out the impropriety of my receivingthem.'

'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,'replied Valancourt, adding mournfully—'butwhat is to console me for my candour? Idistress you, and would now leave the subject, ifI might carry with me a hope of being sometime permitted to renew it, of being allowed tomake myself known to your family.'

Emily was again confused, and againhesitated what to reply; she felt most acutely thedifficulty—the forlornness of her situation, whichdid not allow her a single relative, or friend, towhom she could turn for even a look, that mightsupport and guide her in the presentembarrassing circumstances. MadameCheron, who was her only relative, and ought tohave been this friend, was either occupied byher own amusements, or so resentful of thereluctance her niece had shewn to quit LaVallee, that she seemed totally to haveabandoned her.

'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a longpause, during which Emily had begun, and leftunfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that Ihave nothing to hope; my fears were too just,you think me unworthy of your esteem. That fataljourney! which I considered as the happiestperiod of my life—those delightful days were toembitter all my future ones. How often I havelooked back to them with hope and fear—yetnever till this moment could I prevail with myself

to regret their enchanting influence.'

His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted hisseat and walked on the terrace. There was anexpression of despair on his countenance, thataffected Emily. The pleadings of her heartovercame, in some degree, her extremetimidity, and, when he resumed his seat, shesaid, in an accent that betrayed her tenderness,'You do both yourself and me injustice when yousay I think you unworthy of my esteem; I willacknowledge that you have long possessed it,and—and—'

Valancourt waited impatiently for theconclusion of the sentence, but the words diedon her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all theemotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in aninstant, from the impatience of despair, to thatof joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' he exclaimed,'my own Emily—teach me to sustain thismoment! Let me seal it as the most sacred ofmy life!'

He pressed her hand to his lips, it was coldand trembling; and, raising her eyes, he saw thepaleness of her countenance. Tears came toher relief, and Valancourt watched in anxioussilence over her. In a few moments, sherecovered herself, and smiling faintly throughher tears, said, 'Can you excuse thisweakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe,recovered from the shock they lately received.'

'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'butI will forbear to renew the subject, which mayhave contributed to agitate them, now that I canleave you with the sweet certainty of

possessing your esteem.'

Then, forgetting his resolution, he againspoke of himself. 'You know not,' said he, 'themany anxious hours I have passed near youlately, when you believed me, if indeed youhonoured me with a thought, far away. I havewandered, near the chateau, in the still hours ofthe night, when no eye could observe me. It wasdelightful to know I was so near you, and therewas something particularly soothing in thethought, that I watched round your habitation,while you slept. These grounds are not entirelynew to me. Once I ventured within the fence,and spent one of the happiest, and yet mostmelancholy hours of my life in walking underwhat I believed to be your window.'

Emily enquired how long Valancourt hadbeen in the neighbourhood. 'Several days,' hereplied. 'It was my design to avail myself of thepermission M. St. Aubert had given me. Iscarcely know how to account for it; but, though Ianxiously wished to do this, my resolutionalways failed, when the moment approached,and I constantly deferred my visit. I lodged in avillage at some distance, and wandered withmy dogs, among the scenes of this charmingcountry, wishing continually to meet you, yet notdaring to visit you.'

Having thus continued to converse, withoutperceiving the flight of time, Valancourt, atlength, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must go,'said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope ofseeing you again, of being permitted to pay myrespects to your family; let me hear this hopeconfirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be

happy to see any friend of my dear father,' saidEmily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and stilllingered, unable to depart, while Emily satsilently, with her eyes bent on the ground; andValancourt, as he gazed on her, consideredthat it would soon be impossible for him torecall, even to his memory, the exactresemblance of the beautiful countenance hethen beheld; at this moment an hasty footstepapproached from behind the plane-tree, and,turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron.She felt a blush steal upon her cheek, and herframe trembled with the emotion of her mind;but she instantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So,niece!' said Madame Cheron, casting a look ofsurprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece,how do you do? But I need not ask, your lookstell me you have already recovered your loss.'

'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, myloss I know can never be recovered.'

'Well—well! I will not argue with you; I see youhave exactly your father's disposition; and letme tell you it would have been much happier forhim, poor man! if it had been a different one.'

A look of dignified displeasure, with whichEmily regarded Madame Cheron, while shespoke, would have touched almost any otherheart; she made no other reply, but introducedValancourt, who could scarcely stifle theresentment he felt, and whose bow MadameCheron returned with a slight curtsy, and a lookof supercilious examination. After a fewmoments he took leave of Emily, in a manner,that hastily expressed his pain both at his owndeparture, and at leaving her to the society of

Madame Cheron.

'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in anaccent which equally implied inquisitivenessand censure. 'Some idle admirer of yours Isuppose; but I believed niece you had a greatersense of propriety, than to have received thevisits of any young man in your presentunfriended situation. Let me tell you the worldwill observe those things, and it will talk, ayeand very freely too.'

Emily, extremely shocked at this coarsespeech, attempted to interrupt it; but MadameCheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of a person, to whom power is new.

'It is very necessary you should be under theeye of some person more able to guide youthan yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisurefor such a task; however, since your poor fathermade it his last request, that I should overlookyour conduct—I must even take you under mycare. But this let me tell you niece, that, unlessyou will determine to be very conformable to mydirection, I shall not trouble myself longer aboutyou.'

Emily made no attempt to interrupt MadameCheron a second time, grief and the pride ofconscious innocence kept her silent, till her auntsaid, 'I am now come to take you with me toTholouse; I am sorry to find, that your poorfather died, after all, in such indifferentcircumstances; however, I shall take you homewith me. Ah! poor man, he was always moregenerous than provident, or he would not haveleft his daughter dependent on his relations.'

'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,' saidEmily calmly, 'nor did his pecuniary misfortunesarise from that noble generosity, which alwaysdistinguished him. The affairs of M. deMotteville may, I trust, yet be settled withoutdeeply injuring his creditors, and in themeantime I should be very happy to remain atLa Vallee.'

'No doubt you would,' replied MadameCheron, with a smile of irony, 'and I shall nodoubt consent to this, since I see hownecessary tranquillity and retirement are torestore your spirits. I did not think you capableof so much duplicity, niece; when you pleadedthis excuse for remaining here, I foolishlybelieved it to be a just one, nor expected tohave found with you so agreeable a companionas this M. La Val—, I forget his name.'

Emily could no longer endure these cruelindignities. 'It was a just one, madam,' said she;'and now, indeed, I feel more than ever thevalue of the retirement I then solicited; and, ifthe purport of your visit is only to add insult tothe sorrows of your brother's child, she couldwell have spared it.'

'I see that I have undertaken a verytroublesome task,' said Madame Cheron,colouring highly. 'I am sure, madam,' said Emilymildly, and endeavouring to restrain her tears, 'Iam sure my father did not mean it should besuch. I have the happiness to reflect, that myconduct under his eye was such as he oftendelighted to approve. It would be very painful tome to disobey the sister of such a parent, and,if you believe the task will really be so

if you believe the task will really be sotroublesome, I must lament, that it is yours.'

'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I amwilling, in consideration of my poor brother, tooverlook the impropriety of your late conduct,and to try what your future will be.'

Emily interrupted her, to beg she wouldexplain what was the impropriety she alluded to.

'What impropriety! why that of receiving thevisits of a lover unknown to your family,' repliedMadame Cheron, not considering theimpropriety of which she had herself beenguilty, in exposing her niece to the possibility ofconduct so erroneous.

A faint blush passed over Emily'scountenance; pride and anxiety struggled in herbreast; and, till she recollected, thatappearances did, in some degree, justify heraunt's suspicions, she could not resolve tohumble herself so far as to enter into thedefence of a conduct, which had been soinnocent and undesigning on her part. Shementioned the manner of Valancourt'sintroduction to her father; the circumstances ofhis receiving the pistol-shot, and of theirafterwards travelling together; with theaccidental way, in which she had met him, onthe preceding evening. She owned he haddeclared a partiality for her, and that he hadasked permission to address her family.

'And who is this young adventurer, pray?'said Madame Cheron, 'and what are hispretensions?' 'These he must himself explain,madam,' replied Emily. 'Of his family my father

was not ignorant, and I believe it isunexceptionable.' She then proceeded tomention what she knew concerning it.

'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,'exclaimed her aunt, 'and of course a beggar. Avery fine tale indeed! And so my brother took afancy to this young man after only a few daysacquaintance!—but that was so like him! In hisyouth he was always taking these likes anddislikes, when no other person saw any reasonfor them at all; nay, indeed, I have often thoughtthe people he disapproved were much moreagreeable than those he admired;—but there isno accounting for tastes. He was always somuch influenced by people's countenances;now I, for my part, have no notion of this, it is allridiculous enthusiasm. What has a man's faceto do with his character? Can a man of goodcharacter help having a disagreeable face?'—which last sentence Madame Cheron deliveredwith the decisive air of a person whocongratulates herself on having made a granddiscovery, and believes the question to beunanswerably settled.

Emily, desirous of concluding theconversation, enquired if her aunt would acceptsome refreshment, and Madame Cheronaccompanied her to the chateau, but withoutdesisting from a topic, which she discussedwith so much complacency to herself, andseverity to her niece.

'I am sorry to perceive, niece,' said she, inallusion to somewhat that Emily had said,concerning physiognomy, 'that you have a greatmany of your father's prejudices, and among

them those sudden predilections for peoplefrom their looks. I can perceive, that youimagine yourself to be violently in love with thisyoung adventurer, after an acquaintance of onlya few days. There was something, too, socharmingly romantic in the manner of yourmeeting!'

Emily checked the tears, that trembled in hereyes, while she said, 'When my conduct shalldeserve this severity, madam, you will do well toexercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness,should surely restrain it. I have never willinglyoffended you; now I have lost my parents, youare the only person to whom I can look forkindness. Let me not lament more than ever theloss of such parents.' The last words werealmost stifled by her emotions, and she burstinto tears. Remembering the delicacy and thetenderness of St. Aubert, the happy, happydays she had passed in these scenes, andcontrasting them with the coarse and unfeelingbehaviour of Madame Cheron, and from thefuture hours of mortification she must submit toin her presence—a degree of grief seized her,that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron,more offended by the reproof which Emily'swords conveyed, than touched by the sorrowthey expressed, said nothing, that might softenher grief; but, notwithstanding an apparentreluctance to receive her niece, she desired hercompany. The love of sway was her rulingpassion, and she knew it would be highlygratified by taking into her house a youngorphan, who had no appeal from her decisions,and on whom she could exercise withoutcontroul the capricious humour of the moment.

On entering the chateau, Madame Cheronexpressed a desire, that she would put up whatshe thought necessary to take to Tholouse, asshe meant to set off immediately. Emily nowtried to persuade her to defer the journey, atleast till the next day, and, at length, with muchdifficulty, prevailed.

The day passed in the exercise of pettytyranny on the part of Madame Cheron, and inmournful regret and melancholy anticipation onthat of Emily, who, when her aunt retired to herapartment for the night, went to take leave ofevery other room in this her dear native home,which she was now quitting for she knew nothow long, and for a world, to which she waswholly a stranger. She could not conquer apresentiment, which frequently occurred to her,this night—that she should never more return toLa Vallee. Having passed a considerable timein what had been her father's study, havingselected some of his favourite authors, to put upwith her clothes, and shed many tears, as shewiped the dust from their covers, she seatedherself in his chair before the reading desk, andsat lost in melancholy reflection, till Theresaopened the door to examine, as was hercustom before she went to bed, if was all safe.She started, on observing her young lady, whobade her come in, and then gave her somedirections for keeping the chateau in readinessfor her reception at all times.

'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' saidTheresa, 'I think you would be happier here thanwhere you are going, if one may judge.' Emilymade no reply to this remark; the sorrow

Theresa proceeded to express at her departureaffected her, but she found some comfort in thesimple affection of this poor old servant, towhom she gave such directions as might bestconduce to her comfort during her ownabsence.

Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emilywandered through every lonely apartment of thechateau, lingering long in what had been herfather's bed-room, indulging melancholy, yet notunpleasing, emotions, and, having oftenreturned within the door to take another look atit, she withdrew to her own chamber. From herwindow she gazed upon the garden below,shewn faintly by the moon, rising over the topsof the palm-trees, and, at length, the calmbeauty of the night increased a desire ofindulging the mournful sweetness of biddingfarewel to the beloved shades of her childhood,till she was tempted to descend. Throwing overher the light veil, in which she usually walked,she silently passed into the garden, and,hastening towards the distant groves, was gladto breathe once more the air of liberty, and tosigh unobserved. The deep repose of thescene, the rich scents, that floated on thebreeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and ofthe clear blue arch, soothed and graduallyelevated her mind to that sublime complacency,which renders the vexations of this world soinsignificant and mean in our eyes, that wewonder they have had power for a moment todisturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and allthe circumstances of her conduct, while herthoughts ascended to the contemplation ofthose unnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in

the depths of aether, thousands of them hidfrom human eyes, and almost beyond the flightof human fancy. As her imagination soaredthrough the regions of space, and aspired tothat Great First Cause, which pervades andgoverns all being, the idea of her father scarcelyever left her; but it was a pleasing idea, sinceshe resigned him to God in the full confidenceof a pure and holy faith. She pursued her waythrough the groves to the terrace, often pausingas memory awakened the pang of affection,and as reason anticipated the exile, into whichshe was going.

And now the moon was high over the woods,touching their summits with yellow light, anddarting between the foliage long level beams;while on the rapid Garonne below the tremblingradiance was faintly obscured by the lightestvapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre,listened to the soothing murmur of the current,and the yet lighter sounds of the air, as it stirred,at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. 'How delightfulis the sweet breath of these groves,' said she.'This lovely scene!—how often shall I rememberand regret it, when I am far away. Alas! whatevents may occur before I see it again! O,peaceful, happy shades!—scenes of my infantdelights, of parental tenderness now lost forever!—why must I leave ye!—In your retreats Ishould still find safety and repose. Sweet hoursof my childhood—I am now to leave even yourlast memorials! No objects, that would reviveyour impressions, will remain for me!'

Then drying her tears and looking up, herthoughts rose again to the sublime subject she

had contemplated; the same divinecomplacency stole over her heart, and, hushingits throbs, inspired hope and confidence andresignation to the will of the Deity, whose worksfilled her mind with adoration.

Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and thenseated herself, for the last time, on the benchunder its shade, where she had so often satwith her parents, and where, only a few hoursbefore, she had conversed with Valancourt, atthe remembrance of whom, thus revived, amingled sensation of esteem, tenderness andanxiety rose in her breast. With thisremembrance occurred a recollection of his lateconfession—that he had often wandered nearher habitation in the night, having even passedthe boundary of the garden, and it immediatelyoccurred to her, that he might be at this momentin the grounds. The fear of meeting him,particularly after the declaration he had made,and of incurring a censure, which her aunt mightso reasonably bestow, if it was known, that shewas met by her lover, at this hour, made herinstantly leave her beloved plane-tree, and walktowards the chateau. She cast an anxious eyearound, and often stopped for a moment toexamine the shadowy scene before sheventured to proceed, but she passed on withoutperceiving any person, till, having reached aclump of almond trees, not far from the house,she rested to take a retrospect of the garden,and to sigh forth another adieu. As her eyeswandered over the landscape she thought sheperceived a person emerge from the groves,and pass slowly along a moon-light alley thatled between them; but the distance, and the

imperfect light would not suffer her to judge withany degree of certainty whether this was fancyor reality. She continued to gaze for some timeon the spot, till on the dead stillness of the airshe heard a sudden sound, and in the nextinstant fancied she distinguished footsteps nearher. Wasting not another moment in conjecture,she hurried to the chateau, and, having reachedit, retired to her chamber, where, as she closedher window she looked upon the garden, andthen again thought she distinguished a figure,gliding between the almond trees she had justleft. She immediately withdrew from thecasement, and, though much agitated, sought insleep the refreshment of a short oblivion.

CHAPTER XI I leave that flowery path for eye Of childhood, where I sported many a day, Warbling and sauntering carelessly along; Where every face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all. THE MINSTREL

At an early hour, the carriage, which was totake Emily and Madame Cheron to Tholouse,appeared at the door of the chateau, andMadame was already in the breakfast-room,when her niece entered it. The repast was silentand melancholy on the part of Emily; andMadame Cheron, whose vanity was piqued onobserving her dejection, reproved her in amanner that did not contribute to remove it. Itwas with much reluctance, that Emily's requestto take with her the dog, which had been afavourite of her father, was granted. Her aunt,impatient to be gone, ordered the carriage todraw up; and, while she passed to the hall door,Emily gave another look into the library, andanother farewell glance over the garden, andthen followed. Old Theresa stood at the door totake leave of her young lady. 'God for ever keepyou, ma'amselle!' said she, while Emily gaveher hand in silence, and could answer only witha pressure of her hand, and a forced smile.

At the gate, which led out of the grounds,several of her father's pensioners wereassembled to bid her farewell, to whom she

would have spoken, if her aunt would havesuffered the driver to stop; and, havingdistributed to them almost all the money shehad about her, she sunk back in the carriage,yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soonafter, she caught, between the steep banks ofthe road, another view of the chateau, peepingfrom among the high trees, and surrounded bygreen slopes and tufted groves, the Garonnewinding its way beneath their shades,sometimes lost among the vineyards, and thenrising in greater majesty in the distant pastures.The towering precipices of the Pyrenees, thatrose to the south, gave Emily a thousandinteresting recollections of her late journey; andthese objects of her former enthusiasticadmiration, now excited only sorrow and regret.Having gazed on the chateau and its lovelyscenery, till the banks again closed upon them,her mind became too much occupied bymournful reflections, to permit her to attend tothe conversation, which Madame Cheron hadbegun on some trivial topic, so that they soontravelled in profound silence.

Valancourt, mean while, was returned toEstuviere, his heart occupied with the image ofEmily; sometimes indulging in reveries of futurehappiness, but more frequently shrinking withdread of the opposition he might encounterfrom her family. He was the younger son of anancient family of Gascony; and, having lost hisparents at an early period of his life, the care ofhis education and of his small portion haddevolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney,his senior by nearly twenty years. Valancourt

had been educated in all the accomplishmentsof his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and acertain grandeur of mind, that gave himparticular excellence in the exercises thenthought heroic. His little fortune had beendiminished by the necessary expences of hiseducation; but M. La Valancourt, the elder,seemed to think that his genius andaccomplishments would amply supply thedeficiency of his inheritance. They offeredflattering hopes of promotion in the militaryprofession, in those times almost the only onein which a gentleman could engage withoutincurring a stain on his name; and LaValancourt was of course enrolled in the army.The general genius of his mind was but littleunderstood by his brother. That ardour forwhatever is great and good in the moral world,as well as in the natural one, displayed itself inhis infant years; and the strong indignation,which he felt and expressed at a criminal, or amean action, sometimes drew upon him thedispleasure of his tutor; who reprobated it underthe general term of violence of temper; andwho, when haranguing on the virtues ofmildness and moderation, seemed to forget thegentleness and compassion, which alwaysappeared in his pupil towards objects ofmisfortune.

He had now obtained leave of absence fromhis regiment when he made the excursion intothe Pyrenees, which was the means ofintroducing him to St. Aubert; and, as thispermission was nearly expired, he was themore anxious to declare himself to Emily's

family, from whom he reasonably apprehendedopposition, since his fortune, though, with amoderate addition from hers, it would besufficient to support them, would not satisfy theviews, either of vanity, or ambition. Valancourtwas not without the latter, but he saw goldenvisions of promotion in the army; and believed,that with Emily he could, in the mean time, bedelighted to live within the limits of his humbleincome. His thoughts were now occupied inconsidering the means of making himselfknown to her family, to whom, however, he hadyet no address, for he was entirely ignorant ofEmily's precipitate departure from La Vallee, ofwhom he hoped to obtain it.

Meanwhile, the travellers pursued theirjourney; Emily making frequent efforts to appearcheerful, and too often relapsing into silenceand dejection. Madame Cheron, attributing hermelancholy solely to the circumstance of herbeing removed to a distance from her lover,and believing, that the sorrow, which her niecestill expressed for the loss of St. Aubert,proceeded partly from an affectation ofsensibility, endeavoured to make it appearridiculous to her, that such deep regret shouldcontinue to be felt so long after the periodusually allowed for grief.

At length, these unpleasant lectures wereinterrupted by the arrival of the travellers atTholouse; and Emily, who had not been therefor many years, and had only a very faintrecollection of it, was surprised at theostentatious style exhibited in her aunt's houseand furniture; the more so, perhaps, because it

was so totally different from the modestelegance, to which she had been accustomed.She followed Madame Cheron through a largehall, where several servants in rich liveriesappeared, to a kind of saloon, fitted up withmore shew than taste; and her aunt,complaining of fatigue, ordered supperimmediately. 'I am glad to find myself in my ownhouse again,' said she, throwing herself on alarge settee, 'and to have my own people aboutme. I detest travelling; though, indeed, I ought tolike it, for what I see abroad always makes medelighted to return to my own chateau. Whatmakes you so silent, child?—What is it thatdisturbs you now?'

Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried tosmile away the expression of an oppressedheart; she was thinking of HER home, and felttoo sensibly the arrogance and ostentatiousvanity of Madame Cheron's conversation. 'Canthis be my father's sister!' said she to herself;and then the conviction that she was so,warming her heart with something like kindnesstowards her, she felt anxious to soften the harshimpression her mind had received of her aunt'scharacter, and to shew a willingness to obligeher. The effort did not entirely fail; she listenedwith apparent cheerfulness, while MadameCheron expatiated on the splendour of herhouse, told of the numerous parties sheentertained, and what she should expect ofEmily, whose diffidence assumed the air of areserve, which her aunt, believing it to be that ofpride and ignorance united, now took occasionto reprehend. She knew nothing of the conduct

of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers;which, possessing a nice judgment, andinclining to believe, that every other personperceives still more critically, fears to commititself to censure, and seeks shelter in theobscurity of silence. Emily had frequentlyblushed at the fearless manners, which she hadseen admired, and the brilliant nothings, whichshe had heard applauded; yet this applause, sofar from encouraging her to imitate the conductthat had won it, rather made her shrink into thereserve, that would protect her from suchabsurdity.

Madame Cheron looked on her niece'sdiffidence with a feeling very near to contempt,and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof,rather than to encourage it by gentleness.

The entrance of supper somewhat interruptedthe complacent discourse of Madame Cheronand the painful considerations, which it hadforced upon Emily. When the repast, which wasrendered ostentatious by the attendance of agreat number of servants, and by a profusion ofplate, was over, Madame Cheron retired to herchamber, and a female servant came to shewEmily to hers. Having passed up a large stair-case, and through several galleries, they cameto a flight of back stairs, which led into a shortpassage in a remote part of the chateau, andthere the servant opened the door of a smallchamber, which she said was Ma'amselleEmily's, who, once more alone, indulged thetears she had long tried to restrain.

Those, who know, from experience, how

much the heart becomes attached even toinanimate objects, to which it has been longaccustomed, how unwillingly it resigns them;how with the sensations of an old friend it meetsthem, after temporary absence, will understandthe forlornness of Emily's feelings, of Emily shutout from the only home she had known from herinfancy, and thrown upon a scene, and amongpersons, disagreeable for more qualities thantheir novelty. Her father's favourite dog, now inthe chamber, thus seemed to acquire thecharacter and importance of a friend; and, asthe animal fawned over her when she wept, andlicked her hands, 'Ah, poor Manchon!' said she,'I have nobody now to love me—but you!' andshe wept the more. After some time, herthoughts returning to her father's injunctions, sheremembered how often he had blamed her forindulging useless sorrow; how often he hadpointed out to her the necessity of fortitude andpatience, assuring her, that the faculties of themind strengthen by exertion, till they finallyunnerve affliction, and triumph over it. Theserecollections dried her tears, gradually soothedher spirits, and inspired her with the sweetemulation of practising precepts, which herfather had so frequently inculcated.

CHAPTER XII Some pow'r impart the spear and shield, At which the wizard passions fly, By which the giant follies die. COLLINS

Madame Cheron's house stood at a littledistance from the city of Tholouse, and wassurrounded by extensive gardens, in whichEmily, who had risen early, amused herself withwandering before breakfast. From a terrace,that extended along the highest part of them,was a wide view over Languedoc. On thedistant horizon to the south, she discovered thewild summits of the Pyrenees, and her fancyimmediately painted the green pastures ofGascony at their feet. Her heart pointed to herpeaceful home—to the neighbourhood whereValancourt was—where St. Aubert had been;and her imagination, piercing the veil ofdistance, brought that home to her eyes in all itsinteresting and romantic beauty. Sheexperienced an inexpressible pleasure inbelieving, that she beheld the country around it,though no feature could be distinguished,except the retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and,inattentive to the scene immediately before her,and to the flight of time, she continued to leanon the window of a pavilion, that terminated theterrace, with her eyes fixed on Gascony, andher mind occupied with the interesting ideaswhich the view of it awakened, till a servantcame to tell her breakfast was ready. Herthoughts thus recalled to the surrounding

objects, the straight walks, square parterres,and artificial fountains of the garden, could notfail, as she passed through it, to appear theworse, opposed to the negligent graces, andnatural beauties of the grounds of La Vallee,upon which her recollection had been sointensely employed.

'Whither have you been rambling so early?'said Madame Cheron, as her niece entered thebreakfast-room. 'I don't approve of thesesolitary walks;' and Emily was surprised, when,having informed her aunt, that she had been nofurther than the gardens, she understood theseto be included in the reproof. 'I desire you willnot walk there again at so early an hourunattended,' said Madame Cheron; 'mygardens are very extensive; and a youngwoman, who can make assignations by moon-light, at La Vallee, is not to be trusted to herown inclinations elsewhere.'

Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, hadscarcely power to beg an explanation of thesewords, and, when she did, her aunt absolutelyrefused to give it, though, by her severe looks,and half sentences, she appeared anxious toimpress Emily with a belief, that she was wellinformed of some degrading circumstances ofher conduct. Conscious innocence could notprevent a blush from stealing over Emily'scheek; she trembled, and looked confusedlyunder the bold eye of Madame Cheron, whoblushed also; but hers was the blush of triumph,such as sometimes stains the countenance of aperson, congratulating himself on thepenetration which had taught him to suspect

another, and who loses both pity for thesupposed criminal, and indignation of his guilt,in the gratification of his own vanity.

Emily, not doubting that her aunt's mistakearose from the having observed her ramble inthe garden on the night preceding her departurefrom La Vallee, now mentioned the motive of it,at which Madame Cheron smiledcontemptuously, refusing either to accept thisexplanation, or to give her reasons for refusingit; and, soon after, she concluded the subject bysaying, 'I never trust people's assertions, Ialways judge of them by their actions; but I amwilling to try what will be your behaviour infuture.'

Emily, less surprised by her aunt'smoderation and mysterious silence, than by theaccusation she had received, deeplyconsidered the latter, and scarcely doubted,that it was Valancourt whom she had seen atnight in the gardens of La Vallee, and that hehad been observed there by Madame Cheron;who now passing from one painful topic only torevive another almost equally so, spoke of thesituation of her niece's property, in the hands ofM. Motteville. While she thus talked withostentatious pity of Emily's misfortunes, shefailed not to inculcate the duties of humility andgratitude, or to render Emily fully sensible ofevery cruel mortification, who soon perceived,that she was to be considered as a dependant,not only by her aunt, but by her aunt's servants.

She was now informed, that a large partywere expected to dinner, on which account

Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of thepreceding night, concerning her conduct incompany, and Emily wished, that she mighthave courage enough to practise it. Her auntthen proceeded to examine the simplicity of herdress, adding, that she expected to see herattired with gaiety and taste; after which shecondescended to shew Emily the splendour ofher chateau, and to point out the particularbeauty, or elegance, which she thoughtdistinguished each of her numerous suites ofapartments. She then withdrew to her toilet, thethrone of her homage, and Emily to herchamber, to unpack her books, and to try tocharm her mind by reading, till the hour ofdressing.

When the company arrived, Emily entered thesaloon with an air of timidity, which all herefforts could not overcome, and which wasincreased by the consciousness of MadameCheron's severe observation. Her mourningdress, the mild dejection of her beautifulcountenance, and the retiring diffidence of hermanner, rendered her a very interesting objectto many of the company; among whom shedistinguished Signor Montoni, and his friendCavigni, the late visitors at M. Quesnel's, whonow seemed to converse with Madame Cheronwith the familiarity of old acquaintance, and sheto attend to them with particular pleasure.

This Signor Montoni had an air of conscioussuperiority, animated by spirit, andstrengthened by talents, to which every personseemed involuntarily to yield. The quickness ofhis perceptions was strikingly expressed on his

countenance, yet that countenance could submitimplicitly to occasion; and, more than once inthis day, the triumph of art over nature mighthave been discerned in it. His visage was long,and rather narrow, yet he was called handsome;and it was, perhaps, the spirit and vigour of hissoul, sparkling through his features, thattriumphed for him. Emily felt admiration, but notthe admiration that leads to esteem; for it wasmixed with a degree of fear she knew notexactly wherefore.

Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly;and, though he paid almost incessant attentionto Madame Cheron, he found someopportunities of conversing with Emily, to whomhe directed, at first, the sallies of his wit, butnow and then assumed an air of tenderness,which she observed, and shrunk from. Thoughshe replied but little, the gentleness andsweetness of her manners encouraged him totalk, and she felt relieved when a young lady ofthe party, who spoke incessantly, obtrudedherself on his notice. This lady, who possessedall the sprightliness of a Frenchwoman, with allher coquetry, affected to understand everysubject, or rather there was no affectation in thecase; for, never looking beyond the limits of herown ignorance, she believed she had nothing tolearn. She attracted notice from all; amusedsome, disgusted others for a moment, and wasthen forgotten.

This day passed without any materialoccurrence; and Emily, though amused by thecharacters she had seen, was glad when shecould retire to the recollections, which had

acquired with her the character of duties.

A fortnight passed in a round of dissipationand company, and Emily, who attendedMadame Cheron in all her visits, wassometimes entertained, but oftener wearied.She was struck by the apparent talents andknowledge displayed in the variousconversations she listened to, and it was longbefore she discovered, that the talents were forthe most part those of imposture, and theknowledge nothing more than was necessary toassist them. But what deceived her most, wasthe air of constant gaiety and good spirits,displayed by every visitor, and which shesupposed to arise from content as constant,and from benevolence as ready. At length, fromthe over-acting of some, less accomplishedthan the others, she could perceive, that, thoughcontentment and benevolence are the only suresources of cheerfulness, the immoderate andfeverish animation, usually exhibited in largeparties, results partly from an insensibility to thecares, which benevolence must sometimesderive from the sufferings of others, and partlyfrom a desire to display the appearance of thatprosperity, which they know will commandsubmission and attention to themselves.

Emily's pleasantest hours were passed in thepavilion of the terrace, to which she retired,when she could steal from observation, with abook to overcome, or a lute to indulge, hermelancholy. There, as she sat with her eyesfixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and herthoughts on Valancourt and the beloved scenesof Gascony, she would play the sweet and

melancholy songs of her native province—thepopular songs she had listened to from herchildhood.

One evening, having excused herself fromaccompanying her aunt abroad, she thuswithdrew to the pavilion, with books and herlute. It was the mild and beautiful evening of asultry day, and the windows, which fronted thewest, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun.Its rays illuminated, with strong splendour, thecliffs of the Pyrenees, and touched their snowytops with a roseate hue, that remained, longafter the sun had sunk below the horizon, andthe shades of twilight had stolen over thelandscape. Emily touched her lute with that finemelancholy expression, which came from herheart. The pensive hour and the scene, theevening light on the Garonne, that flowed at nogreat distance, and whose waves, as theypassed towards La Vallee, she often viewedwith a sigh,—these united circumstancesdisposed her mind to tenderness, and herthoughts were with Valancourt, of whom shehad heard nothing since her arrival at Tholouse,and now that she was removed from him, and inuncertainty, she perceived all the interest heheld in her heart. Before she saw Valancourtshe had never met a mind and taste soaccordant with her own, and, though MadameCheron told her much of the arts ofdissimulation, and that the elegance andpropriety of thought, which she so muchadmired in her lover, were assumed for thepurpose of pleasing her, she could scarcelydoubt their truth. This possibility, however, faint

as it was, was sufficient to harass her mind withanxiety, and she found, that few conditions aremore painful than that of uncertainty, as to themerit of a beloved object; an uncertainty, whichshe would not have suffered, had herconfidence in her own opinions been greater.

She was awakened from her musing by thesound of horses' feet along a road, that woundunder the windows of the pavilion, and agentleman passed on horseback, whoseresemblance to Valancourt, in air and figure, forthe twilight did not permit a view of his features,immediately struck her. She retired hastily fromthe lattice, fearing to be seen, yet wishing toobserve further, while the stranger passed onwithout looking up, and, when she returned tothe lattice, she saw him faintly through thetwilight, winding under the high trees, that led toTholouse. This little incident so much disturbedher spirits, that the temple and its scenery wereno longer interesting to her, and, after walkingawhile on the terrace, she returned to thechateau.

Madame Cheron, whether she had seen arival admired, had lost at play, or had witnessedan entertainment more splendid than her own,was returned from her visit with a temper morethan usually discomposed; and Emily was glad,when the hour arrived, in which she could retireto the solitude of her own apartment.

On the following morning, she wassummoned to Madame Cheron, whosecountenance was inflamed with resentment,and, as Emily advanced, she held out a letter to

her.

'Do you know this hand?' said she, in asevere tone, and with a look that was intendedto search her heart, while Emily examined theletter attentively, and assured her, that she didnot.

'Do not provoke me,' said her aunt; 'you doknow it, confess the truth immediately. I insistupon your confessing the truth instantly.'

Emily was silent, and turned to leave theroom, but Madame called her back. 'O you areguilty, then,' said she, 'you do know the hand.' 'Ifyou was before in doubt of this, madam,'replied Emily calmly, 'why did you accuse me ofhaving told a falsehood.' Madame Cheron didnot blush; but her niece did, a moment after,when she heard the name of Valancourt. It wasnot, however, with the consciousness ofdeserving reproof, for, if she ever had seen hishand-writing, the present characters did notbring it to her recollection.

'It is useless to deny it,' said MadameCheron, 'I see in your countenance, that you areno stranger to this letter; and, I dare say, youhave received many such from this impertinentyoung man, without my knowledge, in my ownhouse.'

Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of thisaccusation, still more than by the vulgarity of theformer, instantly forgot the pride, that hadimposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicateherself from the aspersion, but MadameCheron was not to be convinced.

'I cannot suppose,' she resumed, 'that thisyoung man would have taken the liberty ofwriting to me, if you had not encouraged him todo so, and I must now'—'You will allow me toremind you, madam,' said Emily timidly, 'ofsome particulars of a conversation we had atLa Vallee. I then told you truly, that I had only notforbade Monsieur Valancourt from addressingmy family.'

'I will not be interrupted,' said MadameCheron, interrupting her niece, 'I was going tosay—I—I-have forgot what I was going to say.But how happened it that you did not forbidhim?' Emily was silent. 'How happened it thatyou encouraged him to trouble me with thisletter?—A young man that nobody knows;—anutter stranger in the place,—a youngadventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for agood fortune. However, on that point he hasmistaken his aim.'

'His family was known to my father,' saidEmily modestly, and without appearing to besensible of the last sentence.

'O! that is no recommendation at all,' repliedher aunt, with her usual readiness upon thistopic; 'he took such strange fancies to people!He was always judging persons by theircountenances, and was continually deceived.''Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged meguilty by my countenance,' said Emily, with adesign of reproving Madame Cheron, to whichshe was induced by this disrespectful mentionof her father.

'I called you here,' resumed her aunt,colouring, 'to tell you, that I will not be disturbedin my own house by any letters, or visits fromyoung men, who may take a fancy to flatter you.This M. de Valantine—I think you call him, hasthe impertinence to beg I will permit him to payhis respects to me! I shall send him a properanswer. And for you, Emily, I repeat it once forall—if you are not contented to conform to mydirections, and to my way of live, I shall give upthe task of overlooking your conduct—I shall nolonger trouble myself with your education, butshall send you to board in a convent.'

'Dear madam,' said Emily, bursting intotears, and overcome by the rude suspicions heraunt had expressed, 'how have I deservedthese reproofs?' She could say no more; andso very fearful was she of acting with anydegree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, atthe present moment, Madame Cheron mightperhaps have prevailed with her to bind herselfby a promise to renounce Valancourt for ever.Her mind, weakened by her terrors, would nolonger suffer her to view him as she hadformerly done; she feared the error of her ownjudgment, not that of Madame Cheron, andfeared also, that, in her former conversationwith him, at La Vallee, she had not conductedherself with sufficient reserve. She knew, thatshe did not deserve the coarse suspicions,which her aunt had thrown out, but a thousandscruples rose to torment her, such as wouldnever have disturbed the peace of MadameCheron. Thus rendered anxious to avoid everyopportunity of erring, and willing to submit to

any restrictions, that her aunt should thinkproper, she expressed an obedience, to whichMadame Cheron did not give much confidence,and which she seemed to consider as theconsequence of either fear, or artifice.

'Well, then,' said she, 'promise me that youwill neither see this young man, nor write to himwithout my consent.' 'Dear madam,' repliedEmily, 'can you suppose I would do either,unknown to you!' 'I don't know what to suppose;there is no knowing how young women will act.It is difficult to place any confidence in them, forthey have seldom sense enough to wish for therespect of the world.'

'Alas, madam!' said Emily, 'I am anxious formy own respect; my father taught me the valueof that; he said if I deserved my own esteem,that the world would follow of course.'

'My brother was a good kind of a man,'replied Madame Cheron, 'but he did not knowthe world. I am sure I have always felt a properrespect for myself, yet—' she stopped, but shemight have added, that the world had notalways shewn respect to her, and this withoutimpeaching its judgment.

'Well!' resumed Madame Cheron, 'you havenot give me the promise, though, that I demand.'Emily readily gave it, and, being then sufferedto withdraw, she walked in the garden; tried tocompose her spirits, and, at length, arrived ather favourite pavilion at the end of the terrace,where, seating herself at one of the emboweredwindows, that opened upon a balcony, thestillness and seclusion of the scene allowed her

stillness and seclusion of the scene allowed herto recollect her thoughts, and to arrange themso as to form a clearer judgment of her formerconduct. She endeavoured to review withexactness all the particulars of her conversationwith Valancourt at La Vallee, had thesatisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarmher delicate pride, and thus to be confirmed inthe self-esteem, which was so necessary to herpeace. Her mind then became tranquil, and shesaw Valancourt amiable and intelligent, as hehad formerly appeared, and Madame Cheronneither the one, or the other. The remembranceof her lover, however, brought with it many verypainful emotions, for it by no means reconciledher to the thought of resigning him; and,Madame Cheron having already shewn howhighly she disapproved of the attachment, sheforesaw much suffering from the opposition ofinterests; yet with all this was mingled a degreeof delight, which, in spite of reason, partook ofhope. She determined, however, that noconsideration should induce her to permit aclandestine correspondence, and to observe inher conversation with Valancourt, should theyever meet again, the same nicety of reserve,which had hitherto marked her conduct. As sherepeated the words—'should we ever meetagain!' she shrunk as if this was acircumstance, which had never before occurredto her, and tears came to her eyes, which shehastily dried, for she heard footstepsapproaching, and then the door of the pavilionopen, and, on turning, she saw—Valancourt. Anemotion of mingled pleasure, surprise andapprehension pressed so suddenly upon herheart as almost to overcome her spirits; the

colour left her cheeks, then returned brighterthan before, and she was for a moment unableto speak, or to rise from her chair. Hiscountenance was the mirror, in which she sawher own emotions reflected, and it roused her toself-command. The joy, which had animated hisfeatures, when he entered the pavilion, wassuddenly repressed, as, approaching, heperceived her agitation, and, in a tremulousvoice, enquired after her health. Recoveredfrom her first surprise, she answered him with atempered smile; but a variety of oppositeemotions still assailed her heart, and struggledto subdue the mild dignity of her manner. It wasdifficult to tell which predominated—the joy ofseeing Valancourt, or the terror of her aunt'sdispleasure, when she should hear of thismeeting. After some short and embarrassedconversation, she led him into the gardens, andenquired if he had seen Madame Cheron. 'No,'said he, 'I have not yet seen her, for they told meshe was engaged, and as soon as I learnedthat you were in the gardens, I came hither.' Hepaused a moment, in great agitation, and thenadded, 'May I venture to tell you the purport ofmy visit, without incurring your displeasure, andto hope, that you will not accuse me ofprecipitation in now availing myself of thepermission you once gave me of addressingyour family?' Emily, who knew not what to reply,was spared from further perplexity, and wassensible only of fear, when on raising her eyes,she saw Madame Cheron turn into the avenue.As the consciousness of innocence returned,this fear was so far dissipated as to permit herto appear tranquil, and, instead of avoiding her

aunt, she advanced with Valancourt to meether. The look of haughty and impatientdispleasure, with which Madame Cheronregarded them, made Emily shrink, whounderstood from a single glance, that thismeeting was believed to have been more thanaccidental: having mentioned Valancourt'sname, she became again too much agitated toremain with them, and returned into thechateau; where she awaited long, in a state oftrembling anxiety, the conclusion of theconference. She knew not how to account forValancourt's visit to her aunt, before he hadreceived the permission he solicited, since shewas ignorant of a circumstance, which wouldhave rendered the request useless, even ifMadame Cheron had been inclined to grant it.Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, hadforgotten to date his letter, so that it wasimpossible for Madame Cheron to return ananswer; and, when he recollected thiscircumstance, he was, perhaps, not so sorry forthe omission as glad of the excuse it allowedhim for waiting on her before she could send arefusal.

Madame Cheron had a long conversationwith Valancourt, and, when she returned to thechateau, her countenance expressed ill-humour,but not the degree of severity, which Emily hadapprehended. 'I have dismissed this youngman, at last,' said she, 'and I hope my house willnever again be disturbed with similar visits. Heassures me, that your interview was notpreconcerted.'

'Dear madam!' said Emily in extreme

emotion, 'you surely did not ask him thequestion!' 'Most certainly I did; you could notsuppose I should be so imprudent as to neglectit.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what anopinion must he form of me, since you, Madam,could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!'

'It is of very little consequence what opinionhe may form of you,' replied her aunt, 'for I haveput an end to the affair; but I believe he will notform a worse opinion of me for my prudentconduct. I let him see, that I was not to be trifledwith, and that I had more delicacy, than topermit any clandestine correspondence to becarried on in my house.'

Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheronuse the word delicacy, but she was now morethan usually perplexed to understand how shemeant to apply it in this instance, in which herwhole conduct appeared to merit the veryreverse of the term.

'It was very inconsiderate of my brother,'resumed Madame Cheron, 'to leave the troubleof overlooking your conduct to me; I wish youwas well settled in life. But if I find, that I am tobe further troubled with such visitors as this M.Valancourt, I shall place you in a convent atonce;—so remember the alternative. Thisyoung man has the impertinence to own to me,—he owns it! that his fortune is very small, andthat he is chiefly dependent on an elder brotherand on the profession he has chosen! Heshould have concealed these circumstances, atleast, if he expected to succeed with me. Had

least, if he expected to succeed with me. Hadhe the presumption to suppose I would marrymy niece to a person such as he describeshimself!'

Emily dried her tears when she heard of thecandid confession of Valancourt; and, thoughthe circumstances it discovered were afflictingto her hopes, his artless conduct gave her adegree of pleasure, that overcame every otheremotion. But she was compelled, even thusearly in life, to observe, that good sense andnoble integrity are not always sufficient to copewith folly and narrow cunning; and her heart waspure enough to allow her, even at this tryingmoment, to look with more pride on the defeatof the former, than with mortification on theconquests of the latter.

Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. 'Hehas also thought proper to tell me, that he willreceive his dismission from no person butyourself; this favour, however, I have absolutelyrefused him. He shall learn, that it is quitesufficient, that I disapprove him. And I take thisopportunity of repeating,—that if you concertany means of interview unknown to me, youshall leave my house immediately.'

'How little do you know me, madam, that youshould think such an injunction necessary!' saidEmily, trying to suppress her emotion, 'how littleof the dear parents, who educated me!'

Madame Cheron now went to dress for anengagement, which she had made for theevening; and Emily, who would gladly havebeen excused from attending her aunt, did not

ask to remain at home lest her request shouldbe attributed to an improper motive. When sheretired to her own room, the little fortitude, whichhad supported her in the presence of herrelation, forsook her; she remembered only thatValancourt, whose character appeared moreamiable from every circumstance, that unfoldedit, was banished from her presence, perhaps,for ever, and she passed the time in weeping,which, according to her aunt's direction, sheought to have employed in dressing. Thisimportant duty was, however, quicklydispatched; though, when she joined MadameCheron at table, her eyes betrayed, that shehad been in tears, and drew upon her a severereproof.

Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirelyfail when she joined the company at the houseof Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, whohad lately come to reside at Tholouse, on anestate of her late husband. She had lived manyyears at Paris in a splendid style; had naturallya gay temper, and, since her residence atTholouse, had given some of the mostmagnificent entertainments, that had been seenin that neighbourhood.

These excited not only the envy, but the triflingambition of Madame Cheron, who, since shecould not rival the splendour of her festivities,was desirous of being ranked in the number ofher most intimate friends. For this purpose shepaid her the most obsequious attention, andmade a point of being disengaged, whenevershe received an invitation from MadameClairval, of whom she talked, wherever she

went, and derived much self-consequence fromimpressing a belief on her generalacquaintance, that they were on the mostfamiliar footing.

The entertainments of this evening consistedof a ball and supper; it was a fancy ball, and thecompany danced in groups in the gardens,which were very extensive. The high andluxuriant trees, under which the groupsassembled, were illuminated with a profusion oflamps, disposed with taste and fancy. The gayand various dresses of the company, some ofwhom were seated on the turf, conversing attheir ease, observing the cotillons, takingrefreshments, and sometimes touchingsportively a guitar; the gallant manners of thegentlemen, the exquisitely capricious air of theladies; the light fantastic steps of their dances;the musicians, with the lute, the hautboy, andthe tabor, seated at the foot of an elm, and thesylvan scenery of woods around werecircumstances, that unitedly formed acharacteristic and striking picture of Frenchfestivity. Emily surveyed the gaiety of the scenewith a melancholy kind of pleasure, and heremotion may be imagined when, as she stoodwith her aunt, looking at one of the groups, sheperceived Valancourt; saw him dancing with ayoung and beautiful lady, saw him conversingwith her with a mixture of attention andfamiliarity, such as she had seldom observed inhis manner. She turned hastily from the scene,and attempted to draw away Madame Cheron,who was conversing with Signor Cavigni, andneither perceived Valancourt, or was willing to

be interrupted. A faintness suddenly came overEmily, and, unable to support herself, she satdown on a turf bank beneath the trees, whereseveral other persons were seated. One ofthese, observing the extreme paleness of hercountenance, enquired if she was ill, andbegged she would allow him to fetch her aglass of water, for which politeness she thankedhim, but did not accept it. Her apprehension lestValancourt should observe her emotion madeher anxious to overcome it, and she succeededso far as to re-compose her countenance.Madame Cheron was still conversing withCavigni; and the Count Bauvillers, who hadaddressed Emily, made some observationsupon the scene, to which she answered almostunconsciously, for her mind was still occupiedwith the idea of Valancourt, to whom it was withextreme uneasiness that she remained so near.Some remarks, however, which the Countmade upon the dance obliged her to turn hereyes towards it, and, at that moment,Valancourt's met hers. Her colour faded again,she felt, that she was relapsing into faintness,and instantly averted her looks, but not beforeshe had observed the altered countenance ofValancourt, on perceiving her. She would haveleft the spot immediately, had she not beenconscious, that this conduct would have shewnhim more obviously the interest he held in herheart; and, having tried to attend to the Count'sconversation, and to join in it, she, at length,recovered her spirits. But, when he made someobservation on Valancourt's partner, the fear ofshewing that she was interested in the remark,would have betrayed it to him, had not the

Count, while he spoke, looked towards theperson of whom he was speaking. 'The lady,'said he, 'dancing with that young Chevalier, whoappears to be accomplished in every thing, butin dancing, is ranked among the beauties ofTholouse. She is handsome, and her fortune willbe very large. I hope she will make a betterchoice in a partner for life than she has done ina partner for the dance, for I observe he has justput the set into great confusion; he does nothingbut commit blunders. I am surprised, that, withhis air and figure, he has not taken more care toaccomplish himself in dancing.'

Emily, whose heart trembled at every word,that was now uttered, endeavoured to turn theconversation from Valancourt, by enquiring thename of the lady, with whom he danced; but,before the Count could reply, the danceconcluded, and Emily, perceiving thatValancourt was coming towards her, rose andjoined Madame Cheron.

'Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,'said she in a whisper, 'pray let us go.' Her auntimmediately moved on, but not beforeValancourt had reached them, who bowed lowlyto Madame Cheron, and with an earnest anddejected look to Emily, with whom,notwithstanding all her effort, an air of more thancommon reserve prevailed. The presence ofMadame Cheron prevented Valancourt fromremaining, and he passed on with acountenance, whose melancholy reproachedher for having increased it. Emily was calledfrom the musing fit, into which she had fallen, bythe Count Bauvillers, who was known to her

aunt.

'I have your pardon to beg, ma'amselle,' saidhe, 'for a rudeness, which you will readilybelieve was quite unintentional. I did not know,that the Chevalier was your acquaintance, whenI so freely criticised his dancing.' Emily blushedand smiled, and Madame Cheron spared herthe difficulty of replying. 'If you mean the person,who has just passed us,' said she, 'I can assureyou he is no acquaintance of either mine, orma'amselle St. Aubert's: I know nothing of him.'

'O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,' saidCavigni carelessly, and looking back. 'Youknow him then?' said Madame Cheron. 'I amnot acquainted with him,' replied Cavigni. 'Youdon't know, then, the reason I have to call himimpertinent;—he has had the presumption toadmire my niece!'

'If every man deserves the title of impertinent,who admires ma'amselle St. Aubert,' repliedCavigni, 'I fear there are a great manyimpertinents, and I am willing to acknowledgemyself one of the number.'

'O Signor!' said Madame Cheron, with anaffected smile, 'I perceive you have learnt theart of complimenting, since you came intoFrance. But it is cruel to compliment children,since they mistake flattery for truth.'

Cavigni turned away his face for a moment,and then said with a studied air, 'Whom thenare we to compliment, madam? for it would beabsurd to compliment a woman of refinedunderstanding; SHE is above all praise.' As he

finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look,and the smile, that had lurked in his eye, stoleforth. She perfectly understood it, and blushedfor Madame Cheron, who replied, 'You areperfectly right, signor, no woman ofunderstanding can endure compliment.'

'I have heard Signor Montoni say,' rejoinedCavigni, 'that he never knew but one womanwho deserved it.'

'Well!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, with ashort laugh, and a smile of unutterablecomplacency, 'and who could she be?'

'O!' replied Cavigni, 'it is impossible tomistake her, for certainly there is not more thanone woman in the world, who has both the meritto deserve compliment and the wit to refuse it.Most women reverse the case entirely.' Helooked again at Emily, who blushed deeperthan before for her aunt, and turned from himwith displeasure.

'Well, signor!' said Madame Cheron, 'Iprotest you are a Frenchman; I never heard aforeigner say any thing half so gallant as that!'

'True, madam,' said the Count, who had beensome time silent, and with a low bow, 'but thegallantry of the compliment had been utterly lost,but for the ingenuity that discovered theapplication.'

Madame Cheron did not perceive themeaning of this too satirical sentence, and she,therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt onher account. 'O! here comes Signor Montoni

himself,' said her aunt, 'I protest I will tell him allthe fine things you have been saying to me.' TheSignor, however, passed at this moment intoanother walk. 'Pray, who is it, that has so muchengaged your friend this evening?' askedMadame Cheron, with an air of chagrin, 'I havenot seen him once.'

'He had a very particular engagement withthe Marquis La Riviere,' replied Cavigni, 'whichhas detained him, I perceive, till this moment, orhe would have done himself the honour ofpaying his respects to you, madam, sooner, ashe commissioned me to say. But, I know nothow it is—your conversation is so fascinating—that it can charm even memory, I think, or Ishould certainly have delivered my friend'sapology before.'

'The apology, sir, would have been moresatisfactory from himself,' said MadameCheron, whose vanity was more mortified byMontoni's neglect, than flattered by Cavigni'scompliment. Her manner, at this moment, andCavigni's late conversation, now awakened asuspicion in Emily's mind, which,notwithstanding that some recollections servedto confirm it, appeared preposterous. Shethought she perceived, that Montoni was payingserious addresses to her aunt, and that she notonly accepted them, but was jealously watchfulof any appearance of neglect on his part.—ThatMadame Cheron at her years should elect asecond husband was ridiculous, though hervanity made it not impossible; but that Montoni,with his discernment, his figure, andpretensions, should make a choice of Madame

Cheron—appeared most wonderful. Herthoughts, however, did not dwell long on thesubject; nearer interests pressed upon them;Valancourt, rejected of her aunt, and Valancourtdancing with a gay and beautiful partner,alternately tormented her mind. As she passedalong the gardens she looked timidly forward,half fearing and half hoping that he mightappear in the crowd; and the disappointmentshe felt on not seeing him, told her, that she hadhoped more than she had feared.

Montoni soon after joined the party. Hemuttered over some short speech about regretfor having been so long detained elsewhere,when he knew he should have the pleasure ofseeing Madame Cheron here; and she,receiving the apology with the air of a pettishgirl, addressed herself entirely to Cavigni, wholooked archly at Montoni, as if he would havesaid, 'I will not triumph over you too much; I willhave the goodness to bear my honours meekly;but look sharp, Signor, or I shall certainly runaway with your prize.'

The supper was served in different pavilionsin the gardens, as well as in one large saloon ofthe chateau, and with more of taste, than eitherof splendour, or even of plenty. MadameCheron and her party supped with MadameClairval in the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty,disguised her emotion, when she sawValancourt placed at the same table withherself. There, Madame Cheron havingsurveyed him with high displeasure, said tosome person who sat next to her, 'Pray, who ISthat young man?' 'It is the Chevalier Valancourt,'

was the answer. 'Yes, I am not ignorant of hisname, but who is this Chevalier Valancourt thatthus intrudes himself at this table?' The attentionof the person, who whom she spoke, was calledoff before she received a second reply. Thetable, at which they sat, was very long, and,Valancourt being seated, with his partner, nearthe bottom, and Emily near the top, the distancebetween them may account for his notimmediately perceiving her. She avoidedlooking to that end of the table, but wheneverher eyes happened to glance towards it, sheobserved him conversing with his beautifulcompanion, and the observation did notcontribute to restore her peace, any more thanthe accounts she heard of the fortune andaccomplishments of this same lady.

Madame Cheron, to whom these remarkswere sometimes addressed, because theysupported topics for trivial conversation,seemed indefatigable in her attempts todepreciate Valancourt, towards whom she feltall the petty resentment of a narrow pride. 'Iadmire the lady,' said she, 'but I must condemnher choice of a partner.' 'Oh, the ChevalierValancourt is one of the most accomplishedyoung men we have,' replied the lady, to whomthis remark was addressed: 'it is whispered,that Mademoiselle D'Emery, and her largefortune, are to be his.'

'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron,reddening with vexation, 'it is impossible thatshe can be so destitute of taste; he has so littlethe air of a person of condition, that, if I did notsee him at the table of Madame Clairval, I

should never have suspected him to be one. Ihave besides particular reasons for believingthe report to be erroneous.'

'I cannot doubt the truth of it,' replied the ladygravely, disgusted by the abrupt contradictionshe had received, concerning her opinion ofValancourt's merit. 'You will, perhaps, doubt it,'said Madame Cheron, 'when I assure you, thatit was only this morning that I rejected his suit.'This was said without any intention of imposingthe meaning it conveyed, but simply from ahabit of considering herself to be the mostimportant person in every affair that concernedher niece, and because literally she hadrejected Valancourt. 'Your reasons are indeedsuch as cannot be doubted,' replied the lady,with an ironical smile. 'Any more than thediscernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,'added Cavigni, who stood by the chair ofMadame Cheron, and had heard her arrogateto herself, as he thought, a distinction which hadbeen paid to her niece. 'His discernment MAYbe justly questioned, Signor,' said MadameCheron, who was not flattered by what sheunderstood to be an encomium on Emily.

'Alas!' exclaimed Cavigni, surveyingMadame Cheron with affected ecstasy, 'howvain is that assertion, while that face—thatshape—that air—combine to refute it! UnhappyValancourt! his discernment has been hisdestruction.'

Emily looked surprised and embarrassed;the lady, who had lately spoke, astonished, andMadame Cheron, who, though she did not

perfectly understand this speech, was veryready to believe herself complimented by it,said smilingly, 'O Signor! you are very gallant;but those, who hear you vindicate theChevalier's discernment, will suppose that I amthe object of it.'

'They cannot doubt it,' replied Cavigni,bowing low.

'And would not that be very mortifying,Signor?'

'Unquestionably it would,' said Cavigni.

'I cannot endure the thought,' said MadameCheron.

'It is not to be endured,' replied Cavigni.

'What can be done to prevent so humiliatinga mistake?' rejoined Madame Cheron.

'Alas! I cannot assist you,' replied Cavigni,with a deliberating air. 'Your only chance ofrefuting the calumny, and of making peopleunderstand what you wish them to believe, is topersist in your first assertion; for, when they aretold of the Chevalier's want of discernment, it ispossible they may suppose he never presumedto distress you with his admiration.—But thenagain—that diffidence, which renders you soinsensible to your own perfections—they willconsider this, and Valancourt's taste will not bedoubted, though you arraign it. In short, they will,in spite of your endeavours, continue to believe,what might very naturally have occurred to themwithout any hint of mine—that the Chevalier hastaste enough to admire a beautiful woman.'

'All this is very distressing!' said MadameCheron, with a profound sigh.

'May I be allowed to ask what is sodistressing?' said Madame Clairval, who wasstruck with the rueful countenance and dolefulaccent, with which this was delivered.

'It is a delicate subject,' replied MadameCheron, 'a very mortifying one to me.' 'I amconcerned to hear it,' said Madame Clairval, 'Ihope nothing has occurred, this evening,particularly to distress you?' 'Alas, yes! withinthis half hour; and I know not where the reportmay end;—my pride was never so shockedbefore, but I assure you the report is totally voidof foundation.' 'Good God!' exclaimed MadameClairval,' what can be done? Can you point outany way, by which I can assist, or console you?'

'The only way, by which you can do either,'replied Madame Cheron, 'is to contradict thereport wherever you go.'

'Well! but pray inform me what I am tocontradict.'

'It is so very humiliating, that I know not how tomention it,' continued Madame Cheron, 'but youshall judge. Do you observe that young manseated near the bottom of the table, who isconversing with Mademoiselle D'Emery?' 'Yes, Iperceive whom you mean.' 'You observe howlittle he has the air of a person of condition; Iwas saying just now, that I should not havethought him a gentleman, if I had not seen himat this table.' 'Well! but the report,' said

Madame Clairval, 'let me understand thesubject of your distress.' 'Ah! the subject of mydistress,' replied Madame Cheron; 'this person,whom nobody knows—(I beg pardon, madam, Idid not consider what I said)—this impertinentyoung man, having had the presumption toaddress my niece, has, I fear, given rise to areport, that he had declared himself myadmirer. Now only consider how very mortifyingsuch a report must be! You, I know, will feel formy situation. A woman of my condition!—thinkhow degrading even the rumour of such analliance must be.'

'Degrading indeed, my poor friend!' saidMadame Clairval. 'You may rely upon it I willcontradict the report wherever I go;' as she saidwhich, she turned her attention upon anotherpart of the company; and Cavigni, who hadhitherto appeared a grave spectator of thescene, now fearing he should be unable tosmother the laugh, that convulsed him, walkedabruptly away.

'I perceive you do not know,' said the ladywho sat near Madame Cheron, 'that thegentleman you have been speaking of isMadame Clairval's nephew!' 'Impossible!'exclaimed Madame Cheron, who now began toperceive, that she had been totally mistaken inher judgment of Valancourt, and to praise himaloud with as much servility, as she had beforecensured him with frivolous malignity.

Emily, who, during the greater part of thisconversation, had been so absorbed in thoughtas to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now

extremely surprised by her aunt's praise ofValancourt, with whose relationship to MadameClairval she was unacquainted; but she was notsorry when Madame Cheron, who, though shenow tried to appear unconcerned, was reallymuch embarrassed, prepared to withdrawimmediately after supper. Montoni then came tohand Madame Cheron to her carriage, andCavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance,followed with Emily, who, as she wished themgood night, and drew up the glass, sawValancourt among the crowd at the gates.Before the carriage drove off, he disappeared.Madame Cheron forbore to mention him toEmily, and, as soon as they reached thechateau, they separated for the night.

On the following morning, as Emily sat atbreakfast with her aunt, a letter was brought toher, of which she knew the handwriting upon thecover; and, as she received it with a tremblinghand, Madame Cheron hastily enquired fromwhom it came. Emily, with her leave, broke theseal, and, observing the signature ofValancourt, gave it unread to her aunt, whoreceived it with impatience; and, as she lookedit over, Emily endeavoured to read on hercountenance its contents. Having returned theletter to her niece, whose eyes asked if shemight examine it, 'Yes, read it, child,' saidMadame Cheron, in a manner less severe thanshe had expected, and Emily had, perhaps,never before so willingly obeyed her aunt. In thisletter Valancourt said little of the interview of thepreceding day, but concluded with declaring,that he would accept his dismission from Emily

only, and with entreating, that she would allowhim to wait upon her, on the approachingevening. When she read this, she wasastonished at the moderation of MadameCheron, and looked at her with timidexpectation, as she said sorrowfully—'What amI to say, madam?'

'Why—we must see the young man, I believe,'replied her aunt, 'and hear what he has furtherto say for himself. You may tell him he maycome.' Emily dared scarcely credit what sheheard. 'Yet, stay,' added Madame Cheron, 'I willtell him so myself.' She called for pen and ink;Emily still not daring to trust the emotions shefelt, and almost sinking beneath them. Hersurprise would have been less had sheoverheard, on the preceding evening, whatMadame Cheron had not forgotten—thatValancourt was the nephew of MadameClairval.

What were the particulars of her aunt's noteEmily did not learn, but the result was a visitfrom Valancourt in the evening, whom MadameCheron received alone, and they had a longconversation before Emily was called down.When she entered the room, her aunt wasconversing with complacency, and she saw theeyes of Valancourt, as he impatiently rose,animated with hope.

'We have been talking over this affair,' saidMadame Cheron, 'the chevalier has been tellingme, that the late Monsieur Clairval was thebrother of the Countess de Duvarney, hismother. I only wish he had mentioned his

relationship to Madame Clairval before; Icertainly should have considered thatcircumstance as a sufficient introduction to myhouse.' Valancourt bowed, and was going toaddress Emily, but her aunt prevented him. 'Ihave, therefore, consented that you shallreceive his visits; and, though I will not bindmyself by any promise, or say, that I shallconsider him as my nephew, yet I shall permitthe intercourse, and shall look forward to anyfurther connection as an event, which maypossibly take place in a course of years,provided the chevalier rises in his profession,or any circumstance occurs, which may make itprudent for him to take a wife. But Mons.Valancourt will observe, and you too, Emily,that, till that happens, I positively forbid anythoughts of marrying.'

Emily's countenance, during this coarsespeech, varied every instant, and, towards itsconclusion, her distress had so muchincreased, that she was on the point of leavingthe room. Valancourt, meanwhile, scarcely lessembarrassed, did not dare to look at her, forwhom he was thus distressed; but, whenMadame Cheron was silent, he said, 'Flattering,madam, as your approbation is to me—highlyas I am honoured by it—I have yet so much tofear, that I scarcely dare to hope.' 'Pray, sir,explain yourself,' said Madame Cheron; anunexpected requisition, which embarrassedValancourt again, and almost overcame himwith confusion, at circumstances, on which, hadhe been only a spectator of the scene, he wouldhave smiled.

'Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert'spermission to accept your indulgence,' said he,falteringly—'till she allows me to hope—'

'O! is that all?' interrupted Madame Cheron.'Well, I will take upon me to answer for her. Butat the same time, sir, give me leave to observeto you, that I am her guardian, and that I expect,in every instance, that my will is hers.'

As she said this, she rose and quitted theroom, leaving Emily and Valancourt in a state ofmutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt'shopes enabled him to overcome his fears, andto address her with the zeal and sincerity sonatural to him, it was a considerable timebefore she was sufficiently recovered to hearwith distinctness his solicitations and inquiries.

The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affairhad been entirely governed by selfish vanity.Valancourt, in his first interview, had with greatcandour laid open to her the true state of hispresent circumstances, and his futureexpectancies, and she, with more prudencethan humanity, had absolutely and abruptlyrejected his suit. She wished her niece to marryambitiously, not because she desired to seeher in possession of the happiness, which rankand wealth are usually believed to bestow, butbecause she desired to partake theimportance, which such an alliance would give.When, therefore, she discovered thatValancourt was the nephew of a person of somuch consequence as Madame Clairval, shebecame anxious for the connection, since theprospect it afforded of future fortune and

distinction for Emily, promised the exaltationshe coveted for herself. Her calculationsconcerning fortune in this alliance were guidedrather by her wishes, than by any hint ofValancourt, or strong appearance of probability;and, when she rested her expectation on thewealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed totallyto have forgotten, that the latter had a daughter.Valancourt, however, had not forgotten thiscircumstance, and the consideration of it hadmade him so modest in his expectations fromMadame Clairval, that he had not even namedthe relationship in his first conversation withMadame Cheron. But, whatever might be thefuture fortune of Emily, the present distinction,which the connection would afford for herself,was certain, since the splendour of MadameClairval's establishment was such as to excitethe general envy and partial imitation of theneighbourhood. Thus had she consented toinvolve her niece in an engagement, to whichshe saw only a distant and uncertainconclusion, with as little consideration of herhappiness, as when she had so precipitatelyforbade it: for though she herself possessed themeans of rendering this union not only certain,but prudent, yet to do so was no part of herpresent intention.

From this period Valancourt made frequentvisits to Madame Cheron, and Emily passed inhis society the happiest hours she had knownsince the death of her father. They were bothtoo much engaged by the present moments togive serious consideration to the future. Theyloved and were beloved, and saw not, that the

very attachment, which formed the delight oftheir present days, might possibly occasion thesufferings of years. Meanwhile, MadameCheron's intercourse with Madame Clairvalbecame more frequent than before, and hervanity was already gratified by the opportunityof proclaiming, wherever she went, theattachment that subsisted between theirnephew and niece.

Montoni was now also become a daily guestat the chateau, and Emily was compelled toobserve, that he really was a suitor, and afavoured suitor, to her aunt.

Thus passed the winter months, not only inpeace, but in happiness, to Valancourt andEmily; the station of his regiment being so nearTholouse, as to allow this frequent intercourse.The pavilion on the terrace was the favouritescene of their interviews, and there Emily, withMadame Cheron, would work, while Valancourtread aloud works of genius and taste, listenedto her enthusiasm, expressed his own, andcaught new opportunities of observing, that theirminds were formed to constitute the happinessof each other, the same taste, the same nobleand benevolent sentiments animating each.

CHAPTER XIII As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles, Placed far amid the melancholy main, (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles, Or that aerial beings sometimes deign To stand embodied to our senses plain) Sees on the naked hill, or valley low, The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain, A vast assembly moving to and fro, Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

Madame Cheron's avarice at length yieldedto her vanity. Some very splendidentertainments, which Madame Clairval hadgiven, and the general adulation, which waspaid her, made the former more anxious thanbefore to secure an alliance, that would somuch exalt her in her own opinion and in that ofthe world. She proposed terms for theimmediate marriage of her niece, and offeredto give Emily a dower, provided MadameClairval observed equal terms, on the part ofher nephew. Madame Clairval listened to theproposal, and, considering that Emily was theapparent heiress of her aunt's wealth, acceptedit. Meanwhile, Emily knew nothing of thetransaction, till Madame Cheron informed her,that she must make preparation for the nuptials,which would be celebrated without further delay;then, astonished and wholly unable to accountfor this sudden conclusion, which Valancourthad not solicited (for he was ignorant of whathad passed between the elder ladies, and had

not dared to hope such good fortune), shedecisively objected to it. Madame Cheron,however, quite as jealous of contradiction now,as she had been formerly, contended for aspeedy marriage with as much vehemence asshe had formerly opposed whatever had themost remote possibility of leading to it; andEmily's scruples disappeared, when she againsaw Valancourt, who was now informed of thehappiness, designed for him, and came toclaim a promise of it from herself.

While preparations were making for thesenuptials, Montoni became the acknowledgedlover of Madame Cheron; and, though MadameClairval was much displeased, when she heardof the approaching connection, and was willingto prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, herconscience told her, that she had no right thusto trifle with their peace, and Madame Clairval,though a woman of fashion, was far lessadvanced than her friend in the art of derivingsatisfaction from distinction and admiration,rather than from conscience.

Emily observed with concern theascendancy, which Montoni had acquired overMadame Cheron, as well as the increasingfrequency of his visits; and her own opinion ofthis Italian was confirmed by that of Valancourt,who had always expressed a dislike of him. Asshe was, one morning, sitting at work in thepavilion, enjoying the pleasant freshness ofspring, whose colours were now spread uponthe landscape, and listening to Valancourt, whowas reading, but who often laid aside the bookto converse, she received a summons to attend

Madame Cheron immediately, and hadscarcely entered the dressing-room, when sheobserved with surprise the dejection of heraunt's countenance, and the contrasted gaietyof her dress. 'So, niece!'—said Madame, andshe stopped under some degree ofembarrassment.—'I sent for you—I—I wished tosee you; I have news to tell you. From this houryou must consider the Signor Montoni as youruncle—we were married this morning.'

Astonished—not so much at the marriage, asat the secrecy with which it had beenconcluded, and the agitation with which it wasannounced, Emily, at length, attributed theprivacy to the wish of Montoni, rather than of heraunt. His wife, however, intended, that thecontrary should be believed, and thereforeadded, 'you see I wished to avoid a bustle; butnow the ceremony is over I shall do so nolonger; and I wish to announce to my servantsthat they must receive the Signor Montoni fortheir master.' Emily made a feeble attempt tocongratulate her on these apparently imprudentnuptials. 'I shall now celebrate my marriage withsome splendour,' continued Madame Montoni,'and to save time I shall avail myself of thepreparation that has been made for yours,which will, of course, be delayed a little while.Such of your wedding clothes as are ready Ishall expect you will appear in, to do honour tothis festival. I also wish you to inform MonsieurValancourt, that I have changed my name, andhe will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few daysI shall give a grand entertainment, at which Ishall request their presence.'

Emily was so lost in surprise and variousthought, that she made Madame Montoniscarcely any reply, but, at her desire, shereturned to inform Valancourt of what hadpassed. Surprise was not his predominantemotion on hearing of these hasty nuptials; and,when he learned, that they were to be themeans of delaying his own, and that the veryornaments of the chateau, which had beenprepared to grace the nuptial day of his Emily,were to be degraded to the celebration ofMadame Montoni's, grief and indignationagitated him alternately. He could concealneither from the observation of Emily, whoseefforts to abstract him from these seriousemotions, and to laugh at the apprehensiveconsiderations, that assailed him, wereineffectual; and, when, at length, he took leave,there was an earnest tenderness in his manner,that extremely affected her; she even shedtears, when he disappeared at the end of theterrace, yet knew not exactly why she should doso.

Montoni now took possession of the chateau,and the command of its inhabitants, with theease of a man, who had long considered it tobe his own. His friend Cavigni, who had beenextremely serviceable, in having paid MadameCheron the attention and flattery, which sherequired, but from which Montoni too oftenrevolted, had apartments assigned to him, andreceived from the domestics an equal degreeof obedience with the master of the mansion.

Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as shehad promised, gave a magnificent

entertainment to a very numerous company,among whom was Valancourt; but at whichMadame Clairval excused herself fromattending. There was a concert, ball andsupper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily'spartner, and though, when he gave a look to thedecorations of the apartments, he could not butremember, that they were designed for otherfestivities, than those they now contributed tocelebrate, he endeavoured to check hisconcern by considering, that a little while onlywould elapse before they would be given totheir original destination. During this evening,Madame Montoni danced, laughed and talkedincessantly; while Montoni, silent, reserved andsomewhat haughty, seemed weary of theparade, and of the frivolous company it haddrawn together.

This was the first and the last entertainment,given in celebration of their nuptials. Montoni,though the severity of his temper and thegloominess of his pride prevented him fromenjoying such festivities, was extremely willingto promote them. It was seldom, that he couldmeet in any company a man of more address,and still seldomer one of more understanding,than himself; the balance of advantage in suchparties, or in the connections, which might arisefrom them, must, therefore, be on his side; and,knowing, as he did, the selfish purposes, forwhich they are generally frequented, he had noobjection to measure his talents ofdissimulation with those of any other competitorfor distinction and plunder. But his wife, who,when her own interest was immediately

concerned, had sometimes more discernmentthan vanity, acquired a consciousness of herinferiority to other women, in personalattractions, which, uniting with the jealousynatural to the discovery, counteracted hisreadiness for mingling with all the partiesTholouse could afford. Till she had, as shesupposed, the affections of an husband to lose,she had no motive for discovering theunwelcome truth, and it had never obtrudeditself upon her; but, now that it influenced herpolicy, she opposed her husband's inclinationfor company, with the more eagerness,because she believed him to be really as wellreceived in the female society of the place, as,during his addresses to her, he had affected tobe.

A few weeks only had elapsed, since themarriage, when Madame Montoni informedEmily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy,as soon as the necessary preparation could bemade for so long a journey. 'We shall go toVenice,' said she, 'where the Signor has a finemansion, and from thence to his estate inTuscany. Why do you look so grave, child?—You, who are so fond of a romantic country andfine views, will doubtless be delighted with thisjourney.'

'Am I then to be of the party, madam?' saidEmily, with extreme surprise and emotion. 'Mostcertainly,' replied her aunt, 'how could youimagine we should leave you behind? But I seeyou are thinking of the Chevalier; he is not yet, Ibelieve, informed of the journey, but he verysoon will be so. Signor Montoni is gone to

acquaint Madame Clairval of our journey, and tosay, that the proposed connection between thefamilies must from this time be thought of nomore.'

The unfeeling manner, in which MadameMontoni thus informed her niece, that she mustbe separated, perhaps for ever, from the man,with whom she was on the point of being unitedfor life, added to the dismay, which she mustotherwise have suffered at such intelligence.When she could speak, she asked the cause ofthe sudden change in Madame's sentimentstowards Valancourt, but the only reply she couldobtain was, that the Signor had forbade theconnection, considering it to be greatly inferiorto what Emily might reasonably expect.

'I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,'added Madame Montoni, 'but I must say, that M.Valancourt never was a favourite with me, and Iwas overpersuaded, or I should not have givenmy consent to the connection. I was weakenough—I am so foolish sometimes!—to sufferother people's uneasiness to affect me, and somy better judgment yielded to your affliction. Butthe Signor has very properly pointed out the follyof this, and he shall not have to reprove me asecond time. I am determined, that you shallsubmit to those, who know how to guide youbetter than yourself—I am determined, that youshall be conformable.'

Emily would have been astonished at theassertions of this eloquent speech, had not hermind been so overwhelmed by the suddenshock it had received, that she scarcely heard a

word of what was latterly addressed to her.Whatever were the weaknesses of MadameMontoni, she might have avoided to accuseherself with those of compassion andtenderness to the feelings of others, andespecially to those of Emily. It was the sameambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicitan alliance with Madame Clairval's family,which induced her to withdraw from it, now thather marriage with Montoni had exalted her self-consequence, and, with it, her views for herniece.

Emily was, at this time, too much affected toemploy either remonstrance, or entreaty on thistopic; and when, at length, she attempted thelatter, her emotion overcame her speech, andshe retired to her apartment, to think, if in thepresent state of her mind to think was possible,upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. Itwas very long, before her spirits weresufficiently composed to permit the reflection,which, when it came, was dark and eventerrible. She saw, that Montoni sought toaggrandise himself in his disposal of her, and itoccurred, that his friend Cavigni was theperson, for whom he was interested. Theprospect of going to Italy was still rendereddarker, when she considered the tumultuoussituation of that country, then torn by civilcommotion, where every petty state was at warwith its neighbour, and even every castle liableto the attack of an invader. She considered theperson, to whose immediate guidance shewould be committed, and the vast distance, thatwas to separate her from Valancourt, and, at

the recollection of him, every other imagevanished from her mind, and every thought wasagain obscured by grief.

In this perturbed state she passed somehours, and, when she was summoned to dinner,she entreated permission to remain in her ownapartment; but Madame Montoni was alone,and the request was refused. Emily and heraunt said little during the repast; the oneoccupied by her griefs, the other engrossed bythe disappointment, which the unexpectedabsence of Montoni occasioned; for not onlywas her vanity piqued by the neglect, but herjealousy alarmed by what she considered as amysterious engagement. When the cloth wasdrawn and they were alone, Emily renewed themention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neithersoftened to pity, or awakened to remorse,became enraged, that her will should beopposed, and the authority of Montoniquestioned, though this was done by Emily withher usual gentleness, who, after a long, andtorturing conversation, retired in tears.

As she crossed the hall, a person entered itby the great door, whom, as her eyes hastilyglanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni,and she was passing on with quicker steps,when she heard the well-known voice ofValancourt.

'Emily, O! my Emily!' cried he in a tonefaltering with impatience, while she turned, and,as he advanced, was alarmed at theexpression of his countenance and the eagerdesperation of his air. 'In tears, Emily! I would

speak with you,' said he, 'I have much to say;conduct me to where we may converse. But youtremble—you are ill! Let me lead you to a seat.'

He observed the open door of an apartment,and hastily took her hand to lead her thither; butshe attempted to withdraw it, and said, with alanguid smile, 'I am better already; if you wish tosee my aunt she is in the dining-parlour.' 'I mustspeak with YOU, my Emily,' replied Valancourt,'Good God! is it already come to this? Are youindeed so willing to resign me?' But this is animproper place—I am overheard. Let meentreat your attention, if only for a fewminutes.'—'When you have seen my aunt,' saidEmily. 'I was wretched enough when I camehither,' exclaimed Valancourt, 'do not increasemy misery by this coldness—this cruel refusal.'

The despondency, with which he spoke this,affected her almost to tears, but she persistedin refusing to hear him, till he had conversedwith Madame Montoni. 'Where is her husband,where, then, is Montoni?' said Valancourt, in analtered tone: 'it is he, to whom I must speak.'

Emily, terrified for the consequence of theindignation, that flashed in his eyes, tremblinglyassured him, that Montoni was not at home, andentreated he would endeavour to moderate hisresentment. At the tremulous accents of hervoice, his eyes softened instantly from wildnessinto tenderness. 'You are ill, Emily,' said he,'they will destroy us both! Forgive me, that Idared to doubt your affection.'

Emily no longer opposed him, as he led herinto an adjoining parlour; the manner, in which

into an adjoining parlour; the manner, in whichhe had named Montoni, had so much alarmedher for his own safety, that she was now onlyanxious to prevent the consequences of his justresentment. He listened to her entreaties, withattention, but replied to them only with looks ofdespondency and tenderness, concealing, asmuch as possible, the sentiments he felttowards Montoni, that he might soothe theapprehensions, which distressed her. But shesaw the veil he had spread over his resentment,and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming hermore, she urged, at length, the impolicy offorcing an interview with Montoni, and of takingany measure, which might render theirseparation irremediable. Valancourt yielded tothese remonstrances, and her affectingentreaties drew from him a promise, that,however Montoni might persist in his design ofdisuniting them, he would not seek to redresshis wrongs by violence. 'For my sake,' saidEmily, 'let the consideration of what I shouldsuffer deter you from such a mode of revenge!''For your sake, Emily,' replied Valancourt, hiseyes filling with tears of tenderness and grief,while he gazed upon her. 'Yes—yes—I shallsubdue myself. But, though I have given you mysolemn promise to do this, do not expect, that Ican tamely submit to the authority of Montoni; if Icould, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily!how long may he condemn me to live withoutyou,—how long may it be before you return toFrance!'

Emily endeavoured to sooth him withassurances of her unalterable affection, and byrepresenting, that, in little more than a year, she

should be her own mistress, as far as related toher aunt, from whose guardianship her agewould then release her; assurances, which gavelittle consolation to Valancourt, who considered,that she would then be in Italy and in the powerof those, whose dominion over her would notcease with their rights; but he affected to beconsoled by them. Emily, comforted by thepromise she had obtained, and by his apparentcomposure, was about to leave him, when heraunt entered the room. She threw a glance ofsharp reproof upon her niece, who immediatelywithdrew, and of haughty displeasure uponValancourt.

'This is not the conduct I should haveexpected from you, sir;' said she, 'I did notexpect to see you in my house, after you hadbeen informed, that your visits were no longeragreeable, much less, that you would seek aclandestine interview with my niece, and thatshe would grant one.'

Valancourt, perceiving it necessary tovindicate Emily from such a design, explained,that the purpose of his own visit had been torequest an interview with Montoni, and he thenentered upon the subject of it, with thetempered spirit which the sex, rather than therespectability, of Madame Montoni, demanded.

His expostulations were answered withsevere rebuke; she lamented again, that herprudence had ever yielded to what she termedcompassion, and added, that she was sosensible of the folly of her former consent, that,to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she had

committed the affair entirely to the conduct ofSignor Montoni.

The feeling eloquence of Valancourt,however, at length, made her sensible in somemeasure of her unworthy conduct, and shebecame susceptible to shame, but not remorse:she hated Valancourt, who awakened her tothis painful sensation, and, in proportion as shegrew dissatisfied with herself, her abhorrenceof him increased. This was also the moreinveterate, because his tempered words andmanner were such as, without accusing her,compelled her to accuse herself, and neither lefther a hope, that the odious portrait was thecaricature of his prejudice, or afforded her anexcuse for expressing the violent resentment,with which she contemplated it. At length, heranger rose to such an height, that Valancourtwas compelled to leave the house abruptly, lesthe should forfeit his own esteem by anintemperate reply. He was then convinced, thatfrom Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope,for what of either pity, or justice could beexpected from a person, who could feel thepain of guilt, without the humility of repentance?

To Montoni he looked with equaldespondency, since it was nearly evident, thatthis plan of separation originated with him, andit was not probable, that he would relinquish hisown views to entreaties, or remonstrances,which he must have foreseen and have beenprepared to resist. Yet, remembering hispromise to Emily, and more solicitous,concerning his love, than jealous of hisconsequence, Valancourt was careful to do

nothing that might unnecessarily irritateMontoni, he wrote to him, therefore, not todemand an interview, but to solicit one, and,having done this, he endeavoured to wait withcalmness his reply.

Madame Clairval was passive in the affair.When she gave her approbation to Valancourt'smarriage, it was in the belief, that Emily wouldbe the heiress of Madame Montoni's fortune;and, though, upon the nuptials of the latter, whenshe perceived the fallacy of this expectation,her conscience had withheld her from adoptingany measure to prevent the union, herbenevolence was not sufficiently active to impelher towards any step, that might now promote it.She was, on the contrary, secretly pleased, thatValancourt was released from an engagement,which she considered to be as inferior, in pointof fortune, to his merit, as his alliance wasthought by Montoni to be humiliating to thebeauty of Emily; and, though her pride waswounded by this rejection of a member of herfamily, she disdained to shew resentmentotherwise, than by silence.

Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, thatas an interview could neither remove theobjections of the one, or overcome the wishesof the other, it would serve only to produceuseless altercation between them. He,therefore, thought proper to refuse it.

In consideration of the policy, suggested byEmily, and of his promise to her, Valancourtrestrained the impulse, that urged him to thehouse of Montoni, to demand what had been

denied to his entreaties. He only repeated hissolicitations to see him; seconding them with allthe arguments his situation could suggest. Thusseveral days passed, in remonstrance, on oneside, and inflexible denial, on the other; for,whether it was fear, or shame, or the hatred,which results from both, that made Montonishun the man he had injured, he wasperemptory in his refusal, and was neithersoftened to pity by the agony, whichValancourt's letters pourtrayed, or awakened toa repentance of his own injustice by the strongremonstrances he employed. At length,Valancourt's letters were returned unopened,and then, in the first moments of passionatedespair, he forgot every promise to Emily,except the solemn one, which bound him toavoid violence, and hastened to Montoni'schateau, determined to see him by whateverother means might be necessary. Montoni wasdenied, and Valancourt, when he afterwardsenquired for Madame, and Ma'amselle St.Aubert, was absolutely refused admittance bythe servants. Not choosing to submit himself toa contest with these, he, at length, departed,and, returning home in a state of mindapproaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of whathad passed, expressed without restraint all theagony of his heart, and entreated, that, since hemust not otherwise hope to see herimmediately, she would allow him an interviewunknown to Montoni. Soon after he haddispatched this, his passions becoming moretemperate, he was sensible of the error he hadcommitted in having given Emily a new subjectof distress in the strong mention of his own

suffering, and would have given half the world,had it been his, to recover the letter. Emily,however, was spared the pain she must havereceived from it by the suspicious policy ofMadame Montoni, who had ordered, that allletters, addressed to her niece, should bedelivered to herself, and who, after havingperused this and indulged the expressions ofresentment, which Valancourt's mention ofMontoni provoked, had consigned it to theflames.

Montoni, meanwhile, every day moreimpatient to leave France, gave repeatedorders for dispatch to the servants employed inpreparations for the journey, and to the persons,with whom he was transacting some particularbusiness. He preserved a steady silence to theletters in which Valancourt, despairing ofgreater good, and having subdued the passion,that had transgressed against his policy,solicited only the indulgence of being allowed tobid Emily farewell. But, when the latter[Valancourt] learned, that she was really to setout in a very few days, and that it was designedhe should see her no more, forgetting everyconsideration of prudence, he dared, in asecond letter to Emily, to propose a clandestinemarriage. This also was transmitted toMadame Montoni, and the last day of Emily'sstay at Tholouse arrived, without affordingValancourt even a line to sooth his sufferings, ora hope, that he should be allowed a partinginterview.

During this period of torturing suspense toValancourt, Emily was sunk into that kind of

stupor, with which sudden and irremediablemisfortune sometimes overwhelms the mind.Loving him with the tenderest affection, andhaving long been accustomed to consider himas the friend and companion of all her futuredays, she had no ideas of happiness, that werenot connected with him. What, then, must havebeen her suffering, when thus suddenly theywere to be separated, perhaps, for ever,certainly to be thrown into distant parts of theworld, where they could scarcely hear of eachother's existence; and all this in obedience tothe will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, andof a person, who had but lately been anxious tohasten their nuptials! It was in vain, that sheendeavoured to subdue her grief, and resignherself to an event, which she could not avoid.The silence of Valancourt afflicted more than itsurprised her, since she attributed it to its justoccasion; but, when the day, preceding that, onwhich she was to quit Tholouse, arrived, andshe had heard no mention of his beingpermitted to take leave of her, grief overcameevery consideration, that had made herreluctant to speak of him, and she enquired ofMadame Montoni, whether this consolation hadbeen refused. Her aunt informed her that it had,adding, that, after the provocation she hadherself received from Valancourt, in their lastinterview, and the persecution, which the Signorhad suffered from his letters, no entreatiesshould avail to procure it.

'If the Chevalier expected this favour from us,'said she, 'he should have conducted himself ina very different manner; he should have waited

patiently, till he knew whether we weredisposed to grant it, and not have come andreproved me, because I did not think proper tobestow my niece upon him,—and then havepersisted in troubling the Signor, because hedid not think proper to enter into any disputeabout so childish an affair. His behaviourthroughout has been extremely presumptuousand impertinent, and I desire, that I may neverhear his name repeated, and that you will getthe better of those foolish sorrows and whims,and look like other people, and not appear withthat dismal countenance, as if you were readyto cry. For, though you say nothing, you cannotconceal your grief from my penetration. I cansee you are ready to cry at this moment, thoughI am reproving you for it; aye, even now, in spiteof my commands.'

Emily, having turned away to hide her tears,quitted the room to indulge them, and the daywas passed in an intensity of anguish, such asshe had, perhaps, never known before. Whenshe withdrew to her chamber for the night, sheremained in the chair where she had placedherself, on entering the room, absorbed in hergrief, till long after every member of the family,except herself, was retired to rest. She couldnot divest herself of a belief, that she hadparted with Valancourt to meet no more; abelief, which did not arise merely from foreseencircumstances, for, though the length of thejourney she was about to commence, theuncertainty as to the period of her return,together with the prohibitions she had received,seemed to justify it, she yielded also to an

impression, which she mistook for a pre-sentiment, that she was going from Valancourtfor ever. How dreadful to her imagination, too,was the distance that would separate them—the Alps, those tremendous barriers! wouldrise, and whole countries extend between theregions where each must exist! To live inadjoining provinces, to live even in the samecountry, though without seeing him, wascomparative happiness to the conviction of thisdreadful length of distance.

Her mind was, at length, so much agitated bythe consideration of her state, and the belief,that she had seen Valancourt for the last time,that she suddenly became very faint, and,looking round the chamber for something, thatmight revive her, she observed the casements,and had just strength to throw one open, nearwhich she seated herself. The air recalled herspirits, and the still moon-light, that fell upon theelms of a long avenue, fronting the window,somewhat soothed them, and determined herto try whether exercise and the open air wouldnot relieve the intense pain that bound hertemples. In the chateau all was still; and,passing down the great stair-case into the hall,from whence a passage led immediately to thegarden, she softly and unheard, as she thought,unlocked the door, and entered the avenue.Emily passed on with steps now hurried, andnow faltering, as, deceived by the shadowsamong the trees, she fancied she saw someperson move in the distant perspective, andfeared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni.Her desire, however, to re-visit the pavilion,

where she had passed so many happy hourswith Valancourt, and had admired with him theextensive prospect over Languedoc and hernative Gascony, overcame her apprehension ofbeing observed, and she moved on towards theterrace, which, running along the upper garden,commanded the whole of the lower one, andcommunicated with it by a flight of marblesteps, that terminated the avenue.

Having reached these steps, she paused amoment to look round, for her distance from thechateau now increased the fear, which thestillness and obscurity of the hour hadawakened. But, perceiving nothing that couldjustify it, she ascended to the terrace, where themoon-light shewed the long broad walk, with thepavilion at its extremity, while the rays silveredthe foliage of the high trees and shrubs, thatbordered it on the right, and the tufted summitsof those, that rose to a level with the balustradeon the left, from the garden below. Her distancefrom the chateau again alarming her, shepaused to listen; the night was so calm, that nosound could have escaped her, but she heardonly the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale,with the light shiver of the leaves, and shepursued her way towards the pavilion, havingreached which, its obscurity did not prevent theemotion, that a fuller view of its well-knownscene would have excited. The lattices werethrown back, and shewed beyond theirembowered arch the moon-light landscape,shadowy and soft; its groves, and plainsextending gradually and indistinctly to the eye,its distant mountains catching a stronger gleam,

and the nearer river reflecting the moon, andtrembling to her rays.

Emily, as she approached the lattice, wassensible of the features of this scene only asthey served to bring Valancourt moreimmediately to her fancy. 'Ah!' said she, with aheavy sigh, as she threw herself into a chair bythe window, 'how often have we sat together inthis spot—often have looked upon thatlandscape! Never, never more shall we view ittogether—never—never more, perhaps, shallwe look upon each other!'

Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror—a voice spoke near her in the pavilion; sheshrieked—it spoke again, and shedistinguished the well-known tones ofValancourt. It was indeed Valancourt whosupported her in his arms! For some momentstheir emotion would not suffer either to speak.'Emily,' said Valancourt at length, as hepressed her hand in his. 'Emily!' and he wasagain silent, but the accent, in which he hadpronounced her name, expressed all histenderness and sorrow.

'O my Emily!' he resumed, after a long pause,'I do then see you once again, and hear againthe sound of that voice! I have haunted thisplace—these gardens, for many—many nights,with a faint, very faint hope of seeing you. Thiswas the only chance that remained to me, andthank heaven! it has at length succeeded—I amnot condemned to absolute despair!'

Emily said something, she scarcely knewwhat, expressive of her unalterable affection,

what, expressive of her unalterable affection,and endeavoured to calm the agitation of hismind; but Valancourt could for some time onlyutter incoherent expressions of his emotions;and, when he was somewhat more composed,he said, 'I came hither, soon after sun-set, andhave been watching in the gardens, and in thispavilion ever since; for, though I had now givenup all hope of seeing you, I could not resolve totear myself from a place so near to you, andshould probably have lingered about thechateau till morning dawned. O how heavily themoments have passed, yet with what variousemotion have they been marked, as Isometimes thought I heard footsteps, andfancied you were approaching, and then again—perceived only a dead and dreary silence!But, when you opened the door of the pavilion,and the darkness prevented my distinguishingwith certainty, whether it was my love—my heartbeat so strongly with hopes and fears, that Icould not speak. The instant I heard theplaintive accents of your voice, my doubtsvanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of me;then, losing the apprehension of alarming you inthe excess of my emotion, I could no longer besilent. O Emily! these are moments, in which joyand grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely supportthe contest!'

Emily's heart acknowledged the truth of thisassertion, but the joy she felt on thus meetingValancourt, at the very moment when she waslamenting, that they must probably meet nomore, soon melted into grief, as reflection stoleover her thoughts, and imagination prompted

visions of the future. She struggled to recoverthe calm dignity of mind, which was necessaryto support her through this last interview, andwhich Valancourt found it utterly impossible toattain, for the transports of his joy changedabruptly into those of suffering, and heexpressed in the most impassioned languagehis horror of this separation, and his despair oftheir ever meeting again. Emily wept silently asshe listened to him, and then, trying tocommand her own distress, and to sooth his,she suggested every circumstance that couldlead to hope. But the energy of his fears led himinstantly to detect the friendly fallacies, whichshe endeavoured to impose on herself and him,and also to conjure up illusions too powerful forhis reason.

'You are going from me,' said he, 'to a distantcountry, O how distant!—to new society, newfriends, new admirers, with people too, who willtry to make you forget me, and to promote newconnections! How can I know this, and notknow, that you will never return for me—nevercan be mine.' His voice was stifled by sighs.

'You believe, then,' said Emily, 'that the pangsI suffer proceed from a trivial and temporaryinterest; you believe—'

'Suffer!' interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me!O Emily—how sweet—how bitter are thosewords; what comfort, what anguish do they give!I ought not to doubt the steadiness of youraffection, yet such is the inconsistency of reallove, that it is always awake to suspicion,however unreasonable; always requiring new

assurances from the object of its interest, andthus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a newconviction, when your words tell me I am dear toyou; and, wanting these, I relapse into doubt,and too often into despondency.' Then seemingto recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But what awretch am I, thus to torture you, and in thesemoments, too! I, who ought to support andcomfort you!'

This reflection overcame Valancourt withtenderness, but, relapsing into despondency,he again felt only for himself, and lamentedagain this cruel separation, in a voice andwords so impassioned, that Emily could nolonger struggle to repress her own grief, or tosooth his. Valancourt, between these emotionsof love and pity, lost the power, and almost thewish, of repressing his agitation; and, in theintervals of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment,kissed away her tears, then told her cruelly, thatpossibly she might never again weep for him,and then tried to speak more calmly, but onlyexclaimed, 'O Emily—my heart will break!—Icannot—cannot leave you! Now—I gaze uponthat countenance, now I hold you in my arms! alittle while, and all this will appear a dream. Ishall look, and cannot see you; shall try torecollect your features—and the impression willbe fled from my imagination;—to hear the tonesof your voice, and even memory will be silent!—I cannot, cannot leave you! why should weconfide the happiness of our whole lives to thewill of people, who have no right to interrupt,and, except in giving you to me, have no powerto promote it? O Emily! venture to trust your own

heart, venture to be mine for ever!' His voicetrembled, and he was silent; Emily continued toweep, and was silent also, when Valancourtproceeded to propose an immediate marriage,and that at an early hour on the followingmorning, she should quit Madame Montoni'shouse, and be conducted by him to the churchof the Augustines, where a friar should await tounite them.

The silence, with which she listened to aproposal, dictated by love and despair, andenforced at a moment, when it seemedscarcely possible for her to oppose it;—whenher heart was softened by the sorrows of aseparation, that might be eternal, and herreason obscured by the illusions of love andterror, encouraged him to hope, that it would notbe rejected. 'Speak, my Emily!' said Valancourteagerly, 'let me hear your voice, let me hear youconfirm my fate.' she spoke not; her cheek wascold, and her senses seemed to fail her, butshe did not faint. To Valancourt's terrifiedimagination she appeared to be dying; hecalled upon her name, rose to go to the chateaufor assistance, and then, recollecting hersituation, feared to go, or to leave her for amoment.

After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh,and began to revive. The conflict she hadsuffered, between love and the duty she atpresent owed to her father's sister; herrepugnance to a clandestine marriage, her fearof emerging on the world with embarrassments,such as might ultimately involve the object of heraffection in misery and repentance;—all this

various interest was too powerful for a mind,already enervated by sorrow, and her reasonhad suffered a transient suspension. But duty,and good sense, however hard the conflict, atlength, triumphed over affection and mournfulpresentiment; above all, she dreaded to involveValancourt in obscurity and vain regret, whichshe saw, or thought she saw, must be the toocertain consequence of a marriage in theirpresent circumstances; and she acted,perhaps, with somewhat more than femalefortitude, when she resolved to endure apresent, rather than provoke a distantmisfortune.

With a candour, that proved how truly sheesteemed and loved him, and which endearedher to him, if possible, more than ever, she toldValancourt all her reasons for rejecting hisproposals. Those, which influenced herconcerning his future welfare, he instantlyrefuted, or rather contradicted; but theyawakened tender considerations for her, whichthe frenzy of passion and despair hadconcealed before, and love, which had but latelyprompted him to propose a clandestine andimmediate marriage, now induced him torenounce it. The triumph was almost too muchfor his heart; for Emily's sake, he endeavouredto stifle his grief, but the swelling anguish wouldnot be restrained. 'O Emily!' said he, 'I mustleave you—I MUST leave you, and I know it isfor ever!'

Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words,and they wept together in silence, till Emily,recollecting the danger of being discovered,

and the impropriety of prolonging an interview,which might subject her to censure, summonedall her fortitude to utter a last farewell.

'Stay!' said Valancourt, 'I conjure you stay, forI have much to tell you. The agitation of my mindhas hitherto suffered me to speak only on thesubject that occupied it;—I have forborne tomention a doubt of much importance, partly, lestit should appear as if I told it with anungenerous view of alarming you into acompliance with my late proposal.'

Emily, much agitated, did not leaveValancourt, but she led him from the pavilion,and, as they walked upon the terrace, heproceeded as follows:

'This Montoni: I have heard some strangehints concerning him. Are you certain he is ofMadame Quesnel's family, and that his fortuneis what it appears to be?'

'I have no reason to doubt either,' repliedEmily, in a voice of alarm. 'Of the first, indeed, Icannot doubt, but I have no certain means ofjudging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell meall you have heard.'

'That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect,and unsatisfactory information. I gathered it byaccident from an Italian, who was speaking toanother person of this Montoni. They weretalking of his marriage; the Italian said, that if hewas the person he meant, he was not likely tomake Madame Cheron happy. He proceededto speak of him in general terms of dislike, andthen gave some particular hints, concerning his

character, that excited my curiosity, and Iventured to ask him a few questions. He wasreserved in his replies, but, after hesitating forsome time, he owned, that he had understoodabroad, that Montoni was a man of desperatefortune and character. He said something of acastle of Montoni's, situated among theApennines, and of some strangecircumstances, that might be mentioned, as tohis former mode of life. I pressed him to informme further, but I believe the strong interest I feltwas visible in my manner, and alarmed him; forno entreaties could prevail with him to give anyexplanation of the circumstances he hadalluded to, or to mention any thing furtherconcerning Montoni. I observed to him, that, ifMontoni was possessed of a castle in theApennines, it appeared from such acircumstance, that he was of some family, andalso seemed to contradict the report, that hewas a man of entirely broken fortunes. Heshook his head, and looked as if he could havesaid a great deal, but made no reply.

'A hope of learning something moresatisfactory, or more positive, detained me inhis company a considerable time, and Irenewed the subject repeatedly, but the Italianwrapped himself up in reserve, said—that whathe had mentioned he had caught only from afloating report, and that reports frequently arosefrom personal malice, and were very little to bedepended upon. I forbore to press the subjectfarther, since it was obvious that he wasalarmed for the consequence of what he hadalready said, and I was compelled to remain in

uncertainty on a point where suspense isalmost intolerable. Think, Emily, what I mustsuffer to see you depart for a foreign country,committed to the power of a man of suchdoubtful character as is this Montoni! But I willnot alarm you unnecessarily;—it is possible, asthe Italian said, at first, that this is not theMontoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider wellbefore you resolve to commit yourself to him. O!I must not trust myself to speak—or I shallrenounce all the motives, which so latelyinfluenced me to resign the hope of yourbecoming mine immediately.'

Valancourt walked upon the terrace withhurried steps, while Emily remained leaning onthe balustrade in deep thought. The informationshe had just received excited, perhaps, morealarm than it could justify, and raised once morethe conflict of contrasted interests. She hadnever liked Montoni. The fire and keenness ofhis eye, its proud exultation, its bold fierceness,its sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and evenslight occasion, had called forth the latent soul,she had often observed with emotion; whilefrom the usual expression of his countenanceshe had always shrunk. From suchobservations she was the more inclined tobelieve, that it was this Montoni, of whom theItalian had uttered his suspicious hints. Thethought of being solely in his power, in a foreignland, was terrifying to her, but it was not byterror alone that she was urged to animmediate marriage with Valancourt. Thetenderest love had already pleaded his cause,but had been unable to overcome her opinion,

as to her duty, her disinterested considerationsfor Valancourt, and the delicacy, which madeher revolt from a clandestine union. It was not tobe expected, that a vague terror would be morepowerful, than the united influence of love andgrief. But it recalled all their energy, andrendered a second conquest necessary.

With Valancourt, whose imagination was nowawake to the suggestion of every passion;whose apprehensions for Emily had acquiredstrength by the mere mention of them, andbecame every instant more powerful, as hismind brooded over them—with Valancourt nosecond conquest was attainable. He thought hesaw in the clearest light, and love assisted thefear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emilyin misery; he determined, therefore, topersevere in opposing it, and in conjuring her tobestow upon him the title of her lawful protector.

'Emily!' said he, with solemn earnestness,'this is no time for scrupulous distinctions, forweighing the dubious and comparatively triflingcircumstances, that may affect our futurecomfort. I now see, much more clearly thanbefore, the train of serious dangers you aregoing to encounter with a man of Montoni'scharacter. Those dark hints of the Italian spokemuch, but not more than the idea I have ofMontoni's disposition, as exhibited even in hiscountenance. I think I see at this moment all thatcould have been hinted, written there. He is theItalian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for yourown sake, as well as for mine, to prevent theevils I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let mytenderness, my arms withhold you from them—

give me the right to defend you!'

Emily only sighed, while Valancourtproceeded to remonstrate and to entreat withall the energy that love and apprehension couldinspire. But, as his imagination magnified to herthe possible evils she was going to meet, themists of her own fancy began to dissipate, andallowed her to distinguish the exaggeratedimages, which imposed on his reason. Sheconsidered, that there was no proof of Montonibeing the person, whom the stranger hadmeant; that, even if he was so, the Italian hadnoticed his character and broken fortunesmerely from report; and that, though thecountenance of Montoni seemed to giveprobability to a part of the rumour, it was not bysuch circumstances that an implicit belief of itcould be justified. These considerations wouldprobably not have arisen so distinctly to hermind, at this time, had not the terrors ofValancourt presented to her such obviousexaggerations of her danger, as incited her todistrust the fallacies of passion. But, while sheendeavoured in the gentlest manner to convincehim of his error, she plunged him into a newone. His voice and countenance changed to anexpression of dark despair. 'Emily!' said he,'this, this moment is the bitterest that is yetcome to me. You do not—cannot love me!—Itwould be impossible for you to reason thuscoolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, I am tornwith anguish at the prospect of our separation,and of the evils that may await you inconsequence of it; I would encounter anyhazards to prevent it—to save you. No! Emily,

no!—you cannot love me.'

'We have now little time to waste inexclamation, or assertion,' said Emily,endeavouring to conceal her emotion: 'if youare yet to learn how dear you are, and evermust be, to my heart, no assurances of minecan give you conviction.'

The last words faltered on her lips, and hertears flowed fast. These words and tearsbrought, once more, and with instantaneousforce, conviction of her love to Valancourt. Hecould only exclaim, 'Emily! Emily!' and weepover the hand he pressed to his lips; but she,after some moments, again roused herself fromthe indulgence of sorrow, and said, 'I must leaveyou; it is late, and my absence from the chateaumay be discovered. Think of me—love me—when I am far away; the belief of this will be mycomfort!'

'Think of you!—love you!' exclaimedValancourt.

'Try to moderate these transports,' saidEmily, 'for my sake, try.'

'For your sake!'

'Yes, for my sake,' replied Emily, in atremulous voice, 'I cannot leave you thus!'

'Then do not leave me!' said Valancourt, withquickness. 'Why should we part, or part forlonger than till to-morrow?'

'I am, indeed I am, unequal to thesemoments,' replied Emily, 'you tear my heart, but

I never can consent to this hasty, imprudentproposal!'

'If we could command our time, my Emily, itshould not be thus hasty; we must submit tocircumstances.'

'We must indeed! I have already told you allmy heart—my spirits are gone. You allowed theforce of my objections, till your tendernesscalled up vague terrors, which have given usboth unnecessary anguish. Spare me! do notoblige me to repeat the reasons I have alreadyurged.'

'Spare you!' cried Valancourt, 'I am a wretch—a very wretch, that have felt only for myself!—I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude of aman, who ought to have supported you, I! haveincreased your sufferings by the conduct of achild! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distractionof my mind now that I am about to part with allthat is dear to me—and forgive me! When youare gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorsewhat I have made you suffer, and shall wish invain that I could see you, if only for a moment,that I might sooth your grief.'

Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emilywept with him. 'I will shew myself more worthy ofyour love,' said Valancourt, at length; 'I will notprolong these moments. My Emily—my ownEmily! never forget me! God knows when weshall meet again! I resign you to his care.—OGod!—O God!—protect and bless her!'

He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunkalmost lifeless on his bosom, and neither wept,

nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding hisown distress, tried to comfort and re-assureher, but she appeared totally unaffected by whathe said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now andthen, was all that proved she had not fainted.

He supported her slowly towards the chateau,weeping and speaking to her; but sheanswered only in sighs, till, having reached thegate, that terminated the avenue, she seemedto have recovered her consciousness, and,looking round, perceived how near they were tothe chateau. 'We must part here,' said she,stopping, 'Why prolong these moments? Teachme the fortitude I have forgot.'

Valancourt struggled to assume a composedair. 'Farewell, my love!' said he, in a voice ofsolemn tenderness—'trust me we shall meetagain—meet for each other—meet to part nomore!' His voice faltered, but, recovering it, heproceeded in a firmer tone. 'You know not what Ishall suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit noopportunity of conveying to you my letters, yet Itremble to think how few may occur. And trustme, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear thisabsence with fortitude. O how little I have shewnto-night!'

'Farewell!' said Emily faintly. 'When you aregone, I shall think of many things I would havesaid to you.' 'And I of many—many!' saidValancourt; 'I never left you yet, that I did notimmediately remember some question, orsome entreaty, or some circumstance,concerning my love, that I earnestly wished tomention, and feel wretched because I could not.

O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze—will, in a moment, be gone from my eyes, andnot all the efforts of fancy will be able to recall itwith exactness. O! what an infinite differencebetween this moment and the next! NOW, I amin your presence, can behold you! THEN, all willbe a dreary blank—and I shall be a wanderer,exiled from my only home!'

Valancourt again pressed her to his heart,and held her there in silence, weeping. Tearsonce again calmed her oppressed mind. Theyagain bade each other farewell, lingered amoment, and then parted. Valancourt seemedto force himself from the spot; he passed hastilyup the avenue, and Emily, as she moved slowlytowards the chateau, heard his distant steps.She listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainterand fainter, till the melancholy stillness of nightalone remained; and then hurried to herchamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fledfrom her wretchedness.

VOLUME 2

CHAPTER I Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, My heart untravell'd still shall turn to thee. GOLDSMITH

The carriages were at the gates at an earlyhour; the bustle of the domestics, passing toand fro in the galleries, awakened Emily fromharassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had,during the night, presented her with terrificimages and obscure circumstances,concerning her affection and her future life. Shenow endeavoured to chase away theimpressions they had left on her fancy; but fromimaginary evils she awoke to theconsciousness of real ones. Recollecting thatshe had parted with Valancourt, perhaps forever, her heart sickened as memory revived.But she tried to dismiss the dismal forebodingsthat crowded on her mind, and to restrain thesorrow which she could not subdue; effortswhich diffused over the settled melancholy ofher countenance an expression of temperedresignation, as a thin veil, thrown over thefeatures of beauty, renders them moreinteresting by a partial concealment. ButMadame Montoni observed nothing in thiscountenance except its usual paleness, whichattracted her censure. She told her niece, thatshe had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, andbegged she would have more regard fordecorum, than to let the world see that shecould not renounce an improper attachment; atwhich Emily's pale cheek became flushed with

crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and shemade no answer. Soon after, Montoni enteredthe breakfast room, spoke little, and seemedimpatient to be gone.

The windows of this room opened upon thegarden. As Emily passed them, she saw thespot where she had parted with Valancourt onthe preceding night: the remembrance pressedheavily on her heart, and she turned hastilyaway from the object that had awakened it.

The baggage being at length adjusted, thetravellers entered their carriages, and Emilywould have left the chateau without one sigh ofregret, had it not been situated in theneighbourhood of Valancourt's residence.

From a little eminence she looked back uponTholouse, and the far-seen plains of Gascony,beyond which the broken summits of thePyrenees appeared on the distant horizon,lighted up by a morning sun. 'Dear pleasantmountains!' said she to herself, 'how long may itbe ere I see ye again, and how much mayhappen to make me miserable in the interval!Oh, could I now be certain, that I should everreturn to ye, and find that Valancourt still livedfor me, I should go in peace! He will still gazeon ye, gaze when I am far away!'

The trees, that impended over the high banksof the road and formed a line of perspectivewith the distant country, now threatened toexclude the view of them; but the blueishmountains still appeared beyond the darkfoliage, and Emily continued to lean from the

coach window, till at length the closing branchesshut them from her sight.

Another object soon caught her attention.She had scarcely looked at a person whowalked along the bank, with his hat, in whichwas the military feather, drawn over his eyes,before, at the sound of wheels, he suddenlyturned, and she perceived that it wasValancourt himself, who waved his hand,sprung into the road, and through the window ofthe carriage put a letter into her hand. Heendeavoured to smile through the despair thatoverspread his countenance as she passed on.The remembrance of that smile seemedimpressed on Emily's mind for ever. Sheleaned from the window, and saw him on a knollof the broken bank, leaning against the hightrees that waved over him, and pursuing thecarriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, andshe continued to gaze till distance confused hisfigure, and at length another turn of the roadentirely separated him from her sight.

Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni ata chateau on the road, the travellers, of whomEmily was disrespectfully seated with MadameMontoni's woman in a second carriage,pursued their way over the plains of Languedoc.The presence of this servant restrained Emilyfrom reading Valancourt's letter, for she did notchoose to expose the emotions it mightoccasion to the observation of any person. Yetsuch was her wish to read this his lastcommunication, that her trembling hand wasevery moment on the point of breaking the seal.

At length they reached the village, where theystaid only to change horses, without alighting,and it was not till they stopped to dine, thatEmily had an opportunity of reading the letter.Though she had never doubted the sincerity ofValancourt's affection, the fresh assurances shenow received of it revived her spirits; she weptover his letter in tenderness, laid it by to bereferred to when they should be particularlydepressed, and then thought of him with muchless anguish than she had done since theyparted. Among some other requests, whichwere interesting to her, because expressive ofhis tenderness, and because a compliance withthem seemed to annihilate for a while the painof absence, he entreated she would alwaysthink of him at sunset. 'You will then meet me inthought,' said he; 'I shall constantly watch thesun-set, and I shall be happy in the belief, thatyour eyes are fixed upon the same object withmine, and that our minds are conversing. Youknow not, Emily, the comfort I promise myselffrom these moments; but I trust you willexperience it.'

It is unnecessary to say with what emotionEmily, on this evening, watched the decliningsun, over a long extent of plains, on which shesaw it set without interruption, and sink towardsthe province which Valancourt inhabited. Afterthis hour her mind became far more tranquiland resigned, than it had been since themarriage of Montoni and her aunt.

During several days the travellers journeyedover the plains of Languedoc; and then enteringDauphiny, and winding for some time among

the mountains of that romantic province, theyquitted their carriages and began to ascend theAlps. And here such scenes of sublimityopened upon them as no colours of languagemust dare to paint! Emily's mind was even somuch engaged with new and wonderful images,that they sometimes banished the idea ofValancourt, though they more frequently revivedit. These brought to her recollection theprospects among the Pyrenees, which they hadadmired together, and had believed nothingcould excel in grandeur. How often did she wishto express to him the new emotions which thisastonishing scenery awakened, and that hecould partake of them! Sometimes too sheendeavoured to anticipate his remarks, andalmost imagined him present. She seemed tohave arisen into another world, and to have leftevery trifling thought, every trifling sentiment, inthat below; those only of grandeur and sublimitynow dilated her mind, and elevated theaffections of her heart.

With what emotions of sublimity, softened bytenderness, did she meet Valancourt in thought,at the customary hour of sun-set, when,wandering among the Alps, she watched theglorious orb sink amid their summits, his lasttints die away on their snowy points, and asolemn obscurity steal over the scene! Andwhen the last gleam had faded, she turned hereyes from the west with somewhat of themelancholy regret that is experienced after thedeparture of a beloved friend; while these lonelyfeelings were heightened by the spreadinggloom, and by the low sounds, heard only when

darkness confines attention, which make thegeneral stillness more impressive—leavesshook by the air, the last sigh of the breeze thatlingers after sun-set, or the murmur of distantstreams.

During the first days of this journey among theAlps, the scenery exhibited a wonderful mixtureof solitude and inhabitation, of cultivation andbarrenness. On the edge of tremendousprecipices, and within the hollow of the cliffs,below which the clouds often floated, were seenvillages, spires, and convent towers; whilegreen pastures and vineyards spread their huesat the feet of perpendicular rocks of marble, orof granite, whose points, tufted with alpineshrubs, or exhibiting only massy crags, roseabove each other, till they terminated in thesnow-topt mountain, whence the torrent fell, thatthundered along the valley.

The snow was not yet melted on the summitof Mount Cenis, over which the travellerspassed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clearlake and extended plain, surrounded by brokencliffs, saw, in imagination, the verdant beauty itwould exhibit when the snows should be gone,and the shepherds, leading up the midsummerflocks from Piedmont, to pasture on its flowerysummit, should add Arcadian figures toArcadian landscape.

As she descended on the Italian side, theprecipices became still more tremendous, andthe prospects still more wild and majestic, overwhich the shifting lights threw all the pomp ofcolouring. Emily delighted to observe the snowy

tops of the mountains under the passinginfluence of the day, blushing with morning,glowing with the brightness of noon, or justtinted with the purple evening. The haunt of mancould now only be discovered by the simple hutof the shepherd and the hunter, or by the roughpine bridge thrown across the torrent, to assistthe latter in his chase of the chamois over cragswhere, but for this vestige of man, it would havebeen believed only the chamois or the wolfdared to venture. As Emily gazed upon one ofthese perilous bridges, with the cataractfoaming beneath it, some images came to hermind, which she afterwards combined in thefollowing

STORIED SONNET

The weary traveller, who, all night long, Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps, Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees The mountain-shepherd's solitary home, Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees, What sudden transports to his bosom come! But, if between some hideous chasm yawn, Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays, In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn He stands, and views in the faint rays Far, far below, the torrent's rising surge, And listens to the wild impetuous roar; Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge, Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er. Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries, His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks—he dies!

Emily, often as she travelled among theclouds, watched in silent awe their billowy

surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closingupon the scene, they appeared like a world ofchaos, and, at others, spreading thinly, theyopened and admitted partial catches of thelandscape—the torrent, whose astounding roarhad never failed, tumbling down the rockychasm, huge cliffs white with snow, or the darksummits of the pine forests, that stretched mid-way down the mountains. But who maydescribe her rapture, when, having passedthrough a sea of vapour, she caught a first viewof Italy; when, from the ridge of one of thosetremendous precipices that hang upon MountCenis and guard the entrance of thatenchanting country, she looked down throughthe lower clouds, and, as they floated away,saw the grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet,and, beyond, the plains of Lombardy extendingto the farthest distance, at which appeared, onthe faint horizon, the doubtful towers of Turin?

The solitary grandeur of the objects thatimmediately surrounded her, the mountain-region towering above, the deep precipicesthat fell beneath, the waving blackness of theforests of pine and oak, which skirted their feet,or hung within their recesses, the headlongtorrents that, dashing among their cliffs,sometimes appeared like a cloud of mist, atothers like a sheet of ice—these were featureswhich received a higher character of sublimityfrom the reposing beauty of the Italianlandscape below, stretching to the widehorizon, where the same melting blue tintseemed to unite earth and sky.

Madame Montoni only shuddered as she

looked down precipices near whose edge thechairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, asthe chamois bounded, and from which Emilytoo recoiled; but with her fears were mingledsuch various emotions of delight, suchadmiration, astonishment, and awe, as she hadnever experienced before.

Meanwhile the carriers, having come to alanding-place, stopped to rest, and thetravellers being seated on the point of a cliff,Montoni and Cavigni renewed a disputeconcerning Hannibal's passage over the Alps,Montoni contending that he entered Italy by wayof Mount Cenis, and Cavigni, that he passedover Mount St. Bernard. The subject brought toEmily's imagination the disasters he hadsuffered in this bold and perilous adventure.She saw his vast armies winding among thedefiles, and over the tremendous cliffs of themountains, which at night were lighted up by hisfires, or by the torches which he caused to becarried when he pursued his indefatigablemarch. In the eye of fancy, she perceived thegleam of arms through the duskiness of night,the glitter of spears and helmets, and thebanners floating dimly on the twilight; while nowand then the blast of a distant trumpet echoedalong the defile, and the signal was answeredby a momentary clash of arms. She looked withhorror upon the mountaineers, perched on thehigher cliffs, assailing the troops below withbroken fragments of the mountain; on soldiersand elephants tumbling headlong down thelower precipices; and, as she listened to therebounding rocks, that followed their fall, the

terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality, andshe shuddered to behold herself on the dizzyheight, whence she had pictured the descent ofothers.

Madame Montoni, meantime, as she lookedupon Italy, was contemplating in imagination thesplendour of palaces and the grandeur ofcastles, such as she believed she was going tobe mistress of at Venice and in the Apennine,and she became, in idea, little less than aprincess. Being no longer under the alarmswhich had deterred her from givingentertainments to the beauties of Tholouse,whom Montoni had mentioned with more eclatto his own vanity than credit to their discretion,or regard to truth, she determined to giveconcerts, though she had neither ear nor tastefor music; conversazioni, though she had notalents for conversation; and to outvie, ifpossible, in the gaieties of her parties and themagnificence of her liveries, all the noblesse ofVenice. This blissful reverie was somewhatobscured, when she recollected the Signor, herhusband, who, though he was not averse to theprofit which sometimes results from suchparties, had always shewn a contempt of thefrivolous parade that sometimes attends them;till she considered that his pride might begratified by displaying, among his own friends,in his native city, the wealth which he hadneglected in France; and she courted again thesplendid illusions that had charmed her before.

The travellers, as they descended, gradually,exchanged the region of winter for the genialwarmth and beauty of spring. The sky began to

assume that serene and beautiful tint peculiar tothe climate of Italy; patches of young verdure,fragrant shrubs and flowers looked gaily amongthe rocks, often fringing their rugged brows, orhanging in tufts from their broken sides; and thebuds of the oak and mountain ash wereexpanding into foliage. Descending lower, theorange and the myrtle, every now and then,appeared in some sunny nook, with their yellowblossoms peeping from among the dark greenof their leaves, and mingling with the scarletflowers of the pomegranate and the paler onesof the arbutus, that ran mantling to the cragsabove; while, lower still, spread the pastures ofPiedmont, where early flocks were cropping theluxuriant herbage of spring.

The river Doria, which, rising on the summitof Mount Cenis, had dashed for many leaguesover the precipices that bordered the road, nowbegan to assume a less impetuous, thoughscarcely less romantic character, as itapproached the green vallies of Piedmont, intowhich the travellers descended with the eveningsun; and Emily found herself once more amidthe tranquil beauty of pastoral scenery; amongflocks and herds, and slopes tufted with woodsof lively verdure and with beautiful shrubs, suchas she had often seen waving luxuriantly overthe alps above. The verdure of the pasturage,now varied with the hues of early flowers,among which were yellow ranunculuses andpansey violets of delicious fragrance, she hadnever seen excelled.—Emily almost wished tobecome a peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit oneof the pleasant embowered cottages which she

saw peeping beneath the cliffs, and to pass hercareless hours among these romanticlandscapes. To the hours, the months, she wasto pass under the dominion of Montoni, shelooked with apprehension; while those whichwere departed she remembered with regretand sorrow.

In the present scenes her fancy often gaveher the figure of Valancourt, whom she saw ona point of the cliffs, gazing with awe andadmiration on the imagery around him; orwandering pensively along the vale below,frequently pausing to look back upon thescenery, and then, his countenance glowingwith the poet's fire, pursuing his way to someoverhanging heights. When she againconsidered the time and the distance that wereto separate them, that every step she now tooklengthened this distance, her heart sunk, andthe surrounding landscape charmed her nomore.

The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached,after the evening had closed, the small andantient town of Susa, which had formerlyguarded this pass of the Alps into Piedmont.The heights which command it had, since theinvention of artillery, rendered its fortificationsuseless; but these romantic heights, seen bymoon-light, with the town below, surrounded byits walls and watchtowers, and partiallyillumined, exhibited an interesting picture toEmily. Here they rested for the night at an inn,which had little accommodation to boast of; butthe travellers brought with them the hunger thatgives delicious flavour to the coarsest viands,

and the weariness that ensures repose; andhere Emily first caught a strain of Italian music,on Italian ground. As she sat after supper at alittle window, that opened upon the country,observing an effect of the moon-light on thebroken surface of the mountains, andremembering that on such a night as this sheonce had sat with her father and Valancourt,resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she heardfrom below the long-drawn notes of a violin, ofsuch tone and delicacy of expression, asharmonized exactly with the tender emotionsshe was indulging, and both charmed andsurprised her. Cavigni, who approached thewindow, smiled at her surprise. 'This is nothingextraordinary,' said he, 'you will hear the same,perhaps, at every inn on our way. It is one of ourlandlord's family who plays, I doubt not,' Emily,as she listened, thought he could be scarcelyless than a professor of music whom she heard;and the sweet and plaintive strains soon lulledher into a reverie, from which she was veryunwillingly roused by the raillery of Cavigni, andby the voice of Montoni, who gave orders to aservant to have the carriages ready at an earlyhour on the following morning; and added, thathe meant to dine at Turin.

Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoicedto be once more on level ground; and, aftergiving a long detail of the various terrors shehad suffered, which she forgot that she wasdescribing to the companions of her dangers,she added a hope, that she should soon bebeyond the view of these horrid mountains,'which all the world,' said she, 'should not tempt

me to cross again.' Complaining of fatigue shesoon retired to rest, and Emily withdrew to herown room, when she understood from Annette,her aunt's woman, that Cavigni was nearly rightin his conjecture concerning the musician, whohad awakened the violin with so much taste, forthat he was the son of a peasant inhabiting theneighbouring valley. 'He is going to the Carnivalat Venice,' added Annette, 'for they say he hasa fine hand at playing, and will get a world ofmoney; and the Carnival is just going to begin:but for my part, I should like to live among thesepleasant woods and hills, better than in a town;and they say Ma'moiselle, we shall see nowoods, or hills, or fields, at Venice, for that it isbuilt in the very middle of the sea.'

Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, thatthis young man was making a change for theworse, and could not forbear silently lamenting,that he should be drawn from the innocence andbeauty of these scenes, to the corrupt ones ofthat voluptuous city.

When she was alone, unable to sleep, thelandscapes of her native home, with Valancourt,and the circumstances of her departure,haunted her fancy; she drew pictures of socialhappiness amidst the grand simplicity of nature,such as she feared she had bade farewel to forever; and then, the idea of this youngPiedmontese, thus ignorantly sporting with hishappiness, returned to her thoughts, and, gladto escape awhile from the pressure of nearerinterests, she indulged her fancy in composingthe following lines.

THE PIEDMONTESE

Ah, merry swain, who laugh'd along the vales, And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring, Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales, And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring? He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string, Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails! Yet oft of home his simple carols sing, And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales. Once more he turns to view his native scene— Far, far below, as roll the clouds away, He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green, The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay; And thinks of friends and parents left behind, Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song; And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind; And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong! Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell, And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight; And must he leave the vales he loves so well! Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight? No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze; Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear, And watch at eve beneath the western trees. Away, Venetian gold—your charm is o'er! And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs, Where, through the leaves, his cottage light ONCE MORE Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours. Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales, And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring, Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales— And friends belov'd—more joy than wealth can bring!

CHAPTER II TITANIA. If you will patiently dance in our round, And see our moon-light revels, go with us. MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

Early on the following morning, the travellersset out for Turin. The luxuriant plain, that extendsfrom the feet of the Alps to that magnificent city,was not then, as now, shaded by an avenue oftrees nine miles in length; but plantations ofolives, mulberry and palms, festooned withvines, mingled with the pastoral scenery,through with the rapid Po, after its descent fromthe mountains, wandered to meet the humbleDoria at Turin. As they advanced towards thiscity, the Alps, seen at some distance, began toappear in all their awful sublimity; chain risingover chain in long succession, their higherpoints darkened by the hovering clouds,sometimes hid, and at others seen shooting upfar above them; while their lower steeps, brokeninto fantastic forms, were touched with blue andpurplish tints, which, as they changed in lightand shade, seemed to open new scenes to theeye. To the east stretched the plains ofLombardy, with the towers of Turin rising at adistance; and beyond, the Apennines, boundingthe horizon.

The general magnificence of that city, with itsvistas of churches and palaces, branching fromthe grand square, each opening to a landscapeof the distant Alps or Apennines, was not onlysuch as Emily had never seen in France, but

such as she had never imagined.

Montoni, who had been often at Turin, andcared little about views of any kind, did notcomply with his wife's request, that they mightsurvey some of the palaces; but staying only tillthe necessary refreshments could be obtained,they set forward for Venice with all possiblerapidity. Montoni's manner, during this journey,was grave, and even haughty; and towardsMadame Montoni he was more especiallyreserved; but it was not the reserve of respectso much as of pride and discontent. Of Emily hetook little notice. With Cavigni his conversationswere commonly on political or military topics,such as the convulsed state of their countryrendered at this time particularly interesting,Emily observed, that, at the mention of anydaring exploit, Montoni's eyes lost theirsullenness, and seemed instantaneously togleam with fire; yet they still retained somewhatof a lurking cunning, and she sometimesthought that their fire partook more of the glareof malice than the brightness of valour, thoughthe latter would well have harmonized with thehigh chivalric air of his figure, in which Cavigni,with all his gay and gallant manners, was hisinferior.

On entering the Milanese, the gentlemenexchanged their French hats for the Italian capof scarlet cloth, embroidered; and Emily wassomewhat surprised to observe, that Montoniadded to his the military plume, while Cavigniretained only the feather: which was usuallyworn with such caps: but she at lengthconcluded, that Montoni assumed this ensign of

a soldier for convenience, as a means ofpassing with more safety through a countryover-run with parties of the military.

Over the beautiful plains of this country thedevastations of war were frequently visible.Where the lands had not been suffered to lieuncultivated, they were often tracked with thesteps of the spoiler; the vines were torn downfrom the branches that had supported them, theolives trampled upon the ground, and even thegroves of mulberry trees had been hewn by theenemy to light fires that destroyed the hamletsand villages of their owners. Emily turned hereyes with a sigh from these painful vestiges ofcontention, to the Alps of the Grison, thatoverlooked them to the north, whose awfulsolitudes seemed to offer to persecuted man asecure asylum.

The travellers frequently distinguished troopsof soldiers moving at a distance; and theyexperienced, at the little inns on the road, thescarcity of provision and other inconveniences,which are a part of the consequence of intestinewar; but they had never reason to be muchalarmed for their immediate safety, and theypassed on to Milan with little interruption of anykind, where they staid not to survey thegrandeur of the city, or even to view its vastcathedral, which was then building.

Beyond Milan, the country wore the aspect ofa ruder devastation; and though every thingseemed now quiet, the repose was like that ofdeath, spread over features, which retain theimpression of the last convulsions.

It was not till they had passed the easternlimits of the Milanese, that the travellers sawany troops since they had left Milan, when, asthe evening was drawing to a close, theydescried what appeared to be an army windingonward along the distant plains, whose spearsand other arms caught the last rays of the sun.As the column advanced through a part of theroad, contracted between two hillocks, some ofthe commanders, on horseback, weredistinguished on a small eminence, pointingand making signals for the march; while severalof the officers were riding along the linedirecting its progress, according to the signscommunicated by those above; and others,separating from the vanguard, which hademerged from the pass, were riding carelesslyalong the plains at some distance to the right ofthe army.

As they drew nearer, Montoni, distinguishingthe feathers that waved in their caps, and thebanners and liveries of the bands that followedthem, thought he knew this to be the small armycommanded by the famous captain Utaldo, withwhom, as well as with some of the other chiefs,he was personally acquainted. He, therefore,gave orders that the carriages should draw upby the side of the road, to await their arrival,and give them the pass. A faint strain of martialmusic now stole by, and, graduallystrengthening as the troops approached, Emilydistinguished the drums and trumpets, with theclash of cymbals and of arms, that were struckby a small party, in time to the march.

Montoni being now certain that these were

the bands of the victorious Utaldo, leaned fromthe carriage window, and hailed their generalby waving his cap in the air; which complimentthe chief returned by raising his spear, and thenletting it down again suddenly, while some ofhis officers, who were riding at a distance fromthe troops, came up to the carriage, andsaluted Montoni as an old acquaintance. Thecaptain himself soon after arriving, his bandshalted while he conversed with Montoni, whomhe appeared much rejoiced to see; and fromwhat he said, Emily understood that this was avictorious army, returning into their ownprincipality; while the numerous waggons, thataccompanied them, contained the rich spoils ofthe enemy, their own wounded soldiers, and theprisoners they had taken in battle, who were tobe ransomed when the peace, then negociatingbetween the neighbouring states, should beratified. The chiefs on the following day were toseparate, and each, taking his share of thespoil, was to return with his own band to hiscastle. This was therefore to be an evening ofuncommon and general festivity, incommemoration of the victory they hadaccomplished together, and of the farewellwhich the commanders were about to take ofeach other.

Emily, as these officers conversed withMontoni, observed with admiration, tincturedwith awe, their high martial air, mingled with thehaughtiness of the nobless of those days, andheightened by the gallantry of their dress, by theplumes towering on their caps, the armorialcoat, Persian sash, and ancient Spanish cloak.

Utaldo, telling Montoni that his army were goingto encamp for the night near a village at only afew miles distance, invited him to turn back andpartake of their festivity, assuring the ladiesalso, that they should be pleasantlyaccommodated; but Montoni excused himself,adding, that it was his design to reach Veronathat evening; and, after some conversationconcerning the state of the country towards thatcity, they parted.

The travellers proceeded without anyinterruption; but it was some hours after sun-setbefore they arrived at Verona, whose beautifulenvirons were therefore not seen by Emily tillthe following morning; when, leaving thatpleasant town at an early hour, they set off forPadua, where they embarked on the Brenta forVenice. Here the scene was entirely changed;no vestiges of war, such as had deformed theplains of the Milanese, appeared; on thecontrary, all was peace and elegance. Theverdant banks of the Brenta exhibited acontinued landscape of beauty, gaiety, andsplendour. Emily gazed with admiration on thevillas of the Venetian noblesse, with their coolporticos and colonnades, overhung with poplarsand cypresses of majestic height and livelyverdure; on their rich orangeries, whoseblossoms perfumed the air, and on the luxuriantwillows, that dipped their light leaves in thewave, and sheltered from the sun the gayparties whose music came at intervals on thebreeze. The Carnival did, indeed, appear toextend from Venice along the whole line ofthese enchanting shores; the river was gay with

boats passing to that city, exhibiting thefantastic diversity of a masquerade in thedresses of the people within them; and, towardsevening, groups of dancers frequently wereseen beneath the trees.

Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of thenames of the noblemen to whom the severalvillas they passed belonged, adding lightsketches of their characters, such as served toamuse rather than to inform, exhibiting his ownwit instead of the delineation of truth. Emily wassometimes diverted by his conversation; but hisgaiety did not entertain Madame Montoni, as ithad formerly done; she was frequently grave,and Montoni retained his usual reserve.

Nothing could exceed Emily's admiration onher first view of Venice, with its islets, palaces,and towers rising out of the sea, whose clearsurface reflected the tremulous picture in all itscolours. The sun, sinking in the west, tinted thewaves and the lofty mountains of Friuli, whichskirt the northern shores of the Adriatic, with asaffron glow, while on the marble porticos andcolonnades of St. Mark were thrown the richlights and shades of evening. As they glided on,the grander features of this city appeared moredistinctly: its terraces, crowned with airy yetmajestic fabrics, touched, as they now were,with the splendour of the setting sun, appearedas if they had been called up from the ocean bythe wand of an enchanter, rather than reared bymortal hands.

The sun, soon after, sinking to the lowerworld, the shadow of the earth stole gradually

over the waves, and then up the towering sidesof the mountains of Friuli, till it extinguishedeven the last upward beams that had lingeredon their summits, and the melancholy purple ofevening drew over them, like a thin veil. Howdeep, how beautiful was the tranquillity thatwrapped the scene! All nature seemed torepose; the finest emotions of the soul werealone awake. Emily's eyes filled with tears ofadmiration and sublime devotion, as she raisedthem over the sleeping world to the vastheavens, and heard the notes of solemn music,that stole over the waters from a distance. Shelistened in still rapture, and no person of theparty broke the charm by an enquiry. Thesounds seemed to grow on the air; for sosmoothly did the barge glide along, that itsmotion was not perceivable, and the fairy cityappeared approaching to welcome thestrangers. They now distinguished a femalevoice, accompanied by a few instruments,singing a soft and mournful air; and its fineexpression, as sometimes it seemed pleadingwith the impassioned tenderness of love, andthen languishing into the cadence of hopelessgrief, declared, that it flowed from no feignedsensibility. Ah! thought Emily, as she sighedand remembered Valancourt, those strainscome from the heart!

She looked round, with anxious enquiry; thedeep twilight, that had fallen over the scene,admitted only imperfect images to the eye, but,at some distance on the sea, she thought sheperceived a gondola: a chorus of voices andinstruments now swelled on the air—so sweet,

so solemn! it seemed like the hymn of angelsdescending through the silence of night! Now itdied away, and fancy almost beheld the holychoir reascending towards heaven; then againit swelled with the breeze, trembled awhile, andagain died into silence. It brought to Emily'srecollection some lines of her late father, andshe repeated in a low voice,

Oft I hear, Upon the silence of the midnight air, Celestial voices swell in holy chorus That bears the soul to heaven!

The deep stillness, that succeeded, was asexpressive as the strain that had just ceased. Itwas uninterrupted for several minutes, till ageneral sigh seemed to release the companyfrom their enchantment. Emily, however, longindulged the pleasing sadness, that had stolenupon her spirits; but the gay and busy scenethat appeared, as the barge approached St.Mark's Place, at length roused her attention.The rising moon, which threw a shadowy lightupon the terraces, and illumined the porticosand magnificent arcades that crowned them,discovered the various company, whose lightsteps, soft guitars, and softer voices, echoedthrough the colonnades.

The music they heard before now passedMontoni's barge, in one of the gondolas, ofwhich several were seen skimming along themoon-light sea, full of gay parties, catching thecool breeze. Most of these had music, madesweeter by the waves over which it floated, andby the measured sound of oars, as they dashed

the sparkling tide. Emily gazed, and listened,and thought herself in a fairy scene; evenMadame Montoni was pleased; Montonicongratulated himself on his return to Venice,which he called the first city in the world, andCavigni was more gay and animated than ever.

The barge passed on to the grand canal,where Montoni's mansion was situated. Andhere, other forms of beauty and of grandeur,such as her imagination had never painted,were unfolded to Emily in the palaces ofSansovino and Palladio, as she glided alongthe waves. The air bore no sounds, but those ofsweetness, echoing along each margin of thecanal, and from gondolas on its surface, whilegroups of masks were seen dancing on themoon-light terraces, and seemed almost torealize the romance of fairyland.

The barge stopped before the portico of alarge house, from whence a servant of Montonicrossed the terrace, and immediately the partydisembarked. From the portico they passed anoble hall to a stair-case of marble, which led toa saloon, fitted up in a style of magnificencethat surprised Emily. The walls and ceilingswere adorned with historical and allegoricalpaintings, in fresco; silver tripods, dependingfrom chains of the same metal, illumined theapartment, the floor of which was covered withIndian mats painted in a variety of colours anddevices; the couches and drapery of the latticeswere of pale green silk, embroidered andfringed with green and gold. Balcony latticesopened upon the grand canal, whence rose aconfusion of voices and of musical instruments,

and the breeze that gave freshness to theapartment. Emily, considering the gloomytemper of Montoni, looked upon the splendidfurniture of this house with surprise, andremembered the report of his being a man ofbroken fortune, with astonishment. 'Ah!' saidshe to herself, 'if Valancourt could but see thismansion, what peace would it give him! Hewould then be convinced that the report wasgroundless.'

Madame Montoni seemed to assume the airof a princess; but Montoni was restless anddiscontented, and did not even observe thecivility of bidding her welcome to her home.

Soon after his arrival, he ordered hisgondola, and, with Cavigni, went out to minglein the scenes of the evening. Madame thenbecame serious and thoughtful. Emily, who wascharmed with every thing she saw,endeavoured to enliven her; but reflection hadnot, with Madame Montoni, subdued capriceand ill-humour, and her answers discovered somuch of both, that Emily gave up the attempt ofdiverting her, and withdrew to a lattice, toamuse herself with the scene without, so newand so enchanting.

The first object that attracted her notice was agroup of dancers on the terrace below, led by aguitar and some other instruments. The girl,who struck the guitar, and another, whoflourished a tambourine, passed on in adancing step, and with a light grace and gaietyof heart, that would have subdued the goddessof spleen in her worst humour. After these came

a group of fantastic figures, some dressed asgondolieri, others as minstrels, while othersseemed to defy all description. They sung inparts, their voices accompanied by a few softinstruments. At a little distance from the porticothey stopped, and Emily distinguished theverses of Ariosto. They sung of the wars of theMoors against Charlemagne, and then of thewoes of Orlando: afterwards the measurechanged, and the melancholy sweetness ofPetrarch succeeded. The magic of his griefwas assisted by all that Italian music and Italianexpression, heightened by the enchantments ofVenetian moonlight, could give.

Emily, as she listened, caught the pensiveenthusiasm; her tears flowed silently, while herfancy bore her far away to France and toValancourt. Each succeeding sonnet, more fullof charming sadness than the last, seemed tobind the spell of melancholy: with extremeregret she saw the musicians move on, and herattention followed the strain till the last faintwarble died in air. She then remained sunk inthat pensive tranquillity which soft music leaveson the mind—a state like that produced by theview of a beautiful landscape by moon-light, orby the recollection of scenes marked with thetenderness of friends lost for ever, and withsorrows, which time has mellowed into mildregret. Such scenes are indeed, to the mind,like 'those faint traces which the memory bearsof music that is past'.

Other sounds soon awakened her attention: itwas the solemn harmony of horns, that swelledfrom a distance; and, observing the gondolas

arrange themselves along the margin of theterraces, she threw on her veil, and, steppinginto the balcony, discerned, in the distantperspective of the canal, something like aprocession, floating on the light surface of thewater: as it approached, the horns and otherinstruments mingled sweetly, and soon after thefabled deities of the city seemed to have arisenfrom the ocean; for Neptune, with Venicepersonified as his queen, came on theundulating waves, surrounded by tritons andsea-nymphs. The fantastic splendour of thisspectacle, together with the grandeur of thesurrounding palaces, appeared like the visionof a poet suddenly embodied, and the fancifulimages, which it awakened in Emily's mind,lingered there long after the procession hadpassed away. She indulged herself inimagining what might be the manners anddelights of a sea-nymph, till she almost wishedto throw off the habit of mortality, and plungeinto the green wave to participate them.

'How delightful,' said she, 'to live amidst thecoral bowers and crystal caverns of the ocean,with my sister nymphs, and listen to thesounding waters above, and to the soft shells ofthe tritons! and then, after sun-set, to skim onthe surface of the waves round wild rocks andalong sequestered shores, where, perhaps,some pensive wanderer comes to weep! Thenwould I soothe his sorrows with my sweetmusic, and offer him from a shell some of thedelicious fruit that hangs round Neptune'spalace.'

She was recalled from her reverie to a mere

mortal supper, and could not forbear smiling atthe fancies she had been indulging, and at herconviction of the serious displeasure, whichMadame Montoni would have expressed, couldshe have been made acquainted with them.

After supper, her aunt sat late, but Montonidid not return, and she at length retired to rest. IfEmily had admired the magnificence of thesaloon, she was not less surprised, onobserving the half-furnished and forlornappearance of the apartments she passed inthe way to her chamber, whither she wentthrough long suites of noble rooms, thatseemed, from their desolate aspect, to havebeen unoccupied for many years. On the wallsof some were the faded remains of tapestry;from others, painted in fresco, the damps hadalmost withdrawn both colours and design. Atlength she reached her own chamber,spacious, desolate, and lofty, like the rest, withhigh lattices that opened towards the Adriatic. Itbrought gloomy images to her mind, but theview of the Adriatic soon gave her others moreairy, among which was that of the sea-nymph,whose delights she had before amused herselfwith picturing; and, anxious to escape fromserious reflections, she now endeavoured tothrow her fanciful ideas into a train, andconcluded the hour with composing thefollowing lines:

THE SEA-NYMPH

Down, down a thousand fathom deep, Among the sounding seas I go; Play round the foot of ev'ry steep

Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.

There, within their secret cares, I hear the mighty rivers roar; And guide their streams through Neptune's waves To bless the green earth's inmost shore:

And bid the freshen'd waters glide, For fern-crown'd nymphs of lake, or brook, Through winding woods and pastures wide, And many a wild, romantic nook.

For this the nymphs, at fall of eave, Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks, And sing my name, and garlands weave To bear beneath the wave their thanks.

In coral bow'rs I love to lie, And hear the surges roll above, And through the waters view on high The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.

And oft at midnight's stillest hour, When summer seas the vessel lave, I love to prove my charmful pow'r While floating on the moon-light wave.

And when deep sleep the crew has bound, And the sad lover musing leans O'er the ship's side, I breathe around Such strains as speak no mortal means!

O'er the dim waves his searching eye Sees but the vessel's lengthen'd shade; Above—the moon and azure sky; Entranc'd he hears, and half afraid!

Sometimes, a single note I swell, That, softly sweet, at distance dies; Then wake the magic of my shell,

And choral voices round me rise!

The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain, Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend O'er the high deck, but list in vain; My song is hush'd, my wonders end!

Within the mountain's woody bay, Where the tall bark at anchor rides, At twilight hour, with tritons gay, I dance upon the lapsing tides:

And with my sister-nymphs I sport, Till the broad sun looks o'er the floods; Then, swift we seek our crystal court, Deep in the wave, 'mid Neptune's woods.

In cool arcades and glassy halls We pass the sultry hours of noon, Beyond wherever sun-beam falls, Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.

The while we chant our ditties sweet To some soft shell that warbles near; Join'd by the murmuring currents, fleet, That glide along our halls so clear.

There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue, And ruby red, and em'rald green, Dart from the domes a changing hue, And sparry columns deck the scene.

When the dark storm scowls o'er the deep, And long, long peals of thunder sound, On some high cliff my watch I keep O'er all the restless seas around:

Till on the ridgy wave afar Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow, Spreading the white foam in the air,

With sail and top-mast bending low.

Then, plunge I 'mid the ocean's roar, My way by quiv'ring lightnings shewn, To guide the bark to peaceful shore, And hush the sailor's fearful groan.

And if too late I reach its side To save it from the 'whelming surge, I call my dolphins o'er the tide, To bear the crew where isles emerge.

Their mournful spirits soon I cheer, While round the desert coast I go, With warbled songs they faintly hear, Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.

My music leads to lofty groves, That wild upon the sea-bank wave; Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves, And closing boughs the tempest brave.

Then, from the air spirits obey My potent voice they love so well, And, on the clouds, paint visions gay, While strains more sweet at distance swell.

And thus the lonely hours I cheat, Soothing the ship-wreck'd sailor's heart, Till from the waves the storms retreat, And o'er the east the day-beams dart.

Neptune for this oft binds me fast To rocks below, with coral chain, Till all the tempest's over-past, And drowning seamen cry in vain.

Whoe'er ye are that love my lay, Come, when red sun-set tints the wave, To the still sands, where fairies play;

There, in cool seas, I love to lave.

CHAPTER III He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, he hears no music; Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort, As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit that could be mov'd to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease, While they behold a greater than themselves. JULIUS CAESAR

Montoni and his companion did not returnhome, till many hours after the dawn hadblushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups,which had danced all night along the colonnadeof St. Mark, dispersed before the morning, likeso many spirits. Montoni had been otherwiseengaged; his soul was little susceptible of lightpleasures. He delighted in the energies of thepassions; the difficulties and tempests of life,which wreck the happiness of others, rousedand strengthened all the powers of his mind,and afforded him the highest enjoyments, ofwhich his nature was capable. Without someobject of strong interest, life was to him littlemore than a sleep; and, when pursuits of realinterest failed, he substituted artificial ones, tillhabit changed their nature, and they ceased tobe unreal. Of this kind was the habit of gaming,which he had adopted, first, for the purpose ofrelieving him from the languor of inaction, buthad since pursued with the ardour of passion. Inthis occupation he had passed the night withCavigni and a party of young men, who hadmore money than rank, and more vice thaneither. Montoni despised the greater part ofthese for the inferiority of their talents, ratherthan for their vicious inclinations, andassociated with them only to make them theinstruments of his purposes. Among these,however, were some of superior abilities, and afew whom Montoni admitted to his intimacy, buteven towards these he still preserved adecisive and haughty air, which, while it

imposed submission on weak and timid minds,roused the fierce hatred of strong ones. He had,of course, many and bitter enemies; but therancour of their hatred proved the degree of hispower; and, as power was his chief aim, hegloried more in such hatred, than it waspossible he could in being esteemed. A feelingso tempered as that of esteem, he despised,and would have despised himself also had hethought himself capable of being flattered by it.

Among the few whom he distinguished, werethe Signors Bertolini, Orsino, and Verezzi. Thefirst was a man of gay temper, strong passions,dissipated, and of unbounded extravagance,but generous, brave, and unsuspicious. Orsinowas reserved, and haughty; loving power morethan ostentation; of a cruel and suspicioustemper; quick to feel an injury, and relentless inavenging it; cunning and unsearchable incontrivance, patient and indefatigable in theexecution of his schemes. He had a perfectcommand of feature and of his passions, ofwhich he had scarcely any, but pride, revengeand avarice; and, in the gratification of these,few considerations had power to restrain him,few obstacles to withstand the depth of hisstratagems. This man was the chief favourite ofMontoni. Verezzi was a man of some talent, offiery imagination, and the slave of alternatepassions. He was gay, voluptuous, and daring;yet had neither perseverance or true courage,and was meanly selfish in all his aims. Quick toform schemes, and sanguine in his hope ofsuccess, he was the first to undertake, and toabandon, not only his own plans, but thoseadopted from other persons. Proud andimpetuous, he revolted against allsubordination; yet those who were acquaintedwith his character, and watched the turn of hispassions, could lead him like a child.

Such were the friends whom Montoniintroduced to his family and his table, on theday after his arrival at Venice. There were alsoof the party a Venetian nobleman, Count

Morano, and a Signora Livona, whom Montonihad introduced to his wife, as a lady ofdistinguished merit, and who, having called inthe morning to welcome her to Venice, hadbeen requested to be of the dinner party.

Madame Montoni received with a very illgrace, the compliments of the Signors. Shedisliked them, because they were the friends ofher husband; hated them, because shebelieved they had contributed to detain himabroad till so late an hour of the precedingmorning; and envied them, since, conscious ofher own want of influence, she was convinced,that he preferred their society to her own. Therank of Count Morano procured him thatdistinction which she refused to the rest of thecompany. The haughty sullenness of hercountenance and manner, and the ostentatiousextravagance of her dress, for she had not yetadopted the Venetian habit, were strikinglycontrasted by the beauty, modesty, sweetnessand simplicity of Emily, who observed, withmore attention than pleasure, the party aroundher. The beauty and fascinating manners ofSignora Livona, however, won her involuntaryregard; while the sweetness of her accents andher air of gentle kindness awakened with Emilythose pleasing affections, which so long hadslumbered.

In the cool of the evening the party embarkedin Montoni's gondola, and rowed out upon thesea. The red glow of sun-set still touched thewaves, and lingered in the west, where themelancholy gleam seemed slowly expiring,while the dark blue of the upper aether began totwinkle with stars. Emily sat, given up to pensiveand sweet emotions. The smoothness of thewater, over which she glided, its reflectedimages—a new heaven and trembling starsbelow the waves, with shadowy outlines oftowers and porticos, conspired with the stillnessof the hour, interrupted only by the passingwave, or the notes of distant music, to raisethose emotions to enthusiasm. As she listened

to the measured sound of the oars, and to theremote warblings that came in the breeze, hersoftened mind returned to the memory of St.Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to hereyes. The rays of the moon, strengthening asthe shadows deepened, soon after threw asilvery gleam upon her countenance, which waspartly shaded by a thin black veil, and touched itwith inimitable softness. Hers was theCONTOUR of a Madona, with the sensibility ofa Magdalen; and the pensive uplifted eye, withthe tear that glittered on her cheek, confirmedthe expression of the character.

The last strain of distant music now died inair, for the gondola was far upon the waves, andthe party determined to have music of their own.The Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, andwho had been observing her for some time insilence, snatched up a lute, and struck thechords with the finger of harmony herself, whilehis voice, a fine tenor, accompanied them in arondeau full of tender sadness. To him, indeed,might have been applied that beautifulexhortation of an English poet, had it thenexisted:

Strike up, my master, But touch the strings with a religious softness! Teach sounds to languish through the night's dull ear Till Melancholy starts from off her couch, And Carelessness grows concert to attention!

With such powers of expression the Countsung the following

RONDEAU

Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps Upon the ocean's trembling tide; Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps Yon sad, that swells in stately pride:

Soft as the surge's stealing note, That dies along the distant shores, Or warbled strain, that sinks remote— So soft the sigh my bosom pours!

True as the wave to Cynthia's ray,

True as the vessel to the breeze, True as the soul to music's sway, Or music to Venetian seas:

Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep Upon the ocean's trembling breast; So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep, So soft, so true, with THEE shall rest.

The cadence with which he returned from thelast stanza to a repetition of the first; the finemodulation in which his voice stole upon thefirst line, and the pathetic energy with which itpronounced the last, were such as onlyexquisite taste could give. When he hadconcluded, he gave the lute with a sigh to Emily,who, to avoid any appearance of affectation,immediately began to play. She sung amelancholy little air, one of the popular songs ofher native province, with a simplicity and pathosthat made it enchanting. But its well-knownmelody brought so forcibly to her fancy thescenes and the persons, among which she hadoften heard it, that her spirits were overcome,her voice trembled and ceased—and thestrings of the lute were struck with a disorderedhand; till, ashamed of the emotion she hadbetrayed, she suddenly passed on to a song sogay and airy, that the steps of the danceseemed almost to echo to the notes.BRAVISSIMO! burst instantly from the lips ofher delighted auditors, and she was compelledto repeat the air. Among the compliments thatfollowed, those of the Count were not the leastaudible, and they had not concluded, whenEmily gave the instrument to Signora Livona,whose voice accompanied it with true Italiantaste.

Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, andthe Signora, sung canzonettes, accompaniedby a couple of lutes and a few otherinstruments. Sometimes the instrumentssuddenly ceased, and the voices dropped fromthe full swell of harmony into a low chant; then,after a deep pause, they rose by degrees, theinstruments one by one striking up, till the loud

and full chorus soared again to heaven!

Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of thisharmony, was considering how he mightdisengage himself from his party, or withdrawwith such of it as would be willing to play, to aCasino. In a pause of the music, he proposedreturning to shore, a proposal which Orsinoeagerly seconded, but which the Count and theother gentlemen as warmly opposed.

Montoni still meditated how he might excusehimself from longer attendance upon the Count,for to him only he thought excuse necessary,and how he might get to land, till the gondolieriof an empty boat, returning to Venice, hailed hispeople. Without troubling himself longer aboutan excuse, he seized this opportunity of goingthither, and, committing the ladies to the care ofhis friends, departed with Orsino, while Emily,for the first time, saw him go with regret; for sheconsidered his presence a protection, thoughshe knew not what she should fear. He landedat St. Mark's, and, hurrying to a Casino, wassoon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters.

Meanwhile, the Count having secretlydispatched a servant in Montoni's boat, for hisown gondola and musicians, Emily heard,without knowing his project, the gay song ofgondolieri approaching, as they sat on the sternof the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of themoon-light wave, which their oars disturbed.Presently she heard the sound of instruments,and then a full symphony swelled on the air,and, the boats meeting, the gondolieri hailedeach other. The count then explaining himself,the party removed into his gondola, which wasembellished with all that taste could bestow.

While they partook of a collation of fruits andice, the whole band, following at a distance inthe other boat, played the most sweet andenchanting strains, and the Count, who hadagain seated himself by Emily, paid herunremitted attention, and sometimes, in a lowbut impassioned voice, uttered compliments

which she could not misunderstand. To avoidthem she conversed with Signora Livona, andher manner to the Count assumed a mildreserve, which, though dignified, was too gentleto repress his assiduities: he could see, hear,speak to no person, but Emily while Cavigniobserved him now and then, with a look ofdispleasure, and Emily, with one of uneasiness.She now wished for nothing so much as toreturn to Venice, but it was near mid-nightbefore the gondolas approached St. Mark'sPlace, where the voice of gaiety and song wasloud. The busy hum of mingling sounds washeard at a considerable distance on the water,and, had not a bright moon-light discovered thecity, with its terraces and towers, a strangerwould almost have credited the fabled wondersof Neptune's court, and believed, that the tumultarose from beneath the waves.

They landed at St. Mark's, where the gaiety ofthe colonnades and the beauty of the night,made Madame Montoni willingly submit to theCount's solicitations to join the promenade, andafterwards to take a supper with the rest of theparty, at his Casino. If any thing could havedissipated Emily's uneasiness, it would havebeen the grandeur, gaiety, and novelty of thesurrounding scene, adorned with Palladio'spalaces, and busy with parties ofmasqueraders.

At length they withdrew to the Casino, whichwas fitted up with infinite taste, and where asplendid banquet was prepared; but hereEmily's reserve made the Count perceive, that itwas necessary for his interest to win the favourof Madame Montoni, which, from thecondescension she had already shewn to him,appeared to be an achievement of no greatdifficulty. He transferred, therefore, part of hisattention from Emily to her aunt, who felt toomuch flattered by the distinction even todisguise her emotion; and before the partybroke up, he had entirely engaged the esteemof Madame Montoni. Whenever he addressed

her, her ungracious countenance relaxed intosmiles, and to whatever he proposed sheassented. He invited her, with the rest of theparty, to take coffee, in his box at the opera, onthe following evening, and Emily heard theinvitation accepted, with strong anxiety,concerning the means of excusing herself fromattending Madame Montoni thither.

It was very late before their gondola wasordered, and Emily's surprise was extreme,when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld thebroad sun rising out of the Adriatic, while St.Mark's Place was yet crowded with company.Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes,but now the fresh sea-breeze revived her, andshe would have quitted the scene with regret,had not the Count been present, performing theduty, which he had imposed upon himself, ofescorting them home. There they heard thatMontoni was not yet returned; and his wife,retiring in displeasure to her apartment, atlength released Emily from the fatigue of furtherattendance.

Montoni came home late in the morning, in avery ill humour, having lost considerably at play,and, before he withdrew to rest, had a privateconference with Cavigni, whose manner, on thefollowing day, seemed to tell, that the subject ofit had not been pleasing to him.

In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, duringthe day, had observed a sullen silence towardsher husband, received visits from someVenetian ladies, with whose sweet mannersEmily was particularly charmed. They had an airof ease and kindness towards the strangers, asif they had been their familiar friends for years;and their conversation was by turns tender,sentimental and gay. Madame, though she hadno taste for such conversation, and whosecoarseness and selfishness sometimesexhibited a ludicrous contrast to their excessiverefinement, could not remain wholly insensibleto the captivations of their manner.

In a pause of conversation, a lady who wascalled Signora Herminia took up a lute, andbegan to play and sing, with as much easygaiety, as if she had been alone. Her voice wasuncommonly rich in tone, and various inexpression; yet she appeared to be entirelyunconscious of its powers, and meant nothingless than to display them. She sung from thegaiety of her heart, as she sat with her veil halfthrown back, holding gracefully the lute, underthe spreading foliage and flowers of someplants, that rose from baskets, and interlacedone of the lattices of the saloon. Emily, retiring alittle from the company, sketched her figure,with the miniature scenery around her, and drewa very interesting picture, which, though it wouldnot, perhaps, have borne criticism, had spiritand taste enough to awaken both the fancy andthe heart. When she had finished it, shepresented it to the beautiful original, who wasdelighted with the offering, as well as thesentiment it conveyed, and assured Emily, witha smile of captivating sweetness, that sheshould preserve it as a pledge of her friendship.

In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, butMontoni had other engagements; and theyembarked in the gondola for St. Mark's, wherethe same gay company seemed to flutter as onthe preceding night. The cool breeze, the glassysea, the gentle sound of its waves, and thesweeter murmur of distant music; the loftyporticos and arcades, and the happy groupsthat sauntered beneath them; these, with everyfeature and circumstance of the scene, unitedto charm Emily, no longer teased by theofficious attentions of Count Morano. But, asshe looked upon the moon-light sea, undulatingalong the walls of St. Mark, and, lingering for amoment over those walls, caught the sweet andmelancholy song of some gondolier as he sat inhis boat below, waiting for his master, hersoftened mind returned to the memory of herhome, of her friends, and of all that was dear inher native country.

After walking some time, they sat down at thedoor of a Casino, and, while Cavigni wasaccommodating them with coffee and ice, werejoined by Count Morano. He sought Emily with alook of impatient delight, who, remembering allthe attention he had shewn her on thepreceding evening, was compelled, as before,to shrink from his assiduities into a timidreserve, except when she conversed withSignora Herminia and the other ladies of herparty.

It was near midnight before they withdrew tothe opera, where Emily was not so charmed butthat, when she remembered the scene she hadjust quitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all thesplendour of art is to the sublimity of nature. Herheart was not now affected, tears of admirationdid not start to her eyes, as when she viewedthe vast expanse of ocean, the grandeur of theheavens, and listened to the rolling waters, andto the faint music that, at intervals, mingled withtheir roar. Remembering these, the scenebefore her faded into insignificance.

Of the evening, which passed on without anyparticular incident, she wished the conclusion,that she might escape from the attentions of theCount; and, as opposite qualities frequentlyattract each other in our thoughts, thus Emily,when she looked on Count Morano,remembered Valancourt, and a sighsometimes followed the recollection.

Several weeks passed in the course ofcustomary visits, during which nothingremarkable occurred. Emily was amused by themanners and scenes that surrounded her, sodifferent from those of France, but where CountMorano, too frequently for her comfort, contrivedto introduce himself. His manner, figure andaccomplishments, which were generallyadmired, Emily would, perhaps, have admiredalso, had her heart been disengaged fromValancourt, and had the Count forborne topersecute her with officious attentions, duringwhich she observed some traits in his

character, that prejudiced her against whatevermight otherwise be good in it.

Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montonireceived a packet from M. Quesnel, in whichthe latter mentioned the death of his wife'suncle, at his villa on the Brenta; and that, inconsequence of this event, he should hasten totake possession of that estate and of othereffects bequeathed to him. This uncle was thebrother of Madame Quesnel's late mother;Montoni was related to her by the father's side,and though he could have had neither claim norexpectation concerning these possessions, hecould scarcely conceal the envy which M.Quesnel's letter excited.

Emily had observed with concern, that, sincethey left France, Montoni had not even affectedkindness towards her aunt, and that, aftertreating her, at first, with neglect, he now mether with uniform ill-humour and reserve. Shehad never supposed, that her aunt's foiblescould have escaped the discernment ofMontoni, or that her mind or figure were of akind to deserve his attention. Her surprise,therefore, at this match, had been extreme; butsince he had made the choice, she did notsuspect that he would so openly havediscovered his contempt of it. But Montoni, whohad been allured by the seeming wealth ofMadame Cheron, was now severelydisappointed by her comparative poverty, andhighly exasperated by the deceit she hademployed to conceal it, till concealment was nolonger necessary. He had been deceived in anaffair, wherein he meant to be the deceiver; out-witted by the superior cunning of a woman,whose understanding he despised, and towhom he had sacrificed his pride and hisliberty, without saving himself from the ruin,which had impended over his head. MadameMontoni had contrived to have the greatest partof what she really did possess, settled uponherself: what remained, though it was totallyinadequate both to her husband's expectations,

and to his necessities, he had converted intomoney, and brought with him to Venice, that hemight a little longer delude society, and make alast effort to regain the fortunes he had lost.

The hints which had been thrown out toValancourt, concerning Montoni's character andcondition, were too true; but it was now left totime and occasion, to unfold the circumstances,both of what had, and of what had not beenhinted, and to time and occasion we committhem.

Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bearinjuries with meekness, or to resent them withdignity: her exasperated pride displayed itselfin all the violence and acrimony of a little, or atleast of an ill-regulated mind. She would notacknowledge, even to herself, that she had inany degree provoked contempt by her duplicity,but weakly persisted in believing, that she alonewas to be pitied, and Montoni alone to becensured; for, as her mind had naturally littleperception of moral obligation, she seldomunderstood its force but when it happened to beviolated towards herself: her vanity had alreadybeen severely shocked by a discovery ofMontoni's contempt; it remained to be fartherreproved by a discovery of his circumstances.His mansion at Venice, though its furniturediscovered a part of the truth to unprejudicedpersons, told nothing to those who were blindedby a resolution to believe whatever they wished.Madame Montoni still thought herself little lessthan a princess, possessing a palace atVenice, and a castle among the Apennines. Tothe castle di Udolpho, indeed, Montonisometimes talked of going for a few weeks toexamine into its condition, and to receive somerents; for it appeared that he had not been therefor two years, and that, during this period, it hadbeen inhabited only by an old servant, whom hecalled his steward.

Emily listened to the mention of this journeywith pleasure, for she not only expected from itnew ideas, but a release from the persevering

assiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too,she would have leisure to think of Valancourt,and to indulge the melancholy, which his image,and a recollection of the scenes of La Vallee,always blessed with the memory of her parents,awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer, andmore soothing to her heart, than all thesplendour of gay assemblies; they were a kindof talisman that expelled the poison oftemporary evils, and supported her hopes ofhappy days: they appeared like a beautifullandscape, lighted up by a gleam of sun-shine,and seen through a perspective of dark andrugged rocks.

But Count Morano did not long confinehimself to silent assiduities; he declared hispassion to Emily, and made proposals toMontoni, who encouraged, though Emilyrejected, him: with Montoni for his friend, and anabundance of vanity to delude him, he did notdespair of success. Emily was astonished andhighly disgusted at his perseverance, after shehad explained her sentiments with a franknessthat would not allow him to misunderstand them.

He now passed the greater part of his time atMontoni's, dining there almost daily, andattending Madame and Emily wherever theywent; and all this, notwithstanding the uniformreserve of Emily, whose aunt seemed asanxious as Montoni to promote this marriage;and would never dispense with her attendanceat any assembly where the Count proposed tobe present.

Montoni now said nothing of his intendedjourney, of which Emily waited impatiently tohear; and he was seldom at home but when theCount, or Signor Orsino, was there, for betweenhimself and Cavigni a coolness seemed tosubsist, though the latter remained in his house.With Orsino, Montoni was frequently closetedfor hours together, and, whatever might be thebusiness, upon which they consulted, itappeared to be of consequence, since Montoni

often sacrificed to it his favourite passion forplay, and remained at home the whole night.There was somewhat of privacy, too, in themanner of Orsino's visits, which had neverbefore occurred, and which excited not onlysurprise, but some degree of alarm in Emily'smind, who had unwillingly discovered much ofhis character when he had most endeavouredto disguise it. After these visits, Montoni wasoften more thoughtful than usual; sometimes thedeep workings of his mind entirely abstractedhim from surrounding objects, and threw agloom over his visage that rendered it terrible;at others, his eyes seemed almost to flash fire,and all the energies of his soul appeared to beroused for some great enterprise. Emilyobserved these written characters of histhoughts with deep interest, and not withoutsome degree of awe, when she considered thatshe was entirely in his power; but forbore evento hint her fears, or her observations, toMadame Montoni, who discerned nothing in herhusband, at these times, but his usualsternness.

A second letter from M. Quesnel announcedthe arrival of himself and his lady at the VillaMiarenti; stated several circumstances of hisgood fortune, respecting the affair that hadbrought him into Italy; and concluded with anearnest request to see Montoni, his wife andniece, at his new estate.

Emily received, about the same period, amuch more interesting letter, and which soothedfor a while every anxiety of her heart.Valancourt, hoping she might be still at Venice,had trusted a letter to the ordinary post, that toldher of his health, and of his unceasing andanxious affection. He had lingered at Tholousefor some time after her departure, that he mightindulge the melancholy pleasure of wanderingthrough the scenes where he had beenaccustomed to behold her, and had thencegone to his brother's chateau, which was in theneighbourhood of La Vallee. Having mentioned

this, he added, 'If the duty of attending myregiment did not require my departure, I knownot when I should have resolution enough to quitthe neighbourhood of a place which isendeared by the remembrance of you. Thevicinity to La Vallee has alone detained me thuslong at Estuviere: I frequently ride thither early inthe morning, that I may wander, at leisure,through the day, among scenes, which wereonce your home, where I have beenaccustomed to see you, and to hear youconverse. I have renewed my acquaintance withthe good old Theresa, who rejoiced to see me,that she might talk of you: I need not say howmuch this circumstance attached me to her, orhow eagerly I listened to her upon her favouritesubject. You will guess the motive that firstinduced me to make myself known to Theresa:it was, indeed, no other than that of gainingadmittance into the chateau and gardens, whichmy Emily had so lately inhabited: here, then, Iwander, and meet your image under everyshade: but chiefly I love to sit beneath thespreading branches of your favourite plane,where once, Emily, we sat together; where I firstventured to tell you, that I loved. O Emily! theremembrance of those moments overcomesme—I sit lost in reverie—I endeavour to see youdimly through my tears, in all the heaven ofpeace and innocence, such as you thenappeared to me; to hear again the accents ofthat voice, which then thrilled my heart withtenderness and hope. I lean on the wall of theterrace, where we together watched the rapidcurrent of the Garonne below, while I describedthe wild scenery about its source, but thoughtonly of you. O Emily! are these momentspassed for ever—will they never more return?'

In another part of his letter he wrote thus. 'Yousee my letter is dated on many different days,and, if you look back to the first, you willperceive, that I began to write soon after yourdeparture from France. To write was, indeed,the only employment that withdrew me from myown melancholy, and rendered your absence

supportable, or rather, it seemed to destroyabsence; for, when I was conversing with you onpaper, and telling you every sentiment andaffection of my heart, you almost appeared tobe present. This employment has been fromtime to time my chief consolation, and I havedeferred sending off my packet, merely for thecomfort of prolonging it, though it was certain,that what I had written, was written to nopurpose till you received it. Whenever my mindhas been more than usually depressed I havecome to pour forth its sorrows to you, and havealways found consolation; and, when any littleoccurrence has interested my heart, and givena gleam of joy to my spirits, I have hastened tocommunicate it to you, and have receivedreflected satisfaction. Thus, my letter is a kindof picture of my life and of my thoughts for thelast month, and thus, though it has been deeplyinteresting to me, while I wrote it, and I darehope will, for the same reason, be notindifferent to you, yet to other readers it wouldseem to abound only in frivolities. Thus it isalways, when we attempt to describe the finermovements of the heart, for they are too fine tobe discerned, they can only be experienced,and are therefore passed over by the indifferentobserver, while the interested one feels, that alldescription is imperfect and unnecessary,except as it may prove the sincerity of thewriter, and sooth his own sufferings. You willpardon all this egotism—for I am a lover.'

'I have just heard of a circumstance, whichentirely destroys all my fairy paradise of idealdelight, and which will reconcile me to thenecessity of returning to my regiment, for I mustno longer wander beneath the beloved shades,where I have been accustomed to meet you inthought.—La Vallee is let! I have reason tobelieve this is without your knowledge, fromwhat Theresa told me this morning, and,therefore, I mention the circumstance. She shedtears, while she related, that she was going toleave the service of her dear mistress, and thechateau where she had lived so many happy

years; and all this, added she, without even aletter from Mademoiselle to soften the news; butit is all Mons. Quesnel's doings, and I dare sayshe does not even know what is going forward.'

'Theresa added, That she had received aletter from him, informing her the chateau waslet, and that, as her services would no longer berequired, she must quit the place, on that dayweek, when the new tenant would arrive.'

'Theresa had been surprised by a visit fromM. Quesnel, some time before the receipt ofthis letter, who was accompanied by a strangerthat viewed the premises with much curiosity.'

Towards the conclusion of his letter, which isdated a week after this sentence, Valancourtadds, 'I have received a summons from myregiment, and I join it without regret, since I amshut out from the scenes that are so interestingto my heart. I rode to La Vallee this morning,and heard that the new tenant was arrived, andthat Theresa was gone. I should not treat thesubject thus familiarly if I did not believe you tobe uninformed of this disposal of your house;for your satisfaction I have endeavoured to learnsomething of the character and fortune of yourtenant, but without success. He is a gentleman,they say, and this is all I can hear. The place, asI wandered round the boundaries, appearedmore melancholy to my imagination, than I hadever seen it. I wished earnestly to have gotadmittance, that I might have taken anotherleave of your favourite plane-tree, and thoughtof you once more beneath its shade: but Iforbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers: thefishing-house in the woods, however, was stillopen to me; thither I went, and passed an hour,which I cannot even look back upon withoutemotion. O Emily! surely we are not separatedfor ever—surely we shall live for each other!'

This letter brought many tears to Emily'seyes; tears of tenderness and satisfaction onlearning that Valancourt was well, and that timeand absence had in no degree effaced her

image from his heart. There were passages inthis letter which particularly affected her, suchas those describing his visits to La Vallee, andthe sentiments of delicate affection that itsscenes had awakened. It was a considerabletime before her mind was sufficiently abstractedfrom Valancourt to feel the force of hisintelligence concerning La Vallee. That Mons.Quesnel should let it, without even consultingher on the measure, both surprised andshocked her, particularly as it proved theabsolute authority he thought himself entitled toexercise in her affairs. It is true, he hadproposed, before she left France, that thechateau should be let, during her absence, andto the oeconomical prudence of this she hadnothing to object; but the committing what hadbeen her father's villa to the power and capriceof strangers, and the depriving herself of a surehome, should any unhappy circumstancesmake her look back to her home as an asylum,were considerations that made her, even then,strongly oppose the measure. Her father, too, inhis last hour, had received from her a solemnpromise never to dispose of La Vallee; and thisshe considered as in some degree violated ifshe suffered the place to be let. But it was nowevident with how little respect M. Quesnel hadregarded these objections, and howinsignificant he considered every obstacle topecuniary advantage. It appeared, also, that hehad not even condescended to inform Montoniof the step he had taken, since no motive wasevident for Montoni's concealing thecircumstance from her, if it had been madeknown to him: this both displeased andsurprised her; but the chief subjects of heruneasiness were—the temporary disposal ofLa Vallee, and the dismission of her father's oldand faithful servant.—'Poor Theresa,' saidEmily, 'thou hadst not saved much in thyservitude, for thou wast always tender towardsthe poor, and believd'st thou shouldst die in thefamily, where thy best years had been spent.Poor Theresa!—now thou art turned out in thy

old age to seek thy bread!'

Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passedover her mind, and she determined to considerwhat could be done for Theresa, and to talk veryexplicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but shemuch feared that his cold heart could feel onlyfor itself. She determined also to enquirewhether he had made any mention of heraffairs, in his letter to Montoni, who soon gaveher the opportunity she sought, by desiring thatshe would attend him in his study. She had littledoubt, that the interview was intended for thepurpose of communicating to her a part of M.Quesnel's letter concerning the transactions atLa Vallee, and she obeyed him immediately.Montoni was alone.

'I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,'said he when Emily appeared, 'in reply to theletter I received from him a few days ago, and Iwished to talk to you upon a subject thatoccupied part of it.'

'I also wished to speak with you on this topic,sir,' said Emily.

'It is a subject of some interest to you,undoubtedly,' rejoined Montoni, 'and I think youmust see it in the light that I do; indeed it will notbear any other. I trust you will agree with me,that any objection founded on sentiment, asthey call it, ought to yield to circumstances ofsolid advantage.'

'Granting this, sir,' replied Emily, modestly,'those of humanity ought surely to be attendedto. But I fear it is now too late to deliberate uponthis plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer inmy power to reject it.'

'It is too late,' said Montoni; 'but since it is so,I am pleased to observe, that you submit toreason and necessity without indulging uselesscomplaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly,the more, perhaps, since it discovers a strengthof mind seldom observable in your sex. Whenyou are older you will look back with gratitude to

the friends who assisted in rescuing you fromthe romantic illusions of sentiment, and willperceive, that they are only the snares ofchildhood, and should be vanquished themoment you escape from the nursery. I have notclosed my letter, and you may add a few lines toinform your uncle of your acquiescence. You willsoon see him, for it is my intention to take you,with Madame Montoni, in a few days toMiarenti, and you can then talk over the affair.'

Emily wrote on the opposite page of thepaper as follows:

'It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstancesof which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I couldhave wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded withless precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue someprejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart. Asit is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing certainly can be objected;but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other points of thesubject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In the meantime Ientreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of, Sir, Your affectionate niece, EMILY ST. AUBERT.'

Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily hadwritten, but did not object to it, and she withdrewto her own apartment, where she sat down tobegin a letter to Valancourt, in which sherelated the particulars of her journey, and herarrival at Venice, described some of the moststriking scenes in the passage over the Alps;her emotions on her first view of Italy; themanners and characters of the people aroundher, and some few circumstances of Montoni'sconduct. But she avoided even naming CountMorano, much more the declaration he hadmade, since she well knew how tremblinglyalive to fear is real love, how jealously watchfulof every circumstance that may affect itsinterest; and she scrupulously avoided to giveValancourt even the slightest reason forbelieving he had a rival.

On the following day Count Morano dinedagain at Montoni's. He was in an uncommonflow of spirits, and Emily thought there was

somewhat of exultation in his manner ofaddressing her, which she had never observedbefore. She endeavoured to repress this bymore than her usual reserve, but the cold civilityof her air now seemed rather to encourage thanto depress him. He appeared watchful of anopportunity of speaking with her alone, andmore than once solicited this; but Emily alwaysreplied, that she could hear nothing from himwhich he would be unwilling to repeat before thewhole company.

In the evening, Madame Montoni and herparty went out upon the sea, and as the Countled Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her handto his lips, and thanked her for thecondescension she had shown him. Emily, inextreme surprise and displeasure, hastilywithdrew her hand, and concluded that he hadspoken ironically; but, on reaching the steps ofthe terrace, and observing by the livery, that itwas the Count's zendaletto which waited below,while the rest of the party, having arrangedthemselves in the gondolas, were moving on,she determined not to permit a separateconversation, and, wishing him a good evening,returned to the portico. The Count followed toexpostulate and entreat, and Montoni, who thencame out, rendered solicitation unnecessary,for, without condescending to speak, he tookher hand, and led her to the zendaletto. Emilywas not silent; she entreated Montoni, in a lowvoice, to consider the impropriety of thesecircumstances, and that he would spare her themortification of submitting to them; he, however,was inflexible.

'This caprice is intolerable,' said he, 'andshall not be indulged: there is no impropriety inthe case.'

At this moment, Emily's dislike of CountMorano rose to abhorrence. That he should,with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her,notwithstanding all she had expressed on thesubject of his addresses, and think, as it wasevident he did, that her opinion of him was of no

consequence, so long as his pretensions weresanctioned by Montoni, added indignation tothe disgust which she had felt towards him. Shewas somewhat relieved by observing thatMontoni was to be of the party, who seatedhimself on one side of her, while Morano placedhimself on the other. There was a pause forsome moments as the gondolieri prepared theiroars, and Emily trembled from apprehension ofthe discourse that might follow this silence. Atlength she collected courage to break it herself,in the hope of preventing fine speeches fromMorano, and reproof from Montoni. To sometrivial remark which she made, the latterreturned a short and disobliging reply; butMorano immediately followed with a generalobservation, which he contrived to end with aparticular compliment, and, though Emilypassed it without even the notice of a smile, hewas not discouraged.

'I have been impatient,' said he, addressingEmily, 'to express my gratitude; to thank you foryour goodness; but I must also thank SignorMontoni, who has allowed me this opportunity ofdoing so.'

Emily regarded the Count with a look ofmingled astonishment and displeasure.

'Why,' continued he, 'should you wish todiminish the delight of this moment by that air ofcruel reserve?—Why seek to throw me againinto the perplexities of doubt, by teaching youreyes to contradict the kindness of your latedeclaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, theardour of my passion; it is thereforeunnecessary, charming Emily! surelyunnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguiseof your sentiments.'

'If I ever had disguised them, sir,' said Emily,with recollected spirit, 'it would certainly beunnecessary any longer to do so. I had hoped,sir, that you would have spared me any farthernecessity of alluding to them; but, since you donot grant this, hear me declare, and for the last

time, that your perseverance has deprived youeven of the esteem, which I was inclined tobelieve you merited.'

'Astonishing!' exclaimed Montoni: 'this isbeyond even my expectation, though I havehitherto done justice to the caprice of the sex!But you will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that Iam no lover, though Count Morano is, and that Iwill not be made the amusement of yourcapricious moments. Here is the offer of analliance, which would do honour to any family;yours, you will recollect, is not noble; you longresisted my remonstrances, but my honour isnow engaged, and it shall not be trifled with.—You shall adhere to the declaration, which youhave made me an agent to convey to theCount.'

'I must certainly mistake you, sir,' said Emily;'my answers on the subject have been uniform;it is unworthy of you to accuse me of caprice. Ifyou have condescended to be my agent, it is anhonour I did not solicit. I myself have constantlyassured Count Morano, and you also, sir, that Inever can accept the honour he offers me, and Inow repeat the declaration.'

The Count looked with an air of surprise andenquiry at Montoni, whose countenance alsowas marked with surprise, but it was surprisemingled with indignation.

'Here is confidence, as well as caprice!' saidthe latter. 'Will you deny your own words,Madam?'

'Such a question is unworthy of an answer,sir;' said Emily blushing; 'you will recollectyourself, and be sorry that you have asked it.'

'Speak to the point,' rejoined Montoni, in avoice of increasing vehemence. 'Will you denyyour own words; will you deny, that youacknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it wastoo late to recede from your engagements, andthat you accepted the Count's hand?'

'I will deny all this, for no words of mine everimported it.'

'Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote toMons. Quesnel, your uncle? if you do, your ownhand will bear testimony against you. Whathave you now to say?' continued Montoni,observing the silence and confusion of Emily.

'I now perceive, sir, that you are under a verygreat error, and that I have been equallymistaken.'

'No more duplicity, I entreat; be open andcandid, if it be possible.'

'I have always been so, sir; and can claim nomerit in such conduct, for I have had nothing toconceal.'

'How is this, Signor?' cried Morano, withtrembling emotion.

'Suspend your judgment, Count,' repliedMontoni, 'the wiles of a female heart areunsearchable. Now, Madame, yourEXPLANATION.'

'Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanationtill you appear willing to give me yourconfidence; assertion as present can onlysubject me to insult.'

'Your explanation, I entreat you!' said Morano.

'Well, well,' rejoined Montoni, 'I give you myconfidence; let us hear this explanation.'

'Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.'

'As many as you please,' said Montoni,contemptuously.

'What, then, was the subject of your letter toMons. Quesnel?'

'The same that was the subject of your note tohim, certainly. You did well to stipulate for myconfidence before you demanded thatquestion.'

'I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; whatwas that subject?'

'What could it be, but the noble offer of CountMorano,' said Montoni.

'Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood eachother,' replied Emily.

'We entirely misunderstood each other too, Isuppose,' rejoined Montoni, 'in the conversationwhich preceded the writing of that note? I mustdo you the justice to own, that you are veryingenious at this same art of misunderstanding.'

Emily tried to restrain the tears that came toher eyes, and to answer with becomingfirmness. 'Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully,or to be wholly silent.'

'The explanation may now be dispensed with;it is anticipated. If Count Morano still thinks onenecessary, I will give him an honest one—Youhave changed your intention since our lastconversation; and, if he can have patience andhumility enough to wait till to-morrow, he willprobably find it changed again: but as I haveneither the patience or the humility, which youexpect from a lover, I warn you of the effect ofmy displeasure!'

'Montoni, you are too precipitate,' said theCount, who had listened to this conversation inextreme agitation and impatience;—'Signora, Ientreat your own explanation of this affair!'

'Signor Montoni has said justly,' repliedEmily, 'that all explanation may now bedispensed with; after what has passed I cannotsuffer myself to give one. It is sufficient for me,and for you, sir, that I repeat my late declaration;let me hope this is the last time it will benecessary for me to repeat it—I never canaccept the honour of your alliance.'

'Charming Emily!' exclaimed the Count in animpassioned tone, 'let not resentment make youunjust; let me not suffer for the offence of

Montoni!—Revoke—'

'Offence!' interrupted Montoni—'Count, thislanguage is ridiculous, this submission ischildish!—speak as becomes a man, not as theslave of a pretty tyrant.'

'You distract me, Signor; suffer me to pleadmy own cause; you have already provedinsufficient to it.'

'All conversation on this subject, sir,' saidEmily, 'is worse than useless, since it can bringonly pain to each of us: if you would oblige me,pursue it no farther.'

'It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easilyresign the object of a passion, which is thedelight and torment of my life.—I must still love—still pursue you with unremitting ardour;—when you shall be convinced of the strength andconstancy of my passion, your heart must softeninto pity and repentance.'

'Is this generous, sir? is this manly? can iteither deserve or obtain the esteem you solicit,thus to continue a persecution from which I haveno present means of escaping?'

A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano'scountenance, revealed the strong emotions ofhis soul; and, glancing on Montoni discoveredthe dark resentment, which contrasted hisfeatures.

'By heaven this is too much!' suddenlyexclaimed the Count; 'Signor Montoni, you treatme ill; it is from you that I shall look forexplanation.'

'From me, sir! you shall have it;' mutteredMontoni, 'if your discernment is indeed so farobscured by passion, as to make explanationnecessary. And for you, Madam, you shouldlearn, that a man of honour is not to be trifledwith, though you may, perhaps, with impunity,treat a BOY like a puppet.'

This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano,

and the resentment which he had felt at theindifference of Emily, being lost in indignation ofthe insolence of Montoni, he determined tomortify him, by defending her.

'This also,' said he, replying to Montoni's lastwords, 'this also, shall not pass unnoticed. I bidyou learn, sir, that you have a stronger enemythan a woman to contend with: I will protectSignora St. Aubert from your threatenedresentment. You have misled me, and wouldrevenge your disappointed views upon theinnocent.'

'Misled you!' retorted Montoni with quickness,'is my conduct—my word'—then pausing, whilehe seemed endeavouring to restrain theresentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the nextmoment he added, in a subdued voice, 'CountMorano, this is a language, a sort of conduct towhich I am not accustomed: it is the conduct ofa passionate boy—as such, I pass it over incontempt.'

'In contempt, Signor?'

'The respect I owe myself,' rejoined Montoni,'requires, that I should converse more largelywith you upon some points of the subject indispute. Return with me to Venice, and I willcondescend to convince you of your error.'

'Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend tobe so conversed with.'

Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily,now terrified for the consequences of what shesaw and heard, could no longer be silent. Sheexplained the whole subject upon which shehad mistaken Montoni in the morning,declaring, that she understood him to haveconsulted her solely concerning the disposal ofLa Vallee, and concluding with entreating, thathe would write immediately to M. Quesnel, andrectify the mistake.

But Montoni either was, or affected to be, stillincredulous; and Count Morano was still

entangled in perplexity. While she wasspeaking, however, the attention of her auditorshad been diverted from the immediateoccasion of their resentment, and their passionconsequently became less. Montoni desired theCount would order his servants to row back toVenice, that he might have some privateconversation with him; and Morano, somewhatsoothed by his softened voice and manner, andeager to examine into the full extent of hisdifficulties, complied.

Emily, comforted by this prospect of release,employed the present moments inendeavouring, with conciliating care, to preventany fatal mischief between the persons who solately had persecuted and insulted her.

Her spirits revived, when she heard oncemore the voice of song and laughter,resounding from the grand canal, and at lengthentered again between its stately piazzas. Thezendaletto stopped at Montoni's mansion, andthe Count hastily led her into the hall, whereMontoni took his arm, and said something in alow voice, on which Morano kissed the hand heheld, notwithstanding Emily's effort todisengage it, and, wishing her a good evening,with an accent and look she could notmisunderstand, returned to his zendaletto withMontoni.

Emily, in her own apartment, considered withintense anxiety all the unjust and tyrannicalconduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseveranceof Morano, and her own desolate situation,removed from her friends and country. Shelooked in vain to Valancourt, confined by hisprofession to a distant kingdom, as herprotector; but it gave her comfort to know, thatthere was, at least, one person in the world,who would sympathize in her afflictions, andwhose wishes would fly eagerly to release her.Yet she determined not to give him unavailingpain by relating the reasons she had to regretthe having rejected his better judgmentconcerning Montoni; reasons, however, which

could not induce her to lament the delicacy anddisinterested affection that had made her rejecthis proposal for a clandestine marriage. Theapproaching interview with her uncle sheregarded with some degree of hope, for shedetermined to represent to him the distressesof her situation, and to entreat that he wouldallow her to return to France with him andMadame Quesnel. Then, suddenlyremembering that her beloved La Vallee, heronly home, was no longer at her command, hertears flowed anew, and she feared that she hadlittle pity to expect from a man who, like M.Quesnel, could dispose of it without deigning toconsult with her, and could dismiss an agedand faithful servant, destitute of either supportor asylum. But, though it was certain, that shehad herself no longer a home in France, andfew, very few friends there, she determined toreturn, if possible, that she might be releasedfrom the power of Montoni, whose particularlyoppressive conduct towards herself, andgeneral character as to others, were justlyterrible to her imagination. She had no wish toreside with her uncle, M. Quesnel, since hisbehaviour to her late father and to herself, hadbeen uniformly such as to convince her, that inflying to him she could only obtain an exchangeof oppressors; neither had she the slightestintention of consenting to the proposal ofValancourt for an immediate marriage, thoughthis would give her a lawful and a generousprotector, for the chief reasons, which hadformerly influenced her conduct, still existedagainst it, while others, which seemed to justifythe step, would not be done away; and hisinterest, his fame were at all times too dear toher, to suffer her to consent to a union, which, atthis early period of their lives, would probablydefeat both. One sure, and proper asylum,however, would still be open to her in France.She knew that she could board in the convent,where she had formerly experienced so muchkindness, and which had an affecting andsolemn claim upon her heart, since it contained

the remains of her late father. Here she couldremain in safety and tranquillity, till the term, forwhich La Vallee might be let, should expire; or,till the arrangement of M. Motteville's affairsenabled her so far to estimate the remains ofher fortune, as to judge whether it would beprudent for her to reside there.

Concerning Montoni's conduct with respect tohis letters to M. Quesnel, she had many doubts;however he might be at first mistaken on thesubject, she much suspected that he wilfullypersevered in his error, as a means ofintimidating her into a compliance with hiswishes of uniting her to Count Morano. Whetherthis was or was not the fact, she was extremelyanxious to explain the affair to M. Quesnel, andlooked forward with a mixture of impatience,hope and fear, to her approaching visit.

On the following day, Madame Montoni,being alone with Emily, introduced the mentionof Count Morano, by expressing her surprise,that she had not joined the party on the waterthe preceding evening, and at her abruptdeparture to Venice. Emily then related whathad passed, expressed her concern for themutual mistake that had occurred betweenMontoni and herself, and solicited her aunt'skind offices in urging him to give a decisivedenial to the count's further addresses; but shesoon perceived, that Madame Montoni had notbeen ignorant of the late conversation, whenshe introduced the present.

'You have no encouragement to expect fromme,' said her aunt, 'in these notions. I havealready given my opinion on the subject, andthink Signor Montoni right in enforcing, by anymeans, your consent. If young persons will beblind to their interest, and obstinately oppose it,why, the greatest blessings they can have arefriends, who will oppose their folly. Pray whatpretensions of any kind do you think you have tosuch a match as is now offered you?'

'Not any whatever, Madam,' replied Emily,

'and, therefore, at least, suffer me to be happyin my humility.'

'Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that youhave pride enough; my poor brother, yourfather, had his share of pride too; though, let meadd, his fortune did not justify it.'

Emily, somewhat embarrassed by theindignation, which this malevolent allusion to herfather excited, and by the difficulty of renderingher answer as temperate as it should bereprehensive, hesitated for some moments, in aconfusion, which highly gratified her aunt. Atlength she said, 'My father's pride, Madam, hada noble object—the happiness which he knewcould be derived only from goodness,knowledge and charity. As it never consisted inhis superiority, in point of fortune, to somepersons, it was not humbled by his inferiority, inthat respect, to others. He never disdainedthose, who were wretched by poverty andmisfortune; he did sometimes despise persons,who, with many opportunities of happiness,rendered themselves miserable by vanity,ignorance and cruelty. I shall think it my highestglory to emulate such pride.'

'I do not pretend to understand any thing ofthese high-flown sentiments, niece; you have allthat glory to yourself: I would teach you a littleplain sense, and not have you so wise as todespise happiness.'

'That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,'said Emily, 'for wisdom can boast no higherattainment than happiness; but you will allow,Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ.I cannot doubt, that you wish me to be happy,but I must fear you are mistaken in the means ofmaking me so.'

'I cannot boast of a learned education, niece,such as your father thought proper to give you,and, therefore, do not pretend to understand allthese fine speeches about happiness. I must becontented to understand only common sense,

and happy would it have been for you and yourfather, if that had been included in hiseducation.'

Emily was too much shocked by thesereflections on her father's memory, to despisethis speech as it deserved.

Madame Montoni was about to speak, butEmily quitted the room, and retired to her own,where the little spirit she had lately exertedyielded to grief and vexation, and left her only toher tears. From every review of her situationshe could derive, indeed, only new sorrow. Tothe discovery, which had just been forced uponher, of Montoni's unworthiness, she had now toadd, that of the cruel vanity, for the gratificationof which her aunt was about to sacrifice her; ofthe effrontery and cunning, with which, at thetime that she meditated the sacrifice, sheboasted of her tenderness, or insulted hervictim; and of the venomous envy, which, as itdid not scruple to attack her father's character,could scarcely be expected to withhold from herown.

During the few days that intervened betweenthis conversation and the departure for Miarenti,Montoni did not once address himself to Emily.His looks sufficiently declared his resentment;but that he should forbear to renew a mention ofthe subject of it, exceedingly surprised her, whowas no less astonished, that, during three days,Count Morano neither visited Montoni, or wasnamed by him. Several conjectures arose in hermind. Sometimes she feared that the disputebetween them had been revived, and hadended fatally to the Count. Sometimes she wasinclined to hope, that weariness, or disgust ather firm rejection of his suit had induced him torelinquish it; and, at others, she suspected thathe had now recourse to stratagem, and forborehis visits, and prevailed with Montoni to forbearthe repetition of his name, in the expectationthat gratitude and generosity would prevail withher to give him the consent, which he could nothope from love.

Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, andalternate hopes and fears, till the day arrivedwhen Montoni was to set out for the villa ofMiarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neitherbrought the Count, or the mention of him.

Montoni having determined not to leaveVenice, till towards evening, that he might avoidthe heats, and catch the cool breezes of night,embarked about an hour before sun-set, withhis family, in a barge, for the Brenta. Emily satalone near the stern of the vessel, and, as itfloated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty citylessening from her view, till its palaces seemedto sink in the distant waves, while its loftiertowers and domes, illumined by the decliningsun, appeared on the horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in more northern climes,often linger on the western verge, and catch thelast light of a summer's evening. Soon after,even these grew dim, and faded in distancefrom her sight; but she still sat gazing on thevast scene of cloudless sky, and mighty waters,and listening in pleasing awe to the deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glancedover the Adriatic, towards the opposite shores,which were, however, far beyond the reach ofsight, she thought of Greece, and, a thousandclassical remembrances stealing to her mind,she experienced that pensive luxury which is felton viewing the scenes of ancient story, and oncomparing their present state of silence andsolitude with that of their former grandeur andanimation. The scenes of the Illiad illapsed inglowing colours to her fancy—scenes, once thehaunt of heroes—now lonely, and in ruins; butwhich still shone, in the poet's strain, in all theiryouthful splendour.

As her imagination painted with melancholytouches, the deserted plains of Troy, such asthey appeared in this after-day, she reanimatedthe landscape with the following little story.

STANZAS

O'er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled, And once the poet rais'd his deathless strain, O'er Ilion's plains a weary driver led His stately camels: For the ruin'd fane

Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw, For now the red cloud faded in the west, And twilight o'er the silent landscape drew Her deep'ning veil; eastward his course he prest:

There, on the grey horizon's glimm'ring bound, Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy, And wandering shepherds now a shelter found Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.

Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass'd, Then, from his camels heav'd the heavy load; Partook with them the simple, cool repast, And in short vesper gave himself to God.

From distant lands with merchandise he came, His all of wealth his patient servants bore; Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim To reach, again, his happy cottage door;

For there, his wife, his little children, dwell; Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour: Ev'n now warm tears to expectation swell, As fancy o'er his mind extends her pow'r.

A death-like stillness reign'd, where once the song, The song of heroes, wak'd the midnight air, Save, when a solemn murmur roll'd along, That seem'd to say—'for future worlds prepare.'

For Time's imperious voice was frequent heard Shaking the marble temple to its fall, (By hands he long had conquer'd, vainly rear'd), And distant ruins answer'd to his call.

While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay, Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled; And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay, And there, the flute that chear'd him in the wild.

The robber Tartar on his slumber stole, For o'er the waste, at eve, he watch'd his train; Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control? Who calls on him for mercy—calls in vain!

A poison'd poignard in his belt he wore,

A crescent sword depended at his side, The deathful quiver at his back he bore, And infants—at his very look had died!

The moon's cold beam athwart the temple fell, And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led; But soft!—a startled camel shook his bell, Then stretch'd his limbs, and rear'd his drowsy head.

Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter'd high! Swift from his couch he sprung, and 'scap'd the blow; When from an unknown hand the arrows fly, That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.

He groan'd, he died! from forth a column'd gate A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept, Who, as he watch'd his folded flock star-late, Had mark'd the robber steal where Hamet slept.

He fear'd his own, and sav'd a stranger's life! Poor Hamet clasp'd him to his grateful heart; Then, rous'd his camels for the dusty strife, And, with the shepherd, hasten'd to depart.

And now, aurora breathes her fresh'ning gale, And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud; And now, the sun, from under twilight's veil, Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.

Wide o'er the level plains, his slanting beams Dart their long lines on Ilion's tower'd site; The distant Hellespont with morning gleams, And old Scamander winds his waves in light.

All merry sound the camel bells, so gay, And merry beats fond Hamet's heart, for he, E'er the dim evening steals upon the day, His children, wife and happy home shall see.

As Emily approached the shores of Italy shebegan to discriminate the rich features andvaried colouring of the landscape—the purplehills, groves of orange pine and cypress,shading magnificent villas, and towns risingamong vineyards and plantations. The nobleBrenta, pouring its broad waves into the sea,now appeared, and, when she reached itsmouth, the barge stopped, that the horses mightbe fastened which were now to tow it up thestream. This done, Emily gave a last look to the

Adriatic, and to the dim sail,

that from the sky-mix'd wave Dawns on the sight,

and the barge slowly glided between thegreen and luxuriant slopes of the river. Thegrandeur of the Palladian villas, that adornthese shores, was considerably heightened bythe setting rays, which threw strong contrasts oflight and shade upon the porticos and longarcades, and beamed a mellow lustre upon theorangeries and the tall groves of pine andcypress, that overhung the buildings. The scentof oranges, of flowering myrtles, and otherodoriferous plants was diffused upon the air,and often, from these embowered retreats, astrain of music stole on the calm, and 'softenedinto silence.'

The sun now sunk below the horizon, twilightfell over the landscape, and Emily, wrapt inmusing silence, continued to watch its featuresgradually vanishing into obscurity. Sheremembered her many happy evenings, whenwith St. Aubert she had observed the shades oftwilight steal over a scene as beautiful as this,from the gardens of La Vallee, and a tear fell tothe memory of her father. Her spirits weresoftened into melancholy by the influence of thehour, by the low murmur of the wave passingunder the vessel, and the stillness of the air, thattrembled only at intervals with distant music:—why else should she, at these moments, havelooked on her attachment to Valancourt withpresages so very afflicting, since she had butlately received letters from him, that hadsoothed for a while all her anxieties? It nowseemed to her oppressed mind, that she hadtaken leave of him for ever, and that thecountries, which separated them, would nevermore be re-traced by her. She looked uponCount Morano with horror, as in some degreethe cause of this; but apart from him, aconviction, if such that may be called, whicharises from no proof, and which she knew nothow to account for, seized her mind—that she

should never see Valancourt again. Though sheknew, that neither Morano's solicitations, norMontoni's commands had lawful power toenforce her obedience, she regarded both witha superstitious dread, that they would finallyprevail.

Lost in this melancholy reverie, and sheddingfrequent tears, Emily was at length roused byMontoni, and she followed him to the cabin,where refreshments were spread, and her auntwas seated alone. The countenance ofMadame Montoni was inflamed withresentment, that appeared to be theconsequence of some conversation she hadheld with her husband, who regarded her with akind of sullen disdain, and both preserved, forsome time, a haughty silence. Montoni thenspoke to Emily of Mons. Quesnel: 'You will not, Ihope, persist in disclaiming your knowledge ofthe subject of my letter to him?'

'I had hoped, sir, that it was no longernecessary for me to disclaim it,' said Emily, 'Ihad hoped, from your silence, that you wasconvinced of your error.'

'You have hoped impossibilities then,' repliedMontoni; 'I might as reasonably have expectedto find sincerity and uniformity of conduct in oneof your sex, as you to convict me of error in thisaffair.'

Emily blushed, and was silent; she nowperceived too clearly, that she had hoped animpossibility, for, where no mistake had beencommitted no conviction could follow; and itwas evident, that Montoni's conduct had notbeen the consequence of mistake, but ofdesign.

Anxious to escape from conversation, whichwas both afflicting and humiliating to her, shesoon returned to the deck, and resumed herstation near the stern, without apprehension ofcold, for no vapour rose from the water, and theair was dry and tranquil; here, at least, the

benevolence of nature allowed her the quietwhich Montoni had denied her elsewhere. It wasnow past midnight. The stars shed a kind oftwilight, that served to shew the dark outline ofthe shores on either hand, and the grey surfaceof the river; till the moon rose from behind ahigh palm grove, and shed her mellow lustreover the scene. The vessel glided smoothly on:amid the stillness of the hour Emily heard, nowand then, the solitary voice of the barge-men onthe bank, as they spoke to their horses; while,from a remote part of the vessel, withmelancholy song,

The sailor sooth'd, Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave.

Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her receptionby Mons, and Madame Quesnel; consideredwhat she should say on the subject of La Vallee;and then, to with-hold her mind from moreanxious topics, tried to amuse herself bydiscriminating the faint-drawn features of thelandscape, reposing in the moon-light. Whileher fancy thus wandered, she saw, at adistance, a building peeping between themoon-light trees, and, as the bargeapproached, heard voices speaking, and soondistinguished the lofty portico of a villa,overshadowed by groves of pine andsycamore, which she recollected to be thesame, that had formerly been pointed out to her,as belonging to Madame Quesnel's relative.

The barge stopped at a flight of marblesteps, which led up the bank to a lawn. Lightsappeared between some pillars beyond theportico. Montoni sent forward his servant, andthen disembarked with his family. They foundMons. and Madame Quesnel, with a fewfriends, seated on sofas in the portico, enjoyingthe cool breeze of the night, and eating fruitsand ices, while some of their servants at a littledistance, on the river's bank, were performing asimple serenade. Emily was now accustomedto the way of living in this warm country, andwas not surprised to find Mons. and Madame

Quesnel in their portico, two hours aftermidnight.

The usual salutations being over, thecompany seated themselves in the portico, andrefreshments were brought them from theadjoining hall, where a banquet was spread,and servants attended. When the bustle of thismeeting had subsided, and Emily hadrecovered from the little flutter into which it hadthrown her spirits, she was struck with thesingular beauty of the hall, so perfectlyaccommodated to the luxuries of the season. Itwas of white marble, and the roof, rising into anopen cupola, was supported by columns of thesame material. Two opposite sides of theapartment, terminating in open porticos,admitted to the hall a full view of the gardens,and of the river scenery; in the centre a fountaincontinually refreshed the air, and seemed toheighten the fragrance, that breathed from thesurrounding orangeries, while its dashingwaters gave an agreeable and soothing sound.Etruscan lamps, suspended from the pillars,diffused a brilliant light over the interior part ofthe hall, leaving the remoter porticos to thesofter lustre of the moon.

Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of hisown affairs, in his usual strain of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions,and then affected to pity somedisappointments, which Montoni had latelysustained. Meanwhile, the latter, whose pride atleast enabled him to despise such vanity asthis, and whose discernment at once detectedunder this assumed pity, the frivolous malignityof Quesnel's mind, listened to him incontemptuous silence, till he named his niece,and then they left the portico, and walked awayinto the gardens.

Emily, however, still attended to MadameQuesnel, who spoke of France (for even thename of her native country was dear to her) andshe found some pleasure in looking at aperson, who had lately been in it. That country,

too, was inhabited by Valancourt, and shelistened to the mention of it, with a faint hope,that he also would be named. MadameQuesnel, who, when she was in France, hadtalked with rapture of Italy, now, that she was inItaly, talked with equal praise of France, andendeavoured to excite the wonder and the envyof her auditors by accounts of places, whichthey had not been happy enough to see. Inthese descriptions she not only imposed uponthem, but upon herself, for she never thought apresent pleasure equal to one, that waspassed; and thus the delicious climate, thefragrant orangeries and all the luxuries, whichsurrounded her, slept unnoticed, while her fancywandered over the distant scenes of a northerncountry.

Emily listened in vain for the name ofValancourt. Madame Montoni spoke in her turnof the delights of Venice, and of the pleasureshe expected from visiting the fine castle ofMontoni, on the Apennine; which latter mention,at least, was merely a retaliating boast, forEmily well knew, that her aunt had no taste forsolitary grandeur, and, particularly, for such asthe castle of Udolpho promised. Thus the partycontinued to converse, and, as far as civilitywould permit, to torture each other by mutualboasts, while they reclined on sofas in theportico, and were environed with delights bothfrom nature and art, by which any honest mindswould have been tempered to benevolence,and happy imaginations would have beensoothed into enchantment.

The dawn, soon after, trembled in the easternhorizon, and the light tints of morning, graduallyexpanding, shewed the beautifully decliningforms of the Italian mountains and the gleaminglandscapes, stretched at their feet. Then thesun-beams, shooting up from behind the hills,spread over the scene that fine saffron tinge,which seems to impart repose to all it touches.The landscape no longer gleamed; all itsglowing colours were revealed, except that its

remoter features were still softened and unitedin the mist of distance, whose sweet effect washeightened to Emily by the dark verdure of thepines and cypresses, that over-arched theforeground of the river.

The market people, passing with their boatsto Venice, now formed a moving picture on theBrenta. Most of these had little paintedawnings, to shelter their owners from the sun-beams, which, together with the piles of fruitand flowers, displayed beneath, and the tastefulsimplicity of the peasant girls, who watched therural treasures, rendered them gay and strikingobjects. The swift movement of the boats downthe current, the quick glance of oars in thewater, and now and then the passing chorus ofpeasants, who reclined under the sail of theirlittle bark, or the tones of some rusticinstrument, played by a girl, as she sat near hersylvan cargo, heightened the animation andfestivity of the scene.

When Montoni and M. Quesnel had joined theladies, the party left the portico for the gardens,where the charming scenery soon withdrewEmily's thoughts from painful subjects. Themajestic forms and rich verdure of cypressesshe had never seen so perfect before: grovesof cedar, lemon, and orange, the spiry clustersof the pine and poplar, the luxuriant chesnut andoriental plane, threw all their pomp of shadeover these gardens; while bowers of floweringmyrtle and other spicy shrubs mingled theirfragrance with that of flowers, whose vivid andvarious colouring glowed with increased effectbeneath the contrasted umbrage of the groves.The air also was continually refreshed byrivulets, which, with more taste than fashion,had been suffered to wander among the greenrecesses.

Emily often lingered behind the party, tocontemplate the distant landscape, that closeda vista, or that gleamed beneath the darkfoliage of the foreground;—the spiral summitsof the mountains, touched with a purple tint,

broken and steep above, but shelving graduallyto their base; the open valley, marked by noformal lines of art; and the tall groves ofcypress, pine and poplar, sometimesembellished by a ruined villa, whose brokencolumns appeared between the branches of apine, that seemed to droop over their fall.

From other parts of the gardens, thecharacter of the view was entirely changed, andthe fine solitary beauty of the landscape shiftedfor the crowded features and varied colouring ofinhabitation.

The sun was now gaining fast upon the sky,and the party quitted the gardens, and retired torepose.

CHAPTER IV And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice. THOMSON

Emily seized the first opportunity ofconversing alone with Mons. Quesnel,concerning La Vallee. His answers to herenquiries were concise, and delivered with theair of a man, who is conscious of possessingabsolute power and impatient of hearing itquestioned. He declared, that the disposal ofthe place was a necessary measure; and thatshe might consider herself indebted to hisprudence for even the small income thatremained for her. 'But, however,' added he,'when this Venetian Count (I have forgot hisname) marries you, your present disagreeablestate of dependence will cease. As a relation toyou I rejoice in the circumstance, which is sofortunate for you, and, I may add, so unexpectedby your friends.' For some moments Emily waschilled into silence by this speech; and, whenshe attempted to undeceive him, concerningthe purport of the note she had inclosed inMontoni's letter, he appeared to have someprivate reason for disbelieving her assertion,and, for a considerable time, persevered inaccusing her of capricious conduct. Being, atlength, however, convinced that she reallydisliked Morano and had positively rejected hissuit, his resentment was extravagant, and heexpressed it in terms equally pointed andinhuman; for, secretly flattered by the prospectof a connection with a nobleman, whose title hehad affected to forget, he was incapable offeeling pity for whatever sufferings of his niecemight stand in the way of his ambition.

Emily saw at once in his manner all thedifficulties, that awaited her, and, though nooppression could have power to make herrenounce Valancourt for Morano, her fortitudenow trembled at an encounter with the violent

passions of her uncle.

She opposed his turbulence and indignationonly by the mild dignity of a superior mind; butthe gentle firmness of her conduct served toexasperate still more his resentment, since itcompelled him to feel his own inferiority, and,when he left her, he declared, that, if shepersisted in her folly, both himself and Montoniwould abandon her to the contempt of the world.

The calmness she had assumed in hispresence failed Emily, when alone, and shewept bitterly, and called frequently upon thename of her departed father, whose advice toher from his death-bed she then remembered.'Alas!' said she, 'I do indeed perceive howmuch more valuable is the strength of fortitudethan the grace of sensibility, and I will alsoendeavour to fulfil the promise I then made; I willnot indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will tryto endure, with firmness, the oppression Icannot elude.'

Somewhat soothed by the consciousness ofperforming a part of St. Aubert's last request,and of endeavouring to pursue the conductwhich he would have approved, she overcameher tears, and, when the company met atdinner, had recovered her usual serenity ofcountenance.

In the cool of the evening, the ladies took theFRESCO along the bank of the Brenta inMadame Quesnel's carriage. The state ofEmily's mind was in melancholy contrast withthe gay groups assembled beneath the shadesthat overhung this enchanting stream. Somewere dancing under the trees, and othersreclining on the grass, taking ices and coffeeand calmly enjoying the effect of a beautifulevening, on a luxuriant landscape. Emily, whenshe looked at the snow-capt Apennines,ascending in the distance, thought of Montoni'scastle, and suffered some terror, lest he shouldconvey her thither, for the purpose of enforcingher obedience; but the thought vanished, when

she considered, that she was as much in hispower at Venice as she could be elsewhere.

It was moonlight before the party returned tothe villa, where supper was spread in the airyhall, which had so much enchanted Emily'sfancy, on the preceding night. The ladiesseated themselves in the portico, till Mons.Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen shouldjoin them at table, and Emily endeavoured toresign herself to the tranquillity of the hour.Presently, a barge stopped at the steps that ledinto the gardens, and, soon after, shedistinguished the voices of Montoni andQuesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in thenext moment, appeared. His compliments shereceived in silence, and her cold air seemed atfirst to discompose him; but he soon recoveredhis usual gaiety of manner, though the officiouskindness of M. and Madame Quesnel Emilyperceived disgusted him. Such a degree ofattention she had scarcely believed could beshewn by M. Quesnel, for she had never beforeseen him otherwise than in the presence of hisinferiors or equals.

When she could retire to her own apartment,her mind almost involuntarily dwelt on the mostprobable means of prevailing with the Count towithdraw his suit, and to her liberal mind noneappeared more probable, than that ofacknowledging to him a prior attachment andthrowing herself upon his generosity for arelease. When, however, on the following day,he renewed his addresses, she shrunk from theadoption of the plan she had formed. There wassomething so repugnant to her just pride, inlaying open the secret of her heart to such aman as Morano, and in suing to him forcompassion, that she impatiently rejected thisdesign and wondered, that she could havepaused upon it for a moment. The rejection ofhis suit she repeated in the most decisive termsshe could select, mingling with it a severecensure of his conduct; but, though the Countappeared mortified by this, he persevered in

the most ardent professions of admiration, tillhe was interrupted and Emily released by thepresence of Madame Quesnel.

During her stay at this pleasant villa, Emilywas thus rendered miserable by the assiduitiesof Morano, together with the cruelly exertedauthority of M. Quesnel and Montoni, who, withher aunt, seemed now more resolutelydetermined upon this marriage than they hadeven appeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel,finding, that both argument and menace wereineffectual in enforcing an immediateconclusion to it, at length relinquished hisendeavours, and trusted to the power ofMontoni and to the course of events at Venice.Emily, indeed, looked to Venice with hope, forthere she would be relieved in some measurefrom the persecution of Morano, who would nolonger be an inhabitant of the same house withherself, and from that of Montoni, whoseengagements would not permit him to becontinually at home. But amidst the pressure ofher own misfortunes, she did not forget those ofpoor Theresa, for whom she pleaded withcourageous tenderness to Quesnel, whopromised, in slight and general terms, that sheshould not be forgotten.

Montoni, in a long conversation with M.Quesnel, arranged the plan to be pursuedrespecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed tobe at Venice, as soon as he should beinformed, that the nuptials were concluded.

It was new to Emily to part with any person,with whom she was connected, without feelingof regret; the moment, however, in which shetook leave of M. and Madame Quesnel, was,perhaps, the only satisfactory one she hadknown in their presence.

Morano returned in Montoni's barge, andEmily, as she watched her gradual approach tothat magic city, saw at her side the only person,who occasioned her to view it with less thanperfect delight. They arrived there about

midnight, when Emily was released from thepresence of the Count, who, with Montoni, wentto a Casino, and she was suffered to retire toher own apartment.

On the following day, Montoni, in a shortconversation, which he held with Emily,informed her, that he would no longer beTRIFLED with, and that, since her marriage withthe Count would be so highly advantageous toher, that folly only could object to it, and folly ofsuch extent as was incapable of conviction, itshould be celebrated without further delay, and,if that was necessary, without her consent.

Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance,had now recourse to supplication, for distressprevented her from foreseeing, that, with a manof Montoni's disposition, supplication would beequally useless. She afterwards enquired bywhat right he exerted this unlimited authorityover her? a question, which her better judgmentwould have with-held her, in a calmer moment,from making, since it could avail her nothing,and would afford Montoni another opportunity oftriumphing over her defenceless condition.

'By what right!' cried Montoni, with amalicious smile, 'by the right of my will; if youcan elude that, I will not inquire by what right youdo so. I now remind you, for the last time, thatyou are a stranger, in a foreign country, and thatit is your interest to make me your friend; youknow the means; if you compel me to becomeyour enemy—I will venture to tell you, that thepunishment shall exceed your expectation. Youmay know I am not to be trifled with.'

Emily continued, for some time after Montonihad left her, in a state of despair, or ratherstupefaction; a consciousness of misery was allthat remained in her mind. In this situationMadame Montoni found her, at the sound ofwhose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt,somewhat softened by the expression ofdespair, that fixed her countenance, spoke in amanner more kind than she had ever yet done.

Emily's heart was touched; she shed tears, and,after weeping for some time, recoveredsufficient composure to speak on the subject ofher distress, and to endeavour to interestMadame Montoni in her behalf. But, though thecompassion of her aunt had been surprised,her ambition was not to be overcome, and herpresent object was to be the aunt of aCountess. Emily's efforts, therefore, were asunsuccessful as they had been with Montoni,and she withdrew to her apartment to think andweep alone. How often did she remember theparting scene with Valancourt, and wish, thatthe Italian had mentioned Montoni's characterwith less reserve! When her mind, however, hadrecovered from the first shock of this behaviour,she considered, that it would be impossible forhim to compel her alliance with Morano, if shepersisted in refusing to repeat any part of themarriage ceremony; and she persevered in herresolution to await Montoni's threatenedvengeance rather than give herself for life to aman, whom she must have despised for hispresent conduct, had she never even lovedValancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge shethus resolved to brave.

An affair, however, soon after occurred,which somewhat called off Montoni's attentionfrom Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsinowere renewed with more frequency since thereturn of the former to Venice. There wereothers, also, besides Orsino, admitted to thesemidnight councils, and among them Cavigniand Verezzi. Montoni became more reservedand austere in his manner than ever; and Emily,if her own interests had not made herregardless of his, might have perceived, thatsomething extraordinary was working in hismind.

One night, on which a council was not held,Orsino came in great agitation of spirits, anddispatched his confidential servant to Montoni,who was at a Casino, desiring that he wouldreturn home immediately; but charging the

servant not to mention his name. Montoniobeyed the summons, and, on meeting Orsino,was informed of the circumstances, thatoccasioned his visit and his visible alarm, witha part of which he was already acquainted.

A Venetian nobleman, who had, on some lateoccasion, provoked the hatred of Orsino, hadbeen way-laid and poniarded by hiredassassins: and, as the murdered person was ofthe first connections, the Senate had taken upthe affair. One of the assassins was nowapprehended, who had confessed, that Orsinowas his employer in the atrocious deed; and thelatter, informed of his danger, had now come toMontoni to consult on the measures necessaryto favour his escape. He knew, that, at this time,the officers of the police were upon the watchfor him, all over the city; to leave it, at present,therefore, was impracticable, and Montoniconsented to secrete him for a few days till thevigilance of justice should relax, and then toassist him in quitting Venice. He knew thedanger he himself incurred by permitting Orsinoto remain in his house, but such was the natureof his obligations to this man, that he did notthink it prudent to refuse him an asylum.

Such was the person whom Montoni hadadmitted to his confidence, and for whom he feltas much friendship as was compatible with hischaracter.

While Orsino remained concealed in hishouse, Montoni was unwilling to attract publicobservation by the nuptials of Count Morano;but this obstacle was, in a few days, overcomeby the departure of his criminal visitor, and hethen informed Emily, that her marriage was tobe celebrated on the following morning. To herrepeated assurances, that it should not takeplace, he replied only by a malignant smile;and, telling her that the Count and a priestwould be at his house, early in the morning, headvised her no further to dare his resentment,by opposition to his will and to her own interest.'I am now going out for the evening,' said he,

'remember, that I shall give your hand to CountMorano in the morning.' Emily, having, eversince his late threats, expected, that her trialswould at length arrive to this crisis, was lessshocked by the declaration, that she otherwisewould have been, and she endeavoured tosupport herself by the belief, that the marriagecould not be valid, so long as she refusedbefore the priest to repeat any part of theceremony. Yet, as the moment of trialapproached, her long-harassed spirits shrunkalmost equally from the encounter of hisvengeance, and from the hand of CountMorano. She was not even perfectly certain ofthe consequence of her steady refusal at thealtar, and she trembled, more than ever, at thepower of Montoni, which seemed unlimited ashis will, for she saw, that he would not scruple totransgress any law, if, by so doing, he couldaccomplish his project.

While her mind was thus suffering and in astate little short of distraction, she was informedthat Morano asked permission to see her, andthe servant had scarcely departed with anexcuse, before she repented that she had sentone. In the next moment, reverting to her formerdesign, and determining to try, whetherexpostulation and entreaty would not succeed,where a refusal and a just disdain had failed,she recalled the servant, and, sending adifferent message, prepared to go down to theCount.

The dignity and assumed composure withwhich she met him, and the kind of pensiveresignation, that softened her countenance,were circumstances not likely to induce him torelinquish her, serving, as they did, to heightena passion, which had already intoxicated hisjudgment. He listened to all she said with anappearance of complacency and of a wish tooblige her; but his resolution remainedinvariably the same, and he endeavoured to winher admiration by every insinuating art he sowell knew how to practise. Being, at length,

assured, that she had nothing to hope from hisjustice, she repeated, in a solemn andimpressive manner, her absolute rejection ofhis suit, and quitted him with an assurance, thather refusal would be effectually maintainedagainst every circumstance, that could beimagined for subduing it. A just pride hadrestrained her tears in his presence, but nowthey flowed from the fulness of her heart. Sheoften called upon the name of her late father,and often dwelt with unutterable anguish on theidea of Valancourt.

She did not go down to supper, but remainedalone in her apartment, sometimes yielding tothe influence of grief and terror, and, at others,endeavouring to fortify her mind against them,and to prepare herself to meet, with composedcourage, the scene of the following morning,when all the stratagem of Morano and theviolence of Montoni would be united againsther.

The evening was far advanced, whenMadame Montoni came to her chamber withsome bridal ornaments, which the Count hadsent to Emily. She had, this day, purposelyavoided her niece; perhaps, because her usualinsensibility failed her, and she feared to trustherself with a view of Emily's distress; orpossibly, though her conscience was seldomaudible, it now reproached her with her conductto her brother's orphan child, whose happinesshad been entrusted to her care by a dyingfather.

Emily could not look at these presents, andmade a last, though almost hopeless, effort tointerest the compassion of Madame Montoni,who, if she did feel any degree of pity, orremorse, successfully concealed it, andreproached her niece with folly in beingmiserable, concerning a marriage, which oughtonly to make her happy. 'I am sure,' said she, 'ifI was unmarried, and the Count had proposedto me, I should have been flattered by thedistinction: and if I should have been so, I am

sure, niece, you, who have no fortune, ought tofeel yourself highly honoured, and shew aproper gratitude and humility towards theCount, for his condescension. I am oftensurprised, I must own, to observe how humblyhe deports himself to you, notwithstanding thehaughty airs you give yourself; I wonder he haspatience to humour you so: if I was he, I know, Ishould often be ready to reprehend you, andmake you know yourself a little better. I wouldnot have flattered you, I can tell you, for it is thisabsurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself ofso much consequence, that you think nobodycan deserve you, and I often tell the Count so,for I have no patience to hear him pay you suchextravagant compliments, which you believeevery word of!'

'Your patience, madam, cannot suffer morecruelly on such occasions, than my own,' saidEmily.

'O! that is all mere affectation,' rejoined heraunt. 'I know that his flattery delights you, andmakes you so vain, that you think you may havethe whole world at your feet. But you are verymuch mistaken; I can assure you, niece, you willnot meet with many such suitors as the Count:every other person would have turned upon hisheel, and left you to repent at your leisure, longago.'

'O that the Count had resembled every otherperson, then!' said Emily, with a heavy sigh.

'It is happy for you, that he does not,' rejoinedMadame Montoni; 'and what I am now saying isfrom pure kindness. I am endeavouring toconvince you of your good fortune, and topersuade you to submit to necessity with agood grace. It is nothing to me, you know,whether you like this marriage or not, for it mustbe; what I say, therefore, is from pure kindness.I wish to see you happy, and it is your own faultif you are not so. I would ask you, now, seriouslyand calmly, what kind of a match you canexpect, since a Count cannot content your

ambition?'

'I have no ambition whatever, madam,'replied Emily, 'my only wish is to remain in mypresent station.'

'O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,'said her aunt, 'I see you are still thinking ofMons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all thosefantastic notions about love, and this ridiculouspride, and be something like a reasonablecreature. But, however, this is nothing to thepurpose—for your marriage with the Counttakes place tomorrow, you know, whether youapprove it or not. The Count will be trifled withno longer.'

Emily made no attempt to reply to this curiousspeech; she felt it would be mean, and sheknew it would be useless. Madame Montonilaid the Count's presents upon the table, onwhich Emily was leaning, and then, desiring shewould be ready early in the morning, bade hergood-night. 'Good-night, madam,' said Emily,with a deep sigh, as the door closed upon heraunt, and she was left once more to her ownsad reflections. For some time she sat so lostin thought, as to be wholly unconscious whereshe was; at length, raising her head, andlooking round the room, its gloom and profoundstillness awed her. She fixed her eyes on thedoor, through which her aunt had disappeared,and listened anxiously for some sound, thatmight relieve the deep dejection of her spirits;but it was past midnight, and all the familyexcept the servant, who sat up for Montoni, hadretired to bed. Her mind, long harassed bydistress, now yielded to imaginary terrors; shetrembled to look into the obscurity of herspacious chamber, and feared she knew notwhat; a state of mind, which continued so long,that she would have called up Annette, heraunt's woman, had her fears permitted her torise from her chair, and to cross the apartment.

These melancholy illusions at length began todisperse, and she retired to her bed, not to

sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try,at least, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and tocollect strength of spirits sufficient to bear herthrough the scene of the approaching morning.

CHAPTER V Dark power! with shudd'ring, meek submitted thought Be mine to read the visions old Which thy awak'ning bards have told, And, lest they meet my blasted view, Hold each strange tale devoutly true. COLLINS' ODE TO FEAR

Emily was recalled from a kind of slumber,into which she had, at length, sunk, by a quickknocking at her chamber door. She started upin terror, for Montoni and Count Moranoinstantly came to her mind; but, having listenedin silence for some time, and recognizing thevoice of Annette, she rose and opened thedoor. 'What brings you hither so early?' saidEmily, trembling excessively. She was unable tosupport herself, and sat down on the bed.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'do not lookso pale. I am quite frightened to see you. Hereis a fine bustle below stairs, all the servantsrunning to and fro, and none of them fastenough! Here is a bustle, indeed, all of asudden, and nobody knows for what!'

'Who is below besides them?' said Emily,'Annette, do not trifle with me!'

'Not for the world, ma'amselle, I would nottrifle for the world; but one cannot help makingone's remarks, and there is the Signor in such abustle, as I never saw him before; and he hassent me to tell you, ma'am, to get readyimmediately.'

'Good God support me!' cried Emily, almostfainting, 'Count Morano is below, then!'

'No, ma'amselle, he is not below that I knowof,' replied Annette, 'only his excellenza sent meto desire you would get ready directly to leaveVenice, for that the gondolas would be at thesteps of the canal in a few minutes: but I musthurry back to my lady, who is just at her wits

end, and knows not which way to turn for haste.'

'Explain, Annette, explain the meaning of allthis before you go,' said Emily, so overcomewith surprise and timid hope, that she hadscarcely breath to speak.

'Nay, ma'amselle, that is more than I can do. Ionly know that the Signor is just come home ina very ill humour, that he has had us all calledout of our beds, and tells us we are all to leaveVenice immediately.'

'Is Count Morano to go with the signor?' saidEmily, 'and whither are we going?'

'I know neither, ma'am, for certain; but I heardLudovico say something about going, after weget to terra-firma, to the signor's castle amongsome mountains, that he talked of.'

'The Apennines!' said Emily, eagerly, 'O! thenI have little to hope!'

'That is the very place, ma'am. But cheer up,and do not take it so much to heart, and thinkwhat a little time you have to get ready in, andhow impatient the Signor is. Holy St. Mark! Ihear the oars on the canal; and now they comenearer, and now they are dashing at the stepsbelow; it is the gondola, sure enough.'

Annette hastened from the room; and Emilyprepared for this unexpected flight, as fast asher trembling hands would permit, notperceiving, that any change in her situationcould possibly be for the worse. She hadscarcely thrown her books and clothes into hertravelling trunk, when, receiving a secondsummons, she went down to her aunt'sdressing-room, where she found Montoniimpatiently reproving his wife for delay. He wentout, soon after, to give some further orders tohis people, and Emily then enquired theoccasion of this hasty journey; but her auntappeared to be as ignorant as herself, and toundertake the journey with more reluctance.

The family at length embarked, but neitherCount Morano, nor Cavigni, was of the party.Somewhat revived by observing this, Emily,when the gondolieri dashed their oars in thewater, and put off from the steps of the portico,felt like a criminal, who receives a shortreprieve. Her heart beat yet lighter, when theyemerged from the canal into the ocean, andlighter still, when they skimmed past the walls ofSt. Mark, without having stopped to take upCount Morano.

The dawn now began to tint the horizon, andto break upon the shores of the Adriatic. Emilydid not venture to ask any questions of Montoni,who sat, for some time, in gloomy silence, andthen rolled himself up in his cloak, as if to sleep,while Madame Montoni did the same; butEmily, who could not sleep, undrew one of thelittle curtains of the gondola, and looked outupon the sea. The rising dawn now enlightenedthe mountain-tops of Friuli, but their lower sides,and the distant waves, that rolled at their feet,were still in deep shadow. Emily, sunk intranquil melancholy, watched the strengtheninglight spreading upon the ocean, shewingsuccessively Venice and her islets, and theshores of Italy, along which boats, with theirpointed latin sails, began to move.

The gondolieri were frequently hailed, at thisearly hour, by the market-people, as they glidedby towards Venice, and the lagune soondisplayed a gay scene of innumerable littlebarks, passing from terra-firma with provisions.Emily gave a last look to that splendid city, buther mind was then occupied by considering theprobable events, that awaited her, in thescenes, to which she was removing, and withconjectures, concerning the motive of thissudden journey. It appeared, upon calmerconsideration, that Montoni was removing herto his secluded castle, because he could there,with more probability of success, attempt toterrify her into obedience; or, that, should itsgloomy and sequestered scenes fail of this

effect, her forced marriage with the Count couldthere be solemnized with the secrecy, whichwas necessary to the honour of Montoni. Thelittle spirit, which this reprieve had recalled, nowbegan to fail, and, when Emily reached theshore, her mind had sunk into all its formerdepression.

Montoni did not embark on the Brenta, butpursued his way in carriages across thecountry, towards the Apennine; during whichjourney, his manner to Emily was so particularlysevere, that this alone would have confirmedher late conjecture, had any such confirmationbeen necessary. Her senses were now dead tothe beautiful country, through which shetravelled. Sometimes she was compelled tosmile at the naivete of Annette, in her remarkson what she saw, and sometimes to sigh, as ascene of peculiar beauty recalled Valancourt toher thoughts, who was indeed seldom absentfrom them, and of whom she could never hopeto hear in the solitude, to which she washastening.

At length, the travellers began to ascendamong the Apennines. The immense pine-forests, which, at that period, overhung thesemountains, and between which the road wound,excluded all view but of the cliffs aspiringabove, except, that, now and then, an openingthrough the dark woods allowed the eye amomentary glimpse of the country below. Thegloom of these shades, their solitary silence,except when the breeze swept over theirsummits, the tremendous precipices of themountains, that came partially to the eye, eachassisted to raise the solemnity of Emily'sfeelings into awe; she saw only images ofgloomy grandeur, or of dreadful sublimity,around her; other images, equally gloomy andequally terrible, gleamed on her imagination.She was going she scarcely knew whither,under the dominion of a person, from whosearbitrary disposition she had already sufferedso much, to marry, perhaps, a man who

possessed neither her affection, or esteem; orto endure, beyond the hope of succour,whatever punishment revenge, and that Italianrevenge, might dictate.—The more sheconsidered what might be the motive of thejourney, the more she became convinced, that itwas for the purpose of concluding her nuptialswith Count Morano, with that secrecy, which herresolute resistance had made necessary to thehonour, if not to the safety, of Montoni. From thedeep solitudes, into which she was immerging,and from the gloomy castle, of which she hadheard some mysterious hints, her sick heartrecoiled in despair, and she experienced, that,though her mind was already occupied bypeculiar distress, it was still alive to theinfluence of new and local circumstance; whyelse did she shudder at the idea of thisdesolate castle?

As the travellers still ascended among thepine forests, steep rose over steep, themountains seemed to multiply, as they went,and what was the summit of one eminenceproved to be only the base of another. At length,they reached a little plain, where the driversstopped to rest the mules, whence a scene ofsuch extent and magnificence opened below,as drew even from Madame Montoni a note ofadmiration. Emily lost, for a moment, hersorrows, in the immensity of nature. Beyond theamphitheatre of mountains, that stretchedbelow, whose tops appeared as numerousalmost, as the waves of the sea, and whosefeet were concealed by the forests—extendedthe campagna of Italy, where cities and rivers,and woods and all the glow of cultivation weremingled in gay confusion. The Adriatic boundedthe horizon, into which the Po and the Brenta,after winding through the whole extent of thelandscape, poured their fruitful waves. Emilygazed long on the splendours of the world shewas quitting, of which the whole magnificenceseemed thus given to her sight only to increaseher regret on leaving it; for her, Valancourtalone was in that world; to him alone her heart

turned, and for him alone fell her bitter tears.

From this sublime scene the travellerscontinued to ascend among the pines, till theyentered a narrow pass of the mountains, whichshut out every feature of the distant country,and, in its stead, exhibited only tremendouscrags, impending over the road, where novestige of humanity, or even of vegetation,appeared, except here and there the trunk andscathed branches of an oak, that hung nearlyheadlong from the rock, into which its strongroots had fastened. This pass, which led intothe heart of the Apennine, at length opened today, and a scene of mountains stretched in longperspective, as wild as any the travellers hadyet passed. Still vast pine-forests hung upontheir base, and crowned the ridgy precipice,that rose perpendicularly from the vale, while,above, the rolling mists caught the sun-beams,and touched their cliffs with all the magicalcolouring of light and shade. The sceneseemed perpetually changing, and its featuresto assume new forms, as the winding roadbrought them to the eye in different attitudes;while the shifting vapours, now partiallyconcealing their minuter beauties and nowilluminating them with splendid tints, assistedthe illusions of the sight.

Though the deep vallies between thesemountains were, for the most part, clothed withpines, sometimes an abrupt opening presenteda perspective of only barren rocks, with acataract flashing from their summit amongbroken cliffs, till its waters, reaching the bottom,foamed along with unceasing fury; andsometimes pastoral scenes exhibited their'green delights' in the narrow vales, smilingamid surrounding horror. There herds andflocks of goats and sheep, browsing under theshade of hanging woods, and the shepherd'slittle cabin, reared on the margin of a clearstream, presented a sweet picture of repose.

Wild and romantic as were these scenes,their character had far less of the sublime, that

had those of the Alps, which guard the entranceof Italy. Emily was often elevated, but seldomfelt those emotions of indescribable awe whichshe had so continually experienced, in herpassage over the Alps.

Towards the close of day, the road woundinto a deep valley. Mountains, whose shaggysteeps appeared to be inaccessible, almostsurrounded it. To the east, a vista opened, thatexhibited the Apennines in their darkesthorrors; and the long perspective of retiringsummits, rising over each other, their ridgesclothed with pines, exhibited a stronger imageof grandeur, than any that Emily had yet seen.The sun had just sunk below the top of themountains she was descending, whose longshadow stretched athwart the valley, but hissloping rays, shooting through an opening of thecliffs, touched with a yellow gleam the summitsof the forest, that hung upon the oppositesteeps, and streamed in full splendour upon thetowers and battlements of a castle, that spreadits extensive ramparts along the brow of aprecipice above. The splendour of theseillumined objects was heightened by thecontrasted shade, which involved the valleybelow.

'There,' said Montoni, speaking for the firsttime in several hours, 'is Udolpho.'

Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon thecastle, which she understood to be Montoni's;for, though it was now lighted up by the settingsun, the gothic greatness of its features, and itsmouldering walls of dark grey stone, rendered ita gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed,the light died away on its walls, leaving amelancholy purple tint, which spread deeperand deeper, as the thin vapour crept up themountain, while the battlements above were stilltipped with splendour. From those, too, the rayssoon faded, and the whole edifice was investedwith the solemn duskiness of evening. Silent,lonely, and sublime, it seemed to stand the

sovereign of the scene, and to frown defianceon all, who dared to invade its solitary reign. Asthe twilight deepened, its features becamemore awful in obscurity, and Emily continued togaze, till its clustering towers were alone seen,rising over the tops of the woods, beneathwhose thick shade the carriages soon afterbegan to ascend.

The extent and darkness of these tall woodsawakened terrific images in her mind, and shealmost expected to see banditti start up fromunder the trees. At length, the carriagesemerged upon a heathy rock, and, soon after,reached the castle gates, where the deep toneof the portal bell, which was struck upon to givenotice of their arrival, increased the fearfulemotions, that had assailed Emily. While theywaited till the servant within should come toopen the gates, she anxiously surveyed theedifice: but the gloom, that overspread it,allowed her to distinguish little more than a partof its outline, with the massy walls of theramparts, and to know, that it was vast, ancientand dreary. From the parts she saw, she judgedof the heavy strength and extent of the whole.The gateway before her, leading into the courts,was of gigantic size, and was defended by tworound towers, crowned by overhanging turrets,embattled, where, instead of banners, nowwaved long grass and wild plants, that hadtaken root among the mouldering stones, andwhich seemed to sigh, as the breeze rolledpast, over the desolation around them. Thetowers were united by a curtain, pierced andembattled also, below which appeared thepointed arch of a huge portcullis, surmountingthe gates: from these, the walls of the rampartsextended to other towers, overlooking theprecipice, whose shattered outline, appearingon a gleam, that lingered in the west, told of theravages of war.—Beyond these all was lost inthe obscurity of evening.

While Emily gazed with awe upon the scene,footsteps were heard within the gates, and the

undrawing of bolts; after which an ancientservant of the castle appeared, forcing back thehuge folds of the portal, to admit his lord. As thecarriage-wheels rolled heavily under theportcullis, Emily's heart sunk, and she seemed,as if she was going into her prison; the gloomycourt, into which she passed, served to confirmthe idea, and her imagination, ever awake tocircumstance, suggested even more terrors,than her reason could justify.

Another gate delivered them into the secondcourt, grass-grown, and more wild than the first,where, as she surveyed through the twilight itsdesolation—its lofty walls, overtopt with briony,moss and nightshade, and the embattledtowers that rose above,—long-suffering andmurder came to her thoughts. One of thoseinstantaneous and unaccountable convictions,which sometimes conquer even strong minds,impressed her with its horror. The sentimentwas not diminished, when she entered anextensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom ofevening, which a light, glimmering at a distancethrough a long perspective of arches, onlyrendered more striking. As a servant broughtthe lamp nearer partial gleams fell upon thepillars and the pointed arches, forming a strongcontrast with their shadows, that stretchedalong the pavement and the walls.

The sudden journey of Montoni hadprevented his people from making any otherpreparations for his reception, than could behad in the short interval, since the arrival of theservant, who had been sent forward fromVenice; and this, in some measure, mayaccount for the air of extreme desolation, thateverywhere appeared.

The servant, who came to light Montoni,bowed in silence, and the muscles of hiscountenance relaxed with no symptom of joy.—Montoni noticed the salutation by a slightmotion of his hand, and passed on, while hislady, following, and looking round with a degreeof surprise and discontent, which she seemed

fearful of expressing, and Emily, surveying theextent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder,approached a marble stair-case. The archeshere opened to a lofty vault, from the centre ofwhich hung a tripod lamp, which a servant washastily lighting; and the rich fret-work of the roof,a corridor, leading into several upperapartments, and a painted window, stretchingnearly from the pavement to the ceiling of thehall, became gradually visible.

Having crossed the foot of the stair-case, andpassed through an ante-room, they entered aspacious apartment, whose walls, wainscotedwith black larch-wood, the growth of theneighbouring mountains, were scarcelydistinguishable from darkness itself. 'Bringmore light,' said Montoni, as he entered. Theservant, setting down his lamp, waswithdrawing to obey him, when MadameMontoni observing, that the evening air of thismountainous region was cold, and that sheshould like a fire, Montoni ordered that woodmight be brought.

While he paced the room with thoughtfulsteps, and Madame Montoni sat silently on acouch, at the upper end of it, waiting till theservant returned, Emily was observing thesingular solemnity and desolation of theapartment, viewed, as it now was, by theglimmer of the single lamp, placed near a largeVenetian mirror, that duskily reflected thescene, with the tall figure of Montoni passingslowly along, his arms folded, and hiscountenance shaded by the plume, that wavedin his hat.

From the contemplation of this scene, Emily'smind proceeded to the apprehension of whatshe might suffer in it, till the remembrance ofValancourt, far, far distant! came to her heart,and softened it into sorrow. A heavy sighescaped her: but, trying to conceal her tears,she walked away to one of the high windows,that opened upon the ramparts, below which,

spread the woods she had passed in herapproach to the castle. But the night-shade satdeeply on the mountains beyond, and theirindented outline alone could be faintly traced onthe horizon, where a red streak yet glimmeredin the west. The valley between was sunk indarkness.

The scene within, upon which Emily turned onthe opening of the door, was scarcely lessgloomy. The old servant, who had receivedthem at the gates, now entered, bending undera load of pine-branches, while two of Montoni'sVenetian servants followed with lights.

'Your excellenza is welcome to the castle,'said the old man, as he raised himself from thehearth, where he had laid the wood: 'it has beena lonely place a long while; but you will excuseit, Signor, knowing we had but short notice. It isnear two years, come next feast of St. Mark,since your excellenza was within these walls.'

'You have a good memory, old Carlo,' saidMontoni: 'it is there-about; and how hast thoucontrived to live so long?'

'A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado; the coldwinds, that blow through the castle in winter, arealmost too much for me; and I thoughtsometimes of asking your excellenza to let meleave the mountains, and go down into thelowlands. But I don't know how it is—I am loth toquit these old walls I have lived in so long.'

'Well, how have you gone on in the castle,since I left it?' said Montoni.

'Why much as usual, Signor, only it wants agood deal of repairing. There is the north tower—some of the battlements have tumbled down,and had liked one day to have knocked mypoor wife (God rest her soul!) on the head. Yourexcellenza must know'—

'Well, but the repairs,' interrupted Montoni.

'Aye, the repairs,' said Carlo: 'a part of the

roof of the great hall has fallen in, and all thewinds from the mountains rushed through it lastwinter, and whistled through the whole castleso, that there was no keeping one's self warm,be where one would. There, my wife and I usedto sit shivering over a great fire in one corner ofthe little hall, ready to die with cold, and'—

'But there are no more repairs wanted,' saidMontoni, impatiently.

'O Lord! Your excellenza, yes—the wall of therampart has tumbled down in three places;then, the stairs, that lead to the west gallery,have been a long time so bad, that it isdangerous to go up them; and the passageleading to the great oak chamber, thatoverhangs the north rampart—one night lastwinter I ventured to go there by myself, and yourexcellenza'—

'Well, well, enough of this,' said Montoni, withquickness: 'I will talk more with thee to-morrow.'

The fire was now lighted; Carlo swept thehearth, placed chairs, wiped the dust from alarge marble table that stood near it, and thenleft the room.

Montoni and his family drew round the fire.Madame Montoni made several attempts atconversation, but his sullen answers repulsedher, while Emily sat endeavouring to acquirecourage enough to speak to him. At length, in atremulous voice, she said, 'May I ask, sir, themotive of this sudden journey?'—After a longpause, she recovered sufficient courage torepeat the question.

'It does not suit me to answer enquiries,' saidMontoni, 'nor does it become you to makethem; time may unfold them all: but I desire Imay be no further harassed, and I recommend itto you to retire to your chamber, and toendeavour to adopt a more rational conduct,than that of yielding to fancies, and to asensibility, which, to call it by the gentlest name,is only a weakness.'

Emily rose to withdraw. 'Good night, madam,'said she to her aunt, with an assumedcomposure, that could not disguise heremotion.

'Good night, my dear,' said MadameMontoni, in a tone of kindness, which her niecehad never before heard from her; and theunexpected endearment brought tears toEmily's eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and wasretiring; 'But you do not know the way to yourchamber,' said her aunt. Montoni called theservant, who waited in the ante-room, and badehim send Madame Montoni's woman, withwhom, in a few minutes, Emily withdrew.

'Do you know which is my room?' said she toAnnette, as they crossed the hall.

'Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle; but this issuch a strange rambling place! I have been lostin it already: they call it the double chamber,over the south rampart, and I went up this greatstair-case to it. My lady's room is at the otherend of the castle.'

Emily ascended the marble staircase, andcame to the corridor, as they passed throughwhich, Annette resumed her chat—'What a wildlonely place this is, ma'am! I shall be quitefrightened to live in it. How often, and often haveI wished myself in France again! I little thought,when I came with my lady to see the world, that Ishould ever be shut up in such a place as this,or I would never have left my own country! Thisway, ma'amselle, down this turning. I can almostbelieve in giants again, and such like, for this isjust like one of their castles; and, some night orother, I suppose I shall see fairies too, hoppingabout in that great old hall, that looks more likea church, with its huge pillars, than any thingelse.'

'Yes,' said Emily, smiling, and glad to escapefrom more serious thought, 'if we come to thecorridor, about midnight, and look down into thehall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a

thousand lamps, and the fairies tripping in gaycircles to the sound of delicious music; for it isin such places as this, you know, that they cometo hold their revels. But I am afraid, Annette, youwill not be able to pay the necessary penancefor such a sight: and, if once they hear yourvoice, the whole scene will vanish in an instant.'

'O! if you will bear me company, ma'amselle, Iwill come to the corridor, this very night, and Ipromise you I will hold my tongue; it shall not bemy fault if the show vanishes.—But do you thinkthey will come?'

'I cannot promise that with certainty, but I willventure to say, it will not be your fault if theenchantment should vanish.'

'Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more than Iexpected of you: but I am not so much afraid offairies, as of ghosts, and they say there are aplentiful many of them about the castle: now Ishould be frightened to death, if I should chanceto see any of them. But hush! ma'amselle, walksoftly! I have thought, several times, somethingpassed by me.'

'Ridiculous!' said Emily, 'you must not indulgesuch fancies.'

'O ma'am! they are not fancies, for aught Iknow; Benedetto says these dismal galleriesand halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to live in;and I verily believe, if I LIVE long in them I shallturn to one myself!'

'I hope,' said Emily, 'you will not suffer SignorMontoni to hear of these weak fears; they wouldhighly displease him.'

'What, you know then, ma'amselle, all aboutit!' rejoined Annette. 'No, no, I do know betterthan to do so; though, if the Signor can sleepsound, nobody else in the castle has any right tolie awake, I am sure.' Emily did not appear tonotice this remark.

'Down this passage, ma'amselle; this leads

to a back stair-case. O! if I see any thing, I shallbe frightened out of my wits!'

'That will scarcely be possible,' said Emilysmiling, as she followed the winding of thepassage, which opened into another gallery:and then Annette, perceiving that she hadmissed her way, while she had been soeloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies,wandered about through other passages andgalleries, till, at length, frightened by theirintricacies and desolation, she called aloud forassistance: but they were beyond the hearing ofthe servants, who were on the other side of thecastle, and Emily now opened the door of achamber on the left.

'O! do not go in there, ma'amselle,' saidAnnette, 'you will only lose yourself further.'

'Bring the light forward,' said Emily, 'we maypossibly find our way through these rooms.'

Annette stood at the door, in an attitude ofhesitation, with the light held up to shew thechamber, but the feeble rays spread through nothalf of it. 'Why do you hesitate?' said Emily, 'letme see whither this room leads.'

Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into asuite of spacious and ancient apartments,some of which were hung with tapestry, andothers wainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was, seemed to bealmost as old as the rooms, and retained anappearance of grandeur, though covered withdust, and dropping to pieces with the damps,and with age.

'How cold these rooms are, ma'amselle!'said Annette: 'nobody has lived in them formany, many years, they say. Do let us go.'

'They may open upon the great stair-case,perhaps,' said Emily, passing on till she cameto a chamber, hung with pictures, and took thelight to examine that of a soldier on horsebackin a field of battle.—He was darting his spear

upon a man, who lay under the feet of the horse,and who held up one hand in a supplicatingattitude. The soldier, whose beaver was up,regarded him with a look of vengeance, and thecountenance, with that expression, struck Emilyas resembling Montoni. She shuddered, andturned from it. Passing the light hastily overseveral other pictures, she came to oneconcealed by a veil of black silk. The singularityof the circumstance struck her, and shestopped before it, wishing to remove the veil,and examine what could thus carefully beconcealed, but somewhat wanting courage.'Holy Virgin! what can this mean?' exclaimedAnnette. 'This is surely the picture they told meof at Venice.'

'What picture?' said Emily. 'Why a picture—apicture,' replied Annette, hesitatingly—'but Inever could make out exactly what it was about,either.'

'Remove the veil, Annette.'

'What! I, ma'amselle!—I! not for the world!'Emily, turning round, saw Annette'scountenance grow pale. 'And pray, what haveyou heard of this picture, to terrify you so, mygood girl?' said she. 'Nothing, ma'amselle: Ihave heard nothing, only let us find our way out.'

'Certainly: but I wish first to examine thepicture; take the light, Annette, while I lift theveil.' Annette took the light, and immediatelywalked away with it, disregarding Emily's call tostay, who, not choosing to be left alone in thedark chamber, at length followed her. 'What isthe reason of this, Annette?' said Emily, whenshe overtook her, 'what have you heardconcerning that picture, which makes you sounwilling to stay when I bid you?'

'I don't know what is the reason, ma'amselle,replied Annette, 'nor any thing about the picture,only I have heard there is something verydreadful belonging to it—and that it has beencovered up in black EVER SINCE—and that

nobody has looked at it for a great many years—and it somehow has to do with the owner ofthis castle before Signor Montoni came to thepossession of it—and'—-

'Well, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, 'I perceiveit is as you say—that you know nothing aboutthe picture.'

'No, nothing, indeed, ma'amselle, for theymade me promise never to tell:—but'—

'Well,' rejoined Emily, who observed that shewas struggling between her inclination to reveala secret, and her apprehension for theconsequence, 'I will enquire no further'—-

'No, pray, ma'am, do not.'

'Lest you should tell all,' interrupted Emily.

Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and theypassed on to the extremity of this suite ofapartments, and found themselves, after somefurther perplexity, once more at the top of themarble stair-case, where Annette left Emily,while she went to call one of the servants of thecastle to shew them to the chamber, for whichthey had been seeking.

While she was absent, Emily's thoughtsreturned to the picture; an unwillingness totamper with the integrity of a servant, hadchecked her enquiries on this subject, as wellas concerning some alarming hints, whichAnnette had dropped respecting Montoni;though her curiosity was entirely awakened, andshe had perceived, that her questions mighteasily be answered. She was now, however,inclined to go back to the apartment andexamine the picture; but the loneliness of thehour and of the place, with the melancholysilence that reigned around her, conspired witha certain degree of awe, excited by the mysteryattending this picture, to prevent her. Shedetermined, however, when day-light shouldhave re-animated her spirits, to go thither andremove the veil. As she leaned from the

corridor, over the stair-case, and her eyeswandered round, she again observed, withwonder, the vast strength of the walls, nowsomewhat decayed, and the pillars of solidmarble, that rose from the hall, and supportedthe roof.

A servant now appeared with Annette, andconducted Emily to her chamber, which was ina remote part of the castle, and at the very endof the corridor, from whence the suite ofapartments opened, through which they hadbeen wandering. The lonely aspect of her roommade Emily unwilling that Annette should leaveher immediately, and the dampness of it chilledher with more than fear. She begged Caterina,the servant of the castle, to bring some woodand light a fire.

'Aye, lady, it's many a year since a fire waslighted here,' said Caterina.

'You need not tell us that, good woman,' saidAnnette; 'every room in the castle feels like awell. I wonder how you contrive to live here; formy part, I wish myself at Venice again.' Emilywaved her hand for Caterina to fetch the wood.

'I wonder, ma'am, why they call this thedouble chamber?' said Annette, while Emilysurveyed it in silence and saw that it was loftyand spacious, like the others she had seen,and, like many of them, too, had its walls linedwith dark larch-wood. The bed and otherfurniture was very ancient, and had an air ofgloomy grandeur, like all that she had seen inthe castle. One of the high casements, whichshe opened, overlooked a rampart, but the viewbeyond was hid in darkness.

In the presence of Annette, Emily tried tosupport her spirits, and to restrain the tears,which, every now and then, came to her eyes.She wished much to enquire when CountMorano was expected at the castle, but anunwillingness to ask unnecessary questions,and to mention family concerns to a servant,

withheld her. Meanwhile, Annette's thoughtswere engaged upon another subject: she dearlyloved the marvellous, and had heard of acircumstance, connected with the castle, thathighly gratified this taste. Having been enjoinednot to mention it, her inclination to tell it was sostrong, that she was every instant on the point ofspeaking what she had heard. Such a strangecircumstance, too, and to be obliged to concealit, was a severe punishment; but she knew, thatMontoni might impose one much severer, andshe feared to incur it by offending him.

Caterina now brought the wood, and its brightblaze dispelled, for a while, the gloom of thechamber. She told Annette, that her lady hadenquired for her, and Emily was once again leftto her own sad reflections. Her heart was notyet hardened against the stern manners ofMontoni, and she was nearly as much shockednow, as she had been when she first witnessedthem. The tenderness and affection, to whichshe had been accustomed, till she lost herparents, had made her particularly sensible toany degree of unkindness, and such a reverseas this no apprehension had prepared her tosupport.

To call off her attention from subjects, thatpressed heavily on her spirits, she rose andagain examined her room and its furniture. Asshe walked round it, she passed a door, thatwas not quite shut, and, perceiving, that it wasnot the one, through which she entered, shebrought the light forward to discover whither itled. She opened it, and, going forward, hadnearly fallen down a steep, narrow stair-casethat wound from it, between two stone walls.She wished to know to what it led, and was themore anxious, since it communicated soimmediately with her apartment; but, in thepresent state of her spirits, she wanted courageto venture into the darkness alone. Closing thedoor, therefore, she endeavoured to fasten it,but, upon further examination, perceived, that ithad no bolts on the chamber side, though it had

two on the other. By placing a heavy chairagainst it, she in some measure remedied thedefect; yet she was still alarmed at the thoughtof sleeping in this remote room alone, with adoor opening she knew not whither, and whichcould not be perfectly fastened on the inside.Sometimes she wished to entreat of MadameMontoni, that Annette might have leave toremain with her all night, but was deterred by anapprehension of betraying what would bethought childish fears, and by an unwillingnessto increase the apt terrors of Annette.

Her gloomy reflections were, soon after,interrupted by a footstep in the corridor, andshe was glad to see Annette enter with somesupper, sent by Madame Montoni. Having atable near the fire, she made the good girl sitdown and sup with her; and, when their littlerepast was over, Annette, encouraged by herkindness and stirring the wood into a blaze,drew her chair upon the hearth, nearer to Emily,and said—'Did you ever hear, ma'amselle, ofthe strange accident, that made the Signor lordof this castle?'

'What wonderful story have you now to tell?'said Emily, concealing the curiosity,occasioned by the mysterious hints she hadformerly heard on that subject.

'I have heard all about it, ma'amselle,' saidAnnette, looking round the chamber anddrawing closer to Emily; 'Benedetto told it meas we travelled together: says he, "Annette, youdon't know about this castle here, that we aregoing to?" No, says I, Mr. Benedetto, pray whatdo you know? But, ma'amselle, you can keep asecret, or I would not tell it you for the world; for Ipromised never to tell, and they say, that theSignor does not like to have it talked of.'

'If you promised to keep this secret,' saidEmily, 'you do right not to mention it.'

Annette paused a moment, and then said, 'O,but to you, ma'amselle, to you I may tell it safely,

I know.'

Emily smiled, 'I certainly shall keep it asfaithful as yourself, Annette.'

Annette replied very gravely, that would do,and proceeded—'This castle, you must know,ma'amselle, is very old, and very strong, andhas stood out many sieges as they say. Now itwas not Signor Montoni's always, nor hisfather's; no; but, by some law or other, it was tocome to the Signor, if the lady died unmarried.'

'What lady?' said Emily.

'I am not come to that yet,' replied Annette, 'itis the lady I am going to tell you about,ma'amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady livedin the castle, and had everything very grandabout her, as you may suppose, ma'amselle.The Signor used often to come to see her, andwas in love with her, and offered to marry her;for, though he was somehow related, that didnot signify. But she was in love with somebodyelse, and would not have him, which made himvery angry, as they say, and you know,ma'amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he is,when he is angry. Perhaps she saw him in apassion, and therefore would not have him. But,as I was saying, she was very melancholy andunhappy, and all that, for a long while, and—Holy Virgin! what noise is that? did not you heara sound, ma'amselle?'

'It was only the wind,' said Emily, 'but docome to the end of your story.'

'As I was saying—O, where was I?—as I wassaying—she was very melancholy and unhappya long while, and used to walk about upon theterrace, there, under the windows, by herself,and cry so! it would have done your heart goodto hear her. That is—I don't mean good, but itwould have made you cry too, as they tell me.'

'Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substanceof your tale.'

'All in good time, ma'am; all this I heardbefore at Venice, but what is to come I neverheard till to-day. This happened a great manyyears ago, when Signor Montoni was quite ayoung man. The lady—they called her SignoraLaurentini, was very handsome, but she used tobe in great passions, too, sometimes, as wellas the Signor. Finding he could not make herlisten to him—what does he do, but leave thecastle, and never comes near it for a long time!but it was all one to her; she was just asunhappy whether he was here or not, till oneevening, Holy St. Peter! ma'amselle,' criedAnnette, 'look at that lamp, see how blue itburns!' She looked fearfully round the chamber.'Ridiculous girl!' said Emily, 'why will you indulgethose fancies? Pray let me hear the end of yourstory, I am weary.'

Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, andproceeded in a lower voice. 'It was oneevening, they say, at the latter end of the year, itmight be about the middle of September, Isuppose, or the beginning of October; nay, forthat matter, it might be November, for that, too,is the latter end of the year, but that I cannot sayfor certain, because they did not tell me forcertain themselves. However, it was at the latterend of the year, this grand lady walked out ofthe castle into the woods below, as she hadoften done before, all alone, only her maid waswith her. The wind blew cold, and strewed theleaves about, and whistled dismally amongthose great old chesnut trees, that we passed,ma'amselle, as we came to the castle—forBenedetto shewed me the trees as he wastalking—the wind blew cold, and her womanwould have persuaded her to return: but allwould not do, for she was fond of walking in thewoods, at evening time, and, if the leaves werefalling about her, so much the better.

'Well, they saw her go down among thewoods, but night came, and she did not return:ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock came,and no lady! Well, the servants thought to be

sure, some accident had befallen her, and theywent out to seek her. They searched all nightlong, but could not find her, or any trace of her;and, from that day to this, ma'amselle, she hasnever been heard of.'

'Is this true, Annette?' said Emily, in muchsurprise.

'True, ma'am!' said Annette, with a look ofhorror, 'yes, it is true, indeed. But they do say,'she added, lowering her voice, 'they do say,that the Signora has been seen, several timessince, walking in the woods and about thecastle in the night: several of the old servants,who remained here some time after, declarethey saw her; and, since then, she has beenseen by some of the vassals, who havehappened to be in the castle, at night. Carlo, theold steward, could tell such things, they say, ifhe would.'

'How contradictory is this, Annette!' saidEmily, 'you say nothing has been since knownof her, and yet she has been seen!'

'But all this was told me for a great secret,'rejoined Annette, without noticing the remark,'and I am sure, ma'am, you would not hurt eitherme or Benedetto, so much as to go and tell itagain.' Emily remained silent, and Annetterepeated her last sentence.

'You have nothing to fear from myindiscretion,' replied Emily, 'and let me adviseyou, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, andnever mention what you have just told me to anyother person. Signor Montoni, as you say, maybe angry if he hears of it. But what inquirieswere made concerning the lady?'

'O! a great deal, indeed, ma'amselle, for theSignor laid claim to the castle directly, as beingthe next heir, and they said, that is, the judges,or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said,he could not take possession of it till so manyyears were gone by, and then, if, after all, thelady could not be found, why she would be as

good as dead, and the castle would be his own;and so it is his own. But the story went round,and many strange reports were spread, so verystrange, ma'amselle, that I shall not tell them.'

'That is stranger still, Annette,' said Emily,smiling, and rousing herself from her reverie.'But, when Signora Laurentini was afterwardsseen in the castle, did nobody speak to her?'

'Speak—speak to her!' cried Annette, with alook of terror; 'no, to be sure.'

'And why not?' rejoined Emily, willing to hearfurther.

'Holy Mother! speak to a spirit!'

'But what reason had they to conclude it wasa spirit, unless they had approached, andspoken to it?' 'O ma'amselle, I cannot tell. Howcan you ask such shocking questions? Butnobody ever saw it come in, or go out of thecastle; and it was in one place now, and thenthe next minute in quite another part of thecastle; and then it never spoke, and, if it wasalive, what should it do in the castle if it neverspoke? Several parts of the castle have neverbeen gone into since, they say, for that veryreason.'

'What, because it never spoke?' said Emily,trying to laugh away the fears that began tosteal upon her.—'No, ma'amselle, no;' repliedAnnette, rather angrily 'but because somethinghas been seen there. They say, too, there is anold chapel adjoining the west side of the castle,where, any time at midnight, you may hear suchgroans!—it makes one shudder to think ofthem!—and strange sights have been seenthere—'

'Pr'ythee, Annette, no more of these sillytales,' said Emily.

'Silly tales, ma'amselle! O, but I will tell youone story about this, if you please, that Caterinatold me. It was one cold winter's night that

Caterina (she often came to the castle then, shesays, to keep old Carlo and his wife company,and so he recommended her afterwards to theSignor, and she has lived here ever since)Caterina was sitting with them in the little hall,says Carlo, "I wish we had some of those figs toroast, that lie in the store-closet, but it is a longway off, and I am loath to fetch them; do,Caterina," says he, "for you are young andnimble, do bring us some, the fire is in nice trimfor roasting them; they lie," says he, "in such acorner of the store-room, at the end of the north-gallery; here, take the lamp," says he, "andmind, as you go up the great stair-case, that thewind, through the roof, does not blow it out." So,with that, Caterina took the lamp—Hush!ma'amselle, I surely heard a noise!'

Emily, whom Annette had now infected withher own terrors, listened attentively; but everything was still, and Annette proceeded:

'Caterina went to the north-gallery, that is thewide gallery we passed, ma'am, before wecame to the corridor, here. As she went with thelamp in her hand, thinking of nothing at all—There, again!' cried Annette suddenly—'I heardit again!—it was not fancy, ma'amselle!'

'Hush!' said Emily, trembling. They listened,and, continuing to sit quite still, Emily heard alow knocking against the wall. It camerepeatedly. Annette then screamed loudly, andthe chamber door slowly opened.—It wasCaterina, come to tell Annette, that her ladywanted her. Emily, though she now perceivedwho it was, could not immediately overcomeher terror; while Annette, half laughing, halfcrying, scolded Caterina heartily for thusalarming them; and was also terrified lest whatshe had told had been overheard.—Emily,whose mind was deeply impressed by the chiefcircumstance of Annette's relation, wasunwilling to be left alone, in the present state ofher spirits; but, to avoid offending MadameMontoni, and betraying her own weakness, shestruggled to overcome the illusions of fear, and

dismissed Annette for the night.

When she was alone, her thoughts recurredto the strange history of Signora Laurentini andthen to her own strange situation, in the wild andsolitary mountains of a foreign country, in thecastle, and the power of a man, to whom, only afew preceding months, she was an entirestranger; who had already exercised anusurped authority over her, and whosecharacter she now regarded, with a degree ofterror, apparently justified by the fears of others.She knew, that he had invention equal to theconception and talents to the execution of anyproject, and she greatly feared he had a hearttoo void of feeling to oppose the perpetration ofwhatever his interest might suggest. She hadlong observed the unhappiness of MadameMontoni, and had often been witness to thestern and contemptuous behaviour shereceived from her husband. To thesecircumstances, which conspired to give her justcause for alarm, were now added thosethousand nameless terrors, which exist only inactive imaginations, and which set reason andexamination equally at defiance.

Emily remembered all that Valancourt hadtold her, on the eve of her departure fromLanguedoc, respecting Montoni, and all that hehad said to dissuade her from venturing on thejourney. His fears had often since appeared toher prophetic—now they seemed confirmed.Her heart, as it gave her back the image ofValancourt, mourned in vain regret, but reasonsoon came with a consolation which, thoughfeeble at first, acquired vigour from reflection.She considered, that, whatever might be hersufferings, she had withheld from involving himin misfortune, and that, whatever her futuresorrows could be, she was, at least, free fromself-reproach.

Her melancholy was assisted by the hollowsighings of the wind along the corridor andround the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood

had long been extinguished, and she sat withher eyes fixed on the dying embers, till a loudgust, that swept through the corridor, and shookthe doors and casements, alarmed her, for itsviolence had moved the chair she had placedas a fastening, and the door, leading to theprivate stair-case stood half open. Her curiosityand her fears were again awakened. She tookthe lamp to the top of the steps, and stoodhesitating whether to go down; but again theprofound stillness and the gloom of the placeawed her, and, determining to enquire further,when day-light might assist the search, sheclosed the door, and placed against it astronger guard.

She now retired to her bed, leaving the lampburning on the table; but its gloomy light,instead of dispelling her fear, assisted it; for, byits uncertain rays, she almost fancied she sawshapes flit past her curtains and glide into theremote obscurity of her chamber.—The castleclock struck one before she closed her eyes tosleep.

CHAPTER VI I think it is the weakness of mine eyes, That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me! JULIUS CAESAR

Daylight dispelled from Emily's mind theglooms of superstition, but not those ofapprehension. The Count Morano was the firstimage, that occurred to her waking thoughts,and then came a train of anticipated evils,which she could neither conquer, nor avoid. Sherose, and, to relieve her mind from the busyideas, that tormented it, compelled herself tonotice external objects. From her casement shelooked out upon the wild grandeur of the scene,closed nearly on all sides by alpine steeps,whose tops, peeping over each other, fadedfrom the eye in misty hues, while thepromontories below were dark with woods, thatswept down to their base, and stretched alongthe narrow vallies. The rich pomp of thesewoods was particularly delightful to Emily; andshe viewed with astonishment the fortificationsof the castle spreading along a vast extent ofrock, and now partly in decay, the grandeur ofthe ramparts below, and the towers andbattlements and various features of the fabricabove. From these her sight wandered over the

cliffs and woods into the valley, along whichfoamed a broad and rapid stream, seen fallingamong the crags of an opposite mountain, nowflashing in the sun-beams, and now shadowedby over-arching pines, till it was entirelyconcealed by their thick foliage. Again it burstfrom beneath this darkness in one broad sheetof foam, and fell thundering into the vale.Nearer, towards the west, opened themountain-vista, which Emily had viewed withsuch sublime emotion, on her approach to thecastle: a thin dusky vapour, that rose from thevalley, overspread its features with a sweetobscurity. As this ascended and caught the sun-beams, it kindled into a crimson tint, andtouched with exquisite beauty the woods andcliffs, over which it passed to the summit of themountains; then, as the veil drew up, it wasdelightful to watch the gleaming objects, thatprogressively disclosed themselves in the valley—the green turf—dark woods—little rockyrecesses—a few peasants' huts—the foamingstream—a herd of cattle, and various images ofpastoral beauty. Then, the pine-forestsbrightened, and then the broad breast of themountains, till, at length, the mist settled roundtheir summit, touching them with a ruddy glow.The features of the vista now appeareddistinctly, and the broad deep shadows, that fellfrom the lower cliffs, gave strong effect to thestreaming splendour above; while the

mountains, gradually sinking in the perspective,appeared to shelve into the Adriatic sea, forsuch Emily imagined to be the gleam of blueishlight, that terminated the view.

Thus she endeavoured to amuse her fancy,and was not unsuccessful. The breezyfreshness of the morning, too, revived her. Sheraised her thoughts in prayer, which she feltalways most disposed to do, when viewing thesublimity of nature, and her mind recovered itsstrength.

When she turned from the casement, hereyes glanced upon the door she had socarefully guarded, on the preceding night, andshe now determined to examine whither it led;but, on advancing to remove the chairs, sheperceived, that they were already moved a littleway. Her surprise cannot be easily imagined,when, in the next minute, she perceived that thedoor was fastened.—She felt, as if she hadseen an apparition. The door of the corridorwas locked as she had left it, but this door,which could be secured only on the outside,must have been bolted, during the night. Shebecame seriously uneasy at the thought ofsleeping again in a chamber, thus liable tointrusion, so remote, too, as it was from thefamily, and she determined to mention thecircumstance to Madame Montoni, and torequest a change.

After some perplexity she found her way intothe great hall, and to the room, which she hadleft, on the preceding night, where breakfastwas spread, and her aunt was alone, forMontoni had been walking over the environs ofthe castle, examining the condition of itsfortifications, and talking for some time withCarlo. Emily observed that her aunt had beenweeping, and her heart softened towards her,with an affection, that shewed itself in hermanner, rather than in words, while she carefullyavoided the appearance of having noticed, thatshe was unhappy. She seized the opportunity ofMontoni's absence to mention the circumstanceof the door, to request that she might beallowed another apartment, and to enquireagain, concerning the occasion of their suddenjourney. On the first subject her aunt referred herto Montoni, positively refusing to interfere in theaffair; on the last, she professed utterignorance.

Emily, then, with a wish of making her auntmore reconciled to her situation, praised thegrandeur of the castle and the surroundingscenery, and endeavoured to soften everyunpleasing circumstance attending it. But,though misfortune had somewhat conqueredthe asperities of Madame Montoni's temper,and, by increasing her cares for herself, hadtaught her to feel in some degree for others, the

capricious love of rule, which nature hadplanted and habit had nourished in her heart,was not subdued. She could not now denyherself the gratification of tyrannizing over theinnocent and helpless Emily, by attempting toridicule the taste she could not feel.

Her satirical discourse was, however,interrupted by the entrance of Montoni, and hercountenance immediately assumed a mingledexpression of fear and resentment, while heseated himself at the breakfast-table, as ifunconscious of there being any person buthimself in the room.

Emily, as she observed him in silence, saw,that his countenance was darker and sternerthan usual. 'O could I know,' said she to herself,'what passes in that mind; could I know thethoughts, that are known there, I should nolonger be condemned to this torturingsuspense!' Their breakfast passed in silence,till Emily ventured to request, that anotherapartment might be allotted to her, and relatedthe circumstance which made her wish it.

'I have no time to attend to these idle whims,'said Montoni, 'that chamber was prepared foryou, and you must rest contented with it. It is notprobable, that any person would take thetrouble of going to that remote stair-case, forthe purpose of fastening a door. If it was not

fastened, when you entered the chamber, thewind, perhaps, shook the door and made thebolts slide. But I know not why I shouldundertake to account for so trifling anoccurrence.'

This explanation was by no meanssatisfactory to Emily, who had observed, thatthe bolts were rusted, and consequently couldnot be thus easily moved; but she forbore to sayso, and repeated her request.

'If you will not release yourself from theslavery of these fears,' said Montoni, sternly, 'atleast forbear to torment others by the mention ofthem. Conquer such whims, and endeavour tostrengthen your mind. No existence is morecontemptible than that, which is embittered byfear.' As he said this, his eye glanced uponMadame Montoni, who coloured highly, but wasstill silent. Emily, wounded and disappointed,thought her fears were, in this instance, tooreasonable to deserve ridicule; but, perceiving,that, however they might oppress her, she mustendure them, she tried to withdraw her attentionfrom the subject.

Carlo soon after entered with some fruit:

'Your excellenza is tired after your longramble,' said he, as he set the fruit upon thetable; 'but you have more to see after breakfast.There is a place in the vaulted passage leading

to—'

Montoni frowned upon him, and waved hishand for him to leave the room. Carlo stopped,looked down, and then added, as he advancedto the breakfast-table, and took up the basket offruit, 'I made bold, your excellenza, to bringsome cherries, here, for my honoured lady andmy young mistress. Will your ladyship tastethem, madam?' said Carlo, presenting thebasket, 'they are very fine ones, though Igathered them myself, and from an old tree, thatcatches all the south sun; they are as big asplums, your ladyship.'

'Very well, old Carlo,' said Madame Montoni;'I am obliged to you.'

'And the young Signora, too, she may likesome of them,' rejoined Carlo, turning with thebasket to Emily, 'it will do me good to see hereat some.'

'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, taking somecherries, and smiling kindly.

'Come, come,' said Montoni, impatiently,'enough of this. Leave the room, but be inwaiting. I shall want you presently.'

Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, wentout to examine further into the state of thecastle; while Emily remained with her aunt,

patiently enduring her ill humour, andendeavouring, with much sweetness, to sootheher affliction, instead of resenting its effect.

When Madame Montoni retired to herdressing-room, Emily endeavoured to amuseherself by a view of the castle. Through a foldingdoor she passed from the great hall to theramparts, which extended along the brow of theprecipice, round three sides of the edifice; thefourth was guarded by the high walls of thecourts, and by the gateway, through which shehad passed, on the preceding evening. Thegrandeur of the broad ramparts, and thechanging scenery they overlooked, excited herhigh admiration; for the extent of the terracesallowed the features of the country to be seen insuch various points of view, that they appearedto form new landscapes. She often paused toexamine the gothic magnificence of Udolpho,its proud irregularity, its lofty towers andbattlements, its high-arched casements, and itsslender watch-towers, perched upon thecorners of turrets. Then she would lean on thewall of the terrace, and, shuddering, measurewith her eye the precipice below, till the darksummits of the woods arrested it. Wherever sheturned, appeared mountain-tops, forests of pineand narrow glens, opening among theApennines and retiring from the sight intoinaccessible regions.

While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed bytwo men, appeared, ascending a winding path,cut in the rock below. He stopped upon a cliff,and, pointing to the ramparts, turned to hisfollowers, and talked with much eagerness ofgesticulation.—Emily perceived, that one ofthese men was Carlo; the other was in thedress of a peasant, and he alone seemed to bereceiving the directions of Montoni.

She withdrew from the walls, and pursued herwalk, till she heard at a distance the sound ofcarriage wheels, and then the loud bell of theportal, when it instantly occurred to her, thatCount Morano was arrived. As she hastilypassed the folding doors from the terrace,towards her own apartment, several personsentered the hall by an opposite door. She sawthem at the extremities of the arcades, andimmediately retreated; but the agitation of herspirits, and the extent and duskiness of the hall,had prevented her from distinguishing thepersons of the strangers. Her fears, however,had but one object, and they had called up thatobject to her fancy:—she believed that she hadseen Count Morano.

When she thought that they had passed thehall, she ventured again to the door, andproceeded, unobserved, to her room, whereshe remained, agitated with apprehensions,and listening to every distant sound. At length,

hearing voices on the rampart, she hastened toher window, and observed Montoni, with SignorCavigni, walking below, conversing earnestly,and often stopping and turning towards eachother, at which time their discourse seemed tobe uncommonly interesting.

Of the several persons who had appeared inthe hall, here was Cavigni alone: but Emily'salarm was soon after heightened by the stepsof some one in the corridor, who, sheapprehended, brought a message from theCount. In the next moment, Annette appeared.

'Ah! ma'amselle,' said she, 'here is theSignor Cavigni arrived! I am sure I rejoiced tosee a christian person in this place; and then heis so good natured too, he always takes somuch notice of me!—And here is also SignorVerezzi, and who do you think besides,ma'amselle?'

'I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.'

'Nay, ma'am, do guess once.'

'Well, then,' said Emily, with assumedcomposure, 'it is—Count Morano, I suppose.'

'Holy Virgin!' cried Annette, 'are you ill,ma'amselle? you are going to faint! let me getsome water.'

Emily sunk into a chair. 'Stay, Annette,' said

she, feebly, 'do not leave me—I shall soon bebetter; open the casement.—The Count, yousay—he is come, then?'

'Who, I!—the Count! No, ma'amselle, I did notsay so.' 'He is NOT come then?' said Emilyeagerly. 'No, ma'amselle.'

'You are sure of it?'

'Lord bless me!' said Annette, 'you recoververy suddenly, ma'am! why, I thought you wasdying, just now.'

'But the Count—you are sure, is not come?'

'O yes, quite sure of that, ma'amselle. Why, Iwas looking out through the grate in the northturret, when the carriages drove into the court-yard, and I never expected to see such a goodlysight in this dismal old castle! but here aremasters and servants, too, enough to make theplace ring again. O! I was ready to leap throughthe rusty old bars for joy!—O! who would everhave thought of seeing a christian face in thishuge dreary house? I could have kissed thevery horses that brought them.'

'Well, Annette, well, I am better now.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, I see you are. O! all theservants will lead merry lives here, now; weshall have singing and dancing in the little hall,for the Signor cannot hear us there—and droll

stories—Ludovico's come, ma'am; yes, there isLudovico come with them! You rememberLudovico, ma'am—a tall, handsome young man—Signor Cavigni's lacquey—who always wearshis cloak with such a grace, thrown round hisleft arm, and his hat set on so smartly, all on oneside, and—'

'No,' said Emily, who was wearied by herloquacity.

'What, ma'amselle, don't you rememberLudovico—who rowed the Cavaliero's gondola,at the last regatta, and won the prize? And whoused to sing such sweet verses about Orlandosand about the Black-a-moors, too; and Charly—Charly—magne, yes, that was the name, allunder my lattice, in the west portico, on themoon-light nights at Venice? O! I have listenedto him!'—-

'I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,' saidEmily; 'for it seems his verses have stolen thyheart. But let me advise you; if it is so, keep thesecret; never let him know it.'

'Ah—ma'amselle!—how can one keep sucha secret as that?'

'Well, Annette, I am now so much better, thatyou may leave me.'

'O, but, ma'amselle, I forgot to ask—how did

you sleep in this dreary old chamber lastnight?'—'As well as usual.'—'Did you hear nonoises?'—'None.'—'Nor seeanything?'—'Nothing.'—'Well, that issurprising!'—'Not in the least: and now tell me,why you ask these questions.'

'O, ma'amselle! I would not tell you for theworld, nor all I have heard about this chamber,either; it would frighten you so.'

'If that is all, you have frightened me already,and may therefore tell me what you know,without hurting your conscience.'

'O Lord! they say the room is haunted, andhas been so these many years.'

'It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,'said Emily, endeavouring to laugh away herapprehensions; 'for I left the door open, lastnight, and found it fastened this morning.'

Annette turned pale, and said not a word.

'Do you know whether any of the servantsfastened this door in the morning, before Irose?'

'No, ma'am, that I will be bound they did not;but I don't know: shall I go and ask,ma'amselle?' said Annette, moving hastilytowards the corridor.

'Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask;tell me what you have heard concerning thisroom, and whither that stair-case leads.'

'I will go and ask it all directly, ma'am;besides, I am sure my lady wants me. I cannotstay now, indeed, ma'am.'

She hurried from the room, without waitingEmily's reply, whose heart, lightened by thecertainty, that Morano was not arrived, allowedher to smile at the superstitious terror, whichhad seized on Annette; for, though shesometimes felt its influence herself, she couldsmile at it, when apparent in other persons.

Montoni having refused Emily anotherchamber, she determined to bear with patiencethe evil she could not remove, and, in order tomake the room as comfortable as possible,unpacked her books, her sweet delight inhappier days, and her soothing resource in thehours of moderate sorrow: but there were hourswhen even these failed of their effect; when thegenius, the taste, the enthusiasm of thesublimest writers were felt no longer.

Her little library being arranged on a highchest, part of the furniture of the room, she tookout her drawing utensils, and was tranquilenough to be pleased with the thought ofsketching the sublime scenes, beheld from herwindows; but she suddenly checked this

pleasure, remembering how often she hadsoothed herself by the intention of obtainingamusement of this kind, and had beenprevented by some new circumstance ofmisfortune.

'How can I suffer myself to be deluded byhope,' said she, 'and, because Count Morano isnot yet arrived, feel a momentary happiness?Alas! what is it to me, whether he is here to-day,or to-morrow, if he comes at all?—and that hewill come—it were weakness to doubt.'

To withdraw her thoughts, however, from thesubject of her misfortunes, she attempted toread, but her attention wandered from the page,and, at length, she threw aside the book, anddetermined to explore the adjoining chambersof the castle. Her imagination was pleased withthe view of ancient grandeur, and an emotion ofmelancholy awe awakened all its powers, asshe walked through rooms, obscure anddesolate, where no footsteps had passedprobably for many years, and remembered thestrange history of the former possessor of theedifice. This brought to her recollection theveiled picture, which had attracted her curiosity,on the preceding night, and she resolved toexamine it. As she passed through thechambers, that led to this, she found herselfsomewhat agitated; its connection with the latelady of the castle, and the conversation of

Annette, together with the circumstance of theveil, throwing a mystery over the subject, thatexcited a faint degree of terror. But a terror ofthis nature, as it occupies and expands themind, and elevates it to high expectation, ispurely sublime, and leads us, by a kind offascination, to seek even the object, from whichwe appear to shrink.

Emily passed on with faltering steps, andhaving paused a moment at the door, beforeshe attempted to open it, she then hastilyentered the chamber, and went towards thepicture, which appeared to be enclosed in aframe of uncommon size, that hung in a darkpart of the room. She paused again, and then,with a timid hand, lifted the veil; but instantly letit fall—perceiving that what it had concealedwas no picture, and, before she could leave thechamber, she dropped senseless on the floor.

When she recovered her recollection, theremembrance of what she had seen had nearlydeprived her of it a second time. She hadscarcely strength to remove from the room, andregain her own; and, when arrived there,wanted courage to remain alone. Horroroccupied her mind, and excluded, for a time, allsense of past, and dread of future misfortune:she seated herself near the casement, becausefrom thence she heard voices, though distant,on the terrace, and might see people pass, and

these, trifling as they were, were revivingcircumstances. When her spirits had recoveredtheir tone, she considered, whether she shouldmention what she had seen to MadameMontoni, and various and important motivesurged her to do so, among which the least wasthe hope of the relief, which an overburdenedmind finds in speaking of the subject of itsinterest. But she was aware of the terribleconsequences, which such a communicationmight lead to; and, dreading the indiscretion ofher aunt, at length, endeavoured to arm herselfwith resolution to observe a profound silence,on the subject. Montoni and Verezzi soon afterpassed under the casement, speakingcheerfully, and their voices revived her.Presently the Signors Bertolini and Cavignijoined the party on the terrace, and Emily,supposing that Madame Montoni was thenalone, went to seek her; for the solitude of herchamber, and its proximity to that where shehad received so severe a shock, again affectedher spirit.

She found her aunt in her dressing-room,preparing for dinner. Emily's pale and affrightedcountenance alarmed even Madame Montoni;but she had sufficient strength of mind to besilent on the subject, that still made her shudder,and which was ready to burst from her lips. Inher aunt's apartment she remained, till they both

descended to dinner. There she met thegentlemen lately arrived, who had a kind of busyseriousness in their looks, which wassomewhat unusual with them, while theirthoughts seemed too much occupied by somedeep interest, to suffer them to bestow muchattention either on Emily, or Madame Montoni.They spoke little, and Montoni less. Emily, asshe now looked on him, shuddered. The horrorof the chamber rushed on her mind. Severaltimes the colour faded from her cheeks, andshe feared, that illness would betray heremotions, and compel her to leave the room;but the strength of her resolution remedied theweakness of her frame; she obliged herself toconverse, and even tried to look cheerful.

Montoni evidently laboured under somevexation, such as would probably have agitateda weaker mind, or a more susceptible heart, butwhich appeared, from the sternness of hiscountenance, only to bend up his faculties toenergy and fortitude.

It was a comfortless and silent meal. Thegloom of the castle seemed to have spread itscontagion even over the gay countenance ofCavigni, and with this gloom was mingled afierceness, such as she had seldom seen himindicate. Count Morano was not named, andwhat conversation there was, turned chieflyupon the wars, which at that time agitated the

Italian states, the strength of the Venetianarmies, and the characters of their generals.

After dinner, when the servants hadwithdrawn, Emily learned, that the cavalier, whohad drawn upon himself the vengeance ofOrsino, had since died of his wounds, and thatstrict search was still making for his murderer.The intelligence seemed to disturb Montoni,who mused, and then enquired, where Orsinohad concealed himself. His guests, who all,except Cavigni, were ignorant, that Montoni hadhimself assisted him to escape from Venice,replied, that he had fled in the night with suchprecipitation and secrecy, that his most intimatecompanions knew not whither. Montoni blamedhimself for having asked the question, for asecond thought convinced him, that a man ofOrsino's suspicious temper was not likely totrust any of the persons present with theknowledge of his asylum. He consideredhimself, however, as entitled to his utmostconfidence, and did not doubt, that he shouldsoon hear of him.

Emily retired with Madame Montoni, soonafter the cloth was withdrawn, and left thecavaliers to their secret councils, but not beforethe significant frowns of Montoni had warnedhis wife to depart, who passed from the hall tothe ramparts, and walked, for some time, insilence, which Emily did not interrupt, for her

mind was also occupied by interests of its own.It required all her resolution, to forbearcommunicating to Madame Montoni the terriblesubject, which still thrilled her every nerve withhorror; and sometimes she was on the point ofdoing so, merely to obtain the relief of amoment; but she knew how wholly she was inthe power of Montoni, and, considering, that theindiscretion of her aunt might prove fatal tothem both, she compelled herself to endure apresent and an inferior evil, rather than to tempta future and a heavier one. A strange kind ofpresentiment frequently, on this day, occurred toher;—it seemed as if her fate rested here, andwas by some invisible means connected withthis castle.

'Let me not accelerate it,' said she to herself:'for whatever I may be reserved, let me, at least,avoid self-reproach.'

As she looked on the massy walls of theedifice, her melancholy spirits represented it tobe her prison; and she started as at a newsuggestion, when she considered how fardistant she was from her native country, fromher little peaceful home, and from her only friend—how remote was her hope of happiness, howfeeble the expectation of again seeing him! Yetthe idea of Valancourt, and her confidence inhis faithful love, had hitherto been her onlysolace, and she struggled hard to retain them.

A few tears of agony started to her eyes, whichshe turned aside to conceal.

While she afterwards leaned on the wall ofthe rampart, some peasants, at a little distance,were seen examining a breach, before whichlay a heap of stones, as if to repair it, and arusty old cannon, that appeared to have fallenfrom its station above. Madame Montonistopped to speak to the men, and enquiredwhat they were going to do. 'To repair thefortifications, your ladyship,' said one of them; alabour which she was somewhat surprised, thatMontoni should think necessary, particularlysince he had never spoken of the castle, as of aplace, at which he meant to reside for anyconsiderable time; but she passed on towardsa lofty arch, that led from the south to the eastrampart, and which adjoined the castle, on oneside, while, on the other, it supported a smallwatch-tower, that entirely commanded the deepvalley below. As she approached this arch, shesaw, beyond it, winding along the woodydescent of a distant mountain, a long troop ofhorse and foot, whom she knew to be soldiers,only by the glitter of their pikes and other arms,for the distance did not allow her to discover thecolour of their liveries. As she gazed, thevanguard issued from the woods into the valley,but the train still continued to pour over theremote summit of the mountain, in endless

succession; while, in the front, the militaryuniform became distinguishable, and thecommanders, riding first, and seeming, by theirgestures, to direct the march of those thatfollowed, at length, approached very near to thecastle.

Such a spectacle, in these solitary regions,both surprised and alarmed Madame Montoni,and she hastened towards some peasants,who were employed in raising bastions beforethe south rampart, where the rock was lessabrupt than elsewhere. These men could giveno satisfactory answers to her enquiries, but,being roused by them, gazed in stupidastonishment upon the long cavalcade.Madame Montoni, then thinking it necessary tocommunicate further the object of her alarm,sent Emily to say, that she wished to speak toMontoni; an errand her niece did not approve,for she dreaded his frowns, which she knew thismessage would provoke; but she obeyed insilence.

As she drew near the apartment, in which hesat with his guests, she heard them in earnestand loud dispute, and she paused a moment,trembling at the displeasure, which her suddeninterruption would occasion. In the next, theirvoices sunk all together; she then ventured toopen the door, and, while Montoni turned hastilyand looked at her, without speaking, she

delivered her message.

'Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged,' said he.

Emily then thought it proper to mention thesubject of her alarm. Montoni and hiscompanions rose instantly and went to thewindows, but, these not affording them a view ofthe troops, they at length proceeded to theramparts, where Cavigni conjectured it to be alegion of condottieri, on their march towardsModena.

One part of the cavalcade now extendedalong the valley, and another wound among themountains towards the north, while some troopsstill lingered on the woody precipices, wherethe first had appeared, so that the great lengthof the procession seemed to include an wholearmy. While Montoni and his family watched itsprogress, they heard the sound of trumpets andthe clash of cymbals in the vale, and thenothers, answering from the heights. Emilylistened with emotion to the shrill blast, thatwoke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoniexplained the signals, with which he appearedto be well acquainted, and which meant nothinghostile. The uniforms of the troops, and the kindof arms they bore, confirmed to him theconjecture of Cavigni, and he had thesatisfaction to see them pass by, without evenstopping to gaze upon his castle. He did not,

however, leave the rampart, till the bases of themountains had shut them from his view, and thelast murmur of the trumpet floated away on thewind. Cavigni and Verezzi were inspirited bythis spectacle, which seemed to have roused allthe fire of their temper; Montoni turned into thecastle in thoughtful silence.

Emily's mind had not yet sufficientlyrecovered from its late shock, to endure theloneliness of her chamber, and she remainedupon the ramparts; for Madame Montoni hadnot invited her to her dressing-room, whithershe had gone evidently in low spirits, and Emily,from her late experience, had lost all wish toexplore the gloomy and mysterious recesses ofthe castle. The ramparts, therefore, were almosther only retreat, and here she lingered, till thegray haze of evening was again spread overthe scene.

The cavaliers supped by themselves, andMadame Montoni remained in her apartment,whither Emily went, before she retired to herown. She found her aunt weeping, and in muchagitation. The tenderness of Emily was naturallyso soothing, that it seldom failed to give comfortto the drooping heart: but Madame Montoni'swas torn, and the softest accents of Emily'svoice were lost upon it. With her usual delicacy,she did not appear to observe her aunt'sdistress, but it gave an involuntary gentleness to

her manners, and an air of solicitude to hercountenance, which Madame Montoni wasvexed to perceive, who seemed to feel the pityof her niece to be an insult to her pride, anddismissed her as soon as she properly could.Emily did not venture to mention again thereluctance she felt to her gloomy chamber, butshe requested that Annette might be permittedto remain with her till she retired to rest; and therequest was somewhat reluctantly granted.Annette, however, was now with the servants,and Emily withdrew alone.

With light and hasty steps she passedthrough the long galleries, while the feebleglimmer of the lamp she carried only shewedthe gloom around her, and the passing airthreatened to extinguish it. The lonely silence,that reigned in this part of the castle, awed her;now and then, indeed, she heard a faint peal oflaughter rise from a remote part of the edifice,where the servants were assembled, but it wassoon lost, and a kind of breathless stillnessremained. As she passed the suite of roomswhich she had visited in the morning, her eyesglanced fearfully on the door, and she almostfancied she heard murmuring sounds within, butshe paused not a moment to enquire.

Having reached her own apartment, where noblazing wood on the hearth dissipated thegloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven her

attention, till Annette should come, and a firecould be kindled. She continued to read till herlight was nearly expired, but Annette did notappear, and the solitude and obscurity of herchamber again affected her spirits, the more,because of its nearness to the scene of horror,that she had witnessed in the morning. Gloomyand fantastic images came to her mind. Shelooked fearfully towards the door of the stair-case, and then, examining whether it was stillfastened, found that it was so. Unable toconquer the uneasiness she felt at the prospectof sleeping again in this remote and insecureapartment, which some person seemed to haveentered during the preceding night, herimpatience to see Annette, whom she hadbidden to enquire concerning thiscircumstance, became extremely painful. Shewished also to question her, as to the object,which had excited so much horror in her ownmind, and which Annette on the precedingevening had appeared to be in part acquaintedwith, though her words were very remote fromthe truth, and it appeared plainly to Emily, thatthe girl had been purposely misled by a falsereport: above all she was surprised, that thedoor of the chamber, which contained it, shouldbe left unguarded. Such an instance ofnegligence almost surpassed belief. But herlight was now expiring; the faint flashes it threwupon the walls called up all the terrors of fancy,

and she rose to find her way to the habitablepart of the castle, before it was quiteextinguished. As she opened the chamberdoor, she heard remote voices, and, soon after,saw a light issue upon the further end of thecorridor, which Annette and another servantapproached. 'I am glad you are come,' saidEmily: 'what has detained you so long? Praylight me a fire immediately.'

'My lady wanted me, ma'amselle,' repliedAnnette in some confusion; 'I will go and get thewood.'

'No,' said Caterina, 'that is my business,' andleft the room instantly, while Annette would havefollowed; but, being called back, she began totalk very loud, and laugh, and seemed afraid totrust a pause of silence.

Caterina soon returned with the wood, andthen, when the cheerful blaze once moreanimated the room, and this servant hadwithdrawn, Emily asked Annette, whether shehad made the enquiry she bade her. 'Yes,ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'but not a soul knowsany thing about the matter: and old Carlo—Iwatched him well, for they say he knows strangethings—old Carlo looked so as I don't knowhow to tell, and he asked me again and again, ifI was sure the door was ever unfastened. Lord,says I—am I sure I am alive? And as for me,

ma'am, I am all astounded, as one may say,and would no more sleep in this chamber, than Iwould on the great cannon at the end of the eastrampart.'

'And what objection have you to that cannon,more than to any of the rest?' said Emilysmiling: 'the best would be rather a hard bed.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, any of them would be hardenough for that matter; but they do say, thatsomething has been seen in the dead of night,standing beside the great cannon, as if to guardit.'

'Well! my good Annette, the people who tellsuch stories, are happy in having you for anauditor, for I perceive you believe them all.'

'Dear ma'amselle! I will shew you the verycannon; you can see it from these windows!'

'Well,' said Emily, 'but that does not prove,that an apparition guards it.'

'What! not if I shew you the very cannon! Dearma'am, you will believe nothing.'

'Nothing probably upon this subject, but what Isee,' said Emily.—'Well, ma'am, but you shallsee it, if you will only step this way to thecasement.'—Emily could not forbear laughing,and Annette looked surprised. Perceiving herextreme aptitude to credit the marvellous, Emily

forbore to mention the subject she hadintended, lest it should overcome her with idleterrors, and she began to speak on a livelytopic—the regattas of Venice.

'Aye, ma'amselle, those rowing matches,'said Annette, 'and the fine moon-light nights,are all, that are worth seeing in Venice. To besure the moon is brighter than any I ever saw;and then to hear such sweet music, too, asLudovico has often and often sung under thelattice by the west portico! Ma'amselle, it wasLudovico, that told me about that picture, whichyou wanted so to look at last night, and—-'

'What picture?' said Emily, wishing Annette toexplain herself.

'O! that terrible picture with the black veil overit.'

'You never saw it, then?' said Emily.

'Who, I!—No, ma'amselle, I never did. But thismorning,' continued Annette, lowering her voice,and looking round the room, 'this morning, as itwas broad daylight, do you know, ma'am, I tooka strange fancy to see it, as I had heard suchodd hints about it, and I got as far as the door,and should have opened it, if it had not beenlocked!'

Emily, endeavouring to conceal the emotion

this circumstance occasioned, enquired at whathour she went to the chamber, and found, that itwas soon after herself had been there. She alsoasked further questions, and the answersconvinced her, that Annette, and probably herinformer, were ignorant of the terrible truth,though in Annette's account something very likethe truth, now and then, mingled with thefalsehood. Emily now began to fear, that hervisit to the chamber had been observed, sincethe door had been closed, so immediately afterher departure; and dreaded lest this shoulddraw upon her the vengeance of Montoni. Heranxiety, also, was excited to know whence, andfor what purpose, the delusive report, which hadbeen imposed upon Annette, had originated,since Montoni could only have wished forsilence and secrecy; but she felt, that thesubject was too terrible for this lonely hour, andshe compelled herself to leave it, to conversewith Annette, whose chat, simple as it was, shepreferred to the stillness of total solitude.

Thus they sat, till near midnight, but notwithout many hints from Annette, that shewished to go. The embers were now nearlyburnt out; and Emily heard, at a distance, thethundering sound of the hall doors, as they wereshut for the night. She, therefore, prepared forrest, but was still unwilling that Annette shouldleave her. At this instant, the great bell of the

portal sounded. They listened in fearfulexpectation, when, after a long pause ofsilence, it sounded again. Soon after, theyheard the noise of carriage wheels in the court-yard. Emily sunk almost lifeless in her chair; 'It isthe Count,' said she.

'What, at this time of night, ma'am!' saidAnnette: 'no, my dear lady. But, for that matter, itis a strange time of night for any body to come!'

'Nay, pr'ythee, good Annette, stay not talking,'said Emily in a voice of agony—'Go, pr'ythee,go, and see who it is.'

Annette left the room, and carried with her thelight, leaving Emily in darkness, which a fewmoments before would have terrified her in thisroom, but was now scarcely observed by her.She listened and waited, in breathlessexpectation, and heard distant noises, butAnnette did not return. Her patience, at length,exhausted, she tried to find her way to thecorridor, but it was long before she could touchthe door of the chamber, and, when she hadopened it, the total darkness without made herfear to proceed. Voices were now heard, andEmily even thought she distinguished those ofCount Morano, and Montoni. Soon after, sheheard steps approaching, and then a ray of lightstreamed through the darkness, and Annetteappeared, whom Emily went to meet.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' said she, 'you was right, itis the Count sure enough.'

'It is he!' exclaimed Emily, lifting her eyestowards heaven and supporting herself byAnnette's arm.

'Good Lord! my dear lady, don't be in such aFLUSTER, and look so pale, we shall soonhear more.'

'We shall, indeed!' said Emily, moving as fastas she was able towards her apartment. 'I amnot well; give me air.' Annette opened acasement, and brought water. The faintnesssoon left Emily, but she desired Annette wouldnot go till she heard from Montoni.

'Dear ma'amselle! he surely will not disturbyou at this time of night; why he must think youare asleep.'

'Stay with me till I am so, then,' said Emily,who felt temporary relief from this suggestion,which appeared probable enough, though herfears had prevented its occurring to her.Annette, with secret reluctance, consented tostay, and Emily was now composed enough toask her some questions; among others,whether she had seen the Count.

'Yes, ma'am, I saw him alight, for I went fromhence to the grate in the north turret, that

overlooks the inner court-yard, you know. ThereI saw the Count's carriage, and the Count in it,waiting at the great door,—for the porter wasjust gone to bed—with several men onhorseback all by the light of the torches theycarried.' Emily was compelled to smile. 'Whenthe door was opened, the Count saidsomething, that I could not make out, and thengot out, and another gentleman with him. Ithought, to be sure, the Signor was gone tobed, and I hastened away to my lady'sdressing-room, to see what I could hear. But inthe way I met Ludovico, and he told me that theSignor was up, counselling with his master andthe other Signors, in the room at the end of thenorth gallery; and Ludovico held up his finger,and laid it on his lips, as much as to say—Thereis more going on, than you think of, Annette, butyou must hold your tongue. And so I did hold mytongue, ma'amselle, and came away to tell youdirectly.'

Emily enquired who the cavalier was, thataccompanied the Count, and how Montonireceived them; but Annette could not inform her.

'Ludovico,' she added, 'had just been to callSignor Montoni's valet, that he might tell himthey were arrived, when I met him.'

Emily sat musing, for some time, and thenher anxiety was so much increased, that she

desired Annette would go to the servants' hall,where it was possible she might hearsomething of the Count's intention, respectinghis stay at the castle.

'Yes, ma'am,' said Annette with readiness;'but how am I to find the way, if I leave the lampwith you?'

Emily said she would light her, and theyimmediately quitted the chamber. When theyhad reached the top of the great stair-case,Emily recollected, that she might be seen by theCount, and, to avoid the great hall, Annetteconducted her through some private passagesto a back stair-case, which led directly to that ofthe servants.

As she returned towards her chamber, Emilybegan to fear, that she might again lose herselfin the intricacies of the castle, and again beshocked by some mysterious spectacle; and,though she was already perplexed by thenumerous turnings, she feared to open one ofthe many doors that offered. While she steppedthoughtfully along, she fancied, that she heard alow moaning at no great distance, and, havingpaused a moment, she heard it again anddistinctly. Several doors appeared on the righthand of the passage. She advanced, andlistened. When she came to the second, sheheard a voice, apparently in complaint, within,

to which she continued to listen, afraid to openthe door, and unwilling to leave it. Convulsivesobs followed, and then the piercing accents ofan agonizing spirit burst forth. Emily stoodappalled, and looked through the gloom, thatsurrounded her, in fearful expectation. Thelamentations continued. Pity now began tosubdue terror; it was possible she mightadminister comfort to the sufferer, at least, byexpressing sympathy, and she laid her hand onthe door. While she hesitated she thought sheknew this voice, disguised as it was by tones ofgrief. Having, therefore, set down the lamp inthe passage, she gently opened the door, withinwhich all was dark, except that from an innerapartment a partial light appeared; and shestepped softly on. Before she reached it, theappearance of Madame Montoni, leaning onher dressing-table, weeping, and with ahandkerchief held to her eyes, struck her, andshe paused.

Some person was seated in a chair by thefire, but who it was she could not distinguish. Hespoke, now and then, in a low voice, that did notallow Emily to hear what was uttered, but shethought, that Madame Montoni, at those times,wept the more, who was too much occupied byher own distress, to observe Emily, while thelatter, though anxious to know what occasionedthis, and who was the person admitted at so

late an hour to her aunt's dressing-room,forbore to add to her sufferings by surprisingher, or to take advantage of her situation, bylistening to a private discourse. She, therefore,stepped softly back, and, after some furtherdifficulty, found the way to her own chamber,where nearer interests, at length, excluded thesurprise and concern she had felt, respectingMadame Montoni.

Annette, however, returned withoutsatisfactory intelligence, for the servants,among whom she had been, were eitherentirely ignorant, or affected to be so,concerning the Count's intended stay at thecastle. They could talk only of the steep andbroken road they had just passed, and of thenumerous dangers they had escaped andexpress wonder how their lord could choose toencounter all these, in the darkness of night; forthey scarcely allowed, that the torches hadserved for any other purpose but that ofshewing the dreariness of the mountains.Annette, finding she could gain no information,left them, making noisy petitions, for more woodon the fire and more supper on the table.

'And now, ma'amselle,' added she, 'I am sosleepy!—I am sure, if you was so sleepy, youwould not desire me to sit up with you.'

Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to

wish it; she had also waited so long, withoutreceiving a summons from Montoni, that itappeared he did not mean to disturb her, at thislate hour, and she determined to dismissAnnette. But, when she again looked round hergloomy chamber, and recollected certaincircumstances, fear seized her spirits, and shehesitated.

'And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay,till I am asleep, Annette,' said she, 'for I fear itwill be very long before I forget myself in sleep.'

'I dare say it will be very long, ma'amselle,'said Annette.

'But, before you go,' rejoined Emily, 'let meask you—Had Signor Montoni left CountMorano, when you quitted the hall?'

'O no, ma'am, they were alone together.'

'Have you been in my aunt's dressing-room,since you left me?'

'No, ma'amselle, I called at the door as Ipassed, but it was fastened; so I thought mylady was gone to bed.'

'Who, then, was with your lady just now?' saidEmily, forgetting, in surprise, her usualprudence.

'Nobody, I believe, ma'am,' replied Annette,

'nobody has been with her, I believe, since I leftyou.'

Emily took no further notice of the subject,and, after some struggle with imaginary fears,her good nature prevailed over them so far, thatshe dismissed Annette for the night. She thensat, musing upon her own circumstances andthose of Madame Montoni, till her eye rested onthe miniature picture, which she had found, afterher father's death, among the papers he hadenjoined her to destroy. It was open upon thetable, before her, among some loose drawings,having, with them, been taken out of a little boxby Emily, some hours before. The sight of itcalled up many interesting reflections, but themelancholy sweetness of the countenancesoothed the emotions, which these hadoccasioned. It was the same style ofcountenance as that of her late father, and,while she gazed on it with fondness on thisaccount, she even fancied a resemblance in thefeatures. But this tranquillity was suddenlyinterrupted, when she recollected the words inthe manuscript, that had been found with thispicture, and which had formerly occasioned herso much doubt and horror. At length, sheroused herself from the deep reverie, into whichthis remembrance had thrown her; but, whenshe rose to undress, the silence and solitude, towhich she was left, at this midnight hour, for not

even a distant sound was now heard, conspiredwith the impression the subject she had beenconsidering had given to her mind, to appallher. Annette's hints, too, concerning thischamber, simple as they were, had not failed toaffect her, since they followed a circumstance ofpeculiar horror, which she herself hadwitnessed, and since the scene of this was achamber nearly adjoining her own.

The door of the stair-case was, perhaps, asubject of more reasonable alarm, and she nowbegan to apprehend, such was the aptitude ofher fears, that this stair-case had some privatecommunication with the apartment, which sheshuddered even to remember. Determined notto undress, she lay down to sleep in her clothes,with her late father's dog, the faithfulMANCHON, at the foot of the bed, whom sheconsidered as a kind of guard.

Thus circumstanced, she tried to banishreflection, but her busy fancy would still hoverover the subjects of her interest, and she heardthe clock of the castle strike two, before sheclosed her eyes.

From the disturbed slumber, into which shethen sunk, she was soon awakened by a noise,which seemed to arise within her chamber; butthe silence, that prevailed, as she fearfullylistened, inclined her to believe, that she had

been alarmed by such sounds as sometimesoccur in dreams, and she laid her head againupon the pillow.

A return of the noise again disturbed her; itseemed to come from that part of the room,which communicated with the private stair-case, and she instantly remembered the oddcircumstance of the door having been fastened,during the preceding night, by some unknownhand. Her late alarming suspicion, concerningits communication, also occurred to her. Herheart became faint with terror. Half raisingherself from the bed, and gently drawing asidethe curtain, she looked towards the door of thestair-case, but the lamp, that burnt on thehearth, spread so feeble a light through theapartment, that the remote parts of it were lostin shadow. The noise, however, which, she wasconvinced, came from the door, continued. Itseemed like that made by the undrawing ofrusty bolts, and often ceased, and was thenrenewed more gently, as if the hand, thatoccasioned it, was restrained by a fear ofdiscovery.

While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot,she saw the door move, and then slowly open,and perceived something enter the room, butthe extreme duskiness prevented herdistinguishing what it was. Almost fainting withterror, she had yet sufficient command over

herself, to check the shriek, that was escapingfrom her lips, and, letting the curtain drop fromher hand, continued to observe in silence themotions of the mysterious form she saw. Itseemed to glide along the remote obscurity ofthe apartment, then paused, and, as itapproached the hearth, she perceived, in thestronger light, what appeared to be a humanfigure. Certain remembrances now struck uponher heart, and almost subdued the feebleremains of her spirits; she continued, however,to watch the figure, which remained for sometime motionless, but then, advancing slowlytowards the bed, stood silently at the feet,where the curtains, being a little open, allowedher still to see it; terror, however, had nowdeprived her of the power of discrimination, aswell as of that of utterance.

Having continued there a moment, the formretreated towards the hearth, when it took thelamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber, for afew moments, and then again advancedtowards the bed. The light at that instantawakening the dog, that had slept at Emily'sfeet, he barked loudly, and, jumping to the floor,flew at the stranger, who struck the animalsmartly with a sheathed sword, and, springingtowards the bed, Emily discovered—CountMorano!

She gazed at him for a moment in

speechless affright, while he, throwing himselfon his knee at the bed-side, besought her tofear nothing, and, having thrown down hissword, would have taken her hand, when thefaculties, that terror had suspended, suddenlyreturned, and she sprung from the bed, in thedress, which surely a kind of propheticapprehension had prevented her, on this night,from throwing aside.

Morano rose, followed her to the door,through which he had entered, and caught herhand, as she reached the top of the stair-case,but not before she had discovered, by thegleam of a lamp, another man half-way downthe steps. She now screamed in despair, and,believing herself given up by Montoni, saw,indeed, no possibility of escape.

The Count, who still held her hand, led herback into the chamber.

'Why all this terror?' said he, in a tremulousvoice. 'Hear me, Emily: I come not to alarm you;no, by Heaven! I love you too well—too well formy own peace.'

Emily looked at him for a moment, in fearfuldoubt.

'Then leave me, sir,' said she, 'leave meinstantly.'

'Hear me, Emily,' resumed Morano, 'hear me!I love, and am in despair—yes—in despair.How can I gaze upon you, and know, that it is,perhaps, for the last time, without suffering allthe phrensy of despair? But it shall not be so;you shall be mine, in spite of Montoni and all hisvillany.'

'In spite of Montoni!' cried Emily eagerly:'what is it I hear?'

'You hear, that Montoni is a villain,' exclaimedMorano with vehemence,—'a villain who wouldhave sold you to my love!—Who—-'

'And is he less, who would have bought me?'said Emily, fixing on the Count an eye of calmcontempt. 'Leave the room, sir, instantly,' shecontinued in a voice, trembling between joy andfear, 'or I will alarm the family, and you mayreceive that from Signor Montoni's vengeance,which I have vainly supplicated from his pity.'But Emily knew, that she was beyond thehearing of those, who might protect her.

'You can never hope any thing from his pity,'said Morano, 'he has used me infamously, andmy vengeance shall pursue him. And for you,Emily, for you, he has new plans more profitablethan the last, no doubt.' The gleam of hope,which the Count's former speech had revived,was now nearly extinguished by the latter; and,while Emily's countenance betrayed the

emotions of her mind, he endeavoured to takeadvantage of the discovery.

'I lose time,' said he: 'I came not to exclaimagainst Montoni; I came to solicit, to plead—toEmily; to tell her all I suffer, to entreat her tosave me from despair, and herself fromdestruction. Emily! the schemes of Montoni areinsearchable, but, I warn you, they are terrible;he has no principle, when interest, or ambitionleads. Can I love you, and abandon you to hispower? Fly, then, fly from this gloomy prison,with a lover, who adores you! I have bribed aservant of the castle to open the gates, and,before tomorrow's dawn, you shall be far on theway to Venice.'

Emily, overcome by the sudden shock shehad received, at the moment, too, when shehad begun to hope for better days, now thoughtshe saw destruction surround her on every side.Unable to reply, and almost to think, she threwherself into a chair, pale and breathless. ThatMontoni had formerly sold her to Morano, wasvery probable; that he had now withdrawn hisconsent to the marriage, was evident from theCount's present conduct; and it was nearlycertain, that a scheme of stronger interest onlycould have induced the selfish Montoni toforego a plan, which he had hitherto sostrenuously pursued. These reflections madeher tremble at the hints, which Morano had just

given, which she no longer hesitated to believe;and, while she shrunk from the new scenes ofmisery and oppression, that might await her inthe castle of Udolpho, she was compelled toobserve, that almost her only means ofescaping them was by submitting herself to theprotection of this man, with whom evils morecertain and not less terrible appeared,—evils,upon which she could not endure to pause foran instant.

Her silence, though it was that of agony,encouraged the hopes of Morano, who watchedher countenance with impatience, took againthe resisting hand she had withdrawn, and, ashe pressed it to his heart, again conjured her todetermine immediately. 'Every moment welose, will make our departure more dangerous,'said he: 'these few moments lost may enableMontoni to overtake us.'

'I beseech you, sir, be silent,' said Emilyfaintly: 'I am indeed very wretched, andwretched I must remain. Leave me—I commandyou, leave me to my fate.'

'Never!' cried the Count vehemently: 'let meperish first! But forgive my violence! the thoughtof losing you is madness. You cannot beignorant of Montoni's character, you may beignorant of his schemes—nay, you must be so,or you would not hesitate between my love and

his power.'

'Nor do I hesitate,' said Emily.

'Let us go, then,' said Morano, eagerlykissing her hand, and rising, 'my carriage waits,below the castle walls.'

'You mistake me, sir,' said Emily. 'Allow meto thank you for the interest you express in mywelfare, and to decide by my own choice. I shallremain under the protection of Signor Montoni.'

'Under his protection!' exclaimed Morano,proudly, 'his PROTECTION! Emily, why will yousuffer yourself to be thus deluded? I havealready told you what you have to expect fromhis PROTECTION.'

'And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance, Idoubt mere assertion, and, to be convinced,require something approaching to proof.'

'I have now neither the time, or the means ofadducing proof,' replied the Count.

'Nor have I, sir, the inclination to listen to it, ifyou had.'

'But you trifle with my patience and mydistress,' continued Morano. 'Is a marriage witha man, who adores you, so very terrible in youreyes, that you would prefer to it all the misery, towhich Montoni may condemn you in this remote

prison? Some wretch must have stolen thoseaffections, which ought to be mine, or you wouldnot thus obstinately persist in refusing an offer,that would place you beyond the reach ofoppression.' Morano walked about the room,with quick steps, and a disturbed air.

'This discourse, Count Morano, sufficientlyproves, that my affections ought not to beyours,' said Emily, mildly, 'and this conduct, thatI should not be placed beyond the reach ofoppression, so long as I remained in yourpower. If you wish me to believe otherwise,cease to oppress me any longer by yourpresence. If you refuse this, you will compel meto expose you to the resentment of SignorMontoni.'

'Yes, let him come,' cried Morano furiously,'and brave MY resentment! Let him dare to faceonce more the man he has so courageouslyinjured; danger shall teach him morality, andvengeance justice—let him come, and receivemy sword in his heart!'

The vehemence, with which this was uttered,gave Emily new cause of alarm, who arosefrom her chair, but her trembling frame refusedto support her, and she resumed her seat;—thewords died on her lips, and, when she lookedwistfully towards the door of the corridor, whichwas locked, she considered it was impossible

for her to leave the apartment, before Moranowould be apprised of, and able to counteract,her intention.

Without observing her agitation, he continuedto pace the room in the utmost perturbation ofspirits. His darkened countenance expressedall the rage of jealousy and revenge; and aperson, who had seen his features under thesmile of ineffable tenderness, which he so latelyassumed, would now scarcely have believedthem to be the same.

'Count Morano,' said Emily, at lengthrecovering her voice, 'calm, I entreat you, thesetransports, and listen to reason, if you will not topity. You have equally misplaced your love, andyour hatred.—I never could have returned theaffection, with which you honour me, andcertainly have never encouraged it; neither hasSignor Montoni injured you, for you must haveknown, that he had no right to dispose of myhand, had he even possessed the power to doso. Leave, then, leave the castle, while you maywith safety. Spare yourself the dreadfulconsequences of an unjust revenge, and theremorse of having prolonged to me thesemoments of suffering.'

'Is it for mine, or for Montoni's safety, that youare thus alarmed?' said Morano, coldly, andturning towards her with a look of acrimony.

'For both,' replied Emily, in a trembling voice.

'Unjust revenge!' cried the Count, resumingthe abrupt tones of passion. 'Who, that looksupon that face, can imagine a punishmentadequate to the injury he would have done me?Yes, I will leave the castle; but it shall not bealone. I have trifled too long. Since my prayersand my sufferings cannot prevail, force shall. Ihave people in waiting, who shall convey you tomy carriage. Your voice will bring no succour; itcannot be heard from this remote part of thecastle; submit, therefore, in silence, to go withme.'

This was an unnecessary injunction, atpresent; for Emily was too certain, that her callwould avail her nothing; and terror had soentirely disordered her thoughts, that she knewnot how to plead to Morano, but sat, mute andtrembling, in her chair, till he advanced to lift herfrom it, when she suddenly raised herself, and,with a repulsive gesture, and a countenance offorced serenity, said, 'Count Morano! I am nowin your power; but you will observe, that this isnot the conduct which can win the esteem youappear so solicitous to obtain, and that you arepreparing for yourself a load of remorse, in themiseries of a friendless orphan, which cannever leave you. Do you believe your heart tobe, indeed, so hardened, that you can lookwithout emotion on the suffering, to which you

would condemn me?'—-

Emily was interrupted by the growling of thedog, who now came again from the bed, andMorano looked towards the door of the stair-case, where no person appearing, he calledaloud, 'Cesario!'

'Emily,' said the Count, 'why will you reduceme to adopt this conduct? How much morewillingly would I persuade, than compel you tobecome my wife! but, by Heaven! I will not leaveyou to be sold by Montoni. Yet a thoughtglances across my mind, that brings madnesswith it. I know not how to name it. It ispreposterous—it cannot be.—Yet you tremble—you grow pale! It is! it is so;—you—you—loveMontoni!' cried Morano, grasping Emily's wrist,and stamping his foot on the floor.

An involuntary air of surprise appeared onher countenance. 'If you have indeed believedso,' said she, 'believe so still.'

'That look, those words confirm it,' exclaimedMorano, furiously. 'No, no, no, Montoni had aricher prize in view, than gold. But he shall notlive to triumph over me!—This very instant—-'

He was interrupted by the loud barking of thedog.

'Stay, Count Morano,' said Emily, terrified by

his words, and by the fury expressed in hiseyes, 'I will save you from this error.—Of allmen, Signor Montoni is not your rival; though, if Ifind all other means of saving myself vain, I willtry whether my voice may not arouse hisservants to my succour.'

'Assertion,' replied Morano, 'at such amoment, is not to be depended upon. Howcould I suffer myself to doubt, even for aninstant, that he could see you, and not love?—But my first care shall be to convey you from thecastle. Cesario! ho,—Cesario!'

A man now appeared at the door of the stair-case, and other steps were heard ascending.Emily uttered a loud shriek, as Morano hurriedher across the chamber, and, at the samemoment, she heard a noise at the door, thatopened upon the corridor. The Count pausedan instant, as if his mind was suspendedbetween love and the desire of vengeance;and, in that instant, the door gave way, andMontoni, followed by the old steward andseveral other persons, burst into the room.

'Draw!' cried Montoni to the Count, who didnot pause for a second bidding, but, givingEmily into the hands of the people, thatappeared from the stair-case, turned fiercelyround. 'This in thine heart, villain!' said he, as hemade a thrust at Montoni with his sword, who

parried the blow, and aimed another, whilesome of the persons, who had followed him intothe room, endeavoured to part the combatants,and others rescued Emily from the hands ofMorano's servants.

'Was it for this, Count Morano,' said Montoni,in a cool sarcastic tone of voice, 'that I receivedyou under my roof, and permitted you, thoughmy declared enemy, to remain under it for thenight? Was it, that you might repay myhospitality with the treachery of a fiend, and robme of my niece?'

'Who talks of treachery?' said Morano, in atone of unrestrained vehemence. 'Let him thatdoes, shew an unblushing face of innocence.Montoni, you are a villain! If there is treachery inthis affair, look to yourself as the author of it. IF—do I say? I—whom you have wronged withunexampled baseness, whom you have injuredalmost beyond redress! But why do I usewords?—Come on, coward, and receive justiceat my hands!'

'Coward!' cried Montoni, bursting from thepeople who held him, and rushing on the Count,when they both retreated into the corridor,where the fight continued so desperately, thatnone of the spectators dared approach them,Montoni swearing, that the first who interfered,should fall by his sword.

Jealousy and revenge lent all their fury toMorano, while the superior skill and thetemperance of Montoni enabled him to woundhis adversary, whom his servants nowattempted to seize, but he would not berestrained, and, regardless of his wound,continued to fight. He seemed to be insensibleboth of pain and loss of blood, and alive only tothe energy of his passions. Montoni, on thecontrary, persevered in the combat, with afierce, yet wary, valour; he received the point ofMorano's sword on his arm, but, almost in thesame instant, severely wounded and disarmedhim. The Count then fell back into the arms ofhis servant, while Montoni held his sword overhim, and bade him ask his life. Morano, sinkingunder the anguish of his wound, had scarcelyreplied by a gesture, and by a few words, feeblyarticulated, that he would not—when he fainted;and Montoni was then going to have plungedthe sword into his breast, as he lay senseless,but his arm was arrested by Cavigni. To theinterruption he yielded without much difficulty,but his complexion changed almost toblackness, as he looked upon his fallenadversary, and ordered, that he should becarried instantly from the castle.

In the mean time, Emily, who had been with-held from leaving the chamber during the affray,now came forward into the corridor, and

pleaded a cause of common humanity, with thefeelings of the warmest benevolence, when sheentreated Montoni to allow Morano theassistance in the castle, which his situationrequired. But Montoni, who had seldom listenedto pity, now seemed rapacious of vengeance,and, with a monster's cruelty, again ordered hisdefeated enemy to be taken from the castle, inhis present state, though there were only thewoods, or a solitary neighbouring cottage, toshelter him from the night.

The Count's servants having declared, thatthey would not move him till he revived,Montoni's stood inactive, Cavigniremonstrating, and Emily, superior to Montoni'smenaces, giving water to Morano, and directingthe attendants to bind up his wound. At length,Montoni had leisure to feel pain from his ownhurt, and he withdrew to examine it.

The Count, meanwhile, having slowlyrecovered, the first object he saw, on raising hiseyes, was Emily, bending over him with acountenance strongly expressive of solicitude.He surveyed her with a look of anguish.

'I have deserved this,' said he, 'but not fromMontoni. It is from you, Emily, that I havedeserved punishment, yet I receive only pity!'He paused, for he had spoken with difficulty.After a moment, he proceeded. 'I must resign

you, but not to Montoni. Forgive me thesufferings I have already occasioned you! Butfor THAT villain—his infamy shall not gounpunished. Carry me from this place,' said heto his servants. 'I am in no condition to travel:you must, therefore, take me to the nearestcottage, for I will not pass the night under hisroof, although I may expire on the way from it.'

Cesario proposed to go out, and enquire fora cottage, that might receive his master, beforehe attempted to remove him: but Morano wasimpatient to be gone; the anguish of his mindseemed to be even greater than that of hiswound, and he rejected, with disdain, the offerof Cavigni to entreat Montoni, that he might besuffered to pass the night in the castle. Cesariowas now going to call up the carriage to thegreat gate, but the Count forbade him. 'I cannotbear the motion of a carriage,' said he: 'callsome others of my people, that they may assistin bearing me in their arms.'

At length, however, Morano submitted toreason, and consented, that Cesario shouldfirst prepare some cottage to receive him.Emily, now that he had recovered his senses,was about to withdraw from the corridor, when amessage from Montoni commanded her to doso, and also that the Count, if he was notalready gone, should quit the castleimmediately. Indignation flashed from Morano's

eyes, and flushed his cheeks.

'Tell Montoni,' said he, 'that I shall go when itsuits my own convenience; that I quit the castle,he dares to call his, as I would the nest of aserpent, and that this is not the last he shall hearfrom me. Tell him, I will not leave ANOTHERmurder on his conscience, if I can help it.'

'Count Morano! do you know what you say?'said Cavigni.

'Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and hewill understand well what I mean. Hisconscience will assist his understanding, on thisoccasion.'

'Count Morano,' said Verezzi, who hadhitherto silently observed him, 'dare again toinsult my friend, and I will plunge this sword inyour body.'

'It would be an action worthy the friend of avillain!' said Morano, as the strong impulse ofhis indignation enabled him to raise himselffrom the arms of his servants; but the energywas momentary, and he sunk back, exhaustedby the effort. Montoni's people, meanwhile, heldVerezzi, who seemed inclined, even in thisinstant, to execute his threat; and Cavigni, whowas not so depraved as to abet the cowardlymalignity of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdrawhim from the corridor; and Emily, whom a

compassionate interest had thus long detained,was now quitting it in new terror, when thesupplicating voice of Morano arrested her, and,by a feeble gesture, he beckoned her to drawnearer. She advanced with timid steps, but thefainting languor of his countenance againawakened her pity, and overcame her terror.

'I am going from hence for ever,' said he:'perhaps, I shall never see you again. I wouldcarry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay more—I would also carry your good wishes.'

'You have my forgiveness, then,' said Emily,'and my sincere wishes for your recovery.'

'And only for my recovery?' said Morano, witha sigh. 'For your general welfare,' added Emily.

'Perhaps I ought to be contented with this,' heresumed; 'I certainly have not deserved more;but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to thinkof me, and, forgetting my offence, to rememberonly the passion which occasioned it. I wouldask, alas! impossibilities: I would ask you tolove me! At this moment, when I am about topart with you, and that, perhaps, for ever, I amscarcely myself. Emily—may you never knowthe torture of a passion like mine! What do Isay? O, that, for me, you might be sensible ofsuch a passion!'

Emily looked impatient to be gone. 'I entreat

you, Count, to consult your own safety,' saidshe, 'and linger here no longer. I tremble for theconsequences of Signor Verezzi's passion, andof Montoni's resentment, should he learn thatyou are still here.'

Morano's face was overspread with amomentary crimson, his eyes sparkled, but heseemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion,and replied in a calm voice, 'Since you areinterested for my safety, I will regard it, and begone. But, before I go, let me again hear yousay, that you wish me well,' said he, fixing onher an earnest and mournful look.

Emily repeated her assurances. He took herhand, which she scarcely attempted towithdraw, and put it to his lips. 'Farewell, CountMorano!' said Emily; and she turned to go,when a second message arrived from Montoni,and she again conjured Morano, as he valuedhis life, to quit the castle immediately. Heregarded her in silence, with a look of fixeddespair. But she had no time to enforce hercompassionate entreaties, and, not daring todisobey the second command of Montoni, sheleft the corridor, to attend him.

He was in the cedar parlour, that adjoined thegreat hall, laid upon a couch, and suffering adegree of anguish from his wound, which fewpersons could have disguised, as he did. His

countenance, which was stern, but calm,expressed the dark passion of revenge, but nosymptom of pain; bodily pain, indeed, he hadalways despised, and had yielded only to thestrong and terrible energies of the soul. He wasattended by old Carlo and by Signor Bertolini,but Madame Montoni was not with him.

Emily trembled, as she approached andreceived his severe rebuke, for not havingobeyed his first summons; and perceived, also,that he attributed her stay in the corridor to amotive, that had not even occurred to herartless mind.

'This is an instance of female caprice,' saidhe, 'which I ought to have foreseen. CountMorano, whose suit you obstinately rejected, solong as it was countenanced by me, you favour,it seems, since you find I have dismissed him.'

Emily looked astonished. 'I do notcomprehend you, sir,' said she: 'You certainlydo not mean to imply, that the design of theCount to visit the double-chamber, was foundedupon any approbation of mine.'

'To that I reply nothing,' said Montoni; 'but itmust certainly be a more than common interest,that made you plead so warmly in his cause,and that could detain you thus long in hispresence, contrary to my express order—in thepresence of a man, whom you have hitherto, on

all occasions, most scrupulously shunned!'

'I fear, sir, it was a more than commoninterest, that detained me,' said Emily calmly;'for of late I have been inclined to think, that ofcompassion is an uncommon one. But howcould I, could YOU, sir, witness Count Morano'sdeplorable condition, and not wish to relieve it?'

'You add hypocrisy to caprice,' said Montoni,frowning, 'and an attempt at satire, to both; but,before you undertake to regulate the morals ofother persons, you should learn and practisethe virtues, which are indispensable to awoman—sincerity, uniformity of conduct andobedience.'

Emily, who had always endeavoured toregulate her conduct by the nicest laws, andwhose mind was finely sensible, not only ofwhat is just in morals, but of whatever isbeautiful in the female character, was shockedby these words; yet, in the next moment, herheart swelled with the consciousness of havingdeserved praise, instead of censure, and shewas proudly silent. Montoni, acquainted with thedelicacy of her mind, knew how keenly shewould feel his rebuke; but he was a stranger tothe luxury of conscious worth, and, therefore,did not foresee the energy of that sentiment,which now repelled his satire. Turning to aservant who had lately entered the room, he

asked whether Morano had quitted the castle.The man answered, that his servants were thenremoving him, on a couch, to a neighbouringcottage. Montoni seemed somewhatappeased, on hearing this; and, when Ludovicoappeared, a few moments after, and said, thatMorano was gone, he told Emily she mightretire to her apartment.

She withdrew willingly from his presence; butthe thought of passing the remainder of thenight in a chamber, which the door from thestair-case made liable to the intrusion of anyperson, now alarmed her more than ever, andshe determined to call at Madame Montoni'sroom, and request, that Annette might bepermitted to be with her.

On reaching the great gallery, she heardvoices seemingly in dispute, and, her spiritsnow apt to take alarm, she paused, but soondistinguished some words of Cavigni andVerezzi, and went towards them, in the hope ofconciliating their difference. They were alone.Verezzi's face was still flushed with rage; and,as the first object of it was now removed fromhim, he appeared willing to transfer hisresentment to Cavigni, who seemed to beexpostulating, rather than disputing, with him.

Verezzi was protesting, that he wouldinstantly inform Montoni of the insult, which

Morano had thrown out against him, and aboveall, that, wherein he had accused him of murder.

'There is no answering,' said Cavigni, 'for thewords of a man in a passion; little seriousregard ought to be paid to them. If you persist inyour resolution, the consequences may be fatalto both. We have now more serious interests topursue, than those of a petty revenge.'

Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni'sarguments, and they, at length, prevailed so far,as that Verezzi consented to retire, withoutseeing Montoni.

On calling at her aunt's apartment, she foundit fastened. In a few minutes, however, it wasopened by Madame Montoni herself.

It may be remembered, that it was by a doorleading into the bedroom from a back passage,that Emily had secretly entered a few hourspreceding. She now conjectured, by thecalmness of Madame Montoni's air, that shewas not apprised of the accident, which hadbefallen her husband, and was beginning toinform her of it, in the tenderest manner shecould, when her aunt interrupted her, by saying,she was acquainted with the whole affair.

Emily knew indeed, that she had little reasonto love Montoni, but could scarcely havebelieved her capable of such perfect apathy, as

she now discovered towards him; havingobtained permission, however, for Annette tosleep in her chamber, she went thitherimmediately.

A track of blood appeared along the corridor,leading to it; and on the spot, where the Countand Montoni had fought, the whole floor wasstained. Emily shuddered, and leaned onAnnette, as she passed. When she reached herapartment, she instantly determined, since thedoor of the stair-case had been left open, andthat Annette was now with her, to explorewhither it led,—a circumstance now materiallyconnected with her own safety. Annetteaccordingly, half curious and half afraid,proposed to descend the stairs; but, onapproaching the door, they perceived, that itwas already fastened without, and their carewas then directed to the securing it on theinside also, by placing against it as much of theheavy furniture of the room, as they could lift.Emily then retired to bed, and Annettecontinued on a chair by the hearth, where somefeeble embers remained.

CHAPTER VII Of aery tongues, that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses. MILTON

It is now necessary to mention somecircumstances, which could not be relatedamidst the events of Emily's hasty departurefrom Venice, or together with those, which sorapidly succeeded to her arrival in the castle.

On the morning of her journey, Count Moranohad gone at the appointed hour to the mansionof Montoni, to demand his bride. When hereached it, he was somewhat surprised by thesilence and solitary air of the portico, whereMontoni's lacqueys usually loitered; but surprisewas soon changed to astonishment, andastonishment to the rage of disappointment,when the door was opened by an old woman,who told his servants, that her master and hisfamily had left Venice, early in the morning, forterra-firma. Scarcely believing what his servantstold, he left his gondola, and rushed into the hallto enquire further. The old woman, who was theonly person left in care of the mansion,persisted in her story, which the silent anddeserted apartments soon convinced him wasno fiction. He then seized her with a menacing

air, as if he meant to wreak all his vengeanceupon her, at the same time asking her twentyquestions in a breath, and all these with agesticulation so furious, that she was deprivedof the power of answering them; then suddenlyletting her go, he stamped about the hall, like amadman, cursing Montoni and his own folly.

When the good woman was at liberty, andhad somewhat recovered from her fright, shetold him all she knew of the affair, which was,indeed, very little, but enough to enable Moranoto discover, that Montoni was gone to his castleon the Apennine. Thither he followed, as soonas his servants could complete the necessarypreparation for the journey, accompanied by afriend, and attended by a number of his people,determined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge onMontoni. When his mind had recovered fromthe first effervescence of rage, and his thoughtsbecame less obscured, his conscience hintedto him certain circumstances, which, in somemeasure, explained the conduct of Montoni: buthow the latter could have been led to suspectan intention, which, he had believed, was knownonly to himself, he could not even guess. On thisoccasion, however, he had been partlybetrayed by that sympathetic intelligence, whichmay be said to exist between bad minds, andwhich teaches one man to judge what anotherwill do in the same circumstances. Thus it was

with Montoni, who had now receivedindisputable proof of a truth, which he had sometime suspected—that Morano's circumstances,instead of being affluent, as he had beenbidden to believe, were greatly involved.Montoni had been interested in his suit, bymotives entirely selfish, those of avarice andpride; the last of which would have beengratified by an alliance with a Venetiannobleman, the former by Emily's estate inGascony, which he had stipulated, as the priceof his favour, should be delivered up to him fromthe day of her marriage. In the meantime, hehad been led to suspect the consequence ofthe Count's boundless extravagance; but it wasnot till the evening, preceding the intendednuptials, that he obtained certain information ofhis distressed circumstances. He did nothesitate then to infer, that Morano designed todefraud him of Emily's estate; and in thissupposition he was confirmed, and withapparent reason, by the subsequent conduct ofthe Count, who, after having appointed to meethim on that night, for the purpose of signing theinstrument, which was to secure to him hisreward, failed in his engagement. Such acircumstance, indeed, in a man of Morano'sgay and thoughtless character, and at a timewhen his mind was engaged by the bustle ofpreparation for his nuptials, might have beenattributed to a cause less decisive, than design;

but Montoni did not hesitate an instant tointerpret it his own way, and, after vainly waitingthe Count's arrival, for several hours, he gaveorders for his people to be in readiness to setoff at a moment's notice. By hastening toUdolpho he intended to remove Emily from thereach of Morano, as well as to break off theaffair, without submitting himself to uselessaltercation: and, if the Count meant what hecalled honourably, he would doubtless followEmily, and sign the writings in question. If thiswas done, so little consideration had Montonifor her welfare, that he would not have scrupledto sacrifice her to a man of ruined fortune, sinceby that means he could enrich himself; and heforbore to mention to her the motive of hissudden journey, lest the hope it might reviveshould render her more intractable, whensubmission would be required.

With these considerations, he had leftVenice; and, with others totally different,Morano had, soon after, pursued his stepsacross the rugged Apennines. When his arrivalwas announced at the castle, Montoni did notbelieve, that he would have presumed to shewhimself, unless he had meant to fulfil hisengagement, and he, therefore, readilyadmitted him; but the enraged countenance andexpressions of Morano, as he entered theapartment, instantly undeceived him; and, when

Montoni had explained, in part, the motives ofhis abrupt departure from Venice, the Count stillpersisted in demanding Emily, and reproachingMontoni, without even naming the formerstipulation.

Montoni, at length, weary of the dispute,deferred the settling of it till the morrow, andMorano retired with some hope, suggested byMontoni's apparent indecision. When, however,in the silence of his own apartment, he began toconsider the past conversation, the character ofMontoni, and some former instances of hisduplicity, the hope, which he had admitted,vanished, and he determined not to neglect thepresent possibility of obtaining Emily by othermeans. To his confidential valet he told hisdesign of carrying away Emily, and sent himback to Montoni's servants to find out oneamong them, who might enable him to executeit. The choice of this person he entrusted to thefellow's own discernment, and not imprudently;for he discovered a man, whom Montoni had,on some former occasion, treated harshly, andwho was now ready to betray him. This manconducted Cesario round the castle, through aprivate passage, to the stair-case, that led toEmily's chamber; then shewed him a short wayout of the building, and afterwards procured himthe keys, that would secure his retreat. The manwas well rewarded for his trouble; how the

Count was rewarded for his treachery, hadalready appeared.

Meanwhile, old Carlo had overheard two ofMorano's servants, who had been ordered tobe in waiting with the carriage, beyond thecastle walls, expressing their surprise at theirmaster's sudden, and secret departure, for thevalet had entrusted them with no more ofMorano's designs, than it was necessary forthem to execute. They, however, indulgedthemselves in surmises, and in expressingthem to each other; and from these Carlo haddrawn a just conclusion. But, before he venturedto disclose his apprehensions to Montoni, heendeavoured to obtain further confirmation ofthem, and, for this purpose, placed himself, withone of his fellow-servants, at the door of Emily'sapartment, that opened upon the corridor. Hedid not watch long in vain, though the growlingof the dog had once nearly betrayed him. Whenhe was convinced, that Morano was in theroom, and had listened long enough to hisconversation, to understand his scheme, heimmediately alarmed Montoni, and thusrescued Emily from the designs of the Count.

Montoni, on the following morning, appearedas usual, except that he wore his wounded armin a sling; he went out upon the ramparts;overlooked the men employed in repairingthem; gave orders for additional workmen, and

then came into the castle to give audience toseveral persons, who were just arrived, andwho were shewn into a private apartment,where he communicated with them, for near anhour. Carlo was then summoned, and orderedto conduct the strangers to a part of the castle,which, in former times, had been occupied bythe upper servants of the family, and to providethem with every necessary refreshment.—Whenhe had done this, he was bidden to return to hismaster.

Meanwhile, the Count remained in a cottagein the skirts of the woods below, suffering underbodily and mental pain, and meditating deeprevenge against Montoni. His servant, whom hehad dispatched for a surgeon to the nearesttown, which was, however, at a considerabledistance, did not return till the following day,when, his wounds being examined anddressed, the practitioner refused to deliver anypositive opinion, concerning the degree ofdanger attending them; but giving his patient acomposing draught and ordering him to bequiet, remained at the cottage to watch theevent.

Emily, for the remainder of the late eventfulnight, had been suffered to sleep, undisturbed;and, when her mind recovered from theconfusion of slumber, and she remembered,that she was now released from the addresses

of Count Morano, her spirits were suddenlyrelieved from a part of the terrible anxiety, thathad long oppressed them; that which remained,arose chiefly from a recollection of Morano'sassertions, concerning the schemes of Montoni.He had said, that plans of the latter, concerningEmily, were insearchable, yet that he knewthem to be terrible. At the time he uttered this,she almost believed it to be designed for thepurpose of prevailing with her to throw herselfinto his protection, and she still thought it mightbe chiefly so accounted for; but his assertionshad left an impression on her mind, which aconsideration of the character and formerconduct of Montoni did not contribute to efface.She, however, checked her propensity toanticipate evil; and, determined to enjoy thisrespite from actual misfortune, tried to dismissthought, took her instruments for drawing, andplaced herself at a window, to select into alandscape some features of the scenerywithout.

As she was thus employed, she saw, walkingon the rampart below, the men, who had solately arrived at the castle. The sight ofstrangers surprised her, but still more, ofstrangers such as these. There was asingularity in their dress, and a certainfierceness in their air, that fixed all her attention.She withdrew from the casement, while they

passed, but soon returned to observe themfurther. Their figures seemed so well suited tothe wildness of the surrounding objects, that, asthey stood surveying the castle, she sketchedthem for banditti, amid the mountain-view of herpicture, when she had finished which, she wassurprised to observe the spirit of her group. Butshe had copied from nature.

Carlo, when he had placed refreshmentbefore these men in the apartment assigned tothem, returned, as he was ordered, to Montoni,who was anxious to discover by what servantthe keys of the castle had been delivered toMorano, on the preceding night. But this man,though he was too faithful to his master quietlyto see him injured, would not betray a fellow-servant even to justice; he, therefore, pretendedto be ignorant who it was, that had conspiredwith Count Morano, and related, as before, thathe had only overheard some of the strangersdescribing the plot.

Montoni's suspicions naturally fell upon theporter, whom he ordered now to attend. Carlohesitated, and then with slow steps went toseek him.

Barnardine, the porter, denied the accusationwith a countenance so steady and undaunted,that Montoni could scarcely believe him guilty,though he knew not how to think him innocent.

At length, the man was dismissed from hispresence, and, though the real offender,escaped detection.

Montoni then went to his wife's apartment,whither Emily followed soon after, but, findingthem in high dispute, was instantly leaving theroom, when her aunt called her back, anddesired her to stay.—'You shall be a witness,'said she, 'of my opposition. Now, sir, repeat thecommand, I have so often refused to obey.'

Montoni turned, with a stern countenance, toEmily, and bade her quit the apartment, whilehis wife persisted in desiring, that she wouldstay. Emily was eager to escape from thisscene of contention, and anxious, also, to serveher aunt; but she despaired of conciliatingMontoni, in whose eyes the rising tempest ofhis soul flashed terribly.

'Leave the room,' said he, in a voice ofthunder. Emily obeyed, and, walking down tothe rampart, which the strangers had now left,continued to meditate on the unhappy marriageof her father's sister, and on her own desolatesituation, occasioned by the ridiculousimprudence of her, whom she had alwayswished to respect and love. Madame Montoni'sconduct had, indeed, rendered it impossible forEmily to do either; but her gentle heart wastouched by her distress, and, in the pity thus

awakened, she forgot the injurious treatmentshe had received from her.

As she sauntered on the rampart, Annetteappeared at the hall door, looked cautiouslyround, and then advanced to meet her.

'Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking for youall over the castle,' said she. 'If you will step thisway, I will shew you a picture.'

'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.

'Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady of thisplace. Old Carlo just now told me it was her,and I thought you would be curious to see it. Asto my lady, you know, ma'amselle, one cannottalk about such things to her.'—

'And so,' said Emily smilingly, 'as you musttalk of them to somebody—'

'Why, yes, ma'amselle; what can one do insuch a place as this, if one must not talk? If Iwas in a dungeon, if they would let me talk—itwould be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if itwas only to the walls. But come, ma'amselle, welose time—let me shew you to the picture.'

'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, fixing hereyes on Emily's face, 'what makes you look sopale?—are you ill?'

'No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have nodesire to see this picture; return into the hall.'

'What! ma'am, not to see the lady of thiscastle?' said the girl—'the lady, whodisappeared to strangely? Well! now, I wouldhave run to the furthest mountain we can see,yonder, to have got a sight of such a picture;and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all,that makes me care about this old castle,though it makes me thrill all over, as it were,whenever I think of it.'

'Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but doyou know, that, unless you guard against thisinclination, it will lead you into all the misery ofsuperstition?'

Annette might have smiled in her turn, at thissage observation of Emily, who could tremblewith ideal terrors, as much as herself, and listenalmost as eagerly to the recital of a mysteriousstory. Annette urged her request.

'Are you sure it is a picture?' said Emily,'Have you seen it?—Is it veiled?'

'Holy Maria! ma'amselle, yes, no, yes. I amsure it is a picture—I have seen it, and it is notveiled!'

The tone and look of surprise, with which thiswas uttered, recalled Emily's prudence; who

concealed her emotion under a smile, andbade Annette lead her to the picture. It was inan obscure chamber, adjoining that part of thecastle, allotted to the servants. Several otherportraits hung on the walls, covered, like this,with dust and cobweb.

'That is it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, in a lowvoice, and pointing. Emily advanced, andsurveyed the picture. It represented a lady in theflower of youth and beauty; her features werehandsome and noble, full of strong expression,but had little of the captivating sweetness, thatEmily had looked for, and still less of thepensive mildness she loved. It was acountenance, which spoke the language ofpassion, rather than that of sentiment; a haughtyimpatience of misfortune—not the placidmelancholy of a spirit injured, yet resigned.

'How many years have passed, since thislady disappeared, Annette?' said Emily.

'Twenty years, ma'amselle, or thereabout, asthey tell me; I know it is a long while ago.' Emilycontinued to gaze upon the portrait.

'I think,' resumed Annette, 'the Signor woulddo well to hang it in a better place, than this oldchamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to placethe picture of a lady, who gave him all theseriches, in the handsomest room in the castle.But he may have good reasons for what he

does: and some people do say that he has losthis riches, as well as his gratitude. But hush,ma'am, not a word!' added Annette, laying herfinger on her lips. Emily was too muchabsorbed in thought, to hear what she said.

''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,' continuedAnnette: 'the Signor need not be ashamed toput her in the great apartment, where the veiledpicture hangs.' Emily turned round. 'But for thatmatter, she would be as little seen there, ashere, for the door is always locked, I find.'

'Let us leave this chamber,' said Emily: 'andlet me caution you again, Annette; be guardedin your conversation, and never tell, that youknow any thing of that picture.'

'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is nosecret; why all the servants have seen italready!'

Emily started. 'How is this?' said she—'Haveseen it! When?—how?'

'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprisingin that; we had all a little more CURIOUSNESSthan you had.'

'I thought you told me, the door was keptlocked?' said Emily.

'If that was the case, ma'amselle,' repliedAnnette, looking about her, 'how could we get

here?'

'Oh, you mean THIS picture,' said Emily, withreturning calmness. 'Well, Annette, here isnothing more to engage my attention; we willgo.'

Emily, as she passed to her own apartment,saw Montoni go down to the hall, and sheturned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom shefound weeping and alone, grief and resentmentstruggling on her countenance. Pride hadhitherto restrained complaint. Judging ofEmily's disposition from her own, and from aconsciousness of what her treatment of herdeserved, she had believed, that her griefswould be cause of triumph to her niece, ratherthan of sympathy; that she would despise, notpity her. But she knew not the tenderness andbenevolence of Emily's heart, that had alwaystaught her to forget her own injuries in themisfortunes of her enemy. The sufferings ofothers, whoever they might be, called forth herready compassion, which dissipated at onceevery obscuring cloud to goodness, thatpassion or prejudice might have raised in hermind.

Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, roseabove her pride, and, when Emily had beforeentered the room, she would have told them all,had not her husband prevented her; now that

she was no longer restrained by his presence,she poured forth all her complaints to her niece.

'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the mostwretched of women—I am indeed cruellytreated! Who, with my prospects of happiness,could have foreseen such a wretched fate asthis?—who could have thought, when I marriedsuch a man as the Signor, I should ever have tobewail my lot? But there is no judging what isfor the best—there is no knowing what is for ourgood! The most flattering prospects oftenchange—the best judgments may be deceived—who could have foreseen, when I married theSignor, that I should ever repent myGENEROSITY?'

Emily thought she might have foreseen it, butthis was not a thought of triumph. She placedherself in a chair near her aunt, took her hand,and, with one of those looks of softcompassion, which might characterize thecountenance of a guardian angel, spoke to herin the tenderest accents. But these did notsooth Madame Montoni, whom impatience totalk made unwilling to listen. She wanted tocomplain, not to be consoled; and it was byexclamations of complaint only, that Emilylearned the particular circumstances of heraffliction.

'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he

has deceived me in every respect; and now hehas taken me from my country and friends, toshut me up in this old castle; and, here he thinkshe can compel me to do whatever he designs!But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall findthat no threats can alter—But who would havebelieved! who would have supposed, that aman of his family and apparent wealth hadabsolutely no fortune?—no, scarcely a sequin ofhis own! I did all for the best; I thought he was aman of consequence, of great property, or I amsure I would never have married him,—ungrateful, artful man!' She paused to takebreath.

'Dear Madam, be composed,' said Emily:'the Signor may not be so rich as you hadreason to expect, but surely he cannot be verypoor, since this castle and the mansion atVenice are his. May I ask what are thecircumstances, that particularly affect you?'

'What are the circumstances!' exclaimedMadame Montoni with resentment: 'why is it notsufficient, that he had long ago ruined his ownfortune by play, and that he has since lost what Ibrought him—and that now he would compelme to sign away my settlement (it was well I hadthe chief of my property settled on myself!) thathe may lose this also, or throw it away in wildschemes, which nobody can understand buthimself? And, and—is not all this sufficient?'

'It is, indeed,' said Emily, 'but you mustrecollect, dear madam, that I knew nothing of allthis.'

'Well, and is it not sufficient,' rejoined heraunt, 'that he is also absolutely ruined, that he issunk deeply in debt, and that neither this castle,or the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all hisdebts, honourable and dishonourable, werepaid!'

'I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,'said Emily.

'And is it not enough,' interrupted MadameMontoni, 'that he has treated me with neglect,with cruelty, because I refused to relinquish mysettlements, and, instead of being frightened byhis menaces, resolutely defied him, andupbraided him with his shameful conduct? But Ibore all meekly,—you know, niece, I neveruttered a word of complaint, till now; no! Thatsuch a disposition as mine should be soimposed upon! That I, whose only faults are toomuch kindness, too much generosity, should bechained for life to such a vile, deceitful, cruelmonster!'

Want of breath compelled Madame Montonito stop. If any thing could have made Emilysmile in these moments, it would have been thisspeech of her aunt, delivered in a voice very

little below a scream, and with a vehemence ofgesticulation and of countenance, that turnedthe whole into burlesque. Emily saw, that hermisfortunes did not admit of real consolation,and, contemning the commonplace terms ofsuperficial comfort, she was silent; whileMadame Montoni, jealous of her ownconsequence, mistook this for the silence ofindifference, or of contempt, and reproachedher with want of duty and feeling.

'O! I suspected what all this boastedsensibility would prove to be!' rejoined she; 'Ithought it would not teach you to feel either duty,or affection, for your relations, who have treatedyou like their own daughter!'

'Pardon me, madam,' said Emily, mildly, 'it isnot natural to me to boast, and if it was, I amsure I would not boast of sensibility—a quality,perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.'

'Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you.But, as I said, Montoni threatens me withviolence, if I any longer refuse to sign away mysettlements, and this was the subject of ourcontest, when you came into the room before.Now, I am determined no power on earth shallmake me do this. Neither will I bear all thistamely. He shall hear his true character fromme; I will tell him all he deserves, in spite of histhreats and cruel treatment.'

Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni'svoice, to speak. 'Dear madam,' said she, 'butwill not this serve to irritate the Signorunnecessarily? will it not provoke the harshtreatment you dread?'

'I do not care,' replied Madame Montoni, 'itdoes not signify: I will not submit to such usage.You would have me give up my settlements, too,I suppose!'

'No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.'

'What is it you do mean then?'

'You spoke of reproaching the Signor,'—saidEmily, with hesitation. 'Why, does he notdeserve reproaches?' said her aunt.

'Certainly he does; but will it be prudent inyou, madam, to make them?'

'Prudent!' exclaimed Madame Montoni. 'Isthis a time to talk of prudence, when one isthreatened with all sorts of violence?'

'It is to avoid that violence, that prudence isnecessary.' said Emily.

'Of prudence!' continued Madame Montoni,without attending to her, 'of prudence towards aman, who does not scruple to break all thecommon ties of humanity in his conduct to me!And is it for me to consider prudence in my

behaviour towards him! I am not so mean.'

'It is for your own sake, not for the Signor's,madam,' said Emily modestly, 'that you shouldconsult prudence. Your reproaches, howeverjust, cannot punish him, but they may provokehim to further violence against you.'

'What! would you have me submit, then, towhatever he commands—would you have mekneel down at his feet, and thank him for hiscruelties? Would you have me give up mysettlements?'

'How much you mistake me, madam!' saidEmily, 'I am unequal to advise you on a point soimportant as the last: but you will pardon me forsaying, that, if you consult your own peace, youwill try to conciliate Signor Montoni, rather thanto irritate him by reproaches.'

'Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterlyimpossible; I disdain to attempt it.'

Emily was shocked to observe the pervertedunderstanding and obstinate temper ofMadame Montoni; but, not less grieved for hersufferings, she looked round for somealleviating circumstance to offer her. 'Yoursituation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dearmadam,' said Emily, 'as you may imagine. TheSignor may represent his affairs to be worsethan they are, for the purpose of pleading a

stronger necessity for his possession of yoursettlement. Besides, so long as you keep this,you may look forward to it as a resource, atleast, that will afford you a competence, shouldthe Signor's future conduct compel you to suefor separation.'

Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her.'Unfeeling, cruel girl!' said she, 'and so youwould persuade me, that I have no reason tocomplain; that the Signor is in very flourishingcircumstances, that my future prospectspromise nothing but comfort, and that my griefsare as fanciful and romantic as your own! Is itthe way to console me, to endeavour topersuade me out of my senses and my feelings,because you happen to have no feelingsyourself? I thought I was opening my heart to aperson, who could sympathize in my distress,but I find, that your people of sensibility can feelfor nobody but themselves! You may retire toyour chamber.'

Emily, without replying, immediately left theroom, with a mingled emotion of pity andcontempt, and hastened to her own, where sheyielded to the mournful reflections, which aknowledge of her aunt's situation hadoccasioned. The conversation of the Italian withValancourt, in France, again occurred to her.His hints, respecting the broken fortunes ofMontoni, were now completely justified; those,

also, concerning his character, appeared notless so, though the particular circumstances,connected with his fame, to which the strangerhad alluded, yet remained to be explained.Notwithstanding, that her own observations andthe words of Count Morano had convinced her,that Montoni's situation was not what it formerlyappeared to be, the intelligence she had justreceived from her aunt on this point, struck herwith all the force of astonishment, which was notweakened, when she considered the presentstyle of Montoni's living, the number of servantshe maintained, and the new expences he wasincurring, by repairing and fortifying his castle.Her anxiety for her aunt and for herselfincreased with reflection. Several assertions ofMorano, which, on the preceding night, she hadbelieved were prompted either by interest, or byresentment, now returned to her mind with thestrength of truth. She could not doubt, thatMontoni had formerly agreed to give her to theCount, for a pecuniary reward;—his character,and his distressed circumstances justified thebelief; these, also, seemed to confirm Morano'sassertion, that he now designed to dispose ofher, more advantageously for himself, to aricher suitor.

Amidst the reproaches, which Morano hadthrown out against Montoni, he had said—hewould not quit the castle HE DARED TO CALL

HIS, nor willingly leave ANOTHER murder onhis conscience—hints, which might have noother origin than the passion of the moment: butEmily was now inclined to account for themmore seriously, and she shuddered to think, thatshe was in the hands of a man, to whom it waseven possible they could apply. At length,considering, that reflection could neitherrelease her from her melancholy situation, orenable her to bear it with greater fortitude, shetried to divert her anxiety, and took down fromher little library a volume of her favouriteAriosto; but his wild imagery and rich inventioncould not long enchant her attention; his spellsdid not reach her heart, and over her sleepingfancy they played, without awakening it.

She now put aside the book, and took herlute, for it was seldom that her sufferingsrefused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds;when they did so, she was oppressed bysorrow, that came from excess of tendernessand regret; and there were times, when musichad increased such sorrow to a degree, thatwas scarcely endurable; when, if it had notsuddenly ceased, she might have lost herreason. Such was the time, when she mournedfor her father, and heard the midnight strains,that floated by her window near the convent inLanguedoc, on the night that followed his death.

She continued to play, till Annette brought

dinner into her chamber, at which Emily wassurprised, and enquired whose order sheobeyed. 'My lady's, ma'amselle,' repliedAnnette: 'the Signor ordered her dinner to becarried to her own apartment, and so she hassent you yours. There have been sad doingsbetween them, worse than ever, I think.'

Emily, not appearing to notice what she said,sat down to the little table, that was spread forher. But Annette was not to be silenced thuseasily. While she waited, she told of the arrivalof the men, whom Emily had observed on theramparts, and expressed much surprise at theirstrange appearance, as well as at the manner,in which they had been attended by Montoni'sorder. 'Do they dine with the Signor, then?' saidEmily.

'No, ma'amselle, they dined long ago, in anapartment at the north end of the castle, but Iknow not when they are to go, for the Signortold old Carlo to see them provided with everything necessary. They have been walking allabout the castle, and asking questions of theworkmen on the ramparts. I never saw suchstrange-looking men in my life; I am frightenedwhenever I see them.'

Emily enquired, if she had heard of CountMorano, and whether he was likely to recover:but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a

cottage in the wood below, and that every bodysaid he must die. Emily's countenancediscovered her emotion.

'Dear ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'to see howyoung ladies will disguise themselves, whenthey are in love! I thought you hated the Count,or I am sure I would not have told you; and I amsure you have cause enough to hate him.'

'I hope I hate nobody,' replied Emily, trying tosmile; 'but certainly I do not love Count Morano.I should be shocked to hear of any person dyingby violent means.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own fault.'

Emily looked displeased; and Annette,mistaking the cause of her displeasure,immediately began to excuse the Count, in herway. 'To be sure, it was very ungenteelbehaviour,' said she, 'to break into a lady'sroom, and then, when he found his discoursingwas not agreeable to her, to refuse to go; andthen, when the gentleman of the castle comesto desire him to walk about his business—toturn round, and draw his sword, and swear he'llrun him through the body!—To be sure it wasvery ungenteel behaviour, but then he wasdisguised in love, and so did not know what hewas about.'

'Enough of this,' said Emily, who now smiled

without an effort; and Annette returned to amention of the disagreement between Montoni,and her lady. 'It is nothing new,' said she: 'wesaw and heard enough of this at Venice, thoughI never told you of it, ma'amselle.'

'Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you notto mention it then: be as prudent now; thesubject is an unpleasant one.'

'Ah dear, ma'amselle!—to see now howconsiderate you can be about some folks, whocare so little about you! I cannot bear to see youso deceived, and I must tell you. But it is all foryour own good, and not to spite my lady,though, to speak truth, I have little reason to loveher; but—'

'You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope,Annette?' said Emily, gravely.

'Yes, ma'amselle, but I am, though; and if youknew as much as I do, you would not look soangry. I have often, and often, heard the Signorand her talking over your marriage with theCount, and she always advised him never togive up to your foolish whims, as she waspleased to call them, but to be resolute, andcompel you to be obedient, whether you would,or no. And I am sure, my heart has ached athousand times, and I have thought, when shewas so unhappy herself, she might have felt alittle for other people, and—'

'I thank you for your pity, Annette,' said Emily,interrupting her: 'but my aunt was unhappy then,and that disturbed her temper perhaps, or Ithink—I am sure—You may take away, Annette,I have done.'

'Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing at all!Do try, and take a little bit more. Disturbed hertemper truly! why, her temper is alwaysdisturbed, I think. And at Tholouse too I haveheard my lady talking of you and Mons.Valancourt to Madame Merveille and MadameVaison, often and often, in a very ill-naturedway, as I thought, telling them what a deal oftrouble she had to keep you in order, and whata fatigue and distress it was to her, and that shebelieved you would run away with Mons.Valancourt, if she was not to watch you closely;and that you connived at his coming about thehouse at night, and—'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, blushingdeeply, 'it is surely impossible my aunt couldthus have represented me!'

'Indeed, ma'am, I say nothing more than thetruth, and not all of that. But I thought, myself,she might have found something better todiscourse about, than the faults of her ownniece, even if you had been in fault, ma'amselle;but I did not believe a word of what she said.

But my lady does not care what she saysagainst any body, for that matter.'

'However that may be, Annette,' interruptedEmily, recovering her composure, 'it does notbecome you to speak of the faults of my aunt tome. I know you have meant well, but—say nomore.—I have quite dined.'

Annette blushed, looked down, and thenbegan slowly to clear the table.

'Is this, then, the reward of myingenuousness?' said Emily, when she wasalone; 'the treatment I am to receive from arelation—an aunt—who ought to have been theguardian, not the slanderer of my reputation,—who, as a woman, ought to have respected thedelicacy of female honour, and, as a relation,should have protected mine! But, to utterfalsehoods on so nice a subject—to repay theopenness, and, I may say with honest pride, thepropriety of my conduct, with slanders—required a depravity of heart, such as I couldscarcely have believed existed, such as I weepto find in a relation. O! what a contrast does hercharacter present to that of my beloved father;while envy and low cunning form the chief traitsof hers, his was distinguished by benevolenceand philosophic wisdom! But now, let me onlyremember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.'

Emily threw her veil over her, and went down

to walk upon the ramparts, the only walk,indeed, which was open to her, though sheoften wished, that she might be permitted toramble among the woods below, and still more,that she might sometimes explore the sublimescenes of the surrounding country. But, asMontoni would not suffer her to pass the gatesof the castle, she tried to be contented with theromantic views she beheld from the walls. Thepeasants, who had been employed on thefortifications, had left their work, and theramparts were silent and solitary. Their lonelyappearance, together with the gloom of alowering sky, assisted the musings of her mind,and threw over it a kind of melancholytranquillity, such as she often loved to indulge.She turned to observe a fine effect of the sun,as his rays, suddenly streaming from behind aheavy cloud, lighted up the west towers of thecastle, while the rest of the edifice was in deepshade, except, that, through a lofty gothic arch,adjoining the tower, which led to anotherterrace, the beams darted in full splendour, andshewed the three strangers she had observedin the morning. Perceiving them, she started,and a momentary fear came over her, as shelooked up the long rampart, and saw no otherpersons. While she hesitated, they approached.The gate at the end of the terrace, whither theywere advancing, she knew, was always locked,and she could not depart by the opposite

extremity, without meeting them; but, before shepassed them, she hastily drew a thin veil overher face, which did, indeed, but ill conceal herbeauty. They looked earnestly at her, and spoketo each other in bad Italian, of which she caughtonly a few words; but the fierceness of theircountenances, now that she was near enoughto discriminate them, struck her yet more thanthe wild singularity of their air and dress hadformerly done. It was the countenance andfigure of him, who walked between the othertwo, that chiefly seized her attention, whichexpressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind ofdark watchful villany, that gave a thrill of horrorto her heart. All this was so legibly written on hisfeatures, as to be seen by a single glance, forshe passed the group swiftly, and her timideyes scarcely rested on them a moment.Having reached the terrace, she stopped, andperceived the strangers standing in the shadowof one of the turrets, gazing after her, andseemingly, by their action, in earnestconversation. She immediately left the rampart,and retired to her apartment.

In the evening, Montoni sat late, carousingwith his guests in the cedar chamber. Hisrecent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps,some other circumstance, contributed toelevate his spirits to an unusual height. He filledthe goblet often, and gave a loose to merriment

and talk. The gaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary,was somewhat clouded by anxiety. He kept awatchful eye upon Verezzi, whom, with theutmost difficulty, he had hitherto restrained fromexasperating Montoni further against Morano,by a mention of his late taunting words.

One of the company exultingly recurred to theevent of the preceding evening. Verezzi's eyessparkled. The mention of Morano led to that ofEmily, of whom they were all profuse in thepraise, except Montoni, who sat silent, and theninterrupted the subject.

When the servants had withdrawn, Montoniand his friends entered into close conversation,which was sometimes checked by the irascibletemper of Verezzi, but in which Montonidisplayed his conscious superiority, by thatdecisive look and manner, which alwaysaccompanied the vigour of his thought, and towhich most of his companions submitted, as toa power, that they had no right to question,though of each other's self-importance theywere jealously scrupulous. Amidst thisconversation, one of them imprudentlyintroduced again the name of Morano; andVerezzi, now more heated by wine,disregarded the expressive looks of Cavigni,and gave some dark hints of what had passedon the preceding night. These, however,Montoni did not appear to understand, for he

continued silent in his chair, without discoveringany emotion, while, the choler of Verezziincreasing with the apparent insensibility ofMontoni, he at length told the suggestion ofMorano, that this castle did not lawfully belongto him, and that he would not willingly leaveanother murder on his conscience.

'Am I to be insulted at my own table, and bymy own friends?' said Montoni, with acountenance pale in anger. 'Why are the wordsof that madman repeated to me?' Verezzi, whohad expected to hear Montoni's indignationpoured forth against Morano, and answered bythanks to himself, looked with astonishment atCavigni, who enjoyed his confusion. 'Can yoube weak enough to credit the assertions of amadman?' rejoined Montoni, 'or, what is thesame thing, a man possessed by the spirit ofvengeance? But he has succeeded too well;you believe what he said.'

'Signor,' said Verezzi, 'we believe only whatwe know.'—'How!' interrupted Montoni, sternly:'produce your proof.'

'We believe only what we know,' repeatedVerezzi, 'and we know nothing of what Moranoasserts.' Montoni seemed to recover himself. 'Iam hasty, my friends,' said he, 'with respect tomy honour; no man shall question it withimpunity—you did not mean to question it.

These foolish words are not worth yourremembrance, or my resentment. Verezzi, hereis to your first exploit.'

'Success to your first exploit,' re-echoed thewhole company.

'Noble Signor,' replied Verezzi, glad to findhe had escaped Montoni's resentment, 'with mygood will, you shall build your ramparts of gold.'

'Pass the goblet,' cried Montoni. 'We willdrink to Signora St. Aubert,' said Cavigni. 'Byyour leave we will first drink to the lady of thecastle.' said Bertolini.—Montoni was silent. 'Tothe lady of the castle,' said his guests. Hebowed his head.

'It much surprises me, Signor,' said Bertolini,'that you have so long neglected this castle; it isa noble edifice.'

'It suits our purpose,' replied Montoni, 'and ISa noble edifice. You know not, it seems, by whatmischance it came to me.'

'It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may,Signor,' replied Bertolini, smiling. 'I would, thatone so lucky had befallen me.'

Montoni looked gravely at him. 'If you willattend to what I say,' he resumed, 'you shallhear the story.'

The countenances of Bertolini and Verezziexpressed something more than curiosity;Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, hadprobably heard the relation before.

'It is now near twenty years,' said Montoni,'since this castle came into my possession. Iinherit it by the female line. The lady, mypredecessor, was only distantly related to me; Iam the last of her family. She was beautiful andrich; I wooed her; but her heart was fixed uponanother, and she rejected me. It is probable,however, that she was herself rejected of theperson, whoever he might be, on whom shebestowed her favour, for a deep and settledmelancholy took possession of her; and I havereason to believe she put a period to her ownlife. I was not at the castle at the time; but, asthere are some singular and mysteriouscircumstances attending that event, I shallrepeat them.'

'Repeat them!' said a voice.

Montoni was silent; the guests looked at eachother, to know who spoke; but they perceived,that each was making the same enquiry.Montoni, at length, recovered himself. 'We areoverheard,' said he: 'we will finish this subjectanother time. Pass the goblet.'

The cavaliers looked round the widechamber.

'Here is no person, but ourselves,' saidVerezzi: 'pray, Signor, proceed.'

'Did you hear any thing?' said Montoni.

'We did,' said Bertolini.

'It could be only fancy,' said Verezzi, lookinground again. 'We see no person besidesourselves; and the sound I thought I heardseemed within the room. Pray, Signor, go on.'

Montoni paused a moment, and thenproceeded in a lowered voice, while thecavaliers drew nearer to attend.

'Ye are to know, Signors, that the LadyLaurentini had for some months shewnsymptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of adisturbed imagination. Her mood was veryunequal; sometimes she was sunk in calmmelancholy, and, at others, as I have been told,she betrayed all the symptoms of franticmadness. It was one night in the month ofOctober, after she had recovered from one ofthose fits of excess, and had sunk again intoher usual melancholy, that she retired alone toher chamber, and forbade all interruption. It wasthe chamber at the end of the corridor, Signors,where we had the affray, last night. From thathour, she was seen no more.'

'How! seen no more!' said Bertolini, 'was not

her body found in the chamber?'

'Were her remains never found?' cried therest of the company all together.

'Never!' replied Montoni.

'What reasons were there to suppose shedestroyed herself, then?' said Bertolini.—'Aye,what reasons?' said Verezzi.—'How happenedit, that her remains were never found? Althoughshe killed herself, she could not bury herself.'Montoni looked indignantly at Verezzi, whobegan to apologize. 'Your pardon, Signor,' saidhe: 'I did not consider, that the lady was yourrelative, when I spoke of her so lightly.'

Montoni accepted the apology.

'But the Signor will oblige us with thereasons, which urged him to believe, that thelady committed suicide.'

'Those I will explain hereafter,' said Montoni:'at present let me relate a most extraordinarycircumstance. This conversation goes nofurther, Signors. Listen, then, to what I am goingto say.'

'Listen!' said a voice.

They were all again silent, and thecountenance of Montoni changed. 'This is noillusion of the fancy,' said Cavigni, at length

breaking the profound silence.—'No,' saidBertolini; 'I heard it myself, now. Yet here is noperson in the room but ourselves!'

'This is very extraordinary,' said Montoni,suddenly rising. 'This is not to be borne; here issome deception, some trick. I will know what itmeans.'

All the company rose from their chairs inconfusion.

'It is very odd!' said Bertolini. 'Here is reallyno stranger in the room. If it is a trick, Signor,you will do well to punish the author of itseverely.'

'A trick! what else can it be?' said Cavigni,affecting a laugh.

The servants were now summoned, and thechamber was searched, but no person wasfound. The surprise and consternation of thecompany increased. Montoni wasdiscomposed. 'We will leave this room,' saidhe, 'and the subject of our conversation also; itis too solemn.' His guests were equally ready toquit the apartment; but the subject had rousedtheir curiosity, and they entreated Montoni towithdraw to another chamber, and finish it; noentreaties could, however, prevail with him.Notwithstanding his efforts to appear at ease,he was visibly and greatly disordered.

'Why, Signor, you are not superstitious,' criedVerezzi, jeeringly; 'you, who have so oftenlaughed at the credulity of others!'

'I am not superstitious,' replied Montoni,regarding him with stern displeasure, 'though Iknow how to despise the common-placesentences, which are frequently uttered againstsuperstition. I will enquire further into this affair.'He then left the room; and his guests,separating for the night, retired to theirrespective apartments.

CHAPTER VIII He wears the rose of youth upon his cheek. SHAKESPEARE

We now return to Valancourt, who, it may beremembered, remained at Tholouse, sometime after the departure of Emily, restless andmiserable. Each morrow that approached, hedesigned should carry him from thence; yet to-morrow and to-morrow came, and still saw himlingering in the scene of his former happiness.He could not immediately tear himself from thespot, where he had been accustomed toconverse with Emily, or from the objects theyhad viewed together, which appeared to himmemorials of her affection, as well as a kind ofsurety for its faithfulness; and, next to the pain ofbidding her adieu, was that of leaving thescenes which so powerfully awakened herimage. Sometimes he had bribed a servant,who had been left in the care of MadameMontoni's chateau, to permit him to visit thegardens, and there he would wander, for hourstogether, rapt in a melancholy, not unpleasing.The terrace, and the pavilion at the end of it,where he had taken leave of Emily, on the eveof her departure from Tholouse, were his mostfavourite haunts. There, as he walked, or leanedfrom the window of the building, he would

endeavour to recollect all she had said, on thatnight; to catch the tones of her voice, as theyfaintly vibrated on his memory, and toremember the exact expression of hercountenance, which sometimes came suddenlyto his fancy, like a vision; that beautifulcountenance, which awakened, as byinstantaneous magic, all the tenderness of hisheart, and seemed to tell with irresistibleeloquence—that he had lost her forever! Atthese moments, his hurried steps would havediscovered to a spectator the despair of hisheart. The character of Montoni, such as he hadreceived from hints, and such as his fearsrepresented it, would rise to his view, togetherwith all the dangers it seemed to threaten toEmily and to his love. He blamed himself, thathe had not urged these more forcibly to her,while it might have been in his power to detainher, and that he had suffered an absurd andcriminal delicacy, as he termed it, to conquer sosoon the reasonable arguments he hadopposed to this journey. Any evil, that mighthave attended their marriage, seemed soinferior to those, which now threatened theirlove, or even to the sufferings, that absenceoccasioned, that he wondered how he couldhave ceased to urge his suit, till he hadconvinced her of its propriety; and he wouldcertainly now have followed her to Italy, if hecould have been spared from his regiment for

so long a journey. His regiment, indeed, soonreminded him, that he had other duties toattend, than those of love.

A short time after his arrival at his brother'shouse, he was summoned to join his brotherofficers, and he accompanied a battalion toParis; where a scene of novelty and gaietyopened upon him, such as, till then, he had onlya faint idea of. But gaiety disgusted, andcompany fatigued, his sick mind; and hebecame an object of unceasing raillery to hiscompanions, from whom, whenever he couldsteal an opportunity, he escaped, to think ofEmily. The scenes around him, however, andthe company with whom he was obliged tomingle, engaged his attention, though theyfailed to amuse his fancy, and thus graduallyweakened the habit of yielding to lamentation,till it appeared less a duty to his love to indulgeit. Among his brother-officers were many, whoadded to the ordinary character of a Frenchsoldier's gaiety some of those fascinatingqualities, which too frequently throw a veil overfolly, and sometimes even soften the features ofvice into smiles. To these men the reserved andthoughtful manners of Valancourt were a kind oftacit censure on their own, for which they ralliedhim when present, and plotted against himwhen absent; they gloried in the thought ofreducing him to their own level, and,

considering it to be a spirited frolic, determinedto accomplish it.

Valancourt was a stranger to the gradualprogress of scheme and intrigue, against whichhe could not be on his guard. He had not beenaccustomed to receive ridicule, and he could illendure its sting; he resented it, and this onlydrew upon him a louder laugh. To escape fromsuch scenes, he fled into solitude, and there theimage of Emily met him, and revived the pangsof love and despair. He then sought to renewthose tasteful studies, which had been thedelight of his early years; but his mind had lostthe tranquillity, which is necessary for theirenjoyment. To forget himself and the grief andanxiety, which the idea of her recalled, he wouldquit his solitude, and again mingle in the crowd—glad of a temporary relief, and rejoicing tosnatch amusement for the moment.

Thus passed weeks after weeks, timegradually softening his sorrow, and habitstrengthening his desire of amusement, till thescenes around him seemed to awaken into anew character, and Valancourt, to have fallenamong them from the clouds.

His figure and address made him a welcomevisitor, wherever he had been introduced, andhe soon frequented the most gay andfashionable circles of Paris. Among these, was

the assembly of the Countess Lacleur, awoman of eminent beauty and captivatingmanners. She had passed the spring of youth,but her wit prolonged the triumph of its reign,and they mutually assisted the fame of eachother; for those, who were charmed by herloveliness, spoke with enthusiasm of hertalents; and others, who admired her playfulimagination, declared, that her personal graceswere unrivalled. But her imagination was merelyplayful, and her wit, if such it could be called,was brilliant, rather than just; it dazzled, and itsfallacy escaped the detection of the moment;for the accents, in which she pronounced it, andthe smile, that accompanied them, were a spellupon the judgment of the auditors. Her petitssoupers were the most tasteful of any in Paris,and were frequented by many of the secondclass of literati. She was fond of music, washerself a scientific performer, and hadfrequently concerts at her house. Valancourt,who passionately loved music, and whosometimes assisted at these concerts, admiredher execution, but remembered with a sigh theeloquent simplicity of Emily's songs and thenatural expression of her manner, which waitednot to be approved by the judgment, but foundtheir way at once to the heart.

Madame La Comtesse had often deep playat her house, which she affected to restrain, but

secretly encouraged; and it was well knownamong her friends, that the splendour of herestablishment was chiefly supplied from theprofits of her tables. But her petits souperswere the most charming imaginable! Here wereall the delicacies of the four quarters of theworld, all the wit and the lighter efforts of genius,all the graces of conversation—the smiles ofbeauty, and the charm of music; and Valancourtpassed his pleasantest, as well as mostdangerous hours in these parties.

His brother, who remained with his family inGascony, had contented himself with giving himletters of introduction to such of his relations,residing at Paris, as the latter was not alreadyknown to. All these were persons of somedistinction; and, as neither the person, mind, ormanners of Valancourt the younger threatenedto disgrace their alliance, they received himwith as much kindness as their nature,hardened by uninterrupted prosperity, wouldadmit of; but their attentions did not extend toacts of real friendship; for they were too muchoccupied by their own pursuits, to feel anyinterest in his; and thus he was set down in themidst of Paris, in the pride of youth, with anopen, unsuspicious temper and ardentaffections, without one friend, to warn him of thedangers, to which he was exposed. Emily, who,had she been present, would have saved him

from these evils by awakening his heart, andengaging him in worthy pursuits, now onlyincreased his danger;—it was to lose the grief,which the remembrance of her occasioned, thathe first sought amusement; and for this end hepursued it, till habit made it an object of abstractinterest.

There was also a Marchioness Champfort, ayoung widow, at whose assemblies he passedmuch of his time. She was handsome, still moreartful, gay and fond of intrigue. The society,which she drew round her, was less elegant andmore vicious, than that of the Countess Lacleur:but, as she had address enough to throw a veil,though but a slight one, over the worst part ofher character, she was still visited by manypersons of what is called distinction. Valancourtwas introduced to her parties by two of hisbrother officers, whose late ridicule he had nowforgiven so far, that he could sometimes join inthe laugh, which a mention of his formermanners would renew.

The gaiety of the most splendid court inEurope, the magnificence of the palaces,entertainments, and equipages, thatsurrounded him—all conspired to dazzle hisimagination, and re-animate his spirits, and theexample and maxims of his military associatesto delude his mind. Emily's image, indeed, stilllived there; but it was no longer the friend, the

monitor, that saved him from himself, and towhich he retired to weep the sweet, yetmelancholy, tears of tenderness. When he hadrecourse to it, it assumed a countenance ofmild reproach, that wrung his soul, and calledforth tears of unmixed misery; his only escapefrom which was to forget the object of it, and heendeavoured, therefore, to think of Emily asseldom as he could.

Thus dangerously circumstanced wasValancourt, at the time, when Emily wassuffering at Venice, from the persecutingaddresses of Count Morano, and the unjustauthority of Montoni; at which period we leavehim.

CHAPTER IX The image of a wicked, heinous fault Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his Does shew the mood of a much-troubled breast. KING JOHN

Leaving the gay scenes of Paris, we return tothose of the gloomy Apennine, where Emily'sthoughts were still faithful to Valancourt.Looking to him as to her only hope, sherecollected, with jealous exactness, everyassurance and every proof she had witnessedof his affection; read again and again the lettersshe had received from him; weighed, withintense anxiety, the force of every word, thatspoke of his attachment; and dried her tears, asshe trusted in his truth.

Montoni, meanwhile, had made strict enquiryconcerning the strange circumstance of hisalarm, without obtaining information; and was,at length, obliged to account for it by thereasonable supposition, that it was amischievous trick played off by one of hisdomestics. His disagreements with MadameMontoni, on the subject of her settlements, werenow more frequent than ever; he even confinedher entirely to her own apartment, and did notscruple to threaten her with much greaterseverity, should she persevere in a refusal.

Reason, had she consulted it, would nowhave perplexed her in the choice of a conduct tobe adopted. It would have pointed out thedanger of irritating by further opposition a man,such as Montoni had proved himself to be, andto whose power she had so entirely committedherself; and it would also have told her, of whatextreme importance to her future comfort it was,to reserve for herself those possessions, whichwould enable her to live independently ofMontoni, should she ever escape from hisimmediate controul. But she was directed by amore decisive guide than reason—the spirit ofrevenge, which urged her to oppose violence toviolence, and obstinacy to obstinacy.

Wholly confined to the solitude of herapartment, she was now reduced to solicit thesociety she had lately rejected; for Emily wasthe only person, except Annette, with whom shewas permitted to converse.

Generously anxious for her peace, Emily,therefore, tried to persuade, when she could notconvince, and sought by every gentle means toinduce her to forbear that asperity of reply,which so greatly irritated Montoni. The pride ofher aunt did sometimes soften to the soothingvoice of Emily, and there even were moments,when she regarded her affectionate attentionswith goodwill.

The scenes of terrible contention, to which

Emily was frequently compelled to be witness,exhausted her spirits more than anycircumstances, that had occurred since herdeparture from Tholouse. The gentleness andgoodness of her parents, together with thescenes of her early happiness, often stole onher mind, like the visions of a higher world;while the characters and circumstances, nowpassing beneath her eye, excited both terrorand surprise. She could scarcely haveimagined, that passions so fierce and sovarious, as those which Montoni exhibited,could have been concentrated in one individual;yet what more surprised her, was, that, on greatoccasions, he could bend these passions, wildas they were, to the cause of his interest, andgenerally could disguise in his countenancetheir operation on his mind; but she had seenhim too often, when he had thought itunnecessary to conceal his nature, to bedeceived on such occasions.

Her present life appeared like the dream of adistempered imagination, or like one of thosefrightful fictions, in which the wild genius of thepoets sometimes delighted. Reflection broughtonly regret, and anticipation terror. How oftendid she wish to 'steal the lark's wing, and mountthe swiftest gale,' that Languedoc and reposemight once more be hers!

Of Count Morano's health she made frequentenquiry; but Annette heard only vague reports of

his danger, and that his surgeon had said hewould never leave the cottage alive; while Emilycould not but be shocked to think, that she,however innocently, might be the means of hisdeath; and Annette, who did not fail to observeher emotion, interpreted it in her own way.

But a circumstance soon occurred, whichentirely withdrew Annette's attention from thissubject, and awakened the surprise andcuriosity so natural to her. Coming one day toEmily's apartment, with a countenance full ofimportance, 'What can all this mean,ma'amselle?' said she. 'Would I was once safein Languedoc again, they should never catchme going on my travels any more! I must think ita fine thing, truly, to come abroad, and seeforeign parts! I little thought I was coming to becatched up in a old castle, among such drearymountains, with the chance of being murdered,or, what is as good, having my throat cut!'

'What can all this mean, indeed, Annette?'said Emily, in astonishment.

'Aye, ma'amselle, you may look surprised;but you won't believe it, perhaps, till they havemurdered you, too. You would not believe aboutthe ghost I told you of, though I shewed you thevery place, where it used to appear!—You willbelieve nothing, ma'amselle.'

'Not till you speak more reasonably, Annette;for Heaven's sake, explain your meaning. You

spoke of murder!'

'Aye, ma'amselle, they are coming to murderus all, perhaps; but what signifies explaining?—you will not believe.'

Emily again desired her to relate what shehad seen, or heard.

'O, I have seen enough, ma'am, and heardtoo much, as Ludovico can prove. Poor soul!they will murder him, too! I little thought, when hesung those sweet verses under my lattice, atVenice!'—Emily looked impatient anddispleased. 'Well, ma'amselle, as I was saying,these preparations about the castle, and thesestrange-looking people, that are calling hereevery day, and the Signor's cruel usage of mylady, and his odd goings-on—all these, as I toldLudovico, can bode no good. And he bid mehold my tongue. So, says I, the Signor'sstrangely altered, Ludovico, in this gloomycastle, to what he was in France; there, all sogay! Nobody so gallant to my lady, then; and hecould smile, too, upon a poor servant,sometimes, and jeer her, too, good-naturedlyenough. I remember once, when he said to me,as I was going out of my lady's dressing-room—Annette, says he—'

'Never mind what the Signor said,' interruptedEmily; 'but tell me, at once, the circumstance,which has thus alarmed you.'

'Aye, ma'amselle,' rejoined Annette, 'that isjust what Ludovico said: says he, Never mindwhat the Signor says to you. So I told him what Ithought about the Signor. He is so strangelyaltered, said I: for now he is so haughty, and socommanding, and so sharp with my lady; and, ifhe meets one, he'll scarcely look at one, unlessit be to frown. So much the better, saysLudovico, so much the better. And to tell you thetruth, ma'amselle, I thought this was a very ill-natured speech of Ludovico: but I went on. Andthen, says I, he is always knitting his brows; andif one speaks to him, he does not hear; andthen he sits up counselling so, of a night, withthe other Signors—there they are, till long pastmidnight, discoursing together! Aye, but saysLudovico, you don't know what they arecounselling about. No, said I, but I can guess—itis about my young lady. Upon that, Ludovicoburst out a-laughing, quite loud; so he put me ina huff, for I did not like that either I or you,ma'amselle, should be laughed at; and I turnedaway quick, but he stopped me. "Don't beaffronted, Annette," said he, "but I cannot helplaughing;" and with that he laughed again."What!" says he, "do you think the Signors situp, night after night, only to counsel about thyyoung lady! No, no, there is something more inthe wind than that. And these repairs about thecastle, and these preparations about theramparts—they are not making about youngladies." Why, surely, said I, the Signor, my

master, is not going to make war? "Make war!"said Ludovico, "what, upon the mountains andthe woods? for here is no living soul to makewar upon that I see."

'What are these preparations for, then? saidI; why surely nobody is coming to take away mymaster's castle! "Then there are so many ill-looking fellows coming to the castle every day,"says Ludovico, without answering my question,"and the Signor sees them all, and talks withthem all, and they all stay in the neighbourhood!By holy St. Marco! some of them are the mostcut-throat-looking dogs I ever set my eyesupon."

'I asked Ludovico again, if he thought theywere coming to take away my master's castle;and he said, No, he did not think they were, buthe did not know for certain. "Then yesterday,"said he, but you must not tell this, ma'amselle,"yesterday, a party of these men came, and leftall their horses in the castle stables, where, itseems, they are to stay, for the Signor orderedthem all to be entertained with the bestprovender in the manger; but the men are, mostof them, in the neighbouring cottages."

'So, ma'amselle, I came to tell you all this, for Inever heard any thing so strange in my life. Butwhat can these ill-looking men be come about,if it is not to murder us? And the Signor knowsthis, or why should he be so civil to them? And

why should he fortify the castle, and counsel somuch with the other Signors, and be sothoughtful?'

'Is this all you have to tell, Annette?' saidEmily. 'Have you heard nothing else, that alarmsyou?'

'Nothing else, ma'amselle!' said Annette;'why, is not this enough?' 'Quite enough for mypatience, Annette, but not quite enough toconvince me we are all to be murdered, though Iacknowledge here is sufficient food forcuriosity.' She forbore to speak herapprehensions, because she would notencourage Annette's wild terrors; but thepresent circumstances of the castle bothsurprised, and alarmed her. Annette, havingtold her tale, left the chamber, on the wing fornew wonders.

In the evening, Emily had passed somemelancholy hours with Madame Montoni, andwas retiring to rest, when she was alarmed by astrange and loud knocking at her chamberdoor, and then a heavy weight fell against it, thatalmost burst it open. She called to know whowas there, and receiving no answer, repeatedthe call; but a chilling silence followed. Itoccurred to her—for, at this moment, she couldnot reason on the probability of circumstances—that some one of the strangers, lately arrivedat the castle, had discovered her apartment,

and was come with such intent, as their looksrendered too possible—to rob, perhaps tomurder, her. The moment she admitted thispossibility, terror supplied the place ofconviction, and a kind of instinctiveremembrance of her remote situation from thefamily heightened it to a degree, that almostovercame her senses. She looked at the door,which led to the staircase, expecting to see itopen, and listening, in fearful silence, for areturn of the noise, till she began to think it hadproceeded from this door, and a wish ofescaping through the opposite one rushed uponher mind. She went to the gallery door, andthen, fearing to open it, lest some person mightbe silently lurking for her without, she stopped,but with her eyes fixed in expectation upon theopposite door of the stair-case. As thus shestood, she heard a faint breathing near her, andbecame convinced, that some person was onthe other side of the door, which was alreadylocked. She sought for other fastening, but therewas none.

While she yet listened, the breathing wasdistinctly heard, and her terror was not soothed,when, looking round her wide and lonelychamber, she again considered her remotesituation. As she stood hesitating whether tocall for assistance, the continuance of thestillness surprised her; and her spirits wouldhave revived, had she not continued to hear thefaint breathing, that convinced her, the person,

whoever it was, had not quitted the door.

At length, worn out with anxiety, shedetermined to call loudly for assistance from hercasement, and was advancing to it, when,whether the terror of her mind gave her idealsounds, or that real ones did come, she thoughtfootsteps were ascending the private stair-case; and, expecting to see its door unclose,she forgot all other cause of alarm, andretreated towards the corridor. Here sheendeavoured to make her escape, but, onopening the door, was very near falling over aperson, who lay on the floor without. Shescreamed, and would have passed, but hertrembling frame refused to support her; and themoment, in which she leaned against the wall ofthe gallery, allowed her leisure to observe thefigure before her, and to recognise the featuresof Annette. Fear instantly yielded to surprise.She spoke in vain to the poor girl, whoremained senseless on the floor, and then,losing all consciousness of her own weakness,hurried to her assistance.

When Annette recovered, she was helped byEmily into the chamber, but was still unable tospeak, and looked round her, as if her eyesfollowed some person in the room. Emily triedto sooth her disturbed spirits, and forbore, atpresent, to ask her any questions; but the facultyof speech was never long with-held fromAnnette, and she explained, in broken

sentences, and in her tedious way, theoccasion of her disorder. She affirmed, andwith a solemnity of conviction, that almoststaggered the incredulity of Emily, that she hadseen an apparition, as she was passing to herbedroom, through the corridor.

'I had heard strange stories of that chamberbefore,' said Annette: 'but as it was so nearyours, ma'amselle, I would not tell them to you,because they would frighten you. The servantshad told me, often and often, that it washaunted, and that was the reason why it wasshut up: nay, for that matter, why the wholestring of these rooms, here, are shut up. Iquaked whenever I went by, and I must say, I didsometimes think I heard odd noises within it.But, as I said, as I was passing along thecorridor, and not thinking a word about thematter, or even of the strange voice that theSignors heard the other night, all of a suddencomes a great light, and, looking behind me,there was a tall figure, (I saw it as plainly,ma'amselle, as I see you at this moment), a tallfigure gliding along (Oh! I cannot describehow!) into the room, that is always shut up, andnobody has the key of it but the Signor, and thedoor shut directly.'

'Then it doubtless was the Signor,' saidEmily.

'O no, ma'amselle, it could not be him, for I

left him busy a-quarrelling in my lady's dressing-room!'

'You bring me strange tales, Annette,' saidEmily: 'it was but this morning, that you wouldhave terrified me with the apprehension ofmurder; and now you would persuade me, youhave seen a ghost! These wonderful storiescome too quickly.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, I will say no more, only, if Ihad not been frightened, I should not havefainted dead away, so. I ran as fast as I could,to get to your door; but, what was worst of all, Icould not call out; then I thought something mustbe strangely the matter with me, and directly Idropt down.'

'Was it the chamber where the black veilhangs?' said Emily. 'O! no, ma'amselle, it wasone nearer to this. What shall I do, to get to myroom? I would not go out into the corridor again,for the whole world!' Emily, whose spirits hadbeen severely shocked, and who, therefore, didnot like the thought of passing the night alone,told her she might sleep where she was. 'O, no,ma'amselle,' replied Annette, 'I would not sleepin the room, now, for a thousand sequins!'

Wearied and disappointed, Emily firstridiculed, though she shared, her fears, andthen tried to sooth them; but neither attemptsucceeded, and the girl persisted in believingand affirming, that what she had seen was

nothing human. It was not till some time afterEmily had recovered her composure, that sherecollected the steps she had heard on thestair-case—a remembrance, however, whichmade her insist that Annette should pass thenight with her, and, with much difficulty, she, atlength, prevailed, assisted by that part of thegirl's fear, which concerned the corridor.

Early on the following morning, as Emilycrossed the hall to the ramparts, she heard anoisy bustle in the court-yard, and the clatter ofhorses' hoofs. Such unusual sounds excited hercuriosity; and, instead of going to the ramparts,she went to an upper casement, from whenceshe saw, in the court below, a large party ofhorsemen, dressed in a singular, but uniform,habit, and completely, though variously, armed.They wore a kind of short jacket, composed ofblack and scarlet, and several of them had acloak, of plain black, which, covering the personentirely, hung down to the stirrups. As one ofthese cloaks glanced aside, she saw, beneath,daggers, apparently of different sizes, tuckedinto the horseman's belt. She further observed,that these were carried, in the same manner, bymany of the horsemen without cloaks, most ofwhom bore also pikes, or javelins. On theirheads, were the small Italian caps, some ofwhich were distinguished by black feathers.Whether these caps gave a fierce air to thecountenance, or that the countenances theysurmounted had naturally such an appearance,

Emily thought she had never, till then, seen anassemblage of faces so savage and terrific.While she gazed, she almost fancied herselfsurrounded by banditti; and a vague thoughtglanced athwart her fancy—that Montoni wasthe captain of the group before her, and that thiscastle was to be the place of rendezvous. Thestrange and horrible supposition was butmomentary, though her reason could supplynone more probable, and though shediscovered, among the band, the strangers shehad formerly noticed with so much alarm, whowere now distinguished by the black plume.

While she continued gazing, Cavigni,Verezzi, and Bertolini came forth from the hall,habited like the rest, except that they wore hats,with a mixed plume of black and scarlet, andthat their arms differed from those of the rest ofthe party. As they mounted their horses, Emilywas struck with the exulting joy, expressed onthe visage of Verezzi, while Cavigni was gay,yet with a shade of thought on his countenance;and, as he managed his horse with dexterity,his graceful and commanding figure, whichexhibited the majesty of a hero, had neverappeared to more advantage. Emily, as sheobserved him, thought he somewhat resembledValancourt, in the spirit and dignity of hisperson; but she looked in vain for the noble,benevolent countenance—the soul'sintelligence, which overspread the features of

the latter.

As she was hoping, she scarcely knew why,that Montoni would accompany the party, heappeared at the hall door, but un-accoutred.Having carefully observed the horsemen,conversed awhile with the cavaliers, and biddenthem farewel, the band wheeled round the court,and, led by Verezzi, issued forth under theportcullis; Montoni following to the portal, andgazing after them for some time. Emily thenretired from the casement, and, now certain ofbeing unmolested, went to walk on theramparts, from whence she soon after saw theparty winding among the mountains to the west,appearing and disappearing between thewoods, till distance confused their figures,consolidated their numbers, and only a dingymass appeared moving along the heights.

Emily observed, that no workmen were on theramparts, and that the repairs of thefortifications seemed to be completed. Whileshe sauntered thoughtfully on, she heard distantfootsteps, and, raising her eyes, saw severalmen lurking under the castle walls, who wereevidently not workmen, but looked as if theywould have accorded well with the party, whichwas gone. Wondering where Annette had hidherself so long, who might have explainedsome of the late circumstances, and thenconsidering that Madame Montoni wasprobably risen, she went to her dressing-room,

where she mentioned what had occurred; butMadame Montoni either would not, or could not,give any explanation of the event. The Signor'sreserve to his wife, on this subject, wasprobably nothing more than usual; yet, to Emily,it gave an air of mystery to the whole affair, thatseemed to hint, there was danger, if not villany,in his schemes.

Annette presently came, and, as usual, wasfull of alarm; to her lady's eager enquiries ofwhat she had heard among the servants, shereplied:

'Ah, madam! nobody knows what it is allabout, but old Carlo; he knows well enough, Idare say, but he is as close as his master.Some say the Signor is going out to frighten theenemy, as they call it: but where is the enemy?Then others say, he is going to take away somebody's castle: but I am sure he has roomenough in his own, without taking otherpeople's; and I am sure I should like it a greatdeal better, if there were more people to fill it.'

'Ah! you will soon have your wish, I fear,'replied Madame Montoni.

'No, madam, but such ill-looking fellows arenot worth having. I mean such gallant, smart,merry fellows as Ludovico, who is always tellingdroll stories, to make one laugh. It was butyesterday, he told me such a HUMOURSOMEtale! I can't help laughing at it now.—Says he—'

'Well, we can dispense with the story,' saidher lady. 'Ah!' continued Annette, 'he sees agreat way further than other people! Now hesees into all the Signor's meaning, withoutknowing a word about the matter!'

'How is that?' said Madame Montoni.

'Why he says—but he made me promise notto tell, and I would not disoblige him for theworld.'

'What is it he made you promise not to tell?'said her lady, sternly. 'I insist upon knowingimmediately—what is it he made you promise?'

'O madam,' cried Annette, 'I would not tell forthe universe!' 'I insist upon your telling thisinstant,' said Madame Montoni. 'O dearmadam! I would not tell for a hundred sequins!You would not have me forswear myselfmadam!' exclaimed Annette.

'I will not wait another moment,' said MadameMontoni. Annette was silent.

'The Signor shall be informed of this directly,'rejoined her mistress: 'he will make youdiscover all.'

'It is Ludovico, who has discovered,' saidAnnette: 'but for mercy's sake, madam, don't tellthe Signor, and you shall know all directly.'Madame Montoni said, that she would not.

'Well then, madam, Ludovico says, that theSignor, my master, is—is—that is, he onlythinks so, and any body, you know, madam, isfree to think—that the Signor, my master, is—is—'

'Is what?' said her lady, impatiently.

'That the Signor, my master, is going to be—a great robber—that is—he is going to rob onhis own account;—to be, (but I am sure I don'tunderstand what he means) to be a—captain of—robbers.'

'Art thou in thy senses, Annette?' saidMadame Montoni; 'or is this a trick to deceiveme? Tell me, this instant, what Ludovico DIDsay to thee;—no equivocation;—this instant.'

'Nay, madam,' cried Annette, 'if this is all I amto get for having told the secret'—Her mistressthus continued to insist, and Annette to protest,till Montoni, himself, appeared, who bade thelatter leave the room, and she withdrew,trembling for the fate of her story. Emily alsowas retiring, but her aunt desired she wouldstay; and Montoni had so often made her awitness of their contention, that he no longerhad scruples on that account.

'I insist upon knowing this instant, Signor,what all this means:' said his wife—'what are allthese armed men, whom they tell me of, goneout about?' Montoni answered her only with a

look of scorn; and Emily whispered somethingto her. 'It does not signify,' said her aunt: 'I willknow; and I will know, too, what the castle hasbeen fortified for.'

'Come, come,' said Montoni, 'other businessbrought me here. I must be trifled with no longer.I have immediate occasion for what I demand—those estates must be given up, without furthercontention; or I may find a way—'

'They never shall be given up,' interruptedMadame Montoni: 'they never shall enable youto carry on your wild schemes;—but what arethese? I will know. Do you expect the castle tobe attacked? Do you expect enemies? Am I tobe shut up here, to be killed in a siege?'

'Sign the writings,' said Montoni, 'and youshall know more.'

'What enemy can be coming?' continued hiswife. 'Have you entered into the service of thestate? Am I to be blocked up here to die?'

'That may possibly happen,' said Montoni,'unless you yield to my demand: for, come whatmay, you shall not quit the castle till then.'Madame Montoni burst into loud lamentation,which she as suddenly checked, considering,that her husband's assertions might be onlyartifices, employed to extort her consent. Shehinted this suspicion, and, in the next moment,told him also, that his designs were not so

honourable as to serve the state, and that shebelieved he had only commenced a captain ofbanditti, to join the enemies of Venice, inplundering and laying waste the surroundingcountry.

Montoni looked at her for a moment with asteady and stern countenance; while Emilytrembled, and his wife, for once, thought shehad said too much. 'You shall be removed, thisnight,' said he, 'to the east turret: there,perhaps, you may understand the danger ofoffending a man, who has an unlimited powerover you.'

Emily now fell at his feet, and, with tears ofterror, supplicated for her aunt, who sat,trembling with fear, and indignation; now readyto pour forth execrations, and now to join theintercessions of Emily. Montoni, however, sooninterrupted these entreaties with an horribleoath; and, as he burst from Emily, leaving hiscloak, in her hand, she fell to the floor, with aforce, that occasioned her a severe blow on theforehead. But he quitted the room, withoutattempting to raise her, whose attention wascalled from herself, by a deep groan fromMadame Montoni, who continued otherwiseunmoved in her chair, and had not fainted.Emily, hastening to her assistance, saw hereyes rolling, and her features convulsed.

Having spoken to her, without receiving an

answer, she brought water, and supported herhead, while she held it to her lips; but theincreasing convulsions soon compelled Emilyto call for assistance. On her way through thehall, in search of Annette, she met Montoni,whom she told what had happened, andconjured to return and comfort her aunt; but heturned silently away, with a look of indifference,and went out upon the ramparts. At length shefound old Carlo and Annette, and they hastenedto the dressing-room, where Madame Montonihad fallen on the floor, and was lying in strongconvulsions. Having lifted her into the adjoiningroom, and laid her on the bed, the force of herdisorder still made all their strength necessaryto hold her, while Annette trembled and sobbed,and old Carlo looked silently and piteously on,as his feeble hands grasped those of hismistress, till, turning his eyes upon Emily, heexclaimed, 'Good God! Signora, what is thematter?'

Emily looked calmly at him, and saw hisenquiring eyes fixed on her: and Annette,looking up, screamed loudly; for Emily's facewas stained with blood, which continued to fallslowly from her forehead: but her attention hadbeen so entirely occupied by the scene beforeher, that she had felt no pain from the wound.She now held an handkerchief to her face, and,notwithstanding her faintness, continued towatch Madame Montoni, the violence of whoseconvulsions was abating, till at length they

ceased, and left her in a kind of stupor.

'My aunt must remain quiet,' said Emily. 'Go,good Carlo; if we should want your assistance, Iwill send for you. In the mean time, if you havean opportunity, speak kindly of your mistress toyour master.'

'Alas!' said Carlo, 'I have seen too much! Ihave little influence with the Signor. But do, dearyoung lady, take some care of yourself; that isan ugly wound, and you look sadly.'

'Thank you, my friend, for your consideration,'said Emily, smiling kindly: 'the wound is trifling,it came by a fall.'

Carlo shook his head, and left the room; andEmily, with Annette, continued to watch by heraunt. 'Did my lady tell the Signor what Ludovicosaid, ma'amselle?' asked Annette in a whisper;but Emily quieted her fears on the subject.

'I thought what this quarrelling would come to,'continued Annette: 'I suppose the Signor hasbeen beating my lady.'

'No, no, Annette, you are totally mistaken,nothing extra-ordinary has happened.'

'Why, extraordinary things happen here sooften, ma'amselle, that there is nothing in them.Here is another legion of those ill-lookingfellows, come to the castle, this morning.'

'Hush! Annette, you will disturb my aunt; wewill talk of that by and bye.'

They continued watching silently, till MadameMontoni uttered a low sigh, when Emily took herhand, and spoke soothingly to her; but theformer gazed with unconscious eyes, and it waslong before she knew her niece. Her first wordsthen enquired for Montoni; to which Emilyreplied by an entreaty, that she would composeher spirits, and consent to be kept quiet,adding, that, if she wished any message to beconveyed to him, she would herself deliver it.'No,' said her aunt faintly, 'no—I have nothingnew to tell him. Does he persist in saying I shallbe removed from my chamber?'

Emily replied, that he had not spoken, on thesubject, since Madame Montoni heard him; andthen she tried to divert her attention to someother topic; but her aunt seemed to beinattentive to what she said, and lost in secretthoughts. Emily, having brought her somerefreshment, now left her to the care of Annette,and went in search of Montoni, whom she foundon a remote part of the rampart, conversingamong a group of the men described byAnnette. They stood round him with fierce, yetsubjugated, looks, while he, speaking earnestly,and pointing to the walls, did not perceiveEmily, who remained at some distance, waitingtill he should be at leisure, and observinginvoluntarily the appearance of one man, more

savage than his fellows, who stood resting onhis pike, and looking, over the shoulders of acomrade, at Montoni, to whom he listened withuncommon earnestness. This man wasapparently of low condition; yet his looksappeared not to acknowledge the superiority ofMontoni, as did those of his companions; andsometimes they even assumed an air ofauthority, which the decisive manner of theSignor could not repress. Some few words ofMontoni then passed in the wind; and, as themen were separating, she heard him say, 'Thisevening, then, begin the watch at sun-set.'

'At sun-set, Signor,' replied one or two ofthem, and walked away; while Emilyapproached Montoni, who appeared desirousof avoiding her: but, though she observed this,she had courage to proceed. She endeavouredto intercede once more for her aunt,represented to him her sufferings, and urgedthe danger of exposing her to a cold apartmentin her present state. 'She suffers by her ownfolly,' said Montoni, 'and is not to be pitied;—she knows how she may avoid these sufferingsin future—if she is removed to the turret, it willbe her own fault. Let her be obedient, and signthe writings you heard of, and I will think nomore of it.'

When Emily ventured still to plead, he sternlysilenced and rebuked her for interfering in hisdomestic affairs, but, at length, dismissed her

with this concession—That he would notremove Madame Montoni, on the ensuing night,but allow her till the next to consider, whethershe would resign her settlements, or beimprisoned in the east turret of the castle,'where she shall find,' he added, 'a punishmentshe may not expect.'

Emily then hastened to inform her aunt of thisshort respite and of the alternative, that awaitedher, to which the latter made no reply, butappeared thoughtful, while Emily, inconsideration of her extreme languor, wished tosooth her mind by leading it to less interestingtopics: and, though these efforts wereunsuccessful, and Madame Montoni becamepeevish, her resolution, on the contended point,seemed somewhat to relax, and Emilyrecommended, as her only means of safety,that she should submit to Montoni's demand.'You know not what you advise,' said her aunt.'Do you understand, that these estates willdescend to you at my death, if I persist in arefusal?'

'I was ignorant of that circumstance, madam,'replied Emily, 'but the knowledge of it cannotwith-hold me from advising you to adopt theconduct, which not only your peace, but, I fear,your safety requires, and I entreat, that you willnot suffer a consideration comparatively sotrifling, to make you hesitate a moment inresigning them.'

'Are you sincere, niece?' 'Is it possible youcan doubt it, madam?' Her aunt appeared to beaffected. 'You are not unworthy of these estates,niece,' said she: 'I would wish to keep them foryour sake—you shew a virtue I did not expect.'

'How have I deserved this reproof, madam?'said Emily sorrowfully.

'Reproof!' replied Madame Montoni: 'I meantto praise your virtue.'

'Alas! here is no exertion of virtue,' rejoinedEmily, 'for here is no temptation to beovercome.'

'Yet Monsieur Valancourt'—said her aunt. 'O,madam!' interrupted Emily, anticipating whatshe would have said, 'do not let me glance onthat subject: do not let my mind be stained witha wish so shockingly self-interested.' Sheimmediately changed the topic, and continuedwith Madame Montoni, till she withdrew to herapartment for the night.

At that hour, the castle was perfectly still, andevery inhabitant of it, except herself, seemed tohave retired to rest. As she passed along thewide and lonely galleries, dusky and silent, shefelt forlorn and apprehensive of—she scarcelyknew what; but when, entering the corridor, sherecollected the incident of the preceding night,a dread seized her, lest a subject of alarm,similar to that, which had befallen Annette,

should occur to her, and which, whether real, orideal, would, she felt, have an almost equaleffect upon her weakened spirits. The chamber,to which Annette had alluded, she did notexactly know, but understood it to be one ofthose she must pass in the way to her own; and,sending a fearful look forward into the gloom,she stepped lightly and cautiously along, till,coming to a door, from whence issued a lowsound, she hesitated and paused; and, duringthe delay of that moment, her fears so muchincreased, that she had no power to move fromthe spot. Believing, that she heard a humanvoice within, she was somewhat revived; but, inthe next moment, the door was opened, and aperson, whom she conceived to be Montoni,appeared, who instantly started back, andclosed it, though not before she had seen, bythe light that burned in the chamber, anotherperson, sitting in a melancholy attitude by thefire. Her terror vanished, but her astonishmentonly began, which was now roused by themysterious secrecy of Montoni's manner, andby the discovery of a person, whom he thusvisited at midnight, in an apartment, which hadlong been shut up, and of which suchextraordinary reports were circulated.

While she thus continued hesitating, stronglyprompted to watch Montoni's motions, yetfearing to irritate him by appearing to noticethem, the door was again opened cautiously,and as instantly closed as before. She then

stepped softly to her chamber, which was thenext but one to this, but, having put down herlamp, returned to an obscure corner of thecorridor, to observe the proceedings of thishalf-seen person, and to ascertain, whether itwas indeed Montoni.

Having waited in silent expectation for a fewminutes, with her eyes fixed on the door, it wasagain opened, and the same person appeared,whom she now knew to be Montoni. He lookedcautiously round, without perceiving her, then,stepping forward, closed the door, and left thecorridor. Soon after, Emily heard the doorfastened on the inside, and she withdrew to herchamber, wondering at what she hadwitnessed.

It was now twelve o'clock. As she closed hercasement, she heard footsteps on the terracebelow, and saw imperfectly, through the gloom,several persons advancing, who passed underthe casement. She then heard the clink of arms,and, in the next moment, the watch-word; when,recollecting the command she had overheardfrom Montoni, and the hour of the night, sheunderstood, that these men were, for the firsttime, relieving guard in the castle. Havinglistened till all was again still, she retired tosleep.

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 tothe apartment of Madame Montoni, who hadslept well, and was much recovered. Her spiritshad also returned with her health, and herresolution to oppose Montoni's demandsrevived, though it yet struggled with her fears,which Emily, who trembled for the consequenceof further opposition, endeavoured to confirm.

Her aunt, as has been already shewn, had adisposition, which delighted in contradiction,and which taught her, when unpleasantcircumstances were offered to herunderstanding, not to enquire into their truth, butto seek for arguments, by which she mightmake them appear false. Long habit had soentirely confirmed this natural propensity, thatshe was not conscious of possessing it. Emily'sremonstrances and representations, therefore,roused her pride, instead of alarming, orconvincing her judgment, and she still reliedupon the discovery of some means, by whichshe might yet avoid submitting to the demand of

her husband. Considering, that, if she couldonce escape from his castle, she might defy hispower, and, obtaining a decisive separation,live in comfort on the estates, that yet remainedfor her, she mentioned this to her niece, whoaccorded with her in the wish, but differed fromher, as to the probability of its completion. Sherepresented the impossibility of passing thegates, secured and guarded as they were, andthe extreme danger of committing her design tothe discretion of a servant, who might eitherpurposely betray, or accidentally disclose it.—Montoni's vengeance would also disdainrestraint, if her intention was detected: and,though Emily wished, as fervently as she coulddo, to regain her freedom, and return to France,she consulted only Madame Montoni's safety,and persevered in advising her to relinquish hersettlement, without braving further outrage.

The struggle of contrary emotions, however,continued to rage in her aunt's bosom, and shestill brooded over the chance of effecting anescape. While she thus sat, Montoni enteredthe room, and, without noticing his wife'sindisposition, said, that he came to remind herof the impolicy of trifling with him, and that hegave her only till the evening to determine,whether she would consent to his demand, orcompel him, by a refusal, to remove her to theeast turret. He added, that a party of cavalierswould dine with him, that day, and that heexpected that she would sit at the head of the

table, where Emily, also, must be present.Madame Montoni was now on the point ofuttering an absolute refusal, but, suddenlyconsidering, that her liberty, during thisentertainment, though circumscribed, mightfavour her further plans, she acquiesced, withseeming reluctance, and Montoni, soon after,left the apartment. His command struck Emilywith surprise and apprehension, who shrankfrom the thought of being exposed to the gazeof strangers, such as her fancy representedthese to be, and the words of Count Morano,now again recollected, did not sooth her fears.

When she withdrew to prepare for dinner, shedressed herself with even more simplicity thanusual, that she might escape observation—apolicy, which did not avail her, for, as she re-passed to her aunt's apartment, she was met byMontoni, who censured what he called herprudish appearance, and insisted, that sheshould wear the most splendid dress she had,even that, which had been prepared for herintended nuptials with Count Morano, andwhich, it now appeared, her aunt had carefullybrought with her from Venice. This was made,not in the Venetian, but, in the Neapolitanfashion, so as to set off the shape and figure, tothe utmost advantage. In it, her beautifulchestnut tresses were negligently bound up inpearls, and suffered to fall back again on herneck. The simplicity of a better taste, than

Madame Montoni's, was conspicuous in thisdress, splendid as it was, and Emily'sunaffected beauty never had appeared morecaptivatingly. She had now only to hope, thatMontoni's order was prompted, not by anyextraordinary design, but by an ostentation ofdisplaying his family, richly attired, to the eyesof strangers; yet nothing less than his absolutecommand could have prevailed with her to weara dress, that had been designed for such anoffensive purpose, much less to have worn it onthis occasion. As she descended to dinner, theemotion of her mind threw a faint blush over hercountenance, and heightened its interestingexpression; for timidity had made her linger inher apartment, till the utmost moment, and,when she entered the hall, in which a kind ofstate dinner was spread, Montoni and hisguests were already seated at the table. Shewas then going to place herself by her aunt; butMontoni waved his hand, and two of thecavaliers rose, and seated her between them.

The eldest of these was a tall man, withstrong Italian features, an aquiline nose, anddark penetrating eyes, that flashed with fire,when his mind was agitated, and, even in itsstate of rest, retained somewhat of the wildnessof the passions. His visage was long andnarrow, 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; hiseyes, of a dark grey, were small, and hollow; hiscomplexion was a sun-burnt brown, and thecontour of his face, though inclined to oval, wasirregular and ill-formed.

Eight other guests sat round the table, whowere all dressed in an uniform, and had all anexpression, more or less, of wild fierceness, ofsubtle design, or of licentious passions. AsEmily timidly surveyed them, she rememberedthe scene of the preceding morning, and againalmost fancied herself surrounded by banditti;then, looking back to the tranquillity of her earlylife, she felt scarcely less astonishment, thangrief, at her present situation. The scene, inwhich they sat, assisted the illusion; it was anantient hall, gloomy from the style of itsarchitecture, from its great extent, and becausealmost the only light it received was from onelarge gothic window, and from a pair of foldingdoors, which, being open, admitted likewise aview of the west rampart, with the wildmountains of the Apennine beyond.

The middle compartment of this hall rose intoa vaulted roof, enriched with fretwork, andsupported, on three sides, by pillars of marble;beyond these, long colonnades retired ingloomy grandeur, till their extent was lost intwilight. The lightest footsteps of the servants,as they advanced through these, were returnedin whispering echoes, and their figures, seen at

a distance imperfectly through the dusk,frequently awakened Emily's imagination. Shelooked alternately at Montoni, at his guests andon the surrounding scene; and then,remembering her dear native province, herpleasant home and the simplicity and goodnessof the friends, whom she had lost, grief andsurprise again occupied her mind.

When her thoughts could return from theseconsiderations, she fancied she observed anair of authority towards his guests, such as shehad never before seen him assume, though hehad always been distinguished by an haughtycarriage; there was something also in themanners of the strangers, that seemedperfectly, though not servilely, to acknowledgehis superiority.

During dinner, the conversation was chieflyon war and politics. They talked with energy ofthe state of Venice, its dangers, the characterof the reigning Doge and of the chief senators;and then spoke of the state of Rome. When therepast was over, they rose, and, each filling hisgoblet with wine from the gilded ewer, thatstood beside him, drank 'Success to ourexploits!' Montoni was lifting his goblet to hislips to drink this toast, when suddenly the winehissed, rose to the brim, and, as he held theglass 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 tobetray him, instantly occurred, and he orderedall the gates to be closed, drew his sword, and,looking round on them, who stood in silentamazement, exclaimed, 'Here is a traitoramong us; let those, that are innocent, assist indiscovering the guilty.'

Indignation flashed from the eyes of thecavaliers, who all drew their swords; andMadame Montoni, terrified at what might ensue,was hastening from the hall, when her husbandcommanded her to stay; but his further wordscould not now be distinguished, for the voice ofevery person rose together. His order, that allthe servants should appear, was at lengthobeyed, and they declared their ignorance ofany deceit—a protestation which could not bebelieved; for it was evident, that, as Montoni'sliquor, and his only, had been poisoned, adeliberate design had been formed against hislife, which could not have been carried so fartowards its accomplishment, without theconnivance of the servant, who had the care ofthe wine ewers.

This man, with another, whose face betrayedeither the consciousness of guilt, or the fear ofpunishment, Montoni ordered to be chainedinstantly, and confined in a strong room, whichhad formerly been used as a prison. Thither,

likewise, he would have sent all his guests, hadhe not foreseen the consequence of so boldand unjustifiable a proceeding. As to those,therefore, he contented himself with swearing,that no man should pass the gates, till thisextraordinary affair had been investigated, andthen sternly bade his wife retire to herapartment, whither he suffered Emily to attendher.

In about half an hour, he followed to thedressing-room; and Emily observed, withhorror, his dark countenance and quivering lip,and heard him denounce vengeance on heraunt.

'It will avail you nothing,' said he to his wife, 'todeny the fact; I have proof of your guilt. Your onlychance of mercy rests on a full confession;—there is nothing to hope from sullenness, orfalsehood; your accomplice has confessed all.'

Emily's fainting spirits were roused byastonishment, as she heard her aunt accusedof a crime so atrocious, and she could not, for amoment, admit the possibility of her guilt.Meanwhile Madame Montoni's agitation did notpermit her to reply; alternately her complexionvaried from livid paleness to a crimson flush;and she trembled,—but, whether with fear, orwith indignation, it were difficult to decide.

'Spare your words,' said Montoni, seeing herabout to speak, 'your countenance makes full

confession of your crime.—You shall beinstantly removed to the east turret.'

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

'Signor!' said Emily solemnly, 'this dreadfulcharge, I would answer with my life, is false.Nay, Signor,' she added, observing the severityof his countenance, 'this is no moment forrestraint, on my part; I do not scruple to tell you,that you are deceived—most wickedlydeceived, by the suggestion of some person,who aims at the ruin of my aunt:—it isimpossible, that you could yourself haveimagined 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 knowhow to interpret your remonstrances, should youpersevere in them.'

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

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

He turned to his wife, who had now recoveredher spirits, and who vehemently and wildlyremonstrated upon this mysterious suspicion:

but Montoni's rage heightened with herindignation, and Emily, dreading the event of it,threw herself between them, and clasped hisknees in silence, looking up in his face with anexpression, that might have softened the heartof a fiend. Whether his was hardened by aconviction of Madame Montoni's guilt, or that abare suspicion of it made him eager toexercise vengeance, he was totally and alikeinsensible to the distress of his wife, and to thepleading looks of Emily, whom he made noattempt to raise, but was vehemently menacingboth, when he was called out of the room bysome person at the door. As he shut the door,Emily heard him turn the lock and take out thekey; so that Madame Montoni and herself werenow prisoners; and she saw that his designsbecame more and more terrible. Herendeavours to explain his motives for thiscircumstance were almost as ineffectual asthose to sooth the distress of her aunt, whoseinnocence she could not doubt; but she, atlength, accounted for Montoni's readiness tosuspect his wife by his own consciousness ofcruelty towards her, and for the sudden violenceof his present conduct against both, beforeeven his suspicions could be completelyformed, by his general eagerness to effectsuddenly whatever he was led to desire and hiscarelessness of justice, or humanity, inaccomplishing it.

Madame Montoni, after some time, again

looked round, in search of a possibility ofescape from the castle, and conversed withEmily on the subject, who was now willing toencounter any hazard, though she forbore toencourage a hope in her aunt, which she herselfdid not admit. How strongly the edifice wassecured, and how vigilantly guarded, she knewtoo well; and trembled to commit their safety tothe caprice of the servant, whose assistancethey must solicit. Old Carlo wascompassionate, but he seemed to be too muchin his master's interest to be trusted by them;Annette could of herself do little, and Emilyknew Ludovico only from her report. At present,however, these considerations were useless,Madame Montoni and her niece being shut upfrom 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, sometimesfancied she heard the clashing of swords, and,when she considered the nature of theprovocation, given by Montoni, and hisimpetuosity, it appeared probable, that nothingless than arms would terminate the contention.Madame Montoni, having exhausted all herexpressions of indignation, and Emily, hers ofcomfort, they remained silent, in that kind ofbreathless stillness, which, in nature, oftensucceeds to the uproar of conflicting elements;

a stillness, like the morning, that dawns uponthe ruins of an earthquake.

An uncertain kind of terror pervaded Emily'smind; the circumstances of the past hour stillcame dimly and confusedly to her memory; andher thoughts were various and rapid, thoughwithout tumult.

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

'Dear madam, let me come in, I have a greatdeal 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 MadameMontoni.

'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 MadameMontoni.

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

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

'Fly!' cried Emily, 'fly! we cannot open thedoor.'

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

'Be calm, madam,' said Emily, turning to heraunt, 'I entreat you to be calm, I am notfrightened—not frightened in the least, do notyou be alarmed.'

'You can scarcely support yourself,' repliedher aunt; 'Merciful God! what is it they mean todo with us?'

'They come, perhaps, to liberate us,' saidEmily, 'Signor Montoni perhaps is—isconquered.'

The belief of his death gave her spirits asudden shock, and she grew faint as she sawhim in imagination, expiring at her feet.

'They are coming!' cried Madame Montoni—'Ihear their steps—they are at the door!'

Emily turned her languid eyes to the door, but

Emily turned her languid eyes to the door, butterror deprived her of utterance. The keysounded in the lock; the door opened, andMontoni appeared, followed by three ruffian-likemen. 'Execute your orders,' said he, turning tothem, and pointing to his wife, who shrieked,but was immediately carried from the room;while Emily sunk, senseless, on a couch, bywhich she had endeavoured to support herself.When she recovered, she was alone, andrecollected only, that Madame Montoni hadbeen there, together with some unconnectedparticulars of the preceding transaction, whichwere, however, sufficient to renew all her terror.She looked wildly round the apartment, as if insearch of some means of intelligence,concerning her aunt, while neither her owndanger, 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 fainthope, to examine whether the door wasunfastened. It was so, and she then steppedtimidly out into the gallery, but paused there,uncertain which way she should proceed. Herfirst wish was to gather some information, as toher aunt, and she, at length, turned her steps togo to the lesser hall, where Annette and theother servants usually waited.

Every where, as she passed, she heard, froma distance, the uproar of contention, and thefigures and faces, which she met, hurrying

along the passages, struck her mind withdismay. Emily might now have appeared, likean angel of light, encompassed by fiends. Atlength, she reached the lesser hall, which wassilent and deserted, but, panting for breath, shesat down to recover herself. The total stillness ofthis place was as awful as the tumult, fromwhich she had escaped: but she had now timeto recall her scattered thoughts, to rememberher personal danger, and to consider of somemeans of safety. She perceived, that it wasuseless to seek Madame Montoni, through thewide extent and intricacies of the castle, now,too, when every avenue seemed to be beset byruffians; in this hall she could not resolve to stay,for she knew not how soon it might becometheir place of rendezvous; and, though shewished to go to her chamber, she dreadedagain to encounter them on the way.

Thus she sat, trembling and hesitating, whena distant murmur broke on the silence, andgrew louder and louder, till she distinguishedvoices and steps approaching. She then roseto go, but the sounds came along the onlypassage, by which she could depart, and shewas compelled to await in the hall, the arrival ofthe persons, whose steps she heard. As theseadvanced, she distinguished groans, and thensaw a man borne slowly along by four others.Her spirits faltered at the sight, and she leanedagainst 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 strengthfailed, and she again sat down on the bench. Adamp chillness came over her; her sightbecame confused; she knew not what hadpassed, or where she was, yet the groans of thewounded person still vibrated on her heart. In afew moments, the tide of life seemed again toflow; she began to breathe more freely, and hersenses revived. She had not fainted, nor hadever totally lost her consciousness, but hadcontrived to support herself on the bench; stillwithout courage to turn her eyes upon theunfortunate object, which remained near her,and about whom the men were yet too muchengaged to attend to her.

When her strength returned, she rose, andwas suffered to leave the hall, though heranxiety, having produced some vain enquiries,concerning Madame Montoni, had thus made adiscovery of herself. Towards her chamber shenow hastened, as fast as her steps would bearher, for she still perceived, upon her passage,the sounds of confusion at a distance, and sheendeavoured, by taking her way through someobscure rooms, to avoid encountering thepersons, whose looks had terrified her before,as well as those parts of the castle, where thetumult 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 profoundstillness reigned in this remote apartment,which not even the faint murmur of the mostdistant sounds now reached. She sat down,near one of the casements, and, as she gazedon the mountain-view beyond, the deep reposeof its beauty struck her with all the force ofcontrast, and she could scarcely believe herselfso near a scene of savage discord. Thecontending elements seemed to have retiredfrom their natural spheres, and to havecollected themselves into the minds of men, forthere alone the tempest now reigned.

Emily tried to tranquillize her spirits, butanxiety made her constantly listen for somesound, and often look out upon the ramparts,where all, however, was lonely and still. As asense of her own immediate danger haddecreased, her apprehension concerningMadame Montoni heightened, who, sheremembered, had been fiercely threatened withconfinement in the east turret, and it waspossible, that her husband had satisfied hispresent vengeance with this punishment. She,therefore, determined, when night should return,and the inhabitants of the castle should beasleep, to explore the way to the turret, which,as the direction it stood in was mentioned,appeared not very difficult to be done. Sheknew, indeed, that although her aunt might bethere, she could afford her no effectualassistance, but it might give her some comfort

even to know, that she was discovered, and tohear the sound of her niece's voice; for herself,any certainty, concerning Madame Montoni'sfate, appeared more tolerable, than thisexhausting suspense.

Meanwhile, Annette did not appear, andEmily was surprised, and somewhat alarmedfor her, whom, in the confusion of the latescene, various accidents might have befallen,and it was improbable, that she would havefailed to come to her apartment, unlesssomething unfortunate had happened.

Thus the hours passed in solitude, in silence,and in anxious conjecturing. Being not oncedisturbed by a message, or a sound, itappeared, that Montoni had wholly forgottenher, and it gave her some comfort to find, thatshe could be so unnoticed. She endeavoured towithdraw her thoughts from the anxiety, thatpreyed upon them, but they refused controul;she could neither read, or draw, and the tonesof her lute were so utterly discordant with thepresent state of her feelings, that she could notendure them for a moment.

The sun, at length, set behind the westernmountains; his fiery beams faded from theclouds, and then a dun melancholy purple drewover them, and gradually involved the featuresof the country below. Soon after, the sentinelspassed on the rampart to commence the watch.

Twilight had now spread its gloom over everyobject; the dismal obscurity of her chamberrecalled fearful thoughts, but she remembered,that to procure a light she must pass through agreat extent of the castle, and, above all,through the halls, where she had alreadyexperienced so much horror. Darkness, indeed,in the present state of her spirits, made silenceand solitude terrible to her; it would also preventthe possibility of her finding her way to theturret, and condemn her to remain in suspense,concerning the fate of her aunt; yet she darednot to venture forth for a lamp.

Continuing at the casement, that she mightcatch the last lingering gleam of evening, athousand vague images of fear floated on herfancy. 'What if some of these ruffians,' said she,'should find out the private stair-case, and in thedarkness of night steal into my chamber!' Then,recollecting the mysterious inhabitant of theneighbouring apartment, her terror changed itsobject. 'He is not a prisoner,' said she, 'thoughhe remains in one chamber, for Montoni did notfasten the door, when he left it; the unknownperson himself did this; it is certain, therefore,he can come out when he pleases.'

She paused, for, notwithstanding the terrorsof darkness, she considered it to be veryimprobable, whoever he was, that he couldhave any interest in intruding upon herretirement; and again the subject of her emotion

changed, when, remembering her nearness tothe chamber, where the veil had formerlydisclosed a dreadful spectacle, she doubtedwhether some passage might not communicatebetween it and the insecure door of the stair-case.

It was now entirely dark, and she left thecasement. As she sat with her eyes fixed on thehearth, she thought she perceived there a sparkof light; it twinkled and disappeared, and thenagain was visible. At length, with much care,she fanned the embers of a wood fire, that hadbeen lighted in the morning, into flame, and,having communicated it to a lamp, whichalways stood in her room, felt a satisfaction notto be conceived, without a review of hersituation. Her first care was to guard the door ofthe stair-case, for which purpose she placedagainst it all the furniture she could move, andshe was thus employed, for some time, at theend of which she had another instance howmuch more oppressive misfortune is to the idle,than to the busy; for, having then leisure to thinkover all the circumstances of her presentafflictions, she imagined a thousand evils forfuturity, and these real and ideal subjects ofdistress alike wounded her mind.

Thus heavily moved the hours till midnight,when she counted the sullen notes of the greatclock, as they rolled along the rampart,unmingled with any sound, except the distant

foot-fall of a sentinel, who came to relieveguard. She now thought she might venturetowards the turret, and, having gently openedthe chamber door to examine the corridor, andto listen if any person was stirring in the castle,found all around in perfect stillness. Yet nosooner had she left the room, than sheperceived a light flash on the walls of thecorridor, and, without waiting to see by whom itwas carried, she shrunk back, and closed herdoor. No one approaching, she conjectured,that it was Montoni going to pay his mid-nightvisit to her unknown neighbour, and shedetermined to wait, till he should have retired tohis 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 alongthe south side of the castle towards the stair-case, whence she believed she could easilyfind her way to the turret. Often pausing on herway, listening apprehensively to the murmurs ofthe wind, and looking fearfully onward into thegloom of the long passages, she, at length,reached the stair-case; but there her perplexitybegan. Two passages appeared, of which sheknew not how to prefer one, and wascompelled, at last, to decide by chance, ratherthan by circumstances. That she entered,opened first into a wide gallery, along which shepassed lightly and swiftly; for the lonely aspect

of the place awed her, and she started at theecho 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. Forsome moments, she stood in an attitude oflistening expectation, shrinking almost fromherself and scarcely daring to look round her.The voice came again, but, though it was nownear her, terror did not allow her to judge exactlywhence it proceeded. She thought, however,that it was the voice of complaint, and her beliefwas soon confirmed by a low moaning sound,that seemed to proceed from one of thechambers, opening into the gallery. It instantlyoccurred to her, that Madame Montoni might bethere confined, and she advanced to the door tospeak, but was checked by considering, thatshe was, perhaps, going to commit herself to astranger, who might discover her to Montoni;for, though this person, whoever it was, seemedto be in affliction, it did not follow, that he was aprisoner.

While these thoughts passed over her mind,and left her still in hesitation, the voice spokeagain, and, calling 'Ludovico,' she thenperceived it to be that of Annette; on which, nolonger hesitating, she went in joy to answer her.

'Ludovico!' cried Annette, sobbing—'Ludovico!'

'It is not Ludovico, it is I—MademoiselleEmily.'

Annette ceased sobbing, and was silent.

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

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

Emily now lost her patience, and her fear ofbeing overheard increasing, she was evennearly about to leave the door, when sheconsidered, that Annette might, possibly, knowsomething of the situation of Madame Montoni,or direct her to the turret. At length, sheobtained a reply, though little satisfactory, to herquestions, for Annette knew nothing of MadameMontoni, and only conjured Emily to tell her whatwas become of Ludovico. Of him she had noinformation to give, and she again asked whohad shut Annette up.

'Ludovico,' said the poor girl, 'Ludovico shutme 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 metLudovico, who hurried me into this chamber,and locked me up to keep me out of harm, ashe said. But he was in such a hurry himself, hehardly spoke ten words, but he told me hewould come, and let me out, when all was quiet,and he took away the key with him. Now allthese hours are passed, and I have neither

seen, or heard a word of him; they havemurdered him—I know they have!'

Emily suddenly remembered the woundedperson, whom she had seen borne into theservants' hall, and she scarcely doubted, that hewas Ludovico, but she concealed thecircumstance from Annette, and endeavouredto comfort her. Then, impatient to learnsomething of her aunt, she again enquired theway to the turret.

'O! you are not going, ma'amselle,' saidAnnette, 'for Heaven's sake, do not go, andleave me here by myself.'

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

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

Emily could scarcely forbear smiling at theheterogeneous distresses of Annette, thoughshe sincerely pitied them, and said what shecould to sooth her. At length, she obtainedsomething like a direction to the east turret, andquitted the door, from whence, after manyintricacies and perplexities, she reached thesteep and winding stairs of the turret, at the foot

of which she stopped to rest, and to re-animateher courage with a sense of her duty. As shesurveyed this dismal place, she perceived adoor on the opposite side of the stair-case,and, anxious to know whether it would lead herto Madame Montoni, she tried to undraw thebolts, which fastened it. A fresher air came toher face, as she unclosed the door, whichopened upon the east rampart, and the suddencurrent had nearly extinguished her light, whichshe now removed to a distance; and again,looking out upon the obscure terrace, sheperceived only the faint outline of the walls andof some towers, while, above, heavy clouds,borne along the wind, seemed to mingle withthe stars, and wrap the night in thickerdarkness. As she gazed, now willing to deferthe moment of certainty, from which sheexpected only confirmation of evil, a distantfootstep reminded her, that she might beobserved by the men on watch, and, hastilyclosing the door, she took her lamp, andpassed up the stair-case. Trembling cameupon her, as she ascended through the gloom.To her melancholy fancy this seemed to be aplace of death, and the chilling silence, thatreigned, confirmed its character. Her spiritsfaltered. 'Perhaps,' said she, 'I am come hitheronly to learn a dreadful truth, or to witness somehorrible spectacle; I feel that my senses wouldnot survive such an addition of horror.'

The image of her aunt murdered—murdered,

perhaps, by the hand of Montoni, rose to hermind; she trembled, gasped for breath—repented that she had dared to venture hither,and checked her steps. But, after she hadpaused a few minutes, the consciousness ofher duty returned, and she went on. Still all wassilent. At length a track of blood, upon a stair,caught her eye; and instantly she perceived,that the wall and several other steps werestained. She paused, again struggled tosupport herself, and the lamp almost fell fromher trembling hand. Still no sound was heard,no living being seemed to inhabit the turret; athousand times she wished herself again in herchamber; dreaded to enquire farther—dreadedto encounter some horrible spectacle, and yetcould not resolve, now that she was so near thetermination of her efforts, to desist from them.Having again collected courage to proceed,after ascending about half way up the turret, shecame to another door, but here again shestopped in hesitation; listened for soundswithin, and then, summoning all her resolution,unclosed it, and entered a chamber, which, asher lamp shot its feeble rays through thedarkness, seemed to exhibit only dew-stainedand deserted walls. As she stood examining it,in fearful expectation of discovering the remainsof her unfortunate aunt, she perceivedsomething lying in an obscure corner of theroom, and, struck with an horrible conviction,she became, for an instant, motionless and

nearly insensible. Then, with a kind ofdesperate resolution, she hurried towards theobject that excited her terror, when, perceivingthe clothes of some person, on the floor, shecaught hold of them, and found in her grasp theold uniform of a soldier, beneath whichappeared a heap of pikes and other arms.Scarcely daring to trust her sight, shecontinued, for some moments, to gaze on theobject of her late alarm, and then left thechamber, so much comforted and occupied bythe conviction, that her aunt was not there, thatshe was going to descend the turret, withoutenquiring farther; when, on turning to do so, sheobserved upon some steps on the second flightan appearance of blood, and remembering,that there was yet another chamber to beexplored, she again followed the windings ofthe ascent. Still, as she ascended, the track ofblood glared upon the stairs.

It led her to the door of a landing-place, thatterminated them, but she was unable to follow itfarther. Now that she was so near the sought-forcertainty, she dreaded to know it, even morethan before, and had not fortitude sufficient tospeak, or to attempt opening the door.

Having listened, in vain, for some sound, thatmight confirm, or destroy her fears, she, atlength, laid her hand on the lock, and, finding itfastened, called on Madame Montoni; but only achilling silence ensued.

'She is dead!' she cried,—'murdered!—herblood is on the stairs!'

Emily grew very faint; could support herselfno longer, and had scarcely presence of mindto set down the lamp, and place herself on astep.

When her recollection returned, she spokeagain at the door, and again attempted to openit, and, having lingered for some time, withoutreceiving any answer, or hearing a sound, shedescended the turret, and, with all the swiftnessher feebleness would permit, sought her ownapartment.

As she turned into the corridor, the door of achamber opened, from whence Montoni cameforth; but Emily, more terrified than ever tobehold him, shrunk back into the passage soonenough to escape being noticed, and heardhim close the door, which she had perceivedwas the same she formerly observed. Havinghere listened to his departing steps, till theirfaint sound was lost in distance, she ventured toher apartment, and, securing it once again,retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning onthe hearth. But sleep was fled from herharassed mind, to which images of horror aloneoccurred. She endeavoured to think it possible,that Madame Montoni had not been taken to theturret; but, when she recollected the formermenaces of her husband and the terrible spirit

of vengeance, which he had displayed on a lateoccasion; when she remembered his generalcharacter, the looks of the men, who had forcedMadame Montoni from her apartment, and thewritten traces on the stairs of the turret—shecould not doubt, that her aunt had been carriedthither, and could scarcely hope, that she hadnot been carried to be murdered.

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

CHAPTER XI Who rears the bloody hand? SAYERS

Emily remained in her chamber, on thefollowing morning, without receiving any noticefrom Montoni, or seeing a human being, exceptthe armed men, who sometimes passed on theterrace below. Having tasted no food since thedinner of the preceding day, extreme faintnessmade her feel the necessity of quitting theasylum of her apartment to obtain refreshment,and she was also very anxious to procure libertyfor Annette. Willing, however, to defer venturingforth, as long as possible, and considering,whether she should apply to Montoni, or to thecompassion of some other person, herexcessive anxiety concerning her aunt, atlength, overcame her abhorrence of hispresence, and she determined to go to him,and to entreat, that he would suffer her to seeMadame Montoni.

Meanwhile, it was too certain, from theabsence of Annette, that some accident hadbefallen Ludovico, and that she was still inconfinement; Emily, therefore, resolved also tovisit the chamber, where she had spoken to her,on the preceding night, and, if the poor girl wasyet there, to inform Montoni of her situation.

It was near noon, before she ventured fromher apartment, and went first to the southgallery, whither she passed without meeting asingle person, or hearing a sound, except, nowand then, the echo of a distant footstep.

It was unnecessary to call Annette, whoselamentations were audible upon the firstapproach to the gallery, and who, bewailing herown and Ludovico's fate, told Emily, that sheshould certainly be starved to death, if she wasnot let out immediately. Emily replied, that shewas going to beg her release of Montoni; butthe terrors of hunger now yielded to those of theSignor, and, when Emily left her, she was loudlyentreating, that her place of refuge might beconcealed from him.

As Emily drew near the great hall, the soundsshe heard and the people she met in thepassages renewed her alarm. The latter,however, were peaceable, and did not interrupther, though they looked earnestly at her, as shepassed, and sometimes spoke. On crossingthe hall towards the cedar room, where Montoniusually sat, she perceived, on the pavement,fragments of swords, some tattered garmentsstained with blood, and almost expected tohave seen among them a dead body; but fromsuch a spectacle she was, at present, spared.As she approached the room, the sound ofseveral voices issued from within, and a dreadof appearing before many strangers, as well as

of irritating Montoni by such an intrusion, madeher pause and falter from her purpose. Shelooked up through the long arcades of the hall,in search of a servant, who might bear amessage, but no one appeared, and theurgency of what she had to request made herstill linger near the door. The voices within werenot in contention, though she distinguishedthose of several of the guests of the precedingday; but still her resolution failed, whenever shewould have tapped at the door, and she haddetermined to walk in the hall, till some personshould appear, who might call Montoni from theroom, when, as she turned from the door, it wassuddenly opened by himself. Emily trembled,and was confused, while he almost started withsurprise, and all the terrors of his countenanceunfolded themselves. She forgot all she wouldhave said, and neither enquired for her aunt, orentreated for Annette, but stood silent andembarrassed.

After closing the door he reproved her for ameanness, of which she had not been guilty,and sternly questioned her what she hadoverheard; an accusation, which revived herrecollection so far, that she assured him shehad not come thither with an intention to listen tohis conversation, but to entreat his compassionfor her aunt, and for Annette. Montoni seemedto doubt this assertion, for he regarded her witha scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidentlyarose from no trifling interest. Emily then further

explained herself, and concluded withentreating him to inform her, where her auntwas placed, and to permit, that she might visither; but he looked upon her only with amalignant smile, which instantaneouslyconfirmed her worst fears for her aunt, and, atthat moment, she had not courage to renew herentreaties.

'For Annette,' said he,—'if you go to Carlo, hewill release the girl; the foolish fellow, who shuther up, died yesterday.' Emily shuddered.—'Butmy aunt, Signor'—said she, 'O tell me of myaunt!'

'She is taken care of,' replied Montoni hastily,'I have no time to answer idle questions.'

He would have passed on, but Emily, in avoice of agony, that could not be whollyresisted, conjured him to tell her, whereMadame Montoni was; while he paused, andshe anxiously watched his countenance, atrumpet sounded, and, in the next moment, sheheard the heavy gates of the portal open, andthen the clattering of horses' hoofs in the court,with the confusion of many voices. She stoodfor a moment hesitating whether she shouldfollow Montoni, who, at the sound of the trumpet,had passed through the hall, and, turning hereyes whence it came, she saw through thedoor, that opened beyond a long perspective ofarches into the courts, a party of horsemen,

whom she judged, as well as the distance andher embarrassment would allow, to be thesame she had seen depart, a few days before.But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when thetrumpet sounded again, the chevaliers rushedout of the cedar room, and men came runninginto the hall from every quarter of the castle.Emily once more hurried for shelter to her ownapartment. Thither she was still pursued byimages of horror. She re-considered Montoni'smanner and words, when he had spoken of hiswife, and they served only to confirm her mostterrible suspicions. Tears refused any longer torelieve her distress, and she had sat for aconsiderable time absorbed in thought, when aknocking at the chamber door aroused her, onopening which she found old Carlo.

'Dear young lady,' said he, 'I have been soflurried, I never once thought of you till just now. Ihave brought you some fruit and wine, and I amsure you must stand in need of them by thistime.'

'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, 'this is verygood of you Did the Signor remind you of me?'

'No, Signora,' replied Carlo, 'his excellenzahas business enough on his hands.' Emily thenrenewed her enquiries, concerning MadameMontoni, but Carlo had been employed at theother end of the castle, during the time, that shewas removed, and he had heard nothing since,

concerning her.

While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him,for she scarcely knew whether he was reallyignorant, or concealed his knowledge of thetruth from a fear of offending his master. Toseveral questions, concerning the contentionsof yesterday, he gave very limited answers; buttold, that the disputes were now amicablysettled, and that the Signor believed himself tohave been mistaken in his suspicions of hisguests. 'The fighting was about that, Signora,'said Carlo; 'but I trust I shall never see suchanother day in this castle, though strange thingsare about to be done.'

On her enquiring his meaning, 'Ah, Signora!'added he, 'it is not for me to betray secrets, ortell all I think, but time will tell.'

She then desired him to release Annette,and, having described the chamber in which thepoor girl was confined, he promised to obey herimmediately, and was departing, when sheremembered to ask who were the persons justarrived. Her late conjecture was right; it wasVerezzi, with his party.

Her spirits were somewhat soothed by thisshort conversation with Carlo; for, in her presentcircumstances, it afforded some comfort tohear the accents of compassion, and to meetthe look of sympathy.

An hour passed before Annette appeared,who then came weeping and sobbing. 'OLudovico—Ludovico!' cried she.

'My poor Annette!' said Emily, and made hersit down.

'Who could have foreseen this, ma'amselle?O miserable, wretched, day—that ever I shouldlive to see it!' and she continued to moan andlament, till Emily thought it necessary to checkher excess of grief. 'We are continually losingdear friends by death,' said she, with a sigh,that came from her heart. 'We must submit tothe will of Heaven—our tears, alas! cannotrecall the dead!'

Annette took the handkerchief from her face.

'You will meet Ludovico in a better world, Ihope,' added Emily.

'Yes—yes,—ma'amselle,' sobbed Annette,'but I hope I shall meet him again in this—though he is so wounded!'

'Wounded!' exclaimed Emily, 'does he live?'

'Yes, ma'am, but—but he has a terriblewound, and could not come to let me out. Theythought him dead, at first, and he has not beenrightly himself, till within this hour.'

'Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.'

'Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die,

'Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die,surely!'

Emily said she hoped not, but this expressionof hope Annette thought implied fear, and herown increased in proportion, as Emilyendeavoured to encourage her. To enquiries,concerning Madame Montoni, she could giveno satisfactory answers.

'I quite forgot to ask among the servants,ma'amselle,' said she, 'for I could think ofnobody but poor Ludovico.'

Annette's grief was now somewhatassuaged, and Emily sent her to makeenquiries, concerning her lady, of whom,however, she could obtain no intelligence,some of the people she spoke with being reallyignorant of her fate, and others having probablyreceived orders to conceal it.

This day passed with Emily in continued griefand anxiety for her aunt; but she wasunmolested by any notice from Montoni; and,now that Annette was liberated, she obtainedfood, without exposing herself to danger, orimpertinence.

Two following days passed in the samemanner, unmarked by any occurrence, duringwhich she obtained no information of MadameMontoni. On the evening of the second, havingdismissed Annette, and retired to bed, her mindbecame haunted by the most dismal images,

such as her long anxiety, concerning her aunt,suggested; and, unable to forget herself, for amoment, or to vanquish the phantoms, thattormented her, she rose from her bed, and wentto one of the casements of her chamber, tobreathe a freer air.

All without was silent and dark, unless thatcould be called light, which was only the faintglimmer of the stars, shewing imperfectly theoutline of the mountains, the western towers ofthe castle and the ramparts below, where asolitary sentinel was pacing. What an image ofrepose did this scene present! The fierce andterrible passions, too, which so often agitatedthe inhabitants of this edifice, seemed nowhushed in sleep;—those mysterious workings,that rouse the elements of man's nature intotempest—were calm. Emily's heart was not so;but her sufferings, though deep, partook of thegentle character of her mind. Hers was a silentanguish, weeping, yet enduring; not the wildenergy of passion, inflaming imagination,bearing down the barriers of reason and livingin a world of its own.

The air refreshed her, and she continued atthe casement, looking on the shadowy scene,over which the planets burned with a clear light,amid the deep blue aether, as they silentlymoved in their destined course. Sheremembered how often she had gazed on themwith her dear father, how often he had pointed

out their way in the heavens, and explained theirlaws; and these reflections led to others, which,in an almost equal degree, awakened her griefand astonishment.

They brought a retrospect of all the strangeand mournful events, which had occurred sinceshe lived in peace with her parents. And toEmily, who had been so tenderly educated, sotenderly loved, who once knew only goodnessand happiness—to her, the late events and herpresent situation—in a foreign land—in aremote castle—surrounded by vice andviolence—seemed more like the visions of adistempered imagination, than thecircumstances of truth. She wept to think ofwhat her parents would have suffered, couldthey have foreseen the events of her future life.

While she raised her streaming eyes toheaven, she observed the same planet, whichshe had seen in Languedoc, on the night,preceding her father's death, rise above theeastern towers of the castle, while sheremembered the conversation, which haspassed, concerning the probable state ofdeparted souls; remembered, also, the solemnmusic she had heard, and to which thetenderness of her spirits had, in spite of herreason, given a superstitious meaning. At theserecollections she wept again, and continuedmusing, when suddenly the notes of sweetmusic passed on the air. A superstitious dread

stole over her; she stood listening, for somemoments, in trembling expectation, and thenendeavoured to re-collect her thoughts, and toreason herself into composure; but humanreason cannot establish her laws on subjects,lost in the obscurity of imagination, any morethan the eye can ascertain the form of objects,that only glimmer through the dimness of night.

Her surprise, on hearing such soothing anddelicious sounds, was, at least, justifiable; for itwas long—very long, since she had listened toany thing like melody. The fierce trumpet andthe shrill fife were the only instruments she hadheard, since her arrival at Udolpho.

When her mind was somewhat morecomposed, she tried to ascertain from whatquarter the sounds proceeded, and thought theycame from below; but whether from a room ofthe castle, or from the terrace, she could notwith certainty judge. Fear and surprise nowyielded to the enchantment of a strain, thatfloated on the silent night, with the most soft andmelancholy sweetness. Suddenly, it seemedremoved to a distance, trembled faintly, andthen entirely ceased.

She continued to listen, sunk in that pleasingrepose, which soft music leaves on the mind—but it came no more. Upon this strangecircumstance her thoughts were long engaged,for strange it certainly was to hear music at

midnight, when every inhabitant of the castlehad long since retired to rest, and in a place,where nothing like harmony had been heardbefore, probably, for many years. Long-suffering had made her spirits peculiarlysensible to terror, and liable to be affected bythe illusions of superstition.—It now seemed toher, as if her dead father had spoken to her inthat strain, to inspire her with comfort andconfidence, on the subject, which had thenoccupied her mind. Yet reason told her, that thiswas a wild conjecture, and she was inclined todismiss it; but, with the inconsistency so natural,when imagination guides the thoughts, she thenwavered towards a belief as wild. Sheremembered the singular event, connected withthe castle, which had given it into thepossession of its present owner; and, when sheconsidered the mysterious manner, in which itslate possessor had disappeared, and that shehad never since been heard of, her mind wasimpressed with an high degree of solemn awe;so that, though there appeared no clue toconnect that event with the late music, she wasinclined fancifully to think they had some relationto each other. At this conjecture, a suddenchillness ran through her frame; she lookedfearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber,and the dead silence, that prevailed there,heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect.

At length, she left the casement, but her stepsfaltered, as she approached the bed, and she

stopped and looked round. The single lamp,that burned in her spacious chamber, wasexpiring; for a moment, she shrunk from thedarkness beyond; and then, ashamed of theweakness, which, however, she could not whollyconquer, went forward to the bed, where hermind did not soon know the soothings of sleep.She still mused on the late occurrence, andlooked with anxiety to the next night, when, atthe same hour, she determined to watchwhether the music returned. 'If those soundswere human,' said she, 'I shall probably hearthem again.'

CHAPTER XII Then, oh, you blessed ministers above, Keep me in patience; and, in ripen'd time, Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up In countenance. SHAKESPEARE

Annette came almost breathless to Emily'sapartment in the morning. 'O ma'amselle!' saidshe, in broken sentences, 'what news I have totell! I have found out who the prisoner is—but hewas no prisoner, neither;—he that was shut upin the chamber I told you of. I must think him aghost, forsooth!'

'Who was the prisoner?' enquired Emily,while her thoughts glanced back to thecircumstance of the preceding night.

'You mistake, ma'am,' said Annette; 'he wasnot a prisoner, after all.'

'Who is the person, then?'

'Holy Saints!' rejoined Annette; 'How I wassurprised! I met him just now, on the rampartbelow, there. I never was so surprised in my life!Ah! ma'amselle! this is a strange place! I shouldnever have done wondering, if I was to live herean hundred years. But, as I was saying, I methim just now on the rampart, and I was thinking

of nobody less than of him.'

'This trifling is insupportable,' said Emily;'prythee, Annette, do not torture my patienceany longer.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, guess—guess who it was;it was somebody you know very well.'

'I cannot guess,' said Emily impatiently.

'Nay, ma'amselle, I'll tell you something toguess by—A tall Signor, with a longish face,who walks so stately, and used to wear such ahigh feather in his hat; and used often to lookdown upon the ground, when people spoke tohim; and to look at people from under hiseyebrows, as it were, all so dark and frowning.You have seen him, often and often, at Venice,ma'am. Then he was so intimate with theSignor, too. And, now I think of it, I wonder whathe could be afraid of in this lonely old castle,that he should shut himself up for. But he iscome abroad now, for I met him on the rampartjust this minute. I trembled when I saw him, for Ialways was afraid of him, somehow; but Idetermined I would not let him see it; so I wentup to him, and made him a low curtesy, "Youare welcome to the castle, Signor Orsino," saidI.'

'O, it was Signor Orsino, then!' said Emily.

'Yes, ma'amselle, Signor Orsino, himself,

who caused that Venetian gentleman to bekilled, and has been popping about from placeto place, ever since, as I hear.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, recoveringfrom the shock of this intelligence; 'and is HEcome to Udolpho! He does well to endeavour toconceal himself.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, but if that was all, thisdesolate place would conceal him, without hisshutting himself up in one room. Who wouldthink of coming to look for him here? I am sure Ishould as soon think of going to look for anybody in the other world.'

'There is some truth in that,' said Emily, whowould now have concluded it was Orsino'smusic, which she had heard, on the precedingnight, had she not known, that he had neithertaste, or skill in the art. But, though she wasunwilling to add to the number of Annette'ssurprises, by mentioning the subject of her own,she enquired, whether any person in the castleplayed on a musical instrument?

'O yes, ma'amselle! there is Benedetto playsthe great drum to admiration; and then, there isLauncelot the trumpeter; nay, for that matter,Ludovico himself can play on the trumpet;—buthe is ill now. I remember once'—

Emily interrupted her; 'Have you heard noother music since you came to the castle—

none last night?'

'Why, did YOU hear any last night,ma'amselle?'

Emily evaded this question, by repeating herown.

'Why, no, ma'am,' replied Annette; 'I neverheard any music here, I must say, but the drumsand the trumpet; and, as for last night, I didnothing but dream I saw my late lady's ghost.'

'Your LATE lady's,' said Emily in a tremulousvoice; 'you have heard more, then. Tell me—tellme all, Annette, I entreat; tell me the worst atonce.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, you know the worstalready.'

'I know nothing,' said Emily.

'Yes, you do, ma'amselle; you know, thatnobody knows any thing about her; and it isplain, therefore, she is gone, the way of the firstlady of the castle—nobody ever knew any thingabout her.'

Emily leaned her head upon her hand, andwas, for some time, silent; then, telling Annetteshe wished to be alone, the latter left the room.

The remark of Annette had revived Emily'sterrible suspicion, concerning the fate ofMadame Montoni; and she resolved to make

Madame Montoni; and she resolved to makeanother effort to obtain certainty on this subject,by applying to Montoni once more.

When Annette returned, a few hours after,she told Emily, that the porter of the castlewished very much to speak with her, for that hehad something of importance to say; her spiritshad, however, of late been so subject to alarm,that any new circumstance excited it; and thismessage from the porter, when her firstsurprise was over, made her look round forsome lurking danger, the more suspiciously,perhaps, because she had frequently remarkedthe unpleasant air and countenance of this man.She now hesitated, whether to speak with him,doubting even, that this request was only apretext to draw her into some danger; but a littlereflection shewed her the improbability of this,and she blushed at her weak fears.

'I will speak to him, Annette,' said she; 'desirehim to come to the corridor immediately.'

Annette departed, and soon after returned.

'Barnardine, ma'amselle,' said she, 'dare notcome to the corridor, lest he should bediscovered, it is so far from his post; and hedare not even leave the gates for a momentnow; but, if you will come to him at the portal,through some roundabout passages he told meof, without crossing the courts, he has that totell, which will surprise you. But you must notcome through the courts, lest the Signor should

come through the courts, lest the Signor shouldsee you.'

Emily, neither approving these 'roundaboutpassage,' nor the other part of the request, nowpositively refused to go. 'Tell him,' said she, 'ifhe has any thing of consequence to impart, I willhear him in the corridor, whenever he has anopportunity of coming thither.'

Annette went to deliver this message, andwas absent a considerable time. When shereturned, 'It won't do, ma'amselle,' said she.'Barnardine has been considering all this timewhat can be done, for it is as much as his placeis worth to leave his post now. But, if you willcome to the east rampart in the dusk of theevening, he can, perhaps, steal away, and tellyou all he has to say.'

Emily was surprised and alarmed, at thesecrecy which this man seemed to think sonecessary, and hesitated whether to meet him,till, considering, that he might mean to warn herof some serious danger, she resolved to go.

'Soon after sun-set,' said she, 'I will be at theend of the east rampart. But then the watch willbe set,' she added, recollecting herself, 'andhow can Barnardine pass unobserved?'

'That is just what I said to him, ma'am, and heanswered me, that he had the key of the gate,at the end of the rampart, that leads towards thecourts, and could let himself through that way;

and as for the sentinels, there were none at thisend of the terrace, because the place isguarded enough by the high walls of the castle,and the east turret; and he said those at theother end were too far off to see him, if it waspretty duskyish.'

'Well,' said Emily, 'I must hear what he has totell; and, therefore, desire you will go with me tothe terrace, this evening.'

'He desired it might be pretty duskyish,ma'amselle,' repeated Annette, 'because of thewatch.'

Emily paused, and then said she would be onthe terrace, an hour after sun-set;—'and tellBarnardine,' she added, 'to be punctual to thetime; for that I, also, may be observed by SignorMontoni. Where is the Signor? I would speakwith him.'

'He is in the cedar chamber, ma'am,counselling with the other Signors. He is goingto give them a sort of treat to-day, to make upfor what passed at the last, I suppose; thepeople are all very busy in the kitchen.'

Emily now enquired, if Montoni expected anynew guests? and Annette believed that he didnot. 'Poor Ludovico!' added she, 'he would beas merry as the best of them, if he was well; buthe may recover yet. Count Morano waswounded as bad, as he, and he is got well

again, and is gone back to Venice.'

'Is he so?' said Emily, 'when did you hearthis?'

'I heard it, last night, ma'amselle, but I forgotto tell it.'

Emily asked some further questions, andthen, desiring Annette would observe andinform her, when Montoni was alone, the girlwent to deliver her message to Barnardine.

Montoni was, however, so much engaged,during the whole day, that Emily had noopportunity of seeking a release from herterrible suspense, concerning her aunt. Annettewas employed in watching his steps, and inattending upon Ludovico, whom she, assistedby Caterina, nursed with the utmost care; andEmily was, of course, left much alone. Herthoughts dwelt often on the message of theporter, and were employed in conjecturing thesubject, that occasioned it, which shesometimes imagined concerned the fate ofMadame Montoni; at others, that it related tosome personal danger, which threatenedherself. The cautious secrecy which Barnardineobserved in his conduct, inclined her to believethe latter.

As the hour of appointment drew near, herimpatience increased. At length, the sun set;she heard the passing steps of the sentinels

going to their posts; and waited only for Annetteto accompany her to the terrace, who, soonafter, came, and they descended together.When Emily expressed apprehensions ofmeeting Montoni, or some of his guests, 'O,there is no fear of that, ma'amselle,' saidAnnette, 'they are all set in to feasting yet, andthat Barnardine knows.'

They reached the first terrace, where thesentinels demanded who passed; and Emily,having answered, walked on to the eastrampart, at the entrance of which they wereagain stopped; and, having again replied, werepermitted to proceed. But Emily did not like toexpose herself to the discretion of these men,at such an hour; and, impatient to withdraw fromthe situation, she stepped hastily on in searchof Barnardine. He was not yet come. Sheleaned pensively on the wall of the rampart, andwaited for him. The gloom of twilight sat deepon the surrounding objects, blending in softconfusion the valley, the mountains, and thewoods, whose tall heads, stirred by the eveningbreeze, gave the only sounds, that stole onsilence, except a faint, faint chorus of distantvoices, that arose from within the castle.

'What voices are those?' said Emily, as shefearfully listened.

'It is only the Signor and his guests,carousing,' replied Annette.

'Good God!' thought Emily, 'can this man'sheart be so gay, when he has made anotherbeing so wretched; if, indeed, my aunt is yetsuffered to feel her wretchedness? O! whateverare my own sufferings, may my heart never,never be hardened against those of others!'

She looked up, with a sensation of horror, tothe east turret, near which she then stood; alight glimmered through the grates of the lowerchamber, but those of the upper one were dark.Presently, she perceived a person moving witha lamp across the lower room; but thiscircumstance revived no hope, concerningMadame Montoni, whom she had vainly soughtin that apartment, which had appeared tocontain only soldiers' accoutrements. Emily,however, determined to attempt the outer doorof the turret, as soon as Barnardine shouldwithdraw; and, if it was unfastened, to makeanother effort to discover her aunt.

The moments passed, but still Barnardine didnot appear; and Emily, becoming uneasy,hesitated whether to wait any longer. She wouldhave sent Annette to the portal to hasten him,but feared to be left alone, for it was now almostdark, and a melancholy streak of red, that stilllingered in the west, was the only vestige ofdeparted day. The strong interest, however,which Barnardine's message had awakened,overcame other apprehensions, and stilldetained her.

While she was conjecturing with Annette whatcould thus occasion his absence, they heard akey turn in the lock of the gate near them, andpresently saw a man advancing. It wasBarnardine, of whom Emily hastily enquiredwhat he had to communicate, and desired, thathe would tell her quickly, 'for I am chilled withthis evening air,' said she.

'You must dismiss your maid, lady,' said theman in a voice, the deep tone of which shockedher, 'what I have to tell is to you only.'

Emily, after some hesitation, desired Annetteto withdraw to a little distance. 'Now, my friend,what would you say?'

He was silent a moment, as if considering,and then said,—

'That which would cost me my place, at least,if it came to the Signor's ears. You mustpromise, lady, that nothing shall ever make youtell a syllable of the matter; I have been trustedin this affair, and, if it was known, that I betrayedmy trust, my life, perhaps, might answer it. But Iwas concerned for you, lady, and I resolved totell you.' He paused.—

Emily thanked him, assured him that he mightrepose on her discretion, and entreated him todispatch.

'Annette told us in the hall how unhappy you

was about Signora Montoni, and how much youwished to know what was become of her.'

'Most true,' said Emily eagerly, 'and you caninform me. I conjure you tell me the worst,without hesitation.' She rested her tremblingarm upon the wall.

'I can tell you,' said Barnardine, and paused.—

Emily had no power to enforce her entreaties.

'I CAN tell you,' resumed Barnardine,—'but'—

'But what?' exclaimed Emily, recovering herresolution.

'Here I am, ma'amselle,' said Annette, who,having heard the eager tone, in which Emilypronounced these words, came runningtowards her.

'Retire!' said Barnardine, sternly; 'you are notwanted;' and, as Emily said nothing, Annetteobeyed.

'I CAN tell you,' repeated the porter,—'but Iknow not how—you was afflicted before.'—

'I am prepared for the worst, my friend,' saidEmily, in a firm and solemn voice. 'I can supportany certainty better than this suspense.'

'Well, Signora, if that is the case, you shallhear.—You know, I suppose, that the Signor

and his lady used sometimes to disagree. It isnone of my concerns to enquire what it wasabout, but I believe you know it was so.'

'Well,' said Emily, 'proceed.'

'The Signor, it seems, had lately been verywrath against her. I saw all, and heard all,—agreat deal more than people thought for; but itwas none of my business, so I said nothing. Afew days ago, the Signor sent for me."Barnardine," says he, "you are—an honestman, I think I can trust you." I assured hisexcellenza that he could. "Then," says he, asnear as I can remember, "I have an affair inhand, which I want you to assist me in."—Thenhe told me what I was to do; but that I shall saynothing about—it concerned only the Signora.'

'O Heavens!' exclaimed Emily—'what haveyou done?'

Barnardine hesitated, and was silent.

'What fiend could tempt him, or you, to suchan act!' cried Emily, chilled with horror, andscarcely able to support her fainting spirits.

'It was a fiend,' said Barnardine in a gloomytone of voice. They were now both silent;—Emily had not courage to enquire further, andBarnardine seemed to shrink from telling more.At length he said, 'It is of no use to think of thepast; the Signor was cruel enough, but he would

be obeyed. What signified my refusing? Hewould have found others, who had no scruples.'

'You have murdered her, then!' said Emily, ina hollow and inward voice—'I am talking with amurderer!' Barnardine stood silent; while Emilyturned from him, and attempted to leave theplace.

'Stay, lady!' said he, 'You deserve to think sostill—since you can believe me capable of sucha deed.'

'If you are innocent, tell me quickly,' saidEmily, in faint accents, 'for I feel I shall not beable to hear you long.'

'I will tell you no more,' said he, and walkedaway. Emily had just strength enough to bid himstay, and then to call Annette, on whose armshe leaned, and they walked slowly up therampart, till they heard steps behind them. Itwas Barnardine again.

'Send away the girl,' said he, 'and I will tell youmore.'

'She must not go,' said Emily; 'what you haveto say, she may hear.'

'May she so, lady?' said he. 'You shall knowno more, then;' and he was going, thoughslowly, when Emily's anxiety, overcoming theresentment and fear, which the man's behaviourhad roused, she desired him to stay, and bade

Annette retire.

'The Signora is alive,' said he, 'for me. She ismy prisoner, though; his excellenza has shut herup in the chamber over the great gates of thecourt, and I have the charge of her. I was goingto have told you, you might see her—but now—'

Emily, relieved from an unutterable load ofanguish by this speech, had now only to askBarnardine's forgiveness, and to conjure, thathe would let her visit her aunt.

He complied with less reluctance, than sheexpected, and told her, that, if she would repair,on the following night, when the Signor wasretired to rest, to the postern-gate of the castle,she should, perhaps, see Madame Montoni.

Amid all the thankfulness, which Emily felt forthis concession, she thought she observed amalicious triumph in his manner, when hepronounced the last words; but, in the nextmoment, she dismissed the thought, and,having again thanked him, commended heraunt to his pity, and assured him, that she wouldherself reward him, and would be punctual toher appointment, she bade him good night, andretired, unobserved, to her chamber. It was aconsiderable time, before the tumult of joy,which Barnardine's unexpected intelligence hadoccasioned, allowed Emily to think withclearness, or to be conscious of the realdangers, that still surrounded Madame Montoni

and herself. When this agitation subsided, sheperceived, that her aunt was yet the prisoner ofa man, to whose vengeance, or avarice, shemight fall a sacrifice; and, when she furtherconsidered the savage aspect of the person,who was appointed to guard Madame Montoni,her doom appeared to be already sealed, forthe countenance of Barnardine seemed to bearthe stamp of a murderer; and, when she hadlooked upon it, she felt inclined to believe, thatthere was no deed, however black, which hemight not be prevailed upon to execute. Thesereflections brought to her remembrance thetone of voice, in which he had promised to granther request to see his prisoner; and she musedupon it long in uneasiness and doubt.Sometimes, she even hesitated, whether totrust herself with him at the lonely hour he hadappointed; and once, and only once, it struckher, that Madame Montoni might be alreadymurdered, and that this ruffian was appointed todecoy herself to some secret place, where herlife also was to be sacrificed to the avarice ofMontoni, who then would claim securely thecontested estates in Languedoc. Theconsideration of the enormity of such guilt did,at length, relieve her from the belief of itsprobability, but not from all the doubts andfears, which a recollection of Barnardine'smanner had occasioned. From these subjects,her thoughts, at length, passed to others; and,as the evening advanced, she remembered,

with somewhat more than surprise, the musicshe had heard, on the preceding night, and nowawaited its return, with more than curiosity.

She distinguished, till a late hour, the distantcarousals of Montoni and his companions—theloud contest, the dissolute laugh and the choralsong, that made the halls re-echo. At length,she heard the heavy gates of the castle shut forthe night, and those sounds instantly sunk into asilence, which was disturbed only by thewhispering steps of persons, passing throughthe galleries to their remote rooms. Emily nowjudging it to be about the time, when she hadheard the music, on the preceding night,dismissed Annette, and gently opened thecasement to watch for its return. The planet shehad so particularly noticed, at the recurrence ofthe music, was not yet risen; but, withsuperstitious weakness, she kept her eyesfixed on that part of the hemisphere, where itwould rise, almost expecting, that, when itappeared, the sounds would return. At length, itcame, serenely bright, over the eastern towersof the castle. Her heart trembled, when sheperceived it, and she had scarcely courage toremain at the casement, lest the returning musicshould confirm her terror, and subdue the littlestrength she yet retained. The clock soon afterstruck one, and, knowing this to be about thetime, when the sounds had occurred, she satdown in a chair, near the casement, andendeavoured to compose her spirits; but the

anxiety of expectation yet disturbed them. Everything, however, remained still; she heard onlythe solitary step of a sentinel, and the lullingmurmur of the woods below, and she againleaned from the casement, and again looked,as if for intelligence, to the planet, which wasnow risen high above the towers.

Emily continued to listen, but no music came.'Those were surely no mortal sounds!' said she,recollecting their entrancing melody. 'Noinhabitant of this castle could utter such; and,where is the feeling, that could modulate suchexquisite expression? We all know, that it hasbeen affirmed celestial sounds havesometimes been heard on earth. Father Pierreand Father Antoine declared, that they hadsometimes heard them in the stillness of night,when they alone were waking to offer theirorisons to heaven. Nay, my dear father himself,once said, that, soon after my mother's death,as he lay watchful in grief, sounds of uncommonsweetness called him from his bed; and, onopening his window, he heard lofty music passalong the midnight air. It soothed him, he said;he looked up with confidence to heaven, andresigned her to his God.'

Emily paused to weep at this recollection.'Perhaps,' resumed she, 'perhaps, those strainsI heard were sent to comfort,—to encourageme! Never shall I forget those I heard, at thishour, in Languedoc! Perhaps, my father

watches over me, at this moment!' She weptagain in tenderness. Thus passed the hour inwatchfulness and solemn thought; but nosounds returned; and, after remaining at thecasement, till the light tint of dawn began toedge the mountain-tops and steal upon thenight-shade, she concluded, that they would notreturn, and retired reluctantly to repose.

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 thefollowing day, to find that Annette had heard ofMadame Montoni's confinement in the chamberover the portal, as well as of her purposed visitthere, on the approaching night. That thecircumstance, which Barnardine had sosolemnly enjoined her to conceal, he hadhimself told to so indiscreet an hearer asAnnette, appeared very improbable, though hehad now charged her with a message,concerning the intended interview. Herequested, that Emily would meet him,unattended, on the terrace, at a little aftermidnight, when he himself would lead her to theplace he had promised; a proposal, from whichshe immediately shrunk, for a thousand vaguefears darted athwart her mind, such as hadtormented her on the preceding night, andwhich she neither knew how to trust, or todismiss. It frequently occurred to her, thatBarnardine might have deceived her,concerning Madame Montoni, whose murderer,perhaps, he really was; and that he haddeceived her by order of Montoni, the more

easily to draw her into some of the desperatedesigns of the latter. The terrible suspicion, thatMadame Montoni no longer lived, thus came,accompanied by one not less dreadful forherself. Unless the crime, by which the aunt hadsuffered, was instigated merely by resentment,unconnected with profit, a motive, upon whichMontoni did not appear very likely to act, itsobject must be unattained, till the niece wasalso dead, to whom Montoni knew that hiswife's estates must descend. Emilyremembered the words, which had informedher, that the contested estates in France woulddevolve to her, if Madame Montoni died, withoutconsigning them to her husband, and the formerobstinate perseverance of her aunt made it tooprobable, that she had, to the last, withheldthem. At this instant, recollecting Barnardine'smanner, on the preceding night, she nowbelieved, what she had then fancied, that itexpressed malignant triumph. She shudderedat the recollection, which confirmed her fears,and determined not to meet him on the terrace.Soon after, she was inclined to consider thesesuspicions as the extravagant exaggerations ofa timid and harassed mind, and could notbelieve Montoni liable to such preposterousdepravity as that of destroying, from onemotive, his wife and her niece. She blamedherself for suffering her romantic imagination tocarry her so far beyond the bounds ofprobability, and determined to endeavour to

check its rapid flights, lest they shouldsometimes extend into madness. Still, however,she shrunk from the thought of meetingBarnardine, on the terrace, at midnight; and stillthe wish to be relieved from this terriblesuspense, concerning her aunt, to see her, andto sooth her sufferings, made her hesitate whatto do.

'Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass tothe terrace at that hour?' said she, recollectingherself, 'the sentinels will stop me, and SignorMontoni will hear of the affair.'

'O ma'amselle! that is well thought of,' repliedAnnette. 'That is what Barnardine told meabout. He gave me this key, and bade me say itunlocks the door at the end of the vaultedgallery, that opens near the end of the eastrampart, so that you need not pass any of themen on watch. He bade me say, too, that hisreason for requesting you to come to theterrace was, because he could take you to theplace you want to go to, without opening thegreat doors of the hall, which grate so heavily.'

Emily's spirits were somewhat calmed by thisexplanation, which seemed to be honestly givento Annette. 'But why did he desire I would comealone, Annette?' said she.

'Why that was what I asked him myself,ma'amselle. Says I, Why is my young lady tocome alone?—Surely I may come with her!—

What harm can I do? But he said "No—no—Itell you not," in his gruff way. Nay, says I, I havebeen trusted in as great affairs as this, Iwarrant, and it's a hard matter if I can't keep asecret now. Still he would say nothing but—"No—no—no." Well, says I, if you will only trust me, Iwill tell you a great secret, that was told me amonth ago, and I have never opened my lipsabout it yet—so you need not be afraid of tellingme. But all would not do. Then, ma'amselle, Iwent so far as to offer him a beautiful newsequin, 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! Nowwhat can be the reason of this? But I know, youknow, 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 mindwas agitated with doubts and fears andcontrary determinations, on the subject ofmeeting this Barnardine on the rampart, andsubmitting herself to his guidance, she scarcelyknew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety forherself alternately swayed her determination,and night came, before she had decided uponher conduct. She heard the castle clock strikeeleven—twelve—and yet her mind wavered.

The time, however, was now come, when shecould hesitate no longer: and then the interestshe felt for her aunt overcame otherconsiderations, and, bidding Annette follow herto the outer door of the vaulted gallery, andthere await her return, she descended from herchamber. The castle was perfectly still, and thegreat hall, where so lately she had witnessed ascene of dreadful contention, now returned onlythe whispering footsteps of the two solitaryfigures gliding fearfully between the pillars, andgleamed only to the feeble lamp they carried.Emily, deceived by the long shadows of thepillars and by the catching lights between, oftenstopped, imagining she saw some person,moving in the distant obscurity of theperspective; and, as she passed these pillars,she feared to turn her eyes toward them, almostexpecting to see a figure start out from behindtheir broad shaft. She reached, however, thevaulted gallery, without interruption, butunclosed its outer door with a trembling hand,and, charging Annette not to quit it and to keepit a little open, that she might be heard if shecalled, she delivered to her the lamp, which shedid not dare to take herself because of the menon watch, and, alone, stepped out upon thedark terrace. Every thing was so still, that shefeared, lest her own light steps should be heardby the distant sentinels, and she walkedcautiously towards the spot, where she hadbefore met Barnardine, listening for a sound,

and looking onward through the gloom insearch of him. At length, she was startled by adeep voice, that spoke near her, and shepaused, uncertain whether it was his, till itspoke again, and she then recognized thehollow tones of Barnardine, who had beenpunctual to the moment, and was at theappointed place, resting on the rampart wall.After chiding her for not coming sooner, andsaying, that he had been waiting nearly half anhour, he desired Emily, who made no reply, tofollow him to the door, through which he hadentered the terrace.

While he unlocked it, she looked back to thatshe had left, and, observing the rays of the lampstream through a small opening, was certain,that Annette was still there. But her remotesituation could little befriend Emily, after shehad quitted the terrace; and, when Barnardineunclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of thepassage beyond, shewn by a torch burning onthe pavement, made her shrink from followinghim alone, and she refused to go, unlessAnnette might accompany her. This, however,Barnardine absolutely refused to permit,mingling at the same time with his refusal suchartful circumstances to heighten the pity andcuriosity of Emily towards her aunt, that she, atlength, consented to follow him alone to theportal.

He then took up the torch, and led her along

the passage, at the extremity of which heunlocked another door, whence theydescended, a few steps, into a chapel, which,as Barnardine held up the torch to light her,Emily observed to be in ruins, and sheimmediately recollected a former conversationof Annette, concerning it, with very unpleasantemotions. She looked fearfully on the almostroofless walls, green with damps, and on thegothic points of the windows, where the ivy andthe briony had long supplied the place of glass,and ran mantling among the broken capitals ofsome columns, that had once supported theroof. Barnardine stumbled over the brokenpavement, and his voice, as he uttered asudden oath, was returned in hollow echoes,that made it more terrific. Emily's heart sunk;but she still followed him, and he turned out ofwhat had been the principal aisle of the chapel.'Down these steps, lady,' said Barnardine, ashe descended a flight, which appeared to leadinto the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, anddemanded, in a tremulous tone, whither he wasconducting her.

'To the portal,' said Barnardine.

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

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

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

'Come, lady,' said the man, who had nearlyreached the bottom of the flight, 'make a littlehaste; I cannot wait here all night.'

'Whither do these steps lead?' said Emily, yetpausing.

'To the portal,' repeated Barnardine, in anangry tone, 'I will wait no longer.' As he said this,he moved on with the light, and Emily, fearing toprovoke him by further delay, reluctantlyfollowed. From the steps, they proceededthrough a passage, adjoining the vaults, thewalls of which were dropping with unwholesomedews, and the vapours, that crept along theground, made the torch burn so dimly, thatEmily expected every moment to see itextinguished, and Barnardine could scarcelyfind his way. As they advanced, these vapoursthickened, and Barnardine, believing the torchwas 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, byuncertain flashes of light, the vaults beyond,and, near her, heaps of earth, that seemed tosurround an open grave. Such an object, insuch a scene, would, at any time, havedisturbed her; but now she was shocked by aninstantaneous presentiment, that this was the

grave of her unfortunate aunt, and that thetreacherous Barnardine was leading herself todestruction. The obscure and terrible place, towhich he had conducted her, seemed to justifythe thought; it was a place suited for murder, areceptacle for the dead, where a deed of horrormight be committed, and no vestige appear toproclaim it. Emily was so overwhelmed withterror, that, for a moment, she was unable todetermine what conduct to pursue. She thenconsidered, that it would be vain to attempt anescape from Barnardine, by flight, since thelength and the intricacy of the way she hadpassed would soon enable him to overtake her,who was unacquainted with the turnings, andwhose feebleness would not suffer her to runlong with swiftness. She feared equally toirritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions,which a refusal to accompany him furthercertainly would do; and, since she was alreadyas much in his power as it was possible shecould be, if she proceeded, she, at length,determined to suppress, as far as she could,the appearance of apprehension, and to followsilently whither he designed to lead her. Palewith horror and anxiety, she now waited tillBarnardine had trimmed the torch, and, as hersight glanced again upon the grave, she couldnot forbear enquiring, for whom it wasprepared. He took his eyes from the torch, andfixed them upon her face without speaking. Shefaintly repeated the question, but the man,

shaking the torch, passed on; and she followed,trembling, to a second flight of steps, havingascended which, a door delivered them into thefirst court of the castle. As they crossed it, thelight shewed the high black walls around them,fringed with long grass and dank weeds, thatfound a scanty soil among the moulderingstones; the heavy buttresses, with, here andthere, between them, a narrow grate, thatadmitted 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 portalitself. In this scene the large, uncouth person ofBarnardine, bearing the torch, formed acharacteristic figure. This Barnardine was wraptin a long dark cloak, which scarcely allowed thekind of half-boots, or sandals, that were lacedupon his legs, to appear, and shewed only thepoint of a broad sword, which he usually wore,slung in a belt across his shoulders. On hishead was a heavy flat velvet cap, somewhatresembling a turban, in which was a shortfeather; the visage beneath it shewed strongfeatures, and a countenance furrowed with thelines of cunning and darkened by habitualdiscontent.

The view of the court, however, reanimatedEmily, who, as she crossed silently towards theportal, began to hope, that her own fears, andnot the treachery of Barnardine, had deceivedher. She looked anxiously up at the first

casement, that appeared above the lofty arch ofthe portcullis; but it was dark, and she enquired,whether it belonged to the chamber, whereMadame Montoni was confined. Emily spokelow, and Barnardine, perhaps, did not hear herquestion, for he returned no answer; and they,soon after, entered the postern door of thegate-way, which brought them to the foot of anarrow stair-case, that wound up one of thetowers.

'Up this stair-case the Signora lies,' saidBarnardine.

'Lies!' repeated Emily faintly, as she began toascend.

'She lies in the upper chamber,' saidBarnardine.

As they passed up, the wind, which pouredthrough the narrow cavities in the wall, made thetorch flare, and it threw a stronger gleam uponthe grim and sallow countenance of Barnardine,and discovered more fully the desolation of theplace—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, andappeared a trophy of some former victory.

Having reached a landing-place, 'You maywait here, lady,' said he, applying a key to thedoor of a chamber, 'while I go up, and tell theSignora you are coming.'

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

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

Emily, surprised and somewhat shocked, didnot dare to oppose him further, but, as he wasturning away with the torch, desired he wouldnot leave her in darkness. He looked around,and, observing a tripod lamp, that stood on thestairs, lighted and gave it to Emily, who steppedforward into a large old chamber, and he closedthe door. As she listened anxiously to hisdeparting steps, she thought he descended,instead of ascending, the stairs; but the gusts ofwind, that whistled round the portal, would notallow her to hear distinctly any other sound. Still,however, she listened, and, perceiving no stepin the room above, where he had affirmedMadame Montoni to be, her anxiety increased,though she considered, that the thickness of thefloor in this strong building might prevent anysound reaching her from the upper chamber.The next moment, in a pause of the wind, shedistinguished Barnardine's step descending tothe court, and then thought she heard his voice;but, the rising gust again overcoming othersounds, Emily, to be certain on this point,moved softly to the door, which, on attemptingto open it, she discovered was fastened. All thehorrid apprehensions, that had lately assailed

her, returned at this instant with redoubledforce, and no longer appeared like theexaggerations of a timid spirit, but seemed tohave been sent to warn her of her fate. She nowdid not doubt, that Madame Montoni had beenmurdered, perhaps in this very chamber; or thatshe herself was brought hither for the samepurpose. The countenance, the manners andthe recollected words of Barnardine, when hehad spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worstfears. For some moments, she was incapableof considering of any means, by which shemight attempt an escape. Still she listened, butheard footsteps neither on the stairs, or in theroom above; she thought, however, that sheagain distinguished Barnardine's voice below,and went to a grated window, that opened uponthe court, to enquire further. Here, she plainlyheard his hoarse accents, mingling with theblast, that swept by, but they were lost again soquickly, that their meaning could not beinterpreted; and then the light of a torch, whichseemed to issue from the portal below, flashedacross the court, and the long shadow of a man,who was under the arch-way, appeared uponthe pavement. Emily, from the hugeness of thissudden portrait, concluded it to be that ofBarnardine; but other deep tones, whichpassed in the wind, soon convinced her he wasnot alone, and that his companion was not aperson very liable to pity.

When her spirits had overcome the firstshock of her situation, she held up the lamp toexamine, if the chamber afforded a possibilityof an escape. It was a spacious room, whosewalls, wainscoted with rough oak, shewed nocasement but the grated one, which Emily hadleft, and no other door than that, by which shehad entered. The feeble rays of the lamp,however, did not allow her to see at once its fullextent; she perceived no furniture, except,indeed, an iron chair, fastened in the centre ofthe chamber, immediately over which,depending on a chain from the ceiling, hung aniron ring. Having gazed upon these, for sometime, with wonder and horror, she nextobserved iron bars below, made for thepurpose of confining the feet, and on the armsof the chair were rings of the same metal. Asshe continued to survey them, she concluded,that they were instruments of torture, and itstruck her, that some poor wretch had oncebeen fastened in this chair, and had there beenstarved to death. She was chilled by thethought; but, what was her agony, when, in thenext moment, it occurred to her, that her auntmight have been one of these victims, and thatshe herself might be the next! An acute painseized her head, she was scarcely able to holdthe lamp, and, looking round for support, wasseating herself, unconsciously, in the iron chairitself; but suddenly perceiving where she was,she started from it in horror, and sprung

towards a remote end of the room. Here againshe looked round for a seat to sustain her, andperceived only a dark curtain, which,descending from the ceiling to the floor, wasdrawn along the whole side of the chamber. Illas she was, the appearance of this curtainstruck her, and she paused to gaze upon it, inwonder and apprehension.

It seemed to conceal a recess of thechamber; she wished, yet dreaded, to lift it, andto discover what it veiled: twice she waswithheld by a recollection of the terriblespectacle her daring hand had formerlyunveiled in an apartment of the castle, till,suddenly conjecturing, that it concealed thebody of her murdered aunt, she seized it, in a fitof desperation, and drew it aside. Beyond,appeared a corpse, stretched on a kind of lowcouch, 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 theface. Emily, bending over the body, gazed, for amoment, with an eager, frenzied eye; but, in thenext, the lamp dropped from her hand, and shefell senseless at the foot of the couch.

When her senses returned, she found herselfsurrounded by men, among whom wasBarnardine, who were lifting her from the floor,and then bore her along the chamber. She wassensible of what passed, but the extreme

languor of her spirits did not permit her tospeak, or move, or even to feel any distinct fear.They carried her down the stair-case, by whichshe had ascended; when, having reached thearch-way, they stopped, and one of the men,taking the torch from Barnardine, opened asmall door, that was cut in the great gate, and,as he stepped out upon the road, the light hebore shewed several men on horseback, inwaiting. Whether it was the freshness of the air,that revived Emily, or that the objects she nowsaw roused the spirit of alarm, she suddenlyspoke, and made an ineffectual effort todisengage herself from the grasp of the ruffians,who held her.

Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for thetorch, while distant voices answered, andseveral persons approached, and, in the sameinstant, a light flashed upon the court of thecastle. Again he vociferated for the torch, andthe men hurried Emily through the gate. At ashort distance, under the shelter of the castlewalls, she perceived the fellow, who had takenthe light from the porter, holding it to a man,busily employed in altering the saddle of ahorse, round which were several horsemen,looking on, whose harsh features received thefull glare of the torch; while the broken groundbeneath them, the opposite walls, with the tuftedshrubs, that overhung their summits, and anembattled watch-tower above, were reddenedwith the gleam, which, fading gradually away,

left the remoter ramparts and the woods belowto the obscurity of night.

'What do you waste time for, there?' saidBarnardine with an oath, as he approached thehorsemen. 'Dispatch—dispatch!'

'The saddle will be ready in a minute,' repliedthe man who was buckling it, at whomBarnardine now swore again, for hisnegligence, and Emily, calling feebly for help,was hurried towards the horses, while theruffians disputed on which to place her, the onedesigned for her not being ready. At thismoment a cluster of lights issued from the greatgates, and she immediately heard the shrillvoice of Annette above those of several otherpersons, who advanced. In the same moment,she distinguished Montoni and Cavigni,followed by a number of ruffian-faced fellows, towhom she no longer looked with terror, but withhope, for, at this instant, she did not tremble atthe thought of any dangers, that might await herwithin the castle, whence so lately, and soanxiously she had wished to escape. Those,which threatened her from without, hadengrossed all her apprehensions.

A short contest ensued between the parties,in which that of Montoni, however, werepresently victors, and the horsemen, perceivingthat numbers were against them, and being,perhaps, not very warmly interested in the affair

they had undertaken, galloped off, whileBarnardine had run far enough to be lost in thedarkness, and Emily was led back into thecastle. As she re-passed the courts, theremembrance of what she had seen in theportal-chamber came, with all its horror, to hermind; and when, soon after, she heard the gateclose, that shut her once more within the castlewalls, she shuddered for herself, and, almostforgetting the danger she had escaped, couldscarcely think, that any thing less precious thanliberty and peace was to be found beyondthem.

Montoni ordered Emily to await him in thecedar parlour, whither he soon followed, andthen sternly questioned her on this mysteriousaffair. Though she now viewed him with horror,as the murderer of her aunt, and scarcely knewwhat she said in reply to his impatientenquiries, her answers and her mannerconvinced him, that she had not taken avoluntary part in the late scheme, and hedismissed her upon the appearance of hisservants, whom he had ordered to attend, thathe might enquire further into the affair, anddiscover those, who had been accomplices init.

Emily had been some time in her apartment,before the tumult of her mind allowed her toremember several of the past circumstances.Then, again, the dead form, which the curtain in

the portal-chamber had disclosed, came to herfancy, and she uttered a groan, which terrifiedAnnette the more, as Emily forbore to satisfyher curiosity, on the subject of it, for she fearedto trust her with so fatal a secret, lest herindiscretion should call down the immediatevengeance of Montoni on herself.

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

Terrified at her condition, Annette, at length,left the room, to inform Montoni of it, who hadjust dismissed his servants, without havingmade any discoveries on the subject of hisenquiry. The wild description, which this girl nowgave of Emily, induced him to follow herimmediately to the chamber.

At the sound of his voice, Emily turned hereyes, and a gleam of recollection seemed toshoot athwart her mind, for she immediatelyrose from her seat, and moved slowly to a

remote part of the room. He spoke to her inaccents somewhat softened from their usualharshness, but she regarded him with a kind ofhalf curious, half terrified look, and answeredonly 'yes,' to whatever he said. Her mind stillseemed to retain no other impression, than thatof fear.

Of this disorder Annette could give noexplanation, and Montoni, having attempted, forsome time, to persuade Emily to talk, retired,after ordering Annette to remain with her, duringthe night, and to inform him, in the morning, ofher condition.

When he was gone, Emily again cameforward, and asked who it was, that had beenthere to disturb her. Annette said it was theSignor-Signor Montoni. Emily repeated thename after her, several times, as if she did notrecollect it, and then suddenly groaned, andrelapsed into abstraction.

With some difficulty, Annette led her to thebed, which Emily examined with an eager,frenzied eye, before she lay down, and then,pointing, turned with shuddering emotion, toAnnette, who, now more terrified, went towardsthe door, that she might bring one of the femaleservants to pass the night with them; but Emily,observing her going, called her by name, andthen in the naturally soft and plaintive tone of hervoice, 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, 'hewas dead before you knew me.'

'He was, indeed!' rejoined Emily, and hertears began to flow. She now wept silently andlong, after which, becoming quite calm, she atlength sunk to sleep, Annette having haddiscretion enough not to interrupt her tears. Thisgirl, as affectionate as she was simple, lost inthese moments all her former fears ofremaining in the chamber, and watched aloneby Emily, during the whole night.

CHAPTER II unfold What worlds, or what vast regions, hold Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook! IL PENSEROSO

Emily's mind was refreshed by sleep. Onwaking in the morning, she looked with surpriseon Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair besidethe bed, and then endeavoured to recollectherself; but the circumstances of the precedingnight were swept from her memory, whichseemed to retain no trace of what had passed,and she was still gazing with surprise onAnnette, when the latter awoke.

'O dear ma'amselle! do you know me?' criedshe.

'Know you! Certainly,' replied Emily, 'you areAnnette; but why are you sitting by me thus?'

'O you have been very ill, ma'amselle,—veryill indeed! and I am sure I thought—'

'This is very strange!' said Emily, still trying torecollect the past.—'But I think I do remember,that my fancy has been haunted by frightfuldreams. Good God!' she added, suddenlystarting—'surely it was nothing more than adream!'

She fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who,intending to quiet her, said 'Yes, ma'amselle, itwas more than a dream, but it is all over now.'

'She IS murdered, then!' said Emily in aninward voice, and shuddering instantaneously.Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of thecircumstance to which Emily referred, sheattributed her manner to a disordered fancy;but, when she had explained to what her ownspeech alluded, Emily, recollecting the attemptthat had been made to carry her off, asked if thecontriver of it had been discovered. Annettereplied, that he had not, though he might easilybe guessed at; and then told Emily she mightthank her for her deliverance, who,endeavouring to command the emotion, whichthe remembrance of her aunt had occasioned,appeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, intruth, she heard scarcely a word that was said.

'And so, ma'amselle,' continued the latter, 'Iwas determined to be even with Barnardine forrefusing to tell me the secret, by finding it outmyself; so I watched you, on the terrace, and, assoon as he had opened the door at the end, Istole out from the castle, to try to follow you; for,says I, I am sure no good can be planned, orwhy all this secrecy? So, sure enough, he hadnot bolted the door after him, and, when Iopened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the torch, atthe other end of the passage, which way youwere going. I followed the light, at a distance, tillyou came to the vaults of the chapel, and there I

was afraid to go further, for I had heard strangethings about these vaults. But then, again, I wasafraid to go back, all in darkness, by myself; soby the time Barnardine had trimmed the light, Ihad resolved to follow you, and I did so, till youcame to the great court, and there I was afraidhe would see me; so I stopped at the dooragain, and watched you across to the gates,and, when you was gone up the stairs, I whiptafter. There, as I stood under the gate-way, Iheard horses' feet without, and several mentalking; and I heard them swearing atBarnardine for not bringing you out, and justthen, he had like to have caught me, for hecame down the stairs again, and I had hardlytime to get out of his way. But I had heardenough of his secret now, and I determined tobe even with him, and to save you, too,ma'amselle, for I guessed it to be some newscheme of Count Morano, though he was goneaway. I ran into the castle, but I had hard work tofind my way through the passage under thechapel, and what is very strange, I quite forgotto look for the ghosts they had told me about,though I would not go into that place again bymyself for all the world! Luckily the Signor andSignor Cavigni were up, so we had soon a trainat our heels, sufficient to frighten thatBarnardine and his rogues, all together.'

Annette ceased to speak, but Emily stillappeared to listen. At length she said,suddenly, 'I think I will go to him myself;—whereis he?'

Annette asked who was meant.

'Signor Montoni,' replied Emily. 'I wouldspeak with him;' and Annette, nowremembering the order he had given, on thepreceding night, respecting her young lady,rose, and said she would seek him herself.

This honest girl's suspicions of Count Moranowere perfectly just; Emily, too, when she thoughton the scheme, had attributed it to him; andMontoni, who had not a doubt on this subject,also, began to believe, that it was by thedirection of Morano, that poison had formerlybeen mingled with his wine.

The professions of repentance, whichMorano had made to Emily, under the anguishof his wound, was sincere at the moment heoffered them; but he had mistaken the subjectof his sorrow, for, while he thought he wascondemning the cruelty of his late design, hewas lamenting only the state of suffering, towhich it had reduced him. As these sufferingsabated, his former views revived, till, his healthbeing re-established, he again found himselfready for enterprise and difficulty. The porter ofthe castle, who had served him, on a formeroccasion, willingly accepted a second bribe;and, having concerted the means of drawingEmily to the gates, Morano publicly left thehamlet, whither he had been carried after theaffray, and withdrew with his people to anotherat several miles distance. From thence, on a

night agreed upon by Barnardine, who haddiscovered from the thoughtless prattle ofAnnette, the most probable means of decoyingEmily, the Count sent back his servants to thecastle, while he awaited her arrival at thehamlet, with an intention of carrying herimmediately to Venice. How this, his secondscheme, was frustrated, has already appeared;but the violent, and various passions with whichthis Italian lover was now agitated, on his returnto that city, can only be imagined.

Annette having made her report to Montoni ofEmily's health and of her request to see him, hereplied, that she might attend him in the cedarroom, in about an hour. It was on the subject,that pressed so heavily on her mind, that Emilywished to speak to him, yet she did notdistinctly know what good purpose this couldanswer, and sometimes she even recoiled inhorror from the expectation of his presence.She wished, also, to petition, though shescarcely dared to believe the request would begranted, that he would permit her, since heraunt was no more, to return to her nativecountry.

As the moment of interview approached, heragitation increased so much, that she almostresolved to excuse herself under what couldscarcely be called a pretence of illness; and,when she considered what could be said, eitherconcerning herself, or the fate of her aunt, shewas equally hopeless as to the event of her

entreaty, and terrified as to its effect upon thevengeful spirit of Montoni. Yet, to pretendignorance of her death, appeared, in somedegree, to be sharing its criminality, and,indeed, this event was the only ground, onwhich Emily could rest her petition for leavingUdolpho.

While her thoughts thus wavered, a messagewas brought, importing, that Montoni could notsee her, till the next day; and her spirits werethen relieved, for a moment, from an almostintolerable weight of apprehension. Annettesaid, she fancied the Chevaliers were going outto the wars again, for the court-yard was filledwith horses, and she heard, that the rest of theparty, who went out before, were expected atthe castle. 'And I heard one of the soldiers, too,'added she, 'say to his comrade, that he wouldwarrant they'd bring home a rare deal of booty.—So, thinks I, if the Signor can, with a safeconscience, send his people out a-robbing—why it is no business of mine. I only wish I wasonce safe out of this castle; and, if it had notbeen for poor Ludovico's sake, I would have letCount Morano's people run away with us both,for it would have been serving you a good turn,ma'amselle, as well as myself.'

Annette might have continued thus talking forhours for any interruption she would havereceived from Emily, who was silent, inattentive,absorbed in thought, and passed the whole ofthis day in a kind of solemn tranquillity, such as

is often the result of faculties overstrained bysuffering.

When night returned, Emily recollected themysterious strains of music, that she had latelyheard, in which she still felt some degree ofinterest, and of which she hoped to hear againthe soothing sweetness. The influence ofsuperstition now gained on the weakness of herlong-harassed mind; she looked, withenthusiastic expectation, to the guardian spiritof her father, and, having dismissed Annette forthe night, determined to watch alone for theirreturn. It was not yet, however, near the timewhen she had heard the music on a formernight, and anxious to call off her thoughts fromdistressing subjects, she sat down with one ofthe few books, that she had brought fromFrance; but her mind, refusing controul, becamerestless and agitated, and she went often to thecasement to listen for a sound. Once, shethought she heard a voice, but then, every thingwithout the casement remaining still, sheconcluded, that her fancy had deceived her.

Thus passed the time, till twelve o'clock, soonafter which the distant sounds, that murmuredthrough the castle, ceased, and sleep seemedto reign over all. Emily then seated herself at thecasement, where she was soon recalled fromthe reverie, into which she sunk, by very unusualsounds, not of music, but like the low mourningof some person in distress. As she listened, herheart faltered in terror, and she became

convinced, that the former sound was more thanimaginary. Still, at intervals, she heard a kind offeeble lamentation, and sought to discoverwhence it came. There were several roomsunderneath, adjoining the rampart, which hadbeen long shut up, and, as the sound probablyrose from one of these, she leaned from thecasement to observe, whether any light wasvisible there. The chambers, as far as she couldperceive, were quite dark, but, at a littledistance, on the rampart below, she thought shesaw something moving.

The faint twilight, which the stars shed, didnot enable her to distinguish what it was; butshe judged it to be a sentinel, on watch, andshe removed her light to a remote part of thechamber, that she might escape notice, duringher further observation.

The same object still appeared. Presently, itadvanced along the rampart, towards herwindow, and she then distinguished somethinglike a human form, but the silence, with which itmoved, convinced her it was no sentinel. As itdrew near, she hesitated whether to retire; athrilling curiosity inclined her to stay, but a dreadof she scarcely knew what warned her towithdraw.

While she paused, the figure came oppositeto her casement, and was stationary. Everything remained quiet; she had not heard even afoot-fall; and the solemnity of this silence, with

the mysterious form she saw, subdued herspirits, so that she was moving from thecasement, when, on a sudden, she observedthe figure start away, and glide down therampart, after which it was soon lost in theobscurity of night. Emily continued to gaze, forsome time, on the way it had passed, and thenretired within her chamber, musing on thisstrange circumstance, and scarcely doubting,that she had witnessed a supernaturalappearance.

When her spirits recovered composure, shelooked round for some other explanation.Remembering what she had heard of the daringenterprises of Montoni, it occurred to her, thatshe had just seen some unhappy person, who,having been plundered by his banditti, wasbrought hither a captive; and that the music shehad formerly heard, came from him. Yet, if theyhad plundered him, it still appearedimprobable, that they should have brought himto the castle, and it was also more consistentwith the manners of banditti to murder thosethey rob, than to make them prisoners. Butwhat, more than any other circumstance,contradicted the supposition, that it was aprisoner, was that it wandered on the terrace,without a guard: a consideration, which madeher dismiss immediately her first surmise.

Afterwards, she was inclined to believe, thatCount Morano had obtained admittance into thecastle; but she soon recollected the difficulties

and dangers, that must have opposed such anenterprise, and that, if he had so far succeeded,to come alone and in silence to her casementat midnight was not the conduct he would haveadopted, particularly since the private stair-case, communicating with her apartment, wasknown to him; neither would he have uttered thedismal sounds she had heard.

Another suggestion represented, that thismight be some person, who had designs uponthe castle; but the mournful sounds destroyed,also, that probability. Thus, enquiry onlyperplexed her. Who, or what, it could be thathaunted this lonely hour, complaining in suchdoleful accents and in such sweet music (forshe was still inclined to believe, that the formerstrains and the late appearance wereconnected,) she had no means of ascertaining;and imagination again assumed her empire,and roused the mysteries of superstition.

She determined, however, to watch on thefollowing night, when her doubts might,perhaps, be cleared up; and she almostresolved to address the figure, if it shouldappear again.

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

On the following day, Montoni sent a secondexcuse to Emily, who was surprised at thecircumstance. 'This is very strange!' said she toherself. 'His conscience tells him the purport ofmy visit, and he defers it, to avoid anexplanation.' She now almost resolved to throwherself in his way, but terror checked theintention, and this day passed, as thepreceding one, with Emily, except that a degreeof awful expectation, concerning theapproaching night, now somewhat disturbedthe dreadful calmness that had pervaded hermind.

Towards evening, the second part of theband, which had made the first excursionamong the mountains, returned to the castle,where, as they entered the courts, Emily, in herremote chamber, heard their loud shouts andstrains of exultation, like the orgies of furiesover some horrid sacrifice. She even fearedthey were about to commit some barbarousdeed; a conjecture from which, however,Annette soon relieved her, by telling, that thepeople were only exulting over the plunder they

had brought with them. This circumstance stillfurther confirmed her in the belief, that Montonihad really commenced to be a captain ofbanditti, and meant to retrieve his brokenfortunes by the plunder of travellers! Indeed,when she considered all the circumstances ofhis situation—in an armed, and almostinaccessible castle, retired far among therecesses of wild and solitary mountains, alongwhose distant skirts were scattered towns, andcities, whither wealthy travellers were continuallypassing—this appeared to be the situation ofall others most suited for the success ofschemes of rapine, and she yielded to thestrange thought, that Montoni was become acaptain of robbers. His character also,unprincipled, dauntless, cruel and enterprising,seemed to fit him for the situation. Delighting inthe tumult and in the struggles of life, he wasequally a stranger to pity and to fear; his verycourage was a sort of animal ferocity; not thenoble impulse of a principle, such as inspiritsthe mind against the oppressor, in the cause ofthe oppressed; but a constitutional hardiness ofnerve, that cannot feel, and that, therefore,cannot fear.

Emily's supposition, however natural, was inpart erroneous, for she was a stranger to thestate of this country and to the circumstances,under which its frequent wars were partlyconducted. The revenues of the many states ofItaly being, at that time, insufficient to thesupport of standing armies, even during the

short periods, which the turbulent habits both ofthe governments and the people permitted topass in peace, an order of men arose notknown in our age, and but faintly described inthe history of their own. Of the soldiers,disbanded at the end of every war, few returnedto the safe, but unprofitable occupations, thenusual in peace. Sometimes they passed intoother countries, and mingled with armies, whichstill kept the field. Sometimes they formedthemselves into bands of robbers, andoccupied remote fortresses, where theirdesperate character, the weakness of thegovernments which they offended, and thecertainty, that they could be recalled to thearmies, when their presence should be againwanted, prevented them from being muchpursued by the civil power; and, sometimes,they attached themselves to the fortunes of apopular chief, by whom they were led into theservice of any state, which could settle with himthe price of their valour. From this latter practicearose their name—CONDOTTIERI; a termformidable all over Italy, for a period, whichconcluded in the earlier part of the seventeenthcentury, but of which it is not so easy toascertain the commencement.

Contests between the smaller states werethen, for the most part, affairs of enterprizealone, and the probabilities of success wereestimated, not from the skill, but from thepersonal courage of the general, and thesoldiers. The ability, which was necessary to

the conduct of tedious operations, was littlevalued. It was enough to know how a partymight be led towards their enemies, with thegreatest secrecy, or conducted from them in thecompactest order. The officer was toprecipitate himself into a situation, where, butfor his example, the soldiers might not haveventured; and, as the opposed parties knewlittle of each other's strength, the event of theday was frequently determined by the boldnessof the first movements. In such services thecondottieri were eminent, and in these, whereplunder always followed success, theircharacters acquired a mixture of intrepidity andprofligacy, which awed even those whom theyserved.

When they were not thus engaged, their chiefhad usually his own fortress, in which, or in itsneighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksome rest;and, though their wants were, at one time, partlysupplied from the property of the inhabitants,the lavish distribution of their plunder at others,prevented them from being obnoxious; and thepeasants of such districts gradually shared thecharacter of their warlike visitors. Theneighbouring governments sometimesprofessed, but seldom endeavoured, tosuppress these military communities; bothbecause it was difficult to do so, and because adisguised protection of them ensured, for theservice of their wars, a body of men, who couldnot otherwise be so cheaply maintained, or soperfectly qualified. The commanders

sometimes even relied so far upon this policy ofthe several powers, as to frequent their capitals;and Montoni, having met them in the gamingparties of Venice and Padua, conceived adesire to emulate their characters, before hisruined fortunes tempted him to adopt theirpractices. It was for the arrangement of hispresent plan of life, that the midnight councilswere held at his mansion in Venice, and atwhich Orsino and some other members of thepresent community then assisted withsuggestions, which they had since executedwith the wreck of their fortunes.

On the return of night, Emily resumed herstation at the casement. There was now amoon; and, as it rose over the tufted woods, itsyellow light served to shew the lonely terraceand the surrounding objects, more distinctly,than the twilight of the stars had done, andpromised Emily to assist her observations,should the mysterious form return. On thissubject, she again wavered in conjecture, andhesitated whether to speak to the figure, towhich a strong and almost irresistible interesturged her; but terror, at intervals, made herreluctant to do so.

'If this is a person who has designs upon thecastle,' said she, 'my curiosity may prove fatalto me; yet the mysterious music, and thelamentations I heard, must surely haveproceeded from him: if so, he cannot be anenemy.'

She then thought of her unfortunate aunt, and,shuddering with grief and horror, thesuggestions of imagination seized her mindwith all the force of truth, and she believed, thatthe form she had seen was supernatural. Shetrembled, breathed with difficulty, an icycoldness touched her cheeks, and her fears fora while overcame her judgment. Her resolutionnow forsook her, and she determined, if thefigure should appear, not to speak to it.

Thus the time passed, as she sat at hercasement, awed by expectation, and by thegloom and stillness of midnight; for she sawobscurely in the moon-light only the mountainsand woods, a cluster of towers, that formed thewest angle of the castle, and the terrace below;and heard no sound, except, now and then, thelonely watch-word, passed by the centinels onduty, and afterwards the steps of the men whocame to relieve guard, and whom she knew at adistance on the rampart by their pikes, thatglittered in the moonbeam, and then, by the fewshort words, in which they hailed their fellows ofthe night. Emily retired within her chamber,while they passed the casement. When shereturned to it, all was again quiet. It was nowvery late, she was wearied with watching, andbegan to doubt the reality of what she had seenon the preceding night; but she still lingered atthe window, for her mind was too perturbed toadmit of sleep. The moon shone with a clearlustre, that afforded her a complete view of the

terrace; but she saw only a solitary centinel,pacing at one end of it; and, at length, tired withexpectation, she withdrew to seek rest.

Such, however, was the impression, left onher mind by the music, and the complaining shehad formerly heard, as well as by the figure,which she fancied she had seen, that shedetermined to repeat the watch, on the followingnight.

Montoni, on the next day, took no notice ofEmily's appointed visit, but she, more anxiousthan before to see him, sent Annette to enquire,at what hour he would admit her. He mentionedeleven o'clock, and Emily was punctual to themoment; at which she called up all her fortitudeto support the shock of his presence and thedreadful recollections it enforced. He was withseveral of his officers, in the cedar room; onobserving whom she paused; and her agitationincreased, while he continued to converse withthem, apparently not observing her, till some ofhis officers, turning round, saw Emily, anduttered an exclamation. She was hastily retiring,when Montoni's voice arrested her, and, in afaultering accent, she said,—'I would speak withyou, Signor Montoni, if you are at leisure.'

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

Emily, without replying, turned from the rudegaze of the chevaliers, and Montoni thenfollowed her to the hall, whence he led her to a

small room, of which he shut the door withviolence. As she looked on his darkcountenance, she again thought she saw themurderer of her aunt; and her mind was soconvulsed with horror, that she had not power torecall thought enough to explain the purport ofher visit; and to trust herself with the mention ofMadame Montoni was more than she dared.

Montoni at length impatiently enquired whatshe had to say? 'I have no time for trifling,' headded, 'my moments are important.'

Emily then told him, that she wished to returnto France, and came to beg, that he wouldpermit her to do so.—But when he lookedsurprised, and enquired for the motive of therequest, she hesitated, became paler thanbefore, trembled, and had nearly sunk at hisfeet. He observed her emotion, with apparentindifference, and interrupted the silence bytelling her, he must be gone. Emily, however,recalled her spirits sufficiently to enable her torepeat her request. And, when Montoniabsolutely refused it, her slumbering mind wasroused.

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

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

Emily, considering that she had no appealfrom this will, forbore to dispute his right, andmade a feeble effort to persuade him to be just.'While my aunt lived, sir,' said she, in atremulous voice, 'my residence here was notimproper; but now, that she is no more, I maysurely be permitted to depart. My stay cannotbenefit you, sir, and will only distress me.'

'Who told you, that Madame Montoni wasdead?' said Montoni, with an inquisitive eye.Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, andshe did not dare to avow the having seen thatspectacle in the portal-chamber, which hadcompelled her to the belief.

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

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

She sat down on a bench to support herself.

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

He now left the room, without awaiting herreply, and returned to the cedar chamber,where such of the chevaliers as had not beforeseen Emily, began to rally him, on the discoverythey had made; but Montoni did not appeardisposed to bear this mirth, and they changedthe subject.

Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on theplan of an excursion, which he meditated for a

future day, his friend advised, that they shouldlie in wait for the enemy, which Verezziimpetuously opposed, reproached Orsino withwant of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni wouldlet him lead on fifty men, he would conquer allthat should oppose him.

Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montonismiled too, but he also listened. Verezzi thenproceeded with vehement declamation andassertion, till he was stopped by an argument ofOrsino, which he knew not how to answer betterthan by invective. His fierce spirit detested thecunning caution of Orsino, whom he constantlyopposed, and whose inveterate, though silent,hatred he had long ago incurred. And Montoniwas a calm observer of both, whose differentqualifications he knew, and how to bend theiropposite character to the perfection of his owndesigns. But Verezzi, in the heat of opposition,now did not scruple to accuse Orsino ofcowardice, at which the countenance of thelatter, while he made no reply, was overspreadwith a livid paleness; and Montoni, whowatched his lurking eye, saw him put his handhastily into his bosom. But Verezzi, whose face,glowing with crimson, formed a striking contrastto the complexion of Orsino, remarked not theaction, and continued boldly declaiming againstcowards to Cavigni, who was slily laughing athis vehemence, and at the silent mortification ofOrsino, when the latter, retiring a few stepsbehind, drew forth a stilletto to stab hisadversary in the back. Montoni arrested his

half-extended arm, and, with a significant look,made him return the poinard into his bosom,unseen by all except himself; for most of theparty were disputing at a distant window, on thesituation of a dell where they meant to form anambuscade.

When Verezzi had turned round, the deadlyhatred, expressed on the features of hisopponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicionof his intention, he laid his hand on his sword,and then, seeming to recollect himself, strodeup to Montoni.

'Signor,' said he, with a significant look atOrsino, 'we are not a band of assassins; if youhave business for brave men employ me on thisexpedition: you shall have the last drop of myblood; if you have only work for cowards—keephim,' pointing to Orsino, 'and let me quitUdolpho.'

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

'This is the conduct of a boy,' said Montoni toVerezzi, 'not of a man: be more moderate inyour speech.'

'Moderation is the virtue of cowards,' retortedVerezzi; 'they are moderate in every thing—butin fear.'

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

'With all my heart,' cried Verezzi, 'though I didnot mean them for you.'

He directed a pass at Montoni; and, whilethey fought, the villain Orsino made anotherattempt to stab Verezzi, and was againprevented.

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

Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last wordsof Montoni, forgot, for the moment, hisdeclaration, that she should continue in thecastle, while she thought of her unfortunate aunt,who, he had said, was laid in the east turret. Insuffering the remains of his wife to lie thus longunburied, there appeared a degree of brutalitymore shocking than she had suspected evenMontoni could practise.

After a long struggle, she determined toaccept his permission to visit the turret, and totake a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with whichdesign she returned to her chamber, and, whileshe waited for Annette to accompany her,endeavoured to acquire fortitude sufficient tosupport her through the approaching scene; for,

though she trembled to encounter it, she knewthat to remember the performance of this lastact of duty would hereafter afford her consolingsatisfaction.

Annette came, and Emily mentioned herpurpose, from which the former endeavoured todissuade her, though without effect, andAnnette was, with much difficulty, prevailedupon to accompany her to the turret; but noconsideration could make her promise to enterthe chamber of death.

They now left the corridor, and, havingreached the foot of the stair-case, which Emilyhad formerly ascended, Annette declared shewould go no further, and Emily proceededalone. When she saw the track of blood, whichshe had before observed, her spirits fainted,and, being compelled to rest on the stairs, shealmost determined to proceed no further. Thepause of a few moments restored herresolution, and she went on.

As she drew near the landing-place, uponwhich the upper chamber opened, sheremembered, that the door was formerlyfastened, and apprehended, that it might still beso. In this expectation, however, she wasmistaken; for the door opened at once, into adusky and silent chamber, round which shefearfully looked, and then slowly advanced,when a hollow voice spoke. Emily, who wasunable to speak, or to move from the spot,

uttered no sound of terror. The voice spokeagain; and, then, thinking that it resembled thatof Madame Montoni, Emily's spirits wereinstantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, thatstood in a remote part of the room, and drewaside the curtains. Within, appeared a pale andemaciated face. She started back, then againadvanced, shuddered as she took up theskeleton hand, that lay stretched upon the quilt;then let it drop, and then viewed the face with along, unsettled gaze. It was that of MadameMontoni, though so changed by illness, that theresemblance of what it had been, couldscarcely be traced in what it now appeared.She was still alive, and, raising her heavy eyes,she turned them on her niece.

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

'Do you indeed live,' said Emily, at length, 'oris this but a terrible apparition?' she receivedno answer, and again she snatched up thehand. 'This is substance,' she exclaimed, 'but itis cold—cold as marble!' She let it fall. 'O, if youreally live, speak!' said Emily, in a voice ofdesperation, 'that I may not lose my senses—say you know me!'

'I do live,' replied Madame Montoni, 'but—Ifeel that I am about to die.'

Emily clasped the hand she held, moreeagerly, and groaned. They were both silent forsome moments. Then Emily endeavoured to

soothe her, and enquired what had reduced herto this present deplorable state.

Montoni, when he removed her to the turretunder the improbable suspicion of havingattempted his life, had ordered the menemployed on the occasion, to observe a strictsecrecy concerning her. To this he wasinfluenced by a double motive. He meant todebar her from the comfort of Emily's visits, andto secure an opportunity of privately dispatchingher, should any new circumstances occur toconfirm the present suggestions of hissuspecting mind. His consciousness of thehatred he deserved it was natural enoughshould at first led him to attribute to her theattempt that had been made upon his life; and,though there was no other reason to believethat she was concerned in that atrociousdesign, his suspicions remained; he continuedto confine her in the turret, under a strict guard;and, without pity or remorse, had suffered her tolie, forlorn and neglected, under a raging fever,till it had reduced her to the present state.

The track of blood, which Emily had seen onthe stairs, had flowed from the unbound woundof one of the men employed to carry MadameMontoni, and which he had received in the lateaffray. At night these men, having contentedthemselves with securing the door of theirprisoner's room, had retired from guard; andthen it was, that Emily, at the time of her firstenquiry, had found the turret so silent and

deserted.

When she had attempted to open the door ofthe chamber, her aunt was sleeping, and thisoccasioned the silence, which had contributedto delude her into a belief, that she was nomore; yet had her terror permitted her topersevere longer in the call, she would probablyhave awakened Madame Montoni, and havebeen spared much suffering. The spectacle inthe portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmedEmily's horrible suspicion, was the corpse of aman, who had fallen in the affray, and the samewhich had been borne into the servants' hall,where she took refuge from the tumult. This manhad lingered under his wounds for some days;and, soon after his death, his body had beenremoved on the couch, on which he died, forinterment in the vault beneath the chapel,through which Emily and Barnardine hadpassed to the chamber.

Emily, after asking Madame Montoni athousand questions concerning herself, left her,and sought Montoni; for the more solemninterest she felt for her aunt, made her nowregardless of the resentment herremonstrances might draw upon herself, and ofthe improbability of his granting what she meantto entreat.

'Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,' saidEmily, as soon as she saw him—'Yourresentment, surely will not pursue her to the last

moment! Suffer her to be removed from thatforlorn room to her own apartment, and to havenecessary comforts administered.'

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

'The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, froma few of those pangs of conscience you mustsuffer, when you shall be in the same situation,'said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of whichMontoni soon made her sensible, bycommanding her to quit his presence. Then,forgetting her resentment, and impressed onlyby compassion for the piteous state of her aunt,dying without succour, she submitted to humbleherself to Montoni, and to adopt everypersuasive means, that might induce him torelent towards his wife.

For a considerable time he was proofagainst all she said, and all she looked; but atlength the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily'seyes, seemed to touch his heart. He turnedaway, ashamed of his better feelings, half sullenand half relenting; but finally consented, that hiswife should be removed to her own apartment,and that Emily should attend her. Dreadingequally, that this relief might arrive too late, andthat Montoni might retract his concession, Emilyscarcely staid to thank him for it, but, assistedby Annette, she quickly prepared MadameMontoni's bed, and they carried her a cordial,that might enable her feeble frame to sustain

the fatigue of a removal.

Madame was scarcely arrived in her ownapartment, when an order was given by herhusband, that she should remain in the turret;but Emily, thankful that she had made suchdispatch, hastened to inform him of it, as wellas that a second removal would instantly provefatal, and he suffered his wife to continue whereshe was.

During this day, Emily never left MadameMontoni, except to prepare such little nourishingthings as she judged necessary to sustain her,and which Madame Montoni received with quietacquiescence, though she seemed sensiblethat they could not save her from approachingdissolution, and scarcely appeared to wish forlife. Emily meanwhile watched over her with themost tender solicitude, no longer seeing herimperious aunt in the poor object before her,but the sister of her late beloved father, in asituation that called for all her compassion andkindness. When night came, she determined tosit up with her aunt, but this the latter positivelyforbade, commanding her to retire to rest, andAnnette alone to remain in her chamber. Restwas, indeed, necessary to Emily, whose spiritsand frame were equally wearied by theoccurrences and exertions of the day; but shewould not leave Madame Montoni, till after theturn of midnight, a period then thought so criticalby the physicians.

Soon after twelve, having enjoined Annette tobe wakeful, and to call her, should any changeappear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully badeMadame Montoni good night, and withdrew toher chamber. Her spirits were more than usuallydepressed by the piteous condition of her aunt,whose recovery she scarcely dared to expect.To her own misfortunes she saw no period,inclosed as she was, in a remote castle,beyond the reach of any friends, had shepossessed such, and beyond the pity even ofstrangers; while she knew herself to be in thepower of a man capable of any action, whichhis interest, or his ambition, might suggest.

Occupied by melancholy reflections and byanticipations as sad, she did not retireimmediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully onher open casement. The scene before her ofwoods and mountains, reposing in the moon-light, formed a regretted contrast with the stateof her mind; but the lonely murmur of thesewoods, and the view of this sleeping landscape,gradually soothed her emotions and softenedher to tears.

She continued to weep, for some time, lost toevery thing, but to a gentle sense of hermisfortunes. When she, at length, took thehandkerchief from her eyes, she perceived,before her, on the terrace below, the figure shehad formerly observed, which stood fixed andsilent, immediately opposite to her casement.On perceiving it, she started back, and terror for

some time overcame curiosity;—at length, shereturned to the casement, and still the figurewas before it, which she now compelled herselfto observe, but was utterly unable to speak, asshe had formerly intended. The moon shonewith a clear light, and it was, perhaps, theagitation of her mind, that prevented herdistinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, theform before her. It was still stationary, and shebegan to doubt, whether it was really animated.

Her scattered thoughts were now so farreturned as to remind her, that her light exposedher to dangerous observation, and she wasstepping back to remove it, when sheperceived the figure move, and then wave whatseemed to be its arm, as if to beckon her; and,while she gazed, fixed in fear, it repeated theaction. She now attempted to speak, but thewords died on her lips, and she went from thecasement to remove her light; as she was doingwhich, she heard, from without, a faint groan.Listening, but not daring to return, she presentlyheard it repeated.

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

Again she listened, but the sound came nomore; and, after a long interval of silence, sherecovered courage enough to go to thecasement, when she again saw the sameappearance! It beckoned again, and againuttered a low sound.

'That groan was surely human!' said she. 'I

WILL speak.' 'Who is it,' cried Emily in a faintvoice, 'that wanders at this late hour?'

The figure raised its head but suddenlystarted away, and glided down the terrace. Shewatched it, for a long while, passing swiftly inthe moon-light, but heard no footstep, till asentinel from the other extremity of the rampartwalked slowly along. The man stopped underher window, and, looking up, called her byname. She was retiring precipitately, but, asecond summons inducing her to reply, thesoldier then respectfully asked if she had seenany thing pass. On her answering, that she had;he said no more, but walked away down theterrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till hewas lost in the distance. But, as he was onguard, she knew he could not go beyond therampart, and, therefore, resolved to await hisreturn.

Soon after, his voice was heard, at adistance, calling loudly; and then a voice stillmore distant answered, and, in the nextmoment, the watch-word was given, andpassed along the terrace. As the soldiersmoved hastily under the casement, she calledto enquire what had happened, but they passedwithout regarding her.

Emily's thoughts returning to the figure shehad seen, 'It cannot be a person, who hasdesigns upon the castle,' said she; 'such an onewould conduct himself very differently. He would

not venture where sentinels were on watch, norfix himself opposite to a window, where heperceived he must be observed; much lesswould he beckon, or utter a sound of complaint.Yet it cannot be a prisoner, for how could heobtain the opportunity to wander thus?'

If she had been subject to vanity, she mighthave supposed this figure to be someinhabitant of the castle, who wandered underher casement in the hope of seeing her, and ofbeing allowed to declare his admiration; but thisopinion never occurred to Emily, and, if it had,she would have dismissed it as improbable, onconsidering, that, when the opportunity ofspeaking had occurred, it had been suffered topass in silence; and that, even at the moment inwhich she had spoken, the form had abruptlyquitted the place.

While she mused, two sentinels walked upthe rampart in earnest conversation, of whichshe caught a few words, and learned fromthese, that one of their comrades had fallendown senseless. Soon after, three othersoldiers appeared slowly advancing from thebottom of the terrace, but she heard only a lowvoice, that came at intervals. As they drew near,she perceived this to be the voice of him, whowalked in the middle, apparently supported byhis comrades; and she again called to them,enquiring what had happened. At the sound ofher voice, they stopped, and looked up, whileshe repeated her question, and was told, that

Roberto, their fellow of the watch, had beenseized with a fit, and that his cry, as he fell, hadcaused a false alarm.

'Is he subject to fits?' said Emily.

'Yes, Signora,' replied Roberto; 'but if I hadnot, what I saw was enough to have frightenedthe Pope himself.'

'What was it?' enquired Emily, trembling.

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

'Was it the person, whom you followed downthe rampart, that has occasioned you thisalarm?' said Emily, endeavouring to concealher own.

'Person!' exclaimed the man,—'it was thedevil, and this is not the first time I have seenhim!'

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

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

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

'Launcelot need not talk of that,' repliedSebastian, 'let him remember how he stood

trembling, and unable to give the WORD, till theman was gone, If the man had not come sosilently upon us, I would have seized him, andsoon made him tell who he was.'

'What man?' enquired Emily.

'It was no man, lady,' said Launcelot, whostood by, 'but the devil himself, as my comradesays. What man, who does not live in the castle,could get within the walls at midnight? Why, Imight just as well pretend to march to Venice,and get among all the Senators, when they arecounselling; and I warrant I should have morechance of getting out again alive, than anyfellow, that we should catch within the gatesafter dark. So I think I have proved plainlyenough, that this can be nobody that lives out ofthe castle; and now I will prove, that it can benobody that lives in the castle—for, if he did—why should he be afraid to be seen? So afterthis, I hope nobody will pretend to tell me it wasanybody. No, I say again, by holy Pope! it wasthe devil, and Sebastian, there, knows this isnot the first time we have seen him.'

'When did you see the figure, then, before?'said Emily half smiling, who, though she thoughtthe conversation somewhat too much, felt aninterest, which would not permit her to concludeit.

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

'And where?'

'On the rampart, lady, higher up.'

'Did you pursue it, that it fled?'

'No, Signora. Launcelot and I were on watchtogether, and every thing was so still, you mighthave heard a mouse stir, when, suddenly,Launcelot says—Sebastian! do you seenothing? I turned my head a little to the left, as itmight be—thus. No, says I. Hush! saidLauncelot,—look yonder—just by the lastcannon on the rampart! I looked, and thenthought I did see something move; but therebeing no light, but what the stars gave, I couldnot be certain. We stood quite silent, to watch it,and presently saw something pass along thecastle wall just opposite to us!'

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

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

'You should have been there to have donethat,' replied Sebastian. 'You would have beenbold enough to have taken it by the throat,though it had been the devil himself; we couldnot take such a liberty, perhaps, because weare not so well acquainted with him, as you are.But, as I was saying, it stole by us so quickly,that we had not time to get rid of our surprise,before it was gone. Then, we knew it was invain to follow. We kept constant watch all thatnight, but we saw it no more. Next morning, we

night, but we saw it no more. Next morning, wetold some of our comrades, who were on dutyon other parts of the ramparts, what we hadseen; but they had seen nothing, and laughed atus, and it was not till to-night, that the samefigure walked again.'

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

'When I left you, lady,' replied the man, 'youmight see me go down the rampart, but it wasnot till I reached the east terrace, that I saw anything. Then, the moon shining bright, I sawsomething like a shadow flitting before me, as itwere, at some distance. I stopped, when Iturned the corner of the east tower, where I hadseen this figure not a moment before,—but itwas gone! As I stood, looking through the oldarch, which leads to the east rampart, andwhere I am sure it had passed, I heard, all of asudden, such a sound!—it was not like a groan,or a cry, or a shout, or any thing I ever heard inmy life. I heard it only once, and that wasenough for me; for I know nothing thathappened after, till I found my comrades, here,about me.'

'Come,' said Sebastian, 'let us go to ourposts—the moon is setting. Good night, lady!'

'Aye, let us go,' rejoined Roberto. 'Goodnight, lady.'

'Good night; the holy mother guard you!' saidEmily, as she closed her casement and retired

to reflect upon the strange circumstance thathad just occurred, connecting which with whathad happened on former nights, sheendeavoured to derive from the wholesomething more positive, than conjecture. Buther imagination was inflamed, while herjudgment was not enlightened, and the terrorsof superstition again pervaded her mind.

CHAPTER IV There is one within, Besides the things, that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights, seen by the watch. JULIUS CAESAR

In the morning, Emily found Madame Montoninearly in the same condition, as on thepreceding night; she had slept little, and thatlittle had not refreshed her; she smiled on herniece, and seemed cheered by her presence,but spoke only a few words, and never namedMontoni, who, however, soon after, entered theroom. His wife, when she understood that hewas there, appeared much agitated, but wasentirely silent, till Emily rose from a chair at thebed-side, when she begged, in a feeble voice,that she would not leave her.

The visit of Montoni was not to sooth his wife,whom he knew to be dying, or to console, or toask her forgiveness, but to make a last effort toprocure that signature, which would transfer herestates in Languedoc, after her death, to himrather than to Emily. This was a scene, thatexhibited, on his part, his usual inhumanity, and,on that of Madame Montoni, a perseveringspirit, contending with a feeble frame; whileEmily repeatedly declared to him herwillingness to resign all claim to those estates,rather than that the last hours of her aunt should

be disturbed by contention. Montoni, however,did not leave the room, till his wife, exhaustedby the obstinate dispute, had fainted, and shelay so long insensible, that Emily began to fearthat the spark of life was extinguished. Atlength, she revived, and, looking feebly up ather niece, whose tears were falling over her,made an effort to speak, but her words wereunintelligible, and Emily again apprehendedshe was dying. Afterwards, however, sherecovered her speech, and, being somewhatrestored by a cordial, conversed for aconsiderable time, on the subject of her estatesin France, with clearness and precision. Shedirected her niece where to find some papersrelative to them, which she had hithertoconcealed from the search of Montoni, andearnestly charged her never to suffer thesepapers to escape her.

Soon after this conversation, MadameMontoni sunk into a dose, and continuedslumbering, till evening, when she seemedbetter than she had been since her removalfrom the turret. Emily never left her, for amoment, till long after midnight, and even thenwould not have quitted the room, had not heraunt entreated, that she would retire to rest. Shethen obeyed, the more willingly, because herpatient appeared somewhat recruited by sleep;and, giving Annette the same injunction, as onthe preceding night, she withdrew to her ownapartment. But her spirits were wakeful andagitated, and, finding it impossible to sleep,

she determined to watch, once more, for themysterious appearance, that had so muchinterested and alarmed her.

It was now the second watch of the night, andabout the time when the figure had beforeappeared. Emily heard the passing steps of thesentinels, on the rampart, as they changedguard; and, when all was again silent, she tookher station at the casement, leaving her lamp ina remote part of the chamber, that she mightescape notice from without. The moon gave afaint and uncertain light, for heavy vapourssurrounded it, and, often rolling over the disk,left the scene below in total darkness. It was inone of these moments of obscurity, that sheobserved a small and lambent flame, moving atsome distance on the terrace. While she gazed,it disappeared, and, the moon again emergingfrom the lurid and heavy thunder clouds, sheturned her attention to the heavens, where thevivid lightnings darted from cloud to cloud, andflashed silently on the woods below. She lovedto catch, in the momentary gleam, the gloomylandscape. Sometimes, a cloud opened its lightupon a distant mountain, and, while the suddensplendour illumined all its recesses of rock andwood, the rest of the scene remained in deepshadow; at others, partial features of the castlewere revealed by the glimpse—the antient archleading to the east rampart, the turret above, orthe fortifications beyond; and then, perhaps, thewhole edifice with all its towers, its dark massywalls and pointed casements would appear,

and vanish in an instant.

Emily, looking again upon the rampart,perceived the flame she had seen before; itmoved onward; and, soon after, she thoughtshe heard a footstep. The light appeared anddisappeared frequently, while, as she watched,it glided under her casements, and, at the sameinstant, she was certain, that a footstep passed,but the darkness did not permit her todistinguish any object except the flame. Itmoved away, and then, by a gleam of lightning,she perceived some person on the terrace. Allthe anxieties of the preceding night returned.This person advanced, and the playing flamealternately appeared and vanished. Emilywished to speak, to end her doubts, whetherthis figure were human or supernatural; but hercourage failed as often as she attemptedutterance, till the light moved again under thecasement, and she faintly demanded, whopassed.

'A friend,' replied a voice.

'What friend?' said Emily, somewhatencouraged 'who are you, and what is that lightyou carry?'

'I am Anthonio, one of the Signor's soldiers,'replied the voice.

'And what is that tapering light you bear?'said Emily, 'see how it darts upwards,—andnow it vanishes!'

'This light, lady,' said the soldier, 'hasappeared to-night as you see it, on the point ofmy lance, ever since I have been on watch; butwhat it means I cannot tell.'

'This is very strange!' said Emily.

'My fellow-guard,' continued the man, 'has thesame flame on his arms; he says he hassometimes seen it before. I never did; I am butlately come to the castle, for I have not beenlong a soldier.'

'How does your comrade account for it?' saidEmily.

'He says it is an omen, lady, and bodes nogood.'

'And what harm can it bode?' rejoined Emily.

'He knows not so much as that, lady.'

Whether Emily was alarmed by this omen, ornot, she certainly was relieved from much terrorby discovering this man to be only a soldier onduty, and it immediately occurred to her, that itmight be he, who had occasioned so muchalarm on the preceding night. There were,however, some circumstances, that stillrequired explanation. As far as she could judgeby the faint moon-light, that had assisted herobservation, the figure she had seen did notresemble this man either in shape or size;besides, she was certain it had carried noarms. The silence of its steps, if steps it had,

the moaning sounds, too, which it had uttered,and its strange disappearance, werecircumstances of mysterious import, that did notapply, with probability, to a soldier engaged inthe duty of his guard.

She now enquired of the sentinel, whether hehad seen any person besides his fellow watch,walking on the terrace, about midnight; and thenbriefly related what she had herself observed.

'I was not on guard that night, lady,' repliedthe man, 'but I heard of what happened. Thereare amongst us, who believe strange things.Strange stories, too, have long been told of thiscastle, but it is no business of mine to repeatthem; and, for my part, I have no reason tocomplain; our Chief does nobly by us.'

'I commend your prudence,' said Emily.'Good night, and accept this from me,' sheadded, throwing him a small piece of coin, andthen closing the casement to put an end to thediscourse.

When he was gone, she opened it again,listened with a gloomy pleasure to the distantthunder, that began to murmur among themountains, and watched the arrowy lightnings,which broke over the remoter scene. Thepealing thunder rolled onward, and then,reverbed by the mountains, other thunderseemed to answer from the opposite horizon;while the accumulating clouds, entirelyconcealing the moon, assumed a red

sulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent storm.

Emily remained at her casement, till the vividlightning, that now, every instant, revealed thewide horizon and the landscape below, made itno longer safe to do so, and she went to hercouch; but, unable to compose her mind tosleep, still listened in silent awe to thetremendous sounds, that seemed to shake thecastle to its foundation.

She had continued thus for a considerabletime, when, amidst the uproar of the storm, shethought she heard a voice, and, raising herselfto listen, saw the chamber door open, andAnnette enter with a countenance of wildaffright.

'She is dying, ma'amselle, my lady is dying!'said she.

Emily started up, and ran to MadameMontoni's room. When she entered, her auntappeared to have fainted, for she was quite still,and insensible; and Emily with a strength ofmind, that refused to yield to grief, while anyduty required her activity, applied every meansthat seemed likely to restore her. But the laststruggle was over—she was gone for ever.

When Emily perceived, that all her effortswere ineffectual, she interrogated the terrifiedAnnette, and learned, that Madame Montonihad fallen into a doze soon after Emily'sdeparture, in which she had continued, until a

few minutes before her death.

'I wondered, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'whatwas the reason my lady did not seem frightenedat the thunder, when I was so terrified, and Iwent often to the bed to speak to her, but sheappeared to be asleep; till presently I heard astrange noise, and, on going to her, saw shewas dying.'

Emily, at this recital, shed tears. She had nodoubt but that the violent change in the air,which the tempest produced, had effected thisfatal one, on the exhausted frame of MadameMontoni.

After some deliberation, she determined thatMontoni should not be informed of this event tillthe morning, for she considered, that he might,perhaps, utter some inhuman expressions, suchas in the present temper of her spirits she couldnot bear. With Annette alone, therefore, whomshe encouraged by her own example, sheperformed some of the last solemn offices forthe dead, and compelled herself to watchduring the night, by the body of her deceasedaunt. During this solemn period, rendered moreawful by the tremendous storm that shook theair, she frequently addressed herself to Heavenfor support and protection, and her piousprayers, we may believe, were accepted of theGod, that giveth comfort.

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 ofhis wife, and considered that she had diedwithout giving him the signature so necessary tothe accomplishment of his wishes, no sense ofdecency restrained the expression of hisresentment. Emily anxiously avoided hispresence, and watched, during two days andtwo nights, with little intermission, by the corpseof her late aunt. Her mind deeply impressedwith the unhappy fate of this object, she forgotall her faults, her unjust and imperious conductto herself; and, remembering only hersufferings, thought of her only with tendercompassion. Sometimes, however, she couldnot avoid musing upon the strange infatuationthat had proved so fatal to her aunt, and hadinvolved herself in a labyrinth of misfortune, fromwhich she saw no means of escaping,—themarriage with Montoni. But, when sheconsidered this circumstance, it was 'more insorrow than in anger,'—more for the purpose ofindulging lamentation, than reproach.

In her pious cares she was not disturbed by

Montoni, who not only avoided the chamber,where the remains of his wife were laid, but thatpart of the castle adjoining to it, as if he hadapprehended a contagion in death. He seemedto have given no orders respecting the funeral,and Emily began to fear he meant to offer anew insult to the memory of Madame Montoni;but from this apprehension she was relieved,when, on the evening of the second day,Annette informed her, that the interment was totake place that night. She knew, that Montoniwould not attend; and it was so very grievous toher to think that the remains of her unfortunateaunt would pass to the grave without onerelative, or friend to pay them the last decentrites, that she determined to be deterred by noconsiderations for herself, from observing thisduty. She would otherwise have shrunk from thecircumstance of following them to the cold vault,to which they were to be carried by men, whoseair and countenances seemed to stamp themfor murderers, at the midnight hour of silenceand privacy, which Montoni had chosen forcommitting, if possible, to oblivion the reliquesof a woman, whom his harsh conduct had, atleast, contributed to destroy.

Emily, shuddering with emotions of horrorand grief, assisted by Annette, prepared thecorpse for interment; and, having wrapt it incerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet,they watched beside it, till past midnight, whenthey heard the approaching footsteps of themen, who were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was

with difficulty, that Emily overcame her emotion,when, the door of the chamber being thrownopen, their gloomy countenances were seen bythe glare of the torch they carried, and two ofthem, without speaking, lifted the body on theirshoulders, while the third preceding them withthe light, descended through the castle towardsthe grave, which was in the lower vault of thechapel within the castle walls.

They had to cross two courts, towards theeast wing of the castle, which, adjoining thechapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence andgloom of these courts had now little power overEmily's mind, occupied as it was, with moremournful ideas; and she scarcely heard the lowand dismal hooting of the night-birds, thatroosted among the ivyed battlements of theruin, or perceived the still flittings of the bat,which frequently crossed her way. But, when,having entered the chapel, and passedbetween the mouldering pillars of the aisles, thebearers stopped at a flight of steps, that leddown to a low arched door, and, their comradehaving descended to unlock it, she sawimperfectly the gloomy abyss beyond;—saw thecorpse of her aunt carried down these steps,and the ruffian-like figure, that stood with a torchat the bottom to receive it—all her fortitude waslost in emotions of inexpressible grief andterror. She turned to lean upon Annette, whowas cold and trembling like herself, and shelingered so long on the summit of the flight, thatthe gleam of the torch began to die away on the

pillars of the chapel, and the men were almostbeyond her view. Then, the gloom around herawakening other fears, and a sense of what sheconsidered to be her duty overcoming herreluctance, she descended to the vaults,following the echo of footsteps and the faint ray,that pierced the darkness, till the harsh gratingof a distant door, that was opened to receivethe corpse, again appalled her.

After the pause of a moment, she went on,and, as she entered the vaults, saw betweenthe arches, at some distance, the men lay downthe body near the edge of an open grave,where stood another of Montoni's men and apriest, whom she did not observe, till he beganthe burial service; then, lifting her eyes from theground, she saw the venerable figure of thefriar, and heard him in a low voice, equallysolemn and affecting, perform the service forthe dead. At the moment, in which they let downthe body into the earth, the scene was such asonly the dark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps,could have done justice to. The fierce featuresand wild dress of the condottieri, bending withtheir torches over the grave, into which thecorpse was descending, were contrasted bythe venerable figure of the monk, wrapt in longblack garments, his cowl thrown back from hispale face, on which the light gleaming stronglyshewed the lines of affliction softened by piety,and the few grey locks, which time had sparedon his temples: while, beside him, stood thesofter form of Emily, who leaned for support

upon Annette; her face half averted, andshaded by a thin veil, that fell over her figure;and her mild and beautiful countenance fixed ingrief so solemn as admitted not of tears, whileshe thus saw committed untimely to the earthher last relative and friend. The gleams, thrownbetween the arches of the vaults, where, hereand there, the broken ground marked the spotsin which other bodies had been recentlyinterred, and the general obscurity beyond werecircumstances, that alone would have led on theimagination of a spectator to scenes morehorrible, than even that, which was pictured atthe grave of the misguided and unfortunateMadame Montoni.

When the service was over, the friarregarded Emily with attention and surprise, andlooked as if he wished to speak to her, but wasrestrained by the presence of the condottieri,who, as they now led the way to the courts,amused themselves with jokes upon his holyorder, which he endured in silence, demandingonly to be conducted safely to his convent, andto which Emily listened with concern and evenhorror. When they reached the court, the monkgave her his blessing, and, after a lingering lookof pity, turned away to the portal, whither one ofthe men carried a torch; while Annette, lightinganother, preceded Emily to her apartment. Theappearance of the friar and the expression oftender compassion, with which he hadregarded her, had interested Emily, who,though it was at her earnest supplication, that

Montoni had consented to allow a priest toperform the last rites for his deceased wife,knew nothing concerning this person, tillAnnette now informed her, that he belonged toa monastery, situated among the mountains ata few miles distance. The Superior, whoregarded Montoni and his associates, not onlywith aversion, but with terror, had probablyfeared to offend him by refusing his request,and had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiateat the funeral, who, with the meek spirit of achristian, had overcome his reluctance to enterthe walls of such a castle, by the wish ofperforming what he considered to be his duty,and, as the chapel was built on consecratedground, had not objected to commit to it theremains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni.

Several days passed with Emily in totalseclusion, and in a state of mind partaking bothof terror for herself, and grief for the departed.She, at length, determined to make other effortsto persuade Montoni to permit her return toFrance. Why he should wish to detain her, shecould scarcely dare to conjecture; but it was toocertain that he did so, and the absolute refusalhe had formerly given to her departure allowedher little hope, that he would now consent to it.But the horror, which his presence inspired,made her defer, from day to day, the mention ofthis subject; and at last she was awakened fromher inactivity only by a message from him,desiring her attendance at a certain hour. Shebegan to hope he meant to resign, now that her

aunt was no more, the authority he had usurpedover her; till she recollected, that the estates,which had occasioned so much contention,were now hers, and she then feared Montoniwas about to employ some stratagem forobtaining them, and that he would detain her hisprisoner, till he succeeded. This thought,instead of overcoming her with despondency,roused all the latent powers of her fortitude intoaction; and the property, which she wouldwillingly have resigned to secure the peace ofher aunt, she resolved, that no commonsufferings of her own should ever compel her togive to Montoni. For Valancourt's sake also shedetermined to preserve these estates, sincethey would afford that competency, by whichshe hoped to secure the comfort of their futurelives. As she thought of this, she indulged thetenderness of tears, and anticipated the delightof that moment, when, with affectionategenerosity, she might tell him they were hisown. She saw the smile, that lighted up hisfeatures—the affectionate regard, which spokeat once his joy and thanks; and, at this instant,she believed she could brave any suffering,which the evil spirit of Montoni might bepreparing for her. Remembering then, for thefirst time since her aunt's death, the papersrelative to the estates in question, shedetermined to search for them, as soon as herinterview with Montoni was over.

With these resolutions she met him at theappointed time, and waited to hear his intention

before she renewed her request. With him wereOrsino and another officer, and both werestanding near a table, covered with papers,which he appeared to be examining.

'I sent for you, Emily,' said Montoni, raisinghis head, 'that you might be a witness in somebusiness, which I am transacting with my friendOrsino. All that is required of you will be to signyour name to this paper:' he then took one up,hurried unintelligibly over some lines, and,laying it before her on the table, offered her apen. She took it, and was going to write—whenthe design of Montoni came upon her mind likea flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen fall,and refused to sign what she had not read.Montoni affected to laugh at her scruples, and,taking up the paper, again pretended to read;but Emily, who still trembled on perceiving herdanger, and was astonished, that her owncredulity had so nearly betrayed her, positivelyrefused to sign any paper whatever. Montoni,for some time, persevered in affecting toridicule this refusal; but, when he perceived byher steady perseverance, that she understoodhis design, he changed his manner, and badeher follow him to another room. There he toldher, that he had been willing to spare himselfand her the trouble of useless contest, in anaffair, where his will was justice, and where sheshould find it law; and had, therefore,endeavoured to persuade, rather than tocompel, her to the practice of her duty.

'I, as the husband of the late SignoraMontoni,' he added, 'am the heir of all shepossessed; the estates, therefore, which sherefused to me in her life-time, can no longer bewithheld, and, for your own sake, I wouldundeceive you, respecting a foolish assertionshe once made to you in my hearing—thatthese estates would be yours, if she diedwithout resigning them to me. She knew at thatmoment, she had no power to withhold themfrom me, after her decease; and I think youhave more sense, than to provoke myresentment by advancing an unjust claim. I amnot in the habit of flattering, and you will,therefore, receive, as sincere, the praise Ibestow, when I say, that you possess anunderstanding superior to that of your sex; andthat you have none of those contemptiblefoibles, that frequently mark the femalecharacter—such as avarice and the love ofpower, which latter makes women delight tocontradict and to tease, when they cannotconquer. If I understand your disposition andyour mind, you hold in sovereign contemptthese common failings of your sex.'

Montoni paused; and Emily remained silentand expecting; for she knew him too well, tobelieve he would condescend to such flattery,unless he thought it would promote his owninterest; and, though he had forborne to namevanity among the foibles of women, it wasevident, that he considered it to be apredominant one, since he designed to

sacrifice to hers the character andunderstanding of her whole sex.

'Judging as I do,' resumed Montoni, 'I cannotbelieve you will oppose, where you know youcannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would wishto conquer, or be avaricious of any property,when you have not justice on your side. I think itproper, however, to acquaint you with thealternative. If you have a just opinion of thesubject in question, you shall be allowed a safeconveyance to France, within a short period;but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled bythe late assertion of the Signora, you shallremain my prisoner, till you are convinced ofyour error.'

Emily calmly said,

'I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws onthis subject, as to be misled by the assertion ofany person. The law, in the present instance,gives me the estates in question, and my ownhand shall never betray my right.'

'I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, itappears,' rejoined Montoni, sternly. 'You speakboldly, and presumptuously, upon a subject,which you do not understand. For once, I amwilling to pardon the conceit of ignorance; theweakness of your sex, too, from which, itseems, you are not exempt, claims someallowance; but, if you persist in this strain—youhave every thing to fear from my justice.'

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

Montoni looked at her with vexation, andseemed considering what to say. 'I find that youare weak enough,' he resumed, 'to credit theidle assertion I alluded to! For your own sake Ilament this; as to me, it is of little consequence.Your credulity can punish only yourself; and Imust pity the weakness of mind, which leadsyou to so much suffering as you are compellingme to prepare for you.'

'You may find, perhaps, Signor,' said Emily,with mild dignity, 'that the strength of my mind isequal to the justice of my cause; and that I canendure with fortitude, when it is in resistance ofoppression.'

'You speak like a heroine,' said Montoni,contemptuously; 'we shall see whether you cansuffer like one.'

Emily was silent, and he left the room.

Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt's sakeshe had thus resisted, she now smiledcomplacently upon the threatened sufferings,and retired to the spot, which her aunt hadpointed out as the repository of the papers,relative to the estates, where she found them asdescribed; and, since she knew of no betterplace of concealment, than this, returned them,without examining their contents, being fearfulof discovery, while she should attempt a

perusal.

To her own solitary chamber she once morereturned, and there thought again of the lateconversation with Montoni, and of the evil shemight expect from opposition to his will. But hispower did not appear so terrible to herimagination, as it was wont to do: a sacredpride was in her heart, that taught it to swellagainst the pressure of injustice, and almost toglory in the quiet sufferance of ills, in a cause,which had also the interest of Valancourt for itsobject. For the first time, she felt the full extent ofher own superiority to Montoni, and despisedthe authority, which, till now, she had onlyfeared.

As she sat musing, a peal of laughter rosefrom the terrace, and, on going to thecasement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise,three ladies, dressed in the gala habit ofVenice, walking with several gentlemen below.She gazed in an astonishment that made herremain at the window, regardless of beingobserved, till the group passed under it; and,one of the strangers looking up, she perceivedthe features of Signora Livona, with whosemanners she had been so much charmed, theday after her arrival at Venice, and who hadbeen there introduced at the table of Montoni.This discovery occasioned her an emotion ofdoubtful joy; for it was matter of joy and comfortto know, that a person, of a mind so gentle, asthat of Signora Livona seemed to be, was near

her; yet there was something so extraordinary inher being at this castle, circumstanced as itnow was, and evidently, by the gaiety of her air,with her own consent, that a very painfulsurmise arose, concerning her character. Butthe thought was so shocking to Emily, whoseaffection the fascinating manners of the Signorahad won, and appeared so improbable, whenshe remembered these manners, that shedismissed it almost instantly.

On Annette's appearance, however, sheenquired, concerning these strangers; and theformer was as eager to tell, as Emily was tolearn.

'They are just come, ma'amselle,' saidAnnette, 'with two Signors from Venice, and Iwas glad to see such Christian faces onceagain.—But what can they mean by cominghere? They must surely be stark mad to comefreely to such a place as this! Yet they do comefreely, for they seem merry enough, I am sure.'

'They were taken prisoners, perhaps?' saidEmily.

'Taken prisoners!' exclaimed Annette; 'no,indeed, ma'amselle, not they. I remember oneof them very well at Venice: she came two orthree 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 Signorliked her better than he should do. Then why,says I, bring her to my lady? Very true, said

Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew more,too.'

Emily desired Annette would endeavour tolearn who these ladies were, as well as all shecould concerning them; and she then changedthe subject, and spoke of distant France.

'Ah, ma'amselle! we shall never see it more!'said Annette, almost weeping.—'I must comeon my travels, forsooth!'

Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with ahope, in which she scarcely herself indulged.

'How—how, ma'amselle, could you leaveFrance, and leave Mons. Valancourt, too?' saidAnnette, sobbing. 'I—I—am sure, if Ludovicohad been in France, I would never have left it.'

'Why do you lament quitting France, then?'said Emily, trying to smile, 'since, if you hadremained there, you would not have foundLudovico.'

'Ah, ma'amselle! I only wish I was out of thisfrightful castle, serving you in France, and Iwould care about nothing else!'

'Thank you, my good Annette, for youraffectionate regard; the time will come, I hope,when you may remember the expression of thatwish with pleasure.'

Annette departed on her business, and Emilysought to lose the sense of her own cares, in

the visionary scenes of the poet; but she hadagain to lament the irresistible force ofcircumstances over the taste and powers of themind; and that it requires a spirit at ease to besensible even to the abstract pleasures of pureintellect. The enthusiasm of genius, with all itspictured scenes, now appeared cold, and dim.As she mused upon the book before her, sheinvoluntarily exclaimed, 'Are these, indeed, thepassages, that have so often given meexquisite delight? Where did the charm exist?—Was it in my mind, or in the imagination of thepoet? It lived in each,' said she, pausing. 'Butthe fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of hisreader is not tempered like his own, however itmay be inferior to his in power.'

Emily would have pursued this train ofthinking, because it relieved her from morepainful reflection, but she found again, thatthought cannot always be controlled by will; andhers returned to the consideration of her ownsituation.

In the evening, not choosing to venture downto the ramparts, where she would be exposedto the rude gaze of Montoni's associates, shewalked for air in the gallery, adjoining herchamber; on reaching the further end of whichshe heard distant sounds of merriment andlaughter. It was the wild uproar of riot, not thecheering gaiety of tempered mirth; and seemedto come from that part of the castle, whereMontoni usually was. Such sounds, at this time,

when her aunt had been so few days dead,particularly shocked her, consistent as theywere with the late conduct of Montoni.

As she listened, she thought shedistinguished female voices mingling with thelaughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise,concerning the character of Signora Livona andher companions. It was evident, that they hadnot been brought hither by compulsion; and shebeheld herself in the remote wilds of theApennine, surrounded by men, whom sheconsidered to be little less than ruffians, andtheir worst associates, amid scenes of vice,from which her soul recoiled in horror. It was atthis moment, when the scenes of the presentand the future opened to her imagination, thatthe image of Valancourt failed in its influence,and her resolution shook with dread. Shethought she understood all the horrors, whichMontoni was preparing for her, and shrunk froman encounter with such remorselessvengeance, as he could inflict. The disputedestates she now almost determined to yield atonce, whenever he should again call upon her,that she might regain safety and freedom; butthen, the remembrance of Valancourt wouldsteal to her heart, and plunge her into thedistractions of doubt.

She continued walking in the gallery, tillevening threw its melancholy twilight through thepainted casements, and deepened the gloomof the oak wainscoting around her; while the

distant perspective of the corridor was so muchobscured, as to be discernible only by theglimmering window, that terminated it.

Along the vaulted halls and passages below,peals of laughter echoed faintly, at intervals, tothis remote part of the castle, and seemed torender the succeeding stillness more dreary.Emily, however, unwilling to return to her moreforlorn chamber, whither Annette was not yetcome, still paced the gallery. As she passed thedoor of the apartment, where she had oncedared to lift the veil, which discovered to her aspectacle so horrible, that she had never afterremembered it, but with emotions ofindescribable awe, this remembrance suddenlyrecurred. It now brought with it reflections moreterrible, than it had yet done, which the lateconduct of Montoni occasioned; and, hasteningto quit the gallery, while she had power to doso, she heard a sudden step behind her.—Itmight be that of Annette; but, turning fearfully tolook, she saw, through the gloom, a tall figurefollowing her, and all the horrors of that chamberrushed upon her mind. In the next moment, shefound herself clasped in the arms of someperson, and heard a deep voice murmur in herear.

When she had power to speak, or todistinguish articulated sounds, she demandedwho detained her.

'It is I,' replied the voice—'Why are you thus

alarmed?'

She looked on the face of the person whospoke, but the feeble light, that gleamedthrough the high casement at the end of thegallery, did not permit her to distinguish thefeatures.

'Whoever you are,' said Emily, in a tremblingvoice, 'for heaven's sake let me go!'

'My charming Emily,' said the man, 'why willyou shut yourself up in this obscure place, whenthere is so much gaiety below? Return with meto the cedar parlour, where you will be thefairest ornament of the party;—you shall notrepent the exchange.'

Emily disdained to reply, and stillendeavoured to liberate herself.

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

'Who are you?' demanded Emily, in a tone ofmingled terror and indignation, while she stillstruggled for liberty—'who are you, that have thecruelty thus to insult me?'

'Why call me cruel?' said the man, 'I wouldremove you from this dreary solitude to a merryparty below. Do you not know me?'

Emily now faintly remembered, that he wasone of the officers who were with Montoni when

she attended him in the morning. 'I thank you forthe kindness of your intention,' she replied,without appearing to understand him, 'but I wishfor nothing so much as that you would leaveme.'

'Charming Emily!' said he, 'give up thisfoolish whim for solitude, and come with me tothe company, and eclipse the beauties whomake part of it; you, only, are worthy of my love.'He attempted to kiss her hand, but the strongimpulse of her indignation gave her power toliberate herself, and she fled towards thechamber. She closed the door, before hereached it, having secured which, she sunk in achair, overcome by terror and by the exertionshe had made, while she heard his voice, andhis attempts to open the door, without havingthe power to raise herself. At length, sheperceived him depart, and had remained,listening, for a considerable time, and wassomewhat revived by not hearing any sound,when suddenly she remembered the door of theprivate stair-case, and that he might enter thatway, since it was fastened only on the otherside. She then employed herself inendeavouring to secure it, in the manner shehad formerly done. It appeared to her, thatMontoni had already commenced his schemeof vengeance, by withdrawing from her hisprotection, and she repented of the rashness,that had made her brave the power of such aman. To retain the estates seemed to be nowutterly impossible, and to preserve her life,

perhaps her honour, she resolved, if she shouldescape the horrors of this night, to give up allclaims to the estates, on the morrow, providedMontoni would suffer her to depart fromUdolpho.

When she had come to this decision, hermind became more composed, though she stillanxiously listened, and often started at idealsounds, that appeared to issue from the stair-case.

Having sat in darkness for some hours,during all which time Annette did not appear,she began to have serious apprehensions forher; but, not daring to venture down into thecastle, was compelled to remain in uncertainty,as to the cause of this unusual absence.

Emily often stole to the stair-case door, tolisten if any step approached, but still no soundalarmed her: determining, however, to watch,during the night, she once more rested on herdark and desolate couch, and bathed the pillowwith innocent tears. She thought of herdeceased parents and then of the absentValancourt, and frequently called upon theirnames; for the profound stillness, that nowreigned, was propitious to the musing sorrow ofher mind.

While she thus remained, her ear suddenlycaught the notes of distant music, to which shelistened attentively, and, soon perceiving this tobe the instrument she had formerly heard at

midnight, she rose, and stepped softly to thecasement, to which the sounds appeared tocome from a lower room.

In a few moments, their soft melody wasaccompanied by a voice so full of pathos, that itevidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Itssweet and peculiar tones she thought she hadsomewhere heard before; yet, if this was notfancy, it was, at most, a very faint recollection. Itstole over her mind, amidst the anguish of herpresent suffering, like a celestial strain,soothing, and re-assuring her;—'Pleasant asthe gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter's ear,when he awakens from dreams of joy, and hasheard the music of the spirits of the hill.'*

(*Ossian. [A. R.])

But her emotion can scarcely be imagined,when she heard sung, with the taste andsimplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airsof her native province, to which she had sooften listened with delight, when a child, andwhich she had so often heard her father repeat!To this well-known song, never, till now, heardbut in her native country, her heart melted, whilethe memory of past times returned. Thepleasant, peaceful scenes of Gascony, thetenderness and goodness of her parents, thetaste and simplicity of her former life—all roseto her fancy, and formed a picture, so sweetand glowing, so strikingly contrasted with thescenes, the characters and the dangers, which

now surrounded her—that her mind could notbear to pause upon the retrospect, and shrunkat the acuteness of its own sufferings.

Her sighs were deep and convulsed; shecould no longer listen to the strain, that had sooften charmed her to tranquillity, and shewithdrew from the casement to a remote part ofthe chamber. But she was not yet beyond thereach of the music; she heard the measurechange, and the succeeding air called heragain to the window, for she immediatelyrecollected it to be the same she had formerlyheard in the fishing-house in Gascony.Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which hadthen accompanied this strain, it had made sodeep an impression on her memory, that shehad never since entirely forgotten it; and themanner, in which it was now sung, convincedher, however unaccountable the circumstancesappeared, that this was the same voice shehad then heard. Surprise soon yielded to otheremotions; a thought darted, like lightning, uponher mind, which discovered a train of hopes,that revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes wereso new, so unexpected, so astonishing, that shedid not dare to trust, though she could notresolve to discourage them. She sat down bythe casement, breathless, and overcome withthe alternate emotions of hope and fear; thenrose again, leaned from the window, that shemight catch a nearer sound, listened, nowdoubting and then believing, softly exclaimedthe name of Valancourt, and then sunk again

into the chair. Yes, it was possible, thatValancourt was near her, and she recollectedcircumstances, which induced her to believe itwas his voice she had just heard. Sheremembered he had more than once said thatthe fishing-house, where she had formerlylistened to this voice and air, and where shehad seen pencilled sonnets, addressed toherself, had been his favourite haunt, before hehad been made known to her; there, too, shehad herself unexpectedly met him. It appeared,from these circumstances, more than probable,that he was the musician, who had formerlycharmed her attention, and the author of thelines, which had expressed such tenderadmiration;—who else, indeed, could it be?She was unable, at that time, to form aconjecture, as to the writer, but, since heracquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he hadmentioned the fishing-house to have beenknown to him, she had not scrupled to believethat he was the author of the sonnets.

As these considerations passed over hermind, joy, fear and tenderness contended at herheart; she leaned again from the casement tocatch the sounds, which might confirm, ordestroy her hope, though she did not recollectto have ever heard him sing; but the voice, andthe instrument, now ceased.

She considered for a moment whether sheshould venture to speak: then, not choosing, lestit should be he, to mention his name, and yet

too much interested to neglect the opportunityof enquiring, she called from the casement, 'Isthat song from Gascony?' Her anxious attentionwas not cheered by any reply; every thingremained silent. Her impatience increasing withher fears, she repeated the question; but still nosound was heard, except the sighings of thewind among the battlements above; and sheendeavoured to console herself with a belief,that the stranger, whoever he was, had retired,before she had spoken, beyond the reach ofher voice, which, it appeared certain, hadValancourt heard and recognized, he wouldinstantly have replied to. Presently, however,she considered, that a motive of prudence, andnot an accidental removal, might occasion hissilence; but the surmise, that led to thisreflection, suddenly changed her hope and joyto terror and grief; for, if Valancourt were in thecastle, it was too probable, that he was here aprisoner, taken with some of his countrymen,many of whom were at that time engaged in thewars of Italy, or intercepted in some attempt toreach her. Had he even recollected Emily'svoice, he would have feared, in thesecircumstances, to reply to it, in the presence ofthe men, who guarded his prison.

What so lately she had eagerly hoped shenow believed she dreaded;—dreaded to know,that Valancourt was near her; and, while shewas anxious to be relieved from herapprehension for his safety, she still wasunconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him,

struggled with the fear.

She remained listening at the casement, tillthe air began to freshen, and one high mountainin the east to glimmer with the morning; when,wearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch,where she found it utterly impossible to sleep,for joy, tenderness, doubt and apprehension,distracted her during the whole night. Now sherose from the couch, and opened the casementto listen; then she would pace the room withimpatient steps, and, at length, return withdespondence to her pillow. Never did hoursappear to move so heavily, as those of thisanxious night; after which she hoped thatAnnette might appear, and conclude herpresent state of torturing suspense.

CHAPTER VI might we but hear The folded flocks penn'd in their watled cotes, Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops, Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock Count the night watches to his feathery dames, 'Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs. MILTON

In the morning, Emily was relieved from herfears for Annette, who came at an early hour.

'Here were fine doings in the castle, lastnight, ma'amselle,' said she, as soon as sheentered the room,—'fine doings, indeed! Wasyou not frightened, ma'amselle, at not seeingme?'

'I was alarmed both on your account and onmy own,' replied Emily—'What detained you?'

'Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would notdo. It was not my fault, indeed, ma'amselle, for Icould not get out. That rogue Ludovico lockedme up again.'

'Locked you up!' said Emily, with displeasure,'Why do you permit Ludovico to lock you up?'

'Holy Saints!' exclaimed Annette, 'how can Ihelp it! If he will lock the door, ma'amselle, andtake away the key, how am I to get out, unless I

jump through the window? But that I should notmind so much, if the casements here were notall so high; one can hardly scramble up to themon the inside, and one should break one's neck,I suppose, going down on the outside. But youknow, I dare say, ma'am, what a hurly-burly thecastle was in, last night; you must have heardsome of the uproar.'

'What, were they disputing, then?' said Emily.

'No, ma'amselle, nor fighting, but almost asgood, for I believe there was not one of theSignors sober; and what is more, not one ofthose fine ladies sober, either. I thought, when Isaw them first, that all those fine silks and fineveils,—why, ma'amselle, their veils wereworked with silver! and fine trimmings—bodedno good—I guessed what they were!'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what willbecome of me!'

'Aye, ma'am, Ludovico said much the samething of me. Good God! said he, Annette, whatis to become of you, if you are to go runningabout the castle among all these drunkenSignors?'

'O! says I, for that matter, I only want to go tomy young lady's chamber, and I have only to go,you know, along the vaulted passage andacross the great hall and up the marble stair-case and along the north gallery and through thewest wing of the castle and I am in the corridor

in a minute.' 'Are you so? says he, and what isto become of you, if you meet any of thosenoble cavaliers in the way?' 'Well, says I, if youthink there is danger, then, go with me, andguard me; I am never afraid when you are by.''What! says he, when I am scarcely recoveredof one wound, shall I put myself in the way ofgetting another? for if any of the cavaliers meetyou, they will fall a-fighting with me directly. No,no, says he, I will cut the way shorter, thanthrough the vaulted passage and up the marblestair-case, and along the north gallery andthrough the west wing of the castle, for you shallstay here, Annette; you shall not go out of thisroom, to-night.' 'So, with that I says'—

'Well, well,' said Emily, impatiently, andanxious to enquire on another subject,—'so helocked you up?'

'Yes, he did indeed, ma'amselle,notwithstanding all I could say to the contrary;and Caterina and I and he staid there all night.And in a few minutes after I was not so vexed,for there came Signor Verezzi roaring along thepassage, like a mad bull, and he mistookLudovico's hall, for old Carlo's; so he tried toburst open the door, and called out for morewine, for that he had drunk all the flasks dry, andwas dying of thirst. So we were all as still asnight, that he might suppose there was nobodyin the room; but the Signor was as cunning asthe best of us, and kept calling out at the door,"Come forth, my antient hero!" said he, "here is

no enemy at the gate, that you need hideyourself: come forth, my valorous SignorSteward!" Just then old Carlo opened his door,and he came with a flask in his hand; for, assoon as the Signor saw him, he was as tameas could be, and followed him away as naturallyas a dog does a butcher with a piece of meat inhis basket. All this I saw through the key-hole.Well, Annette, said Ludovico, jeeringly, shall I letyou out now? O no, says I, I would not'—

'I have some questions to ask you on anothersubject,' interrupted Emily, quite wearied by thisstory. 'Do you know whether there are anyprisoners in the castle, and whether they areconfined at this end of the edifice?'

'I was not in the way, ma'amselle,' repliedAnnette, 'when the first party came in from themountains, and the last party is not come backyet, so I don't know, whether there are anyprisoners; but it is expected back to-night, or to-morrow, and I shall know then, perhaps.'

Emily enquired if she had ever heard theservants talk of prisoners.

'Ah ma'amselle!' said Annette archly, 'now Idare say you are thinking of MonsieurValancourt, and that he may have come amongthe armies, which, they say, are come from ourcountry, to fight against this state, and that hehas met with some of OUR people, and is takencaptive. O Lord! how glad I should be, if it wasso!'

'Would you, indeed, be glad?' said Emily, in atone of mournful reproach.

'To be sure I should, ma'am,' replied Annette,'and would not you be glad too, to see SignorValancourt? I don't know any chevalier I likebetter, I have a very great regard for the Signor,truly.'

'Your regard for him cannot be doubted,' saidEmily, 'since you wish to see him a prisoner.'

'Why no, ma'amselle, not a prisoner either;but one must be glad to see him, you know. Andit was only the other night I dreamt—I dreamt Isaw him drive into the castle-yard all in a coachand six, and dressed out, with a laced coat anda sword, like a lord as he is.'

Emily could not forbear smiling at Annette'sideas of Valancourt, and repeated her enquiry,whether she had heard the servants talk ofprisoners.

'No, ma'amselle,' replied she, 'never; andlately they have done nothing but talk of theapparition, that has been walking about of anight on the ramparts, and that frightened thesentinels into fits. It came among them like aflash of fire, they say, and they all fell down in arow, till they came to themselves again; andthen it was gone, and nothing to be seen but theold castle walls; so they helped one another upagain as fast as they could. You would notbelieve, ma'amselle, though I shewed you the

very cannon, where it used to appear.'

'And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette,'said Emily, smiling at this curious exaggerationof the circumstances she had witnessed, 'as tocredit these stories?'

'Credit them, ma'amselle! why all the worldcould not persuade me out of them. Robertoand Sebastian and half a dozen more of themwent into fits! To be sure, there was nooccasion for that; I said, myself, there was noneed of that, for, says I, when the enemy comes,what a pretty figure they will cut, if they are to falldown in fits, all of a row! The enemy won't be socivil, perhaps, as to walk off, like the ghost, andleave them to help one another up, but will fallto, cutting and slashing, till he makes them allrise up dead men. No, no, says I, there isreason in all things: though I might have fallendown in a fit that was no rule for them, being,because it is no business of mine to look gruff,and fight battles.'

Emily endeavoured to correct thesuperstitious weakness of Annette, though shecould not entirely subdue her own; to which thelatter only replied, 'Nay, ma'amselle, you willbelieve nothing; you are almost as bad as theSignor himself, who was in a great passionwhen they told of what had happened, andswore that the first man, who repeated suchnonsense, should be thrown into the dungeonunder the east turret. This was a hard

punishment too, for only talking nonsense, as hecalled it, but I dare say he had other reasons forcalling it so, than you have, ma'am.'

Emily looked displeased, and made no reply.As she mused upon the recollectedappearance, which had lately so much alarmedher, and considered the circumstances of thefigure having stationed itself opposite to hercasement, she was for a moment inclined tobelieve it was Valancourt, whom she had seen.Yet, if it was he, why did he not speak to her,when he had the opportunity of doing so—and,if he was a prisoner in the castle, and he couldbe here in no other character, how could heobtain the means of walking abroad on therampart? Thus she was utterly unable to decide,whether the musician and the form she hadobserved, were the same, or, if they were,whether this was Valancourt. She, however,desired that Annette would endeavour to learnwhether any prisoners were in the castle, andalso their names.

'O dear, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'I forget totell you what you bade me ask about, the ladies,as they call themselves, who are lately come toUdolpho. Why that Signora Livona, that theSignor brought to see my late lady at Venice, ishis mistress now, and was little better then, Idare say. And Ludovico says (but pray besecret, ma'am) that his excellenza introducedher only to impose upon the world, that hadbegun to make free with her character. So when

people saw my lady notice her, they thoughtwhat they had heard must be scandal. The othertwo are the mistresses of Signor Verezzi andSignor Bertolini; and Signor Montoni invitedthem all to the castle; and so, yesterday, hegave a great entertainment; and there theywere, all drinking Tuscany wine and all sorts,and laughing and singing, till they made thecastle ring again. But I thought they were dismalsounds, so soon after my poor lady's death too;and they brought to my mind what she wouldhave thought, if she had heard them—but shecannot hear them now, poor soul! said I.'

Emily turned away to conceal her emotion,and then desired Annette to go, and makeenquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might bein the castle, but conjured her to do it withcaution, and on no account to mention hername, or that of Monsieur Valancourt.

'Now I think of it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'Ido believe there are prisoners, for I overheardone of the Signor's men, yesterday, in theservants hall, talking something about ransoms,and saying what a fine thing it was for hisexcellenza to catch up men, and they were asgood booty as any other, because of theransoms. And the other man was grumbling,and saying it was fine enough for the Signor,but none so fine for his soldiers, because, saidhe, we don't go shares there.'

This information heightened Emily's

impatience to know more, and Annetteimmediately departed on her enquiry.

The late resolution of Emily to resign herestates to Montoni, now gave way to newconsiderations; the possibility, that Valancourtwas near her, revived her fortitude, and shedetermined to brave the threatened vengeance,at least, till she could be assured whether hewas really in the castle. She was in this temperof mind, when she received a message fromMontoni, requiring her attendance in the cedarparlour, which she obeyed with trembling, and,on her way thither, endeavoured to animate herfortitude with the idea of Valancourt.

Montoni was alone. 'I sent for you,' said he, 'togive you another opportunity of retracting yourlate mistaken assertions concerning theLanguedoc estates. I will condescend toadvise, where I may command.—If you arereally deluded by an opinion, that you have anyright to these estates, at least, do not persist inthe error—an error, which you may perceive,too late, has been fatal to you. Dare myresentment no further, but sign the papers.'

'If I have no right in these estates, sir,' saidEmily, 'of what service can it be to you, that Ishould sign any papers, concerning them? If thelands are yours by law, you certainly maypossess them, without my interference, or myconsent.'

'I will have no more argument,' said Montoni,

with a look that made her tremble. 'What had Ibut trouble to expect, when I condescended toreason with a baby! But I will be trifled with nolonger: let the recollection of your aunt'ssufferings, in consequence of her folly andobstinacy, teach you a lesson.—Sign thepapers.'

Emily's resolution was for a moment awed:—she shrunk at the recollections he revived, andfrom the vengeance he threatened; but then, theimage of Valancourt, who so long had lovedher, and who was now, perhaps, so near her,came to her heart, and, together with the strongfeelings of indignation, with which she hadalways, from her infancy, regarded an act ofinjustice, inspired her with a noble, thoughimprudent, courage.

'Sign the papers,' said Montoni, moreimpatiently than before.

'Never, sir,' replied Emily; 'that request wouldhave proved to me the injustice of your claim,had I even been ignorant of my right.'

Montoni turned pale with anger, while hisquivering lip and lurking eye made her almostrepent the boldness of her speech.

'Then all my vengeance falls upon you,' heexclaimed, with an horrible oath. 'And think notit shall be delayed. Neither the estates inLanguedoc, or Gascony, shall be yours; youhave dared to question my right,—now dare to

question my power. I have a punishment whichyou think not of; it is terrible! This night—thisvery night'—

'This night!' repeated another voice.

Montoni paused, and turned half round, but,seeming to recollect himself, he proceeded in alower tone.

'You have lately seen one terrible example ofobstinacy and folly; yet this, it appears, has notbeen sufficient to deter you.—I could tell you ofothers—I could make you tremble at the barerecital.'

He was interrupted by a groan, whichseemed to rise from underneath the chamberthey were in; and, as he threw a glance round it,impatience and rage flashed from his eyes, yetsomething like a shade of fear passed over hiscountenance. Emily sat down in a chair, nearthe door, for the various emotions she hadsuffered, now almost overcame her; butMontoni paused scarcely an instant, and,commanding his features, resumed hisdiscourse in a lower, yet sterner voice.

'I say, I could give you other instances of mypower and of my character, which it seems youdo not understand, or you would not defy me.—Icould tell you, that, when once my resolution istaken—but I am talking to a baby. Let me,however, repeat, that terrible as are theexamples I could recite, the recital could not

now benefit you; for, though your repentancewould put an immediate end to opposition, itwould not now appease my indignation.—I willhave vengeance as well as justice.'

Another groan filled the pause which Montonimade.

'Leave the room instantly!' said he, seemingnot to notice this strange occurrence. Withoutpower to implore his pity, she rose to go, butfound that she could not support herself; aweand terror overcame her, and she sunk againinto the chair.

'Quit my presence!' cried Montoni. 'Thisaffectation of fear ill becomes the heroine whohas just dared to brave my indignation.'

'Did you hear nothing, Signor?' said Emily,trembling, and still unable to leave the room.

'I heard my own voice,' rejoined Montoni,sternly.

'And nothing else?' said Emily, speaking withdifficulty.—'There again! Do you hear nothingnow?'

'Obey my order,' repeated Montoni. 'And forthese fool's tricks—I will soon discover bywhom they are practised.'

Emily again rose, and exerted herself to theutmost to leave the room, while Montonifollowed her; but, instead of calling aloud to his

servants to search the chamber, as he hadformerly done on a similar occurrence, passedto the ramparts.

As, in her way to the corridor, she rested for amoment at an open casement, Emily saw aparty of Montoni's troops winding down adistant mountain, whom she noticed no further,than as they brought to her mind the wretchedprisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to thecastle. At length, having reached her apartment,she threw herself upon the couch, overcomewith the new horrors of her situation. Herthoughts lost in tumult and perplexity, she couldneither repent of, or approve, her late conduct;she could only remember, that she was in thepower of a man, who had no principle of action—but his will; and the astonishment and terrorsof superstition, which had, for a moment, sostrongly assailed her, now yielded to those ofreason.

She was, at length, roused from the reverie,which engaged her, by a confusion of distantvoices, and a clattering of hoofs, that seemedto come, on the wind, from the courts. A suddenhope, that some good was approaching, seizedher mind, till she remembered the troops shehad observed from the casement, andconcluded this to be the party, which Annettehad said were expected at Udolpho.

Soon after, she heard voices faintly from thehalls, and the noise of horses' feet sunk away in

the wind; silence ensued. Emily listenedanxiously for Annette's step in the corridor, but apause of total stillness continued, till again thecastle seemed to be all tumult and confusion.She heard the echoes of many footsteps,passing to and fro in the halls and avenuesbelow, and then busy tongues were loud on therampart. Having hurried to her casement, sheperceived Montoni, with some of his officers,leaning on the walls, and pointing from them;while several soldiers were employed at thefurther end of the rampart about some cannon;and she continued to observe them, careless ofthe passing time.

Annette at length appeared, but brought nointelligence of Valancourt, 'For, ma'amselle,'said she, 'all the people pretend to knownothing about any prisoners. But here is a finepiece of business! The rest of the party are justarrived, ma'am; they came scampering in, as ifthey would have broken their necks; onescarcely knew whether the man, or his horsewould get within the gates first. And they havebrought word—and such news! they havebrought word, that a party of the enemy, as theycall them, are coming towards the castle; so weshall have all the officers of justice, I suppose,besieging it! all those terrible-looking fellowsone used to see at Venice.'

'Thank God!' exclaimed Emily, fervently,'there is yet a hope left for me, then!'

'What mean you, ma'amselle? Do you wish tofall into the hands of those sad-looking men!Why I used to shudder as I passed them, andshould have guessed what they were, ifLudovico had not told me.'

'We cannot be in worse hands than atpresent,' replied Emily, unguardedly; 'but whatreason have you to suppose these are officersof justice?'

'Why OUR people, ma'am, are all in such afright, and a fuss; and I don't know any thing butthe fear of justice, that could make them so. Iused to think nothing on earth could flusterthem, unless, indeed, it was a ghost, or so; butnow, some of them are for hiding down in thevaults under the castle; but you must not tell theSignor this, ma'amselle, and I overheard two ofthem talking—Holy Mother! what makes youlook so sad, ma'amselle? You don't hear what Isay!'

'Yes, I do, Annette; pray proceed.'

'Well, ma'amselle, all the castle is in suchhurly-burly. Some of the men are loading thecannon, and some are examining the greatgates, and the walls all round, and arehammering and patching up, just as if all thoserepairs had never been made, that were solong about. But what is to become of me andyou, ma'amselle, and Ludovico? O! when I hearthe sound of the cannon, I shall die with fright. If Icould but catch the great gate open for one

minute, I would be even with it for shutting mewithin these walls so long!—it should never seeme again.'

Emily caught the latter words of Annette. 'O! ifyou could find it open, but for one moment!' sheexclaimed, 'my peace might yet be saved!' Theheavy groan she uttered, and the wildness ofher look, terrified Annette, still more than herwords; who entreated Emily to explain themeaning of them, to whom it suddenly occurred,that Ludovico might be of some service, if thereshould be a possibility of escape, and whorepeated the substance of what had passedbetween Montoni and herself, but conjured herto mention this to no person except to Ludovico.'It may, perhaps, be in his power,' she added,'to effect our escape. Go to him, Annette, tellhim what I have to apprehend, and what I havealready suffered; but entreat him to be secret,and to lose no time in attempting to release us.If he is willing to undertake this he shall beamply rewarded. I cannot speak with himmyself, for we might be observed, and theneffectual care would be taken to prevent ourflight. But be quick, Annette, and, above all, bediscreet—I will await your return in thisapartment.'

The girl, whose honest heart had been muchaffected by the recital, was now as eager toobey, as Emily was to employ her, and sheimmediately quitted the room.

Emily's surprise increased, as she reflectedupon Annette's intelligence. 'Alas!' said she,'what can the officers of justice do against anarmed castle? these cannot be such.' Uponfurther consideration, however, she concluded,that, Montoni's bands having plundered thecountry round, the inhabitants had taken arms,and were coming with the officers of police anda party of soldiers, to force their way into thecastle. 'But they know not,' thought she, 'itsstrength, or the armed numbers within it. Alas!except from flight, I have nothing to hope!'

Montoni, though not precisely what Emilyapprehended him to be—a captain of banditti—had employed his troops in enterprises notless daring, or less atrocious, than such acharacter would have undertaken. They had notonly pillaged, whenever opportunity offered, thehelpless traveller, but had attacked, andplundered the villas of several persons, which,being situated among the solitary recesses ofthe mountains, were totally unprepared forresistance. In these expeditions thecommanders of the party did not appear, andthe men, partly disguised, had sometimes beenmistaken for common robbers, and, at others,for bands of the foreign enemy, who, at thatperiod, invaded the country. But, though theyhad already pillaged several mansions, andbrought home considerable treasures, they hadventured to approach only one castle, in theattack of which they were assisted by othertroops of their own order; from this, however,

they were vigorously repulsed, and pursued bysome of the foreign enemy, who were in leaguewith the besieged. Montoni's troops fledprecipitately towards Udolpho, but were soclosely tracked over the mountains, that, whenthey reached one of the heights in theneighbourhood of the castle, and looked backupon the road, they perceived the enemywinding among the cliffs below, and at not morethan a league distant. Upon this discovery, theyhastened forward with increased speed, toprepare Montoni for the enemy; and it was theirarrival, which had thrown the castle into suchconfusion and tumult.

As Emily awaited anxiously some informationfrom below, she now saw from her casements abody of troops pour over the neighbouringheights; and, though Annette had been gone avery short time, and had a difficult anddangerous business to accomplish, herimpatience for intelligence became painful: shelistened; opened her door; and often went outupon the corridor to meet her.

At length, she heard a footstep approach herchamber; and, on opening the door, saw, notAnnette, but old Carlo! New fears rushed uponher mind. He said he came from the Signor,who had ordered him to inform her, that shemust be ready to depart from Udolphoimmediately, for that the castle was about to bebesieged; and that mules were preparing toconvey her, with her guides, to a place of safety.

'Of safety!' exclaimed Emily, thoughtlessly;'has, then, the Signor so much consideration forme?'

Carlo looked upon the ground, and made noreply. A thousand opposite emotions agitatedEmily, successively, as she listened to oldCarlo; those of joy, grief, distrust andapprehension, appeared, and vanished fromher mind, with the quickness of lightning. Onemoment, it seemed impossible, that Montonicould take this measure merely for herpreservation; and so very strange was hissending her from the castle at all, that she couldattribute it only to the design of carrying intoexecution the new scheme of vengeance, withwhich he had menaced her. In the next instant, itappeared so desirable to quit the castle, underany circumstances, that she could not butrejoice in the prospect, believing that changemust be for the better, till she remembered theprobability of Valancourt being detained in it,when sorrow and regret usurped her mind, andshe wished, much more fervently than she hadyet done, that it might not be his voice whichshe had heard.

Carlo having reminded her, that she had notime to lose, for that the enemy were within sightof the castle, Emily entreated him to inform herwhither she was to go; and, after somehesitation, he said he had received no orders totell; but, on her repeating the question, replied,that he believed she was to be carried into

Tuscany.'

'To Tuscany!' exclaimed Emily—'and whythither?'

Carlo answered, that he knew nothing further,than that she was to be lodged in a cottage onthe borders of Tuscany, at the feet of theApennines—'Not a day's journey distant,' saidhe.

Emily now dismissed him; and, with tremblinghands, prepared the small package, that shemeant to take with her; while she was employedabout which Annette returned.

'O ma'amselle!' said she, 'nothing can bedone! Ludovico says the new porter is morewatchful even than Barnardine was, and wemight as well throw ourselves in the way of adragon, as in his. Ludovico is almost asbroken-hearted as you are, ma'am, on myaccount, he says, and I am sure I shall never liveto hear the cannon fire twice!'

She now began to weep, but revived uponhearing of what had just occurred, andentreated Emily to take her with her.

'That I will do most willingly,' replied Emily, 'ifSignor Montoni permits it;' to which Annettemade no reply, but ran out of the room, andimmediately sought Montoni, who was on theterrace, surrounded by his officers, where shebegan her petition. He sharply bade her go intothe castle, and absolutely refused her request.

the castle, and absolutely refused her request.Annette, however, not only pleaded for herself,but for Ludovico; and Montoni had orderedsome of his men to take her from his presence,before she would retire.

In an agony of disappointment, she returnedto Emily, who foreboded little good towardsherself, from this refusal to Annette, and who,soon after, received a summons to repair to thegreat court, where the mules, with her guides,were in waiting. Emily here tried in vain to sooththe weeping Annette, who persisted in saying,that she should never see her dear young ladyagain; a fear, which her mistress secretlythought too well justified, but which sheendeavoured to restrain, while, with apparentcomposure, she bade this affectionate servantfarewell. Annette, however, followed to thecourts, which were now thronged with people,busy in preparation for the enemy; and, havingseen her mount her mule and depart, with herattendants, through the portal, turned into thecastle and wept again.

Emily, meanwhile, as she looked back uponthe gloomy courts of the castle, no longer silentas when she had first entered them, butresounding with the noise of preparation fortheir defence, as well as crowded with soldiersand workmen, hurrying to and fro; and, whenshe passed once more under the hugeportcullis, which had formerly struck her withterror and dismay, and, looking round, saw nowalls to confine her steps—felt, in spite of

anticipation, the sudden joy of a prisoner, whounexpectedly finds himself at liberty. Thisemotion would not suffer her now to lookimpartially on the dangers that awaited herwithout; on mountains infested by hostileparties, who seized every opportunity forplunder; and on a journey commended underthe guidance of men, whose countenancescertainly did not speak favourably of theirdispositions. In the present moments, she couldonly rejoice, that she was liberated from thosewalls, which she had entered with such dismalforebodings; and, remembering thesuperstitious presentiment, which had thenseized her, she could now smile at theimpression it had made upon her mind.

As she gazed, with these emotions, upon theturrets of the castle, rising high over the woods,among which she wound, the stranger, whomshe believed to be confined there, returned toher remembrance, and anxiety andapprehension, lest he should be Valancourt,again passed like a cloud upon her joy. Sherecollected every circumstance, concerning thisunknown person, since the night, when she hadfirst heard him play the song of her nativeprovince;—circumstances, which she had sooften recollected, and compared before, withoutextracting from them any thing like conviction,and which still only prompted her to believe, thatValancourt was a prisoner at Udolpho. It waspossible, however, that the men, who were herconductors, might afford her information, on this

subject; but, fearing to question themimmediately, lest they should be unwilling todiscover any circumstance to her in thepresence of each other, she watched for anopportunity of speaking with them separately.

Soon after, a trumpet echoed faintly from adistance; the guides stopped, and lookedtoward the quarter whence it came, but the thickwoods, which surrounded them, excluding allview of the country beyond, one of the men rodeon to the point of an eminence, that afforded amore extensive prospect, to observe how nearthe enemy, whose trumpet he guessed this tobe, were advanced; the other, meanwhile,remained with Emily, and to him she put somequestions, concerning the stranger at Udolpho.Ugo, for this was his name, said, that therewere several prisoners in the castle, but heneither recollected their persons, or the precisetime of their arrival, and could therefore give herno information. There was a surliness in hismanner, as he spoke, that made it probable hewould not have satisfied her enquiries, even ifhe could have done so.

Having asked him what prisoners had beentaken, about the time, as nearly as she couldremember, when she had first heard the music,'All that week,' said Ugo, 'I was out with a party,upon the mountains, and knew nothing of whatwas doing at the castle. We had enough uponour hands, we had warm work of it.'

Bertrand, the other man, being now returned,Emily enquired no further, and, when he hadrelated to his companion what he had seen,they travelled on in deep silence; while Emilyoften caught, between the opening woods,partial glimpses of the castle above—the westtowers, whose battlements were now crowdedwith archers, and the ramparts below, wheresoldiers were seen hurrying along, or busy uponthe walls, preparing the cannon.

Having emerged from the woods, they woundalong the valley in an opposite direction to that,from whence the enemy were approaching.Emily now had a full view of Udolpho, with itsgray walls, towers and terraces, high over-topping the precipices and the dark woods, andglittering partially with the arms of thecondottieri, as the sun's rays, streaming throughan autumnal cloud, glanced upon a part of theedifice, whose remaining features stood indarkened majesty. She continued to gaze,through her tears, upon walls that, perhaps,confined Valancourt, and which now, as thecloud floated away, were lighted up with suddensplendour, and then, as suddenly wereshrouded in gloom; while the passing gleam fellon the wood-tops below, and heightened thefirst tints of autumn, that had begun to stealupon the foliage. The winding mountains, atlength, shut Udolpho from her view, and sheturned, with mournful reluctance, to otherobjects. The melancholy sighing of the windamong the pines, that waved high over the

steeps, and the distant thunder of a torrentassisted her musings, and conspired with thewild scenery around, to diffuse over her mindemotions solemn, yet not unpleasing, but whichwere soon interrupted by the distant roar ofcannon, echoing among the mountains. Thesounds rolled along the wind, and wererepeated in faint and fainter reverberation, tillthey sunk in sullen murmurs. This was a signal,that the enemy had reached the castle, and fearfor Valancourt again tormented Emily. Sheturned her anxious eyes towards that part of thecountry, where the edifice stood, but theintervening heights concealed it from her view;still, however, she saw the tall head of amountain, which immediately fronted her latechamber, and on this she fixed her gaze, as if itcould have told her of all that was passing in thescene it overlooked. The guides twicereminded her, that she was losing time and thatthey had far to go, before she could turn fromthis interesting object, and, even when sheagain moved onward, she often sent a lookback, till only its blue point, brightening in agleam of sunshine, appeared peeping overother mountains.

The sound of the cannon affected Ugo, as theblast of the trumpet does the war-horse; itcalled forth all the fire of his nature; he wasimpatient to be in the midst of the fight, anduttered frequent execrations against Montoni forhaving sent him to a distance. The feelings ofhis comrade seemed to be very opposite, and

adapted rather to the cruelties, than to thedangers of war.

Emily asked frequent questions, concerningthe place of her destination, but could onlylearn, that she was going to a cottage inTuscany; and, whenever she mentioned thesubject, she fancied she perceived, in thecountenances of these men, an expression ofmalice and cunning, that alarmed her.

It was afternoon, when they had left the castle.During several hours, they travelled throughregions of profound solitude, where no bleat ofsheep, or bark of watch-dog, broke on silence,and they were now too far off to hear even thefaint thunder of the cannon. Towards evening,they wound down precipices, black with forestsof cypress, pine and cedar, into a glen sosavage and secluded, that, if Solitude ever hadlocal habitation, this might have been 'her placeof dearest residence.' To Emily it appeared aspot exactly suited for the retreat of banditti,and, in her imagination, she already saw themlurking under the brow of some projecting rock,whence their shadows, lengthened by thesetting sun, stretched across the road, andwarned the traveller of his danger. Sheshuddered at the idea, and, looking at herconductors, to observe whether they werearmed, thought she saw in them the banditti shedreaded!

It was in this glen, that they proposed to

alight, 'For,' said Ugo, 'night will come onpresently, and then the wolves will make itdangerous to stop.' This was a new subject ofalarm to Emily, but inferior to what she sufferedfrom the thought of being left in these wilds, atmidnight, with two such men as her presentconductors. Dark and dreadful hints of whatmight be Montoni's purpose in sending herhither, came to her mind. She endeavoured todissuade the men from stopping, and enquired,with anxiety, how far they had yet to go.

'Many leagues yet,' replied Bertrand. 'As foryou, Signora, you may do as you please abouteating, but for us, we will make a hearty supper,while we can. We shall have need of it, Iwarrant, before we finish our journey. The sun'sgoing down apace; let us alight under that rock,yonder.'

His comrade assented, and, turning themules out of the road, they advanced towards acliff, overhung with cedars, Emily following intrembling silence. They lifted her from her mule,and, having seated themselves on the grass, atthe foot of the rocks, drew some homely farefrom a wallet, of which Emily tried to eat a little,the better to disguise her apprehensions.

The sun was now sunk behind the highmountains in the west, upon which a purplehaze began to spread, and the gloom of twilightto draw over the surrounding objects. To the lowand sullen murmur of the breeze, passing

among the woods, she no longer listened withany degree of pleasure, for it conspired with thewildness of the scene and the evening hour, todepress her spirits.

Suspense had so much increased heranxiety, as to the prisoner at Udolpho, that,finding it impracticable to speak alone withBertrand, on that subject, she renewed herquestions in the presence of Ugo; but he eitherwas, or pretended to be entirely ignorant,concerning the stranger. When he haddismissed the question, he talked with Ugo onsome subject, which led to the mention ofSignor Orsino and of the affair that hadbanished him from Venice; respecting whichEmily had ventured to ask a few questions. Ugoappeared to be well acquainted with thecircumstances of that tragical event, and relatedsome minute particulars, that both shocked andsurprised her; for it appeared very extraordinaryhow such particulars could be known to any, butto persons, present when the assassinationwas committed.

'He was of rank,' said Bertrand, 'or the Statewould not have troubled itself to enquire afterhis assassins. The Signor has been luckyhitherto; this is not the first affair of the kind hehas had upon his hands; and to be sure, when agentleman has no other way of getting redress—why he must take this.'

'Aye,' said Ugo, 'and why is not this as good

as another? This is the way to have justice doneat once, without more ado. If you go to law, youmust stay till the judges please, and may loseyour cause, at last, Why the best way, then, is tomake sure of your right, while you can, andexecute justice yourself.'

'Yes, yes,' rejoined Bertrand, 'if you wait tilljustice is done you—you may stay long enough.Why if I want a friend of mine properly served,how am I to get my revenge? Ten to one theywill tell me he is in the right, and I am in thewrong. Or, if a fellow has got possession ofproperty, which I think ought to be mine, why Imay wait, till I starve, perhaps, before the lawwill give it me, and then, after all, the judge maysay—the estate is his. What is to be done then?—Why the case is plain enough, I must take it atlast.'

Emily's horror at this conversation washeightened by a suspicion, that the latter part ofit was pointed against herself, and that thesemen had been commissioned by Montoni toexecute a similar kind of JUSTICE, in hiscause.

'But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,'resumed Bertrand, 'he is one of those, who loveto do justice at once. I remember, about tenyears ago, the Signor had a quarrel with acavaliero of Milan. The story was told me then,and it is still fresh in my head. They quarrelledabout a lady, that the Signor liked, and she was

perverse enough to prefer the gentleman ofMilan, and even carried her whim so far as tomarry him. This provoked the Signor, as well itmight, for he had tried to talk reason to her along while, and used to send people toserenade her, under her windows, of a night;and used to make verses about her, and wouldswear she was the handsomest lady in Milan—But all would not do—nothing would bring her toreason; and, as I said, she went so far at last,as to marry this other cavaliero. This made theSignor wrath, with a vengeance; he resolved tobe even with her though, and he watched hisopportunity, and did not wait long, for, soonafter the marriage, they set out for Padua,nothing doubting, I warrant, of what waspreparing for them. The cavaliero thought, to besure, he was to be called to no account, but wasto go off triumphant; but he was soon made toknow another sort of story.'

'What then, the lady had promised to haveSignor Orsino?' said Ugo.

'Promised! No,' replied Bertrand, 'she hadnot wit enough even to tell him she liked him, asI heard, but the contrary, for she used to say,from the first, she never meant to have him. Andthis was what provoked the Signor, so, and withgood reason, for, who likes to be told that he isdisagreeable? and this was saying as good. Itwas enough to tell him this; she need not havegone, and married another.'

'What, she married, then, on purpose toplague the Signor?' said Ugo.

'I don't know as for that,' replied Bertrand,'they said, indeed, that she had had a regard forthe other gentleman a great while; but that isnothing to the purpose, she should not havemarried him, and then the Signor would nothave been so much provoked. She might haveexpected what was to follow; it was not to besupposed he would bear her ill usage tamely,and she might thank herself for what happened.But, as I said, they set out for Padua, she andher husband, and the road lay over somebarren mountains like these. This suited theSignor's purpose well. He watched the time oftheir departure, and sent his men after them,with directions what to do. They kept theirdistance, till they saw their opportunity, and thisdid not happen, till the second day's journey,when, the gentleman having sent his servantsforward to the next town, may be, to havehorses in readiness, the Signor's menquickened their pace, and overtook thecarriage, in a hollow, between two mountains,where the woods prevented the servants fromseeing what passed, though they were then notfar off. When we came up, we fired ourtromboni, but missed.'

Emily turned pale, at these words, and thenhoped she had mistaken them; while Bertrandproceeded:

'The gentleman fired again, but he was soonmade to alight, and it was as he turned to callhis people, that he was struck. It was the mostdexterous feat you ever saw—he was struck inthe back with three stillettos at once. He fell,and was dispatched in a minute; but the ladyescaped, for the servants had heard the firing,and came up before she could be taken careof. "Bertrand," said the Signor, when his menreturned'—

'Bertrand!' exclaimed Emily, pale with horror,on whom not a syllable of this narrative hadbeen lost.

'Bertrand, did I say?' rejoined the man, withsome confusion—'No, Giovanni. But I haveforgot where I was;—"Bertrand," said theSignor'—

'Bertrand, again!' said Emily, in a falteringvoice, 'Why do you repeat that name?'

Bertrand swore. 'What signifies it,' heproceeded, 'what the man was called—Bertrand, or Giovanni—or Roberto? it's all onefor that. You have put me out twice with that—question. "Bertrand," or Giovanni—or what youwill—"Bertrand," said the Signor, "if yourcomrades had done their duty, as well as you, Ishould not have lost the lady. Go, my honestfellow, and be happy with this." He game him apurse of gold—and little enough too,considering the service he had done him.'

'Aye, aye,' said Ugo, 'little enough—littleenough.'

Emily now breathed with difficulty, and couldscarcely support herself. When first she sawthese men, their appearance and theirconnection with Montoni had been sufficient toimpress her with distrust; but now, when one ofthem had betrayed himself to be a murderer,and she saw herself, at the approach of night,under his guidance, among wild and solitarymountains, and going she scarcely knewwhither, the most agonizing terror seized her,which was the less supportable from thenecessity she found herself under of concealingall symptoms of it from her companions.Reflecting on the character and the menaces ofMontoni, it appeared not improbable, that hehad delivered her to them, for the purpose ofhaving her murdered, and of thus securing tohimself, without further opposition, or delay, theestates, for which he had so long and sodesperately contended. Yet, if this was hisdesign, there appeared no necessity forsending her to such a distance from the castle;for, if any dread of discovery had made himunwilling to perpetrate the deed there, a muchnearer place might have sufficed for thepurpose of concealment. These considerations,however, did not immediately occur to Emily,with whom so many circumstances conspired torouse terror, that she had no power to opposeit, or to enquire coolly into its grounds; and, ifshe had done so, still there were many

appearances which would too well havejustified her most terrible apprehensions. Shedid not now dare to speak to her conductors, atthe sound of whose voices she trembled; andwhen, now and then, she stole a glance at them,their countenances, seen imperfectly throughthe gloom of evening, served to confirm herfears.

The sun had now been set some time; heavyclouds, whose lower skirts were tinged withsulphureous crimson, lingered in the west, andthrew a reddish tint upon the pine forests, whichsent forth a solemn sound, as the breeze rolledover them. The hollow moan struck upon Emily'sheart, and served to render more gloomy andterrific every object around her,—the mountains,shaded in twilight—the gleaming torrent,hoarsely roaring—the black forests, and thedeep glen, broken into rocky recesses, highovershadowed by cypress and sycamore andwinding into long obscurity. To this glen, Emily,as she sent forth her anxious eye, thought therewas no end; no hamlet, or even cottage, wasseen, and still no distant bark of watch dog, oreven faint, far-off halloo came on the wind. In atremulous voice, she now ventured to remindthe guides, that it was growing late, and to askagain how far they had to go: but they were toomuch occupied by their own discourse to attendto her question, which she forbore to repeat,lest it should provoke a surly answer. Having,however, soon after, finished their supper, themen collected the fragments into their wallet,

and proceeded along this winding glen, ingloomy silence; while Emily again mused uponher own situation, and concerning the motivesof Montoni for involving her in it. That it was forsome evil purpose towards herself, she couldnot doubt; and it seemed, that, if he did notintend to destroy her, with a view of immediatelyseizing her estates, he meant to reserve her awhile in concealment, for some more terribledesign, for one that might equally gratify hisavarice and still more his deep revenge. At thismoment, remembering Signor Brochio and hisbehaviour in the corridor, a few precedingnights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was,strengthened in her belief. Yet, why remove herfrom the castle, where deeds of darkness had,she feared, been often executed with secrecy?—from chambers, perhaps

With many a foul, and midnight murder stain'd.

The dread of what she might be going toencounter was now so excessive, that itsometimes threatened her senses; and, oftenas she went, she thought of her late father andof all he would have suffered, could he haveforeseen the strange and dreadful events of herfuture life; and how anxiously he would haveavoided that fatal confidence, which committedhis daughter to the care of a woman so weakas was Madame Montoni. So romantic andimprobable, indeed, did her present situationappear to Emily herself, particularly when shecompared it with the repose and beauty of her

early days, that there were moments, when shecould almost have believed herself the victim offrightful visions, glaring upon a disorderedfancy.

Restrained by the presence of her guidesfrom expressing her terrors, their acutenesswas, at length, lost in gloomy despair. Thedreadful view of what might await her hereafterrendered her almost indifferent to thesurrounding dangers. She now looked, with littleemotion, on the wild dingles, and the gloomyroad and mountains, whose outlines were onlydistinguishable through the dusk;—objects,which but lately had affected her spirits somuch, as to awaken horrid views of the future,and to tinge these with their own gloom.

It was now so nearly dark, that the travellers,who proceeded only by the slowest pace, couldscarcely discern their way. The clouds, whichseemed charged with thunder, passed slowlyalong the heavens, shewing, at intervals, thetrembling stars; while the groves of cypress andsycamore, that overhung the rocks, waved highin the breeze, as it swept over the glen, andthen rushed among the distant woods. Emilyshivered as it passed.

'Where is the torch?' said Ugo, 'It growsdark.'

'Not so dark yet,' replied Bertrand, 'but wemay find our way, and 'tis best not light thetorch, before we can help, for it may betray us, if

any straggling party of the enemy is abroad.'

Ugo muttered something, which Emily did notunderstand, and they proceeded in darkness,while she almost wished, that the enemy mightdiscover them; for from change there wassomething to hope, since she could scarcelyimagine any situation more dreadful than herpresent one.

As they moved slowly along, her attentionwas surprised by a thin tapering flame, thatappeared, by fits, at the point of the pike, whichBertrand carried, resembling what she hadobserved on the lance of the sentinel, the nightMadame Montoni died, and which he had saidwas an omen. The event immediately followingit appeared to justify the assertion, and asuperstitious impression had remained onEmily's mind, which the present appearanceconfirmed. She thought it was an omen of herown fate, and watched it successively vanishand return, in gloomy silence, which was atlength interrupted by Bertrand.

'Let us light the torch,' said he, 'and get undershelter of the woods;—a storm is coming on—look at my lance.'

He held it forth, with the flame tapering at itspoint.*

(*See the Abbe Berthelon on Electricity. [A.R.])

'Aye,' said Ugo, 'you are not one of those,

'Aye,' said Ugo, 'you are not one of those,that believe in omens: we have left cowards atthe castle, who would turn pale at such a sight. Ihave often seen it before a thunder storm, it isan omen of that, and one is coming now, sureenough. The clouds flash fast already.'

Emily was relieved by this conversation fromsome of the terrors of superstition, but those ofreason increased, as, waiting while Ugosearched for a flint, to strike fire, she watchedthe pale lightning gleam over the woods theywere about to enter, and illumine the harshcountenances of her companions. Ugo couldnot find a flint, and Bertrand became impatient,for the thunder sounded hollowly at a distance,and the lightning was more frequent.Sometimes, it revealed the nearer recesses ofthe woods, or, displaying some opening in theirsummits, illumined the ground beneath withpartial splendour, the thick foliage of the treespreserving the surrounding scene in deepshadow.

At length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch waslighted. The men then dismounted, and, havingassisted Emily, led the mules towards thewoods, that skirted the glen, on the left, overbroken ground, frequently interrupted withbrush-wood and wild plants, which she wasoften obliged to make a circuit to avoid.

She could not approach these woods, withoutexperiencing keener sense of her danger. Theirdeep silence, except when the wind swept

among their branches, and impenetrableglooms shewn partially by the sudden flash, andthen, by the red glare of the torch, which servedonly to make 'darkness visible,' werecircumstances, that contributed to renew all hermost terrible apprehensions; she thought, too,that, at this moment, the countenances of herconductors displayed more than their usualfierceness, mingled with a kind of lurkingexultation, which they seemed endeavouring todisguise. To her affrighted fancy it occurred,that they were leading her into these woods tocomplete the will of Montoni by her murder. Thehorrid suggestion called a groan from her heart,which surprised her companions, who turnedround quickly towards her, and she demandedwhy they led her thither, beseeching them tocontinue their way along the open glen, whichshe represented to be less dangerous than thewoods, in a thunder storm.

'No, no,' said Bertrand, 'we know best wherethe danger lies. See how the clouds open overour heads. Besides, we can glide under coverof the woods with less hazard of being seen,should any of the enemy be wandering this way.By holy St. Peter and all the rest of them, I've asstout a heart as the best, as many a poor devilcould tell, if he were alive again—but what canwe do against numbers?'

'What are you whining about?' said Ugo,contemptuously, 'who fears numbers! Let themcome, though they were as many, as the

Signor's castle could hold; I would shew theknaves what fighting is. For you—I would layyou quietly in a dry ditch, where you might peepout, and see me put the rogues to flight.—Whotalks of fear!'

Bertrand replied, with an horrible oath, that hedid not like such jesting, and a violentaltercation ensued, which was, at length,silenced by the thunder, whose deep volley washeard afar, rolling onward till it burst over theirheads in sounds, that seemed to shake theearth to its centre. The ruffians paused, andlooked upon each other. Between the boles ofthe trees, the blue lightning flashed andquivered along the ground, while, as Emilylooked under the boughs, the mountainsbeyond, frequently appeared to be clothed inlivid flame. At this moment, perhaps, she feltless fear of the storm, than did either of hercompanions, for other terrors occupied hermind.

The men now rested under an enormouschesnut-tree, and fixed their pikes in theground, at some distance, on the iron points ofwhich Emily repeatedly observed the lightningplay, and then glide down them into the earth.

'I would we were well in the Signor's castle!'said Bertrand, 'I know not why he should sendus on this business. Hark! how it rattles above,there! I could almost find in my heart to turnpriest, and pray. Ugo, hast got a rosary?'

'No,' replied Ugo, 'I leave it to cowards likethee, to carry rosaries—I, carry a sword.'

'And much good may it do thee in fightingagainst the storm!' said Bertrand.

Another peal, which was reverberated intremendous echoes among the mountains,silenced them for a moment. As it rolled away,Ugo proposed going on. 'We are only losingtime here,' said he, 'for the thick boughs of thewoods will shelter us as well as this chesnut-tree.'

They again led the mules forward, betweenthe boles of the trees, and over pathless grass,that concealed their high knotted roots. Therising wind was now heard contending with thethunder, as it rushed furiously among thebranches above, and brightened the red flameof the torch, which threw a stronger light forwardamong the woods, and shewed their gloomyrecesses to be suitable resorts for the wolves,of which Ugo had formerly spoken.

At length, the strength of the wind seemed todrive the storm before it, for the thunder rolledaway into distance, and was only faintly heard.After travelling through the woods for nearly anhour, during which the elements seemed tohave returned to repose, the travellers,gradually ascending from the glen, foundthemselves upon the open brow of a mountain,with a wide valley, extending in misty moon-light, at their feet, and above, the blue sky,

trembling through the few thin clouds, thatlingered after the storm, and were sinkingslowly to the verge of the horizon.

Emily's spirits, now that she had quitted thewoods, began to revive; for she considered,that, if these men had received an order todestroy her, they would probably have executedtheir barbarous purpose in the solitary wild,from whence they had just emerged, where thedeed would have been shrouded from everyhuman eye. Reassured by this reflection, and bythe quiet demeanour of her guides, Emily, asthey proceeded silently, in a kind of sheeptrack, that wound along the skirts of the woods,which ascended on the right, could not surveythe sleeping beauty of the vale, to which theywere declining, without a momentary sensationof pleasure. It seemed varied with woods,pastures, and sloping grounds, and wasscreened to the north and the east by anamphitheatre of the Apennines, whose outlineon the horizon was here broken into varied andelegant forms; to the west and the south, thelandscape extended indistinctly into thelowlands of Tuscany.

'There is the sea yonder,' said Bertrand, as ifhe had known that Emily was examining thetwilight view, 'yonder in the west, though wecannot see it.'

Emily already perceived a change in theclimate, from that of the wild and mountainous

tract she had left; and, as she continueddescending, the air became perfumed by thebreath of a thousand nameless flowers amongthe grass, called forth by the late rain. Sosoothingly beautiful was the scene around her,and so strikingly contrasted to the gloomygrandeur of those, to which she had long beenconfined, and to the manners of the people,who moved among them, that she could almosthave fancied herself again at La Vallee, and,wondering why Montoni had sent her hither,could scarcely believe, that he had selected soenchanting a spot for any cruel design. It was,however, probably not the spot, but the persons,who happened to inhabit it, and to whose carehe could safely commit the execution of hisplans, whatever they might be, that haddetermined his choice.

She now ventured again to enquire, whetherthey were near the place of their destination,and was answered by Ugo, that they had not farto go. 'Only to the wood of chesnuts in the valleyyonder,' said he, 'there, by the brook, thatsparkles with the moon; I wish I was once at restthere, with a flask of good wine, and a slice ofTuscany bacon.'

Emily's spirits revived, when she heard, thatthe journey was so nearly concluded, and sawthe wood of chesnuts in an open part of thevale, on the margin of the stream.

In a short time, they reached the entrance of

the wood, and perceived, between the twinklingleaves, a light, streaming from a distant cottagewindow. They proceeded along the edge of thebrook to where the trees, crowding over it,excluded the moon-beams, but a long line oflight, from the cottage above, was seen on itsdark tremulous surface. Bertrand now steppedon first, and Emily heard him knock, and callloudly at the door. As she reached it, the smallupper casement, where the light appeared, wasunclosed by a man, who, having enquired whatthey wanted, immediately descended, let theminto a neat rustic cot, and called up his wife toset refreshments before the travellers. As thisman conversed, rather apart, with Bertrand,Emily anxiously surveyed him. He was a tall, butnot robust, peasant, of a sallow complexion,and had a shrewd and cunning eye; hiscountenance was not of a character to win theready confidence of youth, and there wasnothing in his manner, that might conciliate astranger.

Ugo called impatiently for supper, and in atone as if he knew his authority here to beunquestionable. 'I expected you an hour ago,'said the peasant, 'for I have had SignorMontoni's letter these three hours, and I and mywife had given you up, and gone to bed. Howdid you fare in the storm?'

'Ill enough,' replied Ugo, 'ill enough and weare like to fare ill enough here, too, unless youwill make more haste. Get us more wine, and

let us see what you have to eat.'

The peasant placed before them all, that hiscottage afforded—ham, wine, figs, and grapesof such size and flavour, as Emily had seldomtasted.

After taking refreshment, she was shewn bythe peasant's wife to her little bed-chamber,where she asked some questions concerningMontoni, to which the woman, whose name wasDorina, gave reserved answers, pretendingignorance of his excellenza's intention insending Emily hither, but acknowledging thather husband had been apprized of thecircumstance. Perceiving, that she could obtainno intelligence concerning her destination,Emily dismissed Dorina, and retired to repose;but all the busy scenes of her past and theanticipated ones of the future came to heranxious mind, and conspired with the sense ofher new situation to banish sleep.

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

When Emily, in the morning, opened hercasement, she was surprised to observe thebeauties, that surrounded it. The cottage wasnearly embowered in the woods, which werechiefly of chesnut intermixed with somecypress, larch and sycamore. Beneath the darkand spreading branches, appeared, to thenorth, and to the east, the woody Apennines,rising in majestic amphitheatre, not black withpines, as she had been accustomed to seethem, but their loftiest summits crowned withantient forests of chesnut, oak, and orientalplane, now animated with the rich tints ofautumn, and which swept downward to thevalley uninterruptedly, except where some boldrocky promontory looked out from among thefoliage, and caught the passing gleam.Vineyards stretched along the feet of themountains, where the elegant villas of theTuscan nobility frequently adorned the scene,and overlooked slopes clothed with groves ofolive, mulberry, orange and lemon. The plain, towhich these declined, was coloured with the

riches of cultivation, whose mingled hues weremellowed into harmony by an Italian sun. Vines,their purple clusters blushing between therusset foliage, hung in luxuriant festoons fromthe branches of standard fig and cherry trees,while pastures of verdure, such as Emily hadseldom seen in Italy, enriched the banks of astream that, after descending from themountains, wound along the landscape, which itreflected, to a bay of the sea. There, far in thewest, the waters, fading into the sky, assumed atint of the faintest purple, and the line ofseparation between them was, now and then,discernible only by the progress of a sail,brightened with the sunbeam, along the horizon.

The cottage, which was shaded by the woodsfrom the intenser rays of the sun, and was openonly to his evening light, was covered entirelywith vines, fig-trees and jessamine, whoseflowers surpassed in size and fragrance anythat Emily had seen. These and ripeningclusters of grapes hung round her littlecasement. The turf, that grew under the woods,was inlaid with a variety of wild flowers andperfumed herbs, and, on the opposite margin ofthe stream, whose current diffused freshnessbeneath the shades, rose a grove of lemon andorange trees. This, though nearly opposite toEmily's window, did not interrupt her prospect,but rather heightened, by its dark verdure, theeffect of the perspective; and to her this spotwas a bower of sweets, whose charmscommunicated imperceptibly to her mindsomewhat of their own serenity.

She was soon summoned to breakfast, bythe peasant's daughter, a girl about seventeen,

of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily wasglad to observe, seemed animated with thepure affections of nature, though the others, thatsurrounded her, expressed, more or less, theworst qualities—cruelty, ferocity, cunning andduplicity; of the latter style of countenance,especially, were those of the peasant and hiswife. Maddelina spoke little, but what she saidwas in a soft voice, and with an air of modestyand complacency, that interested Emily, whobreakfasted at a separate table with Dorina,while Ugo and Bertrand were taking a repast ofTuscany bacon and wine with their host, nearthe cottage door; when they had finished which,Ugo, rising hastily, enquired for his mule, andEmily learned that he was to return to Udolpho,while Bertrand remained at the cottage; acircumstance, which, though it did not surprise,distressed her.

When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed towalk in the neighbouring woods; but, on beingtold, that she must not quit the cottage, withouthaving Bertrand for her attendant, she withdrewto her own room. There, as her eyes settled onthe towering Apennines, she recollected theterrific scenery they had exhibited and thehorrors she had suffered, on the precedingnight, particularly at the moment when Bertrandhad betrayed himself to be an assassin; andthese remembrances awakened a train ofimages, which, since they abstracted her from aconsideration of her own situation, she pursuedfor some time, and then arranged in thefollowing lines; pleased to have discovered anyinnocent means, by which she could beguile anhour of misfortune.

THE PILGRIM*

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

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

Preferring the solitude of her room to thecompany of the persons below stairs, Emilydined above, and Maddelina was suffered toattend her, from whose simple conversation shelearned, that the peasant and his wife were oldinhabitants of this cottage, which had beenpurchased for them by Montoni, in reward of

some service, rendered him, many yearsbefore, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the stewardat the castle, was nearly related. 'So manyyears ago, Signora,' added Maddelina, 'that Iknow nothing about it; but my father did theSignor a great good, for my mother has oftensaid to him, this cottage was the least he oughtto have had.'

To the mention of this circumstance Emilylistened with a painful interest, since itappeared to give a frightful colour to thecharacter of Marco, whose service, thusrewarded by Montoni, she could scarcely doubthave been criminal; and, if so, had too muchreason to believe, that she had been committedinto his hands for some desperate purpose.'Did you ever hear how many years it is,' saidEmily, who was considering of SignoraLaurentini's disappearance from Udolpho,'since your father performed the services youspoke of?'

'It was a little before he came to live at thecottage, Signora,' replied Maddelina, 'and thatis about eighteen years ago.'

This was near the period, when SignoraLaurentini had been said to disappear, and itoccurred to Emily, that Marco had assisted inthat mysterious affair, and, perhaps, had beenemployed in a murder! This horrible suggestionfixed her in such profound reverie, thatMaddelina quitted the room, unperceived byher, and she remained unconscious of allaround her, for a considerable time. Tears, atlength, came to her relief, after indulging which,her spirits becoming calmer, she ceased to

tremble at a view of evils, that might neverarrive; and had sufficient resolution toendeavour to withdraw her thoughts from thecontemplation of her own interests.Remembering the few books, which even in thehurry of her departure from Udolpho she had putinto her little package, she sat down with one ofthem at her pleasant casement, whence hereyes often wandered from the page to thelandscape, whose beauty gradually soothed hermind into gentle melancholy.

Here, she remained alone, till evening, andsaw the sun descend the western sky, throw allhis pomp of light and shadow upon themountains, and gleam upon the distant oceanand the stealing sails, as he sunk amidst thewaves. Then, at the musing hour of twilight, hersoftened thoughts returned to Valancourt; sheagain recollected every circumstance,connected with the midnight music, and all thatmight assist her conjecture, concerning hisimprisonment at the castle, and, becomingconfirmed in the supposition, that it was hisvoice she had heard there, she looked back tothat gloomy abode with emotions of grief andmomentary regret.

Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air, andher spirits soothed to a state of gentlemelancholy by the stilly murmur of the brookbelow and of the woods around, she lingered ather casement long after the sun had set,watching the valley sinking into obscurity, tillonly the grand outline of the surroundingmountains, shadowed upon the horizon,remained visible. But a clear moon-light, thatsucceeded, gave to the landscape, what time

gives to the scenes of past life, when it softensall their harsher features, and throws over thewhole the mellowing shade of distantcontemplation. The scenes of La Vallee, in theearly morn of her life, when she was protectedand beloved by parents equally loved,appeared in Emily's memory tenderly beautiful,like the prospect before her, and awakenedmournful comparisons. Unwilling to encounterthe coarse behaviour of the peasant's wife, sheremained supperless in her room, while shewept again over her forlorn and periloussituation, a review of which entirely overcamethe small remains of her fortitude, and, reducingher to temporary despondence, she wished tobe released from the heavy load of life, that hadso long oppressed her, and prayed to Heavento take her, in its mercy, to her parents.

Wearied with weeping, she, at length, laydown on her mattress, and sunk to sleep, butwas soon awakened by a knocking at herchamber door, and, starting up in terror, sheheard a voice calling her. The image ofBertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appearedto her alarmed fancy, and she neither openedthe door, or answered, but listened in profoundsilence, till, the voice repeating her name in thesame low tone, she demanded who called. 'It isI, Signora,' replied the voice, which she nowdistinguished to be Maddelina's, 'pray open thedoor. Don't be frightened, it is I.'

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

'Hush! signora, for heaven's sake hush!—ifwe are overheard I shall never be forgiven. My

father and mother and Bertrand are all gone tobed,' continued Maddelina, as she gently shutthe door, and crept forward, 'and I have broughtyou some supper, for you had none, you know,Signora, below stairs. Here are some grapesand figs and half a cup of wine.' Emily thankedher, but expressed apprehension lest thiskindness should draw upon her the resentmentof Dorina, when she perceived the fruit wasgone. 'Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,'added Emily, 'I shall suffer much less from thewant of it, than I should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject you to your mother'sdispleasure.'

'O Signora! there is no danger of that,'replied Maddelina, 'my mother cannot miss thefruit, for I saved it from my own supper. You willmake me very unhappy, if you refuse to take it,Signora.' Emily was so much affected by thisinstance of the good girl's generosity, that sheremained for some time unable to reply, andMaddelina watched her in silence, till, mistakingthe cause of her emotion, she said, 'Do notweep so, Signora! My mother, to be sure, is alittle cross, sometimes, but then it is soon over,—so don't take it so much to heart. She oftenscolds me, too, but then I have learned to bearit, and, when she has done, if I can but steal outinto the woods, and play upon my sticcado, Iforget it all directly.'

Emily, smiling through her tears, toldMaddelina, that she was a good girl, and thenaccepted her offering. She wished anxiously toknow, whether Bertrand and Dorina had spokenof Montoni, or of his designs, concerningherself, in the presence of Maddelina, but

disdained to tempt the innocent girl to aconduct so mean, as that of betraying theprivate conversations of her parents. When shewas departing, Emily requested, that she wouldcome to her room as often as she dared,without offending her mother, and Maddelina,after promising that she would do so, stolesoftly back again to her own chamber.

Thus several days passed, during whichEmily remained in her own room, Maddelinaattending her only at her repast, whose gentlecountenance and manners soothed her morethan any circumstance she had known for manymonths. Of her pleasant embowered chambershe now became fond, and began toexperience in it those feelings of security, whichwe naturally attach to home. In this interval also,her mind, having been undisturbed by any newcircumstance of disgust, or alarm, recovered itstone sufficiently to permit her the enjoyment ofher books, among which she found someunfinished sketches of landscapes, severalblank sheets of paper, with her drawinginstruments, and she was thus enabled toamuse herself with selecting some of the lovelyfeatures of the prospect, that her windowcommanded, and combining them in scenes, towhich her tasteful fancy gave a last grace. Inthese little sketches she generally placedinteresting groups, characteristic of the scenerythey animated, and often contrived to tell, withperspicuity, some simple and affecting story,when, as a tear fell over the pictured griefs,which her imagination drew, she would forget,for a moment, her real sufferings. Thusinnocently she beguiled the heavy hours ofmisfortune, and, with meek patience, awaited

misfortune, and, with meek patience, awaitedthe events of futurity.

A beautiful evening, that had succeeded to asultry day, at length induced Emily to walk,though she knew that Bertrand must attend her,and, with Maddelina for her companion, she leftthe cottage, followed by Bertrand, who allowedher to choose her own way. The hour was cooland silent, and she could not look upon thecountry around her, without delight. How lovely,too, appeared the brilliant blue, that coloured allthe upper region of the air, and, thence fadingdownward, was lost in the saffron glow of thehorizon! Nor less so were the varied shadesand warm colouring of the Apennines, as theevening sun threw his slanting rays athwart theirbroken surface. Emily followed the course of thestream, under the shades, that overhung itsgrassy margin. On the opposite banks, thepastures were animated with herds of cattle ofa beautiful cream-colour; and, beyond, weregroves of lemon and orange, with fruit glowingon the branches, frequent almost as the leaves,which partly concealed it. She pursued her waytowards the sea, which reflected the warm glowof sun-set, while the cliffs, that rose over itsedge, were tinted with the last rays. The valleywas terminated on the right by a loftypromontory, whose summit, impending over thewaves, was crowned with a ruined tower, nowserving for the purpose of a beacon, whoseshattered battlements and the extended wingsof some sea-fowl, that circled near it, were stillillumined by the upward beams of the sun,though his disk was now sunk beneath thehorizon; while the lower part of the ruin, the cliffon which it stood and the waves at its foot, were

shaded with the first tints of twilight.

Having reached this headland, Emily gazedwith solemn pleasure on the cliffs, that extendedon either hand along the sequestered shores,some crowned with groves of pine, and othersexhibiting only barren precipices of grayishmarble, except where the crags were tufted withmyrtle and other aromatic shrubs. The sea sleptin a perfect calm; its waves, dying in murmurson the shores, flowed with the gentlestundulation, while its clear surface reflected insoftened beauty the vermeil tints of the west.Emily, as she looked upon the ocean, thought ofFrance and of past times, and she wished, Oh!how ardently, and vainly—wished! that itswaves would bear her to her distant, nativehome!

'Ah! that vessel,' said she, 'that vessel, whichglides along so stately, with its tall sailsreflected in the water is, perhaps, bound forFrance! Happy—happy bark!' She continued togaze upon it, with warm emotion, till the gray oftwilight obscured the distance, and veiled itfrom her view. The melancholy sound of thewaves at her feet assisted the tenderness, thatoccasioned her tears, and this was the onlysound, that broke upon the hour, till, havingfollowed the windings of the beach, for sometime, a chorus of voices passed her on the air.She paused a moment, wishing to hear more,yet fearing to be seen, and, for the first time,looked back to Bertrand, as her protector, whowas following, at a short distance, in companywith some other person. Reassured by thiscircumstance, she advanced towards thesounds, which seemed to arise from behind a

high promontory, that projected athwart thebeach. There was now a sudden pause in themusic, and then one female voice was heard tosing in a kind of chant. Emily quickened hersteps, and, winding round the rock, saw, withinthe sweeping bay, beyond, which was hung withwoods from the borders of the beach to the verysummit of the cliffs, two groups of peasants,one seated beneath the shades, and the otherstanding on the edge of the sea, round the girl,who was singing, and who held in her hand achaplet of flowers, which she seemed about todrop into the waves.

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

TO A SEA-NYMPH

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

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

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

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

(Chorus)—ARISE! (Semi-chorus)—ARISE!

The last words being repeated by thesurrounding group, the garland of flowers wasthrown into the waves, and the chorus, sinkinggradually into a chant, died away in silence.

'What can this mean, Maddelina?' said Emily,awakening from the pleasing trance, into whichthe music had lulled her. 'This is the eve of afestival, Signora,' replied Maddelina; 'and thepeasants then amuse themselves with all kindsof sports.'

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

'O, Signora,' rejoined Maddelina, mistakingthe reason of Emily's surprise, 'nobodyBELIEVES in such things, but our old songs tellof them, and, when we are at our sports, wesometimes sing to them, and throw garlandsinto the sea.'

Emily had been early taught to venerateFlorence as the seat of literature and of the finearts; but, that its taste for classic story shoulddescend to the peasants of the country,occasioned her both surprise and admiration.The Arcadian air of the girls next attracted herattention. Their dress was a very short fullpetticoat of light green, with a boddice of whitesilk; the sleeves loose, and tied up at theshoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers.Their hair, falling in ringlets on their necks, wasalso ornamented with flowers, and with a small

straw hat, which, set rather backward and onone side of the head, gave an expression ofgaiety and smartness to the whole figure. Whenthe song had concluded, several of these girlsapproached Emily, and, inviting her to sit downamong them, offered her, and Maddelina,whom they knew, grapes and figs.

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

'Let the young lady join in the dance, myfriend,' said the peasant, 'while we empty thisflask. They are going to begin directly. Strikeup! my lads, strike up your tambourines andmerry flutes!'

They sounded gaily; and the youngerpeasants formed themselves into a circle,which Emily would readily have joined, had herspirits been in unison with their mirth.Maddelina, however, tripped it lightly, andEmily, as she looked on the happy group, lostthe sense of her misfortunes in that of abenevolent pleasure. But the pensivemelancholy of her mind returned, as she satrather apart from the company, listening to themellow music, which the breeze softened as itbore it away, and watching the moon, stealingits tremulous light over the waves and on thewoody summits of the cliffs, that wound alongthese Tuscan shores.

Meanwhile, Bertrand was so well pleasedwith his first flask, that he very willinglycommenced the attack on a second, and it waslate before Emily, not without someapprehension, returned to the cottage.

After this evening, she frequently walked withMaddelina, but was never unattended byBertrand; and her mind became by degrees astranquil as the circumstances of her situationwould permit. The quiet, in which she wassuffered to live, encouraged her to hope, thatshe was not sent hither with an evil design; and,had it not appeared probable, that Valancourtwas at this time an inhabitant of Udolpho, shewould have wished to remain at the cottage, tillan opportunity should offer of returning to hernative country. But, concerning Montoni'smotive for sending her into Tuscany, she wasmore than ever perplexed, nor could shebelieve that any consideration for her safety hadinfluenced him on this occasion.

She had been some time at the cottage,before she recollected, that, in the hurry ofleaving Udolpho, she had forgotten the paperscommitted to her by her late aunt, relative to theLanguedoc estates; but, though thisremembrance occasioned her muchuneasiness, she had some hope, that, in theobscure place, where they were deposited, theywould escape the detection of Montoni.

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

We now return, for a moment, to Venice,where Count Morano was suffering under anaccumulation of misfortunes. Soon after hisarrival in that city, he had been arrested byorder of the Senate, and, without knowing ofwhat he was suspected, was conveyed to aplace of confinement, whither the moststrenuous enquiries of his friends had beenunable to trace him. Who the enemy was, thathad occasioned him this calamity, he had notbeen able to guess, unless, indeed, it wasMontoni, on whom his suspicions rested, andnot only with much apparent probability, but withjustice.

In the affair of the poisoned cup, Montoni hadsuspected Morano; but, being unable to obtainthe degree of proof, which was necessary toconvict him of a guilty intention, he had recourseto means of other revenge, than he could hopeto obtain by prosecution. He employed aperson, in whom he believed he might confide,to drop a letter of accusation into theDENUNZIE SECRETE, or lions' mouths, whichare fixed in a gallery of the Doge's palace, asreceptacles for anonymous information,concerning persons, who may be disaffectedtowards the state. As, on these occasions, theaccuser is not confronted with the accused, a

man may falsely impeach his enemy, andaccomplish an unjust revenge, without fear ofpunishment, or detection. That Montoni shouldhave recourse to these diabolical means ofruining a person, whom he suspected of havingattempted his life, is not in the least surprising.In the letter, which he had employed as theinstrument of his revenge, he accused Moranoof designs against the state, which heattempted to prove, with all the plausiblesimplicity of which he was master; and theSenate, with whom a suspicion was, at thattime, almost equal to a proof, arrested theCount, in consequence of this accusation; and,without even hinting to him his crime, threw himinto one of those secret prisons, which were theterror of the Venetians, and in which personsoften languished, and sometimes died, withoutbeing discovered by their friends.

Morano had incurred the personalresentment of many members of the state; hishabits of life had rendered him obnoxious tosome; and his ambition, and the bold rivalship,which he discovered, on several publicoccasions,—to others; and it was not to beexpected, that mercy would soften the rigour ofa law, which was to be dispensed from thehands of his enemies.

Montoni, meantime, was beset by dangers ofanother kind. His castle was besieged bytroops, who seemed willing to dare every thing,and to suffer patiently any hardships in pursuitof victory. The strength of the fortress, however,withstood their attack, and this, with thevigorous defence of the garrison and thescarcity of provision on these wild mountains,

soon compelled the assailants to raise thesiege.

When Udolpho was once more left to thequiet possession of Montoni, he dispatchedUgo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had sentfrom considerations of her personal safety, to aplace of greater security, than a castle, whichwas, at that time, liable to be overrun by hisenemies. Tranquillity being once more restoredto Udolpho, he was impatient to secure heragain under his roof, and had commissionedUgo to assist Bertrand in guarding her back tothe castle. Thus compelled to return, Emilybade the kind Maddelina farewell, with regret,and, after about a fortnight's stay in Tuscany,where she had experienced an interval of quiet,which was absolutely necessary to sustain herlong-harassed spirits, began once more toascend the Apennines, from whose heights shegave a long and sorrowful look to the beautifulcountry, that extended at their feet, and to thedistant Mediterranean, whose waves she hadso often wished would bear her back to France.The distress she felt, on her return towards theplace of her former sufferings, was, however,softened by a conjecture, that Valancourt wasthere, and she found some degree of comfort inthe thought of being near him, notwithstandingthe consideration, that he was probably aprisoner.

It was noon, when she had left the cottage,and the evening was closed, long before shecame within the neighbourhood of Udolpho.There was a moon, but it shone only at intervals,for the night was cloudy, and, lighted by thetorch, which Ugo carried, the travellers paced

silently along, Emily musing on her situation,and Bertrand and Ugo anticipating the comfortsof a flask of wine and a good fire, for they hadperceived for some time the differencebetween the warm climate of the lowlands ofTuscany and the nipping air of these upperregions. Emily was, at length, roused from herreverie by the far-off sound of the castle clock,to which she listened not without some degreeof awe, as it rolled away on the breeze. Anotherand another note succeeded, and died in sullenmurmur among the mountains:—to her mournfulimagination it seemed a knell measuring outsome fateful period for her.

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

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

The road winding round the base of amountain, they now came within view of thecastle, which was shewn in the perspective ofthe valley by a gleam of moon-shine, and thenvanished in shade; while even a transient viewof it had awakened the poignancy of Emily'sfeelings. Its massy and gloomy walls gave herterrible ideas of imprisonment and suffering:yet, as she advanced, some degree of hopemingled with her terror; for, though this wascertainly the residence of Montoni, it waspossibly, also, that of Valancourt, and she could

not approach a place, where he might be,without experiencing somewhat of the joy ofhope.

They continued to wind along the valley, and,soon after, she saw again the old walls andmoon-lit towers, rising over the woods: thestrong rays enabled her, also, to perceive theravages, which the siege had made,—with thebroken walls, and shattered battlements, forthey were now at the foot of the steep, on whichUdolpho stood. Massy fragments had rolleddown among the woods, through which thetravellers now began to ascend, and theremingled with the loose earth, and pieces of rockthey had brought with them. The woods, too,had suffered much from the batteries above, forhere the enemy had endeavoured to screenthemselves from the fire of the ramparts. Manynoble trees were levelled with the ground, andothers, to a wide extent, were entirely strippedof their upper branches. 'We had betterdismount,' said Ugo, 'and lead the mules up thehill, or we shall get into some of the holes, whichthe balls have left. Here are plenty of them. Giveme the torch,' continued Ugo, after they haddismounted, 'and take care you don't stumbleover any thing, that lies in your way, for theground is not yet cleared of the enemy.'

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

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

As they proceeded, the torch threw a gloomylight upon the ground, and far among the

recesses of the woods, and Emily feared tolook forward, lest some object of horror shouldmeet her eye. The path was often strewn withbroken heads of arrows, and with shatteredremains of armour, such as at that period wasmingled with the lighter dress of the soldiers.'Bring the light hither,' said Bertrand, 'I havestumbled over something, that rattles loudenough.' Ugo holding up the torch, theyperceived a steel breastplate on the ground,which Bertrand raised, and they saw, that it waspierced through, and that the lining was entirelycovered with blood; but upon Emily's earnestentreaties, that they would proceed, Bertrand,uttering some joke upon the unfortunate person,to whom it had belonged, threw it hard upon theground, and they passed on.

At every step she took, Emily feared to seesome vestige of death. Coming soon after to anopening in the woods, Bertrand stopped tosurvey the ground, which was encumbered withmassy trunks and branches of the trees, thathad so lately adorned it, and seemed to havebeen a spot particularly fatal to the besiegers;for it was evident from the destruction of thetrees, that here the hottest fire of the garrisonhad been directed. As Ugo held again forth thetorch, steel glittered between the fallen trees;the ground beneath was covered with brokenarms, and with the torn vestments of soldiers,whose mangled forms Emily almost expectedto see; and she again entreated hercompanions to proceed, who were, however,too intent in their examination, to regard her,and she turned her eyes from this desolatedscene to the castle above, where she observed

lights gliding along the ramparts. Presently, thecastle clock struck twelve, and then a trumpetsounded, of which Emily enquired the occasion.

'O! they are only changing watch,' repliedUgo. 'I do not remember this trumpet,' saidEmily, 'it is a new custom.' 'It is only an old onerevived, lady; we always use it in time of war.We have sounded it, at midnight, ever since theplace was besieged.'

'Hark!' said Emily, as the trumpet soundedagain; and, in the next moment, she heard afaint clash of arms, and then the watchwordpassed along the terrace above, and wasanswered from a distant part of the castle; afterwhich all was again still. She complained ofcold, and begged to go on. 'Presently, lady,'said Bertrand, turning over some broken armswith the pike he usually carried. 'What have wehere?'

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

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

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

'Who goes yonder?' cried a sentinel of thecastle. 'Speak or it will be worse for you.'Bertrand uttered a shout of joy. 'Hah! my bravecomrade, is it you?' said he, and he blew a shrillwhistle, which signal was answered by anotherfrom the soldier on watch; and the party, then

passing forward, soon after emerged from thewoods upon the broken road, that ledimmediately to the castle gates, and Emily saw,with renewed terror, the whole of thatstupendous structure. 'Alas!' said she to herself,'I am going again into my prison!'

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

'Aye,' replied Ugo, 'they were fired from thatredoubt, yonder, and rare execution they did.The enemy made a furious attack upon thegreat gates; but they might have guessed theycould never carry it there; for, besides thecannon from the walls, our archers, on the tworound towers, showered down upon them atsuch a rate, that, by holy Peter! there was nostanding it. I never saw a better sight in my life; Ilaughed, till my sides aked, to see how theknaves scampered. Bertrand, my good fellow,thou shouldst have been among them; I warrantthou wouldst have won the race!'

'Hah! you are at your old tricks again,' saidBertrand in a surly tone. 'It is well for thee thouart so near the castle; thou knowest I have killedmy man before now.' Ugo replied only by alaugh, and then gave some further account ofthe siege, to which as Emily listened, she wasstruck by the strong contrast of the presentscene with that which had so lately been actedhere.

The mingled uproar of cannon, drums, andtrumpets, the groans of the conquered, and theshouts of the conquerors were now sunk into a

silence so profound, that it seemed as if deathhad triumphed alike over the vanquished andthe victor. The shattered condition of one of thetowers of the great gates by no meansconfirmed the VALIANT account just given byUgo of the scampering party, who, it wasevident, had not only made a stand, but haddone much mischief before they took to flight;for this tower appeared, as far as Emily couldjudge by the dim moon-light that fell upon it, tobe laid open, and the battlements were nearlydemolished. While she gazed, a lightglimmered through one of the lower loop-holes,and disappeared; but, in the next moment, sheperceived through the broken wall, a soldier,with a lamp, ascending the narrow staircase,that wound within the tower, and, rememberingthat it was the same she had passed up, on thenight, when Barnardine had deluded her with apromise of seeing Madame Montoni, fancygave her somewhat of the terror she had thensuffered. She was now very near the gates,over which the soldier having opened the doorof the portal-chamber, the lamp he carried gaveher a dusky view of that terrible apartment, andshe almost sunk under the recollected horrorsof the moment, when she had drawn aside thecurtain, and discovered the object it was meantto conceal.

'Perhaps,' said she to herself, 'it is now usedfor a similar purpose; perhaps, that soldiergoes, at this dead hour, to watch over thecorpse of his friend!' The little remains of herfortitude now gave way to the united force ofremembered and anticipated horrors, for themelancholy fate of Madame Montoni appeared

to foretell her own. She considered, that, thoughthe Languedoc estates, if she relinquishedthem, would satisfy Montoni's avarice, theymight not appease his vengeance, which wasseldom pacified but by a terrible sacrifice; andshe even thought, that, were she to resign them,the fear of justice might urge him either todetain her a prisoner, or to take away her life.

They were now arrived at the gates, whereBertrand, observing the light glimmer through asmall casement of the portal-chamber, calledaloud; and the soldier, looking out, demandedwho was there. 'Here, I have brought you aprisoner,' said Ugo, 'open the gate, and let usin.'

'Tell me first who it is, that demandsentrance,' replied the soldier. 'What! my oldcomrade,' cried Ugo, 'don't you know me? notknow Ugo? I have brought home a prisonerhere, bound hand and foot—a fellow, who hasbeen drinking Tuscany wine, while we herehave been fighting.'

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

Emily presently heard his steps descendingthe stairs within, and then the heavy chain fall,and the bolts undraw of a small postern door,which he opened to admit the party. He held thelamp low, to shew the step of the gate, and shefound herself once more beneath the gloomyarch, and heard the door close, that seemed toshut her from the world for ever. In the nextmoment, she was in the first court of the castle,where she surveyed the spacious and solitary

area, with a kind of calm despair; while thedead hour of the night, the gothic gloom of thesurrounding buildings, and the hollow andimperfect echoes, which they returned, as Ugoand the soldier conversed together, assisted toincrease the melancholy forebodings of herheart. Passing on to the second court, a distantsound broke feebly on the silence, andgradually swelling louder, as they advanced,Emily distinguished voices of revelry andlaughter, but they were to her far other thansounds of joy. 'Why, you have got someTuscany wine among you, HERE,' saidBertrand, 'if one may judge by the uproar that isgoing forward. Ugo has taken a larger share ofthat than of fighting, I'll be sworn. Who iscarousing at this late hour?'

'His excellenza and the Signors,' replied thesoldier: 'it is a sign you are a stranger at thecastle, or you would not need to ask thequestion. They are brave spirits, that do withoutsleep—they generally pass the night in goodcheer; would that we, who keep the watch, hada little of it! It is cold work, pacing the rampartsso many hours of the night, if one has no goodliquor to warm one's heart.'

'Courage, my lad, courage ought to warmyour heart,' said Ugo. 'Courage!' replied thesoldier sharply, with a menacing air, which Ugoperceiving, prevented his saying more, byreturning to the subject of the carousal. 'This isa new custom,' said he; 'when I left the castle,the Signors used to sit up counselling.'

'Aye, and for that matter, carousing too,'replied the soldier, 'but, since the siege, they

have done nothing but make merry: and if I wasthey, I would settle accounts with myself, for allmy hard fighting, the same way.'

They had now crossed the second court, andreached the hall door, when the soldier, biddingthem good night, hastened back to his post;and, while they waited for admittance, Emilyconsidered how she might avoid seeingMontoni, and retire unnoticed to her formerapartment, for she shrunk from the thought ofencountering either him, or any of his party, atthis hour. The uproar within the castle was nowso loud, that, though Ugo knocked repeatedly atthe hall door, he was not heard by any of theservants, a circumstance, which increasedEmily's alarm, while it allowed her time todeliberate on the means of retiring unobserved;for, though she might, perhaps, pass up thegreat stair-case unseen, it was impossible shecould find the way to her chamber, without alight, the difficulty of procuring which, and thedanger of wandering about the castle, withoutone, immediately struck her. Bertrand had onlya torch, and she knew, that the servants neverbrought a taper to the door, for the hall wassufficiently lighted by the large tripod lamp,which hung in the vaulted roof; and, while sheshould wait till Annette could bring a taper,Montoni, or some of his companions, mightdiscover her.

The door was now opened by Carlo; andEmily, having requested him to send Annetteimmediately with a light to the great gallery,where she determined to await her, passed onwith hasty steps towards the stair-case; whileBertrand and Ugo, with the torch, followed old

Carlo to the servants' hall, impatient for supperand the warm blaze of a wood fire. Emily,lighted only by the feeble rays, which the lampabove threw between the arches of thisextensive hall, endeavoured to find her way tothe stair-case, now hid in obscurity; while theshouts of merriment, that burst from a remoteapartment, served, by heightening her terror, toincrease her perplexity, and she expected,every instant, to see the door of that room open,and Montoni and his companions issue forth.Having, at length, reached the stair-case, andfound her way to the top, she seated herself onthe last stair, to await the arrival of Annette; forthe profound darkness of the gallery deterredher from proceeding farther, and, while shelistened for her footstep, she heard only distantsounds of revelry, which rose in sullen echoesfrom among the arcades below. Once shethought she heard a low sound from the darkgallery behind her; and, turning her eyes,fancied she saw something luminous move in it;and, since she could not, at this moment,subdue the weakness that caused her fears,she quitted her seat, and crept softly down afew stairs lower.

Annette not yet appearing, Emily nowconcluded, that she was gone to bed, and thatnobody chose to call her up; and the prospect,that presented itself, of passing the night indarkness, in this place, or in some other equallyforlorn (for she knew it would be impracticableto find her way through the intricacies of thegalleries to her chamber), drew tears ofmingled terror and despondency from her eyes.

While thus she sat, she fancied she heard

again an odd sound from the gallery, and shelistened, scarcely daring to breathe, but theincreasing voices below overcame every othersound. Soon after, she heard Montoni and hiscompanions burst into the hall, who spoke, as ifthey were much intoxicated, and seemed to beadvancing towards the stair-case. She nowremembered, that they must come this way totheir chambers, and, forgetting all the terrors ofthe gallery, hurried towards it with an intention ofsecreting herself in some of the passages, thatopened beyond, and of endeavouring, when theSignors were retired, to find her way to her ownroom, or to that of Annette, which was in aremote part of the castle.

With extended arms, she crept along thegallery, still hearing the voices of personsbelow, who seemed to stop in conversation atthe foot of the stair-case, and then pausing for amoment to listen, half fearful of going further intothe darkness of the gallery, where she stillimagined, from the noise she had heard, thatsome person was lurking, 'They are alreadyinformed of my arrival,' said she, 'and Montoniis coming himself to seek me! In the presentstate of his mind, his purpose must bedesperate.' Then, recollecting the scene, thathad passed in the corridor, on the nightpreceding her departure from the castle, 'OValancourt!' said she, 'I must then resign you forever. To brave any longer the injustice ofMontoni, would not be fortitude, but rashness.'Still the voices below did not draw nearer, butthey became louder, and she distinguishedthose of Verezzi and Bertolini above the rest,while the few words she caught made her listenmore anxiously for others. The conversation

more anxiously for others. The conversationseemed to concern herself; and, havingventured to step a few paces nearer to the stair-case, she discovered, that they were disputingabout her, each seeming to claim some formerpromise of Montoni, who appeared, at first,inclined to appease and to persuade them toreturn to their wine, but afterwards to be wearyof the dispute, and, saying that he left them tosettle it as they could, was returning with therest of the party to the apartment he had justquitted. Verezzi then stopped him. 'Where isshe? Signor,' said he, in a voice of impatience:'tell us where she is.' 'I have already told you thatI do not know,' replied Montoni, who seemed tobe somewhat overcome with wine; 'but she ismost probably gone to her apartment.' Verezziand Bertolini now desisted from their enquiries,and sprang to the stair-case together, whileEmily, who, during this discourse, had trembledso excessively, that she had with difficultysupported herself, seemed inspired with newstrength, the moment she heard the sound oftheir steps, and ran along the gallery, dark as itwas, with the fleetness of a fawn. But, longbefore she reached its extremity, the light,which Verezzi carried, flashed upon the walls;both appeared, and, instantly perceiving Emily,pursued her. At this moment, Bertolini, whosesteps, though swift, were not steady, and whoseimpatience overcame what little caution he hadhitherto used, stumbled, and fell at his length.The lamp fell with him, and was presentlyexpiring on the floor; but Verezzi, regardless ofsaving it, seized the advantage this accidentgave him over his rival, and followed Emily, towhom, however, the light had shown one of thepassages that branched from the gallery, and

she instantly turned into it. Verezzi could justdiscern the way she had taken, and this hepursued; but the sound of her steps soon sunkin distance, while he, less acquainted with thepassage, was obliged to proceed through thedark, with caution, lest he should fall down aflight of steps, such as in this extensive oldcastle frequently terminated an avenue. Thispassage at length brought Emily to the corridor,into which her own chamber opened, and, nothearing any footstep, she paused to takebreath, and consider what was the safestdesign to be adopted. She had followed thispassage, merely because it was the first thatappeared, and now that she had reached theend of it, was as perplexed as before. Whitherto go, or how further to find her way in the dark,she knew not; she was aware only that she mustnot seek her apartment, for there she wouldcertainly be sought, and her danger increasedevery instant, while she remained near it. Herspirits and her breath, however, were so muchexhausted, that she was compelled to rest, for afew minutes, at the end of the passage, and stillshe heard no steps approaching. As thus shestood, light glimmered under an opposite doorof the gallery, and, from its situation, she knew,that it was the door of that mysterious chamber,where she had made a discovery so shocking,that she never remembered it but with theutmost horror. That there should be light in thischamber, and at this hour, excited her strongsurprise, and she felt a momentary terrorconcerning it, which did not permit her to lookagain, for her spirits were now in such a state ofweakness, that she almost expected to see thedoor slowly open, and some horrible object

appear at it. Still she listened for a step alongthe passage, and looked up it, where, not a rayof light appearing, she concluded, that Verezzihad gone back for the lamp; and, believing thathe would shortly be there, she again consideredwhich way she should go, or rather which wayshe could find in the dark.

A faint ray still glimmered under the oppositedoor, but so great, and, perhaps, so just washer horror of that chamber, that she would notagain have tempted its secrets, though she hadbeen certain of obtaining the light so importantto her safety. She was still breathing withdifficulty, and resting at the end of the passage,when she heard a rustling sound, and then a lowvoice, so very near her, that it seemed close toher ear; but she had presence of mind to checkher emotions, and to remain quite still; in thenext moment, she perceived it to be the voice ofVerezzi, who did not appear to know, that shewas there, but to have spoken to himself. 'Theair is fresher here,' said he: 'this should be thecorridor.' Perhaps, he was one of those heroes,whose courage can defy an enemy better thandarkness, and he tried to rally his spirits with thesound of his own voice. However this might be,he turned to the right, and proceeded, with thesame stealing steps, towards Emily'sapartment, apparently forgetting, that, indarkness, she could easily elude his search,even in her chamber; and, like an intoxicatedperson, he followed pertinaciously the one idea,that had possessed his imagination.

The moment she heard his steps steal away,she left her station and moved softly to the otherend of the corridor, determined to trust again to

chance, and to quit it by the first avenue shecould find; but, before she could effect this, lightbroke upon the walls of the gallery, and, lookingback, she saw Verezzi crossing it towards herchamber. She now glided into a passage, thatopened on the left, without, as she thought,being perceived; but, in the next instant, anotherlight, glimmering at the further end of thispassage, threw her into new terror. While shestopped and hesitated which way to go, thepause allowed her to perceive, that it wasAnnette, who advanced, and she hurried tomeet her: but her imprudence again alarmedEmily, on perceiving whom, she burst into ascream of joy, and it was some minutes, beforeshe could be prevailed with to be silent, or torelease her mistress from the ardent clasp, inwhich she held her. When, at length, Emilymade Annette comprehend her danger, theyhurried towards Annette's room, which was in adistant part of the castle. No apprehensions,however, could yet silence the latter. 'Oh dearma'amselle,' said she, as they passed along,'what a terrified time have I had of it! Oh! Ithought I should have died an hundred times! Inever thought I should live to see you again! andI never was so glad to see any body in mywhole life, as I am to see you now.' 'Hark!' criedEmily, 'we are pursued; that was the echo ofsteps!' 'No, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'it wasonly the echo of a door shutting; sound runsalong these vaulted passages so, that one iscontinually deceived by it; if one does butspeak, or cough, it makes a noise as loud as acannon.' 'Then there is the greater necessity forus to be silent,' said Emily: 'pr'ythee say nomore, till we reach your chamber.' Here, at

length, they arrived, without interruption, and,Annette having fastened the door, Emily satdown on her little bed, to recover breath andcomposure. To her enquiry, whether Valancourtwas among the prisoners in the castle, Annettereplied, that she had not been able to hear, butthat she knew there were several personsconfined. She then proceeded, in her tediousway, to give an account of the siege, or rather adetail of her terrors and various sufferings,during the attack. 'But,' added she, 'when Iheard the shouts of victory from the ramparts, Ithought we were all taken, and gave myself upfor lost, instead of which, WE had driven theenemy away. I went then to the north gallery,and saw a great many of them scamperingaway among the mountains; but the rampartwalls were all in ruins, as one may say, andthere was a dismal sight to see down amongthe woods below, where the poor fellows werelying in heaps, but were carried off presently bytheir comrades. While the siege was going on,the Signor was here, and there, and everywhere, at the same time, as Ludovico told me,for he would not let me see any thing hardly, andlocked me up, as he has often done before, in aroom in the middle of the castle, and used tobring me food, and come and talk with me asoften as he could; and I must say, if it had notbeen for Ludovico, I should have died outright.'

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

'O! sad hurly burly doings, ma'amselle,'replied Annette; 'the Signors have done nothingbut sit and drink and game, ever since. They situp, all night, and play among themselves, for all

those riches and fine things, they brought in,some time since, when they used to go out a-robbing, or as good, for days together; and thenthey have dreadful quarrels about who loses,and who wins. That fierce Signor Verezzi isalways losing, as they tell me, and SignorOrsino wins from him, and this makes him verywroth, and they have had several hard set-to'sabout it. Then, all those fine ladies are at thecastle still; and I declare I am frighted, wheneverI meet any of them in the passages.'—

'Surely, Annette,' said Emily starting, 'I hearda noise: listen.' After a long pause, 'No,ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'it was only the windin the gallery; I often hear it, when it shakes theold doors, at the other end. But won't you go tobed, ma'amselle? you surely will not sit upstarving, all night.' Emily now laid herself downon the mattress, and desired Annette to leavethe lamp burning on the hearth; having donewhich, the latter placed herself beside Emily,who, however, was not suffered to sleep, forshe again thought she heard a noise from thepassage; and Annette was again trying toconvince her, that it was only the wind, whenfootsteps were distinctly heard near the door.Annette was now starting from the bed, butEmily prevailed with her to remain there, andlistened with her in a state of terribleexpectation. The steps still loitered at the door,when presently an attempt was made on thelock, and, in the next instant, a voice called. 'Forheaven's sake, Annette, do not answer,' saidEmily softly, 'remain quite still; but I fear we mustextinguish the lamp, or its glare will betray us.''Holy Virgin!' exclaimed Annette, forgetting herdiscretion, 'I would not be in darkness now for

discretion, 'I would not be in darkness now forthe whole world.' While she spoke, the voicebecame louder than before, and repeatedAnnette's name; 'Blessed Virgin!' cried shesuddenly, 'it is only Ludovico.' She rose to openthe door, but Emily prevented her, till theyshould be more certain, that it was he alone;with whom Annette, at length, talked for sometime, and learned, that he was come to enquireafter herself, whom he had let out of her room togo to Emily, and that he was now returned tolock her in again. Emily, fearful of beingoverheard, if they conversed any longer throughthe door, consented that it should be opened,and a young man appeared, whose opencountenance confirmed the favourable opinionof him, which his care of Annette had alreadyprompted her to form. She entreated hisprotection, should Verezzi make this requisite;and Ludovico offered to pass the night in an oldchamber, adjoining, that opened from thegallery, and, on the first alarm, to come to theirdefence.

Emily was much soothed by this proposal;and Ludovico, having lighted his lamp, went tohis station, while she, once more, endeavouredto repose on her mattress. But a variety ofinterests pressed upon her attention, andprevented sleep. She thought much on whatAnnette had told her of the dissolute manners ofMontoni and his associates, and more of hispresent conduct towards herself, and of thedanger, from which she had just escaped. Fromthe view of her present situation she shrunk, asfrom a new picture of terror. She saw herself ina castle, inhabited by vice and violence, seatedbeyond the reach of law or justice, and in the

power of a man, whose perseverance wasequal to every occasion, and in whompassions, of which revenge was not theweakest, entirely supplied the place ofprinciples. She was compelled, once more, toacknowledge, that it would be folly, and notfortitude, any longer to dare his power; and,resigning all hopes of future happiness withValancourt, she determined, that, on thefollowing morning, she would compromise withMontoni, and give up her estates, on condition,that he would permit her immediate return toFrance. Such considerations kept her wakingfor many hours; but, the night passed, withoutfurther alarm from Verezzi.

On the next morning, Emily had a longconversation with Ludovico, in which she heardcircumstances concerning the castle, andreceived hints of the designs of Montoni, thatconsiderably increased her alarms. Onexpressing her surprise, that Ludovico, whoseemed to be so sensible of the evils of hissituation, should continue in it, he informed her,that it was not his intention to do so, and shethen ventured to ask him, if he would assist herto escape from the castle. Ludovico assuredher of his readiness to attempt this, but stronglyrepresented the difficulty of the enterprise, andthe certain destruction which must ensure,should Montoni overtake them, before they hadpassed the mountains; he, however, promisedto be watchful of every circumstance, that mightcontribute to the success of the attempt, and tothink upon some plan of departure.

Emily now confided to him the name ofValancourt, and begged he would enquire for

such a person among the prisoners in thecastle; for the faint hope, which thisconversation awakened, made her now recedefrom her resolution of an immediatecompromise with Montoni. She determined, ifpossible, to delay this, till she heard further fromLudovico, and, if his designs were found to beimpracticable, to resign the estates at once.Her thoughts were on this subject, whenMontoni, who was now recovered from theintoxication of the preceding night, sent for her,and she immediately obeyed the summons. Hewas alone. 'I find,' said he, 'that you were not inyour chamber, last night; where were you?'Emily related to him some circumstances of heralarm, and entreated his protection from arepetition of them. 'You know the terms of myprotection,' said he; 'if you really value this, youwill secure it.' His open declaration, that hewould only conditionally protect her, while sheremained a prisoner in the castle, shewedEmily the necessity of an immediatecompliance with his terms; but she firstdemanded, whether he would permit herimmediately to depart, if she gave up her claimto the contested estates. In a very solemnmanner he then assured her, that he would, andimmediately laid before her a paper, which wasto transfer the right of those estates to himself.

She was, for a considerable time, unable tosign it, and her heart was torn with contendinginterests, for she was about to resign thehappiness of all her future years—the hope,which had sustained her in so many hours ofadversity.

After hearing from Montoni a recapitulation of

the conditions of her compliance, and aremonstrance, that his time was valuable, sheput her hand to the paper; when she had donewhich, she fell back in her chair, but soonrecovered, and desired, that he would giveorders for her departure, and that he wouldallow Annette to accompany her. Montonismiled. 'It was necessary to deceive you,' saidhe,—'there was no other way of making you actreasonably; you shall go, but it must not be atpresent. I must first secure these estates bypossession: when that is done, you may returnto France if you will.'

The deliberate villany, with which he violatedthe solemn engagement he had just enteredinto, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty,that she had made a fruitless sacrifice, andmust still remain his prisoner. She had nowords to express what she felt, and knew, that itwould have been useless, if she had. As shelooked piteously at Montoni, he turned away,and at the same time desired she wouldwithdraw to her apartment; but, unable to leavethe room, she sat down in a chair near the door,and sighed heavily. She had neither words nortears.

'Why will you indulge this childish grief?' saidhe. 'Endeavour to strengthen your mind, to bearpatiently what cannot now be avoided; you haveno real evil to lament; be patient, and you will besent back to France. At present retire to yourapartment.'

'I dare not go, sir,' said she, 'where I shall beliable to the intrusion of Signor Verezzi.' 'Have Inot promised to protect you?' said Montoni.

'You have promised, sir,'—replied Emily, aftersome hesitation. 'And is not my promisesufficient?' added he sternly. 'You will recollectyour former promise, Signor,' said Emily,trembling, 'and may determine for me, whether Iought to rely upon this.' 'Will you provoke me todeclare to you, that I will not protect you then?'said Montoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure.'If that will satisfy you, I will do it immediately.Withdraw to your chamber, before I retract mypromise; you have nothing to fear there.' Emilyleft the room, and moved slowly into the hall,where the fear of meeting Verezzi, or Bertolini,made her quicken her steps, though she couldscarcely support herself; and soon after shereached once more her own apartment. Havinglooked fearfully round her, to examine if anyperson was there, and having searched everypart of it, she fastened the door, and sat downby one of the casements. Here, while shelooked out for some hope to support herfainting spirits, which had been so longharassed and oppressed, that, if she had notnow struggled much against misfortune, theywould have left her, perhaps, for ever, sheendeavoured to believe, that Montoni did reallyintend to permit her return to France as soon ashe had secured her property, and that he would,in the mean time, protect her from insult; but herchief hope rested with Ludovico, who, shedoubted not, would be zealous in her cause,though he seemed almost to despair ofsuccess in it. One circumstance, however, shehad to rejoice in. Her prudence, or rather herfears, had saved her from mentioning the nameof Valancourt to Montoni, which she wasseveral times on the point of doing, before she

signed the paper, and of stipulating for hisrelease, if he should be really a prisoner in thecastle. Had she done this, Montoni's jealousfears would now probably have loadedValancourt with new severities, and havesuggested the advantage of holding him acaptive for life.

Thus passed the melancholy day, as she hadbefore passed many in this same chamber.When night drew on, she would have withdrawnherself to Annette's bed, had not a particularinterest inclined her to remain in this chamber,in spite of her fears; for, when the castle shouldbe still, and the customary hour arrived, shedetermined to watch for the music, which shehad formerly heard. Though its sounds mightnot enable her positively to determine, whetherValancourt was there, they would perhapsstrengthen her opinion that he was, and impartthe comfort, so necessary to her presentsupport.—But, on the other hand, if all should besilent—! She hardly dared to suffer her thoughtsto glance that way, but waited, with impatientexpectation, the approaching hour.

The night was stormy; the battlements of thecastle appeared to rock in the wind, and, atintervals, long groans seemed to pass on theair, such as those, which often deceive themelancholy mind, in tempests, and amidstscenes of desolation. Emily heard, as formerly,the sentinels pass along the terrace to theirposts, and, looking out from her casement,observed, that the watch was doubled; aprecaution, which appeared necessary enough,when she threw her eyes on the walls, and sawtheir shattered condition. The well-known

sounds of the soldiers' march, and of theirdistant voices, which passed her in the wind,and were lost again, recalled to her memory themelancholy sensation she had suffered, whenshe formerly heard the same sounds; andoccasioned almost involuntary comparisonsbetween her present, and her late situation. Butthis was no subject for congratulations, and shewisely checked the course of her thoughts,while, as the hour was not yet come, in whichshe had been accustomed to hear the music,she closed the casement, and endeavoured toawait it in patience. The door of the stair-caseshe tried to secure, as usual, with some of thefurniture of the room; but this expedient herfears now represented to her to be veryinadequate to the power and perseverance ofVerezzi; and she often looked at a large andheavy chest, that stood in the chamber, withwishes that she and Annette had strengthenough to move it. While she blamed the longstay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico andsome other of the servants, she trimmed herwood fire, to make the room appear lessdesolate, and sat down beside it with a book,which her eyes perused, while her thoughtswandered to Valancourt, and her ownmisfortunes. As she sat thus, she thought, in apause of the wind, she distinguished music,and went to the casement to listen, but the loudswell of the gust overcame every other sound.When the wind sunk again, she heard distinctly,in the deep pause that succeeded, the sweetstrings of a lute; but again the rising tempestbore away the notes, and again wassucceeded by a solemn pause. Emily,trembling with hope and fear, opened her

casement to listen, and to try whether her ownvoice could be heard by the musician; for toendure any longer this state of torturingsuspense concerning Valancourt, seemed tobe utterly impossible. There was a kind ofbreathless stillness in the chambers, thatpermitted her to distinguish from below thetender notes of the very lute she had formerlyheard, and with it, a plaintive voice, madesweeter by the low rustling sound, that nowbegan to creep along the wood-tops, till it waslost in the rising wind. Their tall heads thenbegan to wave, while, through a forest of pine,on the left, the wind, groaning heavily, rolledonward over the woods below, bending themalmost to their roots; and, as the long-resounding gale swept away, other woods, onthe right, seemed to answer the 'loud lament;'then, others, further still, softened it into amurmur, that died into silence. Emily listened,with mingled awe and expectation, hope andfear; and again the melting sweetness of thelute was heard, and the same solemn-breathingvoice. Convinced that these came from anapartment underneath, she leaned far out of herwindow, that she might discover whether anylight was there; but the casements below, aswell as those above, were sunk so deep in thethick walls of the castle, that she could not seethem, or even the faint ray, that probablyglimmered through their bars. She thenventured to call; but the wind bore her voice tothe other end of the terrace, and then the musicwas heard as before, in the pause of the gust.Suddenly, she thought she heard a noise in herchamber, and she drew herself within thecasement; but, in a moment after, distinguishing

Annette's voice at the door, she concluded itwas her she had heard before, and she let herin. 'Move softly, Annette, to the casement,' saidshe, 'and listen with me; the music is returned.'They were silent till, the measure changing,Annette exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin! I know thatsong well; it is a French song, one of thefavourite songs of my dear country.' This wasthe ballad Emily had heard on a former night,though not the one she had first listened to fromthe fishing-house in Gascony. 'O! it is aFrenchman, that sings,' said Annette: 'it must beMonsieur Valancourt.' 'Hark! Annette, do notspeak so loud,' said Emily, 'we may beoverheard.' 'What! by the Chevalier?' saidAnnette. 'No,' replied Emily mournfully, 'but bysomebody, who may report us to the Signor.What reason have you to think it is MonsieurValancourt, who sings? But hark! now the voiceswells louder! Do you recollect those tones? Ifear to trust my own judgment.' 'I neverhappened to hear the Chevalier sing,Mademoiselle,' replied Annette, who, as Emilywas disappointed to perceive, had no strongerreason for concluding this to be Valancourt,than that the musician must be a Frenchman.Soon after, she heard the song of the fishing-house, and distinguished her own name, whichwas repeated so distinctly, that Annette hadheard it also. She trembled, sunk into a chair bythe window, and Annette called aloud,'Monsieur Valancourt! Monsieur Valancourt!'while Emily endeavoured to check her, but sherepeated the call more loudly than before, andthe lute and the voice suddenly stopped. Emilylistened, for some time, in a state of intolerablesuspense; but, no answer being returned, 'It

does not signify, Mademoiselle,' said Annette;'it is the Chevalier, and I will speak to him.' 'No,Annette,' said Emily, 'I think I will speak myself;if it is he, he will know my voice, and speakagain.' 'Who is it,' said she, 'that sings at thislate hour?'

A long silence ensued, and, having repeatedthe question, she perceived some faint accents,mingling in the blast, that swept by; but thesounds were so distant, and passed sosuddenly, that she could scarcely hear them,much less distinguish the words they uttered, orrecognise the voice. After another pause, Emilycalled again; and again they heard a voice, butas faintly as before; and they perceived, thatthere were other circumstances, besides thestrength, and direction of the wind, to contentwith; for the great depth, at which thecasements were fixed in the castle walls,contributed, still more than the distance, toprevent articulated sounds from beingunderstood, though general ones were easilyheard. Emily, however, ventured to believe,from the circumstance of her voice alone havingbeen answered, that the stranger wasValancourt, as well as that he knew her, andshe gave herself up to speechless joy. Annette,however, was not speechless.—She renewedher calls, but received no answer; and Emily,fearing, that a further attempt, which certainlywas, as present, highly dangerous, mightexpose them to the guards of the castle, while itcould not perhaps terminate her suspense,insisted on Annette's dropping the enquiry forthis night; though she determined herself toquestion Ludovico, on the subject, in themorning, more urgently than she had yet done.

morning, more urgently than she had yet done.She was now enabled to say, that the stranger,whom she had formerly heard, was still in thecastle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it, inwhich he was confined.

Emily, attended by Annette, continued at thecasement, for some time, but all remained still;they heard neither lute or voice again, andEmily was now as much oppressed by anxiousjoy, as she lately was by a sense of hermisfortunes. With hasty steps she paced theroom, now half calling on Valancourt's name,then suddenly stopping, and now going to thecasement and listening, where, however, sheheard nothing but the solemn waving of thewoods. Sometimes her impatience to speak toLudovico prompted her to send Annette to callhim; but a sense of the impropriety of this atmidnight restrained her. Annette, meanwhile, asimpatient as her mistress, went as often to thecasement to listen, and returned almost asmuch disappointed. She, at length, mentionedSignor Verezzi, and her fear, lest he shouldenter the chamber by the staircase, door. 'Butthe night is now almost past, Mademoiselle,'said she, recollecting herself; 'there is themorning light, beginning to peep over thosemountains yonder in the east.'

Emily had forgotten, till this moment, that sucha person existed as Verezzi, and all the dangerthat had appeared to threaten her; but themention of his name renewed her alarm, andshe remembered the old chest, that she hadwished to place against the door, which shenow, with Annette, attempted to move, but itwas so heavy, that they could not lift it from thefloor. 'What is in this great old chest,

Mademoiselle,' said Annette, 'that makes it soweighty?' Emily having replied, 'that she found itin the chamber, when she first came to thecastle, and had never examined it.'—'Then I will,ma'amselle,' said Annette, and she tried to liftthe lid; but this was held by a lock, for which shehad no key, and which, indeed, appeared, fromits peculiar construction, to open with a spring.The morning now glimmered through thecasements, and the wind had sunk into a calm.Emily looked out upon the dusky woods, and onthe twilight mountains, just stealing in the eye,and saw the whole scene, after the storm, lyingin profound stillness, the woods motionless, andthe clouds above, through which the dawntrembled, scarcely appearing to move along theheavens. One soldier was pacing the terracebeneath, with measured steps; and two, moredistant, were sunk asleep on the walls, weariedwith the night's watch. Having inhaled, for awhile, the pure spirit of the air, and ofvegetation, which the late rains had called forth;and having listened, once more, for a note ofmusic, she now closed the casement, andretired to rest.

CHAPTER IV Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland, And in their northern cave the storms hath bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. BEATTIE

Several of her succeeding days passed insuspense, for Ludovico could only learn fromthe soldiers, that there was a prisoner in theapartment, described to him by Emily, and thathe was a Frenchman, whom they had taken inone of their skirmishes, with a party of hiscountrymen. During this interval, Emily escapedthe persecutions of Bertolini, and Verezzi, byconfining herself to her apartment; except thatsometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walkin the adjoining corridor. Montoni appeared torespect his last promise, though he hadprophaned his first; for to his protection onlycould she attribute her present repose; and inthis she was now so secure, that she did notwish to leave the castle, till she could obtainsome certainty concerning Valancourt; for whichshe waited, indeed, without any sacrifice of herown comfort, since no circumstance hadoccurred to make her escape probable.

On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, thathe had hopes of being admitted to thepresence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a

soldier, with whom he had been for some timefamiliar, to attend him on the following night. Hewas not deceived in his hope; for, underpretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, heentered the prison, though, his prudence havingprevented him from telling the sentinel the realmotive of his visit, he was obliged to make hisconference with the prisoner a very short one.

Emily awaited the result in her ownapartment, Ludovico having promised toaccompany Annette to the corridor, in theevening; where, after several hours impatientlycounted, he arrived. Emily, having then utteredthe name of Valancourt, could articulate nomore, but hesitated in trembling expectation.'The Chevalier would not entrust me with hisname, Signora,' replied Ludovico; 'but, when Ijust mentioned yours, he seemed overwhelmedwith joy, though he was not so much surprisedas I expected.' 'Does he then remember me?'she exclaimed.

'O! it is Mons. Valancourt,' said Annette, andlooked impatiently at Ludovico, who understoodher look, and replied to Emily: 'Yes, lady, theChevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, Iam sure, has a very great regard for you, and Imade bold to say you had for him. He thenenquired how you came to know he was in thecastle, and whether you ordered me to speak tohim. The first question I could not answer, butthe second I did; and then he went off into hisecstasies again. I was afraid his joy would havebetrayed him to the sentinel at the door.'

'But how does he look, Ludovico?' interruptedEmily: 'is he not melancholy and ill with this long

confinement?'—'Why, as to melancholy, I sawno symptom of that, lady, while I was with him,for he seemed in the finest spirits I ever sawany body in, in all my life. His countenance wasall joy, and, if one may judge from that, he wasvery well; but I did not ask him.' 'Did he send meno message?' said Emily. 'O yes, Signora, andsomething besides,' replied Ludovico, whosearched his pockets. 'Surely, I have not lost it,'added he. 'The Chevalier said, he would havewritten, madam, if he had had pen and ink, andwas going to have sent a very long message,when the sentinel entered the room, but notbefore he had give me this.' Ludovico then drewforth a miniature from his bosom, which Emilyreceived with a trembling hand, and perceivedto be a portrait of herself—the very picture,which her mother had lost so strangely in thefishing-house at La Vallee.

Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowedto her eyes, while Ludovico proceeded—'"Tellyour lady," said the Chevalier, as he gave methe picture, "that this has been my companion,and only solace in all my misfortunes. Tell her,that I have worn it next my heart, and that I sent ither as the pledge of an affection, which cannever die; that I would not part with it, but to her,for the wealth of worlds, and that I now part withit, only in the hope of soon receiving it from herhands. Tell her"—Just then, Signora, thesentinel came in, and the Chevalier said nomore; but he had before asked me to contrivean interview for him with you; and when I toldhim, how little hope I had of prevailing with theguard to assist me, he said, that was not,perhaps, of so much consequence as Iimagined, and bade me contrive to bring back

imagined, and bade me contrive to bring backyour answer, and he would inform me of morethan he chose to do then. So this, I think, lady, isthe whole of what passed.'

'How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for yourzeal?' said Emily: 'but, indeed, I do not nowpossess the means. When can you see theChevalier again?' 'That is uncertain, Signora,'replied he. 'It depends upon who stands guardnext: there are not more than one or two amongthem, from whom I would dare to askadmittance to the prison-chamber.'

'I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,'resumed Emily, 'how very much interested I amin your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, whenyou do so, tell him, that I have received thepicture, and, with the sentiments he wished. Tellhim I have suffered much, and still suffer—' Shepaused. 'But shall I tell him you will see him,lady?' said Ludovico. 'Most certainly I will,'replied Emily. 'But when, Signora, and where?''That must depend upon circumstances,'returned Emily. 'The place, and the hour, mustbe regulated by his opportunities.'

'As to the place, mademoiselle,' saidAnnette, 'there is no other place in the castle,besides this corridor, where WE can see him insafety, you know; and, as for the hour,—it mustbe when all the Signors are asleep, if that everhappens!' 'You may mention thesecircumstances to the Chevalier, Ludovico,' saidshe, checking the flippancy of Annette, 'andleave them to his judgment and opportunity. Tellhim, my heart is unchanged. But, above all, lethim see you again as soon as possible; and,Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I shall

very anxiously look for you.' Having then wishedher good night, Ludovico descended thestaircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not tosleep, for joy now rendered her as wakeful, asshe had ever been from grief. Montoni and hiscastle had all vanished from her mind, like thefrightful vision of a necromancer, and shewandered, once more, in fairy scenes ofunfading happiness:

As when, beneath the beam Of summer moons, the distant woods among, Or by some flood, all silver'd with the gleam, The soft embodied Fays thro' airy portals stream.

A week elapsed, before Ludovico againvisited the prison; for the sentinels, during thatperiod, were men, in whom he could notconfide, and he feared to awaken curiosity, byasking to see their prisoner. In this interval, hecommunicated to Emily terrific reports of whatwas passing in the castle; of riots, quarrels, andof carousals more alarming than either; whilefrom some circumstances, which he mentioned,she not only doubted, whether Montoni meantever to release her, but greatly feared, that hehad designs, concerning her,—such as she hadformerly dreaded. Her name was frequentlymentioned in the conversations, which Bertoliniand Verezzi held together, and, at those times,they were frequently in contention. Montoni hadlost large sums to Verezzi, so that there was adreadful possibility of his designing her to be asubstitute for the debt; but, as she was ignorant,that he had formerly encouraged the hopes ofBertolini also, concerning herself, after the latterhad done him some signal service, she knewnot how to account for these contentions

between Bertolini and Verezzi. The cause ofthem, however, appeared to be of littleconsequence, for she thought she sawdestruction approaching in many forms, and herentreaties to Ludovico to contrive an escapeand to see the prisoner again, were moreurgent than ever.

At length, he informed her, that he had againvisited the Chevalier, who had directed him toconfide in the guard of the prison, from whomhe had already received some instances ofkindness, and who had promised to permit hisgoing into the castle for half an hour, on theensuing night, when Montoni and hiscompanions should be engaged at theircarousals. 'This was kind, to be sure,' addedLudovico: 'but Sebastian knows he runs norisque in letting the Chevalier out, for, if he canget beyond the bars and iron doors of thecastle, he must be cunning indeed. But theChevalier desired me, Signora, to go to youimmediately, and to beg you would allow him tovisit you, this night, if it was only for a moment,for that he could no longer live under the sameroof, without seeing you; the hour, he said, hecould not mention, for it must depend oncircumstances (just as you said, Signora); andthe place he desired you would appoint, asknowing which was best for your own safety.'

Emily was now so much agitated by the nearprospect of meeting Valancourt, that it wassome time, before she could give any answer toLudovico, or consider of the place of meeting;when she did, she saw none, that promised somuch security, as the corridor, near her ownapartment, which she was checked from

leaving, by the apprehension of meeting any ofMontoni's guests, on their way to their rooms;and she dismissed the scruples, which delicacyopposed, now that a serious danger was to beavoided by encountering them. It was settled,therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her inthe corridor, at that hour of the night, whichLudovico, who was to be upon the watch,should judge safest: and Emily, as may beimagined, passed this interval in a tumult ofhope and joy, anxiety and impatience. Never,since her residence in the castle, had shewatched, with so much pleasure, the sun setbehind the mountains, and twilight shade, anddarkness veil the scene, as on this evening.She counted the notes of the great clock, andlistened to the steps of the sentinels, as theychanged the watch, only to rejoice, that anotherhour was gone. 'O, Valancourt!' said she, 'afterall I have suffered; after our long, longseparation, when I thought I should never—never see you more—we are still to meetagain! O! I have endured grief, and anxiety, andterror, and let me, then, not sink beneath thisjoy!' These were moments, when it wasimpossible for her to feel emotions of regret, ormelancholy, for any ordinary interests;—eventhe reflection, that she had resigned theestates, which would have been a provision forherself and Valancourt for life, threw only a lightand transient shade upon her spirits. The ideaof Valancourt, and that she should see him sosoon, alone occupied her heart.

At length the clock struck twelve; she openedthe door to listen, if any noise was in the castle,and heard only distant shouts of riot andlaughter, echoed feebly along the gallery. She

laughter, echoed feebly along the gallery. Sheguessed, that the Signor and his guests were atthe banquet. 'They are now engaged for thenight,' said she; 'and Valancourt will soon behere.' Having softly closed the door, she pacedthe room with impatient steps, and often went tothe casement to listen for the lute; but all wassilent, and, her agitation every momentincreasing, she was at length unable to supportherself, and sat down by the window. Annette,whom she detained, was, in the meantime, asloquacious as usual; but Emily heard scarcelyany thing she said, and having at length risen tothe casement, she distinguished the chords ofthe lute, struck with an expressive hand, andthen the voice, she had formerly listened to,accompanied it.

Now rising love they fann'd, now pleasing dole They breath'd in tender musings through the heart; And now a graver, sacred strain they stole, As when seraphic hands an hymn impart!

Emily wept in doubtful joy and tenderness;and, when the strain ceased, she considered itas a signal, that Valancourt was about to leavethe prison. Soon after, she heard steps in thecorridor;—they were the light, quick steps ofhope; she could scarcely support herself, asthey approached, but opening the door of theapartment, she advanced to meet Valancourt,and, in the next moment, sunk in the arms of astranger. His voice—his countenance instantlyconvinced her, and she fainted away.

On reviving, she found herself supported bythe stranger, who was watching over herrecovery, with a countenance of ineffabletenderness and anxiety. She had no spirits for

reply, or enquiry; she asked no questions, butburst into tears, and disengaged herself fromhis arms; when the expression of hiscountenance changed to surprise anddisappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, foran explanation; Annette soon gave theinformation, which Ludovico could not. 'O, sir!'said she, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; 'O,sir! you are not the other Chevalier. Weexpected Monsieur Valancourt, but you are nothe! O Ludovico! how could you deceive us so?my poor lady will never recover it—never!' Thestranger, who now appeared much agitated,attempted to speak, but his words faltered; andthen striking his hand against his forehead, as ifin sudden despair, he walked abruptly to theother end of the corridor.

Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoketo Ludovico. 'But, perhaps,' said she, 'after all,the other Chevalier is not this: perhaps theChevalier Valancourt is still below.' Emily raisedher head. 'No,' replied Ludovico, 'MonsieurValancourt never was below, if this gentlemanis not he.' 'If you, sir,' said Ludovico, addressingthe stranger, 'would but have had the goodnessto trust me with your name, this mistake hadbeen avoided.' 'Most true,' replied the stranger,speaking in broken Italian, 'but it was of theutmost consequence to me, that my nameshould be concealed from Montoni. Madam,'added he then, addressing Emily in French, 'willyou permit me to apologize for the pain I haveoccasioned you, and to explain to you alone myname, and the circumstance, which has led meinto this error? I am of France;—I am yourcountryman;—we are met in a foreign land.'Emily tried to compose her spirits; yet she

Emily tried to compose her spirits; yet shehesitated to grant his request. At length,desiring, that Ludovico would wait on the stair-case, and detaining Annette, she told thestranger, that her woman understood very littleItalian, and begged he would communicatewhat he wished to say, in that language.—Having withdrawn to a distant part of thecorridor, he said, with a long-drawn sigh, 'You,madam, are no stranger to me, though I am sounhappy as to be unknown to you.—My name isDu Pont; I am of France, of Gascony, yournative province, and have long admired,—and,why should I affect to disguise it?—have longloved you.' He paused, but, in the next moment,proceeded. 'My family, madam, is probably notunknown to you, for we lived within a few milesof La Vallee, and I have, sometimes, had thehappiness of meeting you, on visits in theneighbourhood. I will not offend you byrepeating how much you interested me; howmuch I loved to wander in the scenes youfrequented; how often I visited your favouritefishing-house, and lamented the circumstance,which, at that time, forbade me to reveal mypassion. I will not explain how I surrendered totemptation, and became possessed of atreasure, which was to me inestimable; atreasure, which I committed to your messenger,a few days ago, with expectations very differentfrom my present ones. I will say nothing of thesecircumstances, for I know they will avail me little;let me only supplicate from you forgiveness,and the picture, which I so unwarily returned.Your generosity will pardon the theft, andrestore the prize. My crime has been mypunishment; for the portrait I stole hascontributed to nourish a passion, which must

still be my torment.'

Emily now interrupted him. 'I think, sir, I mayleave it to your integrity to determine, whether,after what has just appeared, concerning Mons.Valancourt, I ought to return the picture. I thinkyou will acknowledge, that this would not begenerosity; and you will allow me to add, that itwould be doing myself an injustice. I mustconsider myself honoured by your goodopinion, but'—and she hesitated,—'the mistakeof this evening makes it unnecessary for me tosay more.'

'It does, madam,—alas! it does!' said thestranger, who, after a long pause, proceeded.—'But you will allow me to shew mydisinterestedness, though not my love, and willaccept the services I offer. Yet, alas! whatservices can I offer? I am myself a prisoner, asufferer, like you. But, dear as liberty is to me, Iwould not seek it through half the hazards Iwould encounter to deliver you from this recessof vice. Accept the offered services of a friend;do not refuse me the reward of having, at least,attempted to deserve your thanks.'

'You deserve them already, sir,' said Emily;'the wish deserves my warmest thanks. But youwill excuse me for reminding you of the dangeryou incur by prolonging this interview. It will be agreat consolation to me to remember, whetheryour friendly attempts to release me succeed ornot, that I have a countryman, who would sogenerously protect me.'—Monsieur Du Ponttook her hand, which she but feebly attemptedto withdraw, and pressed it respectfully to hislips. 'Allow me to breathe another fervent sigh

for your happiness,' said he, 'and to applaudmyself for an affection, which I cannot conquer.'As he said this, Emily heard a noise from herapartment, and, turning round, saw the doorfrom the stair-case open, and a man rush intoher chamber. 'I will teach you to conquer it,'cried he, as he advanced into the corridor, anddrew a stiletto, which he aimed at Du Pont, whowas unarmed, but who, stepping back, avoidedthe blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi, fromwhom he wrenched the stiletto. While theystruggled in each other's grasp, Emily, followedby Annette, ran further into the corridor, callingon Ludovico, who was, however, gone from thestair-case, and, as she advanced, terrified anduncertain what to do, a distant noise, thatseemed to arise from the hall, reminded her ofthe danger she was incurring; and, sendingAnnette forward in search of Ludovico, shereturned to the spot where Du Pont and Verezziwere still struggling for victory. It was her owncause which was to be decided with that of theformer, whose conduct, independently of thiscircumstance, would, however, have interestedher in his success, even had she not dislikedand dreaded Verezzi. She threw herself in achair, and supplicated them to desist fromfurther violence, till, at length, Du Pont forcedVerezzi to the floor, where he lay stunned by theviolence of his fall; and she then entreated DuPont to escape from the room, before Montoni,or his party, should appear; but he still refusedto leave her unprotected; and, while Emily, nowmore terrified for him, than for herself, enforcedthe entreaty, they heard steps ascending theprivate stair-case.

'O you are lost!' cried she, 'these are

'O you are lost!' cried she, 'these areMontoni's people.' Du Pont made no reply, butsupported Emily, while, with a steady, thougheager, countenance, he awaited theirappearance, and, in the next moment,Ludovico, alone, mounted the landing-place.Throwing an hasty glance round the chamber,'Follow me,' said he, 'as you value your lives; wehave not an instant to lose!'

Emily enquired what had occurred, andwhither they were to go?

'I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora,' repliedLudovico: 'fly! fly!'

She immediately followed him, accompaniedby Mons. Du Pont, down the stair-case, andalong a vaulted passage, when suddenly sherecollected Annette, and enquired for her. 'Sheawaits us further on, Signora,' said Ludovico,almost breathless with haste; 'the gates wereopen, a moment since, to a party just come infrom the mountains: they will be shut, I fear,before we can reach them! Through this door,Signora,' added Ludovico, holding down thelamp, 'take care, here are two steps.'

Emily followed, trembling still more, thanbefore she had understood, that her escapefrom the castle, depended upon the presentmoment; while Du Pont supported her, andendeavoured, as they passed along, to cheerher spirits.

'Speak low, Signor,' said Ludovico, 'thesepassages send echoes all round the castle.'

'Take care of the light,' cried Emily, 'you goso fast, that the air will extinguish it.'

Ludovico now opened another door, wherethey found Annette, and the party thendescended a short flight of steps into apassage, which, Ludovico said, led round theinner court of the castle, and opened into theouter one. As they advanced, confused andtumultuous sounds, that seemed to come fromthe inner court, alarmed Emily. 'Nay, Signora,'said Ludovico, 'our only hope is in that tumult;while the Signor's people are busied about themen, who are just arrived, we may, perhaps,pass unnoticed through the gates. But hush!' headded, as they approached the small door, thatopened into the outer court, 'if you will remainhere a moment, I will go to see whether thegates are open, and any body is in the way.Pray extinguish the light, Signor, if you hear metalking,' continued Ludovico, delivering the lampto Du Pont, 'and remain quite still.'

Saying this, he stepped out upon the court,and they closed the door, listening anxiously tohis departing steps. No voice, however, washeard in the court, which he was crossing,though a confusion of many voices yet issuedfrom the inner one. 'We shall soon be beyondthe walls,' said Du Pont softly to Emily, 'supportyourself a little longer, Madam, and all will bewell.'

But soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud,and the voice also of some other person, andDu Pont immediately extinguished the lamp.'Ah! it is too late!' exclaimed Emily, 'what is tobecome of us?' They listened again, and thenperceived, that Ludovico was talking with asentinel, whose voices were heard also byEmily's favourite dog, that had followed her from

the chamber, and now barked loudly. 'This dogwill betray us!' said Du Pont, 'I will hold him.' 'Ifear he has already betrayed us!' replied Emily.Du Pont, however, caught him up, and, againlistening to what was going on without, theyheard Ludovico say, 'I'll watch the gates thewhile.'

'Stay a minute,' replied the sentinel, 'and youneed not have the trouble, for the horses will besent round to the outer stables, then the gateswill be shut, and I can leave my post.' 'I don'tmind the trouble, comrade,' said Ludovico, 'youwill do such another good turn for me, sometime. Go—go, and fetch the wine; the rogues,that are just come in, will drink it all else.'

The soldier hesitated, and then called aloudto the people in the second court, to know whythey did not send out the horses, that the gatesmight be shut; but they were too much engaged,to attend to him, even if they had heard hisvoice.

'Aye—aye,' said Ludovico, 'they know betterthan that; they are sharing it all among them; ifyou wait till the horses come out, you must waittill the wine is drunk. I have had my sharealready, but, since you do not care about yours,I see no reason why I should not have that too.'

'Hold, hold, not so fast,' cried the sentinel, 'dowatch then, for a moment: I'll be with youpresently.'

'Don't hurry yourself,' said Ludovico, coolly, 'Ihave kept guard before now. But you may leaveme your trombone,* that, if the castle should beattacked, you know, I may be able to defend the

pass, like a hero.'

(* A kind of blunderbuss. [A. R.])

'There, my good fellow,' returned the soldier,'there, take it—it has seen service, though itcould do little in defending the castle. I'll tell youa good story, though, about this sametrombone.'

'You'll tell it better when you have had thewine,' said Ludovico. 'There! they are comingout from the court already.'

'I'll have the wine, though,' said the sentinel,running off. 'I won't keep you a minute.'

'Take your time, I am in no haste,' repliedLudovico, who was already hurrying across thecourt, when the soldier came back. 'Whither sofast, friend—whither so fast?' said the latter.'What! is this the way you keep watch! I muststand to my post myself, I see.'

'Aye, well,' replied Ludovico, 'you have savedme the trouble of following you further, for Iwanted to tell you, if you have a mind to drinkthe Tuscany wine, you must go to Sebastian, heis dealing it out; the other that Federico has, isnot worth having. But you are not likely to haveany, I see, for they are all coming out.'

'By St. Peter! so they are,' said the soldier,and again ran off, while Ludovico, once more atliberty, hastened to the door of the passage,where Emily was sinking under the anxiety thislong discourse had occasioned; but, on histelling them the court was clear, they followedhim to the gates, without waiting another instant,yet not before he had seized two horses, that

had strayed from the second court, and werepicking a scanty meal among the grass, whichgrew between the pavement of the first.

They passed, without interruption, thedreadful gates, and took the road that led downamong the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pontand Annette on foot, and Ludovico, who wasmounted on one horse, leading the other.Having reached them, they stopped, whileEmily and Annette were placed on horsebackwith their two protectors, when, Ludovicoleading the way, they set off as fast as thebroken road, and the feeble light, which a risingmoon threw among the foliage, would permit.

Emily was so much astonished by thissudden departure, that she scarcely dared tobelieve herself awake; and she yet muchdoubted whether this adventure would terminatein escape,—a doubt, which had too muchprobability to justify it; for, before they quittedthe woods, they heard shouts in the wind, and,on emerging from them, saw lights movingquickly near the castle above. Du Pont whippedhis horse, and with some difficulty compelledhim to go faster.

'Ah! poor beast,' said Ludovico, 'he is wearyenough;—he has been out all day; but, Signor,we must fly for it, now; for yonder are lightscoming this way.'

Having given his own horse a lash, they nowboth set off on a full gallop; and, when theyagain looked back, the lights were so distant asscarcely to be discerned, and the voices weresunk into silence. The travellers then abatedtheir pace, and, consulting whither they should

direct their course, it was determined theyshould descend into Tuscany, and endeavour toreach the Mediterranean, where they couldreadily embark for France. Thither Du Pontmeant to attend Emily, if he should learn, thatthe regiment he had accompanied into Italy,was returned to his native country.

They were now in the road, which Emily hadtravelled with Ugo and Bertrand; but Ludovico,who was the only one of the party, acquaintedwith the passes of these mountains, said, that,a little further on, a bye-road, branching fromthis, would lead them down into Tuscany withvery little difficulty; and that, at a few leaguesdistance, was a small town, where necessariescould be procured for their journey.

'But, I hope,' added he, 'we shall meet with nostraggling parties of banditti; some of them areabroad, I know. However, I have got a goodtrombone, which will be of some service, if weshould encounter any of those brave spirits. Youhave no arms, Signor?' 'Yes,' replied Du Pont, 'Ihave the villain's stilletto, who would havestabbed me—but let us rejoice in our escapefrom Udolpho, nor torment ourselves withlooking out for dangers, that may never arrive.'

The moon was now risen high over thewoods, that hung upon the sides of the narrowglen, through which they wandered, andafforded them light sufficient to distinguish theirway, and to avoid the loose and broken stones,that frequently crossed it. They now travelledleisurely, and in profound silence; for they hadscarcely yet recovered from the astonishment,into which this sudden escape had thrown them.

—Emily's mind, especially, was sunk, after thevarious emotions it had suffered, into a kind ofmusing stillness, which the reposing beauty ofthe surrounding scene and the creeping murmurof the night-breeze among the foliage abovecontributed to prolong. She thought ofValancourt and of France, with hope, and shewould have thought of them with joy, had not thefirst events of this evening harassed her spiritstoo much, to permit her now to feel so lively asensation. Meanwhile, Emily was alone theobject of Du Pont's melancholy consideration;yet, with the despondency he suffered, as hemused on his recent disappointment, wasmingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned by herpresence, though they did not now exchange asingle word. Annette thought of this wonderfulescape, of the bustle in which Montoni and hispeople must be, now that their flight wasdiscovered; of her native country, whither shehoped she was returning, and of her marriagewith Ludovico, to which there no longerappeared any impediment, for poverty she didnot consider such. Ludovico, on his part,congratulated himself, on having rescued hisAnnette and Signora Emily from the danger,that had surrounded them; on his own liberationfrom people, whose manners he had longdetested; on the freedom he had given toMonsieur Du Pont; on his prospect ofhappiness with the object of his affections, andnot a little on the address, with which he haddeceived the sentinel, and conducted the wholeof this affair.

Thus variously engaged in thought, thetravellers passed on silently, for above an hour,a question only being, now and then, asked by

a question only being, now and then, asked byDu Pont, concerning the road, or a remarkuttered by Annette, respecting objects, seenimperfectly in the twilight. At length, lights wereperceived twinkling on the side of a mountain,and Ludovico had no doubt, that theyproceeded from the town he had mentioned,while his companions, satisfied by thisassurance, sunk again into silence. Annettewas the first who interrupted this. 'Holy Peter!'said she, 'What shall we do for money on ourjourney? for I know neither I, or my lady, have asingle sequin; the Signor took care of that!'

This remark produced a serious enquiry,which ended in as serious an embarrassment,for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly all hismoney, when he was taken prisoner; theremainder he had given to the sentinel, who hadenabled him occasionally to leave his prison-chamber; and Ludovico, who had for some timefound a difficulty, in procuring any part of thewages due to him, had now scarcely cashsufficient to procure necessary refreshment atthe first town, in which they should arrive.

Their poverty was the more distressing, sinceit would detain them among the mountains,where, even in a town, they could scarcelyconsider themselves safe from Montoni. Thetravellers, however, had only to proceed anddare the future; and they continued their waythrough lonely wilds and dusky vallies, wherethe overhanging foliage now admitted, and thenexcluded the moon-light;—wilds so desolate,that they appeared, on the first glance, as if nohuman being had ever trode them before. Eventhe road, in which the party were, did but slightlycontradict this error, for the high grass and

other luxuriant vegetation, with which it wasovergrown, told how very seldom the foot of atraveller had passed it.

At length, from a distance, was heard thefaint tinkling of a sheep-bell; and, soon after, thebleat of flocks, and the party then knew, thatthey were near some human habitation, for thelight, which Ludovico had fancied to proceedfrom a town, had long been concealed byintervening mountains. Cheered by this hope,they quickened their pace along the narrowpass they were winding, and it opened uponone of those pastoral vallies of the Apennines,which might be painted for a scene of Arcadia,and whose beauty and simplicity are finelycontrasted by the grandeur of the snow-toptmountains above.

The morning light, now glimmering in thehorizon, shewed faintly, at a little distance, uponthe brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from'under the opening eye-lids of the morn,' thetown they were in search of, and which theysoon after reached. It was not without somedifficulty, that they there found a house, whichcould afford shelter for themselves and theirhorses; and Emily desired they might not restlonger than was necessary for refreshment. Herappearance excited some surprise, for she waswithout a hat, having had time only to throw onher veil before she left the castle, acircumstance, that compelled her to regretagain the want of money, without which it wasimpossible to procure this necessary article ofdress.

Ludovico, on examining his purse, found it

even insufficient to supply present refreshment,and Du Pont, at length, ventured to inform thelandlord, whose countenance was simple andhonest, of their exact situation, and requested,that he would assist them to pursue theirjourney; a purpose, which he promised tocomply with, as far as he was able, when helearned that they were prisoners escaping fromMontoni, whom he had too much reason tohate. But, though he consented to lend themfresh horses to carry them to the next town, hewas too poor himself to trust them with money,and they were again lamenting their poverty,when Ludovico, who had been with his tiredhorses to the hovel, which served for a stable,entered the room, half frantic with joy, in whichhis auditors soon participated. On removing thesaddle from one of the horses, he had foundbeneath it a small bag, containing, no doubt, thebooty of one of the condottieri, who hadreturned from a plundering excursion, justbefore Ludovico left the castle, and whosehorse having strayed from the inner court, whilehis master was engaged in drinking, hadbrought away the treasure, which the ruffian hadconsidered the reward of his exploit.

On counting over this, Du Pont found, that itwould be more than sufficient to carry them allto France, where he now determined toaccompany Emily, whether he should obtainintelligence of his regiment, or not; for, thoughhe had as much confidence in the integrity ofLudovico, as his small knowledge of himallowed, he could not endure the thought ofcommitting her to his care for the voyage; nor,perhaps, had he resolution enough to denyhimself the dangerous pleasure, which he might

himself the dangerous pleasure, which he mightderive from her presence.

He now consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they should direct their way, andLudovico, better informed of the geography ofthe country, said, that Leghorn was the nearestport of consequence, which Du Pont knew alsoto be the most likely of any in Italy to assist theirplan, since from thence vessels of all nationswere continually departing. Thither, therefore, itwas determined, that they should proceed.

Emily, having purchased a little straw hat,such as was worn by the peasant girls ofTuscany, and some other little necessaryequipments for the journey, and the travellers,having exchanged their tired horses for othersbetter able to carry them, re-commenced theirjoyous way, as the sun was rising over themountains, and, after travelling through thisromantic country, for several hours, began todescend into the vale of Arno. And here Emilybeheld all the charms of sylvan and pastorallandscape united, adorned with the elegantvillas of the Florentine nobles, and diversifiedwith the various riches of cultivation. How vividthe shrubs, that embowered the slopes, with thewoods, that stretched amphitheatrically alongthe mountains! and, above all, how elegant theoutline of these waving Apennines, nowsoftening from the wildness, which their interiorregions exhibited! At a distance, in the east,Emily discovered Florence, with its towersrising on the brilliant horizon, and its luxuriantplain, spreading to the feet of the Apennines,speckled with gardens and magnificent villas,or coloured with groves of orange and lemon,with vines, corn, and plantations of olives and

mulberry; while, to the west, the vale opened tothe waters of the Mediterranean, so distant, thatthey were known only by a blueish line, thatappeared upon the horizon, and by the lightmarine vapour, which just stained the aetherabove.

With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves, thatwere to bear her back to her native country, theremembrance of which, however, brought with ita pang; for she had there no home to receive,no parents to welcome her, but was going, likea forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot,where he, who WAS her father, lay interred. Norwere her spirits cheered, when she consideredhow long it would probably be before sheshould see Valancourt, who might be stationedwith his regiment in a distant part of France,and that, when they did meet, it would be only tolament the successful villany of Montoni; yet, stillshe would have felt inexpressible delight at thethought of being once more in the same countrywith Valancourt, had it even been certain, thatshe could not see him.

The intense heat, for it was now noon,obliged the travellers to look out for a shadyrecess, where they might rest, for a few hours,and the neighbouring thickets, abounding withwild grapes, raspberries, and figs, promisedthem grateful refreshment. Soon after, theyturned from the road into a grove, whose thickfoliage entirely excluded the sun-beams, andwhere a spring, gushing from the rock, gavecoolness to the air; and, having alighted andturned the horses to graze, Annette andLudovico ran to gather fruit from the surroundingthickets, of which they soon returned with an

abundance. The travellers, seated under theshade of a pine and cypress grove and on turf,enriched with such a profusion of fragrantflowers, as Emily had scarcely ever seen, evenamong the Pyrenees, took their simple repast,and viewed, with new delight, beneath the darkumbrage of gigantic pines, the glowinglandscape stretching to the sea.

Emily and Du Pont gradually becamethoughtful and silent; but Annette was all joy andloquacity, and Ludovico was gay, withoutforgetting the respectful distance, which wasdue to his companions. The repast being over,Du Pont recommended Emily to endeavour tosleep, during these sultry hours, and, desiringthe servants would do the same, said he wouldwatch the while; but Ludovico wished to sparehim this trouble; and Emily and Annette,wearied with travelling, tried to repose, while hestood guard with his trombone.

When Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke,she found the sentinel asleep on his post andDu Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought.As the sun was yet too high to allow them tocontinue their journey, and as it was necessary,that Ludovico, after the toils and trouble he hadsuffered, should finish his sleep, Emily took thisopportunity of enquiring by what accident DuPont became Montoni's prisoner, and he,pleased with the interest this enquiry expressedand with the excuse it gave him for talking to herof himself, immediately answered her curiosity.

'I came into Italy, madam,' said Du Pont, 'inthe service of my country. In an adventureamong the mountains our party, engaging with

the bands of Montoni, was routed, and I, with afew of my comrades, was taken prisoner. Whenthey told me, whose captive I was, the name ofMontoni struck me, for I remembered, thatMadame Cheron, your aunt, had married anItalian of that name, and that you hadaccompanied them into Italy. It was not,however, till some time after, that I becameconvinced this was the same Montoni, orlearned that you, madam, was under the sameroof with myself. I will not pain you by describingwhat were my emotions upon this discovery,which I owed to a sentinel, whom I had so farwon to my interest, that he granted me manyindulgences, one of which was very important tome, and somewhat dangerous to himself; buthe persisted in refusing to convey any letter, ornotice of my situation to you, for he justlydreaded a discovery and the consequentvengeance of Montoni. He however enabled meto see you more than once. You are surprised,madam, and I will explain myself. My health andspirits suffered extremely from want of air andexercise, and, at length, I gained so far upon thepity, or the avarice of the man, that he gave methe means of walking on the terrace.'

Emily now listened, with very anxiousattention, to the narrative of Du Pont, whoproceeded:

'In granting this indulgence, he knew, that hehad nothing to apprehend from a chance of myescaping from a castle, which was vigilantlyguarded, and the nearest terrace of which roseover a perpendicular rock; he shewed me also,'continued Du Pont, 'a door concealed in thecedar wainscot of the apartment where I was

confined, which he instructed me how to open;and which, leading into a passage, formedwithin the thickness of the wall, that extended faralong the castle, finally opened in an obscurecorner of the eastern rampart. I have since beeninformed, that there are many passages of thesame kind concealed within the prodigiouswalls of that edifice, and which were,undoubtedly, contrived for the purpose offacilitating escapes in time of war. Through thisavenue, at the dead of night, I often stole to theterrace, where I walked with the utmost caution,lest my steps should betray me to the sentinelson duty in distant parts; for this end of it, beingguarded by high buildings, was not watched bysoldiers. In one of these midnight wanderings, Isaw light in a casement that overlooked therampart, and which, I observed, wasimmediately over my prison-chamber. Itoccurred to me, that you might be in thatapartment, and, with the hope of seeing you, Iplaced myself opposite to the window.'

Emily, remembering the figure that hadformerly appeared on the terrace, and whichhad occasioned her so much anxiety,exclaimed, 'It was you then, Monsieur Du Pont,who occasioned me much foolish terror; myspirits were, at that time, so much weakened bylong suffering, that they took alarm at every hint.'Du Pont, after lamenting, that he hadoccasioned her any apprehension, added, 'As Irested on the wall, opposite to your casement,the consideration of your melancholy situationand of my own called from me involuntarysounds of lamentation, which drew you, I fancy,to the casement; I saw there a person, whom Ibelieved to be you. O! I will say nothing of my

believed to be you. O! I will say nothing of myemotion at that moment; I wished to speak, butprudence restrained me, till the distant foot-stepof a sentinel compelled me suddenly to quit mystation.

'It was some time, before I had anotheropportunity of walking, for I could only leave myprison, when it happened to be the turn of oneman to guard me; meanwhile I becameconvinced from some circumstances related byhim, that your apartment was over mine, and,when again I ventured forth, I returned to yourcasement, where again I saw you, but withoutdaring to speak. I waved my hand, and yousuddenly disappeared; then it was, that I forgotmy prudence, and yielded to lamentation; againyou appeared—you spoke—I heard the well-known accent of your voice! and, at thatmoment, my discretion would have forsaken meagain, had I not heard also the approachingsteps of a soldier, when I instantly quitted theplace, though not before the man had seen me.He followed down the terrace and gained sofast upon me, that I was compelled to make useof a stratagem, ridiculous enough, to savemyself. I had heard of the superstition of manyof these men, and I uttered a strange noise, witha hope, that my pursuer would mistake it forsomething supernatural, and desist frompursuit. Luckily for myself I succeeded; the man,it seems, was subject to fits, and the terror hesuffered threw him into one, by which accident Isecured my retreat. A sense of the danger I hadescaped, and the increased watchfulness,which my appearance had occasioned amongthe sentinels, deterred me ever after fromwalking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of

night, I frequently beguiled myself with an oldlute, procured for me by a soldier, which Isometimes accompanied with my voice, andsometimes, I will acknowledge, with a hope ofmaking myself heard by you; but it was only afew evenings ago, that this hope wasanswered. I then thought I heard a voice in thewind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to reply,lest the sentinel at the prison door should hearme. Was I right, madam, in this conjecture—was it you who spoke?'

'Yes,' said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, 'youwas right indeed.'

Du Pont, observing the painful emotions,which this question revived, now changed thesubject. 'In one of my excursions through thepassage, which I have mentioned, I overheard asingular conversation,' said he.

'In the passage!' said Emily, with surprise.

'I heard it in the passage,' said Du Pont, 'butit proceeded from an apartment, adjoining thewall, within which the passage wound, and theshell of the wall was there so thin, and was alsosomewhat decayed, that I could distinctly hearevery word, spoken on the other side. Ithappened that Montoni and his companionswere assembled in the room, and Montonibegan to relate the extraordinary history of thelady, his predecessor, in the castle. He did,indeed, mention some very surprisingcircumstances, and whether they were strictlytrue, his conscience must decide; I fear it willdetermine against him. But you, madam, havedoubtless heard the report, which he designsshould circulate, on the subject of that lady's

mysterious fate.'

'I have, sir,' replied Emily, 'and I perceive, thatyou doubt it.'

'I doubted it before the period I am speakingof,' rejoined Du Pont;—'but somecircumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatlycontributed to my suspicions. The account I thenheard, almost convinced me, that he was amurderer. I trembled for you;—the more so that Ihad heard the guests mention your name in amanner, that threatened your repose; and,knowing, that the most impious men are oftenthe most superstitious, I determined to trywhether I could not awaken their consciences,and awe them from the commission of thecrime I dreaded. I listened closely to Montoni,and, in the most striking passages of his story, Ijoined my voice, and repeated his last words, ina disguised and hollow tone.'

'But was you not afraid of being discovered?'said Emily.

'I was not,' replied Du Pont; 'for I knew, that, ifMontoni had been acquainted with the secret ofthis passage, he would not have confined me inthe apartment, to which it led. I knew also, frombetter authority, that he was ignorant of it. Theparty, for some time, appeared inattentive to myvoice; but, at length, were so much alarmed,that they quitted the apartment; and, havingheard Montoni order his servants to search it, Ireturned to my prison, which was very distantfrom this part of the passage.' 'I rememberperfectly to have heard of the conversation youmention,' said Emily; 'it spread a general alarmamong Montoni's people, and I will own I was

weak enough to partake of it.'

Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continuedto converse of Montoni, and then of France, andof the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him,that it was her intention to retire to a convent inLanguedoc, where she had been formerlytreated with much kindness, and from thence towrite to her relation Monsieur Quesnel, andinform him of her conduct. There, she designedto wait, till La Vallee should again be her own,whither she hoped her income would some timepermit her to return; for Du Pont now taught herto expect, that the estate, of which Montoni hadattempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverablylost, and he again congratulated her on herescape from Montoni, who, he had not a doubt,meant to have detained her for life. Thepossibility of recovering her aunt's estates forValancourt and herself lighted up a joy inEmily's heart, such as she had not known formany months; but she endeavoured to concealthis from Monsieur Du Pont, lest it should leadhim to a painful remembrance of his rival.

They continued to converse, till the sun wasdeclining in the west, when Du Pont awokeLudovico, and they set forward on their journey.Gradually descending the lower slopes of thevalley, they reached the Arno, and wound alongits pastoral margin, for many miles, delightedwith the scenery around them, and with theremembrances, which its classic wavesrevived. At a distance, they heard the gay songof the peasants among the vineyards, andobserved the setting sun tint the waves withyellow lustre, and twilight draw a dusky purpleover the mountains, which, at length, deepened

into night. Then the LUCCIOLA, the fire-fly ofTuscany, was seen to flash its sudden sparksamong the foliage, while the cicala, with its shrillnote, became more clamorous than even duringthe noon-day heat, loving best the hour whenthe English beetle, with less offensive sound,

winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.*

(* Collins. [A. R.])

The travellers crossed the Arno by moon-light, at a ferry, and, learning that Pisa wasdistant only a few miles down the river, theywished to have proceeded thither in a boat, but,as none could be procured, they set out on theirwearied horses for that city. As theyapproached it, the vale expanded into a plain,variegated with vineyards, corn, olives andmulberry groves; but it was late, before theyreached its gates, where Emily was surprisedto hear the busy sound of footsteps and thetones of musical instruments, as well as to seethe lively groups, that filled the streets, and shealmost fancied herself again at Venice; but herewas no moon-light sea—no gay gondolas,dashing the waves,—no PALLADIAN palaces,to throw enchantment over the fancy and lead itinto the wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolledthrough the town, but no music trembled frombalconies over its waters; it gave only the busyvoices of sailors on board vessels just arrivedfrom the Mediterranean; the melancholyheaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain'swhistle;—sounds, which, since that period, havethere sunk almost into silence. They then served

to remind Du Pont, that it was probable hemight hear of a vessel, sailing soon to Francefrom this port, and thus be spared the trouble ofgoing to Leghorn. As soon as Emily hadreached the inn, he went therefore to the quay,to make his enquiries; but, after all theendeavours of himself and Ludovico, they couldhear of no bark, destined immediately forFrance, and the travellers returned to theirresting-place. Here also, Du Pont endeavouredto learn where his regiment then lay, but couldacquire no information concerning it. Thetravellers retired early to rest, after the fatiguesof this day; and, on the following, rose early,and, without pausing to view the celebratedantiquities of the place, or the wonders of itshanging tower, pursued their journey in thecooler hours, through a charming country, richwith wine, and corn and oil. The Apennines, nolonger awful, or even grand, here softened intothe beauty of sylvan and pastoral landscape;and Emily, as she descended them, lookeddown delighted on Leghorn, and its spaciousbay, filled with vessels, and crowned with thesebeautiful hills.

She was no less surprised and amused, onentering this town, to find it crowded withpersons in the dresses of all nations; a scene,which reminded her of a Venetian masquerade,such as she had witnessed at the time of theCarnival; but here, was bustle, without gaiety,and noise instead of music, while elegance wasto be looked for only in the waving outlines ofthe surrounding hills.

Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on theirarrival, went down to the quay, where he heard

of several French vessels, and of one, that wasto sail, in a few days, for Marseilles, fromwhence another vessel could be procured,without difficulty, to take them across the gulf ofLyons towards Narbonne, on the coast notmany leagues from which city he understoodthe convent was seated, to which Emily wishedto retire. He, therefore, immediately engagedwith the captain to take them to Marseilles, andEmily was delighted to hear, that her passageto France was secured. Her mind was nowrelieved from the terror of pursuit, and thepleasing hope of soon seeing her native country—that country which held Valancourt, restoredto her spirits a degree of cheerfulness, such asshe had scarcely known, since the death of herfather. At Leghorn also, Du Pont heard of hisregiment, and that it had embarked for France;a circumstance, which gave him greatsatisfaction, for he could now accompany Emilythither, without reproach to his conscience, orapprehension of displeasure from hiscommander. During these days, hescrupulously forbore to distress her by amention of his passion, and she was compelledto esteem and pity, though she could not lovehim. He endeavoured to amuse her by shewingthe environs of the town, and they often walkedtogether on the sea-shore, and on the busyquays, where Emily was frequently interested bythe arrival and departure of vessels,participating in the joy of meeting friends, and,sometimes, shedding a sympathetic tear to thesorrow of those, that were separating. It wasafter having witnessed a scene of the latterkind, that she arranged the following stanzas:

THE MARINER

THE MARINER

Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow'd the tide; And blue the heaven in its mirror smil'd; The white sail trembled, swell'd, expanded wide, The busy sailors at the anchor toil'd.

With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear, The deck was throng'd—how swift the moments fly! The vessel heaves, the farewel signs appear; Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!

The last dread moment comes!—The sailor-youth Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain, Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth, 'Farewel, my love—we shall—shall meet again!'

Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood; The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view, As gradual glides the bark along the flood; His bride is seen no more—'Adieu!—adieu!'

The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o'er, Dim steals her twilight down the crimson'd west, He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.

He views its dark line on the distant sky, And Fancy leads him to his little home, He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh, He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.

Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales, In one vast shade the seas and shores repose; He turns his aching eyes,—his spirit fails, The chill tear falls;—sad to the deck he goes!

The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl'd, Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore, Fast o'er the waves the wretched bark is hurl'd, 'O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!'

Lightnings, that shew the vast and foamy deep,

The rending thunders, as they onward roll, The loud, loud winds, that o'er the billows sweep— Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!

Ah! what avails the seamen's toiling care! The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv'n; The sounds of terror groan along the air, Then sink afar;—the bark on rocks is driv'n!

Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters pass'd, The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main! Henry's faint accents trembled in the blast— 'Farewel, my love!—we ne'er shall meet again!'

Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour, When summer-breezes linger on the wave, A melancholy voice is heard to pour Its lonely sweetness o'er poor Henry's grave!

And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard Around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid; Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd, For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade!

CHAPTER X Oh! the joy Of young ideas, painted on the mind In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads On objects not yet known, when all is new, And all is lovely! SACRED DRAMAS

We now return to Languedoc and to themention of Count De Villefort, the nobleman,who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis DeVilleroi situated near the monastery of St.Claire. It may be recollected, that this chateauwas uninhabited, when St. Aubert and hisdaughter were in the neighbourhood, and thatthe former was much affected on discoveringhimself to be so near Chateau-le-Blanc, aplace, concerning which the good old La Voisinafterwards dropped some hints, that hadalarmed Emily's curiosity.

It was in the year 1584, the beginning of that,in which St. Aubert died, that FrancisBeauveau, Count De Villefort, came intopossession of the mansion and extensivedomain called Chateau-le-Blanc, situated in theprovince of Languedoc, on the shore of theMediterranean. This estate, which, during somecenturies, had belonged to his family, nowdescended to him, on the decease of hisrelative, the Marquis De Villeroi, who had beenlatterly a man of reserved manners and austerecharacter; circumstances, which, together withthe duties of his profession, that often calledhim into the field, had prevented any degree of

intimacy with his cousin, the Count De Villefort.For many years, they had known little of eachother, and the Count received the firstintelligence of his death, which happened in adistant part of France, together with theinstruments, that gave him possession of thedomain Chateau-le-Blanc; but it was not till thefollowing year, that he determined to visit thatestate, when he designed to pass the autumnthere. The scenes of Chateau-le-Blanc oftencame to his remembrance, heightened by thetouches, which a warm imagination gives to therecollection of early pleasures; for, many yearsbefore, in the life-time of the Marchioness, andat that age when the mind is particularlysensible to impressions of gaiety and delight,he had once visited this spot, and, though hehad passed a long intervening period amidstthe vexations and tumults of public affairs, whichtoo frequently corrode the heart, and vitiate thetaste, the shades of Languedoc and thegrandeur of its distant scenery had never beenremembered by him with indifference.

During many years, the chateau had beenabandoned by the late Marquis, and, beinginhabited only by an old steward and his wife,had been suffered to fall much into decay. Tosuperintend the repairs, that would be requisiteto make it a comfortable residence, had been aprincipal motive with the Count for passing theautumnal months in Languedoc; and neither theremonstrances, or the tears of the Countess,for, on urgent occasions, she could weep, werepowerful enough to overcome hisdetermination. She prepared, therefore, to obeythe command, which she could not conquer,and to resign the gay assemblies of Paris,—

and to resign the gay assemblies of Paris,—where her beauty was generally unrivalled andwon the applause, to which her wit had butfeeble claim—for the twilight canopy of woods,the lonely grandeur of mountains and thesolemnity of gothic halls and of long, longgalleries, which echoed only the solitary step ofa domestic, or the measured clink, thatascended from the great clock—the ancientmonitor of the hall below. From thesemelancholy expectations she endeavoured torelieve her spirits by recollecting all that she hadever heard, concerning the joyous vintage of theplains of Languedoc; but there, alas! no airyforms would bound to the gay melody ofParisian dances, and a view of the rusticfestivities of peasants could afford littlepleasure to a heart, in which even the feelingsof ordinary benevolence had long sincedecayed under the corruptions of luxury.

The Count had a son and a daughter, thechildren of a former marriage, who, hedesigned, should accompany him to the southof France; Henri, who was in his twentieth year,was in the French service; and Blanche, whowas not yet eighteen, had been hithertoconfined to the convent, where she had beenplaced immediately on her father's secondmarriage. The present Countess, who hadneither sufficient ability, or inclination, tosuperintend the education of her daughter-in-law, had advised this step, and the dread ofsuperior beauty had since urged her to employevery art, that might prevail on the Count toprolong the period of Blanche's seclusion; itwas, therefore, with extreme mortification, thatshe now understood he would no longer submit

on this subject, yet it afforded her someconsolation to consider, that, though the LadyBlanche would emerge from her convent, theshades of the country would, for some time, veilher beauty from the public eye.

On the morning, which commenced thejourney, the postillions stopped at the convent,by the Count's order, to take up Blanche, whoseheart beat with delight, at the prospect ofnovelty and freedom now before her. As thetime of her departure drew nigh, her impatiencehad increased, and the last night, during whichshe counted every note of every hour, hadappeared the most tedious of any she had everknown. The morning light, at length, dawned; thematin-bell rang; she heard the nuns descendingfrom their chambers, and she started from asleepless pillow to welcome the day, which wasto emancipate her from the severities of acloister, and introduce her to a world, wherepleasure was ever smiling, and goodness everblessed—where, in short, nothing but pleasureand goodness reigned! When the bell of thegreat gate rang, and the sound was followed bythat of carriage wheels, she ran, with apalpitating heart, to her lattice, and, perceivingher father's carriage in the court below, danced,with airy steps, along the gallery, where shewas met by a nun with a summons from theabbess. In the next moment, she was in theparlour, and in the presence of the Countesswho now appeared to her as an angel, that wasto lead her into happiness. But the emotions ofthe Countess, on beholding her, were not inunison with those of Blanche, who had neverappeared so lovely as at this moment, when hercountenance, animated by the lightning smile of

countenance, animated by the lightning smile ofjoy, glowed with the beauty of happy innocence.

After conversing for a few minutes with theabbess, the Countess rose to go. This was themoment, which Blanche had anticipated withsuch eager expectation, the summit from whichshe looked down upon the fairy-land ofhappiness, and surveyed all its enchantment;was it a moment, then, for tears of regret? Yet itwas so. She turned, with an altered anddejected countenance, to her youngcompanions, who were come to bid herfarewell, and wept! Even my lady abbess, sostately and so solemn, she saluted with adegree of sorrow, which, an hour before, shewould have believed it impossible to feel, andwhich may be accounted for by consideringhow reluctantly we all part, even with unpleasingobjects, when the separation is consciously forever. Again, she kissed the poor nuns and thenfollowed the Countess from that spot with tears,which she expected to leave only with smiles.

But the presence of her father and the varietyof objects, on the road, soon engaged herattention, and dissipated the shade, whichtender regret had thrown upon her spirits.Inattentive to a conversation, which waspassing between the Countess and aMademoiselle Bearn, her friend, Blanche sat,lost in pleasing reverie, as she watched theclouds floating silently along the blue expanse,now veiling the sun and stretching theirshadows along the distant scene, and thendisclosing all his brightness. The journeycontinued to give Blanche inexpressible delight,for new scenes of nature were every instantopening to her view, and her fancy became

stored with gay and beautiful imagery.

It was on the evening of the seventh day, thatthe travellers came within view of Chateau-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of whose situationstrongly impressed the imagination of Blanche,who observed, with sublime astonishment, thePyrenean mountains, which had been seen onlyat a distance during the day, now rising within afew leagues, with their wild cliffs and immenseprecipices, which the evening clouds, floatinground them, now disclosed, and again veiled.The setting rays, that tinged their snowysummits with a roseate hue, touched their lowerpoints with various colouring, while the blueishtint, that pervaded their shadowy recesses,gave the strength of contrast to the splendour oflight. The plains of Languedoc, blushing with thepurple vine and diversified with groves ofmulberry, almond and olives, spread far to thenorth and the east; to the south, appeared theMediterranean, clear as crystal, and blue as theheavens it reflected, bearing on its bosomvessels, whose white sails caught the sun-beams, and gave animation to the scene. On ahigh promontory, washed by the waters of theMediterranean, stood her father's mansion,almost secluded from the eye by woods ofintermingled pine, oak and chesnut, whichcrowned the eminence, and sloped towards theplains, on one side; while, on the other, theyextended to a considerable distance along thesea-shores.

As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic featuresof this antient mansion successively appeared—first an embattled turret, rising above thetrees—then the broken arch of an immense

gate-way, retiring beyond them; and she almostfancied herself approaching a castle, such as isoften celebrated in early story, where theknights look out from the battlements on somechampion below, who, clothed in black armour,comes, with his companions, to rescue the fairlady of his love from the oppression of his rival;a sort of legends, to which she had once ortwice obtained access in the library of herconvent, that, like many others, belonging to themonks, was stored with these reliques ofromantic fiction.

The carriages stopped at a gate, which ledinto the domain of the chateau, but which wasnow fastened; and the great bell, that hadformerly served to announce the arrival ofstrangers, having long since fallen from itsstation, a servant climbed over a ruined part ofthe adjoining wall, to give notice to those withinof the arrival of their lord.

As Blanche leaned from the coach window,she resigned herself to the sweet and gentleemotions, which the hour and the sceneryawakened. The sun had now left the earth, andtwilight began to darken the mountains; whilethe distant waters, reflecting the blush that stillglowed in the west, appeared like a line of light,skirting the horizon. The low murmur of waves,breaking on the shore, came in the breeze, and,now and then, the melancholy dashing of oarswas feebly heard from a distance. She wassuffered to indulge her pensive mood, for thethoughts of the rest of the party were silentlyengaged upon the subjects of their severalinterests. Meanwhile, the Countess, reflecting,with regret, upon the gay parties she had left at

Paris, surveyed, with disgust, what she thoughtthe gloomy woods and solitary wildness of thescene; and, shrinking from the prospect ofbeing shut up in an old castle, was prepared tomeet every object with displeasure. Thefeelings of Henri were somewhat similar tothose of the Countess; he gave a mournful sighto the delights of the capital, and to theremembrance of a lady, who, he believed, hadengaged his affections, and who had certainlyfascinated his imagination; but the surroundingcountry, and the mode of life, on which he wasentering, had, for him, at least, the charm ofnovelty, and his regret was softened by the gayexpectations of youth. The gates being at lengthunbarred, the carriage moved slowly on, underspreading chesnuts, that almost excluded theremains of day, following what had beenformerly a road, but which now, overgrown withluxuriant vegetation, could be traced only by theboundary, formed by trees, on either side, andwhich wound for near half a mile among thewoods, before it reached the chateau. This wasthe very avenue that St. Aubert and Emily hadformerly entered, on their first arrival in theneighbourhood, with the hope of finding ahouse, that would receive them, for the night,and had so abruptly quitted, on perceiving thewildness of the place, and a figure, which thepostillion had fancied was a robber.

'What a dismal place is this!' exclaimed theCountess, as the carriage penetrated thedeeper recesses of the woods. 'Surely, my lord,you do not mean to pass all the autumn in thisbarbarous spot! One ought to bring hither a cupof the waters of Lethe, that the remembrance ofpleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least,

pleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least,the natural dreariness of these.'

'I shall be governed by circumstances,madam,' said the Count, 'this barbarous spotwas inhabited by my ancestors.'

The carriage now stopped at the chateau,where, at the door of the great hall, appearedthe old steward and the Parisian servants, whohad been sent to prepare the chateau, waitingto receive their lord. Lady Blanche nowperceived, that the edifice was not built entirelyin the gothic style, but that it had additions of amore modern date; the large and gloomy hall,however, into which she now entered, wasentirely gothic, and sumptuous tapestry, which itwas now too dark to distinguish, hung upon thewalls, and depictured scenes from some of theantient Provencal romances. A vast gothicwindow, embroidered with CLEMATIS andeglantine, that ascended to the south, led theeye, now that the casements were thrown open,through this verdant shade, over a sloping lawn,to the tops of dark woods, that hung upon thebrow of the promontory. Beyond, appeared thewaters of the Mediterranean, stretching far tothe south, and to the east, where they were lostin the horizon; while, to the north-east, they werebounded by the luxuriant shores of Languedocand Provence, enriched with wood, and gaywith vines and sloping pastures; and, to thesouth-west, by the majestic Pyrenees, nowfading from the eye, beneath the gradual gloom.

Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped amoment to observe this lovely prospect, whichthe evening twilight obscured, yet did notconceal. But she was quickly awakened from

the complacent delight, which this scene haddiffused upon her mind, by the Countess, who,discontented with every object around, andimpatient for refreshment and repose, hastenedforward to a large parlour, whose cedarwainscot, narrow, pointed casements, and darkceiling of carved cypress wood, gave it anaspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy greenvelvet of the chairs and couches, fringed withtarnished gold, had once been designed toenliven.

While the Countess enquired for refreshment,the Count, attended by his son, went to lookover some part of the chateau, and LadyBlanche reluctantly remained to witness thediscontent and ill-humour of her step-mother.

'How long have you lived in this desolateplace?' said her ladyship, to the old housekeeper, who came to pay her duty.

'Above twenty years, your ladyship, on thenext feast of St. Jerome.'

'How happened it, that you have lived here solong, and almost alone, too? I understood, thatthe chateau had been shut up for some years?'

'Yes, madam, it was for many years after mylate lord, the Count, went to the wars; but it isabove twenty years, since I and my husbandcame into his service. The place is so large,and has of late been so lonely, that we were lostin it, and, after some time, we went to live in acottage at the end of the woods, near some ofthe tenants, and came to look after the chateau,every now and then. When my lord returned toFrance from the wars, he took a dislike to the

place, and never came to live here again, andso he was satisfied with our remaining at thecottage. Alas—alas! how the chateau ischanged from what it once was! What delightmy late lady used to take in it! I well rememberwhen she came here a bride, and how fine itwas. Now, it has been neglected so long, and isgone into such decay! I shall never see thosedays again!'

The Countess appearing to be somewhatoffended by the thoughtless simplicity, withwhich the old woman regretted former times,Dorothee added—'But the chateau will now beinhabited, and cheerful again; not all the worldcould tempt me to live in it alone.'

'Well, the experiment will not be made, Ibelieve,' said the Countess, displeased that herown silence had been unable to awe theloquacity of this rustic old housekeeper, nowspared from further attendance by the entranceof the Count, who said he had been viewingpart of the chateau, and found, that it wouldrequire considerable repairs and somealterations, before it would be perfectlycomfortable, as a place of residence. 'I amsorry to hear it, my lord,' replied the Countess.'And why sorry, madam?' 'Because the placewill ill repay your trouble; and were it even aparadise, it would be insufferable at such adistance from Paris.'

The Count made no reply, but walkedabruptly to a window. 'There are windows, mylord, but they neither admit entertainment, orlight; they shew only a scene of savage nature.'

'I am at a loss, madam,' said the Count, 'to

conjecture what you mean by savage nature.Do those plains, or those woods, or that fineexpanse of water, deserve the name?'

'Those mountains certainly do, my lord,'rejoined the Countess, pointing to thePyrenees, 'and this chateau, though not a workof rude nature, is, to my taste, at least, one ofsavage art.' The Count coloured highly. 'Thisplace, madam, was the work of my ancestors,'said he, 'and you must allow me to say, thatyour present conversation discovers neithergood taste, or good manners.' Blanche, nowshocked at an altercation, which appeared tobe increasing to a serious disagreement, roseto leave the room, when her mother's womanentered it; and the Countess, immediatelydesiring to be shewn to her own apartment,withdrew, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn.

Lady Blanche, it being not yet dark, took thisopportunity of exploring new scenes, and,leaving the parlour, she passed from the hallinto a wide gallery, whose walls were decoratedby marble pilasters, which supported an archedroof, composed of a rich mosaic work. Througha distant window, that seemed to terminate thegallery, were seen the purple clouds of eveningand a landscape, whose features, thinly veiledin twilight, no longer appeared distinctly, but,blended into one grand mass, stretched to thehorizon, coloured only with a tint of solemn grey.

The gallery terminated in a saloon, to whichthe window she had seen through an opendoor, belonged; but the increasing duskpermitted her only an imperfect view of thisapartment, which seemed to be magnificent

and of modern architecture; though it had beeneither suffered to fall into decay, or had neverbeen properly finished. The windows, whichwere numerous and large, descended low, andafforded a very extensive, and what Blanche'sfancy represented to be, a very lovely prospect;and she stood for some time, surveying thegrey obscurity and depicturing imaginarywoods and mountains, vallies and rivers, on thisscene of night; her solemn sensations ratherassisted, than interrupted, by the distant bark ofa watch-dog, and by the breeze, as it trembledupon the light foliage of the shrubs. Now andthen, appeared for a moment, among thewoods, a cottage light; and, at length, washeard, afar off, the evening bell of a convent,dying on the air. When she withdrew herthoughts from these subjects of fanciful delight,the gloom and silence of the saloon somewhatawed her; and, having sought the door of thegallery, and pursued, for a considerable time, adark passage, she came to a hall, but onetotally different from that she had formerly seen.By the twilight, admitted through an openportico, she could just distinguish thisapartment to be of very light and airyarchitecture, and that it was paved with whitemarble, pillars of which supported the roof, thatrose into arches built in the Moorish style. WhileBlanche stood on the steps of this portico, themoon rose over the sea, and graduallydisclosed, in partial light, the beauties of theeminence, on which she stood, whence a lawn,now rude and overgrown with high grass,sloped to the woods, that, almost surroundingthe chateau, extended in a grand sweep downthe southern sides of the promontory to the very

margin of the ocean. Beyond the woods, on thenorth-side, appeared a long tract of the plainsof Languedoc; and, to the east, the landscapeshe had before dimly seen, with the towers of amonastery, illumined by the moon, rising overdark groves.

The soft and shadowy tint, that overspreadthe scene, the waves, undulating in the moon-light, and their low and measured murmurs onthe beach, were circumstances, that united toelevate the unaccustomed mind of Blanche toenthusiasm.

'And have I lived in this glorious world solong,' said she, 'and never till now beheld such aprospect—never experienced these delights!Every peasant girl, on my father's domain, hasviewed from her infancy the face of nature; hasranged, at liberty, her romantic wilds, while Ihave been shut in a cloister from the view ofthese beautiful appearances, which weredesigned to enchant all eyes, and awaken allhearts. How can the poor nuns and friars feelthe full fervour of devotion, if they never see thesun rise, or set? Never, till this evening, did Iknow what true devotion is; for, never before didI see the sun sink below the vast earth! To-morrow, for the first time in my life, I will see itrise. O, who would live in Paris, to look uponblack walls and dirty streets, when, in thecountry, they might gaze on the blue heavens,and all the green earth!'

This enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted bya rustling noise in the hall; and, while theloneliness of the place made her sensible tofear, she thought she perceived something

moving between the pillars. For a moment, shecontinued silently observing it, till, ashamed ofher ridiculous apprehensions, she recollectedcourage enough to demand who was there. 'Omy young lady, is it you?' said the oldhousekeeper, who was come to shut thewindows, 'I am glad it is you.' The manner, inwhich she spoke this, with a faint breath, rathersurprised Blanche, who said, 'You seemedfrightened, Dorothee, what is the matter?'

'No, not frightened, ma'amselle,' repliedDorothee, hesitating and trying to appearcomposed, 'but I am old, and—a little matterstartles me.' The Lady Blanche smiled at thedistinction. 'I am glad, that my lord the Count iscome to live at the chateau, ma'amselle,'continued Dorothee, 'for it has been many ayear deserted, and dreary enough; now, theplace will look a little as it used to do, when mypoor lady was alive.' Blanche enquired howlong it was, since the Marchioness died? 'Alas!my lady,' replied Dorothee, 'so long—that I haveceased to count the years! The place, to mymind, has mourned ever since, and I am suremy lord's vassals have! But you have lostyourself, ma'amselle,—shall I shew you to theother side of the chateau?'

Blanche enquired how long this part of theedifice had been built. 'Soon after my lord'smarriage, ma'am,' replied Dorothee. 'The placewas large enough without this addition, formany rooms of the old building were even thennever made use of, and my lord had a princelyhousehold too; but he thought the antientmansion gloomy, and gloomy enough it is!'Lady Blanche now desired to be shewn to the

inhabited part of the chateau; and, as thepassages were entirely dark, Dorotheeconducted her along the edge of the lawn to theopposite side of the edifice, where, a dooropening into the great hall, she was met byMademoiselle Bearn. 'Where have you been solong?' said she, 'I had begun to think somewonderful adventure had befallen you, and thatthe giant of this enchanted castle, or the ghost,which, no doubt, haunts it, had conveyed youthrough a trap-door into some subterraneanvault, whence you was never to return.'

'No,' replied Blanche, laughingly, 'you seemto love adventures so well, that I leave them foryou to achieve.'

'Well, I am willing to achieve them, provided Iam allowed to describe them.'

'My dear Mademoiselle Bearn,' said Henri,as he met her at the door of the parlour, 'noghost of these days would be so savage as toimpose silence on you. Our ghosts are morecivilized than to condemn a lady to a purgatoryseverer even, than their own, be it what it may.'

Mademoiselle Bearn replied only by a laugh;and, the Count now entering the room, supperwas served, during which he spoke little,frequently appeared to be abstracted from thecompany, and more than once remarked, thatthe place was greatly altered, since he had lastseen it. 'Many years have intervened since thatperiod,' said he; 'and, though the grand featuresof the scenery admit of no change, they impressme with sensations very different from those Iformerly experienced.'

'Did these scenes, sir,' said Blanche, 'everappear more lovely, than they do now? To methis seems hardly possible.' The Count,regarding her with a melancholy smile, said,'They once were as delightful to me, as they arenow to you; the landscape is not changed, buttime has changed me; from my mind theillusion, which gave spirit to the colouring ofnature, is fading fast! If you live, my dearBlanche, to re-visit this spot, at the distance ofmany years, you will, perhaps, remember andunderstand the feelings of your father.'

Lady Blanche, affected by these words,remained silent; she looked forward to theperiod, which the Count anticipated, andconsidering, that he, who now spoke, wouldthen probably be no more, her eyes, bent to theground, were filed with tears. She gave herhand to her father, who, smiling affectionately,rose from his chair, and went to a window toconceal his emotion.

The fatigues of the day made the partyseparate at an early hour, when Blanche retiredthrough a long oak gallery to her chamber,whose spacious and lofty walls, high antiquatedcasements, and, what was the effect of these,its gloomy air, did not reconcile her to itsremote situation, in this antient building. Thefurniture, also, was of antient date; the bed wasof blue damask, trimmed with tarnished goldlace, and its lofty tester rose in the form of acanopy, whence the curtains descended, likethose of such tents as are sometimesrepresented in old pictures, and, indeed, muchresembling those, exhibited on the fadedtapestry, with which the chamber was hung. To

Blanche, every object here was matter ofcuriosity; and, taking the light from her womanto examine the tapestry, she perceived, that itrepresented scenes from the wars of Troy,though the almost colourless worsted nowmocked the glowing actions they once hadpainted. She laughed at the ludicrous absurdityshe observed, till, recollecting, that the hands,which had wove it, were, like the poet, whosethoughts of fire they had attempted to express,long since mouldered into dust, a train ofmelancholy ideas passed over her mind, andshe almost wept.

Having given her woman a strict injunction toawaken her, before sun-rise, she dismissedher; and then, to dissipate the gloom, whichreflection had cast upon her spirits, opened oneof the high casements, and was again cheeredby the face of living nature. The shadowy earth,the air, and ocean—all was still. Along the deepserene of the heavens, a few light cloudsfloated slowly, through whose skirts the starsnow seemed to tremble, and now to emergewith purer splendour. Blanche's thoughts aroseinvoluntarily to the Great Author of the sublimeobjects she contemplated, and she breathed aprayer of finer devotion, than any she had everuttered beneath the vaulted roof of a cloister. Atthis casement, she remained till the glooms ofmidnight were stretched over the prospect. Shethen retired to her pillow, and, 'with gay visionsof to-morrow,' to those sweet slumbers, whichhealth and happy innocence only know.

To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

CHAPTER XI What transport to retrace our early plays, Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied The woods, the mountains and the warbling maze Of the wild brooks! THOMSON

Blanche's slumbers continued, till long afterthe hour, which she had so impatientlyanticipated, for her woman, fatigued withtravelling, did not call her, till breakfast wasnearly ready. Her disappointment, however,was instantly forgotten, when, on opening thecasement, she saw, on one hand, the wide seasparkling in the morning rays, with its stealingsails and glancing oars; and, on the other, thefresh woods, the plains far-stretching and theblue mountains, all glowing with the splendourof day.

As she inspired the pure breeze, healthspread a deeper blush upon her countenance,and pleasure danced in her eyes.

'Who could first invent convents!' said she,'and who could first persuade people to go intothem? and to make religion a pretence, too,where all that should inspire it, is so carefullyshut out! God is best pleased with the homageof a grateful heart, and, when we view hisglories, we feel most grateful. I never felt somuch devotion, during the many dull years I wasin the convent, as I have done in the few hours,that I have been here, where I need only look onall around me—to adore God in my inmost

heart!'

Saying this, she left the window, boundedalong the gallery, and, in the next moment, wasin the breakfast room, where the Count wasalready seated. The cheerfulness of a brightsunshine had dispersed the melancholy gloomsof his reflections, a pleasant smile was on hiscountenance, and he spoke in an enliveningvoice to Blanche, whose heart echoed back thetones. Henri and, soon after, the Countess withMademoiselle Bearn appeared, and the wholeparty seemed to acknowledge the influence ofthe scene; even the Countess was so much re-animated as to receive the civilities of herhusband with complacency, and but once forgother good-humour, which was when she askedwhether they had any neighbours, who werelikely to make THIS BARBAROUS SPOT moretolerable, and whether the Count believed itpossible for her to exist here, without someamusement?

Soon after breakfast the party dispersed; theCount, ordering his steward to attend him in thelibrary, went to survey the condition of hispremises, and to visit some of his tenants;Henri hastened with alacrity to the shore toexamine a boat, that was to bear them on a littlevoyage in the evening and to superintend theadjustment of a silk awning; while the Countess,attended by Mademoiselle Bearn, retired to anapartment on the modern side of the chateau,which was fitted up with airy elegance; and, asthe windows opened upon balconies, thatfronted the sea, she was there saved from aview of the HORRID Pyrenees. Here, while she

reclined on a sofa, and, casting her languideyes over the ocean, which appeared beyondthe wood-tops, indulged in the luxuries ofENNUI, her companion read aloud asentimental novel, on some fashionable systemof philosophy, for the Countess was herselfsomewhat of a PHILOSOPHER, especially asto INFIDELITY, and among a certain circle heropinions were waited for with impatience, andreceived as doctrines.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, hastened toindulge, amidst the wild wood-walks around thechateau, her new enthusiasm, where, as shewandered under the shades, her gay spiritsgradually yielded to pensive complacency.Now, she moved with solemn steps, beneaththe gloom of thickly interwoven branches, wherethe fresh dew still hung upon every flower, thatpeeped from among the grass; and now trippedsportively along the path, on which thesunbeams darted and the checquered foliagetrembled—where the tender greens of thebeech, the acacia and the mountain-ash,mingling with the solemn tints of the cedar, thepine and cypress, exhibited as fine a contrast ofcolouring, as the majestic oak and orientalplane did of form, to the feathery lightness of thecork tree and the waving grace of the poplar.

Having reached a rustic seat, within a deeprecess of the woods, she rested awhile, and, asher eyes caught, through a distant opening, aglimpse of the blue waters of theMediterranean, with the white sail, gliding on itsbosom, or of the broad mountain, glowingbeneath the mid-day sun, her mind experienced

somewhat of that exquisite delight, whichawakens the fancy, and leads to poetry. Thehum of bees alone broke the stillness aroundher, as, with other insects of various hues, theysported gaily in the shade, or sipped sweetsfrom the fresh flowers: and, while Blanchewatched a butter-fly, flitting from bud to bud, sheindulged herself in imagining the pleasures ofits short day, till she had composed thefollowing stanzas.

THE BUTTER-FLY TO HIS LOVE

What bowery dell, with fragrant breath, Courts thee to stay thy airy flight; Nor seek again the purple heath, So oft the scene of gay delight?

Long I've watch'd i' the lily's bell, Whose whiteness stole the morning's beam; No fluttering sounds thy coming tell, No waving wings, at distance, gleam.

But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove, Nor sunny mead, nor blossom'd tree, So sweet as lily's cell shall prove,— The bower of constant love and me.

When April buds begin to blow, The prim-rose, and the hare-bell blue, That on the verdant moss bank grow, With violet cups, that weep in dew;

When wanton gales breathe through the shade, And shake the blooms, and steal their sweets, And swell the song of ev'ry glade, I range the forest's green retreats:

There, through the tangled wood-walks play,

Where no rude urchin paces near, Where sparely peeps the sultry day, And light dews freshen all the air.

High on a sun-beam oft I sport O'er bower and fountain, vale and hill; Oft ev'ry blushing flow'ret court, That hangs its head o'er winding rill.

But these I'll leave to be thy guide, And shew thee, where the jasmine spreads Her snowy leaf, where may-flow'rs hide, And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.

With me the mountain's summit scale, And taste the wild-thyme's honied bloom, Whose fragrance, floating on the gale, Oft leads me to the cedar's gloom.

Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze! What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay? Once, me alone thou wish'd to please, And with me only thou wouldst stray.

But, while thy long delay I mourn, And chide the sweet shades for their guile, Thou may'st be true, and they forlorn, And fairy favours court thy smile.

The tiny queen of fairy-land, Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far, To bring, or ere the night-watch stand, Rich essence for her shadowy car:

Perchance her acorn-cups to fill With nectar from the Indian rose, Or gather, near some haunted rill, May-dews, that lull to sleep Love's woes:

Or, o'er the mountains, bade thee fly,

To tell her fairy love to speed, When ev'ning steals upon the sky, To dance along the twilight mead.

But now I see thee sailing low, Gay as the brightest flow'rs of spring, Thy coat of blue and jet I know, And well thy gold and purple wing.

Borne on the gale, thou com'st to me; O! welcome, welcome to my home! In lily's cell we'll live in glee, Together o'er the mountains roam!

When Lady Blanche returned to the chateau,instead of going to the apartment of theCountess, she amused herself with wanderingover that part of the edifice, which she had notyet examined, of which the most antient firstattracted her curiosity; for, though what she hadseen of the modern was gay and elegant, therewas something in the former more interesting toher imagination. Having passed up the greatstair-case, and through the oak gallery, sheentered upon a long suite of chambers, whosewalls were either hung with tapestry, orwainscoted with cedar, the furniture of whichlooked almost as antient as the roomsthemselves; the spacious fire-places, where nomark of social cheer remained, presented animage of cold desolation; and the whole suitehad so much the air of neglect and desertion,that it seemed, as if the venerable persons,whose portraits hung upon the walls, had beenthe last to inhabit them.

On leaving these rooms, she found herself inanother gallery, one end of which was

terminated by a back stair-case, and the otherby a door, that seemed to communicate withthe north-side of the chateau, but which beingfastened, she descended the stair-case, and,opening a door in the wall, a few steps down,found herself in a small square room, thatformed part of the west turret of the castle.Three windows presented each a separate andbeautiful prospect; that to the north, overlookingLanguedoc; another to the west, the hillsascending towards the Pyrenees, whose awfulsummits crowned the landscape; and a third,fronting the south, gave the Mediterranean, anda part of the wild shores of Rousillon, to the eye.

Having left the turret, and descended thenarrow stair-case, she found herself in a duskypassage, where she wandered, unable to findher way, till impatience yielded toapprehension, and she called for assistance.Presently steps approached, and lightglimmered through a door at the other extremityof the passage, which was opened with cautionby some person, who did not venture beyond it,and whom Blanche observed in silence, till thedoor was closing, when she called aloud, and,hastening towards it, perceived the oldhousekeeper. 'Dear ma'amselle! is it you?' saidDorothee, 'How could you find your way hither?'Had Blanche been less occupied by her ownfears, she would probably have observed thestrong expressions of terror and surprise onDorothee's countenance, who now led herthrough a long succession of passages androoms, that looked as if they had beenuninhabited for a century, till they reached that

appropriated to the housekeeper, whereDorothee entreated she would sit down andtake refreshment. Blanche accepted the sweetmeats, offered to her, mentioned her discoveryof the pleasant turret, and her wish toappropriate it to her own use. WhetherDorothee's taste was not so sensible to thebeauties of landscape as her young lady's, orthat the constant view of lovely scenery haddeadened it, she forbore to praise the subjectof Blanche's enthusiasm, which, however, hersilence did not repress. To Lady Blanche'senquiry of whither the door she had foundfastened at the end of the gallery led, shereplied, that it opened to a suite of rooms,which had not been entered, during many years,'For,' added she, 'my late lady died in one ofthem, and I could never find in my heart to gointo them since.'

Blanche, though she wished to see thesechambers, forbore, on observing thatDorothee's eyes were filled with tears, to askher to unlock them, and, soon after, went todress for dinner, at which the whole party met ingood spirits and good humour, except theCountess, whose vacant mind, overcome by thelanguor of idleness, would neither suffer her tobe happy herself, or to contribute to thehappiness of others. Mademoiselle Bearn,attempting to be witty, directed her badinageagainst Henri, who answered, because hecould not well avoid it, rather than from anyinclination to notice her, whose livelinesssometimes amused, but whose conceit andinsensibility often disgusted him.

The cheerfulness, with which Blancherejoined the party, vanished, on her reachingthe margin of the sea; she gazed withapprehension upon the immense expanse ofwaters, which, at a distance, she had beheldonly with delight and astonishment, and it wasby a strong effort, that she so far overcame herfears as to follow her father into the boat.

As she silently surveyed the vast horizon,bending round the distant verge of the ocean,an emotion of sublimest rapture struggled toovercome a sense of personal danger. A lightbreeze played on the water, and on the silkawning of the boat, and waved the foliage of thereceding woods, that crowned the cliffs, formany miles, and which the Count surveyed withthe pride of conscious property, as well as withthe eye of taste.

At some distance, among these woods,stood a pavilion, which had once been thescene of social gaiety, and which its situationstill made one of romantic beauty. Thither, theCount had ordered coffee and otherrefreshment to be carried, and thither thesailors now steered their course, following thewindings of the shore round many a woodypromontory and circling bay; while the pensivetones of horns and other wind instruments,played by the attendants in a distant boat,echoed among the rocks, and died along thewaves. Blanche had now subdued her fears; adelightful tranquillity stole over her mind, andheld her in silence; and she was too happy evento remember the convent, or her formersorrows, as subjects of comparison with her

present felicity.

The Countess felt less unhappy than she haddone, since the moment of her leaving Paris; forher mind was now under some degree ofrestraint; she feared to indulge its waywardhumours, and even wished to recover theCount's good opinion. On his family, and on thesurrounding scene, he looked with temperedpleasure and benevolent satisfaction, while hisson exhibited the gay spirits of youth,anticipating new delights, and regretless ofthose, that were passed.

After near an hour's rowing, the party landed,and ascended a little path, overgrown withvegetation. At a little distance from the point ofthe eminence, within the shadowy recess of thewoods, appeared the pavilion, which Blancheperceived, as she caught a glimpse of itsportico between the trees, to be built ofvariegated marble. As she followed theCountess, she often turned her eyes withrapture towards the ocean, seen beneath thedark foliage, far below, and from thence uponthe deep woods, whose silence andimpenetrable gloom awakened emotions moresolemn, but scarcely less delightful.

The pavilion had been prepared, as far aswas possible, on a very short notice, for thereception of its visitors; but the faded colours ofits painted walls and ceiling, and the decayeddrapery of its once magnificent furniture,declared how long it had been neglected, andabandoned to the empire of the changingseasons. While the party partook of a collation

of fruit and coffee, the horns, placed in a distantpart of the woods, where an echo sweetenedand prolonged their melancholy tones, brokesoftly on the stillness of the scene. This spotseemed to attract even the admiration of theCountess, or, perhaps, it was merely thepleasure of planning furniture and decorations,that made her dwell so long on the necessity ofrepairing and adorning it; while the Count, neverhappier than when he saw her mind engagedby natural and simple objects, acquiesced in allher designs, concerning the pavilion. Thepaintings on the walls and coved ceiling were tobe renewed, the canopies and sofas were to beof light green damask; marble statues of wood-nymphs, bearing on their heads baskets ofliving flowers, were to adorn the recessesbetween the windows, which, descending to theground, were to admit to every part of the room,and it was of octagonal form, the variouslandscape. One window opened upon aromantic glade, where the eye roved among thewoody recesses, and the scene was boundedonly by a lengthened pomp of groves; fromanother, the woods receding disclosed thedistant summits of the Pyrenees; a third frontedan avenue, beyond which the grey towers ofChateau-le-Blanc, and a picturesque part of itsruin were seen partially among the foliage;while a fourth gave, between the trees, aglimpse of the green pastures and villages, thatdiversify the banks of the Aude. TheMediterranean, with the bold cliffs, thatoverlooked its shores, were the grand objectsof a fifth window, and the others gave, indifferent points of view, the wild scenery of the

woods.

After wandering, for some time, in these, theparty returned to the shore and embarked; and,the beauty of the evening tempting them toextend their excursion, they proceeded furtherup the bay. A dead calm had succeeded thelight breeze, that wafted them hither, and themen took to their oars. Around, the waters werespread into one vast expanse of polishedmirror, reflecting the grey cliffs and featherywoods, that over-hung its surface, the glow ofthe western horizon and the dark clouds, thatcame slowly from the east. Blanche loved tosee the dipping oars imprint the water, and towatch the spreading circles they left, whichgave a tremulous motion to the reflectedlandscape, without destroying the harmony ofits features.

Above the darkness of the woods, her eyenow caught a cluster of high towers, touchedwith the splendour of the setting rays; and, soonafter, the horns being then silent, she heard thefaint swell of choral voices from a distance.

'What voices are those, upon the air?' saidthe Count, looking round, and listening; but thestrain had ceased. 'It seemed to be a vesper-hymn, which I have often heard in my convent,'said Blanche.

'We are near the monastery, then,' observedthe Count; and, the boat soon after doubling alofty head-land, the monastery of St. Claireappeared, seated near the margin of the sea,where the cliffs, suddenly sinking, formed a lowshore within a small bay, almost encircled with

shore within a small bay, almost encircled withwoods, among which partial features of theedifice were seen;—the great gate and gothicwindow of the hall, the cloisters and the side ofa chapel more remote; while a venerable arch,which had once led to a part of the fabric, nowdemolished, stood a majestic ruin detachedfrom the main building, beyond which appeareda grand perspective of the woods. On the greywalls, the moss had fastened, and, round thepointed windows of the chapel, the ivy and thebriony hung in many a fantastic wreath.

All without was silent and forsaken; but, whileBlanche gazed with admiration on thisvenerable pile, whose effect was heightened bythe strong lights and shadows thrown athwart itby a cloudy sun-set, a sound of many voices,slowly chanting, arose from within. The Countbade his men rest on their oars. The monkswere singing the hymn of vespers, and somefemale voices mingled with the strain, whichrose by soft degrees, till the high organ and thechoral sounds swelled into full and solemnharmony. The strain, soon after, dropped intosudden silence, and was renewed in a low andstill more solemn key, till, at length, the holychorus died away, and was heard no more.—Blanche sighed, tears trembled in her eyes, andher thoughts seemed wafted with the sounds toheaven. While a rapt stillness prevailed in theboat, a train of friars, and then of nuns, veiled inwhite, issued from the cloisters, and passed,under the shade of the woods, to the main bodyof the edifice.

The Countess was the first of her party toawaken from this pause of silence.

'These dismal hymns and friars make onequite melancholy,' said she; 'twilight is comingon; pray let us return, or it will be dark before weget home.'

The count, looking up, now perceived, thatthe twilight of evening was anticipated by anapproaching storm. In the east a tempest wascollecting; a heavy gloom came on, opposingand contrasting the glowing splendour of thesetting sun. The clamorous sea-fowl skimmedin fleet circles upon the surface of the sea,dipping their light pinions in the wave, as theyfled away in search of shelter. The boatmenpulled hard at their oars; but the thunder, thatnow muttered at a distance, and the heavydrops, that began to dimple the water, madethe Count determine to put back to themonastery for shelter, and the course of theboat was immediately changed. As the cloudsapproached the west, their lurid darknesschanged to a deep ruddy glow, which, byreflection, seemed to fire the tops of the woodsand the shattered towers of the monastery.

The appearance of the heavens alarmed theCountess and Mademoiselle Bearn, whoseexpressions of apprehension distressed theCount, and perplexed his men; while Blanchecontinued silent, now agitated with fear, andnow with admiration, as she viewed thegrandeur of the clouds, and their effect on thescenery, and listened to the long, long peals ofthunder, that rolled through the air.

The boat having reached the lawn before themonastery, the Count sent a servant to

announce his arrival, and to entreat shelter ofthe Superior, who, soon after, appeared at thegreat gate, attended by several monks, whilethe servant returned with a message,expressive at once of hospitality and pride, butof pride disguised in submission. The partyimmediately disembarked, and, having hastilycrossed the lawn—for the shower was nowheavy—were received at the gate by theSuperior, who, as they entered, stretched forthhis hands and gave his blessing; and theypassed into the great hall, where the ladyabbess waited, attended by several nuns,clothed, like herself, in black, and veiled inwhite. The veil of the abbess was, however,thrown half back, and discovered acountenance, whose chaste dignity wassweetened by the smile of welcome, with whichshe addressed the Countess, whom she led,with Blanche and Mademoiselle Bearn, into theconvent parlour, while the Count and Henri wereconducted by the Superior to the refectory.

The Countess, fatigued and discontented,received the politeness of the abbess withcareless haughtiness, and had followed her,with indolent steps, to the parlour, over whichthe painted casements and wainscot of larch-wood threw, at all times, a melancholy shade,and where the gloom of evening now louredalmost to darkness.

While the lady abbess ordered refreshment,and conversed with the Countess, Blanchewithdrew to a window, the lower panes of which,being without painting, allowed her to observethe progress of the storm over the

Mediterranean, whose dark waves, that had solately slept, now came boldly swelling, in longsuccession, to the shore, where they burst inwhite foam, and threw up a high spray over therocks. A red sulphureous tint overspread thelong line of clouds, that hung above the westernhorizon, beneath whose dark skirts the sunlooking out, illumined the distant shores ofLanguedoc, as well as the tufted summits of thenearer woods, and shed a partial gleam on thewestern waves. The rest of the scene was indeep gloom, except where a sun-beam, dartingbetween the clouds, glanced on the white wingsof the sea-fowl, that circled high among them, ortouched the swelling sail of a vessel, which wasseen labouring in the storm. Blanche, for sometime, anxiously watched the progress of thebark, as it threw the waves in foam around it,and, as the lightnings flashed, looked to theopening heavens, with many a sigh for the fateof the poor mariners.

The sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds,which had long impended, dropped over thesplendour of his course; the vessel, however,was yet dimly seen, and Blanche continued toobserve it, till the quick succession of flashes,lighting up the gloom of the whole horizon,warned her to retire from the window, and shejoined the Abbess, who, having exhausted allher topics of conversation with the Countess,had now leisure to notice her.

But their discourse was interrupted bytremendous peals of thunder; and the bell of themonastery soon after ringing out, summonedthe inhabitants to prayer. As Blanche passed

the window, she gave another look to theocean, where, by the momentary flash, thatillumined the vast body of the waters, shedistinguished the vessel she had observedbefore, amidst a sea of foam, breaking thebillows, the mast now bowing to the waves, andthen rising high in air.

She sighed fervently as she gazed, and thenfollowed the Lady Abbess and the Countess tothe chapel. Meanwhile, some of the Count'sservants, having gone by land to the chateau forcarriages, returned soon after vespers hadconcluded, when, the storm being somewhatabated, the Count and his family returnedhome. Blanche was surprised to discover howmuch the windings of the shore had deceivedher, concerning the distance of the chateaufrom the monastery, whose vesper bell she hadheard, on the preceding evening, from thewindows of the west saloon, and whose towersshe would also have seen from thence, had nottwilight veiled them.

On their arrival at the chateau, the Countess,affecting more fatigue, than she really felt,withdrew to her apartment, and the Count, withhis daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room, where they had not been long, when theyheard, in a pause of the gust, a firing of guns,which the Count understanding to be signals ofdistress from some vessel in the storm, went toa window, that opened towards theMediterranean, to observe further; but the seawas now involved in utter darkness, and theloud howlings of the tempest had againovercome every other sound. Blanche,

remembering the bark, which she had beforeseen, now joined her father, with tremblinganxiety. In a few moments, the report of gunswas again borne along the wind, and assuddenly wafted away; a tremendous burst ofthunder followed, and, in the flash, that hadpreceded it, and which seemed to quiver overthe whole surface of the waters, a vessel wasdiscovered, tossing amidst the white foam ofthe waves at some distance from the shore.Impenetrable darkness again involved thescene, but soon a second flash shewed thebark, with one sail unfurled, driving towards thecoast. Blanche hung upon her father's arm, withlooks full of the agony of united terror and pity,which were unnecessary to awaken the heart ofthe Count, who gazed upon the sea with apiteous expression, and, perceiving, that noboat could live in the storm, forbore to sendone; but he gave orders to his people to carrytorches out upon the cliffs, hoping they mightprove a kind of beacon to the vessel, or, atleast, warn the crew of the rocks they wereapproaching. While Henri went out to direct onwhat part of the cliffs the lights should appear,Blanche remained with her father, at thewindow, catching, every now and then, as thelightnings flashed, a glimpse of the vessel; andshe soon saw, with reviving hope, the torchesflaming on the blackness of night, and, as theywaved over the cliffs, casting a red gleam onthe gasping billows. When the firing of gunswas repeated, the torches were tossed high inthe air, as if answering the signal, and the firingwas then redoubled; but, though the wind borethe sound away, she fancied, as the lightnings

glanced, that the vessel was much nearer theshore.

The Count's servants were now seen, runningto and fro, on the rocks; some venturing almostto the point of the crags, and bending over, heldout their torches fastened to long poles; whileothers, whose steps could be traced only by thecourse of the lights, descended the steep anddangerous path, that wound to the margin of thesea, and, with loud halloos, hailed the mariners,whose shrill whistle, and then feeble voices,were heard, at intervals, mingling with thestorm. Sudden shouts from the people on therocks increased the anxiety of Blanche to analmost intolerable degree: but her suspense,concerning the fate of the mariners, was soonover, when Henri, running breathless into theroom, told that the vessel was anchored in thebay below, but in so shattered a condition, thatit was feared she would part before the crewcould disembark. The Count immediately gaveorders for his own boats to assist in bringingthem to shore, and that such of theseunfortunate strangers as could not beaccommodated in the adjacent hamlet shouldbe entertained at the chateau. Among the latter,were Emily St. Aubert, Monsieur Du Pont,Ludovico and Annette, who, having embarkedat Leghorn and reached Marseilles, were fromthence crossing the Gulf of Lyons, when thisstorm overtook them. They were received bythe Count with his usual benignity, who, thoughEmily wished to have proceeded immediatelyto the monastery of St. Claire, would not allowher to leave the chateau, that night; and, indeed,

the terror and fatigue she had suffered wouldscarcely have permitted her to go farther.

In Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered anold acquaintance, and much joy andcongratulation passed between them, afterwhich Emily was introduced by name to theCount's family, whose hospitable benevolencedissipated the little embarrassment, which hersituation had occasioned her, and the partywere soon seated at the supper-table. Theunaffected kindness of Blanche and the livelyjoy she expressed on the escape of thestrangers, for whom her pity had been so muchinterested, gradually revived Emily's languidspirits; and Du Pont, relieved from his terrorsfor her and for himself, felt the full contrast,between his late situation on a dark andtremendous ocean, and his present one, in acheerful mansion, where he was surroundedwith plenty, elegance and smiles of welcome.

Annette, meanwhile, in the servants' hall, wastelling of all the dangers she had encountered,and congratulating herself so heartily upon herown and Ludovico's escape, and on herpresent comforts, that she often made all thatpart of the chateau ring with merriment andlaughter. Ludovico's spirits were as gay as herown, but he had discretion enough to restrainthem, and tried to check hers, though in vain, tillher laughter, at length, ascended to MY LADY'Schamber, who sent to enquire what occasionedso much uproar in the chateau, and tocommand silence.

Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she

so much required, but her pillow was long asleepless one. On this her return to her nativecountry, many interesting remembrances wereawakened; all the events and sufferings shehad experienced, since she quitted it, came inlong succession to her fancy, and were chasedonly by the image of Valancourt, with whom tobelieve herself once more in the same land,after they had been so long, and so distantlyseparated, gave her emotions of indescribablejoy, but which afterwards yielded to anxiety andapprehension, when she considered the longperiod, that had elapsed, since any letter hadpassed between them, and how much mighthave happened in this interval to affect herfuture peace. But the thought, that Valancourtmight be now no more, or, if living, might haveforgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart,that she would scarcely suffer herself to pauseupon the possibility. She determined to informhim, on the following day, of her arrival inFrance, which it was scarcely possible he couldknow but by a letter from herself, and, aftersoothing her spirits with the hope of soonhearing, that he was well, and unchanged in hisaffections, she, at length, sunk to repose.

CHAPTER XII Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright, In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of folly, With freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd melancholy. GRAY

The Lady Blanche was so much interestedfor Emily, that, upon hearing she was going toreside in the neighbouring convent, sherequested the Count would invite her tolengthen her stay at the chateau. 'And you know,my dear sir,' added Blanche, 'how delighted Ishall be with such a companion; for, at present, Ihave no friend to walk, or to read with, sinceMademoiselle Bearn is my mamma's friendonly.'

The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity,with which his daughter yielded to firstimpressions; and, though he chose to warn herof their danger, he silently applauded thebenevolence, that could thus readily expand inconfidence to a stranger. He had observedEmily, with attention, on the preceding evening,and was as much pleased with her, as it waspossible he could be with any person, on soshort an acquaintance. The mention, made ofher by Mons. Du Pont, had also given him afavourable impression of Emily; but, extremelycautious as to those, whom he introduced to theintimacy of his daughter, he determined, onhearing that the former was no stranger at theconvent of St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, ifher account corresponded with his wish, to

invite Emily to pass some time at the chateau.On this subject, he was influenced by aconsideration of the Lady Blanche's welfare,still more than by either a wish to oblige her, orto befriend the orphan Emily, for whom,however, he felt considerably interested.

On the following morning, Emily was toomuch fatigued to appear; but Mons. Du Pontwas at the breakfast-table, when the Countentered the room, who pressed him, as hisformer acquaintance, and the son of a very oldfriend, to prolong his stay at the chateau; aninvitation, which Du Pont willingly accepted,since it would allow him to be near Emily; and,though he was not conscious of encouraging ahope, that she would ever return his affection,he had not fortitude enough to attempt, atpresent, to overcome it.

Emily, when she was somewhat recovered,wandered with her new friend over the groundsbelonging to the chateau, as much delightedwith the surrounding views, as Blanche, in thebenevolence of her heart, had wished; fromthence she perceived, beyond the woods, thetowers of the monastery, and remarked, that itwas to this convent she designed to go.

'Ah!' said Blanche with surprise, 'I am but justreleased from a convent, and would you go intoone? If you could know what pleasure I feel inwandering here, at liberty,—and in seeing thesky and the fields, and the woods all round me, Ithink you would not.' Emily, smiling at thewarmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke,observed, that she did not mean to confine

herself to a convent for life.

'No, you may not intend it now,' said Blanche;'but you do not know to what the nuns maypersuade you to consent: I know how kind theywill appear, and how happy, for I have seen toomuch of their art.'

When they returned to the chateau, LadyBlanche conducted Emily to her favourite turret,and from thence they rambled through theancient chambers, which Blanche had visitedbefore. Emily was amused by observing thestructure of these apartments, and the fashionof their old but still magnificent furniture, and bycomparing them with those of the castle ofUdolpho, which were yet more antique andgrotesque. She was also interested byDorothee the house-keeper, who attendedthem, whose appearance was almost asantique as the objects around her, and whoseemed no less interested by Emily, on whomshe frequently gazed with so much deepattention, as scarcely to hear what was said toher.

While Emily looked from one of thecasements, she perceived, with surprise, someobjects, that were familiar to her memory;—thefields and woods, with the gleaming brook,which she had passed with La Voisin, oneevening, soon after the death of Monsieur St.Aubert, in her way from the monastery to hercottage; and she now knew this to be thechateau, which he had then avoided, andconcerning which he had dropped someremarkable hints.

Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcelyknowing why, she mused for some time insilence, and remembered the emotion, whichher father had betrayed on finding himself sonear this mansion, and some othercircumstances of his conduct, that now greatlyinterested her. The music, too, which she hadformerly heard, and, respecting which La Voisinhad given such an odd account, occurred toher, and, desirous of knowing more concerningit, she asked Dorothee whether it returned atmidnight, as usual, and whether the musicianhad yet been discovered.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, 'thatmusic is still heard, but the musician has neverbeen found out, nor ever will, I believe; thoughthere are some people, who can guess.'

'Indeed!' said Emily, 'then why do they notpursue the enquiry?'

'Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has beenmade—but who can pursue a spirit?'

Emily smiled, and, remembering how latelyshe had suffered herself to be led away bysuperstition, determined now to resist itscontagion; yet, in spite of her efforts, she feltawe mingle with her curiosity, on this subject;and Blanche, who had hitherto listened insilence, now enquired what this music was, andhow long it had been heard.

'Ever since the death of my lady, madam,'replied Dorothee.

'Why, the place is not haunted, surely?' said

Blanche, between jesting and seriousness.

'I have heard that music almost ever since mydear lady died,' continued Dorothee, 'and neverbefore then. But that is nothing to some things Icould tell of.'

'Do, pray, tell them, then,' said Lady Blanche,now more in earnest than in jest. 'I am muchinterested, for I have heard sister Henriette, andsister Sophie, in the convent, tell of suchstrange appearances, which they themselveshad witnessed!'

'You never heard, my lady, I suppose, whatmade us leave the chateau, and go and live in acottage,' said Dorothee. 'Never!' repliedBlanche with impatience.

'Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis'—Dorothee checked herself, hesitated, and thenendeavoured to change the topic; but thecuriosity of Blanche was too much awakened tosuffer the subject thus easily to escape her, andshe pressed the old house-keeper to proceedwith her account, upon whom, however, noentreaties could prevail; and it was evident, thatshe was alarmed for the imprudence, into whichshe had already betrayed herself.

'I perceive,' said Emily, smiling, 'that all oldmansions are haunted; I am lately come from aplace of wonders; but unluckily, since I left it, Ihave heard almost all of them explained.'

Blanche was silent; Dorothee looked grave,and sighed; and Emily felt herself still inclined tobelieve more of the wonderful, than she chose

to acknowledge. Just then, she rememberedthe spectacle she had witnessed in a chamberof Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of coincidence,the alarming words, that had accidentally mether eye in the MS. papers, which she haddestroyed, in obedience to the command of herfather; and she shuddered at the meaning theyseemed to impart, almost as much as at thehorrible appearance, disclosed by the blackveil.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable toprevail with Dorothee to explain the subject ofher late hints, had desired, on reaching thedoor, that terminated the gallery, and which shefound fastened on the preceding day, to see thesuite of rooms beyond. 'Dear young lady,' saidthe housekeeper, 'I have told you my reason fornot opening them; I have never seen them,since my dear lady died; and it would go hardwith me to see them now. Pray, madam, do notask me again.'

'Certainly I will not,' replied Blanche, 'if that isreally your objection.'

'Alas! it is,' said the old woman: 'we all lovedher well, and I shall always grieve for her. Timeruns round! it is now many years, since shedied; but I remember every thing, that happenedthen, as if it was but yesterday. Many things,that have passed of late years, are gone quitefrom my memory, while those so long ago, I cansee as if in a glass.' She paused, butafterwards, as they walked up the gallery,added to Emily, 'this young lady sometimesbrings the late Marchioness to my mind; I can

remember, when she looked just as blooming,and very like her, when she smiles. Poor lady!how gay she was, when she first came to thechateau!'

'And was she not gay, afterwards?' saidBlanche.

Dorothee shook her head; and Emilyobserved her, with eyes strongly expressive ofthe interest she now felt. 'Let us sit down in thiswindow,' said the Lady Blanche, on reachingthe opposite end of the gallery: 'and pray,Dorothee, if it is not painful to you, tell ussomething more about the Marchioness. Ishould like to look into the glass you spoke ofjust now, and see a few of the circumstances,which you say often pass over it.'

'No, my lady,' replied Dorothee; 'if you knewas much as I do, you would not, for you wouldfind there a dismal train of them; I often wish Icould shut them out, but they will rise to mymind. I see my dear lady on her death-bed,—her very look,—and remember all she said—itwas a terrible scene!'

'Why was it so terrible?' said Emily withemotion.

'Ah, dear young lady! is not death alwaysterrible?' replied Dorothee.

To some further enquiries of BlancheDorothee was silent; and Emily, observing thetears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject,and endeavoured to withdraw the attention ofher young friend to some object in the gardens,

where the Count, with the Countess andMonsieur Du Pont, appearing, they went downto join them.

When he perceived Emily, he advanced tomeet her, and presented her to the Countess, ina manner so benign, that it recalled mostpowerfully to her mind the idea of her late father,and she felt more gratitude to him, thanembarrassment towards the Countess, who,however, received her with one of thosefascinating smiles, which her capricesometimes allowed her to assume, and whichwas now the result of a conversation the Counthad held with her, concerning Emily. Whateverthis might be, or whatever had passed in hisconversation with the lady abbess, whom hehad just visited, esteem and kindness werestrongly apparent in his manner, when headdressed Emily, who experienced that sweetemotion, which arises from the consciousnessof possessing the approbation of the good; forto the Count's worth she had been inclined toyield her confidence almost from the firstmoment, in which she had seen him.

Before she could finish her acknowledgmentsfor the hospitality she had received, andmention of her design of going immediately tothe convent, she was interrupted by an invitationto lengthen her stay at the chateau, which waspressed by the Count and the Countess, with anappearance of such friendly sincerity, that,though she much wished to see her old friendsat the monastery, and to sigh, once more, overher father's grave, she consented to remain afew days at the chateau.

To the abbess, however, she immediatelywrote, mentioning her arrival in Languedoc andher wish to be received into the convent, as aboarder; she also sent letters to MonsieurQuesnel and to Valancourt, whom she merelyinformed of her arrival in France; and, as sheknew not where the latter might be stationed,she directed her letter to his brother's seat inGascony.

In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. DuPont walked with Emily to the cottage of LaVoisin, which she had now a melancholypleasure in approaching, for time had softenedher grief for the loss of St. Aubert, though itcould not annihilate it, and she felt a soothingsadness in indulging the recollections, whichthis scene recalled. La Voisin was still living,and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, thetranquil evening of a blameless life. He wassitting at the door of his cottage, watching someof his grandchildren, playing on the grassbefore him, and, now and then, with a laugh, ora commendation, encouraging their sports. Heimmediately recollected Emily, whom he wasmuch pleased to see, and she was as rejoicedto hear, that he had not lost one of his family,since her departure.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' said the old man, 'we alllive merrily together still, thank God! and Ibelieve there is not a happier family to be foundin Languedoc, than ours.'

Emily did not trust herself in the chamber,where St. Aubert died; and, after half an hour'sconversation with La Voisin and his family, she

left the cottage.

During these the first days of her stay atChateau-le-Blanc, she was often affected, byobserving the deep, but silent melancholy,which, at times, stole over Du Pont; and Emily,pitying the self-delusion, which disarmed him ofthe will to depart, determined to withdrawherself as soon as the respect she owed theCount and Countess De Villefort would permit.The dejection of his friend soon alarmed theanxiety of the Count, to whom Du Pont, atlength, confided the secret of his hopelessaffection, which, however, the former could onlycommiserate, though he secretly determined tobefriend his suit, if an opportunity of doing soshould ever occur. Considering the dangeroussituation of Du Pont, he but feebly opposed hisintention of leaving Chateau-le-Blanc, on thefollowing day, but drew from him a promise of alonger visit, when he could return with safety tohis peace. Emily herself, though she could notencourage his affection, esteemed him both forthe many virtues he possessed, and for theservices she had received from him; and it wasnot without tender emotions of gratitude andpity, that she now saw him depart for his familyseat in Gascony; while he took leave of her witha countenance so expressive of love and grief,as to interest the Count more warmly in hiscause than before.

In a few days, Emily also left the chateau, butnot before the Count and Countess hadreceived her promise to repeat her visit verysoon; and she was welcomed by the abbess,with the same maternal kindness she had

formerly experienced, and by the nuns, withmuch expression of regard. The well-knownscenes of the convent occasioned her manymelancholy recollections, but with these weremingled others, that inspired gratitude forhaving escaped the various dangers, that hadpursued her, since she quitted it, and for thegood, which she yet possessed; and, thoughshe once more wept over her father's grave,with tears of tender affection, her grief wassoftened from its former acuteness.

Some time after her return to the monastery,she received a letter from her uncle, Mons.Quesnel, in answer to information that she hadarrived in France, and to her enquiries,concerning such of her affairs as he hadundertaken to conduct during her absence,especially as to the period for which La Valleehad been let, whither it was her wish to return, ifit should appear, that her income would permither to do so. The reply of Mons. Quesnel wascold and formal, as she expected, expressingneither concern for the evils she suffered, norpleasure, that she was now removed from them;nor did he allow the opportunity to pass, ofreproving her for her rejection of Count Morano,whom he affected still to believe a man ofhonour and fortune; nor of vehementlydeclaiming against Montoni, to whom he hadalways, till now, felt himself to be inferior. OnEmily's pecuniary concerns, he was not veryexplicit; he informed her, however, that the term,for which La Vallee had been engaged, wasnearly expired; but, without inviting her to hisown house, added, that her circumstances

would by no means allow her to reside there,and earnestly advised her to remain, for thepresent, in the convent of St. Claire.

To her enquiries respecting poor oldTheresa, her late father's servant, he gave noanswer. In the postscript to his letter, MonsieurQuesnel mentioned M. Motteville, in whosehands the late St. Aubert had placed the chiefof his personal property, as being likely toarrange his affairs nearly to the satisfaction ofhis creditors, and that Emily would recovermuch more of her fortune, than she had formerlyreason to expect. The letter also inclosed toEmily an order upon a merchant at Narbonne,for a small sum of money.

The tranquillity of the monastery, and theliberty she was suffered to enjoy, in wanderingamong the woods and shores of this delightfulprovince, gradually restored her spirits to theirnatural tone, except that anxiety wouldsometimes intrude, concerning Valancourt, asthe time approached, when it was possible thatshe might receive an answer to her letter.

CHAPTER XIII As when a wave, that from a cloud impends, And, swell'd with tempests, on the ship descends, White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud, Howl o'er the masts, and sing through ev'ry shroud: Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears, And instant death on ev'ry wave appears. POPE'S HOMER

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, who was leftmuch alone, became impatient for the companyof her new friend, whom she wished to observesharing in the delight she received from thebeautiful scenery around. She had now noperson, to whom she could express heradmiration and communicate her pleasures, noeye, that sparkled to her smile, or countenance,that reflected her happiness; and she becamespiritless and pensive. The Count, observingher dissatisfaction, readily yielded to herentreaties, and reminded Emily of her promisedvisit; but the silence of Valancourt, which wasnow prolonged far beyond the period, when aletter might have arrived from Estuviere,oppressed Emily with severe anxiety, and,rendering her averse to society, she wouldwillingly have deferred her acceptance of thisinvitation, till her spirits should be relieved. TheCount and his family, however, pressed to seeher; and, as the circumstances, that promptedher wish for solitude, could not be explained,there was an appearance of caprice in herrefusal, which she could not persevere in,without offending the friends, whose esteem

she valued. At length, therefore, she returnedupon a second visit to Chateau-le-Blanc. Herethe friendly manner of Count De Villefortencouraged Emily to mention to him hersituation, respecting the estates of her late aunt,and to consult him on the means of recoveringthem. He had little doubt, that the law woulddecide in her favour, and, advising her to applyto it, offered first to write to an advocate atAvignon, on whose opinion he thought he couldrely. His kindness was gratefully accepted byEmily, who, soothed by the courtesy she dailyexperienced, would have been once morehappy, could she have been assured ofValancourt's welfare and unaltered affection.She had now been above a week at thechateau, without receiving intelligence of him,and, though she knew, that, if he was absentfrom his brother's residence, it was scarcelyprobable her letter had yet reached him, shecould not forbear to admit doubts and fears,that destroyed her peace. Again she wouldconsider of all, that might have happened in thelong period, since her first seclusion atUdolpho, and her mind was sometimes sooverwhelmed with an apprehension, thatValancourt was no more, or that he lived nolonger for her, that the company even ofBlanche became intolerably oppressive, andshe would sit alone in her apartment for hourstogether, when the engagements of the familyallowed her to do so, without incivility.

In one of these solitary hours, she unlocked alittle box, which contained some letters ofValancourt, with some drawings she had

sketched, during her stay in Tuscany, the latterof which were no longer interesting to her; but,in the letters, she now, with melancholyindulgence, meant to retrace the tenderness,that had so often soothed her, and renderedher, for a moment, insensible of the distance,which separated her from the writer. But theireffect was now changed; the affection theyexpressed appealed so forcibly to her heart,when she considered that it had, perhaps,yielded to the powers of time and absence, andeven the view of the hand-writing recalled somany painful recollections, that she foundherself unable to go through the first she hadopened, and sat musing, with her cheek restingon her arm, and tears stealing from her eyes,when old Dorothee entered the room to informher, that dinner would be ready, an hour beforethe usual time. Emily started on perceiving her,and hastily put up the papers, but not beforeDorothee had observed both her agitation andher tears.

'Ah, ma'amselle!' said she, 'you, who are soyoung,—have you reason for sorrow?'

Emily tried to smile, but was unable to speak.

'Alas! dear young lady, when you come to myage, you will not weep at trifles; and surely youhave nothing serious, to grieve you.'

'No, Dorothee, nothing of any consequence,'replied Emily. Dorothee, now stooping to pickup something, that had dropped from amongthe papers, suddenly exclaimed, 'Holy Mary!what is it I see?' and then, trembling, sat downin a chair, that stood by the table.

in a chair, that stood by the table.

'What is it you do see?' said Emily, alarmedby her manner, and looking round the room.

'It is herself,' said Dorothee, 'her very self! justas she looked a little before she died!'

Emily, still more alarmed, began now to fear,that Dorothee was seized with sudden phrensy,but entreated her to explain herself.

'That picture!' said she, 'where did you find it,lady? it is my blessed mistress herself!'

She laid on the table the miniature, whichEmily had long ago found among the papersher father had enjoined her to destroy, and overwhich she had once seen him shed such tenderand affecting tears; and, recollecting all thevarious circumstances of his conduct, that hadlong perplexed her, her emotions increased toan excess, which deprived her of all power toask the questions she trembled to haveanswered, and she could only enquire, whetherDorothee was certain the picture resembled thelate marchioness.

'O, ma'amselle!' said she, 'how came it tostrike me so, the instant I saw it, if it was not mylady's likeness? Ah!' added she, taking up theminiature, 'these are her own blue eyes—looking so sweet and so mild; and there is hervery look, such as I have often seen it, when shehad sat thinking for a long while, and then, thetears would often steal down her cheeks—butshe never would complain! It was that look someek, as it were, and resigned, that used tobreak my heart and make me love her so!'

'Dorothee!' said Emily solemnly, 'I aminterested in the cause of that grief, more so,perhaps, than you may imagine; and I entreat,that you will no longer refuse to indulge mycuriosity;—it is not a common one.'

As Emily said this, she remembered thepapers, with which the picture had been found,and had scarcely a doubt, that they hadconcerned the Marchioness de Villeroi; but withthis supposition came a scruple, whether sheought to enquire further on a subject, whichmight prove to be the same, that her father hadso carefully endeavoured to conceal. Hercuriosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerfulas it was, it is probable she would now haveresisted, as she had formerly done, on unwarilyobserving the few terrible words in the papers,which had never since been erased from hermemory, had she been certain that the historyof that lady was the subject of those papers, or,that such simple particulars only as it wasprobable Dorothee could relate were includedin her father's command. What was known toher could be no secret to many other persons;and, since it appeared very unlikely, that St.Aubert should attempt to conceal what Emilymight learn by ordinary means, she at lengthconcluded, that, if the papers had related to thestory of the Marchioness, it was not thosecircumstances of it, which Dorothee coulddisclose, that he had thought sufficientlyimportant to wish to have concealed. She,therefore, no longer hesitated to make theenquiries, that might lead to the gratification ofher curiosity.

'Ah, ma'amselle!' said Dorothee, 'it is a sadstory, and cannot be told now: but what am Isaying? I never will tell it. Many years havepassed, since it happened; and I never loved totalk of the Marchioness to any body, but myhusband. He lived in the family, at that time, aswell as myself, and he knew many particularsfrom me, which nobody else did; for I was aboutthe person of my lady in her last illness, andsaw and heard as much, or more than my lordhimself. Sweet saint! how patient she was!When she died, I thought I could have died withher!'

'Dorothee,' said Emily, interrupting her, 'whatyou shall tell, you may depend upon it, shallnever be disclosed by me. I have, I repeat it,particular reasons for wishing to be informed onthis subject, and am willing to bind myself, in themost solemn manner, never to mention whatyou shall wish me to conceal.'

Dorothee seemed surprised at theearnestness of Emily's manner, and, afterregarding her for some moments, in silence,said, 'Young lady! that look of yours pleads foryou—it is so like my dear mistress's, that I canalmost fancy I see her before me; if you wereher daughter, you could not remind me of hermore. But dinner will be ready—had you notbetter go down?'

'You will first promise to grant my request,'said Emily.

'And ought not you first to tell me, ma'amselle,how this picture fell into your hands, and thereasons you say you have for curiosity about my

reasons you say you have for curiosity about mylady?'

'Why, no, Dorothee,' replied Emily,recollecting herself, 'I have also particularreasons for observing silence, on thesesubjects, at least, till I know further; and,remember, I do not promise ever to speak uponthem; therefore, do not let me induce you tosatisfy my curiosity, from an expectation, that Ishall gratify yours. What I may judge proper toconceal, does not concern myself alone, or Ishould have less scruple in revealing it: let aconfidence in my honour alone persuade you todisclose what I request.'

'Well, lady!' replied Dorothee, after a longpause, during which her eyes were fixed uponEmily, 'you seem so much interested,—and thispicture and that face of yours make me thinkyou have some reason to be so,—that I will trustyou—and tell some things, that I never toldbefore to any body, but my husband, thoughthere are people, who have suspected asmuch. I will tell you the particulars of my lady'sdeath, too, and some of my own suspicions; butyou must first promise me by all the saints'—

Emily, interrupting her, solemnly promisednever to reveal what should be confided to her,without Dorothee's consent.

'But there is the horn, ma'amselle, soundingfor dinner,' said Dorothee; 'I must be gone.'

'When shall I see you again?' enquired Emily.

Dorothee mused, and then replied, 'Why,madam, it may make people curious, if it is

known I am so much in your apartment, and thatI should be sorry for; so I will come when I amleast likely to be observed. I have little leisure inthe day, and I shall have a good deal to say; so,if you please, ma'am, I will come, when thefamily are all in bed.'

'That will suit me very well,' replied Emily:'Remember, then, to-night'—

'Aye, that is well remembered,' saidDorothee, 'I fear I cannot come to-night,madam, for there will be the dance of thevintage, and it will be late, before the servantsgo to rest; for, when they once set in to dance,they will keep it up, in the cool of the air, tillmorning; at least, it used to be so in my time.'

'Ah! is it the dance of the vintage?' saidEmily, with a deep sigh, remembering, that itwas on the evening of this festival, in thepreceding year, that St. Aubert and herself hadarrived in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc. She paused a moment, overcome by thesudden recollection, and then, recoveringherself, added—'But this dance is in the openwoods; you, therefore, will not be wanted, andcan easily come to me.'

Dorothee replied, that she had beenaccustomed to be present at the dance of thevintage, and she did not wish to be absent now;'but if I can get away, madam, I will,' said she.

Emily then hastened to the dining-room,where the Count conducted himself with thecourtesy, which is inseparable from true dignity,and of which the Countess frequently practised

little, though her manner to Emily was anexception to her usual habit. But, if she retainedfew of the ornamental virtues, she cherishedother qualities, which she seemed to considerinvaluable. She had dismissed the grace ofmodesty, but then she knew perfectly well howto manage the stare of assurance; her mannershad little of the tempered sweetness, which isnecessary to render the female characterinteresting, but she could occasionally throwinto them an affectation of spirits, whichseemed to triumph over every person, whoapproached her. In the country, however, shegenerally affected an elegant languor, thatpersuaded her almost to faint, when herfavourite read to her a story of fictitious sorrow;but her countenance suffered no change, whenliving objects of distress solicited her charity,and her heart beat with no transport to thethought of giving them instant relief;—she was astranger to the highest luxury, of which, perhaps,the human mind can be sensible, for herbenevolence had never yet called smiles uponthe face of misery.

In the evening, the Count, with all his family,except the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn,went to the woods to witness the festivity of thepeasants. The scene was in a glade, where thetrees, opening, formed a circle round the turfthey highly overshadowed; between theirbranches, vines, loaded with ripe clusters, werehung in gay festoons; and, beneath, weretables, with fruit, wine, cheese and other ruralfare,—and seats for the Count and his family. Ata little distance, were benches for the elder

peasants, few of whom, however, could forbearto join the jocund dance, which began soonafter sun-set, when several of sixty tripped itwith almost as much glee and airy lightness, asthose of sixteen.

The musicians, who sat carelessly on thegrass, at the foot of a tree, seemed inspired bythe sound of their own instruments, which werechiefly flutes and a kind of long guitar. Behind,stood a boy, flourishing a tamborine, anddancing a solo, except that, as he sometimesgaily tossed the instrument, he tripped amongthe other dancers, when his antic gesturescalled forth a broader laugh, and heightened therustic spirit of the scene.

The Count was highly delighted with thehappiness he witnessed, to which his bountyhad largely contributed, and the Lady Blanchejoined the dance with a young gentleman of herfather's party. Du Pont requested Emily's hand,but her spirits were too much depressed, topermit her to engage in the present festivity,which called to her remembrance that of thepreceding year, when St. Aubert was living, andof the melancholy scenes, which hadimmediately followed it.

Overcome by these recollections, she, atlength, left the spot, and walked slowly into thewoods, where the softened music, floating at adistance, soothed her melancholy mind. Themoon threw a mellow light among the foliage;the air was balmy and cool, and Emily, lost inthought, strolled on, without observing whither,till she perceived the sounds sinking afar off,

and an awful stillness round her, except that,sometimes, the nightingale beguiled the silencewith

Liquid notes, that close the eye of day.

At length, she found herself near the avenue,which, on the night of her father's arrival,Michael had attempted to pass in search of ahouse, which was still nearly as wild anddesolate as it had then appeared; for the Counthad been so much engaged in directing otherimprovements, that he had neglected to giveorders, concerning this extensive approach,and the road was yet broken, and the treesoverloaded with their own luxuriance.

As she stood surveying it, and rememberingthe emotions, which she had formerly sufferedthere, she suddenly recollected the figure, thathad been seen stealing among the trees, andwhich had returned no answer to Michael'srepeated calls; and she experienced somewhatof the fear, that had then assailed her, for it didnot appear improbable, that these deep woodswere occasionally the haunt of banditti. She,therefore, turned back, and was hastily pursuingher way to the dancers, when she heard stepsapproaching from the avenue; and, being stillbeyond the call of the peasants on the green,for she could neither hear their voices, or theirmusic, she quickened her pace; but thepersons following gained fast upon her, and, atlength, distinguishing the voice of Henri, shewalked leisurely, till he came up. He expressedsome surprise at meeting her so far from thecompany; and, on her saying, that the pleasant

moon-light had beguiled her to walk farther thanshe intended, an exclamation burst from the lipsof his companion, and she thought she heardValancourt speak! It was, indeed, he! and themeeting was such as may be imagined,between persons so affectionate, and so longseparated as they had been.

In the joy of these moments, Emily forgot allher past sufferings, and Valancourt seemed tohave forgotten, that any person but Emilyexisted; while Henri was a silent andastonished spectator of the scene.

Valancourt asked a thousand questions,concerning herself and Montoni, which therewas now no time to answer; but she learned,that her letter had been forwarded to him, atParis, which he had previously quitted, and wasreturning to Gascony, whither the letter alsoreturned, which, at length, informed him ofEmily's arrival, and on the receipt of which hehad immediately set out for Languedoc. Onreaching the monastery, whence she had datedher letter, he found, to his extremedisappointment, that the gates were alreadyclosed for the night; and believing, that heshould not see Emily, till the morrow, he wasreturning to his little inn, with the intention ofwriting to her, when he was overtaken by Henri,with whom he had been intimate at Paris, andwas led to her, whom he was secretly lamentingthat he should not see, till the following day.

Emily, with Valancourt and Henri, nowreturned to the green, where the latterpresented Valancourt to the Count, who, she

fancied, received him with less than his usualbenignity, though it appeared, that they were notstrangers to each other. He was invited,however, to partake of the diversions of theevening; and, when he had paid his respects tothe Count, and while the dancers continuedtheir festivity, he seated himself by Emily, andconversed, without restraint. The lights, whichwere hung among the trees, under which theysat, allowed her a more perfect view of thecountenance she had so frequently in absenceendeavoured to recollect, and she perceived,with some regret, that it was not the same aswhen last she saw it. There was all its wontedintelligence and fire; but it had lost much of thesimplicity, and somewhat of the openbenevolence, that used to characterise it. Still,however, it was an interesting countenance; butEmily thought she perceived, at intervals,anxiety contract, and melancholy fix the featuresof Valancourt; sometimes, too, he fell into amomentary musing, and then appeared anxiousto dissipate thought; while, at others, as hefixed his eyes on Emily, a kind of suddendistraction seemed to cross his mind. In her heperceived the same goodness and beautifulsimplicity, that had charmed him, on their firstacquaintance. The bloom of her countenancewas somewhat faded, but all its sweetnessremained, and it was rendered moreinteresting, than ever, by the faint expression ofmelancholy, that sometimes mingled with hersmile.

At his request, she related the most importantcircumstances, that had occurred to her, since

she left France, and emotions of pity andindignation alternately prevailed in his mind,when he heard how much she had suffered fromthe villany of Montoni. More than once, whenshe was speaking of his conduct, of which theguilt was rather softened, than exaggerated, byher representation, he started from his seat,and walked away, apparently overcome asmuch by self accusation as by resentment. Hersufferings alone were mentioned in the fewwords, which he could address to her, and helistened not to the account, which she wascareful to give as distinctly as possible, of thepresent loss of Madame Montoni's estates, andof the little reason there was to expect theirrestoration. At length, Valancourt remained lostin thought, and then some secret causeseemed to overcome him with anguish. Againhe abruptly left her. When he returned, sheperceived, that he had been weeping, andtenderly begged, that he would composehimself. 'My sufferings are all passed now,' saidshe, 'for I have escaped from the tyranny ofMontoni, and I see you well—let me also seeyou happy.'

Valancourt was more agitated, than before. 'Iam unworthy of you, Emily,' said he, 'I amunworthy of you;'—words, by his manner ofuttering which Emily was then more shockedthan by their import. She fixed on him amournful and enquiring eye. 'Do not look thus onme,' said he, turning away and pressing herhand; 'I cannot bear those looks.'

'I would ask,' said Emily, in a gentle, butagitated voice, 'the meaning of your words; but I

perceive, that the question would distress younow. Let us talk on other subjects. To-morrow,perhaps, you may be more composed.Observe those moon light woods, and thetowers, which appear obscurely in theperspective. You used to be a great admirer oflandscape, and I have heard you say, that thefaculty of deriving consolation, undermisfortune, from the sublime prospects, whichneither oppression, or poverty with-hold fromus, was the peculiar blessing of the innocent.'Valancourt was deeply affected. 'Yes,' repliedhe, 'I had once a taste for innocent and elegantdelights—I had once an uncorrupted heart.'Then, checking himself, he added, 'Do youremember our journey together in thePyrenees?'

'Can I forget it?' said Emily.—'Would that Icould!' he replied;—'that was the happiestperiod of my life. I then loved, with enthusiasm,whatever was truly great, or good.' It was sometime before Emily could repress her tears, andtry to command her emotions. 'If you wish toforget that journey,' said she, 'it must certainlybe my wish to forget it also.' She paused, andthen added, 'You make me very uneasy; but thisis not the time for further enquiry;—yet, how canI bear to believe, even for a moment, that youare less worthy of my esteem than formerly? Ihave still sufficient confidence in your candour,to believe, that, when I shall ask for anexplanation, you will give it me.'—'Yes,' saidValancourt, 'yes, Emily: I have not yet lost mycandour: if I had, I could better have disguisedmy emotions, on learning what were your

sufferings—your virtues, while I—I—but I will sayno more. I did not mean to have said even somuch—I have been surprised into the self-accusation. Tell me, Emily, that you will notforget that journey—will not wish to forget it, andI will be calm. I would not lose the remembranceof it for the whole earth.'

'How contradictory is this!' said Emily;—'butwe may be overheard. My recollection of it shalldepend upon yours; I will endeavour to forget, orto recollect it, as you may do. Let us join theCount.'—'Tell me first,' said Valancourt, 'thatyou forgive the uneasiness I have occasionedyou, this evening, and that you will still loveme.'—'I sincerely forgive you,' replied Emily.'You best know whether I shall continue to loveyou, for you know whether you deserve myesteem. At present, I will believe that you do. Itis unnecessary to say,' added she, observinghis dejection, 'how much pain it would give meto believe otherwise.—The young lady, whoapproaches, is the Count's daughter.'

Valancourt and Emily now joined the LadyBlanche; and the party, soon after, sat downwith the Count, his son, and the Chevalier DuPont, at a banquet, spread under a gay awning,beneath the trees. At the table also wereseated several of the most venerable of theCount's tenants, and it was a festive repast toall but Valancourt and Emily. When the Countretired to the chateau, he did not inviteValancourt to accompany him, who, therefore,took leave of Emily, and retired to his solitaryinn for the night: meanwhile, she soon withdrewto her own apartment, where she mused, with

deep anxiety and concern, on his behaviour,and on the Count's reception of him. Herattention was thus so wholly engaged, that sheforgot Dorothee and her appointment, tillmorning was far advanced, when, knowing thatthe good old woman would not come, sheretired, for a few hours, to repose.

On the following day, when the Count hadaccidentally joined Emily in one of the walks,they talked of the festival of the precedingevening, and this led him to a mention ofValancourt. 'That is a young man of talents,'said he; 'you were formerly acquainted with him,I perceive.' Emily said, that she was. 'He wasintroduced to me, at Paris,' said the Count, 'andI was much pleased with him, on our firstacquaintance.' He paused, and Emily trembled,between the desire of hearing more and thefear of shewing the Count, that she felt aninterest on the subject. 'May I ask,' said he, atlength, 'how long you have known MonsieurValancourt?'—'Will you allow me to ask yourreason for the question, sir?' said she; 'and I willanswer it immediately.'—'Certainly,' said theCount, 'that is but just. I will tell you my reason. Icannot but perceive, that Monsieur Valancourtadmires you; in that, however, there is nothingextraordinary; every person, who sees you,must do the same. I am above using common-place compliments; I speak with sincerity. WhatI fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer.'—'Whydo you fear it, sir?' said Emily, endeavouring toconceal her emotion.—'Because,' replied theCount, 'I think him not worthy of your favour.'Emily, greatly agitated, entreated further

explanation. 'I will give it,' said he, 'if you willbelieve, that nothing but a strong interest in yourwelfare could induce me to hazard thatassertion.'—'I must believe so, sir,' repliedEmily.

'But let us rest under these trees,' said theCount, observing the paleness of hercountenance; 'here is a seat—you are fatigued.'They sat down, and the Count proceeded.'Many young ladies, circumstanced as you are,would think my conduct, on this occasion, andon so short an acquaintance, impertinent,instead of friendly; from what I have observed ofyour temper and understanding, I do not fearsuch a return from you. Our acquaintance hasbeen short, but long enough to make meesteem you, and feel a lively interest in yourhappiness. You deserve to be very happy, and Itrust that you will be so.' Emily sighed softly, andbowed her thanks. The Count paused again. 'Iam unpleasantly circumstanced,' said he; 'butan opportunity of rendering you importantservice shall overcome inferior considerations.Will you inform me of the manner of your firstacquaintance with the Chevalier Valancourt, ifthe subject is not too painful?'

Emily briefly related the accident of theirmeeting in the presence of her father, and thenso earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitatein declaring what he knew, that he perceivedthe violent emotion, against which she wascontending, and, regarding her with a look oftender compassion, considered how he mightcommunicate his information with least pain tohis anxious auditor.

'The Chevalier and my son,' said he, 'wereintroduced to each other, at the table of abrother officer, at whose house I also met him,and invited him to my own, whenever he shouldbe disengaged. I did not then know, that he hadformed an acquaintance with a set of men, adisgrace to their species, who live by plunderand pass their lives in continual debauchery. Iknew several of the Chevalier's family, residentat Paris, and considered them as sufficientpledges for his introduction to my own. But youare ill; I will leave the subject.'—'No, sir,' saidEmily, 'I beg you will proceed: I am onlydistressed.'—'ONLY!' said the Count, withemphasis; 'however, I will proceed. I soonlearned, that these, his associates, had drawnhim into a course of dissipation, from which heappeared to have neither the power, nor theinclination, to extricate himself. He lost largesums at the gaming-table; he becameinfatuated with play; and was ruined. I spoketenderly of this to his friends, who assured me,that they had remonstrated with him, till theywere weary. I afterwards learned, that, inconsideration of his talents for play, which weregenerally successful, when unopposed by thetricks of villany,—that in consideration of these,the party had initiated him into the secrets oftheir trade, and allotted him a share of theirprofits.' 'Impossible!' said Emily suddenly; 'but—pardon me, sir, I scarcely know what I say;allow for the distress of my mind. I must, indeed,I must believe, that you have not been trulyinformed. The Chevalier had, doubtless,enemies, who misrepresented him.'—'I shouldbe most happy to believe so,' replied the Count,

'but I cannot. Nothing short of conviction, and aregard for your happiness, could have urgedme to repeat these unpleasant reports.'

Emily was silent. She recollectedValancourt's sayings, on the preceding evening,which discovered the pangs of self-reproach,and seemed to confirm all that the Count hadrelated. Yet she had not fortitude enough todare conviction. Her heart was overwhelmedwith anguish at the mere suspicion of his guilt,and she could not endure a belief of it. After asilence, the Count said, 'I perceive, and canallow for, your want of conviction. It is necessaryI should give some proof of what I haveasserted; but this I cannot do, without subjectingone, who is very dear to me, to danger.'—'Whatis the danger you apprehend, sir?' said Emily;'if I can prevent it, you may safely confide in myhonour.'—'On your honour I am certain I canrely,' said the Count; 'but can I trust yourfortitude? Do you think you can resist thesolicitation of a favoured admirer, when hepleads, in affliction, for the name of one, whohas robbed him of a blessing?'—'I shall not beexposed to such a temptation, sir,' said Emily,with modest pride, 'for I cannot favour one,whom I must no longer esteem. I, however,readily give my word.' Tears, in the mean time,contradicted her first assertion; and she felt,that time and effort only could eradicate anaffection, which had been formed on virtuousesteem, and cherished by habit and difficulty.

'I will trust you then,' said the Count, 'forconviction is necessary to your peace, andcannot, I perceive, be obtained, without this

confidence. My son has too often been an eye-witness of the Chevalier's ill conduct; he wasvery near being drawn in by it; he was, indeed,drawn in to the commission of many follies, but Irescued him from guilt and destruction. Judgethen, Mademoiselle St. Aubert, whether afather, who had nearly lost his only son by theexample of the Chevalier, has not, fromconviction, reason to warn those, whom heesteems, against trusting their happiness insuch hands. I have myself seen the Chevalierengaged in deep play with men, whom I almostshuddered to look upon. If you still doubt, I willrefer you to my son.'

'I must not doubt what you have yourselfwitnessed,' replied Emily, sinking with grief, 'orwhat you assert. But the Chevalier has,perhaps, been drawn only into a transient folly,which he may never repeat. If you had knownthe justness of his former principles, you wouldallow for my present incredulity.'

'Alas!' observed the Count, 'it is difficult tobelieve that, which will make us wretched. But Iwill not sooth you by flattering and false hopes.We all know how fascinating the vice of gamingis, and how difficult it is, also, to conquer habits;the Chevalier might, perhaps, reform for awhile, but he would soon relapse intodissipation—for I fear, not only the bonds ofhabit would be powerful, but that his morals arecorrupted. And—why should I conceal from you,that play is not his only vice? he appears tohave a taste for every vicious pleasure.'

The Count hesitated and paused; while Emily

endeavoured to support herself, as, withincreasing perturbation, she expected what hemight further say. A long pause of silenceensued, during which he was visibly agitated; atlength, he said, 'It would be a cruel delicacy, thatcould prevail with me to be silent—and I willinform you, that the Chevalier's extravagancehas brought him twice into the prisons of Paris,from whence he was last extricated, as I wastold upon authority, which I cannot doubt, by awell-known Parisian Countess, with whom hecontinued to reside, when I left Paris.'

He paused again; and, looking at Emily,perceived her countenance change, and thatshe was falling from the seat; he caught her, butshe had fainted, and he called loudly forassistance. They were, however, beyond thehearing of his servants at the chateau, and hefeared to leave her while he went thither forassistance, yet knew not how otherwise toobtain it; till a fountain at no great distancecaught his eye, and he endeavoured to supportEmily against the tree, under which she hadbeen sitting, while he went thither for water. Butagain he was perplexed, for he had nothingnear him, in which water could be brought; butwhile, with increased anxiety, he watched her,he thought he perceived in her countenancesymptoms of returning life.

It was long, however, before she revived, andthen she found herself supported—not by theCount, but by Valancourt, who was observingher with looks of earnest apprehension, andwho now spoke to her in a tone, tremulous withhis anxiety. At the sound of his well-known

voice, she raised her eyes, but presently closedthem, and a faintness again came over her.

The Count, with a look somewhat stern,waved him to withdraw; but he only sighedheavily, and called on the name of Emily, as heagain held the water, that had been brought, toher lips. On the Count's repeating his action,and accompanying it with words, Valancourtanswered him with a look of deep resentment,and refused to leave the place, till she shouldrevive, or to resign her for a moment to the careof any person. In the next instant, hisconscience seemed to inform him of what hadbeen the subject of the Count's conversationwith Emily, and indignation flashed in his eyes;but it was quickly repressed, and succeeded byan expression of serious anguish, that inducedthe Count to regard him with more pity thanresentment, and the view of which so muchaffected Emily, when she again revived, thatshe yielded to the weakness of tears. But shesoon restrained them, and, exerting herresolution to appear recovered, she rose,thanked the Count and Henri, with whomValancourt had entered the garden, for theircare, and moved towards the chateau, withoutnoticing Valancourt, who, heart-struck by hermanner, exclaimed in a low voice—'Good God!how have I deserved this?—what has beensaid, to occasion this change?'

Emily, without replying, but with increasedemotion, quickened her steps. 'What has thusdisordered you, Emily?' said he, as he stillwalked by her side: 'give me a few moments'conversation, I entreat you;—I am very

miserable!'

Though this was spoken in a low voice, it wasoverheard by the Count, who immediatelyreplied, that Mademoiselle St. Aubert was thentoo much indisposed, to attend to anyconversation, but that he would venture topromise she would see Monsieur Valancourt onthe morrow, if she was better.

Valancourt's cheek was crimsoned: helooked haughtily at the Count, and then at Emily,with successive expressions of surprise, griefand supplication, which she could neithermisunderstand, or resist, and she said languidly—'I shall be better tomorrow, and if you wish toaccept the Count's permission, I will see youthen.'

'See me!' exclaimed Valancourt, as he threwa glance of mingled pride and resentment uponthe Count; and then, seeming to recollecthimself, he added—'But I will come, madam; Iwill accept the Count's PERMISSION.'

When they reached the door of the chateau,he lingered a moment, for his resentment wasnow fled; and then, with a look so expressive oftenderness and grief, that Emily's heart was notproof against it, he bade her good morning,and, bowing slightly to the Count, disappeared.

Emily withdrew to her own apartment, undersuch oppression of heart as she had seldomknown, when she endeavoured to recollect allthat the Count had told, to examine theprobability of the circumstances he himselfbelieved, and to consider of her future conduct

towards Valancourt. But, when she attempted tothink, her mind refused controul, and she couldonly feel that she was miserable. One moment,she sunk under the conviction, that Valancourtwas no longer the same, whom she had sotenderly loved, the idea of whom had hithertosupported her under affliction, and cheered herwith the hope of happier days,—but a fallen, aworthless character, whom she must teachherself to despise—if she could not forget.Then, unable to endure this terrible supposition,she rejected it, and disdained to believe himcapable of conduct, such as the Count haddescribed, to whom she believed he had beenmisrepresented by some artful enemy; andthere were moments, when she even venturedto doubt the integrity of the Count himself, andto suspect, that he was influenced by someselfish motive, to break her connection withValancourt. But this was the error of an instant,only; the Count's character, which she hadheard spoken of by Du Pont and many otherpersons, and had herself observed, enabledher to judge, and forbade the supposition; hadher confidence, indeed, been less, thereappeared to be no temptation to betray him intoconduct so treacherous, and so cruel. Nor didreflection suffer her to preserve the hope, thatValancourt had been mis-represented to theCount, who had said, that he spoke chiefly fromhis own observation, and from his son'sexperience. She must part from Valancourt,therefore, for ever—for what of either happinessor tranquillity could she expect with a man,whose tastes were degenerated into lowinclinations, and to whom vice was become

habitual? whom she must no longer esteem,though the remembrance of what he once was,and the long habit of loving him, would render itvery difficult for her to despise him. 'OValancourt!' she would exclaim, 'having beenseparated so long—do we meet, only to bemiserable—only to part for ever?'

Amidst all the tumult of her mind, sheremembered pertinaciously the seemingcandour and simplicity of his conduct, on thepreceding night; and, had she dared to trust herown heart, it would have led her to hope muchfrom this. Still she could not resolve to dismisshim for ever, without obtaining further proof ofhis ill conduct; yet she saw no probability ofprocuring it, if, indeed, proof more positive waspossible. Something, however, it wasnecessary to decide upon, and she almostdetermined to be guided in her opinion solelyby the manner, with which Valancourt shouldreceive her hints concerning his late conduct.

Thus passed the hours till dinner-time, whenEmily, struggling against the pressure of hergrief, dried her tears, and joined the family attable, where the Count preserved towards herthe most delicate attention; but the Countessand Mademoiselle Bearn, having looked, for amoment, with surprise, on her dejectedcountenance, began, as usual, to talk of trifles,while the eyes of Lady Blanche asked much ofher friend, who could only reply by a mournfulsmile.

Emily withdrew as soon after dinner aspossible, and was followed by the Lady

Blanche, whose anxious enquiries, however,she found herself quite unequal to answer, andwhom she entreated to spare her on the subjectof her distress. To converse on any topic, wasnow, indeed, so extremely painful to her, thatshe soon gave up the attempt, and Blanche lefther, with pity of the sorrow, which she perceivedshe had no power to assuage.

Emily secretly determined to go to herconvent in a day or two; for company, especiallythat of the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn,was intolerable to her, in the present state ofher spirits; and, in the retirement of the convent,as well as the kindness of the abbess, shehoped to recover the command of her mind,and to teach it resignation to the event, which,she too plainly perceived, was approaching.

To have lost Valancourt by death, or to haveseen him married to a rival, would, she thought,have given her less anguish, than a convictionof his unworthiness, which must terminate inmisery to himself, and which robbed her even ofthe solitary image her heart so long hadcherished. These painful reflections wereinterrupted, for a moment, by a note fromValancourt, written in evident distraction ofmind, entreating, that she would permit him tosee her on the approaching evening, instead ofthe following morning; a request, whichoccasioned her so much agitation, that she wasunable to answer it. She wished to see him, andto terminate her present state of suspense, yetshrunk from the interview, and, incapable ofdeciding for herself, she, at length, sent to bega few moments' conversation with the Count in

his library, where she delivered to him the note,and requested his advice. After reading it, hesaid, that, if she believed herself well enough tosupport the interview, his opinion was, that, forthe relief of both parties, it ought to take place,that evening.

'His affection for you is, undoubtedly, a verysincere one,' added the Count; 'and he appearsso much distressed, and you, my amiablefriend, are so ill at ease—that the sooner theaffair is decided, the better.'

Emily replied, therefore, to Valancourt, thatshe would see him, and then exerted herself inendeavours to attain fortitude and composure,to bear her through the approaching scene—ascene so afflictingly the reverse of any, to whichshe had looked forward!

VOLUME 4

CHAPTER I Is all the council that we two have shared, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us—Oh! and is all forgot?

And will you rend our ancient love asunder? MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

In the evening, when Emily was at lengthinformed, that Count De Villefort requested tosee her, she guessed that Valancourt wasbelow, and, endeavouring to assumecomposure and to recollect all her spirits, sherose and left the apartment; but on reaching thedoor of the library, where she imagined him tobe, her emotion returned with such energy, that,fearing to trust herself in the room, she returnedinto the hall, where she continued for aconsiderable time, unable to command heragitated spirits.

When she could recall them, she found in thelibrary Valancourt, seated with the Count, whoboth rose on her entrance; but she did not dareto look at Valancourt, and the Count, having ledher to a chair, immediately withdrew.

Emily remained with her eyes fixed on thefloor, under such oppression of heart, that shecould not speak, and with difficulty breathed;while Valancourt threw himself into a chairbeside her, and, sighing heavily, continuedsilent, when, had she raised her eyes, shewould have perceived the violent emotions, with

which he was agitated.

At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, 'Ihave solicited to see you this evening, that Imight, at least, be spared the further torture ofsuspense, which your altered manner hadoccasioned me, and which the hints I have justreceived from the Count have in part explained.I perceive I have enemies, Emily, who enviedme my late happiness, and who have beenbusy in searching out the means to destroy it: Iperceive, too, that time and absence haveweakened the affection you once felt for me,and that you can now easily be taught to forgetme.'

His last words faltered, and Emily, less ableto speak than before, continued silent.

'O what a meeting is this!' exclaimedValancourt, starting from his seat, and pacingthe room with hurried steps, 'what a meeting isthis, after our long—long separation!' Again hesat down, and, after the struggle of a moment,he added in a firm but despairing tone, 'This istoo much—I cannot bear it! Emily, will you notspeak to me?'

He covered his face with his hand, as if toconceal his emotion, and took Emily's, whichshe did not withdraw. Her tears could no longerbe restrained; and, when he raised his eyesand perceived that she was weeping, all histenderness returned, and a gleam of hopeappeared to cross his mind, for he exclaimed,'O! you do pity me, then, you do love me! Yes,you are still my own Emily—let me believethose tears, that tell me so!'

those tears, that tell me so!'

Emily now made an effort to recover herfirmness, and, hastily drying them, 'Yes,' saidshe, 'I do pity you—I weep for you—but, ought Ito think of you with affection? You mayremember, that yester-evening I said, I had stillsufficient confidence in your candour to believe,that, when I should request an explanation ofyour words, you would give it. This explanationis now unnecessary, I understand them too well;but prove, at least, that your candour isdeserving of the confidence I give it, when I askyou, whether you are conscious of being thesame estimable Valancourt—whom I onceloved.'

'Once loved!' cried he,—'the same—thesame!' He paused in extreme emotion, andthen added, in a voice at once solemn, anddejected,—'No—I am not the same!—I am lost—I am no longer worthy of you!'

He again concealed his face. Emily was toomuch affected by this honest confession to replyimmediately, and, while she struggled toovercome the pleadings of her heart, and to actwith the decisive firmness, which wasnecessary for her future peace, she perceivedall the danger of trusting long to her resolution,in the presence of Valancourt, and was anxiousto conclude an interview, that tortured themboth; yet, when she considered, that this wasprobably their last meeting, her fortitude sunk atonce, and she experienced only emotions oftenderness and of despondency.

Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of

remorse and grief, which he had neither thepower, or the will to express, sat insensiblealmost of the presence of Emily, his featuresstill concealed, and his breast agitated byconvulsive sighs.

'Spare me the necessity,' said Emily,recollecting her fortitude, 'spare me thenecessity of mentioning those circumstances ofyour conduct, which oblige me to break ourconnection forever.—We must part, I now seeyou for the last time.'

'Impossible!' cried Valancourt, roused fromhis deep silence, 'You cannot mean what yousay!—you cannot mean to throw me from youforever!'

'We must part,' repeated Emily, withemphasis,—'and that forever! Your own conducthas made this necessary.'

'This is the Count's determination,' said hehaughtily, 'not yours, and I shall enquire by whatauthority he interferes between us.' He nowrose, and walked about the room in greatemotion.

'Let me save you from this error,' said Emily,not less agitated—'it is my determination, and,if you reflect a moment on your late conduct, youwill perceive, that my future peace requires it.'

'Your future peace requires, that we shouldpart—part forever!' said Valancourt, 'How littledid I ever expect to hear you say so!'

'And how little did I expect, that it would benecessary for me to say so!' rejoined Emily,

while her voice softened into tenderness, andher tears flowed again.—'That you—you,Valancourt, would ever fall from my esteem!'

He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmedby the consciousness of no longer deservingthis esteem, as well as the certainty of havinglost it, and then, with impassioned grief,lamented the criminality of his late conduct andthe misery to which it had reduced him, till,overcome by a recollection of the past and aconviction of the future, he burst into tears, anduttered only deep and broken sighs.

The remorse he had expressed, and thedistress he suffered could not be witnessed byEmily with indifference, and, had she not calledto her recollection all the circumstances, ofwhich Count De Villefort had informed her, andall he had said of the danger of confiding inrepentance, formed under the influence ofpassion, she might perhaps have trusted to theassurances of her heart, and have forgotten hismisconduct in the tenderness, which thatrepentance excited.

Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her,at length, said, in a calm voice, ''Tis true, I amfallen—fallen from my own esteem! but couldyou, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if youhad not before ceased to love me, or, if yourconduct was not governed by the designs, I willsay, the selfish designs of another person!Would you not otherwise be willing to hope formy reformation—and could you bear, byestranging me from you, to abandon me tomisery—to myself!'—Emily wept aloud.—'No,

Emily—no—you would not do this, if you stillloved me. You would find your own happiness insaving mine.'

'There are too many probabilities against thathope,' said Emily, 'to justify me in trusting thecomfort of my whole life to it. May I not also ask,whether you could wish me to do this, if youreally loved me?'

'Really loved you!' exclaimed Valancourt—'isit possible you can doubt my love! Yet it isreasonable, that you should do so, since yousee, that I am less ready to suffer the horror ofparting with you, than that of involving you in myruin. Yes, Emily—I am ruined—irreparablyruined—I am involved in debts, which I cannever discharge!' Valancourt's look, which waswild, as he spoke this, soon settled into anexpression of gloomy despair; and Emily, whileshe was compelled to admire his sincerity, saw,with unutterable anguish, new reasons for fearin the suddenness of his feelings and the extentof the misery, in which they might involve him.After some minutes, she seemed to contendagainst her grief and to struggle for fortitude toconclude the interview. 'I will not prolong thesemoments,' said she, 'by a conversation, whichcan answer no good purpose. Valancourt,farewell!'

'You are not going?' said he, wildlyinterrupting her—'You will not leave me thus—you will not abandon me even before my mindhas suggested any possibility of compromisebetween the last indulgence of my despair andthe endurance of my loss!' Emily was terrified

by the sternness of his look, and said, in asoothing voice, 'You have yourselfacknowledged, that it is necessary we shouldpart;—if you wish, that I should believe you loveme, you will repeat theacknowledgment.'—'Never—never,' cried he—'Iwas distracted when I made it. O! Emily—this istoo much;—though you are not deceived as tomy faults, you must be deluded into thisexasperation against them. The Count is thebarrier between us; but he shall not long remainso.'

'You are, indeed, distracted,' said Emily, 'theCount is not your enemy; on the contrary, he ismy friend, and that might, in some degree,induce you to consider him as yours.'—'Yourfriend!' said Valancourt, hastily, 'how long hashe been your friend, that he can so easily makeyou forget your lover? Was it he, whorecommended to your favour the Monsieur DuPont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy,and who, I say, has stolen your affections? But Ihave no right to question you;—you are yourown mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not longtriumph over my fallen fortunes!' Emily, morefrightened than before by the frantic looks ofValancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible,'For heaven's sake be reasonable—becomposed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival,nor is the Count his advocate. You have no rival;nor, except yourself, an enemy. My heart iswrung with anguish, which must increase whileyour frantic behaviour shews me, more thanever, that you are no longer the Valancourt Ihave been accustomed to love.'

He made no reply, but sat with his armsrested on the table and his face concealed byhis hands; while Emily stood, silent andtrembling, wretched for herself and dreading toleave him in this state of mind.

'O excess of misery!' he suddenly exclaimed,'that I can never lament my sufferings, withoutaccusing myself, nor remember you, withoutrecollecting the folly and the vice, by which Ihave lost you! Why was I forced to Paris, andwhy did I yield to allurements, which were tomake me despicable for ever! O! why cannot Ilook back, without interruption, to those days ofinnocence and peace, the days of our earlylove!'—The recollection seemed to melt hisheart, and the frenzy of despair yielded to tears.After a long pause, turning towards her andtaking her hand, he said, in a softened voice,'Emily, can you bear that we should part—canyou resolve to give up an heart, that loves youlike mine—an heart, which, though it has erred—widely erred, is not irretrievable from error,as, you well know, it never can be retrievablefrom love?' Emily made no reply, but with hertears. 'Can you,' continued he, 'can you forgetall our former days of happiness andconfidence—when I had not a thought, that Imight wish to conceal from you—when I had notaste—no pleasures, in which you did notparticipate?'

'O do not lead me to the remembrance ofthose days,' said Emily, 'unless you can teachme to forget the present; I do not mean toreproach you; if I did, I should be spared thesetears; but why will you render your present

sufferings more conspicuous, by contrastingthem with your former virtues?'

'Those virtues,' said Valancourt, 'might,perhaps, again be mine, if your affection, whichnurtured them, was unchanged;—but I fear,indeed, I see, that you can no longer love me;else the happy hours, which we have passedtogether, would plead for me, and you could notlook back upon them unmoved. Yet, why shouldI torture myself with the remembrance—why do Ilinger here? Am I not ruined—would it not bemadness to involve you in my misfortunes, evenif your heart was still my own? I will not distressyou further. Yet, before I go,' added he, in asolemn voice, 'let me repeat, that, whatevermay be my destiny—whatever I may bedoomed to suffer, I must always love you—mostfondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am going toleave you—to leave you, forever!' As he spokethe last words, his voice trembled, and he threwhimself again into the chair, from which he hadrisen. Emily was utterly unable to leave theroom, or to say farewell. All impression of hiscriminal conduct and almost of his follies wasobliterated from her mind, and she wassensible only of pity and grief.

'My fortitude is gone,' said Valancourt atlength; 'I can no longer even struggle to recall it.I cannot now leave you—I cannot bid you aneternal farewell; say, at least, that you will seeme once again.' Emily's heart was somewhatrelieved by the request, and she endeavouredto believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yetshe was embarrassed by recollecting, that shewas a visitor in the house of the Count, who

could not be pleased by the return ofValancourt. Other considerations, however,soon overcame this, and she granted hisrequest, on the condition, that he would neitherthink of the Count, as his enemy, nor Du Pontas his rival. He then left her, with a heart, somuch lightened by this short respite, that healmost lost every former sense of misfortune.

Emily withdrew to her own room, that shemight compose her spirits and remove thetraces of her tears, which would encourage thecensorious remarks of the Countess and herfavourite, as well as excite the curiosity of therest of the family. She found it, however,impossible to tranquillize her mind, from whichshe could not expel the remembrance of thelate scene with Valancourt, or theconsciousness, that she was to see him again,on the morrow. This meeting now appearedmore terrible to her than the last, for theingenuous confession he had made of his illconduct and his embarrassed circumstances,with the strength and tenderness of affection,which this confession discovered, had deeplyimpressed her, and, in spite of all she hadheard and believed to his disadvantage, heresteem began to return. It frequently appearedto her impossible, that he could have beenguilty of the depravities, reported of him, which,if not inconsistent with his warmth andimpetuosity, were entirely so with his candourand sensibility. Whatever was the criminality,which had given rise to the reports, she couldnot now believe them to be wholly true, nor thathis heart was finally closed against the charms

of virtue. The deep consciousness, which he feltas well as expressed of his errors, seemed tojustify the opinion; and, as she understood notthe instability of youthful dispositions, whenopposed by habit, and that professionsfrequently deceive those, who make, as well asthose, who hear them, she might have yieldedto the flattering persuasions of her own heartand the pleadings of Valancourt, had she notbeen guided by the superior prudence of theCount. He represented to her, in a clear light,the danger of her present situation, that oflistening to promises of amendment, madeunder the influence of strong passion, and theslight hope, which could attach to a connection,whose chance of happiness rested upon theretrieval of ruined circumstances and the reformof corrupted habits. On these accounts, helamented, that Emily had consented to asecond interview, for he saw how much it wouldshake her resolution and increase the difficultyof her conquest.

Her mind was now so entirely occupied bynearer interests, that she forgot the oldhousekeeper and the promised history, whichso lately had excited her curiosity, but whichDorothee was probably not very anxious todisclose, for night came; the hours passed; andshe did not appear in Emily's chamber. With thelatter it was a sleepless and dismal night; themore she suffered her memory to dwell on thelate scenes with Valancourt, the more herresolution declined, and she was obliged torecollect all the arguments, which the Count hadmade use of to strengthen it, and all the

precepts, which she had received from herdeceased father, on the subject of self-command, to enable her to act, with prudenceand dignity, on this the most severe occasion ofher life. There were moments, when all herfortitude forsook her, and when, rememberingthe confidence of former times, she thought itimpossible, that she could renounceValancourt. His reformation then appearedcertain; the arguments of Count De Villefortwere forgotten; she readily believed all shewished, and was willing to encounter any evil,rather than that of an immediate separation.

Thus passed the night in ineffectual strugglesbetween affection and reason, and she rose, inthe morning, with a mind, weakened andirresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness.

CHAPTER II Come, weep with me;—past hope, past cure, past help! ROMEO AND JULIET

Valancourt, meanwhile, suffered the torturesof remorse and despair. The sight of Emily hadrenewed all the ardour, with which he first lovedher, and which had suffered a temporaryabatement from absence and the passingscenes of busy life. When, on the receipt of herletter, he set out for Languedoc, he then knew,that his own folly had involved him in ruin, and itwas no part of his design to conceal this fromher. But he lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct must give to their marriage, and did notforesee, that the information could induce her tobreak their connection forever. While theprospect of this separation overwhelmed hismind, before stung with self-reproach, heawaited their second interview, in a state littleshort of distraction, yet was still inclined tohope, that his pleadings might prevail upon hernot to exact it. In the morning, he sent to know atwhat hour she would see him; and his notearrived, when she was with the Count, who hadsought an opportunity of again conversing withher of Valancourt; for he perceived the extremedistress of her mind, and feared, more thanever, that her fortitude would desert her. Emilyhaving dismissed the messenger, the Countreturned to the subject of their late conversation,urging his fear of Valancourt's entreaties, andagain pointing out to her the lengthened misery,that must ensue, if she should refuse to

that must ensue, if she should refuse toencounter some present uneasiness. Hisrepeated arguments could, indeed, alone haveprotected her from the affection she still felt forValancourt, and she resolved to be governed bythem.

The hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emilywent to it, at least, with composure of manner,but Valancourt was so much agitated, that hecould not speak, for several minutes, and hisfirst words were alternately those oflamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach.Afterward, he said, 'Emily, I have loved you—Ido love you, better than my life; but I am ruinedby my own conduct. Yet I would seek toentangle you in a connection, that must bemiserable for you, rather than subject myself tothe punishment, which is my due, the loss ofyou. I am a wretch, but I will be a villain nolonger.—I will not endeavour to shake yourresolution by the pleadings of a selfish passion.I resign you, Emily, and will endeavour to findconsolation in considering, that, though I ammiserable, you, at least, may be happy. Themerit of the sacrifice is, indeed, not my own, forI should never have attained strength of mind tosurrender you, if your prudence had notdemanded it.'

He paused a moment, while Emily attemptedto conceal the tears, which came to her eyes.She would have said, 'You speak now, as youwere wont to do,' but she checked herself.—'Forgive me, Emily,' said he, 'all the sufferingsI have occasioned you, and, sometimes, whenyou think of the wretched Valancourt,remember, that his only consolation would be to

believe, that you are no longer unhappy by hisfolly.' The tears now fell fast upon her cheek,and he was relapsing into the phrensy ofdespair, when Emily endeavoured to recall herfortitude and to terminate an interview, whichonly seemed to increase the distress of both.Perceiving her tears and that she was rising togo, Valancourt struggled, once more, toovercome his own feelings and to sooth hers.'The remembrance of this sorrow,' said he,'shall in future be my protection. O! never againwill example, or temptation have power toseduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by therecollection of your grief for me.'

Emily was somewhat comforted by thisassurance. 'We are now parting for ever,' saidshe; 'but, if my happiness is dear to you, you willalways remember, that nothing can contribute toit more, than to believe, that you have recoveredyour own esteem.' Valancourt took her hand;—his eyes were covered with tears, and thefarewell he would have spoken was lost insighs. After a few moments, Emily said, withdifficulty and emotion, 'Farewell, Valancourt,may you be happy!' She repeated her 'farewell,'and attempted to withdraw her hand, but he stillheld it and bathed it with his tears. 'Why prolongthese moments?' said Emily, in a voicescarcely audible, 'they are too painful to usboth.' 'This is too—too much,' exclaimedValancourt, resigning her hand and throwinghimself into a chair, where he covered his facewith his hands and was overcome, for somemoments, by convulsive sighs. After a longpause, during which Emily wept in silence, and

Valancourt seemed struggling with his grief,she again rose to take leave of him. Then,endeavouring to recover his composure, 'I amagain afflicting you,' said he, 'but let the anguishI suffer plead for me.' He then added, in asolemn voice, which frequently trembled withthe agitation of his heart, 'Farewell, Emily, youwill always be the only object of my tenderness.Sometimes you will think of the unhappyValancourt, and it will be with pity, though it maynot be with esteem. O! what is the whole worldto me, without you—without your esteem!' Hechecked himself—'I am falling again into theerror I have just lamented. I must not intrudelonger upon your patience, or I shall relapse intodespair.'

He once more bade Emily adieu, pressedher hand to his lips, looked at her, for the lasttime, and hurried out of the room.

Emily remained in the chair, where he had lefther, oppressed with a pain at her heart, whichscarcely permitted her to breathe, and listeningto his departing steps, sinking fainter andfainter, as he crossed the hall. She was, atlength, roused by the voice of the Countess inthe garden, and, her attention being thenawakened, the first object, which struck hersight, was the vacant chair, where Valancourthad sat. The tears, which had been, for sometime, repressed by the kind of astonishment,that followed his departure, now came to herrelief, and she was, at length, sufficientlycomposed to return to her own room.

CHAPTER III This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes! SHAKESPEARE

We now return to the mention of Montoni,whose rage and disappointment were soon lostin nearer interests, than any, which the unhappyEmily had awakened. His depredations havingexceeded their usual limits, and reached anextent, at which neither the timidity of the thencommercial senate of Venice, nor their hope ofhis occasional assistance would permit them toconnive, the same effort, it was resolved, shouldcomplete the suppression of his power and thecorrection of his outrages. While a corps ofconsiderable strength was upon the point ofreceiving orders to march for Udolpho, a youngofficer, prompted partly by resentment, forsome injury, received from Montoni, and partlyby the hope of distinction, solicited an interviewwith the Minister, who directed the enterprise.To him he represented, that the situation ofUdolpho rendered it too strong to be taken byopen force, except after some tediousoperations; that Montoni had lately shewn howcapable he was of adding to its strength all theadvantages, which could be derived from theskill of a commander; that so considerable abody of troops, as that allotted to theexpedition, could not approach Udolpho withouthis knowledge, and that it was not for thehonour of the republic to have a large part of itsregular force employed, for such a time as the

siege of Udolpho would require, upon the attackof a handful of banditti. The object of theexpedition, he thought, might be accomplishedmuch more safely and speedily by minglingcontrivance with force. It was possible to meetMontoni and his party, without their walls, and toattack them then; or, by approaching thefortress, with the secrecy, consistent with themarch of smaller bodies of troops, to takeadvantage either of the treachery, or negligenceof some of his party, and to rush unexpectedlyupon the whole even in the castle of Udolpho.

This advice was seriously attended to, andthe officer, who gave it, received the commandof the troops, demanded for his purpose. Hisfirst efforts were accordingly those ofcontrivance alone. In the neighbourhood ofUdolpho, he waited, till he had secured theassistance of several of the condottieri, ofwhom he found none, that he addressed,unwilling to punish their imperious master andto secure their own pardon from the senate. Helearned also the number of Montoni's troops,and that it had been much increased, since hislate successes. The conclusion of his plan wassoon effected. Having returned with his party,who received the watch-word and otherassistance from their friends within, Montoniand his officers were surprised by one division,who had been directed to their apartment, whilethe other maintained the slight combat, whichpreceded the surrender of the whole garrison.Among the persons, seized with Montoni, wasOrsino, the assassin, who had joined him on hisfirst arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment

had been made known to the senate by CountMorano, after the unsuccessful attempt of thelatter to carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly forthe purpose of capturing this man, by whom oneof the senate had been murdered, that theexpedition was undertaken, and its successwas so acceptable to them, that Morano wasinstantly released, notwithstanding the politicalsuspicions, which Montoni, by his secretaccusation, had excited against him. Thecelerity and ease, with which this wholetransaction was completed, prevented it fromattracting curiosity, or even from obtaining aplace in any of the published records of thattime; so that Emily, who remained inLanguedoc, was ignorant of the defeat andsignal humiliation of her late persecutor.

Her mind was now occupied with sufferings,which no effort of reason had yet been able tocontroul. Count De Villefort, who sincerelyattempted whatever benevolence could suggestfor softening them, sometimes allowed her thesolitude she wished for, sometimes led her intofriendly parties, and constantly protected her, asmuch as possible, from the shrewd enquiriesand critical conversation of the Countess. Heoften invited her to make excursions, with himand his daughter, during which he conversedentirely on questions, suitable to her taste,without appearing to consult it, and thusendeavoured gradually to withdraw her from thesubject of her grief, and to awake otherinterests in her mind. Emily, to whom heappeared as the enlightened friend andprotector of her youth, soon felt for him the

tender affection of a daughter, and her heartexpanded to her young friend Blanche, as to asister, whose kindness and simplicitycompensated for the want of more brilliantqualities. It was long before she couldsufficiently abstract her mind from Valancourt tolisten to the story, promised by old Dorothee,concerning which her curiosity had once beenso deeply interested; but Dorothee, at length,reminded her of it, and Emily desired, that shewould come, that night, to her chamber.

Still her thoughts were employed byconsiderations, which weakened her curiosity,and Dorothee's tap at the door, soon aftertwelve, surprised her almost as much as if ithad not been appointed. 'I am come, at last,lady,' said she; 'I wonder what it is makes myold limbs shake so, to-night. I thought, once ortwice, I should have dropped, as I was a-coming.' Emily seated her in a chair, anddesired, that she would compose her spirits,before she entered upon the subject, that hadbrought her thither. 'Alas,' said Dorothee, 'it isthinking of that, I believe, which has disturbedme so. In my way hither too, I passed thechamber, where my dear lady died, and everything was so still and gloomy about me, that Ialmost fancied I saw her, as she appearedupon her death-bed.'

Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothee,who went on. 'It is about twenty years since mylady Marchioness came a bride to the chateau.O! I well remember how she looked, when shecame into the great hall, where we servantswere all assembled to welcome her, and how

happy my lord the Marquis seemed. Ah! whowould have thought then!—But, as I was saying,ma'amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with allher sweet looks, did not look happy at heart,and so I told my husband, and he said it was allfancy; so I said no more, but I made myremarks, for all that. My lady Marchioness wasthen about your age, and, as I have oftenthought, very like you. Well! my lord the Marquiskept open house, for a long time, and gavesuch entertainments and there were such gaydoings as have never been in the chateausince. I was younger, ma'amselle, then, than Iam now, and was as gay at the best of them. Iremember I danced with Philip, the butler, in apink gown, with yellow ribbons, and a coif, notsuch as they wear now, but plaited high, withribbons all about it. It was very becoming truly;—my lord, the Marquis, noticed me. Ah! he wasa good-natured gentleman then—who wouldhave thought that he!'—

'But the Marchioness, Dorothee,' said Emily,'you was telling me of her.'

'O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought shedid not seem happy at heart, and once, soonafter the marriage, I caught her crying in herchamber; but, when she saw me, she dried hereyes, and pretended to smile. I did not darethen to ask what was the matter; but, the nexttime I saw her crying, I did, and she seemeddispleased;—so I said no more. I found out,some time after, how it was. Her father, itseems, had commanded her to marry my lord,the Marquis, for his money, and there wasanother nobleman, or else a chevalier, that she

liked better and that was very fond of her, andshe fretted for the loss of him, I fancy, but shenever told me so. My lady always tried toconceal her tears from the Marquis, for I haveoften seen her, after she has been so sorrowful,look so calm and sweet, when he came into theroom! But my lord, all of a sudden, grew gloomyand fretful, and very unkind sometimes to mylady. This afflicted her very much, as I saw, forshe never complained, and she used to try sosweetly to oblige him and to bring him into agood humour, that my heart has often ached tosee it. But he used to be stubborn, and give herharsh answers, and then, when she found it allin vain, she would go to her own room, and cryso! I used to hear her in the anti-room, poordear lady! but I seldom ventured to go to her. Iused, sometimes, to think my lord was jealous.To be sure my lady was greatly admired, butshe was too good to deserve suspicion. Amongthe many chevaliers, that visited at the chateau,there was one, that I always thought seemedjust suited for my lady; he was so courteous, yetso spirited, and there was such a grace, as itwere, in all he did, or said. I always observed,that, whenever he had been there, the Marquiswas more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful,and it came into my head, that this was thechevalier she ought to have married, but I nevercould learn for certain.'

'What was the chevalier's name, Dorothee?'said Emily.

'Why that I will not tell even to you,ma'amselle, for evil may come of it. I onceheard from a person, who is since dead, that

the Marchioness was not in law the wife of theMarquis, for that she had before been privatelymarried to the gentleman she was so muchattached to, and was afterwards afraid to own itto her father, who was a very stern man; but thisseems very unlikely, and I never gave much faithto it. As I was saying, the Marquis was most outof humour, as I thought, when the chevalier Ispoke of had been at the chateau, and, at last,his ill treatment of my lady made her quitemiserable. He would see hardly any visitors atthe castle, and made her live almost by herself. Iwas her constant attendant, and saw all shesuffered, but still she never complained.

'After matters had gone on thus, for near ayear, my lady was taken ill, and I thought herlong fretting had made her so,—but, alas! I fearit was worse than that.'

'Worse! Dorothee,' said Emily, 'can that bepossible?'

'I fear it was so, madam, there were strangeappearances. But I will only tell what happened.My lord, the Marquis—'

'Hush, Dorothee, what sounds were those?'said Emily.

Dorothee changed countenance, and, whilethey both listened, they heard, on the stillness ofthe night, music of uncommon sweetness.

'I have surely heard that voice before!' saidEmily, at length.

'I have often heard it, and at this same hour,'said Dorothee, solemnly, 'and, if spirits ever

bring music—that is surely the music of one!'

Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew themto be the same she had formerly heard at thetime of her father's death, and, whether it wasthe remembrance they now revived of thatmelancholy event, or that she was struck withsuperstitious awe, it is certain she was so muchaffected, that she had nearly fainted.

'I think I once told you, madam,' saidDorothee, 'that I first heard this music, soonafter my lady's death! I well remember thenight!'— 'Hark! it comes again!' said Emily, 'letus open the window, and listen.'

They did so; but, soon, the sounds floatedgradually away into distance, and all was againstill; they seemed to have sunk among thewoods, whose tufted tops were visible upon theclear horizon, while every other feature of thescene was involved in the night-shade, which,however, allowed the eye an indistinct view ofsome objects in the garden below.

As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with akind of thrilling awe upon the obscurity beneath,and then upon the cloudless arch above,enlightened only by the stars, Dorothee, in a lowvoice, resumed her narrative.

'I was saying, ma'amselle, that I wellremember when first I heard that music. It wasone night, soon after my lady's death, that I hadsat up later than usual, and I don't know how itwas, but I had been thinking a great deal aboutmy poor mistress, and of the sad scene I hadlately witnessed. The chateau was quite still,

and I was in the chamber at a good distancefrom the rest of the servants, and this, with themournful things I had been thinking of, Isuppose, made me low spirited, for I felt verylonely and forlorn, as it were, and listened often,wishing to hear a sound in the chateau, for youknow, ma'amselle, when one can hear peoplemoving, one does not so much mind, aboutone's fears. But all the servants were gone tobed, and I sat, thinking and thinking, till I wasalmost afraid to look round the room, and mypoor lady's countenance often came to mymind, such as I had seen her when she wasdying, and, once or twice, I almost thought I sawher before me,—when suddenly I heard suchsweet music! It seemed just at my window, and Ishall never forget what I felt. I had not power tomove from my chair, but then, when I thought itwas my dear lady's voice, the tears came to myeyes. I had often heard her sing, in her life-time,and to be sure she had a very fine voice; it hadmade me cry to hear her, many a time, whenshe has sat in her oriel, of an evening, playingupon her lute such sad songs, and singing so.O! it went to one's heart! I have listened in theanti-chamber, for the hour together, and shewould sometimes sit playing, with the windowopen, when it was summer time, till it was quitedark, and when I have gone in, to shut it, shehas hardly seemed to know what hour it was.But, as I said, madam,' continued Dorothee,'when first I heard the music, that came just now,I thought it was my late lady's, and I have oftenthought so again, when I have heard it, as I havedone at intervals, ever since. Sometimes, manymonths have gone by, but still it has returned.'

'It is extraordinary,' observed Emily, 'that noperson has yet discovered the musician.'

'Aye, ma'amselle, if it had been any thingearthly it would have been discovered long ago,but who could have courage to follow a spirit,and if they had, what good could it do?—forspirits, YOU KNOW, ma'am, can take anyshape, or no shape, and they will be here, oneminute, and, the next perhaps, in a quitedifferent place!'

'Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,'said Emily, 'and acquaint me with the manner ofher death.'

'I will, ma'am,' said Dorothee, 'but shall weleave the window?'

'This cool air refreshes me,' replied Emily,'and I love to hear it creep along the woods, andto look upon this dusky landscape. You wasspeaking of my lord, the Marquis, when themusic interrupted us.'

'Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, becamemore and more gloomy; and my lady grewworse and worse, till, one night, she was takenvery ill, indeed. I was called up, and, when Icame to her bedside, I was shocked to see hercountenance—it was so changed! She lookedpiteously up at me, and desired I would call theMarquis again, for he was not yet come, and tellhim she had something particular to say to him.At last, he came, and he did, to be sure, seemvery sorry to see her, but he said very little. Mylady told him she felt herself to be dying, andwished to speak with him alone, and then I left

the room, but I shall never forget his look as Iwent.'

'When I returned, I ventured to remind my lordabout sending for a doctor, for I supposed hehad forgot to do so, in his grief; but my lady saidit was then too late; but my lord, so far fromthinking so, seemed to think light of herdisorder—till she was seized with such terriblepains! O, I never shall forget her shriek! My lordthen sent off a man and horse for the doctor,and walked about the room and all over thechateau in the greatest distress; and I staid bymy dear lady, and did what I could to ease hersufferings. She had intervals of ease, and inone of these she sent for my lord again; whenhe came, I was going, but she desired I wouldnot leave her. O! I shall never forget what ascene passed—I can hardly bear to think of itnow! My lord was almost distracted, for my ladybehaved with so much goodness, and tooksuch pains to comfort him, that, if he ever hadsuffered a suspicion to enter his head, he mustnow have been convinced he was wrong. Andto be sure he did seem to be overwhelmed withthe thought of his treatment of her, and thisaffected her so much, that she fainted away.

'We then got my lord out of the room; he wentinto his library, and threw himself on the floor,and there he staid, and would hear no reason,that was talked to him. When my ladyrecovered, she enquired for him, but,afterwards, said she could not bear to see hisgrief, and desired we would let her die quietly.She died in my arms, ma'amselle, and she wentoff as peacefully as a child, for all the violence

of her disorder was passed.'

Dorothee paused, and wept, and Emily weptwith her; for she was much affected by thegoodness of the late Marchioness, and by themeek patience, with which she had suffered.

'When the doctor came,' resumed Dorothee,'alas! he came too late; he appeared greatlyshocked to see her, for soon after her death afrightful blackness spread all over her face.When he had sent the attendants out of theroom, he asked me several odd questionsabout the Marchioness, particularly concerningthe manner, in which she had been seized, andhe often shook his head at my answers, andseemed to mean more, than he chose to say.But I understood him too well. However, I keptmy remarks to myself, and only told them to myhusband, who bade me hold my tongue. Someof the other servants, however, suspected what Idid, and strange reports were whispered aboutthe neighbourhood, but nobody dared to makeany stir about them. When my lord heard thatmy lady was dead, he shut himself up, andwould see nobody but the doctor, who used tobe with him alone, sometimes for an hourtogether; and, after that, the doctor never talkedwith me again about my lady. When she wasburied in the church of the convent, at a littledistance yonder, if the moon was up you mightsee the towers here, ma'amselle, all my lord'svassals followed the funeral, and there was nota dry eye among them, for she had done a dealof good among the poor. My lord, the Marquis, Inever saw any body so melancholy as he wasafterwards, and sometimes he would be in such

fits of violence, that we almost thought he hadlost his senses. He did not stay long at thechateau, but joined his regiment, and, soonafter, all the servants, except my husband and I,received notice to go, for my lord went to thewars. I never saw him after, for he would notreturn to the chateau, though it is such a fineplace, and never finished those fine rooms hewas building on the west side of it, and it has, ina manner, been shut up ever since, till my lordthe Count came here.'

'The death of the Marchioness appearsextraordinary,' said Emily, who was anxious toknow more than she dared to ask.

'Yes, madam,' replied Dorothee, 'it wasextraordinary; I have told you all I saw, and youmay easily guess what I think, I cannot saymore, because I would not spread reports, thatmight offend my lord the Count.'

'You are very right,' said Emily;—'where didthe Marquis die?'—'In the north of France, Ibelieve, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee. 'I wasvery glad, when I heard my lord the Count wascoming, for this had been a sad desolate place,these many years, and we heard such strangenoises, sometimes, after my lady's death, that,as I told you before, my husband and I left it fora neighbouring cottage. And now, lady, I havetold you all this sad history, and all my thoughts,and you have promised, you know, never togive the least hint about it.'—'I have,' said Emily,'and I will be faithful to my promise, Dorothee;—what you have told has interested me more thanyou can imagine. I only wish I could prevail upon

you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom youthought so deserving of the Marchioness.'

Dorothee, however, steadily refused to dothis, and then returned to the notice of Emily'slikeness to the late Marchioness. 'There isanother picture of her,' added she, 'hanging in aroom of the suite, which was shut up. It wasdrawn, as I have heard, before she wasmarried, and is much more like you than theminiature.' When Emily expressed a strongdesire to see this, Dorothee replied, that shedid not like to open those rooms; but Emilyreminded her, that the Count had talked theother day of ordering them to be opened; ofwhich Dorothee seemed to consider much, andthen she owned, that she should feel less, if shewent into them with Emily first, than otherwise,and at length promised to shew the picture.

The night was too far advanced and Emilywas too much affected by the narrative of thescenes, which had passed in those apartments,to wish to visit them at this hour, but sherequested that Dorothee would return on thefollowing night, when they were not likely to beobserved, and conduct her thither. Besides herwish to examine the portrait, she felt a thrillingcuriosity to see the chamber, in which theMarchioness had died, and which Dorotheehad said remained, with the bed and furniture,just as when the corpse was removed forinterment. The solemn emotions, which theexpectation of viewing such a scene hadawakened, were in unison with the present toneof her mind, depressed by severedisappointment. Cheerful objects rather added

to, than removed this depression; but, perhaps,she yielded too much to her melancholyinclination, and imprudently lamented themisfortune, which no virtue of her own couldhave taught her to avoid, though no effort ofreason could make her look unmoved upon theself-degradation of him, whom she had onceesteemed and loved.

Dorothee promised to return, on the followingnight, with the keys of the chambers, and thenwished Emily good repose, and departed.Emily, however, continued at the window,musing upon the melancholy fate of theMarchioness and listening, in awful expectation,for a return of the music. But the stillness of thenight remained long unbroken, except by themurmuring sounds of the woods, as they wavedin the breeze, and then by the distant bell of theconvent, striking one. She now withdrew fromthe window, and, as she sat at her bed-side,indulging melancholy reveries, which theloneliness of the hour assisted, the stillness wassuddenly interrupted not by music, but by veryuncommon sounds, that seemed to come eitherfrom the room, adjoining her own, or from onebelow. The terrible catastrophe, that had beenrelated to her, together with the mysteriouscircumstances, said to have since occurred inthe chateau, had so much shocked her spirits,that she now sunk, for a moment, under theweakness of superstition. The sounds,however, did not return, and she retired, toforget in sleep the disastrous story she hadheard.

CHAPTER IV Now it is the time of night, That, the graves all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his spite, In the church-way path to glide. SHAKESPEARE

On the next night, about the same hour asbefore, Dorothee came to Emily's chamber,with the keys of that suite of rooms, which hadbeen particularly appropriated to the lateMarchioness. These extended along the northside of the chateau, forming part of the oldbuilding; and, as Emily's room was in the south,they had to pass over a great extent of thecastle, and by the chambers of several of thefamily, whose observations Dorothee wasanxious to avoid, since it might excite enquiry,and raise reports, such as would displease theCount. She, therefore, requested, that Emilywould wait half an hour, before they venturedforth, that they might be certain all the servantswere gone to bed. It was nearly one, before thechateau was perfectly still, or Dorothee thoughtit prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval,her spirits seemed to be greatly affected by theremembrance of past events, and by theprospect of entering again upon places, wherethese had occurred, and in which she had notbeen for so many years. Emily too wasaffected, but her feelings had more ofsolemnity, and less of fear. From the silence,into which reflection and expectation had thrownthem, they, at length, roused themselves, and

left the chamber. Dorothee, at first, carried thelamp, but her hand trembled so much withinfirmity and alarm, that Emily took it from her,and offered her arm, to support her feeblesteps.

They had to descend the great stair-case,and, after passing over a wide extent of thechateau, to ascend another, which led to thesuite of rooms they were in quest of. Theystepped cautiously along the open corridor, thatran round the great hall, and into which thechambers of the Count, Countess, and the LadyBlanche, opened, and, from thence,descending the chief stair-case, they crossedthe hall itself. Proceeding through the servantshall, where the dying embers of a wood fire stillglimmered on the hearth, and the supper tablewas surrounded by chairs, that obstructed theirpassage, they came to the foot of the backstair-case. Old Dorothee here paused, andlooked around; 'Let us listen,' said she, 'if anything is stirring; Ma'amselle, do you hear anyvoice?' 'None,' said Emily, 'there certainly is noperson up in the chateau, besidesourselves.'—'No, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee,'but I have never been here at this hour before,and, after what I know, my fears are notwonderful.'—'What do you know?' said Emily.—'O, ma'amselle, we have no time for talkingnow; let us go on. That door on the left is theone we must open.'

They proceeded, and, having reached the topof the stair-case, Dorothee applied the key tothe lock. 'Ah,' said she, as she endeavoured toturn it, 'so many years have passed since this

was opened, that I fear it will not move.' Emilywas more successful, and they presentlyentered a spacious and ancient chamber.

'Alas!' exclaimed Dorothee, as she entered,'the last time I passed through this door—Ifollowed my poor lady's corpse!'

Emily, struck with the circumstance, andaffected by the dusky and solemn air of theapartment, remained silent, and they passed onthrough a long suite of rooms, till they came toone more spacious than the rest, and rich in theremains of faded magnificence.

'Let us rest here awhile, madam,' saidDorothee faintly, 'we are going into thechamber, where my lady died! that door opensinto it. Ah, ma'amselle! why did you persuademe to come?'

Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs, withwhich the apartment was furnished, andbegged Dorothee would sit down, and try tocompose her spirits.

'How the sight of this place brings all thatpassed formerly to my mind!' said Dorothee; 'itseems as if it was but yesterday since all thatsad affair happened!'

'Hark! what noise is that?' said Emily.

Dorothee, half starting from her chair, lookedround the apartment, and they listened—but,every thing remaining still, the old woman spokeagain upon the subject of her sorrow. 'Thissaloon, ma'amselle, was in my lady's time thefinest apartment in the chateau, and it was fitted

up according to her own taste. All this grandfurniture, but you can now hardly see what it isfor the dust, and our light is none of the best—ah! how I have seen this room lighted up in mylady's time!—all this grand furniture came fromParis, and was made after the fashion of somein the Louvre there, except those large glasses,and they came from some outlandish place,and that rich tapestry. How the colours arefaded already!—since I saw it last!'

'I understood, that was twenty years ago,'observed Emily.

'Thereabout, madam,' said Dorothee, 'andwell remembered, but all the time between thenand now seems as nothing. That tapestry usedto be greatly admired at, it tells the stories outof some famous book, or other, but I have forgotthe name.'

Emily now rose to examine the figures itexhibited, and discovered, by verses in theProvencal tongue, wrought underneath eachscene, that it exhibited stories from some of themost celebrated ancient romances.

Dorothee's spirits being now morecomposed, she rose, and unlocked the doorthat led into the late Marchioness's apartment,and Emily passed into a lofty chamber, hunground with dark arras, and so spacious, that thelamp she held up did not shew its extent; whileDorothee, when she entered, had dropped intoa chair, where, sighing deeply, she scarcelytrusted herself with the view of a scene soaffecting to her. It was some time before Emily

perceived, through the dusk, the bed on whichthe Marchioness was said to have died; when,advancing to the upper end of the room, shediscovered the high canopied tester of darkgreen damask, with the curtains descending tothe floor in the fashion of a tent, half drawn, andremaining apparently, as they had been lefttwenty years before; and over the wholebedding was thrown a counterpane, or pall, ofblack velvet, that hung down to the floor. Emilyshuddered, as she held the lamp over it, andlooked within the dark curtains, where shealmost expected to have seen a human face,and, suddenly remembering the horror she hadsuffered upon discovering the dying MadameMontoni in the turret-chamber of Udolpho, herspirits fainted, and she was turning from thebed, when Dorothee, who had now reached it,exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin! methinks I see my ladystretched upon that pall—as when last I sawher!'

Emily, shocked by this exclamation, lookedinvoluntarily again within the curtains, but theblackness of the pall only appeared; whileDorothee was compelled to support herselfupon the side of the bed, and presently tearsbrought her some relief.

'Ah!' said she, after she had wept awhile, 'itwas here I sat on that terrible night, and held mylady's hand, and heard her last words, and sawall her sufferings—HERE she died in my arms!'

'Do not indulge these painful recollections,'said Emily, 'let us go. Shew me the picture youmentioned, if it will not too much affect you.'

'It hangs in the oriel,' said Dorothee rising,and going towards a small door near the bed'shead, which she opened, and Emily followedwith the light, into the closet of the lateMarchioness.

'Alas! there she is, ma'amselle,' saidDorothee, pointing to a portrait of a lady, 'thereis her very self! just as she looked when shecame first to the chateau. You see, madam, shewas all blooming like you, then—and so soon tobe cut off!'

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was attentivelyexamining the picture, which bore a strongresemblance to the miniature, though theexpression of the countenance in each wassomewhat different; but still she thought sheperceived something of that pensivemelancholy in the portrait, which so stronglycharacterised the miniature.

'Pray, ma'amselle, stand beside the picture,that I may look at you together,' said Dorothee,who, when the request was complied with,exclaimed again at the resemblance. Emilyalso, as she gazed upon it, thought that she hadsomewhere seen a person very like it, thoughshe could not now recollect who this was.

In this closet were many memorials of thedeparted Marchioness; a robe and severalarticles of her dress were scattered upon thechairs, as if they had just been thrown off. Onthe floor were a pair of black satin slippers,and, on the dressing-table, a pair of gloves anda long black veil, which, as Emily took it up to

examine, she perceived was dropping topieces with age.

'Ah!' said Dorothee, observing the veil, 'mylady's hand laid it there; it has never beenmoved since!'

Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it downagain. 'I well remember seeing her take it off,'continued Dorothee, 'it was on the night beforeher death, when she had returned from a littlewalk I had persuaded her to take in thegardens, and she seemed refreshed by it. I toldher how much better she looked, and Iremember what a languid smile she gave me;but, alas! she little thought, or I either, that shewas to die, that night.'

Dorothee wept again, and then, taking up theveil, threw it suddenly over Emily, whoshuddered to find it wrapped round her,descending even to her feet, and, as sheendeavoured to throw it off, Dorothee intreatedthat she would keep it on for one moment. 'Ithought,' added she, 'how like you would look tomy dear mistress in that veil;—may your life,ma'amselle, be a happier one than hers!'

Emily, having disengaged herself from theveil, laid it again on the dressing-table, andsurveyed the closet, where every object, onwhich her eye fixed, seemed to speak of theMarchioness. In a large oriel window of paintedglass, stood a table, with a silver crucifix, and aprayer-book open; and Emily remembered withemotion what Dorothee had mentionedconcerning her custom of playing on her lute inthis window, before she observed the lute itself,

this window, before she observed the lute itself,lying on a corner of the table, as if it had beencarelessly placed there by the hand, that had sooften awakened it.

'This is a sad forlorn place!' said Dorothee,'for, when my dear lady died, I had no heart toput it to rights, or the chamber either; and mylord never came into the rooms after, so theyremain just as they did when my lady wasremoved for interment.'

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was stilllooking on the lute, which was a Spanish one,and remarkably large; and then, with ahesitating hand, she took it up, and passed herfingers over the chords. They were out of tune,but uttered a deep and full sound. Dorotheestarted at their well-known tones, and, seeingthe lute in Emily's hand, said, 'This is the lute mylady Marchioness loved so! I remember whenlast she played upon it—it was on the night thatshe died. I came as usual to undress her, and,as I entered the bed-chamber, I heard thesound of music from the oriel, and perceiving itwas my lady's, who was sitting there, I steppedsoftly to the door, which stood a little open, tolisten; for the music—though it was mournful—was so sweet! There I saw her, with the lute inher hand, looking upwards, and the tears fellupon her cheeks, while she sung a vesperhymn, so soft, and so solemn! and her voicetrembled, as it were, and then she would stopfor a moment, and wipe away her tears, and goon again, lower than before. O! I had oftenlistened to my lady, but never heard any thing sosweet as this; it made me cry, almost, to hear it.She had been at prayers, I fancy, for there was

the book open on the table beside her—aye,and there it lies open still! Pray, let us leave theoriel, ma'amselle,' added Dorothee, 'this is aheart-breaking place!'

Having returned into the chamber, shedesired to look once more upon the bed, when,as they came opposite to the open door,leading into the saloon, Emily, in the partialgleam, which the lamp threw into it, thought shesaw something glide along into the obscurerpart of the room. Her spirits had been muchaffected by the surrounding scene, or it isprobable this circumstance, whether real orimaginary, would not have affected her in thedegree it did; but she endeavoured to concealher emotion from Dorothee, who, however,observing her countenance change, enquired ifshe was ill.

'Let us go,' said Emily, faintly, 'the air of theserooms is unwholesome;' but, when sheattempted to do so, considering that she mustpass through the apartment where the phantomof her terror had appeared, this terrorincreased, and, too faint to support herself, shesad down on the side of the bed.

Dorothee, believing that she was onlyaffected by a consideration of the melancholycatastrophe, which had happened on this spot,endeavoured to cheer her; and then, as they sattogether on the bed, she began to relate otherparticulars concerning it, and this withoutreflecting, that it might increase Emily'semotion, but because they were particularlyinteresting to herself. 'A little before my lady's

death,' said she, 'when the pains were gone off,she called me to her, and stretching out herhand to me, I sat down just there—where thecurtain falls upon the bed. How well I rememberher look at the time—death was in it!—I canalmost fancy I see her now.—There she lay,ma'amselle—her face was upon the pillowthere! This black counterpane was not upon thebed then; it was laid on, after her death, andshe was laid out upon it.'

Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains,as if she could have seen the countenance ofwhich Dorothee spoke. The edge of the whitepillow only appeared above the blackness ofthe pall, but, as her eyes wandered over the pallitself, she fancied she saw it move. Withoutspeaking, she caught Dorothee's arm, who,surprised by the action, and by the look of terrorthat accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emilyto the bed, where, in the next moment she, too,saw the pall slowly lifted, and fall again.

Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee stoodfixed and gazing upon the bed; and, at length,said—'It is only the wind, that waves it,ma'amselle; we have left all the doors open:see how the air waves the lamp, too.—It is onlythe wind.'

She had scarcely uttered these words, whenthe pall was more violently agitated than before;but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terrors,stepped back to the bed, willing to beconvinced that the wind only had occasionedher alarm; when, as she gazed within thecurtains, the pall moved again, and, in the next

moment, the apparition of a humancountenance rose above it.

Screaming with terror, they both fled, and gotout of the chamber as fast as their tremblinglimbs would bear them, leaving open the doorsof all the rooms, through which they passed.When they reached the stair-case, Dorotheethrew open a chamber door, where some of thefemale servants slept, and sunk breathless onthe bed; while Emily, deprived of all presence ofmind, made only a feeble attempt to concealthe occasion of her terror from the astonishedservants; and, though Dorothee, when shecould speak, endeavoured to laugh at her ownfright, and was joined by Emily, noremonstrances could prevail with the servants,who had quickly taken the alarm, to pass eventhe remainder of the night in a room so near tothese terrific chambers.

Dorothee having accompanied Emily to herown apartment, they then began to talk over,with some degree of coolness, the strangecircumstance, that had just occurred; and Emilywould almost have doubted her ownperceptions, had not those of Dorotheeattested their truth. Having now mentioned whatshe had observed in the outer chamber, sheasked the housekeeper, whether she wascertain no door had been left unfastened, bywhich a person might secretly have entered theapartments? Dorothee replied, that she hadconstantly kept the keys of the several doors inher own possession; that, when she had goneher rounds through the castle, as she frequentlydid, to examine if all was safe, she had tried

these doors among the rest, and had alwaysfound them fastened. It was, therefore,impossible, she added, that any person couldhave got admittance into the apartments; and, ifthey could—it was very improbable they shouldhave chose to sleep in a place so cold andforlorn.

Emily observed, that their visit to thesechambers had, perhaps, been watched, andthat some person, for a frolic, had followedthem into the rooms, with a design to frightenthem, and, while they were in the oriel, hadtaken the opportunity of concealing himself inthe bed.

Dorothee allowed, that this was possible, tillshe recollected, that, on entering theapartments, she had turned the key of the outerdoor, and this, which had been done to preventtheir visit being noticed by any of the family,who might happen to be up, must effectuallyhave excluded every person, exceptthemselves, from the chambers; and she nowpersisted in affirming, that the ghastlycountenance she had seen was nothing human,but some dreadful apparition.

Emily was very solemnly affected. Ofwhatever nature might be the appearance shehad witnessed, whether human or supernatural,the fate of the deceased Marchioness was atruth not to be doubted; and this unaccountablecircumstance, occurring in the very scene of hersufferings, affected Emily's imagination with asuperstitious awe, to which, after havingdetected the fallacies at Udolpho, she might not

have yielded, had she been ignorant of theunhappy story, related by the housekeeper. Hershe now solemnly conjured to conceal theoccurrence of this night, and to make light of theterror she had already betrayed, that the Countmight not be distressed by reports, which wouldcertainly spread alarm and confusion amonghis family. 'Time,' she added, 'may explain thismysterious affair; meanwhile let us watch theevent in silence.'

Dorothee readily acquiesced; but she nowrecollected that she had left all the doors of thenorth suite of rooms open, and, not havingcourage to return alone to lock even the outerone, Emily, after some effort, so far conqueredher own fears, that she offered to accompanyher to the foot of the back stair-case, and towait there while Dorothee ascended, whoseresolution being re-assured by thiscircumstance, she consented to go, and theyleft Emily's apartment together.

No sound disturbed the stillness, as theypassed along the halls and galleries; but, onreaching the foot of the back stair-case,Dorothee's resolution failed again; having,however, paused a moment to listen, and nosound being heard above, she ascended,leaving Emily below, and, scarcely suffering hereye to glance within the first chamber, shefastened the door, which shut up the whole suiteof apartments, and returned to Emily.

As they stepped along the passage, leadinginto the great hall, a sound of lamentation washeard, which seemed to come from the hall

itself, and they stopped in new alarm to listen,when Emily presently distinguished the voice ofAnnette, whom she found crossing the hall, withanother female servant, and so terrified by thereport, which the other maids had spread, that,believing she could be safe only where her ladywas, she was going for refuge to her apartment.Emily's endeavours to laugh, or to argue her outof these terrors, were equally vain, and, incompassion to her distress, she consented thatshe should remain in her room during the night.

CHAPTER V Hail, mildly-pleasing Solitude! Companion of the wise and good—

This is the balmy breath of morn, Just as the dew-bent rose is born.

But chief when evening scenes decay And the faint landscape swims away, Thine is the doubtful, soft decline, And that best hour of musing thine. THOMSON

Emily's injunctions to Annette to be silent onthe subject of her terror were ineffectual, andthe occurrence of the preceding night spreadsuch alarm among the servants, who now allaffirmed, that they had frequently heardunaccountable noises in the chateau, that areport soon reached the Count of the north sideof the castle being haunted. He treated this, atfirst, with ridicule, but, perceiving, that it wasproductive of serious evil, in the confusion itoccasioned among his household, he forbadeany person to repeat it, on pain of punishment.

The arrival of a party of his friends soonwithdrew his thoughts entirely from this subject,and his servants had now little leisure to broodover it, except, indeed, in the evenings aftersupper, when they all assembled in their hall,and related stories of ghosts, till they feared tolook round the room; started, if the echo of aclosing door murmured along the passage, andrefused to go singly to any part of the castle.

On these occasions Annette made adistinguished figure. When she told not only ofall the wonders she had witnessed, but of allthat she had imagined, in the castle of Udolpho,with the story of the strange disappearance ofSignora Laurentini, she made no triflingimpression on the mind of her attentiveauditors. Her suspicions, concerning Montoni,she would also have freely disclosed, had notLudovico, who was now in the service of theCount, prudently checked her loquacity,whenever it pointed to that subject.

Among the visitors at the chateau was theBaron de Saint Foix, an old friend of the Count,and his son, the Chevalier St. Foix, a sensibleand amiable young man, who, having in thepreceding year seen the Lady Blanche, atParis, had become her declared admirer. Thefriendship, which the Count had longentertained for his father, and the equality oftheir circumstances made him secretly approveof the connection; but, thinking his daughter atthis time too young to fix her choice for life, andwishing to prove the sincerity and strength ofthe Chevalier's attachment, he then rejected hissuit, though without forbidding his future hope.This young man now came, with the Baron, hisfather, to claim the reward of a steady affection,a claim, which the Count admitted and whichBlanche did not reject.

While these visitors were at the chateau, itbecame a scene of gaiety and splendour. Thepavilion in the woods was fitted up andfrequented, in the fine evenings, as a supper-room, when the hour usually concluded with a

concert, at which the Count and Countess, whowere scientific performers, and the ChevaliersHenri and St. Foix, with the Lady Blanche andEmily, whose voices and fine tastecompensated for the want of more skilfulexecution, usually assisted. Several of theCount's servants performed on horns and otherinstruments, some of which, placed at a littledistance among the woods, spoke, in sweetresponse, to the harmony, that proceeded fromthe pavilion.

At any other period, these parties would havebeen delightful to Emily; but her spirits werenow oppressed with a melancholy, which sheperceived that no kind of what is calledamusement had power to dissipate, and whichthe tender and, frequently, pathetic, melody ofthese concerts sometimes increased to a verypainful degree.

She was particularly fond of walking in thewoods, that hung on a promontory, overlookingthe sea. Their luxuriant shade was soothing toher pensive mind, and, in the partial views,which they afforded of the Mediterranean, withits winding shores and passing sails, tranquilbeauty was united with grandeur. The pathswere rude and frequently overgrown withvegetation, but their tasteful owner would sufferlittle to be done to them, and scarcely a singlebranch to be lopped from the venerable trees.On an eminence, in one of the mostsequestered parts of these woods, was a rusticseat, formed of the trunk of a decayed oak,which had once been a noble tree, and of whichmany lofty branches still flourishing united with

beech and pines to over-canopy the spot.Beneath their deep umbrage, the eye passedover the tops of other woods, to theMediterranean, and, to the left, through anopening, was seen a ruined watch-tower,standing on a point of rock, near the sea, andrising from among the tufted foliage.

Hither Emily often came alone in the silenceof evening, and, soothed by the scenery and bythe faint murmur, that rose from the waves,would sit, till darkness obliged her to return tothe chateau. Frequently, also, she visited thewatch-tower, which commanded the entireprospect, and, when she leaned against itsbroken walls, and thought of Valancourt, she notonce imagined, what was so true, that thistower had been almost as frequently his resort,as her own, since his estrangement from theneighbouring chateau.

One evening, she lingered here to a late hour.She had sat on the steps of the building,watching, in tranquil melancholy, the gradualeffect of evening over the extensive prospect, tillthe gray waters of the Mediterranean and themassy woods were almost the only features ofthe scene, that remained visible; when, as shegazed alternately on these, and on the mild blueof the heavens, where the first pale star ofevening appeared, she personified the hour inthe following lines:—

SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR

Last of the Hours, that track the fading Day, I move along the realms of twilight air, And hear, remote, the choral song decay

Of sister-nymphs, who dance around his car.

Then, as I follow through the azure void, His partial splendour from my straining eye Sinks in the depth of space; my only guide His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;

Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer Hours, Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes, While mortals on the green earth own its pow'rs, As downward on the evening gale it floats.

When fades along the West the Sun's last beam, As, weary, to the nether world he goes, And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam, And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows,

Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal, And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews, And ev'ry fever'd herb and flow'ret heal, And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.

Where'er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns; O'er all the scene the dusky tints I send, That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.

Wide o'er the world I waft the fresh'ning wind, Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale, In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind Of him, who loves my lonely steps to hail.

His tender oaten reed I watch to hear, Stealing its sweetness o'er some plaining rill, Or soothing ocean's wave, when storms are near, Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!

I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light; When, from their blossom'd beds, they slily peep, And spy my pale star, leading on the night,— Forth to their games and revelry they leap;

Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air, That with them slumber'd in the flow'ret's cell; Then to the shores and moon-light brooks repair, Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.

The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper'd shade, With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance, On river margin of some bow'ry glade, And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance:

But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace, For moon-beams silver all the eastern cloud, And Day's last crimson vestige fades apace; Down the steep west I fly from Midnight's shroud.

The moon was now rising out of the sea. Shewatched its gradual progress, the extending lineof radiance it threw upon the waters, thesparkling oars, the sail faintly silvered, and thewood-tops and the battlements of the watch-tower, at whose foot she was sitting, just tintedwith the rays. Emily's spirits were in harmonywith this scene. As she sat meditating, soundsstole by her on the air, which she immediatelyknew to be the music and the voice she hadformerly heard at midnight, and the emotion ofawe, which she felt, was not unmixed with terror,when she considered her remote and lonelysituation. The sounds drew nearer. She wouldhave risen to leave the place, but they seemedto come from the way she must have takentowards the chateau, and she awaited the eventin trembling expectation. The sounds continuedto approach, for some time, and then ceased.Emily sat listening, gazing and unable to move,when she saw a figure emerge from the shadeof the woods and pass along the bank, at some

little distance before her. It went swiftly, and herspirits were so overcome with awe, that, thoughshe saw, she did not much observe it.

Having left the spot, with a resolution neveragain to visit it alone, at so late an hour, shebegan to approach the chateau, when sheheard voices calling her from the part of thewood, which was nearest to it. They were theshouts of the Count's servants, who were sentto search for her; and when she entered thesupper-room, where he sat with Henri andBlanche, he gently reproached her with a look,which she blushed to have deserved.

This little occurrence deeply impressed hermind, and, when she withdrew to her own room,it recalled so forcibly the circumstances shehad witnessed, a few nights before, that shehad scarcely courage to remain alone. Shewatched to a late hour, when, no sound havingrenewed her fears, she, at length, sunk torepose. But this was of short continuance, forshe was disturbed by a loud and unusual noise,that seemed to come from the gallery, intowhich her chamber opened. Groans weredistinctly heard, and, immediately after, a deadweight fell against the door, with a violence, thatthreatened to burst it open. She called loudly toknow who was there, but received no answer,though, at intervals, she still thought she heardsomething like a low moaning. Fear deprivedher of the power to move. Soon after, she heardfootsteps in a remote part of the gallery, and, asthey approached, she called more loudly thanbefore, till the steps paused at her door. Shethen distinguished the voices of several of the

servants, who seemed too much engaged bysome circumstance without, to attend to hercalls; but, Annette soon after entering the roomfor water, Emily understood, that one of themaids had fainted, whom she immediatelydesired them to bring into her room, where sheassisted to restore her. When this girl hadrecovered her speech, she affirmed, that, asshe was passing up the back stair-case, in theway to her chamber, she had seen anapparition on the second landing-place; sheheld the lamp low, she said, that she might pickher way, several of the stairs being infirm andeven decayed, and it was upon raising hereyes, that she saw this appearance. It stood fora moment in the corner of the landing-place,which she was approaching, and then, glidingup the stairs, vanished at the door of theapartment, that had been lately opened. Sheheard afterwards a hollow sound.

'Then the devil has got a key to thatapartment,' said Dorothee, 'for it could benobody but he; I locked the door myself!'

The girl, springing down the stairs andpassing up the great stair-case, had run, with afaint scream, till she reached the gallery, whereshe fell, groaning, at Emily's door.

Gently chiding her for the alarm she hadoccasioned, Emily tried to make her ashamedof her fears; but the girl persisted in saying, thatshe had seen an apparition, till she went to herown room, whither she was accompanied by allthe servants present, except Dorothee, who, atEmily's request, remained with her during thenight. Emily was perplexed, and Dorothee was

terrified, and mentioned many occurrences offormer times, which had long since confirmedher superstitions; among these, according toher belief, she had once witnessed anappearance, like that just described, and on thevery same spot, and it was the remembrance ofit, that had made her pause, when she wasgoing to ascend the stairs with Emily, and whichhad increased her reluctance to open the northapartments. Whatever might be Emily'sopinions, she did not disclose them, butlistened attentively to all that Dorotheecommunicated, which occasioned her muchthought and perplexity.

From this night the terror of the servantsincreased to such an excess, that several ofthem determined to leave the chateau, andrequested their discharge of the Count, who, ifhe had any faith in the subject of their alarm,thought proper to dissemble it, and, anxious toavoid the inconvenience that threatened him,employed ridicule and then argument toconvince them they had nothing to apprehendfrom supernatural agency. But fear hadrendered their minds inaccessible to reason;and it was now, that Ludovico proved at oncehis courage and his gratitude for the kindnesshe had received from the Count, by offering towatch, during a night, in the suite of rooms,reputed to be haunted. He feared, he said, nospirits, and, if any thing of human formappeared—he would prove that he dreadedthat as little.

The Count paused upon the offer, while theservants, who heard it, looked upon one

another in doubt and amazement, and Annette,terrified for the safety of Ludovico, employedtears and entreaties to dissuade him from hispurpose.

'You are a bold fellow,' said the Count,smiling, 'Think well of what you are going toencounter, before you finally determine upon it.However, if you persevere in your resolution, Iwill accept your offer, and your intrepidity shallnot go unrewarded.'

'I desire no reward, your excellenza,' repliedLudovico, 'but your approbation. Yourexcellenza has been sufficiently good to mealready; but I wish to have arms, that I may beequal to my enemy, if he should appear.'

'Your sword cannot defend you against aghost,' replied the Count, throwing a glance ofirony upon the other servants, 'neither can bars,or bolts; for a spirit, you know, can glide througha keyhole as easily as through a door.'

'Give me a sword, my lord Count,' saidLudovico, 'and I will lay all the spirits, that shallattack me, in the red sea.'

'Well,' said the Count, 'you shall have asword, and good cheer, too; and your bravecomrades here will, perhaps, have courageenough to remain another night in the chateau,since your boldness will certainly, for this night,at least, confine all the malice of the spectre toyourself.'

Curiosity now struggled with fear in the mindsof several of his fellow servants, and, at length,they resolved to await the event of Ludovico's

rashness.

Emily was surprised and concerned, whenshe heard of his intention, and was frequentlyinclined to mention what she had witnessed inthe north apartments to the Count, for she couldnot entirely divest herself of fears for Ludovico'ssafety, though her reason represented these tobe absurd. The necessity, however, ofconcealing the secret, with which Dorothee hadentrusted her, and which must have beenmentioned, with the late occurrence, in excusefor her having so privately visited the northapartments, kept her entirely silent on thesubject of her apprehension; and she tried onlyto sooth Annette, who held, that Ludovico wascertainly to be destroyed; and who was muchless affected by Emily's consolatory efforts, thanby the manner of old Dorothee, who often, asshe exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and threw upher eyes to heaven.

CHAPTER VI Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound! Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways, And all the widely-silent places round, Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays What never yet was sung in mortal lays. THOMSON

The Count gave orders for the northapartments to be opened and prepared for thereception of Ludovico; but Dorothee,remembering what she had lately witnessedthere, feared to obey, and, not one of the otherservants daring to venture thither, the roomsremained shut up till the time when Ludovicowas to retire thither for the night, an hour, forwhich the whole household waited withimpatience.

After supper, Ludovico, by the order of theCount, attended him in his closet, where theyremained alone for near half an hour, and, onleaving which, his Lord delivered to him asword.

'It has seen service in mortal quarrels,' saidthe Count, jocosely, 'you will use it honourably,no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow, let mehear that there is not one ghost remaining in thechateau.'

Ludovico received it with a respectful bow.'You shall be obeyed, my Lord,' said he; 'I willengage, that no spectre shall disturb the peaceof the chateau after this night.'

They now returned to the supper-room, wherethe Count's guests awaited to accompany himand Ludovico to the door of the northapartments, and Dorothee, being summonedfor the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, whothen led the way, followed by most of theinhabitants of the chateau. Having reached theback stair-case, several of the servants shrunkback, and refused to go further, but the restfollowed him to the top of the stair-case, wherea broad landing-place allowed them to flockround him, while he applied the key to the door,during which they watched him with as mucheager curiosity as if he had been performingsome magical rite.

Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, couldnot turn it, and Dorothee, who had lingered farbehind, was called forward, under whose handthe door opened slowly, and, her eye glancingwithin the dusky chamber, she uttered a suddenshriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, thegreater part of the crowd hurried down thestairs, and the Count, Henri and Ludovico wereleft alone to pursue the enquiry, who instantlyrushed into the apartment, Ludovico with adrawn sword, which he had just time to drawfrom the scabbard, the Count with the lamp inhis hand, and Henri carrying a basket,containing provisions for the courageousadventurer.

Having looked hastily round the first room,where nothing appeared to justify alarm, theypassed on to the second; and, here too allbeing quiet, they proceeded to a third with amore tempered step. The Count had now

leisure to smile at the discomposure, into whichhe had been surprised, and to ask Ludovico inwhich room he designed to pass the night.

'There are several chambers beyond these,your excellenza,' said Ludovico, pointing to adoor, 'and in one of them is a bed, they say. Iwill pass the night there, and when I am wearyof watching, I can lie down.'

'Good;' said the Count; 'let us go on. You seethese rooms shew nothing, but damp walls anddecaying furniture. I have been so muchengaged since I came to the chateau, that Ihave not looked into them till now. Remember,Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, to-morrow, tothrow open these windows. The damaskhangings are dropping to pieces, I will havethem taken down, and this antique furnitureremoved.'

'Dear sir!' said Henri, 'here is an arm-chair somassy with gilding, that it resembles one of thestate chairs at the Louvre, more then any thingelse.'

'Yes,' said the Count, stopping a moment tosurvey it, 'there is a history belonging to thatchair, but I have not time to tell it.—Let us passon. This suite runs to a greater extent than I hadimagined; it is many years since I was in them.But where is the bed-room you speak of,Ludovico?—these are only anti-chambers tothe great drawing-room. I remember them intheir splendour!'

'The bed, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'theytold me, was in a room that opens beyond the

saloon, and terminates the suite.'

'O, here is the saloon,' said the Count, asthey entered the spacious apartment, in whichEmily and Dorothee had rested. He here stoodfor a moment, surveying the reliques of fadedgrandeur, which it exhibited—the sumptuoustapestry—the long and low sophas of velvet,with frames heavily carved and gilded—thefloor inlaid with small squares of fine marble,and covered in the centre with a piece of veryrich tapestry-work—the casements of paintedglass, and the large Venetian mirrors, of a sizeand quality, such as at that period France couldnot make, which reflected, on every side, thespacious apartment. These had formerly alsoreflected a gay and brilliant scene, for this hadbeen the state-room of the chateau, and herethe Marchioness had held the assemblies, thatmade part of the festivities of her nuptials. If thewand of a magician could have recalled thevanished groups, many of them vanished evenfrom the earth! that once had passed overthese polished mirrors, what a varied andcontrasted picture would they have exhibitedwith the present! Now, instead of a blaze oflights, and a splendid and busy crowd, theyreflected only the rays of the one glimmeringlamp, which the Count held up, and whichscarcely served to shew the three forlornfigures, that stood surveying the room, and thespacious and dusky walls around them.

'Ah!' said the Count to Henri, awaking fromhis deep reverie, 'how the scene is changedsince last I saw it! I was a young man, then, andthe Marchioness was alive and in her bloom;

many other persons were here, too, who arenow no more! There stood the orchestra; herewe tripped in many a sprightly maze—the wallsechoing to the dance! Now, they resound onlyone feeble voice—and even that will, ere long,be heard no more! My son, remember, that Iwas once as young as yourself, and that youmust pass away like those, who have precededyou—like those, who, as they sung and dancedin this once gay apartment, forgot, that yearsare made up of moments, and that every stepthey took carried them nearer to their graves.But such reflections are useless, I had almostsaid criminal, unless they teach us to preparefor eternity, since, otherwise, they cloud ourpresent happiness, without guiding us to afuture one. But enough of this; let us go on.'

Ludovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and the Count, as he entered, was struckwith the funereal appearance, which the darkarras gave to it. He approached the bed, withan emotion of solemnity, and, perceiving it to becovered with the pall of black velvet, paused;'What can this mean?' said he, as he gazedupon it.

'I have heard, my Lord,' said Ludovico, as hestood at the feet, looking within the canopiedcurtains, 'that the Lady Marchioness de Villeroidied in this chamber, and remained here till shewas removed to be buried; and this, perhaps,Signor, may account for the pall.'

The Count made no reply, but stood for a fewmoments engaged in thought, and evidentlymuch affected. Then, turning to Ludovico, heasked him with a serious air, whether he

thought his courage would support him throughthe night? 'If you doubt this,' added the Count,'do not be ashamed to own it; I will release youfrom your engagement, without exposing you tothe triumphs of your fellow-servants.'

Ludovico paused; pride, and something verylike fear, seemed struggling in his breast; pride,however, was victorious;—he blushed, and hishesitation ceased.

'No, my Lord,' said he, 'I will go through withwhat I have begun; and I am grateful for yourconsideration. On that hearth I will make a fire,and, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubtnot I shall do well.'

'Be it so,' said the Count; 'but how will youbeguile the tediousness of the night, if you donot sleep?'

'When I am weary, my Lord,' repliedLudovico, 'I shall not fear to sleep; in themeanwhile, I have a book, that will entertainme.'

'Well,' said the Count, 'I hope nothing willdisturb you; but if you should be seriouslyalarmed in the night, come to my apartment. Ihave too much confidence in your good senseand courage, to believe you will be alarmed onslight grounds; or suffer the gloom of thischamber, or its remote situation, to overcomeyou with ideal terrors. To-morrow, I shall have tothank you for an important service; these roomsshall then be thrown open, and my people willbe convinced of their error. Good night,Ludovico; let me see you early in the morning,

and remember what I lately said to you.'

'I will, my Lord; good night to your excellenza;let me attend you with the light.'

He lighted the Count and Henri through thechambers to the outer door; on the landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the affrightedservants had left, and Henri, as he took it up,again bade Ludovico good night, who, havingrespectfully returned the wish, closed the doorupon them, and fastened it. Then, as he retiredto the bed-chamber, he examined the rooms,through which he passed, with moreminuteness than he had done before, for heapprehended, that some person might haveconcealed himself in them, for the purpose offrightening him. No one, however, but himself,was in these chambers, and, leaving open thedoors, through which he passed, he cameagain to the great drawing-room, whosespaciousness and silent gloom somewhatawed him. For a moment he stood, lookingback through the long suite of rooms he hadquitted, and, as he turned, perceiving a lightand his own figure, reflected in one of the largemirrors, he started. Other objects too were seenobscurely on its dark surface, but he paused notto examine them, and returned hastily into thebed-room, as he surveyed which, he observedthe door of the oriel, and opened it. All withinwas still. On looking round, his eye wasarrested by the portrait of the deceasedMarchioness, upon which he gazed, for aconsiderable time, with great attention andsome surprise; and then, having examined thecloset, he returned into the bed-room, where he

kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of whichrevived his spirits, which had begun to yield tothe gloom and silence of the place, for gusts ofwind alone broke at intervals this silence. Henow drew a small table and a chair near the fire,took a bottle of wine, and some cold provisionout of his basket, and regaled himself. When hehad finished his repast, he laid his sword uponthe table, and, not feeling disposed to sleep,drew from his pocket the book he had spokenof.—It was a volume of old Provencal tales.Having stirred the fire upon the hearth, hebegan to read, and his attention was soonwholly occupied by the scenes, which the pagedisclosed.

The Count, meanwhile, had returned to thesupper-room, whither those of the party, whohad attended him to the north apartment, hadretreated, upon hearing Dorothee's scream,and who were now earnest in their enquiriesconcerning those chambers. The Count ralliedhis guests on their precipitate retreat, and onthe superstitious inclination which hadoccasioned it, and this led to the question,Whether the spirit, after it has quitted the body,is ever permitted to revisit the earth; and if it is,whether it was possible for spirits to becomevisible to the sense. The Baron was of opinion,that the first was probable, and the last waspossible, and he endeavoured to justify thisopinion by respectable authorities, both ancientand modern, which he quoted. The Count,however, was decidedly against him, and along conversation ensued, in which the usualarguments on these subjects were on bothsides brought forward with skill, and discussed

with candour, but without converting either partyto the opinion of his opponent. The effect oftheir conversation on their auditors was various.Though the Count had much the superiority ofthe Baron in point of argument, he hadconsiderably fewer adherents; for that love, sonatural to the human mind, of whatever is ableto distend its faculties with wonder andastonishment, attached the majority of thecompany to the side of the Baron; and, thoughmany of the Count's propositions wereunanswerable, his opponents were inclined tobelieve this the consequence of their own wantof knowledge, on so abstracted a subject,rather than that arguments did not exist, whichwere forcible enough to conquer his.

Blanche was pale with attention, till theridicule in her father's glance called a blushupon her countenance, and she thenendeavoured to forget the superstitious talesshe had been told in her convent. Meanwhile,Emily had been listening with deep attention tothe discussion of what was to her a veryinteresting question, and, remembering theappearance she had witnessed in theapartment of the late Marchioness, she wasfrequently chilled with awe. Several times shewas on the point of mentioning what she hadseen, but the fear of giving pain to the Count,and the dread of his ridicule, restrained her;and, awaiting in anxious expectation the eventof Ludovico's intrepidity, she determined thather future silence should depend upon it.

When the party had separated for the night,and the Count retired to his dressing-room, the

remembrance of the desolate scenes he hadlately witnessed in his own mansion deeplyaffected him, but at length he was aroused fromhis reverie and his silence. 'What music is that Ihear?'—said he suddenly to his valet, 'Whoplays at this late hour?'

The man made no reply, and the Countcontinued to listen, and then added, 'That is nocommon musician; he touches the instrumentwith a delicate hand; who is it, Pierre?'

'My lord!' said the man, hesitatingly.

'Who plays that instrument?' repeated theCount.

'Does not your lordship know, then?' said thevalet.

'What mean you?' said the Count, somewhatsternly.

'Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing,' rejoinedthe man submissively—'Only—that music—goes about the house at midnight often, and Ithought your lordship might have heard itbefore.'

'Music goes about the house at midnight!Poor fellow!—does nobody dance to the music,too?'

'It is not in the chateau, I believe, my Lord; thesounds come from the woods, they say, thoughthey seem so near;—but then a spirit can doany thing!'

'Ah, poor fellow!' said the Count, 'I perceiveyou are as silly as the rest of them; to-morrow,

you will be convinced of your ridiculous error.But hark!—what voice is that?'

'O my Lord! that is the voice we often hearwith the music.'

'Often!' said the Count, 'How often, pray? It isa very fine one.'

'Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard itmore than two or three times, but there arethose who have lived here longer, that haveheard it often enough.'

'What a swell was that!' exclaimed the Count,as he still listened, 'And now, what a dyingcadence! This is surely something more thanmortal!'

'That is what they say, my Lord,' said thevalet; 'they say it is nothing mortal, that utters it;and if I might say my thoughts'—

'Peace!' said the Count, and he listened tillthe strain died away.

'This is strange!' said he, as he turned fromthe window, 'Close the casements, Pierre.'

Pierre obeyed, and the Count soon afterdismissed him, but did not so soon lose theremembrance of the music, which long vibratedin his fancy in tones of melting sweetness, whilesurprise and perplexity engaged his thoughts.

Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber,heard, now and then, the faint echo of a closingdoor, as the family retired to rest, and then thehall clock, at a great distance, strike twelve. 'It ismidnight,' said he, and he looked suspiciously

round the spacious chamber. The fire on thehearth was now nearly expiring, for his attentionhaving been engaged by the book before him,he had forgotten every thing besides; but hesoon added fresh wood, not because he wascold, though the night was stormy, but becausehe was cheerless; and, having again trimmedhis lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drewhis chair nearer to the crackling blaze, tried tobe deaf to the wind, that howled mournfully atthe casements, endeavoured to abstract hismind from the melancholy, that was stealingupon him, and again took up his book. It hadbeen lent to him by Dorothee, who had formerlypicked it up in an obscure corner of theMarquis's library, and who, having opened itand perceived some of the marvels it related,had carefully preserved it for her ownentertainment, its condition giving her someexcuse for detaining it from its proper station.The damp corner into which it had fallen, hadcaused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy,and the leaves to be so discoloured with spots,that it was not without difficulty the letters couldbe traced. The fictions of the Provencal writers,whether drawn from the Arabian legends,brought by the Saracens into Spain, orrecounting the chivalric exploits performed bythe crusaders, whom the Troubadorsaccompanied to the east, were generallysplendid and always marvellous, both inscenery and incident; and it is not wonderful,that Dorothee and Ludovico should befascinated by inventions, which had captivatedthe careless imagination in every rank ofsociety, in a former age. Some of the tales,however, in the book now before Ludovico,

were of simple structure, and exhibited nothingof the magnificent machinery and heroicmanners, which usually characterized the fablesof the twelfth century, and of this descriptionwas the one he now happened to open, which,in its original style, was of great length, butwhich may be thus shortly related. The readerwill perceive, that it is strongly tinctured with thesuperstition of the times.

THE PROVENCAL TALE

'There lived, in the province of Bretagne, anoble Baron, famous for his magnificence andcourtly hospitalities. His castle was graced withladies of exquisite beauty, and thronged withillustrious knights; for the honour he paid tofeats of chivalry invited the brave of distantcountries to enter his lists, and his court wasmore splendid than those of many princes.Eight minstrels were retained in his service,who used to sing to their harps romanticfictions, taken from the Arabians, or adventuresof chivalry, that befel knights during thecrusades, or the martial deeds of the Baron,their lord;—while he, surrounded by his knightsand ladies, banqueted in the great hall of hiscastle, where the costly tapestry, that adornedthe walls with pictured exploits of his ancestors,the casements of painted glass, enriched witharmorial bearings, the gorgeous banners, thatwaved along the roof, the sumptuous canopies,the profusion of gold and silver, that glittered onthe sideboards, the numerous dishes, thatcovered the tables, the number and gay liveriesof the attendants, with the chivalric and splendidattire of the guests, united to form a scene of

magnificence, such as we may not hope to seein these DEGENERATE DAYS.

'Of the Baron, the following adventure isrelated. One night, having retired late from thebanquet to his chamber, and dismissed hisattendants, he was surprised by theappearance of a stranger of a noble air, but of asorrowful and dejected countenance. Believing,that this person had been secreted in theapartment, since it appeared impossible hecould have lately passed the anti-room,unobserved by the pages in waiting, who wouldhave prevented this intrusion on their lord, theBaron, calling loudly for his people, drew hissword, which he had not yet taken from his side,and stood upon his defence. The strangerslowly advancing, told him, that there wasnothing to fear; that he came with no hostiledesign, but to communicate to him a terriblesecret, which it was necessary for him to know.

'The Baron, appeased by the courteousmanners of the stranger, after surveying him, forsome time, in silence, returned his sword intothe scabbard, and desired him to explain themeans, by which he had obtained access to thechamber, and the purpose of this extraordinaryvisit.

'Without answering either of these enquiries,the stranger said, that he could not then explainhimself, but that, if the Baron would follow him tothe edge of the forest, at a short distance fromthe castle walls, he would there convince him,that he had something of importance todisclose.

'This proposal again alarmed the Baron, whocould scarcely believe, that the stranger meantto draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour ofthe night, without harbouring a design againsthis life, and he refused to go, observing, at thesame time, that, if the stranger's purpose wasan honourable one, he would not persist inrefusing to reveal the occasion of his visit, in theapartment where they were.

'While he spoke this, he viewed the strangerstill more attentively than before, but observedno change in his countenance, or any symptom,that might intimate a consciousness of evildesign. He was habited like a knight, was of atall and majestic stature, and of dignified andcourteous manners. Still, however, he refusedto communicate the subject of his errand in anyplace, but that he had mentioned, and, at thesame time, gave hints concerning the secret hewould disclose, that awakened a degree ofsolemn curiosity in the Baron, which, at length,induced him to consent to follow the stranger,on certain conditions.

'"Sir knight," said he, "I will attend you to theforest, and will take with me only four of mypeople, who shall witness our conference."

'To this, however, the Knight objected.

'"What I would disclose," said he, withsolemnity, "is to you alone. There are only threeliving persons, to whom the circumstance isknown; it is of more consequence to you andyour house, than I shall now explain. In futureyears, you will look back to this night withsatisfaction or repentance, accordingly as you

now determine. As you would hereafter prosper—follow me; I pledge you the honour of a knight,that no evil shall befall you;—if you arecontented to dare futurity—remain in yourchamber, and I will depart as I came."

'"Sir knight," replied the Baron, "how is itpossible, that my future peace can dependupon my present determination?"

'"That is not now to be told," said thestranger, "I have explained myself to the utmost.It is late; if you follow me it must be quickly;—you will do well to consider the alternative."

'The Baron mused, and, as he looked uponthe knight, he perceived his countenanceassume a singular solemnity.'

[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise,and he threw a glance round the chamber, andthen held up the lamp to assist his observation;but, not perceiving any thing to confirm hisalarm, he took up the book again and pursuedthe story.]

'The Baron paced his apartment, for sometime, in silence, impressed by the last words ofthe stranger, whose extraordinary request hefeared to grant, and feared, also, to refuse. Atlength, he said, "Sir knight, you are utterlyunknown to me; tell me yourself,—is itreasonable, that I should trust myself alone witha stranger, at this hour, in a solitary forest? Tellme, at least, who you are, and who assisted tosecrete you in this chamber."

'The knight frowned at these latter words, andwas a moment silent; then, with a countenance

somewhat stern, he said,

'"I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevysof Lancaster,—and my deeds are not unknownat the Holy City, whence I was returning to mynative land, when I was benighted in theneighbouring forest."

'"Your name is not unknown to fame," saidthe Baron, "I have heard of it." (The Knightlooked haughtily.) "But why, since my castle isknown to entertain all true knights, did not yourherald announce you? Why did you not appearat the banquet, where your presence wouldhave been welcomed, instead of hiding yourselfin my castle, and stealing to my chamber, atmidnight?"

'The stranger frowned, and turned away insilence; but the Baron repeated the questions.

'"I come not," said the Knight, "to answerenquiries, but to reveal facts. If you would knowmore, follow me, and again I pledge the honourof a Knight, that you shall return in safety.—Bequick in your determination—I must be gone."

'After some further hesitation, the Barondetermined to follow the stranger, and to seethe result of his extraordinary request; he,therefore, again drew forth his sword, and,taking up a lamp, bade the Knight lead on. Thelatter obeyed, and, opening the door of thechamber, they passed into the anti-room, wherethe Baron, surprised to find all his pagesasleep, stopped, and, with hasty violence, wasgoing to reprimand them for their carelessness,when the Knight waved his hand, and looked so

expressively upon the Baron, that the latterrestrained his resentment, and passed on.

'The Knight, having descended a stair-case,opened a secret door, which the Baron hadbelieved was known only to himself, and,proceeding through several narrow and windingpassages, came, at length, to a small gate, thatopened beyond the walls of the castle.Meanwhile, the Baron followed in silence andamazement, on perceiving that these secretpassages were so well known to a stranger,and felt inclined to return from an adventure, thatappeared to partake of treachery, as well asdanger. Then, considering that he was armed,and observing the courteous and noble air ofhis conductor, his courage returned, heblushed, that it had failed him for a moment,and he resolved to trace the mystery to itssource.

'He now found himself on the heathy platform,before the great gates of his castle, where, onlooking up, he perceived lights glimmering inthe different casements of the guests, who wereretiring to sleep; and, while he shivered in theblast, and looked on the dark and desolatescene around him, he thought of the comforts ofhis warm chamber, rendered cheerful by theblaze of wood, and felt, for a moment, the fullcontrast of his present situation.'

[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and,looking at his own fire, gave it a brighteningstir.]

'The wind was strong, and the Baron watchedhis lamp with anxiety, expecting every moment

to see it extinguished; but, though the flamewavered, it did not expire, and he still followedthe stranger, who often sighed as he went, butdid not speak.

'When they reached the borders of the forest,the Knight turned, and raised his head, as if hemeant to address the Baron, but then, closinghis lips in silence, he walked on.

'As they entered, beneath the dark andspreading boughs, the Baron, affected by thesolemnity of the scene, hesitated whether toproceed, and demanded how much further theywere to go. The Knight replied only by agesture, and the Baron, with hesitating stepsand a suspicious eye, followed through anobscure and intricate path, till, havingproceeded a considerable way, he againdemanded whither they were going, andrefused to proceed unless he was informed.

'As he said this, he looked at his own sword,and at the Knight alternately, who shook hishead, and whose dejected countenancedisarmed the Baron, for a moment, ofsuspicion.

'"A little further is the place, whither I wouldlead you," said the stranger; "no evil shall befallyou—I have sworn it on the honour of a knight."

'The Baron, re-assured, again followed insilence, and they soon arrived at a deep recessof the forest, where the dark and lofty chesnutsentirely excluded the sky, and which was soovergrown with underwood, that theyproceeded with difficulty. The Knight sighed

deeply as he passed, and sometimes paused;and having, at length, reached a spot, where thetrees crowded into a knot, he turned, and, with aterrific look, pointing to the ground, the Baronsaw there the body of a man, stretched at itslength, and weltering in blood; a ghastly woundwas on the forehead, and death appearedalready to have contracted the features.

'The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle,started in horror, looked at the Knight forexplanation, and was then going to raise thebody and examine if there were yet any remainsof life; but the stranger, waving his hand, fixedupon him a look so earnest and mournful, as notonly much surprised him, but made him desist.

'But, what were the Baron's emotions, when,on holding the lamp near the features of thecorpse, he discovered the exact resemblanceof the stranger his conductor, to whom he nowlooked up in astonishment and enquiry? As hegazed, he perceived the countenance of theKnight change, and begin to fade, till his wholeform gradually vanished from his astonishedsense! While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot,a voice was heard to utter these words:—'

[Ludovico started, and laid down the book,for he thought he heard a voice in the chamber,and he looked toward the bed, where, however,he saw only the dark curtains and the pall. Helistened, scarcely daring to draw his breath, butheard only the distant roaring of the sea in thestorm, and the blast, that rushed by thecasements; when, concluding, that he had beendeceived by its sighings, he took up his book tofinish the story.]

'While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, avoice was heard to utter these words:—*

(* This repetition seems to be intentional.Ludovico is picking up the thread.)

'The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a nobleknight of England, lies before you. He was, thisnight, waylaid and murdered, as he journeyedfrom the Holy City towards his native land.Respect the honour of knighthood and the lawof humanity; inter the body in christian ground,and cause his murderers to be punished. As yeobserve, or neglect this, shall peace andhappiness, or war and misery, light upon youand your house for ever!'

'The Baron, when he recovered from the aweand astonishment, into which this adventure hadthrown him, returned to his castle, whither hecaused the body of Sir Bevys to be removed;and, on the following day, it was interred, withthe honours of knighthood, in the chapel of thecastle, attended by all the noble knights andladies, who graced the court of Baron deBrunne.'

Ludovico, having finished this story, laidaside the book, for he felt drowsy, and, afterputting more wood on the fire and takinganother glass of wine, he reposed himself in thearm-chair on the hearth. In his dream he stillbeheld the chamber where he really was, and,once or twice, started from imperfect slumbers,imagining he saw a man's face, looking overthe high back of his armchair. This idea had sostrongly impressed him, that, when he raisedhis eyes, he almost expected to meet other

his eyes, he almost expected to meet othereyes, fixed upon his own, and he quitted hisseat and looked behind the chair, before he feltperfectly convinced, that no person was there.

Thus closed the hour.

CHAPTER VII Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber; Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. SHAKESPEARE

The Count, who had slept little during thenight, rose early, and, anxious to speak withLudovico, went to the north apartment; but, theouter door having been fastened, on thepreceding night, he was obliged to knock loudlyfor admittance. Neither the knocking, or hisvoice was heard; but, considering the distanceof this door from the bed-room, and thatLudovico, wearied with watching, had probablyfallen into a deep sleep, the Count was notsurprised on receiving no answer, and, leavingthe door, he went down to walk in his grounds.

It was a gray autumnal morning. The sun,rising over Provence, gave only a feeble light,as his rays struggled through the vapours thatascended from the sea, and floated heavilyover the wood-tops, which were now varied withmany a mellow tint of autumn. The storm waspassed, but the waves were yet violentlyagitated, and their course was traced by longlines of foam, while not a breeze fluttered in thesails of the vessels, near the shore, that wereweighing anchor to depart. The still gloom of thehour was pleasing to the Count, and he pursuedhis way through the woods, sunk in deepthought.

Emily also rose at an early hour, and took hercustomary walk along the brow of thepromontory, that overhung the Mediterranean.Her mind was now not occupied with theoccurrences of the chateau, and Valancourtwas the subject of her mournful thoughts; whomshe had not yet taught herself to consider withindifference, though her judgment constantlyreproached her for the affection, that lingered inher heart, after her esteem for him wasdeparted. Remembrance frequently gave herhis parting look and the tones of his voice, whenhe had bade her a last farewel; and, someaccidental associations now recalling thesecircumstances to her fancy, with peculiarenergy, she shed bitter tears to the recollection.

Having reached the watch-tower, she seatedherself on the broken steps, and, in melancholydejection, watched the waves, half hid invapour, as they came rolling towards the shore,and threw up their light spray round the rocksbelow. Their hollow murmur and the obscuringmists, that came in wreaths up the cliffs, gave asolemnity to the scene, which was in harmonywith the temper of her mind, and she sat, givenup to the remembrance of past times, till thisbecame too painful, and she abruptly quittedthe place. On passing the little gate of thewatch-tower, she observed letters, engraved onthe stone postern, which she paused toexamine, and, though they appeared to havebeen rudely cut with a pen-knife, the characterswere familiar to her; at length, recognizing thehand-writing of Valancourt, she read, withtrembling anxiety the following lines, entitled

SHIPWRECK

'Til solemn midnight! On this lonely steep, Beneath this watch-tow'r's desolated wall, Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall, I rest; and view below the desert deep, As through tempestuous clouds the moon's cold light Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night With loud mysterious force the billows sweep, And sullen roar the surges, far below. In the still pauses of the gust I hear The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow, And oft among the clouds their forms appear. But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale, And in the distant ray what glimmering sail Bends to the storm?—Now sinks the note of fear! Ah! wretched mariners!—no more shall day Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way!

From these lines it appeared, that Valancourthad visited the tower; that he had probablybeen here on the preceding night, for it wassuch an one as they described, and that he hadleft the building very lately, since it had not longbeen light, and without light it was impossiblethese letters could have been cut. It was thuseven probable, that he might be yet in thegardens.

As these reflections passed rapidly over themind of Emily, they called up a variety ofcontending emotions, that almost overcame herspirits; but her first impulse was to avoid him,and, immediately leaving the tower, shereturned, with hasty steps, towards the chateau.As she passed along, she remembered themusic she had lately heard near the tower, withthe figure, which had appeared, and, in thismoment of agitation, she was inclined to

believe, that she had then heard and seenValancourt; but other recollections soonconvinced her of her error. On turning into athicker part of the woods, she perceived aperson, walking slowly in the gloom at somelittle distance, and, her mind engaged by theidea of him, she started and paused, imaginingthis to be Valancourt. The person advancedwith quicker steps, and, before she couldrecover recollection enough to avoid him, hespoke, and she then knew the voice of theCount, who expressed some surprise, onfinding her walking at so early an hour, andmade a feeble effort to rally her on her love ofsolitude. But he soon perceived this to be morea subject of concern than of light laughter, and,changing his manner, affectionatelyexpostulated with Emily, on thus indulgingunavailing regret; who, though sheacknowledged the justness of all he said, couldnot restrain her tears, while she did so, and hepresently quitted the topic. Expressing surpriseat not having yet heard from his friend, theAdvocate at Avignon, in answer to thequestions proposed to him, respecting theestates of the late Madame Montoni, he, withfriendly zeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily withhopes of establishing her claim to them; whileshe felt, that the estates could now contributelittle to the happiness of a life, in whichValancourt had no longer an interest.

When they returned to the chateau, Emilyretired to her apartment, and Count De Villefortto the door of the north chambers. This was stillfastened, but, being now determined to arouseLudovico, he renewed his calls more loudly than

before, after which a total silence ensued, andthe Count, finding all his efforts to be heardineffectual, at length began to fear, that someaccident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror ofan imaginary being might have deprived of hissenses. He, therefore, left the door with anintention of summoning his servants to force itopen, some of whom he now heard moving inthe lower part of the chateau.

To the Count's enquiries, whether they hadseen or heard Ludovico, they replied in affright,that not one of them had ventured on the northside of the chateau, since the preceding night.

'He sleeps soundly then,' said the Count, 'andis at such a distance from the outer door, whichis fastened, that to gain admittance to thechambers it will be necessary to force it. Bringan instrument, and follow me.'

The servants stood mute and dejected, and itwas not till nearly all the household wereassembled, that the Count's orders wereobeyed. In the mean time, Dorothee was tellingof a door, that opened from a gallery, leadingfrom the great stair-case into the last anti-roomof the saloon, and, this being much nearer tothe bed-chamber, it appeared probable, thatLudovico might be easily awakened by anattempt to open it. Thither, therefore, the Countwent, but his voice was as ineffectual at thisdoor as it had proved at the remoter one; andnow, seriously interested for Ludovico, he washimself going to strike upon the door with theinstrument, when he observed its singularbeauty, and with-held the blow. It appeared, onthe first glance, to be of ebony, so dark and

close was its grain and so high its polish; but itproved to be only of larch wood, of the growth ofProvence, then famous for its forests of larch.The beauty of its polished hue and of itsdelicate carvings determined the Count tospare this door, and he returned to that leadingfrom the back stair-case, which being, at length,forced, he entered the first anti-room, followedby Henri and a few of the most courageous ofhis servants, the rest awaiting the event of theenquiry on the stairs and landing-place.

All was silent in the chambers, through whichthe Count passed, and, having reached thesaloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico; afterwhich, still receiving no answer, he threw openthe door of the bed-room, and entered.

The profound stillness within confirmed hisapprehensions for Ludovico, for not even thebreathings of a person in sleep were heard;and his uncertainty was not soon terminated,since the shutters being all closed, the chamberwas too dark for any object to be distinguishedin it.

The Count bade a servant open them, who,as he crossed the room to do so, stumbled oversomething, and fell to the floor, when his cryoccasioned such panic among the few of hisfellows, who had ventured thus far, that theyinstantly fled, and the Count and Henri were leftto finish the adventure.

Henri then sprung across the room, and,opening a window-shutter, they perceived, thatthe man had fallen over a chair near the hearth,in which Ludovico had been sitting;—for he sat

there no longer, nor could any where be seen bythe imperfect light, that was admitted into theapartment. The Count, seriously alarmed, nowopened other shutters, that he might be enabledto examine further, and, Ludovico not yetappearing, he stood for a moment, suspendedin astonishment and scarcely trusting hissenses, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, headvanced to examine whether he was thereasleep. No person, however, was in it, and heproceeded to the oriel, where every thingremained as on the preceding night, butLudovico was no where to be found.

The Count now checked his amazement,considering, that Ludovico might have left thechambers, during the night, overcome by theterrors, which their lonely desolation and therecollected reports, concerning them, hadinspired. Yet, if this had been the fact, the manwould naturally have sought society, and hisfellow servants had all declared they had notseen him; the door of the outer room also hadbeen found fastened, with the key on the inside;it was impossible, therefore, for him to havepassed through that, and all the outer doors ofthis suite were found, on examination, to bebolted and locked, with the keys also withinthem. The Count, being then compelled tobelieve, that the lad had escaped through thecasements, next examined them, but such asopened wide enough to admit the body of aman were found to be carefully secured eitherby iron bars, or by shutters, and no vestigeappeared of any person having attempted topass them; neither was it probable, thatLudovico would have incurred the risque of

breaking his neck, by leaping from a window,when he might have walked safely through adoor.

The Count's amazement did not admit ofwords; but he returned once more to examinethe bed-room, where was no appearance ofdisorder, except that occasioned by the lateoverthrow of the chair, near which had stood asmall table, and on this Ludovico's sword, hislamp, the book he had been reading, and theremnant of his flask of wine still remained. Atthe foot of the table, too, was the basket withsome fragments of provision and wood.

Henri and the servant now uttered theirastonishment without reserve, and, though theCount said little, there was a seriousness in hismanner, that expressed much. It appeared, thatLudovico must have quitted these rooms bysome concealed passage, for the Count couldnot believe, that any supernatural means hadoccasioned this event, yet, if there was anysuch passage, it seemed inexplicable why heshould retreat through it, and it was equallysurprising, that not even the smallest vestigeshould appear, by which his progress could betraced. In the rooms every thing remained asmuch in order as if he had just walked out by thecommon way.

The Count himself assisted in lifting the arras,with which the bed-chamber, saloon and one ofthe anti-rooms were hung, that he mightdiscover if any door had been concealedbehind it; but, after a laborious search, nonewas found, and he, at length, quitted theapartments, having secured the door of the last

anti-chamber, the key of which he took into hisown possession. He then gave orders, thatstrict search should be made for Ludovico notonly in the chateau, but in the neighbourhood,and, retiring with Henri to his closet, theyremained there in conversation for aconsiderable time, and whatever was thesubject of it, Henri from this hour lost much ofhis vivacity, and his manners were particularlygrave and reserved, whenever the topic, whichnow agitated the Count's family with wonderand alarm, was introduced.

On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St.Foix seemed strengthened in all his formeropinions concerning the probability ofapparitions, though it was difficult to discoverwhat connection there could possibly bebetween the two subjects, or to account for thiseffect otherwise than by supposing, that themystery attending Ludovico, by exciting aweand curiosity, reduced the mind to a state ofsensibility, which rendered it more liable to theinfluence of superstition in general. It is,however, certain, that from this period theBaron and his adherents became more bigotedto their own systems than before, while theterrors of the Count's servants increased to anexcess, that occasioned many of them to quitthe mansion immediately, and the restremained only till others could be procured tosupply their places.

The most strenuous search after Ludovicoproved unsuccessful, and, after several days ofindefatigable enquiry, poor Annette gaveherself up to despair, and the other inhabitants

of the chateau to amazement.

Emily, whose mind had been deeply affectedby the disastrous fate of the late Marchionessand with the mysterious connection, which shefancied had existed between her and St.Aubert, was particularly impressed by the lateextraordinary event, and much concerned forthe loss of Ludovico, whose integrity and faithfulservices claimed both her esteem andgratitude. She was now very desirous to returnto the quiet retirement of her convent, but everyhint of this was received with real sorrow by theLady Blanche, and affectionately set aside bythe Count, for whom she felt much of therespectful love and admiration of a daughter,and to whom, by Dorothee's consent, she, atlength, mentioned the appearance, which theyhad witnessed in the chamber of the deceasedMarchioness. At any other period, he wouldhave smiled at such a relation, and havebelieved, that its object had existed only in thedistempered fancy of the relater; but he nowattended to Emily with seriousness, and, whenshe concluded, requested of her a promise, thatthis occurrence should rest in silence.'Whatever may be the cause and the import ofthese extraordinary occurrences,' added theCount, 'time only can explain them. I shall keepa wary eye upon all that passes in the chateau,and shall pursue every possible means ofdiscovering the fate of Ludovico. Meanwhile,we must be prudent and be silent. I will myselfwatch in the north chambers, but of this we willsay nothing, till the night arrives, when I purposedoing so.'

The Count then sent for Dorothee, andrequired of her also a promise of silence,concerning what she had already, or might infuture witness of an extraordinary nature; andthis ancient servant now related to him theparticulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi'sdeath, with some of which he appeared to bealready acquainted, while by others he wasevidently surprised and agitated. After listeningto this narrative, the Count retired to his closet,where he remained alone for several hours;and, when he again appeared, the solemnity ofhis manner surprised and alarmed Emily, butshe gave no utterance to her thoughts.

On the week following the disappearance ofLudovico, all the Count's guests took leave ofhim, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix,and Emily; the latter of whom was soon afterembarrassed and distressed by the arrival ofanother visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which made herdetermine upon withdrawing to her conventimmediately. The delight, that appeared in hiscountenance, when he met her, told that hebrought back the same ardour of passion,which had formerly banished him from Chateau-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve byEmily, and with pleasure by the Count, whopresented him to her with a smile, that seemedintended to plead his cause, and who did nothope the less for his friend, from theembarrassment she betrayed.

But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemedto understand her manner, and his countenancequickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the languorof despondency.

On the following day, however, he sought anopportunity of declaring the purport of his visit,and renewed his suit; a declaration, which wasreceived with real concern by Emily, whoendeavoured to lessen the pain she might inflictby a second rejection, with assurances ofesteem and friendship; yet she left him in astate of mind, that claimed and excited hertenderest compassion; and, being moresensible than ever of the impropriety ofremaining longer at the chateau, sheimmediately sought the Count, andcommunicated to him her intention of returningto the convent.

'My dear Emily,' said he 'I observe, withextreme concern, the illusion you areencouraging—an illusion common to young andsensible minds. Your heart has received asevere shock; you believe you can neverentirely recover it, and you will encourage thisbelief, till the habit of indulging sorrow willsubdue the strength of your mind, and discolouryour future views with melancholy and regret.Let me dissipate this illusion, and awaken youto a sense of your danger.'

Emily smiled mournfully, 'I know what youwould say, my dear sir,' said she, 'and amprepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart cannever know a second affection; and that I mustnever hope even to recover its tranquillity—if Isuffer myself to enter into a secondengagement.'

'I know, that you feel all this,' replied theCount; 'and I know, also, that time will overcomethese feelings, unless you cherish them in

solitude, and, pardon me, with romantictenderness. Then, indeed, time will only confirmhabit. I am particularly empowered to speak onthis subject, and to sympathize in yoursufferings,' added the Count, with an air ofsolemnity, 'for I have known what it is to love,and to lament the object of my love. Yes,'continued he, while his eyes filled with tears, 'Ihave suffered!—but those times have passedaway—long passed! and I can now look backupon them without emotion.'

'My dear sir,' said Emily, timidly, 'what meanthose tears?—they speak, I fear, anotherlanguage—they plead for me.'

'They are weak tears, for they are uselessones,' replied the Count, drying them, 'I wouldhave you superior to such weakness. These,however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, ifit had not been opposed by long continuedeffort, might have led me to the verge ofmadness! Judge, then, whether I have notcause to warn you of an indulgence, which mayproduce so terrible an effect, and which mustcertainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years,that otherwise might be happy. M. Du Pont is asensible and amiable man, who has long beentenderly attached to you; his family and fortuneare unexceptionable;—after what I have said, itis unnecessary to add, that I should rejoice inyour felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont wouldpromote it. Do not weep, Emily,' continued theCount, taking her hand, 'there IS happinessreserved for you.'

He was silent a moment; and then added, ina firmer voice, 'I do not wish, that you should

make a violent effort to overcome your feelings;all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check thethoughts, that would lead you to a remembranceof the past; that you will suffer your mind to beengaged by present objects; that you will allowyourself to believe it possible you may yet behappy; and that you will sometimes think withcomplacency of poor Du Pont, and notcondemn him to the state of despondency, fromwhich, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring towithdraw you.'

'Ah! my dear sir,' said Emily, while her tearsstill fell, 'do not suffer the benevolence of yourwishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with anexpectation that I can ever accept his hand. If Iunderstand my own heart, this never can be;your instruction I can obey in almost every otherparticular, than that of adopting a contrarybelief.'

'Leave me to understand your heart,' repliedthe Count, with a faint smile. 'If you pay me thecompliment to be guided by my advice in otherinstances, I will pardon your incredulity,respecting your future conduct towards Mons.Du Pont. I will not even press you to remainlonger at the chateau than your own satisfactionwill permit; but though I forbear to oppose yourpresent retirement, I shall urge the claims offriendship for your future visits.'

Tears of gratitude mingled with those oftender regret, while Emily thanked the Count forthe many instances of friendship she hadreceived from him; promised to be directed byhis advice upon every subject but one, andassured him of the pleasure, with which she

should, at some future period, accept theinvitation of the Countess and himself—If Mons.Du Pont was not at the chateau.

The Count smiled at this condition. 'Be it so,'said he, 'meanwhile the convent is so near thechateau, that my daughter and I shall often visityou; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bringyou another visitor—will you forgive us?'

Emily looked distressed, and remainedsilent.

'Well,' rejoined the Count, 'I will pursue thissubject no further, and must now entreat yourforgiveness for having pressed it thus far. Youwill, however, do me the justice to believe, that Ihave been urged only by a sincere regard foryour happiness, and that of my amiable friendMons. Du Pont.'

Emily, when she left the Count, went tomention her intended departure to theCountess, who opposed it with politeexpressions of regret; after which, she sent anote to acquaint the lady abbess, that sheshould return to the convent; and thither shewithdrew on the evening of the following day. M.Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her depart,while the Count endeavoured to cheer him witha hope, that Emily would sometimes regard himwith a more favourable eye.

She was pleased to find herself once more inthe tranquil retirement of the convent, where sheexperienced a renewal of all the maternalkindness of the abbess, and of the sisterlyattentions of the nuns. A report of the late

extraordinary occurrence at the chateau hadalready reached them, and, after supper, on theevening of her arrival, it was the subject ofconversation in the convent parlour, where shewas requested to mention some particulars ofthat unaccountable event. Emily was guarded inher conversation on this subject, and brieflyrelated a few circumstances concerningLudovico, whose disappearance, her auditorsalmost unanimously agreed, had been effectedby supernatural means.

'A belief had so long prevailed,' said a nun,who was called sister Frances, 'that the chateauwas haunted, that I was surprised, when I heardthe Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Itsformer possessor, I fear, had some deed ofconscience to atone for; let us hope, that thevirtues of its present owner will preserve himfrom the punishment due to the errors of thelast, if, indeed, he was a criminal.'

'Of what crime, then, was he suspected?'said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, a boarder at theconvent.

'Let us pray for his soul!' said a nun, who hadtill now sat in silent attention. 'If he was criminal,his punishment in this world was sufficient.'

There was a mixture of wildness andsolemnity in her manner of delivering this, whichstruck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoisellerepeated her question, without noticing thesolemn eagerness of the nun.

'I dare not presume to say what was hiscrime,' replied sister Frances; 'but I have heard

many reports of an extraordinary nature,respecting the late Marquis de Villeroi, andamong others, that, soon after the death of hislady, he quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, and neverafterwards returned to it. I was not here at thetime, so I can only mention it from report, and somany years have passed since theMarchioness died, that few of our sisterhood, Ibelieve, can do more.'

'But I can,' said the nun, who had beforespoke, and whom they called sister Agnes.

'You then,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, 'arepossibly acquainted with circumstances, thatenable you to judge, whether he was criminal ornot, and what was the crime imputed to him.'

'I am,' replied the nun; 'but who shall dare toscrutinize my thoughts—who shall dare to pluckout my opinion? God only is his judge, and tothat judge he is gone!'

Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances,who returned her a significant glance.

'I only requested your opinion,' saidMademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; 'if the subject isdispleasing to you, I will drop it.'

'Displeasing!'—said the nun, with emphasis.—'We are idle talkers; we do not weigh themeaning of the words we use; DISPLEASINGis a poor word. I will go pray.' As she said thisshe rose from her seat, and with a profoundsigh quitted the room.

'What can be the meaning of this?' saidEmily, when she was gone.

'It is nothing extraordinary,' replied sisterFrances, 'she is often thus; but she had nomeaning in what she says. Her intellects are attimes deranged. Did you never see her thusbefore?'

'Never,' said Emily. 'I have, indeed,sometimes, thought, that there was themelancholy of madness in her look, but neverbefore perceived it in her speech. Poor soul, Iwill pray for her!'

'Your prayers then, my daughter, will unitewith ours,' observed the lady abbess, 'she hasneed of them.'

'Dear lady,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau,addressing the abbess, 'what is your opinion ofthe late Marquis? The strange circumstances,that have occurred at the chateau, have somuch awakened my curiosity, that I shall bepardoned the question. What was his imputedcrime, and what the punishment, to which sisterAgnes alluded?'

'We must be cautious of advancing ouropinion,' said the abbess, with an air of reserve,mingled with solemnity, 'we must be cautious ofadvancing our opinion on so delicate a subject.I will not take upon me to pronounce, that thelate Marquis was criminal, or to say what wasthe crime of which he was suspected; but,concerning the punishment our daughter Agneshinted, I know of none he suffered. Sheprobably alluded to the severe one, which anexasperated conscience can inflict. Beware, mychildren, of incurring so terrible a punishment—it is the purgatory of this life! The late

Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern tosuch as live in the world; nay, our sacred orderneed not have blushed to copy her virtues! Ourholy convent received her mortal part; herheavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to itssanctuary!'

As the abbess spoke this, the last bell ofvespers struck up, and she rose. 'Let us go, mychildren,' said she, 'and intercede for thewretched; let us go and confess our sins, andendeavour to purify our souls for the heaven, towhich SHE is gone!'

Emily was affected by the solemnity of thisexhortation, and, remembering her father, 'Theheaven, to which HE, too, is gone!' said she,faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, andfollowed the abbess and the nuns to the chapel.

CHAPTER VIII Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,

I will speak to thee. HAMLET

Count de Villefort, at length, received a letterfrom the advocate at Avignon, encouragingEmily to assert her claim to the estates of thelate Madame Montoni; and, about the sametime, a messenger arrived from MonsieurQuesnel with intelligence, that made an appealto the law on this subject unnecessary, since itappeared, that the only person, who could haveopposed her claim, was now no more. A friendof Monsieur Quesnel, who resided at Venice,had sent him an account of the death of Montoniwho had been brought to trial with Orsino, ashis supposed accomplice in the murder of theVenetian nobleman. Orsino was found guilty,condemned and executed upon the wheel, but,nothing being discovered to criminate Montoni,and his colleagues, on this charge, they were allreleased, except Montoni, who, beingconsidered by the senate as a very dangerousperson, was, for other reasons, ordered againinto confinement, where, it was said, he haddied in a doubtful and mysterious manner, andnot without suspicion of having been poisoned.The authority, from which M. Quesnel hadreceived this information, would not allow him todoubt its truth, and he told Emily, that she hadnow only to lay claim to the estates of her late

now only to lay claim to the estates of her lateaunt, to secure them, and added, that he wouldhimself assist in the necessary forms of thisbusiness. The term, for which La Vallee hadbeen let being now also nearly expired, heacquainted her with the circumstance, andadvised her to take the road thither, throughTholouse, where he promised to meet her, andwhere it would be proper for her to takepossession of the estates of the late MadameMontoni; adding, that he would spare her anydifficulties, that might occur on that occasionfrom the want of knowledge on the subject, andthat he believed it would be necessary for her tobe at Tholouse, in about three weeks from thepresent time.

An increase of fortune seemed to haveawakened this sudden kindness in M. Quesneltowards his niece, and it appeared, that heentertained more respect for the rich heiress,than he had ever felt compassion for the poorand unfriended orphan.

The pleasure, with which she received thisintelligence, was clouded when she considered,that he, for whose sake she had once regrettedthe want of fortune, was no longer worthy ofsharing it with her; but, remembering the friendlyadmonition of the Count, she checked thismelancholy reflection, and endeavoured to feelonly gratitude for the unexpected good, that nowattended her; while it formed no inconsiderablepart of her satisfaction to know, that La Vallee,her native home, which was endeared to her byit's having been the residence of her parents,would soon be restored to her possession.There she meant to fix her future residence, for,

though it could not be compared with thechateau at Tholouse, either for extent, ormagnificence, its pleasant scenes and thetender remembrances, that haunted them, hadclaims upon her heart, which she was notinclined to sacrifice to ostentation. She wroteimmediately to thank M. Quesnel for the activeinterest he took in her concerns, and to say, thatshe would meet him at Tholouse at theappointed time.

When Count de Villefort, with Blanche, cameto the convent to give Emily the advice of theadvocate, he was informed of the contents of M.Quesnel's letter, and gave her his sincerecongratulations, on the occasion; but sheobserved, that, when the first expression ofsatisfaction had faded from his countenance,an unusual gravity succeeded, and she scarcelyhesitated to enquire its cause.

'It has no new occasion,' replied the Count; 'Iam harassed and perplexed by the confusion,into which my family is thrown by their foolishsuperstition. Idle reports are floating round me,which I can neither admit to be true, or prove tobe false; and I am, also, very anxious about thepoor fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I havenot been able to obtain information. Every partof the chateau and every part of theneighbourhood, too, has, I believe, beensearched, and I know not what further can bedone, since I have already offered largerewards for the discovery of him. The keys ofthe north apartment I have not suffered to be outof my possession, since he disappeared, and Imean to watch in those chambers, myself, this

very night.'

Emily, seriously alarmed for the Count, unitedher entreaties with those of the Lady Blanche,to dissuade him from his purpose.

'What should I fear?' said he. 'I have no faithin supernatural combats, and for humanopposition I shall be prepared; nay, I will evenpromise not to watch alone.'

'But who, dear sir, will have courage enoughto watch with you?' said Emily.

'My son,' replied the Count. 'If I am not carriedoff in the night,' added he, smiling, 'you shallhear the result of my adventure, tomorrow.'

The Count and Lady Blanche, shortlyafterwards, took leave of Emily, and returned tothe chateau, where he informed Henri of hisintention, who, not without some secretreluctance, consented to be the partner of hiswatch; and, when the design was mentionedafter supper, the Countess was terrified, andthe Baron, and M. Du Pont joined with her inentreating, that he would not tempt his fate, asLudovico had done. 'We know not,' added theBaron, 'the nature, or the power of an evil spirit;and that such a spirit haunts those chamberscan now, I think, scarcely be doubted. Beware,my lord, how you provoke its vengeance, sinceit has already given us one terrible example ofits malice. I allow it may be probable, that thespirits of the dead are permitted to return to theearth only on occasions of high import; but thepresent import may be your destruction.'

The Count could not forbear smiling; 'Do you

think then, Baron,' said he, 'that my destructionis of sufficient importance to draw back to earththe soul of the departed? Alas! my good friend,there is no occasion for such means toaccomplish the destruction of any individual.Wherever the mystery rests, I trust I shall, thisnight, be able to detect it. You know I am notsuperstitious.'

'I know that you are incredulous,' interruptedthe Baron.

'Well, call it what you will, I mean to say, that,though you know I am free from superstition—ifany thing supernatural has appeared, I doubtnot it will appear to me, and if any strange eventhangs over my house, or if any extraordinarytransaction has formerly been connected with it,I shall probably be made acquainted with it. Atall events I will invite discovery; and, that I maybe equal to a mortal attack, which in good truth,my friend, is what I most expect, I shall takecare to be well armed.'

The Count took leave of his family, for thenight, with an assumed gaiety, which but illconcealed the anxiety, that depressed hisspirits, and retired to the north apartments,accompanied by his son and followed by theBaron, M. Du Pont and some of the domestics,who all bade him good night at the outer door.In these chambers every thing appeared aswhen he had last been here; even in the bed-room no alteration was visible, where he lightedhis own fire, for none of the domestics could beprevailed upon to venture thither. After carefullyexamining the chamber and the oriel, the Countand Henri drew their chairs upon the hearth, set

a bottle of wine and a lamp before them, laidtheir swords upon the table, and, stirring thewood into a blaze, began to converse onindifferent topics. But Henri was often silent andabstracted, and sometimes threw a glance ofmingled awe and curiosity round the gloomyapartment; while the Count gradually ceased toconverse, and sat either lost in thought, orreading a volume of Tacitus, which he hadbrought to beguile the tediousness of the night.

CHAPTER IV Give thy thoughts no tongue. SHAKESPEARE

The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for hisfriend had kept awake, rose early to enquire theevent of the night, when, as he passed theCount's closet, hearing steps within, heknocked at the door, and it was opened by hisfriend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety,and curious to learn the occurrences of thenight, he had not immediately leisure to observethe unusual gravity, that overspread the featuresof the Count, whose reserved answers firstoccasioned him to notice it. The Count, thensmiling, endeavoured to treat the subject of hiscuriosity with levity, but the Baron was serious,and pursued his enquiries so closely, that theCount, at length, resuming his gravity, said,'Well, my friend, press the subject no further, Ientreat you; and let me request also, that youwill hereafter be silent upon any thing you maythink extraordinary in my future conduct. I do notscruple to tell you, that I am unhappy, and thatthe watch of the last night has not assisted meto discover Ludovico; upon every occurrence ofthe night you must excuse my reserve.'

'But where is Henri?' said the Baron, withsurprise and disappointment at this denial.

'He is well in his own apartment,' replied theCount. 'You will not question him on this topic,my friend, since you know my wish.'

'Certainly not,' said the Baron, somewhatchagrined, 'since it would be displeasing to you;but methinks, my friend, you might rely on mydiscretion, and drop this unusual reserve.However, you must allow me to suspect, thatyou have seen reason to become a convert tomy system, and are no longer the incredulousknight you lately appeared to be.'

'Let us talk no more upon this subject,' saidthe Count; 'you may be assured, that noordinary circumstance has imposed this silenceupon me towards a friend, whom I have calledso for near thirty years; and my present reservecannot make you question either my esteem, orthe sincerity of my friendship.'

'I will not doubt either,' said the Baron, 'thoughyou must allow me to express my surprise, atthis silence.'

'To me I will allow it,' replied the Count, 'but Iearnestly entreat that you will forbear to notice itto my family, as well as every thing remarkableyou may observe in my conduct towards them.'

The Baron readily promised this, and, afterconversing for some time on general topics,they descended to the breakfast-room, wherethe Count met his family with a cheerfulcountenance, and evaded their enquiries byemploying light ridicule, and assuming an air ofuncommon gaiety, while he assured them, thatthey need not apprehend any evil from the northchambers, since Henri and himself had beenpermitted to return from them in safety.

Henri, however, was less successful in

disguising his feelings. From his countenancean expression of terror was not entirely faded;he was often silent and thoughtful, and when heattempted to laugh at the eager enquiries ofMademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only anattempt.

In the evening, the Count called, as he hadpromised, at the convent, and Emily wassurprised to perceive a mixture of playfulridicule and of reserve in his mention of thenorth apartment. Of what had occurred there,however, he said nothing, and, when sheventured to remind him of his promise to tell herthe result of his enquiries, and to ask if he hadreceived any proof, that those chambers werehaunted, his look became solemn, for amoment, then, seeming to recollect himself, hesmiled, and said, 'My dear Emily, do not suffermy lady abbess to infect your goodunderstanding with these fancies; she will teachyou to expect a ghost in every dark room. Butbelieve me,' added he, with a profound sigh,'the apparition of the dead comes not on light,or sportive errands, to terrify, or to surprise thetimid.' He paused, and fell into a momentarythoughtfulness, and then added, 'We will say nomore on this subject.'

Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emilyjoined some of the nuns, she was surprised tofind them acquainted with a circumstance,which she had carefully avoided to mention, andexpressing their admiration of his intrepidity inhaving dared to pass a night in the apartment,whence Ludovico had disappeared; for she hadnot considered with what rapidity a tale of

wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired theirinformation from peasants, who brought fruit tothe monastery, and whose whole attention hadbeen fixed, since the disappearance ofLudovico, on what was passing in the castle.

Emily listened in silence to the variousopinions of the nuns, concerning the conduct ofthe Count, most of whom condemned it as rashand presumptuous, affirming, that it wasprovoking the vengeance of an evil spirit, thusto intrude upon its haunts.

Sister Frances contended, that the Count hadacted with the bravery of a virtuous mind. Heknew himself guiltless of aught, that shouldprovoke a good spirit, and did not fear thespells of an evil one, since he could claim theprotection of an higher Power, of Him, who cancommand the wicked, and will protect theinnocent.

'The guilty cannot claim that protection!' saidsister Agnes, 'let the Count look to his conduct,that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is he,that shall dare to call himself innocent!—allearthly innocence is but comparative. Yet stillhow wide asunder are the extremes of guilt, andto what an horrible depth may we fall! Oh!'—

The nun, as she concluded, uttered ashuddering sigh, that startled Emily, who,looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixedon hers, after which the sister rose, took herhand, gazed earnestly upon her countenance,for some moments, in silence, and then said,

'You are young—you are innocent! I mean

you are yet innocent of any great crime!—Butyou have passions in your heart,—scorpions;they sleep now—beware how you awakenthem!—they will sting you, even unto death!'

Emily, affected by these words and by thesolemnity, with which they were delivered, couldnot suppress her tears.

'Ah! is it so?' exclaimed Agnes, hercountenance softening from its sternness—'soyoung, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, thenindeed. Yet, there is no bond of kindnessamong the guilty,' she added, while her eyesresumed their wild expression, 'no gentleness,—no peace, no hope! I knew them all once—myeyes could weep—but now they burn, for now,my soul is fixed, and fearless!—I lament nomore!'

'Rather let us repent, and pray,' said anothernun. 'We are taught to hope, that prayer andpenitence will work our salvation. There is hopefor all who repent!'

'Who repent and turn to the true faith,'observed sister Frances.

'For all but me!' replied Agnes solemnly, whopaused, and then abruptly added, 'My headburns, I believe I am not well. O! could I strikefrom my memory all former scenes—thefigures, that rise up, like furies, to torment me!—I see them, when I sleep, and, when I amawake, they are still before my eyes! I see themnow—now!'

She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, herstraining eyes moving slowly round the room, as

if they followed something. One of the nunsgently took her hand, to lead her from theparlour. Agnes became calm, drew her otherhand across her eyes, looked again, and,sighing deeply, said, 'They are gone—they aregone! I am feverish, I know not what I say. I amthus, sometimes, but it will go off again, I shallsoon be better. Was not that the vesper-bell?'

'No,' replied Frances, 'the evening service ispassed. Let Margaret lead you to your cell.'

'You are right,' replied sister Agnes, 'I shall bebetter there. Good night, my sisters, rememberme in your orisons.'

When they had withdrawn, Frances,observing Emily's emotion, said, 'Do not bealarmed, our sister is often thus deranged,though I have not lately seen her so frantic; herusual mood is melancholy. This fit has beencoming on, for several days; seclusion and thecustomary treatment will restore her.'

'But how rationally she conversed, at first!'observed Emily, 'her ideas followed each otherin perfect order.'

'Yes,' replied the nun, 'this is nothing new;nay, I have sometimes known her argue not onlywith method, but with acuteness, and then, in amoment, start off into madness.'

'Her conscience seems afflicted,' said Emily,'did you ever hear what circumstance reducedher to this deplorable condition?'

'I have,' replied the nun, who said no more tillEmily repeated the question, when she added

in a low voice, and looking significantly towardsthe other boarders, 'I cannot tell you now, but, ifyou think it worth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our sisterhood are at rest, and youshall hear more; but remember we rise tomidnight prayers, and come either before, orafter midnight.'

Emily promised to remember, and, theabbess soon after appearing, they spoke nomore of the unhappy nun.

The Count meanwhile, on his return home,had found M. Du Pont in one of those fits ofdespondency, which his attachment to Emilyfrequently occasioned him, an attachment, thathad subsisted too long to be easily subdued,and which had already outlived the oppositionof his friends. M. Du Pont had first seen Emily inGascony, during the lifetime of his parent, who,on discovering his son's partiality forMademoiselle St. Aubert, his inferior in point offortune, forbade him to declare it to her family,or to think of her more. During the life of hisfather, he had observed the first command, buthad found it impracticable to obey the second,and had, sometimes, soothed his passion byvisiting her favourite haunts, among which wasthe fishing-house, where, once or twice, headdressed her in verse, concealing his name,in obedience to the promise he had given hisfather. There too he played the pathetic air, towhich she had listened with such surprise andadmiration; and there he found the miniature,that had since cherished a passion fatal to hisrepose. During his expedition into Italy, hisfather died; but he received his liberty at a

moment, when he was the least enabled toprofit by it, since the object, that rendered itmost valuable, was no longer within the reach ofhis vows. By what accident he discoveredEmily, and assisted to release her from aterrible imprisonment, has already appeared,and also the unavailing hope, with which he thenencouraged his love, and the fruitless efforts,that he had since made to overcome it.

The Count still endeavoured, with friendlyzeal, to sooth him with a belief, that patience,perseverance and prudence would finally obtainfor him happiness and Emily: 'Time,' said he,'will wear away the melancholy impression,which disappointment has left on her mind, andshe will be sensible of your merit. Your serviceshave already awakened her gratitude, and yoursufferings her pity; and trust me, my friend, in aheart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pitylead to love. When her imagination is rescuedfrom its present delusion, she will readily acceptthe homage of a mind like yours.'

Du Pont sighed, while he listened to thesewords; and, endeavouring to hope what hisfriend believed, he willingly yielded to aninvitation to prolong his visit at the chateau,which we now leave for the monastery of St.Claire.

When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stoleto her appointment with sister Frances, whomshe found in her cell, engaged in prayer, beforea little table, where appeared the image shewas addressing, and, above, the dim lamp thatgave light to the place. Turning her eyes, as thedoor opened, she beckoned to Emily to come

in, who, having done so, seated herself insilence beside the nun's little mattress of straw,till her orisons should conclude. The latter soonrose from her knees, and, taking down the lampand placing it on the table, Emily perceivedthere a human scull and bones, lying beside anhour-glass; but the nun, without observing heremotion, sat down on the mattress by her,saying, 'Your curiosity, sister, has made youpunctual, but you have nothing remarkable tohear in the history of poor Agnes, of whom Iavoided to speak in the presence of my lay-sisters, only because I would not publish hercrime to them.'

'I shall consider your confidence in me as afavour,' said Emily, 'and will not misuse it.'

'Sister Agnes,' resumed the nun, 'is of anoble family, as the dignity of her air mustalready have informed you, but I will notdishonour their name so much as to reveal it.Love was the occasion of her crime and of hermadness. She was beloved by a gentleman ofinferior fortune, and her father, as I have heard,bestowing her on a nobleman, whom shedisliked, an ill-governed passion proved herdestruction.—Every obligation of virtue and ofduty was forgotten, and she prophaned hermarriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected,and she would have fallen a sacrifice to thevengeance of her husband, had not her fathercontrived to convey her from his power. By whatmeans he did this, I never could learn; but hesecreted her in this convent, where heafterwards prevailed with her to take the veil,while a report was circulated in the world, that

she was dead, and the father, to save hisdaughter, assisted the rumour, and employedsuch means as induced her husband to believeshe had become a victim to his jealousy. Youlook surprised,' added the nun, observingEmily's countenance; 'I allow the story isuncommon, but not, I believe, without a parallel.'

'Pray proceed,' said Emily, 'I am interested.'

'The story is already told,' resumed the nun, 'Ihave only to mention, that the long struggle,which Agnes suffered, between love, remorseand a sense of the duties she had taken uponherself in becoming of our order, at lengthunsettled her reason. At first, she was franticand melancholy by quick alternatives; then, shesunk into a deep and settled melancholy, whichstill, however, has, at times, been interrupted byfits of wildness, and, of late, these have againbeen frequent.'

Emily was affected by the history of the sister,some parts of whose story brought to herremembrance that of the Marchioness deVilleroi, who had also been compelled by herfather to forsake the object of her affections, fora nobleman of his choice; but, from whatDorothee had related, there appeared noreason to suppose, that she had escaped thevengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt fora moment the innocence of her conduct. ButEmily, while she sighed over the misery of thenun, could not forbear shedding a few tears tothe misfortunes of the Marchioness; and, whenshe returned to the mention of sister Agnes, sheasked Frances if she remembered her in heryouth, and whether she was then beautiful.

'I was not here at the time, when she took thevows,' replied Frances, 'which is so long ago,that few of the present sisterhood, I believe,were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever ourlady mother did not then preside over theconvent: but I can remember, when sisterAgnes was a very beautiful woman. She retainsthat air of high rank, which always distinguishedher, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; Ican scarcely discover even a vestige of theloveliness, that once animated her features.'

'It is strange,' said Emily, 'but there aremoments, when her countenance has appearedfamiliar to my memory! You will think mefanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainlynever saw sister Agnes, before I came to thisconvent, and I must, therefore, have seen someperson, whom she strongly resembles, thoughof this I have no recollection.'

'You have been interested by the deepmelancholy of her countenance,' said Frances,'and its impression has probably deluded yourimagination; for I might as reasonably think Iperceive a likeness between you and Agnes,as you, that you have seen her any where but inthis convent, since this has been her place ofrefuge, for nearly as many years as make yourage.'

'Indeed!' said Emily.

'Yes,' rejoined Frances, 'and why does thatcircumstance excite your surprise?'

Emily did not appear to notice this question,but remained thoughtful, for a few moments,

and then said, 'It was about that same periodthat the Marchioness de Villeroi expired.'

'That is an odd remark,' said Frances.

Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, andgave the conversation another turn, but it sooncame back to the subject of the unhappy nun,and Emily remained in the cell of sisterFrances, till the mid-night bell aroused her;when, apologizing for having interrupted thesister's repose, till this late hour, they quitted thecell together. Emily returned to her chamber,and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, wentto her devotion in the chapel.

Several days followed, during which Emilysaw neither the Count, or any of his family; and,when, at length, he appeared, she remarked,with concern, that his air was unusuallydisturbed.

'My spirits are harassed,' said he, in answerto her anxious enquiries, 'and I mean to changemy residence, for a little while, an experiment,which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usualtranquillity. My daughter and myself willaccompany the Baron St. Foix to his chateau. Itlies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that openstowards Gascony, and I have been thinking,Emily, that, when you set out for La Vallee, wemay go part of the way together; it would be asatisfaction to me to guard you towards yourhome.'

She thanked the Count for his friendlyconsideration, and lamented, that the necessityfor her going first to Tholouse would render this

plan impracticable. 'But, when you are at theBaron's residence,' she added, 'you will be onlya short journey from La Vallee, and I think, sir,you will not leave the country without visiting me;it is unnecessary to say with what pleasure Ishould receive you and the Lady Blanche.'

'I do not doubt it,' replied the Count, 'and I willnot deny myself and Blanche the pleasure ofvisiting you, if your affairs should allow you to beat La Vallee, about the time when we can meetyou there.'

When Emily said that she should hope to seethe Countess also, she was not sorry to learnthat this lady was going, accompanied byMademoiselle Bearn, to pay a visit, for a fewweeks, to a family in lower Languedoc.

The Count, after some further conversationon his intended journey and on the arrangementof Emily's, took leave; and many days did notsucceed this visit, before a second letter fromM. Quesnel informed her, that he was then atTholouse, that La Vallee was at liberty, and thathe wished her to set off for the former place,where he awaited her arrival, with all possibledispatch, since his own affairs pressed him toreturn to Gascony. Emily did not hesitate toobey him, and, having taken an affecting leaveof the Count's family, in which M. Du Pont wasstill included, and of her friends at the convent,she set out for Tholouse, attended by theunhappy Annette, and guarded by a steadyservant of the Count.

CHAPTER X Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain: Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies! PLEASURES OF MEMORY

Emily pursued her journey, without anyaccident, along the plains of Languedoctowards the north-west; and, on this her return toTholouse, which she had last left with MadameMontoni, she thought much on the melancholyfate of her aunt, who, but for her ownimprudence, might now have been living inhappiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to herfancy, such as she had seen him in his days oftriumph, bold, spirited and commanding; suchalso as she had since beheld him in his days ofvengeance; and now, only a few short monthshad passed—and he had no longer the power,or the will to afflict;—he had become a clod ofearth, and his life was vanished like a shadow!Emily could have wept at his fate, had she notremembered his crimes; for that of herunfortunate aunt she did weep, and all sense ofher errors was overcome by the recollection ofher misfortunes.

Other thoughts and other emotionssucceeded, as Emily drew near the well-knownscenes of her early love, and considered, thatValancourt was lost to her and to himself, forever. At length, she came to the brow of the hill,whence, on her departure for Italy, she hadgiven a farewell look to this beloved landscape,

amongst whose woods and fields she had sooften walked with Valancourt, and where hewas then to inhabit, when she would be far, faraway! She saw, once more, that chain of thePyrenees, which overlooked La Vallee, rising,like faint clouds, on the horizon. 'There, too, isGascony, extended at their feet!' said she, 'Omy father,—my mother! And there, too, is theGaronne!' she added, drying the tears, thatobscured her sight,—'and Tholouse, and myaunt's mansion—and the groves in her garden!—O my friends! are ye all lost to me—must Inever, never see ye more!' Tears rushed againto her eyes, and she continued to weep, till anabrupt turn in the road had nearly occasionedthe carriage to overset, when, looking up, sheperceived another part of the well-known scenearound Tholouse, and all the reflections andanticipations, which she had suffered, at themoment, when she bade it last adieu, camewith recollected force to her heart. Sheremembered how anxiously she had lookedforward to the futurity, which was to decide herhappiness concerning Valancourt, and whatdepressing fears had assailed her; the verywords she had uttered, as she withdrew her lastlook from the prospect, came to her memory.'Could I but be certain,' she had then said, 'that Ishould ever return, and that Valancourt wouldstill live for me—I should go in peace!'

Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated,was arrived, she was returned—but what adreary blank appeared!—Valancourt no longerlived for her! She had no longer even themelancholy satisfaction of contemplating hisimage in her heart, for he was no longer the

same Valancourt she had cherished there—thesolace of many a mournful hour, the animatingfriend, that had enabled her to bear up againstthe oppression of Montoni—the distant hope,that had beamed over her gloomy prospect! Onperceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion ofher own creation, Valancourt seemed to beannihilated, and her soul sickened at the blank,that remained. His marriage with a rival, evenhis death, she thought she could have enduredwith more fortitude, than this discovery; for then,amidst all her grief, she could have looked insecret upon the image of goodness, which herfancy had drawn of him, and comfort wouldhave mingled with her suffering!

Drying her tears, she looked, once more,upon the landscape, which had excited them,and perceived, that she was passing the verybank, where she had taken leave of Valancourt,on the morning of her departure from Tholouse,and she now saw him, through her returningtears, such as he had appeared, when shelooked from the carriage to give him a lastadieu—saw him leaning mournfully against thehigh trees, and remembered the fixed look ofmingled tenderness and anguish, with which hehad then regarded her. This recollection wastoo much for her heart, and she sunk back in thecarriage, nor once looked up, till it stopped atthe gates of what was now her own mansion.

These being opened, and by the servant, towhose care the chateau had been entrusted,the carriage drove into the court, where,alighting, she hastily passed through the greathall, now silent and solitary, to a large oak

parlour, the common sitting room of the lateMadame Montoni, where, instead of beingreceived by M. Quesnel, she found a letter fromhim, informing her that business ofconsequence had obliged him to leaveTholouse two days before. Emily was, upon thewhole, not sorry to be spared his presence,since his abrupt departure appeared to indicatethe same indifference, with which he hadformerly regarded her. This letter informed her,also, of the progress he had made in thesettlement of her affairs, and concluded withdirections, concerning the forms of somebusiness, which remained for her to transact.But M. Quesnel's unkindness did not longoccupy her thoughts, which returned theremembrance of the persons she had beenaccustomed to see in this mansion, and chieflyof the ill-guided and unfortunate MadameMontoni. In the room, where she now sat, shehad breakfasted with her on the morning of theirdeparture for Italy; and the view of it broughtmost forcibly to her recollection all she hadherself suffered, at that time, and the many gayexpectations, which her aunt had formed,respecting the journey before her. While Emily'smind was thus engaged, her eyes wanderedunconsciously to a large window, that lookedupon the garden, and here new memorials ofthe past spoke to her heart, for she sawextended before her the very avenue, in whichshe had parted with Valancourt, on the eve ofher journey; and all the anxiety, the tenderinterest he had shewn, concerning her futurehappiness, his earnest remonstrances againsther committing herself to the power of Montoni,and the truth of his affection, came afresh to her

memory. At this moment, it appeared almostimpossible, that Valancourt could have becomeunworthy of her regard, and she doubted all thatshe had lately heard to his disadvantage, andeven his own words, which had confirmedCount De Villefort's report of him. Overcome bythe recollections, which the view of this avenueoccasioned, she turned abruptly from thewindow, and sunk into a chair beside it, whereshe sat, given up to grief, till the entrance ofAnnette, with coffee, aroused her.

'Dear madam, how melancholy this placelooks now,' said Annette, 'to what it used to do!It is dismal coming home, when there is nobodyto welcome one!'

This was not the moment, in which Emilycould bear the remark; her tears fell again, and,as soon as she had taken the coffee, sheretired to her apartment, where sheendeavoured to repose her fatigued spirits. Butbusy memory would still supply her with thevisions of former times: she saw Valancourtinteresting and benevolent, as he had beenwont to appear in the days of their early love,and, amidst the scenes, where she hadbelieved that they should sometimes pass theiryears together!—but, at length, sleep closedthese afflicting scenes from her view.

On the following morning, serious occupationrecovered her from such melancholy reflections;for, being desirous of quitting Tholouse, and ofhastening on to La Vallee, she made someenquiries into the condition of the estate, andimmediately dispatched a part of the necessarybusiness concerning it, according to the

directions of Mons. Quesnel. It required astrong effort to abstract her thoughts from otherinterests sufficiently to attend to this, but shewas rewarded for her exertions by againexperiencing, that employment is the surestantidote to sorrow.

This day was devoted entirely to business;and, among other concerns, she employedmeans to learn the situation of all her poortenants, that she might relieve their wants, orconfirm their comforts.

In the evening, her spirits were so muchstrengthened, that she thought she could bearto visit the gardens, where she had so oftenwalked with Valancourt; and, knowing, that, ifshe delayed to do so, their scenes would onlyaffect her the more, whenever they should beviewed, she took advantage of the presentstate of her mind, and entered them.

Passing hastily the gate leading from thecourt into the gardens, she hurried up the greatavenue, scarcely permitting her memory todwell for a moment on the circumstance of herhaving here parted with Valancourt, and soonquitted this for other walks less interesting toher heart. These brought her, at length, to theflight of steps, that led from the lower garden tothe terrace, on seeing which, she becameagitated, and hesitated whether to ascend, but,her resolution returning, she proceeded.

'Ah!' said Emily, as she ascended, 'these arethe same high trees, that used to wave over theterrace, and these the same flowery thickets—the liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe—

which were wont to grow beneath them! Ah!and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants,which Valancourt so carefully reared!—O, whenlast I saw them!'—she checked the thought, butcould not restrain her tears, and, after walkingslowly on for a few moments, her agitation,upon the view of this well-known scene,increased so much, that she was obliged tostop, and lean upon the wall of the terrace. Itwas a mild, and beautiful evening. The sun wassetting over the extensive landscape, to whichhis beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud,that overhung the west, gave rich and partialcolouring, and touched the tufted summits of thegroves, that rose from the garden below, with ayellow gleam. Emily and Valancourt had oftenadmired together this scene, at the same hour;and it was exactly on this spot, that, on the nightpreceding her departure for Italy, she hadlistened to his remonstrances against thejourney, and to the pleadings of passionateaffection. Some observations, which she madeon the landscape, brought this to herremembrance, and with it all the minuteparticulars of that conversation;—the alarmingdoubts he had expressed concerning Montoni,doubts, which had since been fatally confirmed;the reasons and entreaties he had employed toprevail with her to consent to an immediatemarriage; the tenderness of his love, theparoxysms of this grief, and the conviction thathe had repeatedly expressed, that they shouldnever meet again in happiness! All thesecircumstances rose afresh to her mind, andawakened the various emotions she had thensuffered. Her tenderness for Valancourtbecame as powerful as in the moments, when

she thought, that she was parting with him andhappiness together, and when the strength ofher mind had enabled her to triumph overpresent suffering, rather than to deserve thereproach of her conscience by engaging in aclandestine marriage.—'Alas!' said Emily, asthese recollections came to her mind, 'and whathave I gained by the fortitude I then practised?—am I happy now?—He said, we should meetno more in happiness; but, O! he little thoughthis own misconduct would separate us, andlead to the very evil he then dreaded!'

Her reflections increased her anguish, whileshe was compelled to acknowledge, that thefortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had notconducted her to happiness, had saved herfrom irretrievable misfortune—from Valancourthimself! But in these moments she could notcongratulate herself on the prudence, that hadsaved her; she could only lament, with bitterestanguish, the circumstances, which hadconspired to betray Valancourt into a course oflife so different from that, which the virtues, thetastes, and the pursuits of his early years hadpromised; but she still loved him too well tobelieve, that his heart was even now depraved,though his conduct had been criminal. Anobservation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubertmore than once, now occurred to her. 'Thisyoung man,' said he, speaking of Valancourt,'has never been at Paris;' a remark, that hadsurprised her at the time it was uttered, butwhich she now understood, and she exclaimedsorrowfully, 'O Valancourt! if such a friend as myfather had been with you at Paris—your noble,ingenuous nature would not have fallen!'

The sun was now set, and, recalling herthoughts from their melancholy subject, shecontinued her walk; for the pensive shade oftwilight was pleasing to her, and thenightingales from the surrounding groves beganto answer each other in the long-drawn,plaintive note, which always touched her heart;while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets,that bounded the terrace, was awakened by thecool evening air, which floated so lightly amongtheir leaves, that they scarcely trembled as itpassed.

Emily came, at length, to the steps of thepavilion, that terminated the terrace, and whereher last interview with Valancourt, before herdeparture from Tholouse, had so unexpectedlytaken place. The door was now shut, and shetrembled, while she hesitated whether to openit; but her wish to see again a place, which hadbeen the chief scene of her former happiness,at length overcoming her reluctance toencounter the painful regret it would renew, sheentered. The room was obscured by amelancholy shade; but through the openlattices, darkened by the hanging foliage of thevines, appeared the dusky landscape, theGaronne reflecting the evening light, and thewest still glowing. A chair was placed near oneof the balconies, as if some person had beensitting there, but the other furniture of thepavilion remained exactly as usual, and Emilythought it looked as if it had not once beenmoved since she set out for Italy. The silent anddeserted air of the place added solemnity toher emotions, for she heard only the lowwhisper of the breeze, as it shook the leaves of

the vines, and the very faint murmur of theGaronne.

She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice,and yielded to the sadness of her heart, whileshe recollected the circumstances of herparting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. Itwas here too, that she had passed some of thehappiest hours of her life with him, when heraunt favoured the connection, for here she hadoften sat and worked, while he conversed, orread; and she now well remembered with whatdiscriminating judgment, with what temperedenergy, he used to repeat some of thesublimest passages of their favourite authors;how often he would pause to admire with hertheir excellence, and with what tender delight hewould listen to her remarks, and correct hertaste.

'And is it possible,' said Emily, as theserecollections returned—'is it possible, that amind, so susceptible of whatever is grand andbeautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and besubdued by frivolous temptations?'

She remembered how often she had seenthe sudden tear start in his eye, and had heardhis voice tremble with emotion, while he relatedany great or benevolent action, or repeated asentiment of the same character. 'And such amind,' said she, 'such a heart, were to besacrificed to the habits of a great city!'

These recollections becoming too painful tobe endured, she abruptly left the pavilion, and,anxious to escape from the memorials of herdeparted happiness, returned towards the

chateau. As she passed along the terrace, sheperceived a person, walking, with a slow step,and a dejected air, under the trees, at somedistance. The twilight, which was now deep,would not allow her to distinguish who it was,and she imagined it to be one of the servants,till, the sound of her steps seeming to reachhim, he turned half round, and she thought shesaw Valancourt!

Whoever it was, he instantly struck among thethickets on the left, and disappeared, whileEmily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence hehad vanished, and her frame trembling soexcessively, that she could scarcely supportherself, remained, for some moments, unable toquit the spot, and scarcely conscious ofexistence. With her recollection, her strengthreturned, and she hurried toward the house,where she did not venture to enquire who hadbeen in the gardens, lest she should betray heremotion; and she sat down alone,endeavouring to recollect the figure, air andfeatures of the person she had just seen. Herview of him, however, had been so transient,and the gloom had rendered it so imperfect,that she could remember nothing withexactness; yet the general appearance of hisfigure, and his abrupt departure, made her stillbelieve, that this person was Valancourt.Sometimes, indeed, she thought, that her fancy,which had been occupied by the idea of him,had suggested his image to her uncertain sight:but this conjecture was fleeting. If it was himselfwhom she had seen, she wondered much, thathe should be at Tholouse, and more, how hehad gained admittance into the garden; but as

often as her impatience prompted her toenquire whether any stranger had beenadmitted, she was restrained by anunwillingness to betray her doubts; and theevening was passed in anxious conjecture, andin efforts to dismiss the subject from herthoughts. But, these endeavours wereineffectual, and a thousand inconsistentemotions assailed her, whenever she fanciedthat Valancourt might be near her; now, shedreaded it to be true, and now she feared it tobe false; and, while she constantly tried topersuade herself, that she wished the person,whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt,her heart as constantly contradicted her reason.

The following day was occupied by the visitsof several neighbouring families, formerlyintimate with Madame Montoni, who came tocondole with Emily on her death, to congratulateher upon the acquisition of these estates, andto enquire about Montoni, and concerning thestrange reports they had heard of her ownsituation; all which was done with the utmostdecorum, and the visitors departed with asmuch composure as they had arrived.

Emily was wearied by these formalities, anddisgusted by the subservient manners of manypersons, who had thought her scarcely worthy ofcommon attention, while she was believed tobe a dependant on Madame Montoni.

'Surely,' said she, 'there is some magic inwealth, which can thus make persons pay theircourt to it, when it does not even benefitthemselves. How strange it is, that a fool or aknave, with riches, should be treated with more

respect by the world, than a good man, or awise man in poverty!'

It was evening, before she was left alone, andshe then wished to have refreshed her spirits inthe free air of her garden; but she feared to gothither, lest she should meet again the person,whom she had seen on the preceding night,and he should prove to be Valancourt. Thesuspense and anxiety she suffered, on thissubject, she found all her efforts unable tocontroul, and her secret wish to see Valancourtonce more, though unseen by him, powerfullyprompted her to go, but prudence and adelicate pride restrained her, and shedetermined to avoid the possibility of throwingherself in his way, by forbearing to visit thegardens, for several days.

When, after near a week, she again venturedthither, she made Annette her companion, andconfined her walk to the lower grounds, butoften started as the leaves rustled in the breeze,imagining, that some person was among thethickets; and, at the turn of every alley, shelooked forward with apprehensive expectation.She pursued her walk thoughtfully and silently,for her agitation would not suffer her toconverse with Annette, to whom, however,thought and silence were so intolerable, thatshe did not scruple at length to talk to hermistress.

'Dear madam,' said she, 'why do you startso? one would think you knew what hashappened.'

'What has happened?' said Emily, in a

faltering voice, and trying to command heremotion.

'The night before last, you know, madam'—

'I know nothing, Annette,' replied her lady in amore hurried voice.

'The night before last, madam, there was arobber in the garden.'

'A robber!' said Emily, in an eager, yetdoubting tone.

'I suppose he was a robber, madam. Whatelse could he be?'

'Where did you see him, Annette?' rejoinedEmily, looking round her, and turning backtowards the chateau.

'It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jeanthe gardener. It was twelve o'clock at night, and,as he was coming across the court to go theback way into the house, what should he see—but somebody walking in the avenue, that frontsthe garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessedhow it was, and he went into the house for hisgun.'

'His gun!' exclaimed Emily.

'Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came outinto the court to watch him. Presently, he seeshim come slowly down the avenue, and leanover the garden gate, and look up at the housefor a long time; and I warrant he examined itwell, and settled what window he should breakin at.'

'But the gun,' said Emily—'the gun!'

'Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently,Jean says, the robber opened the gate, andwas coming into the court, and then he thoughtproper to ask him his business: so he called outagain, and bade him say who he was, and whathe wanted. But the man would do neither; butturned upon his heel, and passed into thegarden again. Jean knew then well enough howit was, and so he fired after him.'

'Fired!' exclaimed Emily.

'Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, HolyVirgin! what makes you look so pale, madam?The man was not killed,—I dare say; but if hewas, his comrades carried him off: for, whenJean went in the morning, to look for the body, itwas gone, and nothing to be seen but a track ofblood on the ground. Jean followed it, that hemight find out where the man got into thegarden, but it was lost in the grass, and'—

Annette was interrupted: for Emily's spiritsdied away, and she would have fallen to theground, if the girl had not caught her, andsupported her to a bench, close to them.

When, after a long absence, her sensesreturned, Emily desired to be led to herapartment; and, though she trembled withanxiety to enquire further on the subject of heralarm, she found herself too ill at present, todare the intelligence which it was possible shemight receive of Valancourt. Having dismissedAnnette, that she might weep and think atliberty, she endeavoured to recollect the exact

air of the person, whom she had seen on theterrace, and still her fancy gave her the figure ofValancourt. She had, indeed, scarcely a doubt,that it was he whom she had seen, and at whomthe gardener had fired: for the manner of thelatter person, as described by Annette, was notthat of a robber; nor did it appear probable, thata robber would have come alone, to break intoa house so spacious as this.

When Emily thought herself sufficientlyrecovered, to listen to what Jean might have torelate, she sent for him; but he could inform herof no circumstance, that might lead to aknowledge of the person, who had been shot,or of the consequence of the wound; and, afterseverely reprimanding him, for having fired withbullets, and ordering diligent enquiry to bemade in the neighbourhood for the discovery ofthe wounded person, she dismissed him, andherself remained in the same state of terriblesuspense. All the tenderness she had ever feltfor Valancourt, was recalled by the sense of hisdanger; and the more she considered thesubject, the more her conviction strengthened,that it was he, who had visited the gardens, forthe purpose of soothing the misery ofdisappointed affection, amidst the scenes ofhis former happiness.

'Dear madam,' said Annette, when shereturned, 'I never saw you so affected before! Idare say the man is not killed.'

Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly therashness of the gardener in having fired.

'I knew you would be angry enough about

that, madam, or I should have told you before;and he knew so too; for, says he, "Annette, saynothing about this to my lady. She lies on theother side of the house, so did not hear the gun,perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if sheknew, seeing there is blood. But then," says he,"how is one to keep the garden clear, if one isafraid to fire at a robber, when one sees him?"'

'No more of this,' said Emily, 'pray leave me.'

Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to theagonizing considerations, that had assailed herbefore, but which she, at length, endeavoured tosooth by a new remark. If the stranger wasValancourt, it was certain he had come alone,and it appeared, therefore, that he had beenable to quit the gardens, without assistance; acircumstance which did not seem probable,had his wound been dangerous. With thisconsideration, she endeavoured to supportherself, during the enquiries, that were makingby her servants in the neighbourhood; but dayafter day came, and still closed in uncertainty,concerning this affair: and Emily, suffering insilence, at length, drooped, and sunk under thepressure of her anxiety. She was attacked by aslow fever, and when she yielded to thepersuasion of Annette to send for medicaladvice, the physicians prescribed little besideair, gentle exercise and amusement: but howwas this last to be obtained? She, however,endeavoured to abstract her thoughts from thesubject of her anxiety, by employing them inpromoting that happiness in others, which shehad lost herself; and, when the evening wasfine, she usually took an airing, including in her

ride the cottages of some of her tenants, onwhose condition she made such observations,as often enabled her, unasked, to fulfil theirwishes.

Her indisposition and the business sheengaged in, relative to this estate, had alreadyprotracted her stay at Tholouse, beyond theperiod she had formerly fixed for her departureto La Vallee; and now she was unwilling toleave the only place, where it seemed possible,that certainty could be obtained on the subjectof her distress. But the time was come, whenher presence was necessary at La Vallee, aletter from the Lady Blanche now informing her,that the Count and herself, being then at thechateau of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to visither at La Vallee, on their way home, as soon asthey should be informed of her arrival there.Blanche added, that they made this visit, withthe hope of inducing her to return with them toChateau-le-Blanc.

Emily, having replied to the letter of herfriend, and said that she should be at La Valleein a few days, made hasty preparations for thejourney; and, in thus leaving Tholouse,endeavoured to support herself with a belief,that, if any fatal accident had happened toValancourt, she must in this interval have heardof it.

On the evening before her departure, shewent to take leave of the terrace and thepavilion. The day had been sultry, but a lightshower, that fell just before sun-set, had cooledthe air, and given that soft verdure to the woodsand pastures, which is so refreshing to the eye;

while the rain drops, still trembling on theshrubs, glittered in the last yellow gleam, thatlighted up the scene, and the air was filled withfragrance, exhaled by the late shower, fromherbs and flowers and from the earth itself. Butthe lovely prospect, which Emily beheld from theterrace, was no longer viewed by her withdelight; she sighed deeply as her eyewandered over it, and her spirits were in a stateof such dejection, that she could not think of herapproaching return to La Vallee, without tears,and seemed to mourn again the death of herfather, as if it had been an event of yesterday.Having reached the pavilion, she seated herselfat the open lattice, and, while her eyes settledon the distant mountains, that overlookedGascony, still gleaming on the horizon, thoughthe sun had now left the plains below, 'Alas!'said she, 'I return to your long-lost scenes, butshall meet no more the parents, that were wontto render them delightful!—no more shall seethe smile of welcome, or hear the well-knownvoice of fondness:—all will now be cold andsilent in what was once my happy home.'

Tears stole down her cheek, as theremembrance of what that home had been,returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrowfor some time, she checked it, accusing herselfof ingratitude in forgetting the friends, that shepossessed, while she lamented those that weredeparted; and she, at length, left the pavilionand the terrace, without having observed ashadow of Valancourt or of any other person.

CHAPTER XI Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade! Ah fields belov'd in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to sooth. GRAY

On the following morning, Emily left Tholouseat an early hour, and reached La Vallee aboutsun-set. With the melancholy she experiencedon the review of a place which had been theresidence of her parents, and the scene of herearliest delight, was mingled, after the firstshock had subsided, a tender andundescribable pleasure. For time had so farblunted the acuteness of her grief, that she nowcourted every scene, that awakened thememory of her friends; in every room, whereshe had been accustomed to see them, theyalmost seemed to live again; and she felt thatLa Vallee was still her happiest home. One ofthe first apartments she visited, was that, whichhad been her father's library, and here sheseated herself in his arm-chair, and, while shecontemplated, with tempered resignation, thepicture of past times, which her memory gave,the tears she shed could scarcely be calledthose of grief.

Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by avisit from the venerable M. Barreaux, who came

impatiently to welcome the daughter of his laterespected neighbour, to her long-desertedhome. Emily was comforted by the presence ofan old friend, and they passed an interestinghour in conversing of former times, and inrelating some of the circumstances, that hadoccurred to each, since they parted.

The evening was so far advanced, when M.Barreaux left Emily, that she could not visit thegarden that night; but, on the following morning,she traced its long-regretted scenes with fondimpatience; and, as she walked beneath thegroves, which her father had planted, and whereshe had so often sauntered in affectionateconversation with him, his countenance, hissmile, even the accents of his voice, returnedwith exactness to her fancy, and her heartmelted to the tender recollections.

This, too, was his favourite season of theyear, at which they had often together admiredthe rich and variegated tints of these woodsand the magical effect of autumnal lights uponthe mountains; and now, the view of thesecircumstances made memory eloquent. As shewandered pensively on, she fancied thefollowing address

TO AUTUMN

Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind! Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace Each lonely image of the pensive mind! Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends—long lost! around me rise, And wake the melting thought, the tender tear! That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize— Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year!

Thy farewel smile, with fond regret, I view, Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the woods; Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding floods, Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's white sails Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray. But now, e'en now!—the partial vision fails, And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away! Emblem of life!—Thus checquer'd is its plan, Thus joy succeeds to grief—thus smiles the varied man!

One of Emily's earliest enquiries, after herarrival at La Vallee, was concerning Theresa,her father's old servant, whom it may beremembered that M. Quesnel had turned fromthe house when it was let, without any provision.Understanding that she lived in a cottage at nogreat distance, Emily walked thither, and, onapproaching, was pleased to see, that herhabitation was pleasantly situated on a greenslope, sheltered by a tuft of oaks, and had anappearance of comfort and extreme neatness.She found the old woman within, picking vine-stalks, who, on perceiving her young mistress,was nearly overcome with joy.

'Ah! my dear young lady!' said she, 'I thought Ishould never see you again in this world, when Iheard you was gone to that outlandish country. Ihave been hardly used, since you went; I littlethought they would have turned me out of my oldmaster's family in my old age!'

Emily lamented the circumstance, and thenassured her, that she would make her latterdays comfortable, and expressed satisfaction,on seeing her in so pleasant an habitation.

Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, 'Yes,

mademoiselle, it is a very comfortable home,thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of mydistress, when you was too far off to help me,and placed me here! I little thought!—but nomore of that—'

'And who was this kind friend?' said Emily:'whoever it was, I shall consider him as minealso.'

'Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbad me toblazon the good deed—I must not say, who itwas. But how you are altered since I saw youlast! You look so pale now, and so thin, too; butthen, there is my old master's smile! Yes, thatwill never leave you, any more than thegoodness, that used to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a friend indeed, when hedied!'

Emily was affected by this mention of herfather, which Theresa observing, changed thesubject. 'I heard, mademoiselle,' said she, 'thatMadame Cheron married a foreign gentleman,after all, and took you abroad; how does shedo?'

Emily now mentioned her death. 'Alas!' saidTheresa, 'if she had not been my master'ssister, I should never have loved her; she wasalways so cross. But how does that dear younggentleman do, M. Valancourt? he was anhandsome youth, and a good one; is he well,mademoiselle?'

Emily was much agitated.

'A blessing on him!' continued Theresa. 'Ah,my dear young lady, you need not look so shy; I

know all about it. Do you think I do not know,that he loves you? Why, when you was away,mademoiselle, he used to come to the chateauand walk about it, so disconsolate! He would gointo every room in the lower part of the house,and, sometimes, he would sit himself down in achair, with his arms across, and his eyes on thefloor, and there he would sit, and think, andthink, for the hour together. He used to be veryfond of the south parlour, because I told him itused to be yours; and there he would stay,looking at the pictures, which I said you drew,and playing upon your lute, that hung up by thewindow, and reading in your books, till sunset,and then he must go back to his brother'schateau. And then—'

'It is enough, Theresa,' said Emily.—'Howlong have you lived in this cottage—and howcan I serve you? Will you remain here, or returnand live with me?'

'Nay, mademoiselle,' said Theresa, 'do notbe so shy to your poor old servant. I am sure itis no disgrace to like such a good younggentleman.'

A deep sigh escaped from Emily.

'Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved himfor that. Nay, for that matter, he liked to hear metalk, for he did not say much himself. But I soonfound out what he came to the chateau about.Then, he would go into the garden, and down tothe terrace, and sit under that great tree there,for the day together, with one of your books inhis hand; but he did not read much, I fancy; forone day I happened to go that way, and I heard

somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: Iam sure I let nobody into the garden, but theChevalier. So I walked softly, to see who itcould be; and behold! it was the Chevalierhimself, talking to himself about you. And herepeated your name, and sighed so! and saidhe had lost you for ever, for that you would neverreturn for him. I thought he was out in hisreckoning there, but I said nothing, and stoleaway.'

'No more of this trifling,' said Emily,awakening from her reverie: 'it displeases me.'

'But, when M. Quesnel let the chateau, Ithought it would have broke the Chevalier'sheart.'

'Theresa,' said Emily seriously, 'you mustname the Chevalier no more!'

'Not name him, mademoiselle!' criedTheresa: 'what times are come up now? Why, Ilove the Chevalier next to my old master andyou, mademoiselle.'

'Perhaps your love was not well bestowed,then,' replied Emily, trying to conceal her tears;'but, however that might be, we shall meet nomore.'

'Meet no more!—not well bestowed!'exclaimed Theresa. 'What do I hear? No,mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, forit was the Chevalier Valancourt, who gave methis cottage, and has supported me in my oldage, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from mymaster's house.'

'The Chevalier Valancourt!' said Emily,trembling extremely.

'Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though hemade me promise not to tell; but how could onehelp, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah!dear young lady, you may well weep, if you havebehaved unkindly to him, for a more tenderheart than his never young gentleman had. Hefound me out in my distress, when you was toofar off to help me; and M. Quesnel refused to doso, and bade me go to service again—Alas! Iwas too old for that!—The Chevalier found me,and bought me this cottage, and gave memoney to furnish it, and bade me seek outanother poor woman to live with me; and heordered his brother's steward to pay me, everyquarter, that which has supported me incomfort. Think then, mademoiselle, whether Ihave not reason to speak well of the Chevalier.And there are others, who could have affordedit better than he: and I am afraid he has hurthimself by his generosity, for quarter day isgone by long since, and no money for me! Butdo not weep so, mademoiselle: you are notsorry surely to hear of the poor Chevalier'sgoodness?'

'Sorry!' said Emily, and wept the more. 'Buthow long is it since you have seen him?'

'Not this many a day, mademoiselle.'

'When did you hear of him?' enquired Emily,with increased emotion.

'Alas! never since he went away so suddenlyinto Languedoc; and he was but just come from

Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure.Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as Isaid, no money for me; and I begin to fear someharm has happened to him: and if I was not sofar from Estuviere and so lame, I should havegone to enquire before this time; and I havenobody to send so far.'

Emily's anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt,was now scarcely endurable, and, sincepropriety would not suffer her to send to thechateau of his brother, she requested thatTheresa would immediately hire some personto go to his steward from herself, and, when heasked for the quarterage due to her, to makeenquiries concerning Valancourt. But she firstmade Theresa promise never to mention hername in this affair, or ever with that of theChevalier Valancourt; and her formerfaithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily toconfide in her assurances. Theresa now joyfullyundertook to procure a person for this errand,and then Emily, after giving her a sum of moneyto supply her with present comforts, returned,with spirits heavily oppressed, to her home,lamenting, more than ever, that an heart,possessed of so much benevolence asValancourt's, should have been contaminatedby the vices of the world, but affected by thedelicate affection, which his kindness to her oldservant expressed for herself.

CHAPTER XII Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop, and drowze; While night's black agents to their preys do rouze. MACBETH

Meanwhile Count De Villefort and LadyBlanche had passed a pleasant fortnight at thechateau de St. Foix, with the Baron andBaroness, during which they made frequentexcursions among the mountains, and weredelighted with the romantic wildness ofPyrenean scenery. It was with regret, that theCount bade adieu to his old friends, althoughwith the hope of being soon united with them inone family; for it was settled that M. St. Foix,who now attended them into Gascony, shouldreceive the hand of the Lady Blanche, upontheir arrival at Chateau-le-Blanc. As the road,from the Baron's residence to La Vallee, wasover some of the wildest tract of the Pyrenees,and where a carriage-wheel had never passed,the Count hired mules for himself and his family,as well as a couple of stout guides, who werewell armed, informed of all the passes of themountains, and who boasted, too, that theywere acquainted with every brake and dingle inthe way, could tell the names of all the highestpoints of this chain of Alps, knew every forest,that spread along their narrow vallies, theshallowest part of every torrent they must cross,and the exact distance of every goat-herd's andhunter's cabin they should have occasion topass,—which last article of learning required novery capacious memory, for even such simpleinhabitants were but thinly scattered over these

wilds.

The Count left the chateau de St. Foix, earlyin the morning, with an intention of passing thenight at a little inn upon the mountains, abouthalf way to La Vallee, of which his guides hadinformed him; and, though this was frequentedchiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their route intoFrance, and, of course, would afford only sorryaccommodation, the Count had no alternative,for it was the only place like an inn, on the road.

After a day of admiration and fatigue, thetravellers found themselves, about sun-set, in awoody valley, overlooked, on every side, byabrupt heights. They had proceeded for manyleagues, without seeing a human habitation,and had only heard, now and then, at adistance, the melancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell; but now they caught the notes of merrymusic, and presently saw, within a little greenrecess among the rocks, a group ofmountaineers, tripping through a dance. TheCount, who could not look upon the happiness,any more than on the misery of others, withindifference, halted to enjoy this scene ofsimple pleasure. The group before himconsisted of French and Spanish peasants, theinhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, some ofwhom were performing a sprightly dance, thewomen with castanets in their hands, to thesounds of a lute and a tamborine, till, from thebrisk melody of France, the music softened intoa slow movement, to which two femalepeasants danced a Spanish Pavan.

The Count, comparing this with the scenes ofsuch gaiety as he had witnessed at Paris,where false taste painted the features, and,while it vainly tried to supply the glow of nature,

concealed the charms of animation—whereaffectation so often distorted the air, and viceperverted the manners—sighed to think, thatnatural graces and innocent pleasuresflourished in the wilds of solitude, while theydrooped amidst the concourse of polishedsociety. But the lengthening shadows remindedthe travellers, that they had no time to lose; and,leaving this joyous group, they pursued theirway towards the little inn, which was to shelterthem from the night.

The rays of the setting sun now threw a yellowgleam upon the forests of pine and chesnut, thatswept down the lower region of the mountains,and gave resplendent tints to the snowy pointsabove. But soon, even this light faded fast, andthe scenery assumed a more tremendousappearance, invested with the obscurity oftwilight. Where the torrent had been seen, itwas now only heard; where the wild cliffs haddisplayed every variety of form and attitude, adark mass of mountains now alone appeared;and the vale, which far, far below had openedits dreadful chasm, the eye could no longerfathom. A melancholy gleam still lingered on thesummits of the highest Alps, overlooking thedeep repose of evening, and seeming to makethe stillness of the hour more awful.

Blanche viewed the scene in silence, andlistened with enthusiasm to the murmur of thepines, that extended in dark lines along themountains, and to the faint voice of the izard,among the rocks, that came at intervals on theair. But her enthusiasm sunk into apprehension,when, as the shadows deepened, she lookedupon the doubtful precipice, that bordered theroad, as well as on the various fantastic formsof danger, that glimmered through the obscurity

beyond it; and she asked her father, how farthey were from the inn, and whether he did notconsider the road to be dangerous at this latehour. The Count repeated the first question tothe guides, who returned a doubtful answer,adding, that, when it was darker, it would besafest to rest, till the moon rose. 'It is scarcelysafe to proceed now,' said the Count; but theguides, assuring him that there was no danger,went on. Blanche, revived by this assurance,again indulged a pensive pleasure, as shewatched the progress of twilight graduallyspreading its tints over the woods andmountains, and stealing from the eye everyminuter feature of the scene, till the grandoutlines of nature alone remained. Then fell thesilent dews, and every wild flower, and aromaticplant, that bloomed among the cliffs, breathedforth its sweetness; then, too, when themountain-bee had crept into its blossomedbed, and the hum of every little insect, that hadfloated gaily in the sun-beam, was hushed, thesound of many streams, not heard till now,murmured at a distance.—The bats alone, of allthe animals inhabiting this region, seemedawake; and, while they flitted across the silentpath, which Blanche was pursuing, sheremembered the following lines, which Emilyhad given her:

TO THE BAT

From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare, Thou shroud'st thee in the ruin's ivy'd tow'r. Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r, Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare, Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care! But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour, When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r, Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air,

Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue, In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay, Thou flit'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's way, As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew. From Indian isles thou com'st, with Summer's car, Twilight thy love—thy guide her beaming star!

To a warm imagination, the dubious forms,that float, half veiled in darkness, afford a higherdelight, than the most distinct scenery, that thesun can shew. While the fancy thus wandersover landscapes partly of its own creation, asweet complacency steals upon the mind, and

Refines it all to subtlest feeling, Bids the tear of rapture roll.

The distant note of a torrent, the weaktrembling of the breeze among the woods, orthe far-off sound of a human voice, now lost andheard again, are circumstances, whichwonderfully heighten the enthusiastic tone of themind. The young St. Foix, who saw thepresentations of a fervid fancy, and feltwhatever enthusiasm could suggest,sometimes interrupted the silence, which therest of the party seemed by mutual consent topreserve, remarking and pointing out toBlanche the most striking effect of the hourupon the scenery; while Blanche, whoseapprehensions were beguiled by theconversation of her lover, yielded to the taste socongenial to his, and they conversed in a lowrestrained voice, the effect of the pensivetranquillity, which twilight and the sceneinspired, rather than of any fear, that they shouldbe heard. But, while the heart was thus soothedto tenderness, St. Foix gradually mingled, withhis admiration of the country, a mention of hisaffection; and he continued to speak, andBlanche to listen, till the mountains, the woods,

and the magical illusions of twilight, wereremembered no more.

The shadows of evening soon shifted to thegloom of night, which was somewhatanticipated by the vapours, that, gathering fastround the mountains, rolled in dark wreathsalong their sides; and the guides proposed torest, till the moon should rise, adding, that theythought a storm was coming on. As they lookedround for a spot, that might afford some kind ofshelter, an object was perceived obscurelythrough the dusk, on a point of rock, a little waydown the mountain, which they imagined to bea hunter's or a shepherd's cabin, and the party,with cautious steps, proceeded towards it.Their labour, however, was not rewarded, ortheir apprehensions soothed; for, on reachingthe object of their search, they discovered amonumental cross, which marked the spot tohave been polluted by murder.

The darkness would not permit them to readthe inscription; but the guides knew this to be across, raised to the memory of a Count deBeliard, who had been murdered here by ahorde of banditti, that had infested this part ofthe Pyrenees, a few years before; and theuncommon size of the monument seemed tojustify the supposition, that it was erected for aperson of some distinction. Blanche shuddered,as she listened to some horrid particulars of theCount's fate, which one of the guides related ina low, restrained tone, as if the sound of hisown voice frightened him; but, while theylingered at the cross, attending to his narrative,a flash of lightning glanced upon the rocks,thunder muttered at a distance, and thetravellers, now alarmed, quitted this scene of

solitary horror, in search of shelter.

Having regained their former track, theguides, as they passed on, endeavoured tointerest the Count by various stories of robbery,and even of murder, which had beenperpetrated in the very places they mustunavoidably pass, with accounts of their owndauntless courage and wonderful escapes. Thechief guide, or rather he, who was the mostcompletely armed, drawing forth one of the fourpistols, that were tucked into his belt, swore,that it had shot three robbers within the year. Hethen brandished a clasp-knife of enormouslength, and was going to recount the wonderfulexecution it had done, when St. Foix,perceiving, that Blanche was terrified,interrupted him. The Count, meanwhile, secretlylaughing at the terrible histories andextravagant boastings of the man, resolved tohumour him, and, telling Blanche in a whisper,his design, began to recount some exploits ofhis own, which infinitely exceeded any relatedby the guide.

To these surprising circumstances he soartfully gave the colouring of truth, that thecourage of the guides was visibly affected bythem, who continued silent, long after the Counthad ceased to speak. The loquacity of the chiefhero thus laid asleep, the vigilance of his eyesand ears seemed more thoroughly awakened,for he listened, with much appearance ofanxiety, to the deep thunder, which murmured atintervals, and often paused, as the breeze, thatwas now rising, rushed among the pines. But,when he made a sudden halt before a tuft ofcork trees, that projected over the road, anddrew forth a pistol, before he would venture tobrave the banditti which might lurk behind it, the

Count could no longer refrain from laughter.

Having now, however, arrived at a level spot,somewhat sheltered from the air, byoverhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, thatrose over the precipice on the left, and theguides being yet ignorant how far they werefrom the inn, the travellers determined to rest, tillthe moon should rise, or the storm disperse.Blanche, recalled to a sense of the presentmoment, looked on the surrounding gloom, withterror; but giving her hand to St. Foix, shealighted, and the whole party entered a kind ofcave, if such it could be called, which was only ashallow cavity, formed by the curve ofimpending rocks. A light being struck, a firewas kindled, whose blaze afforded somedegree of cheerfulness, and no small comfort,for, though the day had been hot, the night air ofthis mountainous region was chilling; a fire waspartly necessary also to keep off the wolves,with which those wilds were infested.

Provisions being spread upon a projection ofthe rock, the Count and his family partook of asupper, which, in a scene less rude, wouldcertainly have been thought less excellent.When the repast was finished, St. Foix,impatient for the moon, sauntered along theprecipice, to a point, that fronted the east; butall was yet wrapt in gloom, and the silence ofnight was broken only by the murmuring ofwoods, that waved far below, or by distantthunder, and, now and then, by the faint voicesof the party he had quitted. He viewed, withemotions of awful sublimity, the long volumes ofsulphureous clouds, that floated along the upperand middle regions of the air, and the lightningsthat flashed from them, sometimes silently, and,

at others, followed by sullen peals of thunder,which the mountains feebly prolonged, while thewhole horizon, and the abyss, on which hestood, were discovered in the momentary light.Upon the succeeding darkness, the fire, whichhad been kindled in the cave, threw a partialgleam, illumining some points of the oppositerocks, and the summits of pine-woods, thathung beetling on the cliffs below, while theirrecesses seemed to frown in deeper shade.

St. Foix stopped to observe the picture,which the party in the cave presented, wherethe elegant form of Blanche was finelycontrasted by the majestic figure of the Count,who was seated by her on a rude stone, andeach was rendered more impressive by thegrotesque habits and strong features of theguides and other attendants, who were in theback ground of the piece. The effect of the light,too, was interesting; on the surrounding figuresit threw a strong, though pale gleam, andglittered on their bright arms; while upon thefoliage of a gigantic larch, that impended itsshade over the cliff above, appeared a red,dusky tint, deepening almost imperceptibly intothe blackness of night.

While St. Foix contemplated the scene, themoon, broad and yellow, rose over the easternsummits, from among embattled clouds, andshewed dimly the grandeur of the heavens, themass of vapours, that rolled half way down theprecipice beneath, and the doubtful mountains.

What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, And view th'enormous waste of vapour, tost In billows length'ning to th'horizon round! THE MINSTREL

From this romantic reverie he was awakenedby the voices of the guides, repeating his name,which was reverbed from cliff to cliff, till anhundred tongues seemed to call him; when hesoon quieted the fears of the Count and theLady Blanche, by returning to the cave. As thestorm, however, seemed approaching, they didnot quit their place of shelter; and the Count,seated between his daughter and St. Foix,endeavoured to divert the fears of the former,and conversed on subjects, relating to thenatural history of the scene, among which theywandered. He spoke of the mineral and fossilesubstances, found in the depths of thesemountains,—the veins of marble and granite,with which they abounded, the strata of shells,discovered near their summits, many thousandfathom above the level of the sea, and at a vastdistance from its present shore;—of thetremendous chasms and caverns of the rocks,the grotesque form of the mountains, and thevarious phaenomena, that seem to stamp uponthe world the history of the deluge. From thenatural history he descended to the mention ofevents and circumstances, connected with thecivil story of the Pyrenees; named some of themost remarkable fortresses, which France andSpain had erected in the passes of thesemountains; and gave a brief account of somecelebrated sieges and encounters in earlytimes, when Ambition first frightened Solitudefrom these her deep recesses, made hermountains, which before had echoed only to thetorrent's roar, tremble with the clang of arms,and, when man's first footsteps in her sacredhaunts had left the print of blood!

As Blanche sat, attentive to the narrative, thatrendered the scenes doubly interesting, and

resigned to solemn emotion, while sheconsidered, that she was on the very ground,once polluted by these events, her reverie wassuddenly interrupted by a sound, that came inthe wind.—It was the distant bark of a watch-dog. The travellers listened with eager hope,and, as the wind blew stronger, fancied, that thesound came from no great distance; and, theguides having little doubt, that it proceededfrom the inn they were in search of, the Countdetermined to pursue his way. The moon nowafforded a stronger, though still an uncertainlight, as she moved among broken clouds; andthe travellers, led by the sound, recommencedtheir journey along the brow of the precipice,preceded by a single torch, that now contendedwith the moon-light; for the guides, believingthey should reach the inn soon after sun-set,had neglected to provide more. In silent cautionthey followed the sound, which was heard but atintervals, and which, after some time entirelyceased. The guides endeavoured, however, topoint their course to the quarter, whence it hadissued, but the deep roaring of a torrent soonseized their attention, and presently they cameto a tremendous chasm of the mountain, whichseemed to forbid all further progress. Blanchealighted from her mule, as did the Count and St.Foix, while the guides traversed the edge insearch of a bridge, which, however rude, mightconvey them to the opposite side, and they, atlength, confessed, what the Count had begun tosuspect, that they had been, for some time,doubtful of their way, and were now certain only,that they had lost it.

At a little distance, was discovered a rudeand dangerous passage, formed by anenormous pine, which, thrown across the

chasm, united the opposite precipices, andwhich had been felled probably by the hunter, tofacilitate his chace of the izard, or the wolf. Thewhole party, the guides excepted, shuddered atthe prospect of crossing this alpine bridge,whose sides afforded no kind of defence, andfrom which to fall was to die. The guides,however, prepared to lead over the mules, whileBlanche stood trembling on the brink, andlistening to the roar of the waters, which wereseen descending from rocks above, overhungwith lofty pines, and thence precipitatingthemselves into the deep abyss, where theirwhite surges gleamed faintly in the moon-light.The poor animals proceeded over this perilousbridge with instinctive caution, neitherfrightened by the noise of the cataract, ordeceived by the gloom, which the impendingfoliage threw athwart their way. It was now, thatthe solitary torch, which had been hitherto oflittle service, was found to be an inestimabletreasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking, butendeavouring to re-collect all her firmness andpresence of mind, preceded by her lover andsupported by her father, followed the red gleamof the torch, in safety, to the opposite cliff.

As they went on, the heights contracted, andformed a narrow pass, at the bottom of which,the torrent they had just crossed, was heard tothunder. But they were again cheered by thebark of a dog, keeping watch, perhaps, over theflocks of the mountains, to protect them from thenightly descent of the wolves. The sound wasmuch nearer than before, and, while theyrejoiced in the hope of soon reaching a place ofrepose, a light was seen to glimmer at adistance. It appeared at a height considerablyabove the level of their path, and was lost and

seen again, as if the waving branches of treessometimes excluded and then admitted its rays.The guides hallooed with all their strength, butthe sound of no human voice was heard inreturn, and, at length, as a more effectualmeans of making themselves known, they fireda pistol. But, while they listened in anxiousexpectation, the noise of the explosion wasalone heard, echoing among the rocks, and itgradually sunk into silence, which no friendlyhint of man disturbed. The light, however, thathad been seen before, now became plainer,and, soon after, voices were heard indistinctlyon the wind; but, upon the guides repeating thecall, the voices suddenly ceased, and the lightdisappeared.

The Lady Blanche was now almost sinkingbeneath the pressure of anxiety, fatigue andapprehension, and the united efforts of theCount and St. Foix could scarcely support herspirits. As they continued to advance, an objectwas perceived on a point of rock above, which,the strong rays of the moon then falling on it,appeared to be a watch-tower. The Count, fromits situation and some other circumstances, hadlittle doubt, that it was such, and believing, thatthe light had proceeded from thence, heendeavoured to re-animate his daughter'sspirits by the near prospect of shelter andrepose, which, however rude theaccommodation, a ruined watch-tower mightafford.

'Numerous watch-towers have been erectedamong the Pyrenees,' said the Count, anxiousonly to call Blanche's attention from the subjectof her fears; 'and the method, by which they giveintelligence of the approach of the enemy, is,you know, by fires, kindled on the summits of

these edifices. Signals have thus, sometimes,been communicated from post to post, along afrontier line of several hundred miles in length.Then, as occasion may require, the lurkingarmies emerge from their fortresses and theforests, and march forth, to defend, perhaps,the entrance of some grand pass, where,planting themselves on the heights, they assailtheir astonished enemies, who wind along theglen below, with fragments of the shattered cliff,and pour death and defeat upon them. Theancient forts, and watch-towers, overlooking thegrand passes of the Pyrenees, are carefullypreserved; but some of those in inferior stationshave been suffered to fall into decay, and arenow frequently converted into the more peacefulhabitation of the hunter, or the shepherd, who,after a day of toil, retires hither, and, with hisfaithful dogs, forgets, near a cheerful blaze, thelabour of the chace, or the anxiety of collectinghis wandering flocks, while he is sheltered fromthe nightly storm.'

'But are they always thus peacefullyinhabited?' said the Lady Blanche.

'No,' replied the Count, 'they are sometimesthe asylum of French and Spanish smugglers,who cross the mountains with contrabandgoods from their respective countries, and thelatter are particularly numerous, against whomstrong parties of the king's troops aresometimes sent. But the desperate resolutionof these adventurers, who, knowing, that, if theyare taken, they must expiate the breach of thelaw by the most cruel death, travel in largeparties, well armed, often daunts the courage ofthe soldiers. The smugglers, who seek onlysafety, never engage, when they can possibly

avoid it; the military, also, who know, that inthese encounters, danger is certain, and gloryalmost unattainable, are equally reluctant tofight; an engagement, therefore, very seldomhappens, but, when it does, it never concludestill after the most desperate and bloody conflict.You are inattentive, Blanche,' added the Count:'I have wearied you with a dull subject; but see,yonder, in the moon-light, is the edifice we havebeen in search of, and we are fortunate to be sonear it, before the storm bursts.'

Blanche, looking up, perceived, that theywere at the foot of the cliff, on whose summit thebuilding stood, but no light now issued from it;the barking of the dog too had, for some time,ceased, and the guides began to doubt,whether this was really the object of theirsearch. From the distance, at which theysurveyed it, shewn imperfectly by a cloudymoon, it appeared to be of more extent than asingle watch-tower; but the difficulty was how toascend the height, whose abrupt declivitiesseemed to afford no kind of pathway.

While the guides carried forward the torch toexamine the cliff, the Count, remaining withBlanche and St. Foix at its foot, under theshadow of the woods, endeavoured again tobeguile the time by conversation, but againanxiety abstracted the mind of Blanche; and hethen consulted, apart with St. Foix, whether itwould be advisable, should a path be found, toventure to an edifice, which might possiblyharbour banditti. They considered, that theirown party was not small, and that several ofthem were well armed; and, after enumeratingthe dangers, to be incurred by passing the nightin the open wild, exposed, perhaps, to theeffects of a thunder-storm, there remained not a

doubt, that they ought to endeavour to obtainadmittance to the edifice above, at any hazardrespecting the inhabitants it might harbour; butthe darkness, and the dead silence, thatsurrounded it, appeared to contradict theprobability of its being inhabited at all.

A shout from the guides aroused theirattention, after which, in a few minutes, one ofthe Count's servants returned with intelligence,that a path was found, and they immediatelyhastened to join the guides, when they allascended a little winding way cut in the rockamong thickets of dwarf wood, and, after muchtoil and some danger, reached the summit,where several ruined towers, surrounded by amassy wall, rose to their view, partially illuminedby the moon-light. The space around thebuilding was silent, and apparently forsaken,but the Count was cautious; 'Step softly,' saidhe, in a low voice, 'while we reconnoitre theedifice.'

Having proceeded silently along for somepaces, they stopped at a gate, whose portalswere terrible even in ruins, and, after amoment's hesitation, passed on to the court ofentrance, but paused again at the head of aterrace, which, branching from it, ran along thebrow of a precipice. Over this, rose the mainbody of the edifice, which was now seen to be,not a watch-tower, but one of those ancientfortresses, that, from age and neglect, hadfallen to decay. Many parts of it, however,appeared to be still entire; it was built of greystone, in the heavy Saxon-gothic style, withenormous round towers, buttresses ofproportionable strength, and the arch of thelarge gate, which seemed to open into the hall

of the fabric, was round, as was that of awindow above. The air of solemnity, which mustso strongly have characterized the pile even inthe days of its early strength, was nowconsiderably heightened by its shatteredbattlements and half-demolished walls, and bythe huge masses of ruin, scattered in its widearea, now silent and grass grown. In this courtof entrance stood the gigantic remains of anoak, that seemed to have flourished anddecayed with the building, which it stillappeared frowningly to protect by the fewremaining branches, leafless and moss-grown,that crowned its trunk, and whose wide extenttold how enormous the tree had been in aformer age. This fortress was evidently once ofgreat strength, and, from its situation on a pointof rock, impending over a deep glen, had beenof great power to annoy, as well as to resist; theCount, therefore, as he stood surveying it, wassomewhat surprised, that it had been suffered,ancient as it was, to sink into ruins, and itspresent lonely and deserted air excited in hisbreast emotions of melancholy awe. While heindulged, for a moment, these emotions, hethought he heard a sound of remote voicessteal upon the stillness, from within the building,the front of which he again surveyed withscrutinizing eyes, but yet no light was visible. Henow determined to walk round the fort, to thatremote part of it, whence he thought the voiceshad arisen, that he might examine whether anylight could be discerned there, before heventured to knock at the gate; for this purpose,he entered upon the terrace, where the remainsof cannon were yet apparent in the thick walls,but he had not proceeded many paces, whenhis steps were suddenly arrested by the loudbarking of a dog within, and which he fancied to

be the same, whose voice had been the meansof bringing the travellers thither. It nowappeared certain, that the place was inhabited,and the Count returned to consult again with St.Foix, whether he should try to obtainadmittance, for its wild aspect had somewhatshaken his former resolution; but, after asecond consultation, he submitted to theconsiderations, which before determined him,and which were strengthened by the discoveryof the dog, that guarded the fort, as well as bythe stillness that pervaded it. He, therefore,ordered one of his servants to knock at thegate, who was advancing to obey him, when alight appeared through the loop-hole of one ofthe towers, and the Count called loudly, but,receiving no answer, he went up to the gatehimself, and struck upon it with an iron-pointedpole, which had assisted him to climb thesteep. When the echoes had ceased, that thisblow had awakened, the renewed barking,—and there were now more than one dog,—wasthe only sound, that was heard. The Countstepped back, a few paces, to observe whetherthe light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that itwas gone, he returned to the portal, and hadlifted the pole to strike again, when again hefancied he heard the murmur of voices within,and paused to listen. He was confirmed in thesupposition, but they were too remote, to beheard otherwise than in a murmur, and theCount now let the pole fall heavily upon the gate;when almost immediately a profound silencefollowed. It was apparent, that the people withinhad heard the sound, and their caution inadmitting strangers gave him a favourableopinion of them. 'They are either hunters orshepherds,' said he, 'who, like ourselves, haveprobably sought shelter from the night within

these walls, and are fearful of admittingstrangers, lest they should prove robbers. I willendeavour to remove their fears.' So saying, hecalled aloud, 'We are friends, who ask shelterfrom the night.' In a few moments, steps wereheard within, which approached, and a voicethen enquired—'Who calls?' 'Friends,' repeatedthe Count; 'open the gates, and you shall knowmore.'—Strong bolts were now heard to beundrawn, and a man, armed with a huntingspear, appeared. 'What is it you want at thishour?' said he. The Count beckoned hisattendants, and then answered, that he wishedto enquire the way to the nearest cabin. 'Areyou so little acquainted with these mountains,'said the man, 'as not to know, that there isnone, within several leagues? I cannot shew youthe way; you must seek it—there's a moon.'Saying this, he was closing the gate, and theCount was turning away, half disappointed andhalf afraid, when another voice was heard fromabove, and, on looking up, he saw a light, and aman's face, at the grate of the portal. 'Stay,friend, you have lost your way?' said the voice.'You are hunters, I suppose, like ourselves: I willbe with you presently.' The voice ceased, andthe light disappeared. Blanche had beenalarmed by the appearance of the man, whohad opened the gate, and she now entreatedher father to quit the place; but the Count hadobserved the hunter's spear, which he carried;and the words from the tower encouraged himto await the event. The gate was soon opened,and several men in hunters' habits, who hadheard above what had passed below,appeared, and, having listened some time tothe Count, told him he was welcome to restthere for the night. They then pressed him, withmuch courtesy, to enter, and to partake of such

fare as they were about to sit down to. TheCount, who had observed them attentively whilethey spoke, was cautious, and somewhatsuspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of theapproaching storm, and of encountering alpineheights in the obscurity of night; being likewisesomewhat confident in the strength and numberof his attendants, he, after some furtherconsideration, determined to accept theinvitation. With this resolution he called hisservants, who, advancing round the tower,behind which some of them had silently listenedto this conference, followed their Lord, the LadyBlanche, and St. Foix into the fortress. Thestrangers led them on to a large and rude hall,partially seen by a fire that blazed at itsextremity, round which four men, in the hunter'sdress, were seated, and on the hearth wereseveral dogs stretched in sleep. In the middle ofthe hall stood a large table, and over the firesome part of an animal was boiling. As theCount approached, the men arose, and thedogs, half raising themselves, looked fiercely atthe strangers, but, on hearing their masters'voices, kept their postures on the hearth.

Blanche looked round this gloomy andspacious hall; then at the men, and to her father,who, smiling cheerfully at her, addressedhimself to the hunters. 'This is an hospitablehearth,' said he, 'the blaze of a fire is revivingafter having wandered so long in these drearywilds. Your dogs are tired; what success haveyou had?' 'Such as we usually have,' repliedone of the men, who had been seated in thehall, 'we kill our game with tolerable certainty.''These are fellow hunters,' said one of the menwho had brought the Count hither, 'that have losttheir way, and I have told them there is room

enough in the fort for us all.' 'Very true, very true,'replied his companion, 'What luck have you hadin the chace, brothers? We have killed twoizards, and that, you will say, is pretty well.' 'Youmistake, friend,' said the Count, 'we are nothunters, but travellers; but, if you will admit us tohunters' fare, we shall be well contented, andwill repay your kindness.' 'Sit down then,brother,' said one of the men: 'Jacques, laymore fuel on the fire, the kid will soon be ready;bring a seat for the lady too. Ma'amselle, willyou taste our brandy? it is true Barcelona, andas bright as ever flowed from a keg.' Blanchetimidly smiled, and was going to refuse, whenher father prevented her, by taking, with a goodhumoured air, the glass offered to his daughter;and Mons. St. Foix, who was seated next her,pressed her hand, and gave her anencouraging look, but her attention wasengaged by a man, who sat silently by the fire,observing St. Foix, with a steady and earnesteye.

'You lead a jolly life here,' said the Count. 'Thelife of a hunter is a pleasant and a healthy one;and the repose is sweet, which succeeds toyour labour.'

'Yes,' replied one of his hosts, 'our life ispleasant enough. We live here only during thesummer, and autumnal months; in winter, theplace is dreary, and the swoln torrents, thatdescend from the heights, put a stop to thechace.'

''Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,' said theCount: 'I should like to pass a month in your wayvery well.'

'We find employment for our guns too,' said a

man who stood behind the Count: 'here areplenty of birds, of delicious flavour, that feedupon the wild thyme and herbs, that grow in thevallies. Now I think of it, there is a brace of birdshung up in the stone gallery; go fetch them,Jacques, we will have them dressed.'

The Count now made enquiry, concerning themethod of pursuing the chace among the rocksand precipices of these romantic regions, andwas listening to a curious detail, when a hornwas sounded at the gate. Blanche lookedtimidly at her father, who continued to converseon the subject of the chace, but whosecountenance was somewhat expressive ofanxiety, and who often turned his eyes towardsthat part of the hall nearest the gate. The hornsounded again, and a loud halloo succeeded.'These are some of our companions, returnedfrom their day's labour,' said a man, going lazilyfrom his seat towards the gate; and in a fewminutes, two men appeared, each with a gunover his shoulder, and pistols in his belt. 'Whatcheer, my lads? what cheer?' said they, as theyapproached. 'What luck?' returned theircompanions: 'have you brought home yoursupper? You shall have none else.'

'Hah! who the devil have you brought home?'said they in bad Spanish, on perceiving theCount's party, 'are they from France, or Spain?—where did you meet with them?'

'They met with us, and a merry meeting too,'replied his companion aloud in good French.'This chevalier, and his party, had lost their way,and asked a night's lodging in the fort.' Theothers made no reply, but threw down a kind ofknapsack, and drew forth several brace ofbirds. The bag sounded heavily as it fell to the

ground, and the glitter of some bright metalwithin glanced on the eye of the Count, who nowsurveyed, with a more enquiring look, the man,that held the knapsack. He was a tall robustfigure, of a hard countenance, and had shortblack hair, curling in his neck. Instead of thehunter's dress, he wore a faded military uniform;sandals were laced on his broad legs, and akind of short trowsers hung from his waist. Onhis head he wore a leathern cap, somewhatresembling in shape an ancient Roman helmet;but the brows that scowled beneath it, wouldhave characterized those of the barbarians,who conquered Rome, rather than those of aRoman soldier. The Count, at length, turnedaway his eyes, and remained silent andthoughtful, till, again raising them, he perceiveda figure standing in an obscure part of the hall,fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, who wasconversing with Blanche, and did not observethis; but the Count, soon after, saw the sameman looking over the shoulder of the soldier asattentively at himself. He withdrew his eye, whenthat of the Count met it, who felt mistrustgathering fast upon his mind, but feared tobetray it in his countenance, and, forcing hisfeatures to assume a smile, addressedBlanche on some indifferent subject. When heagain looked round, he perceived, that thesoldier and his companion were gone.

The man, who was called Jacques, nowreturned from the stone gallery. 'A fire is lightedthere,' said he, 'and the birds are dressing; thetable too is spread there, for that place iswarmer than this.'

His companions approved of the removal,and invited their guests to follow to the gallery,of whom Blanche appeared distressed, and

remained seated, and St. Foix looked at theCount, who said, he preferred the comfortableblaze of the fire he was then near. The hunters,however, commended the warmth of the otherapartment, and pressed his removal with suchseeming courtesy, that the Count, half doubting,and half fearful of betraying his doubts,consented to go. The long and ruinouspassages, through which they went, somewhatdaunted him, but the thunder, which now burst inloud peals above, made it dangerous to quitthis place of shelter, and he forbore to provokehis conductors by shewing that he distrustedthem. The hunters led the way, with a lamp; theCount and St. Foix, who wished to please theirhosts by some instances of familiarity, carriedeach a seat, and Blanche followed, withfaltering steps. As she passed on, part of herdress caught on a nail in the wall, and, while shestopped, somewhat too scrupulously, todisengage it, the Count, who was talking to St.Foix, and neither of whom observed thecircumstance, followed their conductor round anabrupt angle of the passage, and Blanche wasleft behind in darkness. The thunder preventedthem from hearing her call but, havingdisengaged her dress, she quickly followed, asshe thought, the way they had taken. A light, thatglimmered at a distance, confirmed this belief,and she proceeded towards an open door,whence it issued, conjecturing the room beyondto be the stone gallery the men had spoken of.Hearing voices as she advanced, she pausedwithin a few paces of the chamber, that shemight be certain whether she was right, andfrom thence, by the light of a lamp, that hungfrom the ceiling, observed four men, seatedround a table, over which they leaned inapparent consultation. In one of them she

distinguished the features of him, whom shehad observed, gazing at St. Foix, with suchdeep attention; and who was now speaking inan earnest, though restrained voice, till, one ofhis companions seeming to oppose him, theyspoke together in a loud and harsher tone.Blanche, alarmed by perceiving that neither herfather, or St. Foix were there, and terrified at thefierce countenances and manners of thesemen, was turning hastily from the chamber, topursue her search of the gallery, when sheheard one of the men say:

'Let all dispute end here. Who talks ofdanger? Follow my advice, and there will benone—secure THEM, and the rest are an easyprey.' Blanche, struck with these words, pauseda moment, to hear more. 'There is nothing to begot by the rest,' said one of his companions, 'Iam never for blood when I can help it—dispatchthe two others, and our business is done; therest may go.'

'May they so?' exclaimed the first ruffian, witha tremendous oath—'What! to tell how we havedisposed of their masters, and to send theking's troops to drag us to the wheel! You wasalways a choice adviser—I warrant we have notyet forgot St. Thomas's eve last year.'

Blanche's heart now sunk with horror. Her firstimpulse was to retreat from the door, but, whenshe would have gone, her trembling framerefused to support her, and, having tottered afew paces, to a more obscure part of thepassage, she was compelled to listen to thedreadful councils of those, who, she was nolonger suffered to doubt, were banditti. In thenext moment, she heard the following words,'Why you would not murder the whole GANG?'

'I warrant our lives are as good as theirs,'replied his comrade. 'If we don't kill them, theywill hang us: better they should die than we behanged.'

'Better, better,' cried his comrades.

'To commit murder, is a hopeful way ofescaping the gallows!' said the first ruffian—'many an honest fellow has run his head intothe noose that way, though.' There was a pauseof some moments, during which they appearedto be considering.

'Confound those fellows,' exclaimed one ofthe robbers impatiently, 'they ought to havebeen here by this time; they will come backpresently with the old story, and no booty: if theywere here, our business would be plain andeasy. I see we shall not be able to do thebusiness to-night, for our numbers are not equalto the enemy, and in the morning they will be formarching off, and how can we detain themwithout force?'

'I have been thinking of a scheme, that willdo,' said one of his comrades: 'if we candispatch the two chevaliers silently, it will beeasy to master the rest.'

'That's a plausible scheme, in good faith,'said another with a smile of scorn—'If I can eatmy way through the prison wall, I shall be atliberty!—How can we dispatch themSILENTLY?'

'By poison,' replied his companions.

'Well said! that will do,' said the secondruffian, 'that will give a lingering death too, andsatisfy my revenge. These barons shall take

care how they again tempt our vengeance.'

'I knew the son, the moment I saw him,' saidthe man, whom Blanche had observed gazingon St. Foix, 'though he does not know me; thefather I had almost forgotten.'

'Well, you may say what you will,' said thethird ruffian, 'but I don't believe he is the Baron,and I am as likely to know as any of you, for Iwas one of them, that attacked him, with ourbrave lads, that suffered.'

'And was not I another?' said the first ruffian, 'Itell you he is the Baron; but what does it signifywhether he is or not?—shall we let all this bootygo out of our hands? It is not often we have suchluck at this. While we run the chance of thewheel for smuggling a few pounds of tobacco,to cheat the king's manufactory, and of breakingour necks down the precipices in the chace ofour food; and, now and then, rob a brothersmuggler, or a straggling pilgrim, of whatscarcely repays us the powder we fire at them,shall we let such a prize as this go? Why theyhave enough about them to keep us for—'

'I am not for that, I am not for that,' replied thethird robber, 'let us make the most of them: only,if this is the Baron, I should like to have a flashthe more at him, for the sake of our bravecomrades, that he brought to the gallows.'

'Aye, aye, flash as much as you will,' rejoinedthe first man, 'but I tell you the Baron is a tallerman.'

'Confound your quibbling,' said the secondruffian, 'shall we let them go or not? If we stayhere much longer, they will take the hint, andmarch off without our leave. Let them be who

they will, they are rich, or why all thoseservants? Did you see the ring, he, you call theBaron, had on his finger?—it was a diamond;but he has not got it on now: he saw me lookingat it, I warrant, and took it off.'

'Aye, and then there is the picture; did yousee that? She has not taken that off,' observedthe first ruffian, 'it hangs at her neck; if it had notsparkled so, I should not have found it out, for itwas almost hid by her dress; those arediamonds too, and a rare many of them theremust be, to go round such a large picture.'

'But how are we to manage this business?'said the second ruffian: 'let us talk of that, thereis no fear of there being booty enough, but howare we to secure it?'

'Aye, aye,' said his comrades, 'let us talk ofthat, and remember no time is to be lost.'

'I am still for poison,' observed the third, 'butconsider their number; why there are nine or tenof them, and armed too; when I saw so many atthe gate, I was not for letting them in, you know,nor you either.'

'I thought they might be some of ourenemies,' replied the second, 'I did not so muchmind numbers.'

'But you must mind them now,' rejoined hiscomrade, 'or it will be worse for you. We are notmore than six, and how can we master ten byopen force? I tell you we must give some ofthem a dose, and the rest may then bemanaged.'

'I'll tell you a better way,' rejoined the otherimpatiently, 'draw closer.'

Blanche, who had listened to thisconversation, in an agony, which it would beimpossible to describe, could no longerdistinguish what was said, for the ruffians nowspoke in lowered voices; but the hope, that shemight save her friends from the plot, if she couldfind her way quickly to them, suddenly re-animated her spirits, and lent her strengthenough to turn her steps in search of the gallery.Terror, however, and darkness conspiredagainst her, and, having moved a few yards, thefeeble light, that issued from the chamber, nolonger even contended with the gloom, and, herfoot stumbling over a step that crossed thepassage, she fell to the ground.

The noise startled the banditti, who becamesuddenly silent, and then all rushed to thepassage, to examine whether any person wasthere, who might have overheard their councils.Blanche saw them approaching, and perceivedtheir fierce and eager looks: but, before shecould raise herself, they discovered and seizedher, and, as they dragged her towards thechamber they had quitted, her screams drewfrom them horrible threatenings.

Having reached the room, they began toconsult what they should do with her. 'Let us firstknow what she had heard,' said the chiefrobber. 'How long have you been in thepassage, lady, and what brought you there?'

'Let us first secure that picture,' said one ofhis comrades, approaching the tremblingBlanche. 'Fair lady, by your leave that picture ismine; come, surrender it, or I shall seize it.'

Blanche, entreating their mercy, immediatelygave up the miniature, while another of the

ruffians fiercely interrogated her, concerningwhat she had overheard of their conversation,when, her confusion and terror too plainly tellingwhat her tongue feared to confess, the ruffianslooked expressively upon one another, and twoof them withdrew to a remote part of the room,as if to consult further.

'These are diamonds, by St. Peter!'exclaimed the fellow, who had been examiningthe miniature, 'and here is a very pretty picturetoo, 'faith; as handsome a young chevalier, asyou would wish to see by a summer's sun. Lady,this is your spouse, I warrant, for it is the spark,that was in your company just now.'

Blanche, sinking with terror, conjured him tohave pity on her, and, delivering him her purse,promised to say nothing of what had passed, ifhe would suffer her to return to her friends.

He smiled ironically, and was going to reply,when his attention was called off by a distantnoise; and, while he listened, he grasped thearm of Blanche more firmly, as if he feared shewould escape from him, and she againshrieked for help.

The approaching sounds called the ruffiansfrom the other part of the chamber. 'We arebetrayed,' said they; 'but let us listen a moment,perhaps it is only our comrades come in fromthe mountains, and if so, our work is sure;listen!'

A distant discharge of shot confirmed thissupposition for a moment, but, in the next, theformer sounds drawing nearer, the clashing ofswords, mingled with the voices of loudcontention and with heavy groans, weredistinguished in the avenue leading to the

chamber. While the ruffians prepared theirarms, they heard themselves called by some oftheir comrades afar off, and then a shrill hornwas sounded without the fortress, a signal, itappeared, they too well understood; for three ofthem, leaving the Lady Blanche to the care ofthe fourth, instantly rushed from the chamber.

While Blanche, trembling, and nearly fainting,was supplicating for release, she heard amidthe tumult, that approached, the voice of St.Foix, and she had scarcely renewed her shriek,when the door of the room was thrown open,and he appeared, much disfigured with blood,and pursued by several ruffians. Blancheneither saw, or heard any more; her headswam, her sight failed, and she becamesenseless in the arms of the robber, who haddetained her.

When she recovered, she perceived, by thegloomy light, that trembled round her, that shewas in the same chamber, but neither theCount, St. Foix, or any other person appeared,and she continued, for some time, entirely still,and nearly in a state of stupefaction. But, thedreadful images of the past returning, sheendeavoured to raise herself, that she mightseek her friends, when a sullen groan, at a littledistance, reminded her of St. Foix, and of thecondition, in which she had seen him enter thisroom; then, starting from the floor, by a suddeneffort of horror, she advanced to the placewhence the sound had proceeded, where abody was lying stretched upon the pavement,and where, by the glimmering light of a lamp,she discovered the pale and disfiguredcountenance of St. Foix. Her horrors, at thatmoment, may be easily imagined. He wasspeechless; his eyes were half closed, and, on

the hand, which she grasped in the agony ofdespair, cold damps had settled. While shevainly repeated his name, and called forassistance, steps approached, and a personentered the chamber, who, she soon perceived,was not the Count, her father; but, what was herastonishment, when, supplicating him to givehis assistance to St. Foix, she discoveredLudovico! He scarcely paused to recogniseher, but immediately bound up the wounds ofthe Chevalier, and, perceiving, that he hadfainted probably from loss of blood, ran forwater; but he had been absent only a fewmoments, when Blanche heard other stepsapproaching, and, while she was almost franticwith apprehension of the ruffians, the light of atorch flashed upon the walls, and then Count DeVillefort appeared, with an affrightedcountenance, and breathless with impatience,calling upon his daughter. At the sound of hisvoice, she rose, and ran to his arms, while he,letting fall the bloody sword he held, pressedher to his bosom in a transport of gratitude andjoy, and then hastily enquired for St. Foix, whonow gave some signs of life. Ludovico soonafter returning with water and brandy, the formerwas applied to his lips, and the latter to histemples and hands, and Blanche, at length, sawhim unclose his eyes, and then heard himenquire for her; but the joy she felt, on thisoccasion, was interrupted by new alarms, whenLudovico said it would be necessary to removeMons. St. Foix immediately, and added, 'Thebanditti, that are out, my Lord, were expectedhome, an hour ago, and they will certainly findus, if we delay. That shrill horn, they know, isnever sounded by their comrades but on mostdesperate occasions, and it echoes among themountains for many leagues round. I have

known them brought home by its sound evenfrom the Pied de Melicant. Is any body standingwatch at the great gate, my Lord?'

'Nobody,' replied the Count; 'the rest of mypeople are now scattered about, I scarcelyknow where. Go, Ludovico, collect themtogether, and look out yourself, and listen if youhear the feet of mules.'

Ludovico then hurried away, and the Countconsulted as to the means of removing St. Foix,who could not have borne the motion of a mule,even if his strength would have supported him inthe saddle.

While the Count was telling, that the banditti,whom they had found in the fort, were securedin the dungeon, Blanche observed that he washimself wounded, and that his left arm wasentirely useless; but he smiled at her anxiety,assuring her the wound was trifling.

The Count's servants, except two who keptwatch at the gate, now appeared, and, soonafter, Ludovico. 'I think I hear mules comingalong the glen, my Lord,' said he, 'but theroaring of the torrent below will not let me becertain; however, I have brought what will servethe Chevalier,' he added, shewing a bear'sskin, fastened to a couple of long poles, whichhad been adapted for the purpose of bringinghome such of the banditti as happened to bewounded in their encounters. Ludovico spreadit on the ground, and, placing the skins ofseveral goats upon it, made a kind of bed, intowhich the Chevalier, who was however nowmuch revived, was gently lifted; and, the polesbeing raised upon the shoulders of the guides,whose footing among these steeps could best

be depended upon, he was borne along with aneasy motion. Some of the Count's servantswere also wounded—but not materially, and,their wounds being bound up, they now followedto the great gate. As they passed along the hall,a loud tumult was heard at some distance, andBlanche was terrified. 'It is only those villains inthe dungeon, my Lady,' said Ludovico. 'Theyseem to be bursting it open,' said the Count.'No, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'it has an irondoor; we have nothing to fear from them; but letme go first, and look out from the rampart.'

They quickly followed him, and found theirmules browsing before the gates, where theparty listened anxiously, but heard no sound,except that of the torrent below and of the earlybreeze, sighing among the branches of the oldoak, that grew in the court; and they were nowglad to perceive the first tints of dawn over themountain-tops. When they had mounted theirmules, Ludovico, undertaking to be their guide,led them by an easier path, than that by whichthey had formerly ascended, into the glen. 'Wemust avoid that valley to the east, my Lord,' saidhe, 'or we may meet the banditti; they went outthat way in the morning.'

The travellers, soon after, quitted this glen,and found themselves in a narrow valley thatstretched towards the north-west. The morninglight upon the mountains now strengthened fast,and gradually discovered the green hillocks,that skirted the winding feet of the cliffs, tuftedwith cork tree, and ever-green oak. Thethunder-clouds being dispersed, had left the skyperfectly serene, and Blanche was revived bythe fresh breeze, and by the view of verdure,which the late rain had brightened. Soon after,the sun arose, when the dripping rocks, with the

shrubs that fringed their summits, and many aturfy slope below, sparkled in his rays. A wreathof mist was seen, floating along the extremity ofthe valley, but the gale bore it before thetravellers, and the sun-beams gradually drew itup towards the summit of the mountains. Theyhad proceeded about a league, when, St. Foixhaving complained of extreme faintness, theystopped to give him refreshment, and, that themen, who bore him, might rest. Ludovico hadbrought from the fort some flasks of richSpanish wine, which now proved a revivingcordial not only to St. Foix but to the wholeparty, though to him it gave only temporaryrelief, for it fed the fever, that burned in hisveins, and he could neither disguise in hiscountenance the anguish he suffered, orsuppress the wish, that he was arrived at theinn, where they had designed to pass thepreceding night.

While they thus reposed themselves underthe shade of the dark green pines, the Countdesired Ludovico to explain shortly, by whatmeans he had disappeared from the northapartment, how he came into the hands of thebanditti, and how he had contributed soessentially to serve him and his family, for tohim he justly attributed their presentdeliverance. Ludovico was going to obey him,when suddenly they heard the echo of a pistol-shot, from the way they had passed, and theyrose in alarm, hastily to pursue their route.

CHAPTER XIII Ah why did Fate his steps decoy In stormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy! BEATTIE

Emily, mean while, was still suffering anxietyas to the fate of Valancourt; but Theresa,having, at length, found a person, whom shecould entrust on her errand to the steward,informed her, that the messenger would returnon the following day; and Emily promised to beat the cottage, Theresa being too lame toattend her.

In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alonefor the cottage, with a melancholy foreboding,concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, thegloom of the hour might contribute to depressher spirits. It was a grey autumnal eveningtowards the close of the season; heavy mistspartially obscured the mountains, and a chillingbreeze, that sighed among the beech woods,strewed her path with some of their last yellowleaves. These, circling in the blast andforetelling the death of the year, gave an imageof desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy,seemed to announce the death of Valancourt.Of this she had, indeed, more than once sostrong a presentiment, that she was on the pointof returning home, feeling herself unequal to anencounter with the certainty she anticipated,but, contending with her emotions, she so farcommanded them, as to be able to proceed.

While she walked mournfully on, gazing onthe long volumes of vapour, that poured upon

the sky, and watching the swallows, tossedalong the wind, now disappearing amongtempestuous clouds, and then emerging, for amoment, in circles upon the calmer air, theafflictions and vicissitudes of her late lifeseemed pourtrayed in these fleeting images;—thus had she been tossed upon the stormy seaof misfortune for the last year, with but shortintervals of peace, if peace that could be called,which was only the delay of evils. And now,when she had escaped from so many dangers,was become independent of the will of those,who had oppressed her, and found herselfmistress of a large fortune, now, when shemight reasonably have expected happiness,she perceived that she was as distant from it asever. She would have accused herself ofweakness and ingratitude in thus suffering asense of the various blessings she possessedto be overcome by that of a single misfortune,had this misfortune affected herself alone; but,when she had wept for Valancourt even asliving, tears of compassion had mingled withthose of regret, and while she lamented ahuman being degraded to vice, andconsequently to misery, reason and humanityclaimed these tears, and fortitude had not yettaught her to separate them from those of love;in the present moments, however, it was not thecertainty of his guilt, but the apprehension of hisdeath (of a death also, to which she herself,however innocently, appeared to have been insome degree instrumental) that oppressed her.This fear increased, as the means of certaintyconcerning it approached; and, when she camewithin view of Theresa's cottage, she was somuch disordered, and her resolution failed herso entirely, that, unable to proceed, she restedon a bank, beside her path; where, as she sat,

the wind that groaned sullenly among the loftybranches above, seemed to her melancholyimagination to bear the sounds of distantlamentation, and, in the pauses of the gust, shestill fancied she heard the feeble and far-offnotes of distress. Attention convinced her, thatthis was no more than fancy; but the increasinggloom, which seemed the sudden close of day,soon warned her to depart, and, with falteringsteps, she again moved toward the cottage.Through the casement appeared the cheerfulblaze of a wood fire, and Theresa, who hadobserved Emily approaching, was already atthe door to receive her.

'It is a cold evening, madam,' said she,'storms are coming on, and I thought you wouldlike a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth.'

Emily, thanking her for this consideration, satdown, and then, looking in her face, on whichthe wood fire threw a gleam, she was struckwith its expression, and, unable to speak, sunkback in her chair with a countenance so full ofwoe, that Theresa instantly comprehended theoccasion of it, but she remained silent. 'Ah!'said Emily, at length, 'it is unnecessary for meto ask the result of your enquiry, your silence,and that look, sufficiently explain it;—he isdead!'

'Alas! my dear young lady,' replied Theresa,while tears filled her eyes, 'this world is madeup of trouble! the rich have their share as wellas the poor! But we must all endeavour to bearwhat Heaven pleases.'

'He is dead, then!'—interrupted Emily—'Valancourt is dead!'

'A-well-a-day! I fear he is,' replied Theresa.

'You fear!' said Emily, 'do you only fear?'

'Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither thesteward, or any of the Epourville family, haveheard of him since he left Languedoc, and theCount is in great affliction about him, for hesays he was always punctual in writing, but thatnow he has not received a line from him, sincehe left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home,three weeks ago, but he has neither come, orwritten, and they fear some accident hasbefallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cryfor his death! I am old, and might have diedwithout being missed, but he'—Emily was faint,and asked for some water, and Theresa,alarmed by the voice, in which she spoke,hastened to her assistance, and, while she heldthe water to Emily's lips, continued, 'My dearyoung mistress, do not take it so to heart; theChevalier may be alive and well, for all this; letus hope the best!'

'O no! I cannot hope,' said Emily, 'I amacquainted with circumstances, that will notsuffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now,and can hear what you have to say. Tell me, Ientreat, the particulars of what you know.'

'Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle,you look sadly!'

'O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have thepower to hear it,' said Emily, 'tell me all, Iconjure you!'

'Well, madam, I will then; but the steward didnot say much, for Richard says he seemed shyof talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what hegathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants,who said he had heard it from my lord's

gentleman.'

'What did he hear?' said Emily.

'Why, madam, Richard has but a badmemory, and could not remember half of it, and,if I had not asked him a great many questions, Ishould have heard little indeed. But he says thatGabriel said, that he and all the other servantswere in great trouble about M. Valancourt, forthat he was such a kind young gentleman, theyall loved him, as well as if he had been theirown brother—and now, to think what wasbecome of him! For he used to be so courteousto them all, and, if any of them had been in fault,M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lordto forgive them. And then, if any poor family wasin distress, M. Valancourt was the first, too, torelieve them, though some folks, not a greatway off, could have afforded that much betterthan he. And then, said Gabriel, he was sogentle to every body, and, for all he had such anoble look with him, he never would command,and call about him, as some of your qualitypeople do, and we never minded him the lessfor that. Nay, says Gabriel, for that matter, weminded him the more, and would all have run toobey him at a word, sooner than if some folkshad told us what to do at full length; aye, andwere more afraid of displeasing him, too, thanof them, that used rough words to us.'

Emily, who no longer considered it to bedangerous to listen to praise, bestowed onValancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa,but sat, attentive to her words, though almostoverwhelmed with grief. 'My Lord,' continuedTheresa, 'frets about M. Valancourt sadly, andthe more, because, they say, he had beenrather harsh against him lately. Gabriel says he

had it from my Lord's valet, that M. Valancourthad COMPORTED himself wildly at Paris, andhad spent a great deal of money, more a greatdeal than my Lord liked, for he loves moneybetter than M. Valancourt, who had been ledastray sadly. Nay, for that matter, M. Valancourthad been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord,says Gabriel, refused to take him out, and saidhe deserved to suffer; and, when old Gregoire,the butler, heard of this, he actually bought awalking-stick to take with him to Paris, to visithis young master; but the next thing we hear is,that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was ajoyful day when he came; but he was sadlyaltered, and my Lord looked very cool uponhim, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soonafter, he went away again into Languedoc, and,since that time, we have never seen him.'

Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply,remained with her eyes fixed upon the floor,without speaking. After a long pause, sheenquired what further Theresa had heard. 'Yetwhy should I ask?' she added; 'what you havealready told is too much. O Valancourt! thou artgone—forever gone! and I—I have murderedthee!' These words, and the countenance ofdespair which accompanied them, alarmedTheresa, who began to fear, that the shock ofthe intelligence Emily had just received, hadaffected her senses. 'My dear young lady, becomposed,' said she, 'and do not say suchfrightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,—dear heart!' Emily replied only by a heavy sigh.

'Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you lookso,' said Theresa, 'do not sit with your eyesupon the ground, and all so pale andmelancholy; it frightens me to see you.' Emilywas still silent, and did not appear to hear any

thing that was said to her. 'Besides,mademoiselle,' continued Theresa, 'M.Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for whatwe know.'

At the mention of his name, Emily raised hereyes, and fixed them, in a wild gaze, uponTheresa, as if she was endeavouring tounderstand what had been said. 'Aye, my dearlady,' said Theresa, mistaking the meaning ofthis considerate air, 'M. Valancourt may bealive and merry yet.'

On the repetition of these words, Emilycomprehended their import, but, instead ofproducing the effect intended, they seemed onlyto heighten her distress. She rose hastily fromher chair, paced the little room, with quicksteps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped herhands, and shuddered.

Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honestaffection, endeavoured to comfort her; put morewood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighterblaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, whichEmily had left, in a warmer situation, and thendrew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine. 'It isa stormy night, madam,' said she, 'and blowscold—do come nearer the fire, and take a glassof this wine; it will comfort you, as it has doneme, often and often, for it is not such wine asone gets every day; it is rich Languedoc, andthe last of six flasks that M. Valancourt sent me,the night before he left Gascony for Paris. Theyhave served me, ever since, as cordials, and Inever drink it, but I think of him, and what kindwords he said to me when he gave them.Theresa, says he, you are not young now, andshould have a glass of good wine, now andthen. I will send you a few flasks, and, when you

taste them, you will sometimes remember meyour friend. Yes—those were his very words—me your friend!' Emily still paced the room,without seeming to hear what Theresa said,who continued speaking. 'And I haveremembered him, often enough, poor younggentleman!—for he gave me this roof for ashelter, and that, which has supported me. Ah!he is in heaven, with my blessed master, if eversaint was!'

Theresa's voice faltered; she wept, and setdown the flask, unable to pour out the wine. Hergrief seemed to recall Emily from her own, whowent towards her, but then stopped, and, havinggazed on her, for a moment, turned suddenlyaway, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that itwas Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.

While she yet paced the room, the still, softnote of an oboe, or flute, was heard minglingwith the blast, the sweetness of which affectedEmily's spirits; she paused a moment inattention; the tender tones, as they swelledalong the wind, till they were lost again in theruder gust, came with a plaintiveness, thattouched her heart, and she melted into tears.

'Aye,' said Theresa, drying her eyes, 'there isRichard, our neighbour's son, playing on theoboe; it is sad enough, to hear such sweetmusic now.' Emily continued to weep, withoutreplying. 'He often plays of an evening,' addedTheresa, 'and, sometimes, the young folksdance to the sound of his oboe. But, dear younglady! do not cry so; and pray take a glass of thiswine,' continued she, pouring some into aglass, and handing it to Emily, who reluctantlytook it.

'Taste it for M. Valancourt's sake,' saidTheresa, as Emily lifted the glass to her lips, 'forhe gave it me, you know, madam.' Emily's handtrembled, and she spilt the wine as shewithdrew it from her lips. 'For whose sake!—who gave the wine?' said she in a falteringvoice. 'M. Valancourt, dear lady. I knew youwould be pleased with it. It is the last flask Ihave left.'

Emily set the wine upon the table, and burstinto tears, while Theresa, disappointed andalarmed, tried to comfort her; but she onlywaved her hand, entreated she might be leftalone, and wept the more.

A knock at the cottage door preventedTheresa from immediately obeying hermistress, and she was going to open it, whenEmily, checking her, requested she would notadmit any person; but, afterwards, recollecting,that she had ordered her servant to attend herhome, she said it was only Philippe, andendeavoured to restrain her tears, whileTheresa opened the door.

A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily'sattention. She listened, turned her eyes to thedoor, when a person now appeared, andimmediately a bright gleam, that flashed fromthe fire, discovered—Valancourt!

Emily, on perceiving him, started from herchair, trembled, and, sinking into it again,became insensible to all around her.

A scream from Theresa now told, that sheknew Valancourt, whom her imperfect sight,and the duskiness of the place had preventedher from immediately recollecting; but hisattention was immediately called from her to the

person, whom he saw, falling from a chair nearthe fire; and, hastening to her assistance,—heperceived, that he was supporting Emily! Thevarious emotions, that seized him upon thusunexpectedly meeting with her, from whom hehad believed he had parted for ever, and onbeholding her pale and lifeless in his arms—may, perhaps, be imagined, though they couldneither be then expressed, or now described,any more than Emily's sensations, when, atlength, she unclosed her eyes, and, looking up,again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety, withwhich he regarded her, was instantly changedto an expression of mingled joy and tenderness,as his eye met hers, and he perceived, that shewas reviving. But he could only exclaim, 'Emily!'as he silently watched her recovery, while sheaverted her eye, and feebly attempted towithdraw her hand; but, in these the firstmoments, which succeeded to the pangs hissupposed death had occasioned her, sheforgot every fault, which had formerly claimedindignation, and beholding Valancourt such ashe had appeared, when he won her earlyaffection, she experienced emotions of onlytenderness and joy. This, alas! was but thesunshine of a few short moments; recollectionsrose, like clouds, upon her mind, and,darkening the illusive image, that possessed it,she again beheld Valancourt, degraded—Valancourt unworthy of the esteem andtenderness she had once bestowed upon him;her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand,she turned from him to conceal her grief, whilehe, yet more embarrassed and agitated,remained silent.

A sense of what she owed to herselfrestrained her tears, and taught her soon to

overcome, in some degree, the emotions ofmingled joy and sorrow, that contended at herheart, as she rose, and, having thanked him forthe assistance he had given her, bade Theresagood evening. As she was leaving the cottage,Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakenedas from a dream, entreated, in a voice, thatpleaded powerfully for compassion, a fewmoments attention. Emily's heart, perhaps,pleaded as powerfully, but she had resolutionenough to resist both, together with theclamorous entreaties of Theresa, that shewould not venture home alone in the dark, andhad already opened the cottage door, when thepelting storm compelled her to obey theirrequests.

Silent and embarrassed, she returned to thefire, while Valancourt, with increasing agitation,paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared, tospeak, and Theresa expressed without restrainther joy and wonder upon seeing him.

'Dear heart! sir,' said she, 'I never was sosurprised and overjoyed in my life. We were ingreat tribulation before you came, for wethought you was dead, and were talking, andlamenting about you, just when you knocked atthe door. My young mistress there was crying,fit to break her heart—'

Emily looked with much displeasure atTheresa, but, before she could speak,Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion,which Theresa's imprudent discoveryoccasioned, exclaimed, 'O my Emily! am I thenstill dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour mewith a thought—a tear? O heavens! you weep—you weep now!'

'Theresa, sir,' said Emily, with a reserved air,and trying to conquer her tears, 'has reason toremember you with gratitude, and she wasconcerned, because she had not lately heard ofyou. Allow me to thank you for the kindness youhave shewn her, and to say, that, since I amnow upon the spot, she must not be furtherindebted to you.''

'Emily,' said Valancourt, no longer master ofhis emotions, 'is it thus you meet him, whomonce you meant to honour with your hand—thusyou meet him, who has loved you—suffered foryou?—Yet what do I say? Pardon me, pardonme, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what Iutter. I have no longer any claim upon yourremembrance—I have forfeited everypretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! letme not forget, that I once possessed youraffections, though to know that I have lost them,is my severest affliction. Affliction—do I call it!—that is a term of mildness.'

'Dear heart!' said Theresa, preventing Emilyfrom replying, 'talk of once having heraffections! Why, my dear young lady loves younow, better than she does any body in the wholeworld, though she pretends to deny it.'

'This is insupportable!' said Emily; 'Theresa,you know not what you say. Sir, if you respectmy tranquillity, you will spare me from thecontinuance of this distress.'

'I do respect your tranquillity too much,voluntarily to interrupt it,' replied Valancourt, inwhose bosom pride now contended withtenderness; 'and will not be a voluntary intruder.I would have entreated a few moments attention—yet I know not for what purpose. You have

ceased to esteem me, and to recount to you mysufferings will degrade me more, withoutexciting even your pity. Yet I have been, OEmily! I am indeed very wretched!' addedValancourt, in a voice, that softened fromsolemnity into grief.

'What! is my dear young master going out inall this rain!' said Theresa. 'No, he shall not stira step. Dear! dear! to see how gentlefolks canafford to throw away their happiness! Now, ifyou were poor people, there would be none ofthis. To talk of unworthiness, and not caringabout one another, when I know there are notsuch a kind-hearted lady and gentleman in thewhole province, nor any that love one anotherhalf so well, if the truth was spoken!'

Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from herchair, 'I must be gone,' said she, 'the storm isover.'

'Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!'said Valancourt, summoning all his resolution, 'Iwill no longer distress you by my presence.Forgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and,if you can, sometimes, pity one, who, in losingyou—has lost all hope of peace! May you behappy, Emily, however wretched I remain,happy as my fondest wish would have you!'

His voice faltered with the last words, and hiscountenance changed, while, with a look ofineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed uponher for an instant, and then quitted the cottage.

'Dear heart! dear heart!' cried Theresa,following him to the door, 'why, MonsieurValancourt! how it rains! what a night is this toturn him out in! Why it will give him his death;and it was but now you was crying,

mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well!young ladies do change their mind in a minute,as one may say!'

Emily made no reply, for she heard not whatwas said, while, lost in sorrow and thought, sheremained in her chair by the fire, with her eyesfixed, and the image of Valancourt still beforethem.

'M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,' saidTheresa; 'he looks so thin to what he used todo, and so melancholy, and then he wears hisarm in a sling.'

Emily raised her eyes at these words, for shehad not observed this last circumstance, andshe now did not doubt, that Valancourt hadreceived the shot of her gardener at Tholouse;with this conviction her pity for him returning,she blamed herself for having occasioned himto leave the cottage, during the storm.

Soon after her servants arrived with thecarriage, and Emily, having censured Theresafor her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt,and strictly charging her never to repeat anyhints of the same kind to him, withdrew to herhome, thoughtful and disconsolate.

Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a littleinn of the village, whither he had arrived only afew moments before his visit to Theresa'scottage, on the way from Tholouse to thechateau of the Count de Duvarney, where hehad not been since he bade adieu to Emily atChateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood ofwhich he had lingered for a considerable time,unable to summon resolution enough to quit aplace, that contained the object most dear tohis heart. There were times, indeed, when grief

and despair urged him to appear again beforeEmily, and, regardless of his ruinedcircumstances, to renew his suit. Pride,however, and the tenderness of his affection,which could not long endure the thought ofinvolving her in his misfortunes, at length, so fartriumphed over passion, that he relinquishedthis desperate design, and quitted Chateau-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among thescenes, which had witnessed his early love,and, on his way to Gascony, he stopped atTholouse, where he remained when Emilyarrived, concealing, yet indulging hismelancholy in the gardens, where he hadformerly passed with her so many happy hours;often recurring, with vain regret, to the eveningbefore her departure for Italy, when she had sounexpectedly met him on the terrace, andendeavouring to recall to his memory everyword and look, which had then charmed him,the arguments he had employed to dissuadeher from the journey, and the tenderness of theirlast farewel. In such melancholy recollections hehad been indulging, when Emily unexpectedlyarrived to him on this very terrace, the eveningafter her arrival at Tholouse. His emotions, onthus seeing her, can scarcely be imagined; buthe so far overcame the first promptings of love,that he forbore to discover himself, and abruptlyquitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision hehad seen haunted his mind; he became morewretched than before, and the only solace of hissorrow was to return in the silence of the night;to follow the paths which he believed her stepshad pressed, during the day; and, to watchround the habitation where she reposed. It wasin one of these mournful wanderings, that hehad received by the fire of the gardener, whomistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm,

which had detained him at Tholouse till verylately, under the hands of a surgeon. There,regardless of himself and careless of hisfriends, whose late unkindness had urged himto believe, that they were indifferent as to hisfate, he remained, without informing them of hissituation; and now, being sufficiently recoveredto bear travelling, he had taken La Vallee in hisway to Estuviere, the Count's residence, partlyfor the purpose of hearing of Emily, and ofbeing again near her, and partly for that ofenquiring into the situation of poor old Theresa,who, he had reason to suppose, had beendeprived of her stipend, small as it was, andwhich enquiry had brought him to her cottage,when Emily happened to be there.

This unexpected interview, which had at onceshewn him the tenderness of her love and thestrength of her resolution, renewed all theacuteness of the despair, that had attendedtheir former separation, and which no effort ofreason could teach him, in these moments, tosubdue. Her image, her look, the tones of hervoice, all dwelt on his fancy, as powerfully asthey had late appeared to his senses, andbanished from his heart every emotion, exceptthose of love and despair.

Before the evening concluded, he returned toTheresa's cottage, that he might hear her talk ofEmily, and be in the place, where she had solately been. The joy, felt and expressed by thatfaithful servant, was quickly changed to sorrow,when she observed, at one moment, his wildand phrensied look, and, at another, the darkmelancholy, that overhung him.

After he had listened, and for a considerabletime, to all she had to relate, concerning Emily,

he gave Theresa nearly all the money he hadabout him, though she repeatedly refused it,declaring, that her mistress had amply suppliedher wants; and then, drawing a ring of valuefrom his finger, he delivered it her with a solemncharge to present it to Emily, of whom heentreated, as a last favour, that she wouldpreserve it for his sake, and sometimes, whenshe looked upon it, remember the unhappygiver.

Theresa wept, as she received the ring, but itwas more from sympathy, than from anypresentiment of evil; and before she could reply,Valancourt abruptly left the cottage. Shefollowed him to the door, calling upon his nameand entreating him to return; but she receivedno answer, and saw him no more.

CHAPTER XIV Call up him, that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold. MILTON

On the following morning, as Emily sat in theparlour adjoining the library, reflecting on thescene of the preceding night, Annette rushedwildly into the room, and, without speaking,sunk breathless into a chair. It was some timebefore she could answer the anxious enquiriesof Emily, as to the occasion of her emotion, but,at length, she exclaimed, 'I have seen his ghost,madam, I have seen his ghost!'

'Who do you mean?' said Emily, with extremeimpatience.

'It came in from the hall, madam,' continuedAnnette, 'as I was crossing to the parlour.'

'Who are you speaking of?' repeated Emily,'Who came in from the hall?

'It was dressed just as I have seen him, oftenand often,' added Annette. 'Ah! who could havethought—'

Emily's patience was now exhausted, andshe was reprimanding her for such idle fancies,when a servant entered the room, and informedher, that a stranger without begged leave tospeak with her.

It immediately occurred to Emily, that thisstranger was Valancourt, and she told theservant to inform him, that she was engaged,and could not see any person.

The servant, having delivered his message,returned with one from the stranger, urging thefirst request, and saying, that he had somethingof consequence to communicate; while Annette,who had hitherto sat silent and amazed, nowstarted up, and crying, 'It is Ludovico!—it isLudovico!' ran out of the room. Emily bade theservant follow her, and, if it really was Ludovico,to shew him into the parlour.

In a few minutes, Ludovico appeared,accompanied by Annette, who, as joy renderedher forgetful of all rules of decorum towards hermistress, would not suffer any person to beheard, for some time, but herself. Emilyexpressed surprise and satisfaction, on seeingLudovico in safety, and the first emotionsincreased, when he delivered letters from CountDe Villefort and the Lady Blanche, informing herof their late adventure, and of their presentsituation at an inn among the Pyrenees, wherethey had been detained by the illness of Mons.St. Foix, and the indisposition of Blanche, whoadded, that the Baron St. Foix was just arrivedto attend his son to his chateau, where he wouldremain till the perfect recovery of his wounds,and then return to Languedoc, but that her fatherand herself purposed to be at La Vallee, on thefollowing day. She added, that Emily'spresence would be expected at theapproaching nuptials, and begged she wouldbe prepared to proceed, in a few days toChateau-le-Blanc. For an account of Ludovico'sadventure, she referred her to himself; andEmily, though much interested, concerning themeans, by which he had disappeared from thenorth apartments, had the forbearance tosuspend the gratification of her curiosity, till hehad taken some refreshment, and had

conversed with Annette, whose joy, on seeinghim in safety, could not have been moreextravagant, had he arisen from the grave.

Meanwhile, Emily perused again the letters ofher friends, whose expressions of esteem andkindness were very necessary consolations toher heart, awakened as it was by the lateinterview to emotions of keener sorrow andregret.

The invitation to Chateau-le-Blanc waspressed with so much kindness by the Countand his daughter, who strengthened it by amessage from the Countess, and the occasionof it was so important to her friend, that Emilycould not refuse to accept it, nor, though shewished to remain in the quiet shades of hernative home, could she avoid perceiving theimpropriety of remaining there alone, sinceValancourt was again in the neighbourhood.Sometimes, too, she thought, that change ofscenery and the society of her friends mightcontribute, more than retirement, to restore herto tranquillity.

When Ludovico again appeared, she desiredhim to give a detail of his adventure in the northapartments, and to tell by what means hebecame a companion of the banditti, with whomthe Count had found him.

He immediately obeyed, while Annette, whohad not yet had leisure to ask him manyquestions, on the subject, prepared to listen,with a countenance of extreme curiosity,venturing to remind her lady of her incredulity,concerning spirits, in the castle of Udolpho, andof her own sagacity in believing in them; whileEmily, blushing at the consciousness of her late

credulity, observed, that, if Ludovico'sadventure could justify Annette's superstition, hehad probably not been here to relate it.

Ludovico smiled at Annette, and bowed toEmily, and then began as follows:

'You may remember, madam, that, on thenight, when I sat up in the north chamber, mylord, the Count, and Mons. Henri accompaniedme thither, and that, while they remained there,nothing happened to excite any alarm. Whenthey were gone I made a fire in the bed-room,and, not being inclined to sleep, I sat down onthe hearth with a book I had brought with me todivert my mind. I confess I did sometimes lookround the chamber, with something likeapprehension—'

'O very like it, I dare say,' interrupted Annette,'and I dare say too, if the truth was known, youshook from head to foot.'

'Not quite so bad as that,' replied Ludovico,smiling, 'but several times, as the wind whistledround the castle, and shook the old casements,I did fancy I heard odd noises, and, once ortwice, I got up and looked about me; but nothingwas to be seen, except the grim figures in thetapestry, which seemed to frown upon me, as Ilooked at them. I had sat thus for above anhour,' continued Ludovico, 'when again I thoughtI heard a noise, and glanced my eyes round theroom, to discover what it came from, but, notperceiving any thing, I began to read again,and, when I had finished the story I was upon, Ifelt drowsy, and dropped asleep. But presently Iwas awakened by the noise I had heard before,and it seemed to come from that part of thechamber, where the bed stood; and then,

whether it was the story I had been reading thataffected my spirits, or the strange reports, thathad been spread of these apartments, I don'tknow, but, when I looked towards the bedagain, I fancied I saw a man's face within thedusky curtains.'

At the mention of this, Emily trembled, andlooked anxiously, remembering the spectacleshe had herself witnessed there with Dorothee.

'I confess, madam, my heart did fail me, atthat instant,' continued Ludovico, 'but a return ofthe noise drew my attention from the bed, and Ithen distinctly heard a sound, like that of a key,turning in a lock, but what surprised me morewas, that I saw no door where the soundseemed to come from. In the next moment,however, the arras near the bed was slowlylifted, and a person appeared behind it,entering from a small door in the wall. He stoodfor a moment as if half retreating, with his headbending under the arras which concealed theupper part of his face except his eyes scowlingbeneath the tapestry as he held it; and then,while he raised it higher, I saw the face ofanother man behind, looking over his shoulder. Iknow not how it was, but, though my sword wasupon the table before me, I had not the powerjust then to seize it, but sat quite still, watchingthem, with my eyes half shut as if I was asleep. Isuppose they thought me so, and weredebating what they should do, for I heard themwhisper, and they stood in the same posture forthe value of a minute, and then, I thought Iperceived other faces in the duskiness beyondthe door, and heard louder whispers.'

'This door surprises me,' said Emily,'because I understood, that the Count had

caused the arras to be lifted, and the wallsexamined, suspecting, that they might haveconcealed a passage through which you haddeparted.'

'It does not appear so extraordinary to me,madam,' replied Ludovico, 'that this door shouldescape notice, because it was formed in anarrow compartment, which appeared to bepart of the outward wall, and, if the Count hadnot passed over it, he might have thought it wasuseless to search for a door where it seemedas if no passage could communicate with one;but the truth was, that the passage was formedwithin the wall itself.—But, to return to the men,whom I saw obscurely beyond the door, andwho did not suffer me to remain long insuspense, concerning their design. They allrushed into the room, and surrounded me,though not before I had snatched up my swordto defend myself. But what could one man doagainst four? They soon disarmed me, and,having fastened my arms, and gagged mymouth, forced me through the private door,leaving my sword upon the table, to assist, asthey said, those who should come in themorning to look for me, in fighting against theghosts. They then led me through many narrowpassages, cut, as I fancied, in the walls, for Ihad never seen them before, and down severalflights of steps, till we came to the vaultsunderneath the castle; and then opening astone door, which I should have taken for thewall itself, we went through a long passage, anddown other steps cut in the solid rock, whenanother door delivered us into a cave. Afterturning and twining about, for some time, wereached the mouth of it, and I found myself onthe sea-beach at the foot of the cliffs, with the

chateau above. A boat was in waiting, intowhich the ruffians got, forcing me along withthem, and we soon reached a small vessel, thatwas at anchor, where other men appeared,when setting me aboard, two of the fellows whohad seized me, followed, and the other tworowed back to the shore, while we set sail. Isoon found out what all this meant, and whatwas the business of these men at the chateau.We landed in Rousillon, and, after lingeringseveral days about the shore, some of theircomrades came down from the mountains, andcarried me with them to the fort, where Iremained till my Lord so unexpectedly arrived,for they had taken good care to prevent myrunning away, having blindfolded me, during thejourney, and, if they had not done this, I think Inever could have found my road to any town,through the wild country we traversed. After Ireached the fort I was watched like a prisoner,and never suffered to go out, without two orthree companions, and I became so weary oflife, that I often wished to get rid of it.'

'Well, but they let you talk,' said Annette, 'theydid not gagg you after they got you away fromthe chateau, so I don't see what reason therewas to be so very weary of living; to say nothingabout the chance you had of seeing me again.'

Ludovico smiled, and Emily also, whoenquired what was the motive of these men forcarrying him off.

'I soon found out, madam,' resumedLudovico, 'that they were pirates, who had,during many years, secreted their spoil in thevaults of the castle, which, being so near thesea, suited their purpose well. To preventdetection they had tried to have it believed, that

the chateau was haunted, and, havingdiscovered the private way to the northapartments, which had been shut up ever sincethe death of the lady marchioness, they easilysucceeded. The housekeeper and herhusband, who were the only persons, that hadinhabited the castle, for some years, were soterrified by the strange noises they heard in thenights, that they would live there no longer; areport soon went abroad, that it was haunted,and the whole country believed this the morereadily, I suppose, because it had been said,that the lady marchioness had died in a strangeway, and because my lord never would return tothe place afterwards.'

'But why,' said Emily, 'were not these piratescontented with the cave—why did they think itnecessary to deposit their spoil in the castle?'

'The cave, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'wasopen to any body, and their treasures would notlong have remained undiscovered there, but inthe vaults they were secure so long as thereport prevailed of their being haunted. Thusthen, it appears, that they brought at midnight,the spoil they took on the seas, and kept it tillthey had opportunities of disposing of it toadvantage. The pirates were connected withSpanish smugglers and banditti, who liveamong the wilds of the Pyrenees, and carry onvarious kinds of traffic, such as nobody wouldthink of; and with this desperate horde ofbanditti I remained, till my lord arrived. I shallnever forget what I felt, when I first discoveredhim—I almost gave him up for lost! but I knew,that, if I shewed myself, the banditti woulddiscover who he was, and probably murder usall, to prevent their secret in the chateau beingdetected. I, therefore, kept out of my lord's sight,

but had a strict watch upon the ruffians, anddetermined, if they offered him or his familyviolence, to discover myself, and fight for ourlives. Soon after, I overheard some of themlaying a most diabolical plan for the murder andplunder of the whole party, when I contrived tospeak to some of my lord's attendants, tellingthem what was going forward, and weconsulted what was best to be done; meanwhilemy lord, alarmed at the absence of the LadyBlanche, demanded her, and the ruffians havinggiven some unsatisfactory answer, my lord andMons. St. Foix became furious, so then wethought it a good time to discover the plot, andrushing into the chamber, I called out,"Treachery! my lord count, defend yourself!" Hislordship and the chevalier drew their swordsdirectly, and a hard battle we had, but weconquered at last, as, madam, you are alreadyinformed of by my Lord Count.'

'This is an extraordinary adventure,' saidEmily, 'and much praise is due, Ludovico, toyour prudence and intrepidity. There are somecircumstances, however, concerning the northapartments, which still perplex me; but,perhaps, you may be able to explain them. Didyou ever hear the banditti relate any thingextraordinary of these rooms?'

'No, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'I never heardthem speak about the rooms, except to laugh atthe credulity of the old housekeeper, who oncewas very near catching one of the pirates; itwas since the Count arrived at the chateau, hesaid, and he laughed heartily as he related thetrick he had played off.'

A blush overspread Emily's cheek, and sheimpatiently desired Ludovico to explain himself.

'Why, my lady,' said he, 'as this fellow was,one night in the bed-room, he heard somebodyapproaching through the next apartment, andnot having time to lift up the arras, and unfastenthe door, he hid himself in the bed just by. Therehe lay for some time in as great a fright, Isuppose—'

'As you was in,' interrupted Annette, 'whenyou sat up so boldly to watch by yourself.'

'Aye,' said Ludovico, 'in as great a fright ashe ever made any body else suffer; andpresently the housekeeper and some otherperson came up to the bed, when he, thinkingthey were going to examine it, bethought him,that his only chance of escaping detection, wasby terrifying them; so he lifted up thecounterpane, but that did not do, till he raisedhis face above it, and then they both set off, hesaid, as if they had seen the devil, and he gotout of the rooms undiscovered.'

Emily could not forbear smiling at thisexplanation of the deception, which had givenher so much superstitious terror, and wassurprised, that she could have suffered herselfto be thus alarmed, till she considered, that,when the mind has once begun to yield to theweakness of superstition, trifles impress it withthe force of conviction. Still, however, sheremembered with awe the mysterious music,which had been heard, at midnight, nearChateau-le-Blanc, and she asked Ludovico ifhe could give any explanation of it; but he couldnot.

'I only know, madam,' he added, 'that it didnot belong to the pirates, for I have heard themlaugh about it, and say, they believed the devil

was in league with them there.'

'Yes, I will answer for it he was,' said Annette,her countenance brightening, 'I was sure allalong, that he or his spirits had something to dowith the north apartments, and now you see,madam, I am right at last.'

'It cannot be denied, that his spirits were verybusy in that part of the chateau,' replied Emily,smiling. 'But I am surprised, Ludovico, thatthese pirates should persevere in theirschemes, after the arrival of the Count; whatcould they expect but certain detection?'

'I have reason to believe, madam,' repliedLudovico, 'that it was their intention topersevere no longer than was necessary for theremoval of the stores, which were deposited inthe vaults; and it appeared, that they had beenemployed in doing so from within a short periodafter the Count's arrival; but, as they had only afew hours in the night for this business, andwere carrying on other schemes at the sametime, the vaults were not above half emptied,when they took me away. They gloriedexceedingly in this opportunity of confirming thesuperstitious reports, that had been spread ofthe north chambers, were careful to leave everything there as they had found it, the better topromote the deception, and frequently, in theirjocose moods, would laugh at theconsternation, which they believed theinhabitants of the castle had suffered upon mydisappearing, and it was to prevent thepossibility of my betraying their secret, that theyhad removed me to such a distance. From thatperiod they considered the chateau as nearlytheir own; but I found from the discourse of theircomrades, that, though they were cautious, at

first, in shewing their power there, they hadonce very nearly betrayed themselves. Going,one night, as was their custom, to the northchambers to repeat the noises, that hadoccasioned such alarm among the servants,they heard, as they were about to unfasten thesecret door, voices in the bed-room. My lordhas since told me, that himself and M. Henriwere then in the apartment, and they heard veryextraordinary sounds of lamentation, which itseems were made by these fellows, with theirusual design of spreading terror; and my lordhas owned, he then felt somewhat more, thansurprise; but, as it was necessary to the peaceof his family, that no notice should be taken, hewas silent on the subject, and enjoined silenceto his son.'

Emily, recollecting the change, that hadappeared in the spirits of the Count, after thenight, when he had watched in the north room,now perceived the cause of it; and, havingmade some further enquiries upon this strangeaffair, she dismissed Ludovico, and went togive orders for the accommodation of herfriends, on the following day.

In the evening, Theresa, lame as she was,came to deliver the ring, with which Valancourthad entrusted her, and, when she presented it,Emily was much affected, for she rememberedto have seen him wear it often in happier days.She was, however, much displeased, thatTheresa had received it, and positively refusedto accept it herself, though to have done sowould have afforded her a melancholy pleasure.Theresa entreated, expostulated, and thendescribed the distress of Valancourt, when hehad given the ring, and repeated the message,with which he had commissioned her to deliver

it; and Emily could not conceal the extremesorrow this recital occasioned her, but wept,and remained lost in thought.

'Alas! my dear young lady!' said Theresa,'why should all this be? I have known you fromyour infancy, and it may well be supposed I loveyou, as if you was my own, and wish as much tosee you happy. M. Valancourt, to be sure, I havenot known so long, but then I have reason tolove him, as though he was my own son. I knowhow well you love one another, or why all thisweeping and wailing?' Emily waved her handfor Theresa to be silent, who, disregarding thesignal, continued, 'And how much you are alikein your tempers and ways, and, that, if you weremarried, you would be the happiest couple inthe whole province—then what is there toprevent your marrying? Dear dear! to see howsome people fling away their happiness, andthen cry and lament about it, just as if it was nottheir own doing, and as if there was morepleasure in wailing and weeping, than in beingat peace. Learning, to be sure, is a fine thing,but, if it teaches folks no better than that, why Ihad rather be without it; if it would teach them tobe happier, I would say something to it, then itwould be learning and wisdom too.'

Age and long services had given Theresa aprivilege to talk, but Emily now endeavoured tocheck her loquacity, and, though she felt thejustness of some of her remarks, did notchoose to explain the circumstances, that haddetermined her conduct towards Valancourt.She, therefore, only told Theresa, that it wouldmuch displease her to hear the subjectrenewed; that she had reasons for her conduct,which she did not think it proper to mention, and

that the ring must be returned, with anassurance, that she could not accept it withpropriety; and, at the same time, she forbadeTheresa to repeat any future message fromValancourt, as she valued her esteem andkindness. Theresa was afflicted, and madeanother attempt, though feeble, to interest herfor Valancourt, but the unusual displeasure,expressed in Emily's countenance, soonobliged her to desist, and she departed inwonder and lamentation.

To relieve her mind, in some degree, fromthe painful recollections, that intruded upon it,Emily busied herself in preparations for thejourney into Languedoc, and, while Annette,who assisted her, spoke with joy and affectionof the safe return of Ludovico, she wasconsidering how she might best promote theirhappiness, and determined, if it appeared, thathis affection was as unchanged as that of thesimple and honest Annette, to give her amarriage portion, and settle them on some partof her estate. These considerations led her tothe remembrance of her father's paternaldomain, which his affairs had formerlycompelled him to dispose of to M. Quesnel, andwhich she frequently wished to regain, becauseSt. Aubert had lamented, that the chief lands ofhis ancestors had passed into another family,and because they had been his birth-place andthe haunt of his early years. To the estate atTholouse she had no peculiar attachment, and itwas her wish to dispose of this, that she mightpurchase her paternal domains, if M. Quesnelcould be prevailed on to part with them, which,as he talked much of living in Italy, did notappear very improbable.

CHAPTER XV Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, The bees' collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still, small voice of gratitude. GRAY

On the following day, the arrival of her friendrevived the drooping Emily, and La Valleebecame once more the scene of socialkindness and of elegant hospitality. Illness andthe terror she had suffered had stolen fromBlanche much of her sprightliness, but all heraffectionate simplicity remained, and, thoughshe appeared less blooming, she was not lessengaging than before. The unfortunateadventure on the Pyrenees had made the Countvery anxious to reach home, and, after littlemore than a week's stay at La Vallee, Emilyprepared to set out with her friends forLanguedoc, assigning the care of her house,during her absence, to Theresa. On theevening, preceding her departure, this oldservant brought again the ring of Valancourt,and, with tears, entreated her mistress toreceive it, for that she had neither seen, orheard of M. Valancourt, since the night when hedelivered it to her. As she said this, hercountenance expressed more alarm, than shedared to utter; but Emily, checking her ownpropensity to fear, considered, that he hadprobably returned to the residence of hisbrother, and, again refusing to accept the ring,bade Theresa preserve it, till she saw him,which, with extreme reluctance, she promisedto do.

On the following day, Count De Villefort, withEmily and the Lady Blanche, left La Vallee, and,on the ensuing evening, arrived at the Chateau-le-Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. DuPont, whom Emily was surprised to find there,received them with much joy and congratulation.She was concerned to observe, that the Countstill encouraged the hopes of his friend, whosecountenance declared, that his affection hadsuffered no abatement from absence; and wasmuch distressed, when, on the second eveningafter her arrival, the Count, having withdrawnher from the Lady Blanche, with whom she waswalking, renewed the subject of M. Du Pont'shopes. The mildness, with which she listened tohis intercessions at first, deceiving him, as toher sentiments, he began to believe, that, heraffection for Valancourt being overcome, shewas, at length, disposed to think favourably ofM. Du Pont; and, when she afterwardsconvinced him of his mistake, he ventured, inthe earnestness of his wish to promote what heconsidered to be the happiness of two persons,whom he so much esteemed, gently toremonstrate with her, on thus suffering an ill-placed affection to poison the happiness of hermost valuable years.

Observing her silence and the deep dejectionof her countenance, he concluded with saying, 'Iwill not say more now, but I will still believe, mydear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will notalways reject a person, so truly estimable as myfriend Du Pont.'

He spared her the pain of replying, by leavingher; and she strolled on, somewhat displeasedwith the Count for having persevered to pleadfor a suit, which she had repeatedly rejected,and lost amidst the melancholy recollections,

which this topic had revived, till she hadinsensibly reached the borders of the woods,that screened the monastery of St. Clair, when,perceiving how far she had wandered, shedetermined to extend her walk a little farther,and to enquire about the abbess and some ofher friends among the nuns.

Though the evening was now drawing to aclose, she accepted the invitation of the friar,who opened the gate, and, anxious to meetsome of her old acquaintances, proceededtowards the convent parlour. As she crossedthe lawn, that sloped from the front of themonastery towards the sea, she was struck withthe picture of repose, exhibited by somemonks, sitting in the cloisters, which extendedunder the brow of the woods, that crowned thiseminence; where, as they meditated, at thistwilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimessuffered their attention to be relieved by thescene before them, nor thought it profane tolook at nature, now that it had exchanged thebrilliant colours of day for the sober hue ofevening. Before the cloisters, however, spreadan ancient chesnut, whose ample brancheswere designed to screen the full magnificenceof a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldlypleasures; but still, beneath the dark andspreading foliage, gleamed a wide extent ofocean, and many a passing sail; while, to theright and left, thick woods were seen stretchingalong the winding shores. So much as this hadbeen admitted, perhaps, to give to the secludedvotary an image of the dangers and vicissitudesof life, and to console him, now that he hadrenounced its pleasures, by the certainty ofhaving escaped its evils. As Emily walkedpensively along, considering how much

suffering she might have escaped, had shebecome a votaress of the order, and remainedin this retirement from the time of her father'sdeath, the vesper-bell struck up, and the monksretired slowly toward the chapel, while she,pursuing her way, entered the great hall, wherean unusual silence seemed to reign. Theparlour too, which opened from it, she foundvacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding,she believed the nuns had withdrawn into thechapel, and sat down to rest, for a moment,before she returned to the chateau, where,however, the increasing gloom made her nowanxious to be.

Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun,entering in haste, enquired for the abbess, andwas retiring, without recollecting Emily, whenshe made herself known, and then learned, thata mass was going to be performed for the soulof sister Agnes, who had been declining, forsome time, and who was now believed to bedying.

Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholyaccount, and of the horrors, into which she hadfrequently started, but which had now yielded toa dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers,in which she was joined by the sisterhood, orthe assurances of her confessor, had power torecall her from it, or to cheer her mind even witha momentary gleam of comfort.

To this relation Emily listened with extremeconcern, and, recollecting the frenzied mannersand the expressions of horror, which she hadherself witnessed of Agnes, together with thehistory, that sister Frances had communicated,her compassion was heightened to a verypainful degree. As the evening was already far

advanced, Emily did not now desire to see her,or to join in the mass, and, after leaving manykind remembrances with the nun, for her oldfriends, she quitted the monastery, and returnedover the cliffs towards the chateau, meditatingupon what she had just heard, till, at length sheforced her mind upon less interesting subjects.

The wind was high, and as she drew near thechateau, she often paused to listen to its awfulsound, as it swept over the billows, that beatbelow, or groaned along the surroundingwoods; and, while she rested on a cliff at ashort distance from the chateau, and lookedupon the wide waters, seen dimly beneath thelast shade of twilight, she thought of thefollowing address:

TO THE WINDS

Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your course ye steer, Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go! Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low, Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear, And, awful! seems to say—some God is near! I love to list your midnight voices float In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls, And, while their charm the angry wave controuls, Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote. Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note, The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail, A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale! But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is o'er, Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air, Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear, And the faint-warbled dirge—is heard no more! Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign! The loud lament yet bear not on your breath! Bear not the crash of bark far on the main, Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain, The crew's dread chorus sinking into death! Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs! I ask alone,

As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps, The elemental war, the billow's moan; I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!

CHAPTER XVI Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine, than the physician. MACBETH

On the following evening, the view of theconvent towers, rising among the shadowywoods, reminded Emily of the nun, whosecondition had so much affected her; and,anxious to know how she was, as well as to seesome of her former friends, she and the LadyBlanche extended their walk to the monastery.At the gate stood a carriage, which, from theheat of the horses, appeared to have justarrived; but a more than common stillnesspervaded the court and the cloisters, throughwhich Emily and Blanche passed in their way tothe great hall, where a nun, who was crossing tothe stair-case, replied to the enquiries of theformer, that sister Agnes was still living, andsensible, but that it was thought she could notsurvive the night. In the parlour, they foundseveral of the boarders, who rejoiced to seeEmily, and told her many little circumstancesthat had happened in the convent since herdeparture, and which were interesting to heronly because they related to persons, whomshe had regarded with affection. While they thusconversed the abbess entered the room, andexpressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily,but her manner was unusually solemn, and hercountenance dejected. 'Our house,' said she,after the first salutations were over, 'is truly ahouse of mourning—a daughter is now payingthe debt of nature.—You have heard, perhaps,

that our daughter Agnes is dying?'

Emily expressed her sincere concern.

'Her death presents to us a great and awfullesson,' continued the abbess; 'let us read it,and profit by it; let it teach us to prepareourselves for the change, that awaits us all! Youare young, and have it yet in your power tosecure "the peace that passeth allunderstanding"—the peace of conscience.Preserve it in your youth, that it may comfort youin age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are thegood deeds of our latter years, if those of ourearly life have been evil!'

Emily would have said, that good deeds, shehoped, were never vain; but she consideredthat it was the abbess who spoke, and sheremained silent.

'The latter days of Agnes,' resumed theabbess, 'have been exemplary; would theymight atone for the errors of her former ones!Her sufferings now, alas! are great; let usbelieve, that they will make her peace hereafter!I have left her with her confessor, and agentleman, whom she has long been anxious tosee, and who is just arrived from Paris. They, Ihope, will be able to administer the repose,which her mind has hitherto wanted.'

Emily fervently joined in the wish.

'During her illness, she has sometimesnamed you,' resumed the abbess; 'perhaps, itwould comfort her to see you; when her presentvisitors have left her, we will go to her chamber,if the scene will not be too melancholy for yourspirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, howeverpainful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for

they are salutary to the soul, and prepare us forwhat we are ourselves to suffer.'

Emily became grave and thoughtful; for thisconversation brought to her recollection thedying moments of her beloved father, and shewished once more to weep over the spot,where his remains were buried. During thesilence, which followed the abbess' speech,many minute circumstances attending his lasthours occurred to her—his emotion onperceiving himself to be in the neighbourhoodof Chateau-le-Blanc—his request to be interredin a particular spot in the church of thismonastery—and the solemn charge he haddelivered to her to destroy certain papers,without examining them.—She recollected alsothe mysterious and horrible words in thosemanuscripts, upon which her eye hadinvoluntarily glanced; and, though they now, and,indeed, whenever she remembered them,revived an excess of painful curiosity,concerning their full import, and the motives forher father's command, it was ever her chiefconsolation, that she had strictly obeyed him inthis particular.

Little more was said by the abbess, whoappeared too much affected by the subject shehad lately left, to be willing to converse, and hercompanions had been for some time silent fromthe same cause, when this general reverie wasinterrupted by the entrance of a stranger,Monsieur Bonnac, who had just quitted thechamber of sister Agnes. He appeared muchdisturbed, but Emily fancied, that hiscountenance had more the expression ofhorror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbessto a distant part of the room, he conversed withher for some time, during which she seemed to

listen with earnest attention, and he to speakwith caution, and a more than common degreeof interest. When he had concluded, he bowedsilently to the rest of the company, and quittedthe room. The abbess, soon after, proposedgoing to the chamber of sister Agnes, to whichEmily consented, though not without somereluctance, and Lady Blanche remained withthe boarders below.

At the door of the chamber they met theconfessor, whom, as he lifted up his head ontheir approach, Emily observed to be the samethat had attended her dying father; but hepassed on, without noticing her, and theyentered the apartment, where, on a mattress,was laid sister Agnes, with one nun watching inthe chair beside her. Her countenance was somuch changed, that Emily would scarcely haverecollected her, had she not been prepared todo so: it was ghastly, and overspread withgloomy horror; her dim and hollow eyes werefixed on a crucifix, which she held upon herbosom; and she was so much engaged inthought, as not to perceive the abbess andEmily, till they stood at the bed-side. Then,turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wildhorror, upon Emily, and, screaming, exclaimed,'Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dyinghours!'

Emily started back in terror, and looked forexplanation to the abbess, who made her asignal not to be alarmed, and calmly said toAgnes, 'Daughter, I have brought MademoiselleSt. Aubert to visit you: I thought you would beglad to see her.'

Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildlyupon Emily, exclaimed, 'It is her very self! Oh!

there is all that fascination in her look, whichproved my destruction! What would you have—what is it you came to demand—Retribution?—It will soon be yours—it is yours already. Howmany years have passed, since last I saw you!My crime is but as yesterday.—Yet I am grownold beneath it; while you are still young andblooming—blooming as when you forced me tocommit that most abhorred deed! O! could Ionce forget it!—yet what would that avail?—thedeed is done!'

Emily, extremely shocked, would now haveleft the room; but the abbess, taking her hand,tried to support her spirits, and begged shewould stay a few moments, when Agnes wouldprobably be calm, whom now she tried to sooth.But the latter seemed to disregard her, whileshe still fixed her eyes on Emily, and added,'What are years of prayers and repentance?they cannot wash out the foulness of murder!—Yes, murder! Where is he—where is he?—Look there—look there!—see where he stalksalong the room! Why do you come to tormentme now?' continued Agnes, while her strainingeyes were bent on air, 'why was not I punishedbefore?—O! do not frown so sternly! Hah! thereagain! 'til she herself! Why do you look sopiteously upon me—and smile, too? smile onme! What groan was that?'

Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, andEmily, unable to support herself, leaned againstthe bed, while the abbess and the attendant nunwere applying the usual remedies to Agnes.'Peace,' said the abbess, when Emily wasgoing to speak, 'the delirium is going off, shewill soon revive. When was she thus before,daughter?'

'Not of many weeks, madam,' replied the nun,'but her spirits have been much agitated by thearrival of the gentleman she wished so much tosee.'

'Yes,' observed the abbess, 'that hasundoubtedly occasioned this paroxysm offrenzy. When she is better, we will leave her torepose.'

Emily very readily consented, but, though shecould now give little assistance, she wasunwilling to quit the chamber, while any mightbe necessary.

When Agnes recovered her senses, sheagain fixed her eyes on Emily, but their wildexpression was gone, and a gloomymelancholy had succeeded. It was somemoments before she recovered sufficient spiritsto speak; she then said feebly—'The likeness iswonderful!—surely it must be something morethan fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,' she added,addressing Emily, 'though your name is St.Aubert, are you not the daughter of theMarchioness?'

'What Marchioness?' said Emily, in extremesurprise; for she had imagined, from thecalmness of Agnes's manner, that her intellectswere restored. The abbess gave her asignificant glance, but she repeated thequestion.

'What Marchioness?' exclaimed Agnes, 'Iknow but of one—the Marchioness de Villeroi.'

Emily, remembering the emotion of her latefather, upon the unexpected mention of thislady, and his request to be laid near to the tombof the Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and

she entreated Agnes to explain the reason ofher question. The abbess would now havewithdrawn Emily from the room, who being,however, detained by a strong interest,repeated her entreaties.

'Bring me that casket, sister,' said Agnes; 'Iwill shew her to you; yet you need only look inthat mirror, and you will behold her; you surelyare her daughter: such striking resemblance isnever found but among near relations.'

The nun brought the casket, and Agnes,having directed her how to unlock it, she tookthence a miniature, in which Emily perceivedthe exact resemblance of the picture, which shehad found among her late father's papers.Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazedupon it earnestly for some moments in silence;and then, with a countenance of deep despair,threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayedinwardly. When she had finished, she returnedthe miniature to Emily. 'Keep it,' said she, 'Ibequeath it to you, for I must believe it is yourright. I have frequently observed theresemblance between you; but never, till thisday, did it strike upon my conscience sopowerfully! Stay, sister, do not remove thecasket—there is another picture I would shew.'

Emily trembled with expectation, and theabbess again would have withdrawn her.'Agnes is still disordered,' said she, 'youobserve how she wanders. In these moods shesays any thing, and does not scruple, as youhave witnessed, to accuse herself of the mosthorrible crimes.'

Emily, however, thought she perceivedsomething more than madness in the

inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of theMarchioness, and production of her picture, hadinterested her so much, that she determined toobtain further information, if possible,respecting the subject of it.

The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnespointing out to her a secret drawer, she tookfrom it another miniature. 'Here,' said Agnes, asshe offered it to Emily, 'learn a lesson for yourvanity, at least; look well at this picture, and seeif you can discover any resemblance betweenwhat I was, and what I am.'

Emily impatiently received the miniature,which her eyes had scarcely glanced upon,before her trembling hands had nearly sufferedit to fall—it was the resemblance of the portraitof Signora Laurentini, which she had formerlyseen in the castle of Udolpho—the lady, whohad disappeared in so mysterious a manner,and whom Montoni had been suspected ofhaving caused to be murdered.

In silent astonishment, Emily continued togaze alternately upon the picture and the dyingnun, endeavouring to trace a resemblancebetween them, which no longer existed.

'Why do you look so sternly on me?' saidAgnes, mistaking the nature of Emily's emotion.

'I have seen this face before,' said Emily, atlength; 'was it really your resemblance?'

'You may well ask that question,' replied thenun,—'but it was once esteemed a strikinglikeness of me. Look at me well, and see whatguilt has made me. I then was innocent; the evilpassions of my nature slept. Sister!' added shesolemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp

hand to Emily, who shuddered at its touch—'Sister! beware of the first indulgence of thepassions; beware of the first! Their course, ifnot checked then, is rapid—their force isuncontroulable—they lead us we know notwhither—they lead us perhaps to thecommission of crimes, for which whole years ofprayer and penitence cannot atone!—Such maybe the force of even a single passion, that itovercomes every other, and sears up everyother approach to the heart. Possessing us likea fiend, it leads us on to the acts of a fiend,making us insensible to pity and to conscience.And, when its purpose is accomplished, like afiend, it leaves us to the torture of thosefeelings, which its power had suspended—notannihilated,—to the tortures of compassion,remorse, and conscience. Then, we awaken asfrom a dream, and perceive a new worldaround us—we gaze in astonishment, andhorror—but the deed is committed; not all thepowers of heaven and earth united can undo it—and the spectres of conscience will not fly!What are riches—grandeur—health itself, to theluxury of a pure conscience, the health of thesoul;—and what the sufferings of poverty,disappointment, despair—to the anguish of anafflicted one! O! how long is it since I knew thatluxury! I believed, that I had suffered the mostagonizing pangs of human nature, in love,jealousy, and despair—but these pangs wereease, compared with the stings of conscience,which I have since endured. I tasted too whatwas called the sweet of revenge—but it wastransient, it expired even with the object, thatprovoked it. Remember, sister, that thepassions are the seeds of vices as well as ofvirtues, from which either may spring,accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy they

who have never been taught the art to governthem!'

'Alas! unhappy!' said the abbess, 'and ill-informed of our holy religion!' Emily listened toAgnes, in silent awe, while she still examinedthe miniature, and became confirmed in heropinion of its strong resemblance to the portraitat Udolpho. 'This face is familiar to me,' saidshe, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation,yet fearing to discover too abruptly herknowledge of Udolpho.

'You are mistaken,' replied Agnes, 'youcertainly never saw that picture before.'

'No,' replied Emily, 'but I have seen oneextremely like it.' 'Impossible,' said Agnes, whomay now be called the Lady Laurentini.

'It was in the castle of Udolpho,' continuedEmily, looking stedfastly at her.

'Of Udolpho!' exclaimed Laurentini, 'ofUdolpho in Italy!' 'The same,' replied Emily.

'You know me then,' said Laurentini, 'and youare the daughter of the Marchioness.' Emilywas somewhat surprised at this abruptassertion. 'I am the daughter of the late Mons.St. Aubert,' said she; 'and the lady you name isan utter stranger to me.'

'At least you believe so,' rejoined Laurentini.

Emily asked what reasons there could be tobelieve otherwise.

'The family likeness, that you bear her,' saidthe nun. 'The Marchioness, it is known, wasattached to a gentleman of Gascony, at the timewhen she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by

the command of her father. Ill-fated, unhappywoman!'

Emily, remembering the extreme emotionwhich St. Aubert had betrayed on the mentionof the Marchioness, would now have sufferedsomething more than surprise, had herconfidence in his integrity been less; as it was,she could not, for a moment, believe what thewords of Laurentini insinuated; yet she still feltstrongly interested, concerning them, andbegged, that she would explain them further.

'Do not urge me on that subject,' said the nun,'it is to me a terrible one! Would that I could blotit from my memory!' She sighed deeply, and,after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, bywhat means she had discovered her name?

'By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, towhich this miniature bears a strikingresemblance,' replied Emily.

'You have been at Udolpho then!' said thenun, with great emotion. 'Alas! what scenesdoes the mention of it revive in my fancy—scenes of happiness—of suffering—and ofhorror!'

At this moment, the terrible spectacle, whichEmily had witnessed in a chamber of thatcastle, occurred to her, and she shuddered,while she looked upon the nun—and recollectedher late words—that 'years of prayer andpenitence could not wash out the foulness ofmurder.' She was now compelled to attributethese to another cause, than that of delirium.With a degree of horror, that almost deprivedher of sense, she now believed she lookedupon a murderer; all the recollected behaviourof Laurentini seemed to confirm the

supposition, yet Emily was still lost in a labyrinthof perplexities, and, not knowing how to ask thequestions, which might lead to truth, she couldonly hint them in broken sentences.

'Your sudden departure from Udolpho'—saidshe.

Laurentini groaned.

'The reports that followed it,' continued Emily—'The west chamber—the mournful veil—theobject it conceals!—when murders arecommitted—'

The nun shrieked. 'What! there again!' saidshe, endeavouring to raise herself, while herstarting eyes seemed to follow some objectround the room—'Come from the grave! What!Blood—blood too!—There was no blood—thoucanst not say it!—Nay, do not smile,—do notsmile so piteously!'

Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she utteredthe last words; and Emily, unable any longer toendure the horror of the scene, hurried from theroom, and sent some nuns to the assistance ofthe abbess.

The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, whowere in the parlour, now assembled roundEmily, and, alarmed by her manner andaffrighted countenance, asked a hundredquestions, which she avoided answeringfurther, than by saying, that she believed sisterAgnes was dying. They received this as asufficient explanation of her terror, and had thenleisure to offer restoratives, which, at length,somewhat revived Emily, whose mind was,however, so much shocked with the terriblesurmises, and perplexed with doubts by some

words from the nun, that she was unable toconverse, and would have left the conventimmediately, had she not wished to knowwhether Laurentini would survive the late attack.After waiting some time, she was informed,that, the convulsions having ceased, Laurentiniseemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanchewere departing, when the abbess appeared,who, drawing the former aside, said she hadsomething of consequence to say to her, but, asit was late, she would not detain her then, andrequested to see her on the following day.

Emily promised to visit her, and, having takenleave, returned with the Lady Blanche towardsthe chateau, on the way to which the deepgloom of the woods made Blanche lament, thatthe evening was so far advanced; for thesurrounding stillness and obscurity renderedher sensible of fear, though there was a servantto protect her; while Emily was too muchengaged by the horrors of the scene she hadjust witnessed, to be affected by the solemnityof the shades, otherwise than as they served topromote her gloomy reverie, from which,however, she was at length recalled by the LadyBlanche, who pointed out, at some distance, inthe dusky path they were winding, two personsslowly advancing. It was impossible to avoidthem without striking into a still more secludedpart of the wood, whither the strangers mighteasily follow; but all apprehension vanished,when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. DuPont, and perceived, that his companion wasthe gentleman, whom she had seen at themonastery, and who was now conversing withso much earnestness as not immediately toperceive their approach. When Du Pont joinedthe ladies, the stranger took leave, and they

proceeded to the chateau, where the Count,when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed himfor an acquaintance, and, on learning themelancholy occasion of his visit to Languedoc,and that he was lodged at a small inn in thevillage, begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont toinvite him to the chateau.

The latter was happy to do so, and thescruples of reserve, which made M. Bonnachesitate to accept the invitation, being at lengthovercome, they went to the chateau, where thekindness of the Count and the sprightliness ofhis son were exerted to dissipate the gloom,that overhung the spirits of the stranger. M.Bonnac was an officer in the French service,and appeared to be about fifty; his figure wastall and commanding, his manners hadreceived the last polish, and there wassomething in his countenance uncommonlyinteresting; for over features, which, in youth,must have been remarkably handsome, wasspread a melancholy, that seemed the effect oflong misfortune, rather than of constitution, ortemper.

The conversation he held, during supper, wasevidently an effort of politeness, and there wereintervals in which, unable to struggle against thefeelings, that depressed him, he relapsed intosilence and abstraction, from which, however,the Count, sometimes, withdrew him in amanner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily,while she observed him, almost fancied shebeheld her late father.

The party separated, at an early hour, andthen, in the solitude of her apartment, thescenes, which Emily had lately witnessed,returned to her fancy, with dreadful energy. That

in the dying nun she should have discoveredSignora Laurentini, who, instead of having beenmurdered by Montoni, was, as it now seemed,herself guilty of some dreadful crime, excitedboth horror and surprise in a high degree; nordid the hints, which she had dropped,respecting the marriage of the Marchioness deVilleroi, and the enquiries she had madeconcerning Emily's birth, occasion her a lessdegree of interest, though it was of a differentnature.

The history, which sister Frances hadformerly related, and had said to be that ofAgnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but forwhat purpose it had been fabricated, unless themore effectually to conceal the true story, Emilycould not even guess. Above all, her interestwas excited as to the relation, which the story ofthe late Marchioness de Villeroi bore to that ofher father; for, that some kind of relation existedbetween them, the grief of St. Aubert, uponhearing her named, his request to be buriednear her, and her picture, which had been foundamong his papers, certainly proved.Sometimes it occurred to Emily, that he mighthave been the lover, to whom it was said theMarchioness was attached, when she wascompelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; butthat he had afterwards cherished a passion forher, she could not suffer herself to believe, for amoment. The papers, which he had so solemnlyenjoined her to destroy, she now fancied hadrelated to this connection, and she wished moreearnestly than before to know the reasons, thatmade him consider the injunction necessary,which, had her faith in his principles been less,would have led to believe, that there was amystery in her birth dishonourable to her

parents, which those manuscripts might haverevealed.

Reflections, similar to these, engaged hermind, during the greater part of the night, andwhen, at length, she fell into a slumber, it wasonly to behold a vision of the dying nun, and toawaken in horrors, like those she hadwitnessed.

On the following morning, she was too muchindisposed to attend her appointment with theabbess, and, before the day concluded, sheheard, that sister Agnes was no more. Mons.Bonnac received this intelligence, with concern;but Emily observed, that he did not appear somuch affected now, as on the precedingevening, immediately after quitting theapartment of the nun, whose death wasprobably less terrible to him, than theconfession he had been then called upon towitness. However this might be, he wasperhaps consoled, in some degree, by aknowledge of the legacy bequeathed him, sincehis family was large, and the extravagance ofsome part of it had lately been the means ofinvolving him in great distress, and even in thehorrors of a prison; and it was the grief he hadsuffered from the wild career of a favourite son,with the pecuniary anxieties and misfortunesconsequent upon it, that had given to hiscountenance the air of dejection, which had somuch interested Emily.

To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited someparticulars of his late sufferings, when itappeared, that he had been confined forseveral months in one of the prisons of Paris,with little hope of release, and without thecomfort of seeing his wife, who had been

absent in the country, endeavouring, though invain, to procure assistance from his friends.When, at length, she had obtained an order foradmittance, she was so much shocked at thechange, which long confinement and sorrowhad made in his appearance, that she wasseized with fits, which, by their longcontinuance, threatened her life.

'Our situation affected those, who happenedto witness it,' continued Mons. Bonnac, 'andone generous friend, who was in confinement atthe same time, afterwards employed the firstmoments of his liberty in efforts to obtain mine.He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressedme, was discharged; and, when I would haveexpressed my sense of the obligation I hadreceived, my benefactor was fled from mysearch. I have reason to believe he was thevictim of his own generosity, and that hereturned to the state of confinement, from whichhe had released me; but every enquiry after himwas unsuccessful. Amiable and unfortunateValancourt!'

'Valancourt!' exclaimed Mons. Du Pont. 'Ofwhat family?'

'The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,' repliedMons. Bonnac.

The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when hediscovered the generous benefactor of hisfriend to be the rival of his love, can only beimagined; but, having overcome his firstsurprise, he dissipated the apprehensions ofMons. Bonnac by acquainting him, thatValancourt was at liberty, and had lately been inLanguedoc; after which his affection for Emilyprompted him to make some enquiries,

respecting the conduct of his rival, during hisstay at Paris, of which M. Bonnac appeared tobe well informed. The answers he receivedwere such as convinced him, that Valancourthad been much misrepresented, and, painful aswas the sacrifice, he formed the just design ofrelinquishing his pursuit of Emily to a lover, who,it now appeared, was not unworthy of theregard, with which she honoured him.

The conversation of Mons. Bonnacdiscovered, that Valancourt, some time after hisarrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares,which determined vice had spread for him, andthat his hours had been chiefly divided betweenthe parties of the captivating Marchioness andthose gaming assemblies, to which the envy, orthe avarice, of his brother officers had sparedno art to seduce him. In these parties he hadlost large sums, in efforts to recover small ones,and to such losses the Count De Villefort andMons. Henri had been frequent witnesses. Hisresources were, at length, exhausted; and theCount, his brother, exasperated by his conduct,refused to continue the supplies necessary tohis present mode of life, when Valancourt, inconsequence of accumulated debts, wasthrown into confinement, where his brothersuffered him to remain, in the hope, thatpunishment might effect a reform of conduct,which had not yet been confirmed by long habit.

In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt hadleisure for reflection, and cause for repentance;here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidst thedissipation of the city had been obscured, butnever obliterated from his heart, revived with allthe charms of innocence and beauty, toreproach him for having sacrificed hishappiness and debased his talents by pursuits,

which his nobler faculties would formerly havetaught him to consider were as tasteless asthey were degrading. But, though his passionshad been seduced, his heart was not depraved,nor had habit riveted the chains, that hungheavily on his conscience; and, as he retainedthat energy of will, which was necessary to burstthem, he, at length, emancipated himself fromthe bondage of vice, but not till after much effortand severe suffering.

Being released by his brother from theprison, where he had witnessed the affectingmeeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife,with whom he had been for some timeacquainted, the first use of his liberty formed astriking instance of his humanity and hisrashness; for with nearly all the money, justreceived from his brother, he went to a gaming-house, and gave it as a last stake for thechance of restoring his friend to freedom, andto his afflicted family. The event was fortunate,and, while he had awaited the issue of thismomentous stake, he made a solemn vownever again to yield to the destructive andfascinating vice of gaming.

Having restored the venerable Mons. Bonnacto his rejoicing family, he hurried from Paris toEstuviere; and, in the delight of having madethe wretched happy, forgot, for a while, his ownmisfortunes. Soon, however, he remembered,that he had thrown away the fortune, withoutwhich he could never hope to marry Emily; andlife, unless passed with her, now scarcelyappeared supportable; for her goodness,refinement, and simplicity of heart, rendered herbeauty more enchanting, if possible, to hisfancy, than it had ever yet appeared.

Experience had taught him to understand thefull value of the qualities, which he had beforeadmired, but which the contrasted charactershe had seen in the world made him now adore;and these reflections, increasing the pangs ofremorse and regret, occasioned the deepdejection, that had accompanied him even intothe presence of Emily, of whom he consideredhimself no longer worthy. To the ignominy ofhaving received pecuniary obligations from theMarchioness Chamfort, or any other lady ofintrigue, as the Count De Villefort had beeninformed, or of having been engaged in thedepredating schemes of gamesters, Valancourthad never submitted; and these were some ofsuch scandals as often mingle with truth,against the unfortunate. Count De Villefort hadreceived them from authority which he had noreason to doubt, and which the imprudentconduct he had himself witnessed inValancourt, had certainly induced him the morereadily to believe. Being such as Emily couldnot name to the Chevalier, he had noopportunity of refuting them; and, when heconfessed himself to be unworthy of heresteem, he little suspected, that he wasconfirming to her the most dreadful calumnies.Thus the mistake had been mutual, and hadremained so, when Mons. Bonnac explainedthe conduct of his generous, but imprudentyoung friend to Du Pont, who, with severejustice, determined not only to undeceive theCount on this subject, but to resign all hope ofEmily. Such a sacrifice as his love renderedthis, was deserving of a noble reward, andMons. Bonnac, if it had been possible for him toforget the benevolent Valancourt, would havewished that Emily might accept the just DuPont.

When the Count was informed of the error hehad committed, he was extremely shocked atthe consequence of his credulity, and theaccount which Mons. Bonnac gave of hisfriend's situation, while at Paris, convinced him,that Valancourt had been entrapped by theschemes of a set of dissipated young men, withwhom his profession had partly obliged him toassociate, rather than by an inclination to vice;and, charmed by the humanity, and noble,though rash generosity, which his conducttowards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he forgavehim the transient errors, that had stained hisyouth, and restored him to the high degree ofesteem, with which he had regarded him,during their early acquaintance. But, as theleast reparation he could now make Valancourtwas to afford him an opportunity of explaining toEmily his former conduct, he immediately wrote,to request his forgiveness of the unintentionalinjury he had done him, and to invite him toChateau-le-Blanc. Motives of delicacy with-heldthe Count from informing Emily of this letter, andof kindness from acquainting her with thediscovery respecting Valancourt, till his arrivalshould save her from the possibility of anxiety,as to its event; and this precaution spared hereven severer inquietude, than the Count hadforeseen, since he was ignorant of thesymptoms of despair, which Valancourt's lateconduct had betrayed.

CHAPTER XVII But in these cases, We still have judgment here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor: thus even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips. MACBETH

Some circumstances of an extraordinarynature now withdrew Emily from her ownsorrows, and excited emotions, which partookof both surprise and horror.

A few days followed that, on which SignoraLaurentini died, her will was opened at themonastery, in the presence of the superiors andMons. Bonnac, when it was found, that one thirdof her personal property was bequeathed to thenearest surviving relative of the lateMarchioness de Villeroi, and that Emily was theperson.

With the secret of Emily's family the abbesshad long been acquainted, and it was inobservance of the earnest request of St.Aubert, who was known to the friar, thatattended him on his death-bed, that hisdaughter had remained in ignorance of herrelationship to the Marchioness. But somehints, which had fallen from Signora Laurentini,during her last interview with Emily, and aconfession of a very extraordinary nature, givenin her dying hours, had made the abbess think itnecessary to converse with her young friend, onthe topic she had not before ventured tointroduce; and it was for this purpose, that shehad requested to see her on the morning thatfollowed her interview with the nun. Emily'sindisposition had then prevented the intendedconversation; but now, after the will had beenexamined, she received a summons, which sheimmediately obeyed, and became informed ofcircumstances, that powerfully affected her. Asthe narrative of the abbess was, however,

deficient in many particulars, of which thereader may wish to be informed, and the historyof the nun is materially connected with the fateof the Marchioness de Villeroi, we shall omit theconversation, that passed in the parlour of theconvent, and mingle with our relation a briefhistory of

LAURENTINI DI UDOLPHO,

Who was the only child of her parents, andheiress of the ancient house of Udolpho, in theterritory of Venice. It was the first misfortune ofher life, and that which led to all her succeedingmisery, that the friends, who ought to haverestrained her strong passions, and mildlyinstructed her in the art of governing them,nurtured them by early indulgence. But theycherished their own failings in her; for theirconduct was not the result of rational kindness,and, when they either indulged, or opposed thepassions of their child, they gratified their own.Thus they indulged her with weakness, andreprehended her with violence; her spirit wasexasperated by their vehemence, instead ofbeing corrected by their wisdom; and theiroppositions became contest for victory, inwhich the due tenderness of the parents, andthe affectionate duties of the child, were equallyforgotten; but, as returning fondness disarmedthe parents' resentment soonest, Laurentini wassuffered to believe that she had conquered, andher passions became stronger by every effort,that had been employed to subdue them.

The death of her father and mother in thesame year left her to her own discretion, underthe dangerous circumstances attendant onyouth and beauty. She was fond of company,delighted with admiration, yet disdainful of theopinion of the world, when it happened tocontradict her inclinations; had a gay andbrilliant wit, and was mistress of all the arts offascination. Her conduct was such as mighthave been expected, from the weakness of herprinciples and the strength of her passions.

Among her numerous admirers was the lateMarquis de Villeroi, who, on his tour throughItaly, saw Laurentini at Venice, where sheusually resided, and became her passionateadorer. Equally captivated by the figure andaccomplishments of the Marquis, who was atthat period one of the most distinguishednoblemen of the French court, she had the artso effectually to conceal from him thedangerous traits of her character and theblemishes of her late conduct, that he solicitedher hand in marriage.

Before the nuptials were concluded, sheretired to the castle of Udolpho, whither theMarquis followed, and, where her conduct,relaxing from the propriety, which she had latelyassumed, discovered to him the precipice, onwhich he stood. A minuter enquiry than he hadbefore thought it necessary to make, convincedhim, that he had been deceived in hercharacter, and she, whom he had designed forhis wife, afterwards became his mistress.

Having passed some weeks at Udolpho, hewas called abruptly to France, whither hereturned with extreme reluctance, for his heartwas still fascinated by the arts of Laurentini,with whom, however, he had on variouspretences delayed his marriage; but, toreconcile her to this separation, he now gaverepeated promises of returning to conclude thenuptials, as soon as the affair, which thussuddenly called him to France, should permit.

Soothed, in some degree, by theseassurances, she suffered him to depart; and,soon after, her relative, Montoni, arriving atUdolpho, renewed the addresses, which shehad before refused, and which she now againrejected. Meanwhile, her thoughts wereconstantly with the Marquis de Villeroi, forwhom she suffered all the delirium of Italianlove, cherished by the solitude, to which sheconfined herself; for she had now lost all tastefor the pleasures of society and the gaiety ofamusement. Her only indulgences were to sigh

and weep over a miniature of the Marquis; tovisit the scenes, that had witnessed theirhappiness, to pour forth her heart to him inwriting, and to count the weeks, the days, whichmust intervene before the period that he hadmentioned as probable for his return. But thisperiod passed without bringing him; and weekafter week followed in heavy and almostintolerable expectation. During this interval,Laurentini's fancy, occupied incessantly by oneidea, became disordered; and, her whole heartbeing devoted to one object, life becamehateful to her, when she believed that objectlost.

Several months passed, during which sheheard nothing from the Marquis de Villeroi, andher days were marked, at intervals, with thephrensy of passion and the sullenness ofdespair. She secluded herself from all visitors,and, sometimes, remained in her apartment, forweeks together, refusing to speak to everyperson, except her favourite female attendant,writing scraps of letters, reading, again andagain, those she had received from theMarquis, weeping over his picture, andspeaking to it, for many hours, upbraiding,reproaching and caressing it alternately.

At length, a report reached her, that theMarquis had married in France, and, aftersuffering all the extremes of love, jealousy andindignation, she formed the desperateresolution of going secretly to that country, and,if the report proved true, of attempting a deeprevenge. To her favourite woman only sheconfided the plan of her journey, and sheengaged her to partake of it. Having collectedher jewels, which, descending to her from manybranches of her family, were of immense value,and all her cash, to a very large amount, theywere packed in a trunk, which was privatelyconveyed to a neighbouring town, whitherLaurentini, with this only servant, followed, andthence proceeded secretly to Leghorn, wherethey embarked for France.

When, on her arrival in Languedoc, shefound, that the Marquis de Villeroi had beenmarried, for some months, her despair almostdeprived her of reason, and she alternatelyprojected and abandoned the horrible design ofmurdering the Marquis, his wife and herself. Atlength she contrived to throw herself in his way,with an intention of reproaching him, for hisconduct, and of stabbing herself in hispresence; but, when she again saw him, who solong had been the constant object of herthoughts and affections, resentment yielded tolove; her resolution failed; she trembled with theconflict of emotions, that assailed her heart, andfainted away.

The Marquis was not proof against herbeauty and sensibility; all the energy, with whichhe had first loved, returned, for his passion hadbeen resisted by prudence, rather thanovercome by indifference; and, since thehonour of his family would not permit him tomarry her, he had endeavoured to subdue hislove, and had so far succeeded, as to select thethen Marchioness for his wife, whom he loved atfirst with a tempered and rational affection. Butthe mild virtues of that amiable lady did notrecompense him for her indifference, whichappeared, notwithstanding her efforts toconceal it; and he had, for some time,suspected that her affections were engaged byanother person, when Laurentini arrived inLanguedoc. This artful Italian soon perceived,that she had regained her influence over him,and, soothed by the discovery, she determinedto live, and to employ all her enchantments towin his consent to the diabolical deed, whichshe believed was necessary to the security ofher happiness. She conducted her scheme withdeep dissimulation and patient perseverance,and, having completely estranged the affectionsof the Marquis from his wife, whose gentlegoodness and unimpassioned manners hadceased to please, when contrasted with thecaptivations of the Italian, she proceeded toawaken in his mind the jealousy of pride, for it

was no longer that of love, and even pointed outto him the person, to whom she affirmed theMarchioness had sacrificed her honour; butLaurentini had first extorted from him a solemnpromise to forbear avenging himself upon hisrival. This was an important part of her plan, forshe knew, that, if his desire of vengeance wasrestrained towards one party, it would burnmore fiercely towards the other, and he mightthen, perhaps, be prevailed on to assist in thehorrible act, which would release him from theonly barrier, that with-held him from making herhis wife.

The innocent Marchioness, meanwhile,observed, with extreme grief, the alteration inher husband's manners. He became reservedand thoughtful in her presence; his conduct wasaustere, and sometimes even rude; and he lefther, for many hours together, to weep for hisunkindness, and to form plans for the recoveryof his affection. His conduct afflicted her themore, because, in obedience to the commandof her father, she had accepted his hand,though her affections were engaged to another,whose amiable disposition, she had reason tobelieve, would have ensured her happiness.This circumstance Laurentini had discovered,soon after her arrival in France, and had madeample use of it in assisting her designs uponthe Marquis, to whom she adduced suchseeming proof of his wife's infidelity, that, in thefrantic rage of wounded honour, he consentedto destroy his wife. A slow poison wasadministered, and she fell a victim to thejealousy and subtlety of Laurentini and to theguilty weakness of her husband.

But the moment of Laurentini's triumph, themoment, to which she had looked forward forthe completion of all her wishes, proved only thecommencement of a suffering, that never lefther to her dying hour.

The passion of revenge, which had in partstimulated her to the commission of thisatrocious deed, died, even at the moment when

it was gratified, and left her to the horrors ofunavailing pity and remorse, which wouldprobably have empoisoned all the years shehad promised herself with the Marquis deVilleroi, had her expectations of an alliance withhim been realized. But he, too, had found themoment of his revenge to be that of remorse,as to himself, and detestation, as to the partnerof his crime; the feeling, which he had mistakenfor conviction, was no more; and he stoodastonished, and aghast, that no proof remainedof his wife's infidelity, now that she had sufferedthe punishment of guilt. Even when he wasinformed, that she was dying, he had feltsuddenly and unaccountably reassured of herinnocence, nor was the solemn assurance shemade him in her last hour, capable of affordinghim a stronger conviction of her blamelessconduct.

In the first horrors of remorse and despair, hefelt inclined to deliver up himself and thewoman, who had plunged him into this abyss ofguilt, into the hands of justice; but, when theparoxysm of his suffering was over, his intentionchanged. Laurentini, however, he saw only onceafterwards, and that was, to curse her as theinstigator of his crime, and to say, that hespared her life only on condition, that shepassed the rest of her days in prayer andpenance. Overwhelmed with disappointment,on receiving contempt and abhorrence from theman, for whose sake she had not scrupled tostain her conscience with human blood, and,touched with horror of the unavailing crime shehad committed, she renounced the world, andretired to the monastery of St. Claire, a dreadfulvictim to unresisted passion.

The Marquis, immediately after the death ofhis wife, quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, to which henever returned, and endeavoured to lose thesense of his crime amidst the tumult of war, orthe dissipations of a capital; but his efforts werevain; a deep dejection hung over him ever after,for which his most intimate friend could notaccount, and he, at length, died, with a degree

of horror nearly equal to that, which Laurentinihad suffered. The physician, who had observedthe singular appearance of the unfortunateMarchioness, after death, had been bribed tosilence; and, as the surmises of a few of theservants had proceeded no further than awhisper, the affair had never been investigated.Whether this whisper ever reached the father ofthe Marchioness, and, if it did, whether thedifficulty of obtaining proof deterred him fromprosecuting the Marquis de Villeroi, isuncertain; but her death was deeply lamentedby some part of her family, and particularly byher brother, M. St. Aubert; for that was thedegree of relationship, which had existedbetween Emily's father and the Marchioness;and there is no doubt, that he suspected themanner of her death. Many letters passedbetween the Marquis and him, soon after thedecease of his beloved sister, the subject ofwhich was not known, but there is reason tobelieve, that they related to the cause of herdeath; and these were the papers, together withsome letters of the Marchioness, who hadconfided to her brother the occasion of herunhappiness, which St. Aubert had so solemnlyenjoined his daughter to destroy: and anxiety forher peace had probably made him forbid her toenquire into the melancholy story, to which theyalluded. Such, indeed, had been his affliction,on the premature death of this his favouritesister, whose unhappy marriage had from thefirst excited his tenderest pity, that he nevercould hear her named, or mention her himselfafter her death, except to Madame St. Aubert.From Emily, whose sensibility he feared toawaken, he had so carefully concealed herhistory and name, that she was ignorant, tillnow, that she ever had such a relative as theMarchioness de Villeroi; and from this motivehe had enjoined silence to his only survivingsister, Madame Cheron, who had scrupulouslyobserved his request.

It was over some of the last pathetic letters ofthe Marchioness, that St. Aubert was weeping,

when he was observed by Emily, on the eve ofher departure from La Vallee, and it was herpicture, which he had so tenderly caressed. Herdisastrous death may account for the emotionhe had betrayed, on hearing her named by LaVoisin, and for his request to be interred nearthe monument of the Villerois, where herremains were deposited, but not those of herhusband, who was buried, where he died, in thenorth of France.

The confessor, who attended St. Aubert in hislast moments, recollected him to be the brotherof the late Marchioness, when St. Aubert, fromtenderness to Emily, had conjured him toconceal the circumstance, and to request thatthe abbess, to whose care he particularlyrecommended her, would do the same; arequest, which had been exactly observed.

Laurentini, on her arrival in France, hadcarefully concealed her name and family, and,the better to disguise her real history, had, onentering the convent, caused the story to becirculated, which had imposed on sisterFrances, and it is probable, that the abbess,who did not preside in the convent, at the timeof her noviciation, was also entirely ignorant ofthe truth. The deep remorse, that seized on themind of Laurentini, together with the sufferingsof disappointed passion, for she still loved theMarquis, again unsettled her intellects, and,after the first paroxysms of despair werepassed, a heavy and silent melancholy hadsettled upon her spirits, which suffered fewinterruptions from fits of phrensy, till the time ofher death. During many years, it had been heronly amusement to walk in the woods near themonastery, in the solitary hours of night, and toplay upon a favourite instrument, to which shesometimes joined the delightful melody of hervoice, in the most solemn and melancholy airsof her native country, modulated by all theenergetic feeling, that dwelt in her heart. Thephysician, who had attended her,recommended it to the superior to indulge herin this whim, as the only means of soothing her

distempered fancy; and she was suffered towalk in the lonely hours of night, attended by theservant, who had accompanied her from Italy;but, as the indulgence transgressed against therules of the convent, it was kept as secret aspossible; and thus the mysterious music ofLaurentini had combined with othercircumstances, to produce a report, that notonly the chateau, but its neighbourhood, washaunted.

Soon after her entrance into this holycommunity, and before she had shewn anysymptoms of insanity there, she made a will, inwhich, after bequeathing a considerable legacyto the convent, she divided the remainder of herpersonal property, which her jewels made veryvaluable, between the wife of Mons. Bonnac,who was an Italian lady and her relation, and thenearest surviving relative of the lateMarchioness de Villeroi. As Emily St. Aubertwas not only the nearest, but the sole relative,this legacy descended to her, and thusexplained to her the whole mystery of herfather's conduct.

The resemblance between Emily and herunfortunate aunt had frequently been observedby Laurentini, and had occasioned the singularbehaviour, which had formerly alarmed her; butit was in the nun's dying hour, when herconscience gave her perpetually the idea of theMarchioness, that she became more sensible,than ever, of this likeness, and, in her phrensy,deemed it no resemblance of the person shehad injured, but the original herself. The boldassertion, that had followed, on the recovery ofher senses, that Emily was the daughter of theMarchioness de Villeroi, arose from asuspicion that she was so; for, knowing that herrival, when she married the Marquis, wasattached to another lover, she had scarcelyscrupled to believe, that her honour had beensacrificed, like her own, to an unresistedpassion.

Of a crime, however, to which Emily had

suspected, from her phrensied confession ofmurder, that she had been instrumental in thecastle of Udolpho, Laurentini was innocent; andshe had herself been deceived, concerning thespectacle, that formerly occasioned her somuch terror, and had since compelled her, for awhile, to attribute the horrors of the nun to aconsciousness of a murder, committed in thatcastle.

It may be remembered, that, in a chamber ofUdolpho, hung a black veil, whose singularsituation had excited Emily's curiosity, andwhich afterwards disclosed an object, that hadoverwhelmed her with horror; for, on lifting it,there appeared, instead of the picture she hadexpected, within a recess of the wall, a humanfigure of ghastly paleness, stretched at itslength, and dressed in the habiliments of thegrave. What added to the horror of thespectacle, was, that the face appeared partlydecayed and disfigured by worms, which werevisible on the features and hands. On such anobject, it will be readily believed, that no personcould endure to look twice. Emily, it may berecollected, had, after the first glance, let theveil drop, and her terror had prevented her fromever after provoking a renewal of such suffering,as she had then experienced. Had she dared tolook again, her delusion and her fears wouldhave vanished together, and she would haveperceived, that the figure before her was nothuman, but formed of wax. The history of it issomewhat extraordinary, though not withoutexample in the records of that fierce severity,which monkish superstition has sometimesinflicted on mankind. A member of the house ofUdolpho, having committed some offenceagainst the prerogative of the church, had beencondemned to the penance of contemplating,during certain hours of the day, a waxen image,made to resemble a human body in the state, towhich it is reduced after death. This penance,serving as a memento of the condition at whichhe must himself arrive, had been designed toreprove the pride of the Marquis of Udolpho,

which had formerly so much exasperated that ofthe Romish church; and he had not onlysuperstitiously observed this penance himself,which, he had believed, was to obtain a pardonfor all his sins, but had made it a condition in hiswill, that his descendants should preserve theimage, on pain of forfeiting to the church acertain part of his domain, that they also mightprofit by the humiliating moral it conveyed. Thefigure, therefore, had been suffered to retain itsstation in the wall of the chamber, but hisdescendants excused themselves fromobserving the penance, to which he had beenenjoined.

This image was so horribly natural, that it isnot surprising Emily should have mistaken it forthe object it resembled, nor, since she hadheard such an extraordinary account,concerning the disappearing of the late lady ofthe castle, and had such experience of thecharacter of Montoni, that she should havebelieved this to be the murdered body of thelady Laurentini, and that he had been thecontriver of her death.

The situation, in which she had discovered it,occasioned her, at first, much surprise andperplexity; but the vigilance, with which thedoors of the chamber, where it was deposited,were afterwards secured, had compelled her tobelieve, that Montoni, not daring to confide thesecret of her death to any person, had sufferedher remains to decay in this obscure chamber.The ceremony of the veil, however, and thecircumstance of the doors having been leftopen, even for a moment, had occasioned hermuch wonder and some doubts; but these werenot sufficient to overcome her suspicion ofMontoni; and it was the dread of his terriblevengeance, that had sealed her lips in silence,concerning what she had seen in the westchamber.

Emily, in discovering the Marchioness deVilleroi to have been the sister of Mons. St.Aubert, was variously affected; but, amidst the

sorrow, which she suffered for her untimelydeath, she was released from an anxious andpainful conjecture, occasioned by the rashassertion of Signora Laurentini, concerning herbirth and the honour of her parents. Her faith inSt. Aubert's principles would scarcely allow herto suspect that he had acted dishonourably; andshe felt such reluctance to believe herself thedaughter of any other, than her, whom she hadalways considered and loved as a mother, thatshe would hardly admit such a circumstance tobe possible; yet the likeness, which it hadfrequently been affirmed she bore to the lateMarchioness, the former behaviour of Dorotheethe old housekeeper, the assertion ofLaurentini, and the mysterious attachment,which St. Aubert had discovered, awakeneddoubts, as to his connection with theMarchioness, which her reason could neithervanquish, or confirm. From these, however, shewas now relieved, and all the circumstances ofher father's conduct were fully explained: but herheart was oppressed by the melancholycatastrophe of her amiable relative, and by theawful lesson, which the history of the nunexhibited, the indulgence of whose passionshad been the means of leading her gradually tothe commission of a crime, from the prophecyof which in her early years she would haverecoiled in horror, and exclaimed—that it couldnot be!—a crime, which whole years ofrepentance and of the severest penance hadnot been able to obliterate from her conscience.

CHAPTER XVIII Then, fresh tears Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd SHAKESPEARE

After the late discoveries, Emily wasdistinguished at the chateau by the Count andhis family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi,and received, if possible, more friendlyattention, than had yet been shewn her.

Count De Villefort's surprise at the delay ofan answer to his letter, which had been directedto Valancourt, at Estuviere, was mingled withsatisfaction for the prudence, which had savedEmily from a share of the anxiety he nowsuffered, though, when he saw her still droopingunder the effect of his former error, all hisresolution was necessary to restrain him fromrelating the truth, that would afford her amomentary relief. The approaching nuptials ofthe Lady Blanche now divided his attention withthis subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants ofthe chateau were already busied inpreparations for that event, and the arrival ofMons. St. Foix was daily expected. In thegaiety, which surrounded her, Emily vainly triedto participate, her spirits being depressed bythe late discoveries, and by the anxietyconcerning the fate of Valancourt, that had beenoccasioned by the description of his manner,when he had delivered the ring. She seemed toperceive in it the gloomy wildness of despair;and, when she considered to what that despairmight have urged him, her heart sunk with terrorand grief. The state of suspense, as to hissafety, to which she believed herselfcondemned, till she should return to La Vallee,appeared insupportable, and, in such moments,she could not even struggle to assume thecomposure, that had left her mind, but wouldoften abruptly quit the company she was with,and endeavour to sooth her spirits in the deep

solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed theshore. Here, the faint roar of foaming waves,that beat below, and the sullen murmur of thewind among the branches around, werecircumstances in unison with the temper of hermind; and she would sit on a cliff, or on thebroken steps of her favourite watch-tower,observing the changing colours of the eveningclouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over thesea, till the white tops of billows, riding towardsthe shore, could scarcely be discerned amidstthe darkened waters. The lines, engraved byValancourt on this tower, she frequentlyrepeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and thenwould endeavour to check the recollections andthe grief they occasioned, and to turn herthoughts to indifferent subjects.

One evening, having wandered with her luteto this her favourite spot, she entered the ruinedtower, and ascended a winding staircase, thatled to a small chamber, which was lessdecayed than the rest of the building, andwhence she had often gazed, with admiration,on the wide prospect of sea and land, thatextended below. The sun was now setting onthat tract of the Pyrenees, which dividedLanguedoc from Rousillon, and, placing herselfopposite to a small grated window, which, likethe wood-tops beneath, and the waves lowerstill, gleamed with the red glow of the west, shetouched the chords of her lute in solemnsymphony, and then accompanied it with hervoice, in one of the simple and affecting airs, towhich, in happier days, Valancourt had oftenlistened in rapture, and which she now adaptedto the following lines.

TO MELANCHOLY

Spirit of love and sorrow—hail! Thy solemn voice from far I hear, Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale: Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!

O! at this still, this lonely hour, Thine own sweet hour of closing day, Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r

Shall call up Fancy to obey:

To paint the wild romantic dream, That meets the poet's musing eye, As, on the bank of shadowy stream, He breathes to her the fervid sigh.

O lonely spirit! let thy song Lead me through all thy sacred haunt; The minister's moon-light aisles along, Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.

I hear their dirges faintly swell! Then, sink at once in silence drear, While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell, Dimly their gliding forms appear!

Lead where the pine-woods wave on high, Whose pathless sod is darkly seen, As the cold moon, with trembling eye, Darts her long beams the leaves between.

Lead to the mountain's dusky head, Where, far below, in shade profound, Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread, And sad the chimes of vesper sound,

Or guide me, where the dashing oar Just breaks the stillness of the vale, As slow it tracks the winding shore, To meet the ocean's distant sail:

To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves, With measur'd surges, loud and deep, Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves, And wild the winds of autumn sweep.

There pause at midnight's spectred hour, And list the long-resounding gale; And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r, O'er foaming seas and distant sail.

The soft tranquillity of the scene below, wherethe evening breeze scarcely curled the water, orswelled the passing sail, that caught the lastgleam of the sun, and where, now and then, adipping oar was all that disturbed the tremblingradiance, conspired with the tender melody ofher lute to lull her mind into a state of gentlesadness, and she sung the mournful songs ofpast times, till the remembrances they

awakened were too powerful for her heart, hertears fell upon the lute, over which she drooped,and her voice trembled, and was unable toproceed.

Though the sun had now sunk behind themountains, and even his reflected light wasfading from their highest points, Emily did notleave the watch-tower, but continued to indulgeher melancholy reverie, till a footstep, at a littledistance, startled her, and, on looking throughthe grate, she observed a person walkingbelow, whom, however, soon perceiving to beMons. Bonnac, she returned to the quietthoughtfulness his step had interrupted. Aftersome time, she again struck her lute, and sungher favourite air; but again a step disturbed her,and, as she paused to listen, she heard itascending the stair-case of the tower. Thegloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensibleto some degree of fear, which she might nototherwise have felt; for, only a few minutesbefore, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. Thesteps were quick and bounding, and, in the nextmoment, the door of the chamber opened, anda person entered, whose features were veiledin the obscurity of twilight; but his voice couldnot be concealed, for it was the voice ofValancourt! At the sound, never heard by Emily,without emotion, she started, in terror,astonishment and doubtful pleasure, and hadscarcely beheld him at her feet, when she sunkinto a seat, overcome by the various emotions,that contended at her heart, and almostinsensible to that voice, whose earnest andtrembling calls seemed as if endeavouring tosave her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily,deplored his own rash impatience, in havingthus surprised her: for when he had arrived atthe chateau, too anxious to await the return ofthe Count, who, he understood, was in thegrounds, he went himself to seek him, when, ashe passed the tower, he was struck by thesound of Emily's voice, and immediatelyascended.

It was a considerable time before she

revived, but, when her recollection returned, sherepulsed his attentions, with an air of reserve,and enquired, with as much displeasure as itwas possible she could feel in these firstmoments of his appearance, the occasion ofhis visit.

'Ah Emily!' said Valancourt, 'that air, thosewords—alas! I have, then, little to hope—whenyou ceased to esteem me, you ceased also tolove me!'

'Most true, sir,' replied Emily, endeavouring tocommand her trembling voice; 'and if you hadvalued my esteem, you would not have givenme this new occasion for uneasiness.'

Valancourt's countenance changed suddenlyfrom the anxieties of doubt to an expression ofsurprise and dismay: he was silent a moment,and then said, 'I had been taught to hope for avery different reception! Is it, then, true, Emily,that I have lost your regard forever? am I tobelieve, that, though your esteem for me mayreturn—your affection never can? Can theCount have meditated the cruelty, which nowtortures me with a second death?'

The voice, in which he spoke this, alarmedEmily as much as his words surprised her, and,with trembling impatience, she begged that hewould explain them.

'Can any explanation be necessary?' saidValancourt, 'do you not know how cruelly myconduct has been misrepresented? that theactions of which you once believed me guilty(and, O Emily! how could you so degrade me inyour opinion, even for a moment!) those actions—I hold in as much contempt and abhorrenceas yourself? Are you, indeed, ignorant, thatCount de Villefort has detected the slanders,that have robbed me of all I hold dear on earth,and has invited me hither to justify to you myformer conduct? It is surely impossible you canbe uninformed of these circumstances, and Iam again torturing myself with a false hope!'

The silence of Emily confirmed thissupposition; for the deep twilight would notallow Valancourt to distinguish theastonishment and doubting joy, that fixed herfeatures. For a moment, she continued unableto speak; then a profound sigh seemed to givesome relief to her spirits, and she said,

'Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant ofall the circumstances you have mentioned; theemotion I now suffer may assure you of the truthof this, and, that, though I had ceased toesteem, I had not taught myself entirely to forgetyou.'

'This moment,' said Valancourt, in a lowvoice, and leaning for support against thewindow—'this moment brings with it aconviction that overpowers me!—I am dear toyou then—still dear to you, my Emily!'

'Is it necessary that I should tell you so?' shereplied, 'is it necessary, that I should say—these are the first moments of joy I have known,since your departure, and that they repay me forall those of pain I have suffered in the interval?'

Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable toreply; but, as he pressed her hand to his lips,the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language,which could not be mistaken, and to whichwords were inadequate.

Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposedreturning to the chateau, and then, for the firsttime, recollected that the Count had invitedValancourt thither to explain his conduct, andthat no explanation had yet been given. But,while she acknowledged this, her heart wouldnot allow her to dwell, for a moment, on thepossibility of his unworthiness; his look, hisvoice, his manner, all spoke the noble sincerity,which had formerly distinguished him; and sheagain permitted herself to indulge the emotionsof a joy, more surprising and powerful, than shehad ever before experienced.

Neither Emily, or Valancourt, were conscious

how they reached the chateau, whither theymight have been transferred by the spell of afairy, for any thing they could remember; and itwas not, till they had reached the great hall, thateither of them recollected there were otherpersons in the world besides themselves. TheCount then came forth with surprise, and withthe joyfulness of pure benevolence, to welcomeValancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of theinjustice he had done him; soon after which,Mons. Bonnac joined this happy group, in whichhe and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced tomeet.

When the first congratulations were over, andthe general joy became somewhat moretranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt tothe library, where a long conversation passedbetween them, in which the latter so clearlyjustified himself of the criminal parts of theconduct, imputed to him, and so candidlyconfessed and so feelingly lamented the follies,which he had committed, that the Count wasconfirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and,while he perceived so many noble virtues inValancourt, and that experience had taught himto detest the follies, which before he had onlynot admired, he did not scruple to believe, thathe would pass through life with the dignity of awise and good man, or to entrust to his care thefuture happiness of Emily St. Aubert, for whomhe felt the solicitude of a parent. Of this he sooninformed her, in a short conversation, whenValancourt had left him. While Emily listened toa relation of the services, that Valancourt hadrendered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes overflowedwith tears of pleasure, and the furtherconversation of Count De Villefort perfectlydissipated every doubt, as to the past andfuture conduct of him, to whom she nowrestored, without fear, the esteem and affection,with which she had formerly received him.

When they returned to the supper-room, theCountess and Lady Blanche met Valancourtwith sincere congratulations; and Blanche,indeed, was so much rejoiced to see Emily

returned to happiness, as to forget, for a while,that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at thechateau, though he had been expected forsome hours; but her generous sympathy was,soon after, rewarded by his appearance. Hewas now perfectly recovered from the wounds,received, during his perilous adventure amongthe Pyrenees, the mention of which served toheighten to the parties, who had been involvedin it, the sense of their present happiness. Newcongratulations passed between them, andround the supper-table appeared a group offaces, smiling with felicity, but with a felicity,which had in each a different character. Thesmile of Blanche was frank and gay, that ofEmily tender and pensive; Valancourt's wasrapturous, tender and gay alternately; Mons. St.Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, as helooked on the surrounding party, expressed thetempered complacency of benevolence; whilethe features of the Countess, Henri, and Mons.Bonnac, discovered fainter traces of animation.Poor Mons. Du Pont did not, by his presence,throw a shade of regret over the company; for,when he had discovered, that Valancourt wasnot unworthy of the esteem of Emily, hedetermined seriously to endeavour at theconquest of his own hopeless affection, andhad immediately withdrawn from Chateau-le-Blanc—a conduct, which Emily nowunderstood, and rewarded with her admirationand pity.

The Count and his guests continued togethertill a late hour, yielding to the delights of socialgaiety, and to the sweets of friendship. WhenAnnette heard of the arrival of Valancourt,Ludovico had some difficulty to prevent hergoing into the supper-room, to express her joy,for she declared, that she had never been sorejoiced at any ACCIDENT as this, since shehad found Ludovico himself.

CHAPTER XIX Now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin low doth bend, And, from thence, can soar as soon To the corners of the moon. MILTON

The marriages of the Lady Blanche andEmily St. Aubert were celebrated, on the sameday, and with the ancient baronialmagnificence, at Chateau-le-Blanc. The feastswere held in the great hall of the castle, which,on this occasion, was hung with superb newtapestry, representing the exploits ofCharlemagne and his twelve peers; here, wereseen the Saracens, with their horrible visors,advancing to battle; and there, were displayedthe wild solemnities of incantation, and thenecromantic feats, exhibited by the magicianJARL before the Emperor. The sumptuousbanners of the family of Villeroi, which had longslept in dust, were once more unfurled, to waveover the gothic points of painted casements;and music echoed, in many a lingering close,through every winding gallery and colonnade ofthat vast edifice.

As Annette looked down from the corridorupon the hall, whose arches and windows wereilluminated with brilliant festoons of lamps, andgazed on the splendid dresses of the dancers,the costly liveries of the attendants, thecanopies of purple velvet and gold, and listenedto the gay strains that floated along the vaultedroof, she almost fancied herself in an enchantedpalace, and declared, that she had not met withany place, which charmed her so much, sinceshe read the fairy tales; nay, that the fairiesthemselves, at their nightly revels in this old hall,could display nothing finer; while old Dorothee,as she surveyed the scene, sighed, and said,the castle looked as it was wont to do in the

time of her youth.

After gracing the festivities of Chateau-le-Blanc, for some days, Valancourt and Emilytook leave of their kind friends, and returned toLa Vallee, where the faithful Theresa receivedthem with unfeigned joy, and the pleasantshades welcomed them with a thousand tenderand affecting remembrances; and, while theywandered together over the scenes, so longinhabited by the late Mons. and Madame St.Aubert, and Emily pointed out, with pensiveaffection, their favourite haunts, her presenthappiness was heightened, by considering, thatit would have been worthy of their approbation,could they have witnessed it.

Valancourt led her to the plane-tree on theterrace, where he had first ventured to declarehis love, and where now the remembrance ofthe anxiety he had then suffered, and theretrospect of all the dangers and misfortunesthey had each encountered, since last they sattogether beneath its broad branches, exaltedthe sense of their present felicity, which, on thisspot, sacred to the memory of St. Aubert, theysolemnly vowed to deserve, as far as possible,by endeavouring to imitate his benevolence,—by remembering, that superior attainments ofevery sort bring with them duties of superiorexertion,—and by affording to their fellow-beings, together with that portion of ordinarycomforts, which prosperity always owes tomisfortune, the example of lives passed inhappy thankfulness to GOD, and, therefore, incareful tenderness to his creatures.

Soon after their return to La Vallee, thebrother of Valancourt came to congratulate himon his marriage, and to pay his respects toEmily, with whom he was so much pleased, aswell as with the prospect of rational happiness,which these nuptials offered to Valancourt, thathe immediately resigned to him a part of therich domain, the whole of which, as he had nofamily, would of course descend to his brother,on his decease.

The estates, at Tholouse, were disposed of,and Emily purchased of Mons. Quesnel theancient domain of her late father, where, havinggiven Annette a marriage portion, she settledher as the housekeeper, and Ludovico as thesteward; but, since both Valancourt and herselfpreferred the pleasant and long-loved shadesof La Vallee to the magnificence of Epourville,they continued to reside there, passing,however, a few months in the year at the birth-place of St. Aubert, in tender respect to hismemory.

The legacy, which had been bequeathed toEmily by Signora Laurentini, she beggedValancourt would allow her to resign to Mons.Bonnac; and Valancourt, when she made therequest, felt all the value of the compliment itconveyed. The castle of Udolpho, also,descended to the wife of Mons. Bonnac, whowas the nearest surviving relation of the houseof that name, and thus affluence restored hislong-oppressed spirits to peace, and his familyto comfort.

O! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such asthat of Valancourt and Emily; to relate, that, aftersuffering under the oppression of the viciousand the disdain of the weak, they were, atlength, restored to each other—to the belovedlandscapes of their native country,—to thesecurest felicity of this life, that of aspiring tomoral and labouring for intellectualimprovement—to the pleasures of enlightenedsociety, and to the exercise of the benevolence,which had always animated their hearts; whilethe bowers of La Vallee became, once more,the retreat of goodness, wisdom and domesticblessedness!

O! useful may it be to have shewn, that,though the vicious can sometimes pouraffliction upon the good, their power is transientand their punishment certain; and thatinnocence, though oppressed by injustice, shall,supported by patience, finally triumph overmisfortune!

And, if the weak hand, that has recorded thistale, has, by its scenes, beguiled the mourner ofone hour of sorrow, or, by its moral, taught himto sustain it—the effort, however humble, hasnot been vain, nor is the writer unrewarded.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO ***

***** This file should be named 3268-h.htm or 3268-h.zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/6/3268/

Produced by Karalee Coleman, and David Widger

Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that noone owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply tocopying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works toprotect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. ProjectGutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if youcharge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If youdo not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with therules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purposesuch as creation of derivative works, reports, performances andresearch. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may dopractically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution issubject to the trademark license, especially commercialredistribution.

*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSEPLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the freedistribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "ProjectGutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full ProjectGutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online athttp://gutenberg.org/license).

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tmelectronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tmelectronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree toand accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by allthe terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroyall copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by theterms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person orentity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only beused on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people whoagree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a fewthings that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic workseven without complying with the full terms of this agreement. Seeparagraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreementand help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronicworks. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in thecollection are in the public domain in the United States. If anindividual work is in the public domain in the United States and you arelocated in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you fromcopying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivativeworks based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenbergare removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the ProjectGutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works byfreely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms ofthis agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated withthe work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement bykeeping this work in the same format with its attached full ProjectGutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also governwhat you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are ina constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, checkthe laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreementbefore downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing orcreating derivative works based on this work or any other ProjectGutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerningthe copyright status of any work in any country outside the UnitedStates.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediateaccess to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominentlywhenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which thephrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "ProjectGutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derivedfrom the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it isposted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copiedand distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any feesor charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a workwith the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on thework, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and theProject Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is postedwith the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distributionmust comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additionalterms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linkedto the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with thepermission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tmLicense terms from this work, or any files containing a part of thiswork or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute thiselectronic work, or any part of this electronic work, withoutprominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 withactive links or immediate access to the full terms of the ProjectGutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including anyword processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to ordistribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official versionposted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide acopy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy uponrequest, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or otherform. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tmLicense as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm worksunless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providingaccess to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works providedthat

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm

electronic work or group of works on different terms than are setforth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing fromboth the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and MichaelHart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact theFoundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerableeffort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofreadpublic domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tmcollection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronicworks, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate orcorrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectualproperty infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, acomputer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read byyour equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Rightof Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the ProjectGutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the ProjectGutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim allliability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legalfees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICTLIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSEPROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THETRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BELIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE ORINCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCHDAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover adefect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you canreceive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending awritten explanation to the person you received the work from. If youreceived the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium withyour written explanation. The person or entity that provided you withthe defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of arefund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entityproviding it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity toreceive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copyis also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without furtheropportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forthin paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHERWARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TOWARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain impliedwarranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates thelaw of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall beinterpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted bythe applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of anyprovision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, thetrademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyoneproviding copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordancewith this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you door cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tmwork, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to anyProject Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution ofelectronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computersincluding obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It existsbecause of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations frompeople in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with theassistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm'sgoals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection willremain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the ProjectGutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secureand permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundationand how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary ArchiveFoundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of thestate of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the InternalRevenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identificationnumber is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted athttp://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project GutenbergLiterary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extentpermitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scatteredthroughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, emailbusiness@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contactinformation can be found at the Foundation's web site and officialpage at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information: Dr. Gregory B. Newby Chief Executive and Director gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project GutenbergLiterary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission ofincreasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can befreely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widestarray of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exemptstatus with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulatingcharities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the UnitedStates. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes aconsiderable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep upwith these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locationswhere we have not received written confirmation of compliance. ToSEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for anyparticular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where wehave not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibitionagainst accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states whoapproach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot makeany statements concerning tax treatment of donations received fromoutside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donationmethods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of otherways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronicworks.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tmconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely sharedwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed ProjectGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printededitions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarilykeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg LiteraryArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how tosubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.