CHAPTER III

Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,

Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,

Lingering, and sitting, by a new-made grave.

MILTON

On the following day, Montoni sent a second excuse to Emily, who was

surprised at the circumstance. “This is very strange!” said she to

herself. “His conscience tells him the purport of my visit, and he

defers it, to avoid an explanation.” She now almost resolved to throw

herself in his way, but terror checked the intention, and this day

passed, as the preceding one, with Emily, except that a degree of awful

expectation, concerning the approaching night, now somewhat disturbed

the dreadful calmness that had pervaded her mind.

Towards evening, the second part of the band, which had made the first

excursion among the mountains, returned to the castle, where, as they

entered the courts, Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their loud

shouts and strains of exultation, like the orgies of furies over some

horrid sacrifice. She even feared they were about to commit some

barbarous deed; a conjecture from which, however, Annette soon relieved

her, by telling, that the people were only exulting over the plunder

they had brought with them. This circumstance still further confirmed

her in the belief, that Montoni had really commenced to be a captain of

banditti, and meant to retrieve his broken fortunes by the plunder of

travellers! Indeed, when she considered all the circumstances of his

situation—in an armed, and almost inaccessible castle, retired far

among the recesses of wild and solitary mountains, along whose distant

skirts were scattered towns, and cities, whither wealthy travellers

were continually passing—this appeared to be the situation of all

others most suited for the success of schemes of rapine, and she

yielded to the strange thought, that Montoni was become a captain of

robbers. His character also, unprincipled, dauntless, cruel and

enterprising, seemed to fit him for the situation. Delighting in the

tumult and in the struggles of life, he was equally a stranger to pity

and to fear; his very courage was a sort of animal ferocity; not the

noble impulse of a principle, such as inspirits the mind against the

oppressor, in the cause of the oppressed; but a constitutional

hardiness of nerve, that cannot feel, and that, therefore, cannot fear.

Emily’s supposition, however natural, was in part erroneous, for she

was a stranger to the state of this country and to the circumstances,

under which its frequent wars were partly conducted. The revenues of

the many states of Italy being, at that time, insufficient to the

support of standing armies, even during the short periods, which the

turbulent habits both of the governments and the people permitted to

pass in peace, an order of men arose not known in our age, and but

faintly described in the history of their own. Of the soldiers,

disbanded at the end of every war, few returned to the safe, but

unprofitable occupations, then usual in peace. Sometimes they passed

into other countries, and mingled with armies, which still kept the

field. Sometimes they formed themselves into bands of robbers, and

occupied remote fortresses, where their desperate character, the

weakness of the governments which they offended, and the certainty,

that they could be recalled to the armies, when their presence should

be again wanted, prevented them from being much pursued by the civil

power; and, sometimes, they attached themselves to the fortunes of a

popular chief, by whom they were led into the service of any state,

which could settle with him the price of their valour. From this latter

practice arose their name—_Condottieri_; a term formidable all over

Italy, for a period, which concluded in the earlier part of the

seventeenth century, but of which it is not so easy to ascertain the

commencement.

Contests between the smaller states were then, for the most part,

affairs of enterprise alone, and the probabilities of success were

estimated, not from the skill, but from the personal courage of the

general, and the soldiers. The ability, which was necessary to the

conduct of tedious operations, was little valued. It was enough to know

how a party might be led towards their enemies, with the greatest

secrecy, or conducted from them in the compactest order. The officer

was to precipitate himself into a situation, where, but for his

example, the soldiers might not have ventured; and, as the opposed

parties knew little of each other’s strength, the event of the day was

frequently determined by the boldness of the first movements. In such

services the _Condottieri_ were eminent, and in these, where plunder

always followed success, their characters acquired a mixture of

intrepidity and profligacy, which awed even those whom they served.

When they were not thus engaged, their chief had usually his own

fortress, in which, or in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksome

rest; and, though their wants were, at one time, partly supplied from

the property of the inhabitants, the lavish distribution of their

plunder at others, prevented them from being obnoxious; and the

peasants of such districts gradually shared the character of their

warlike visitors. The neighbouring governments sometimes professed, but

seldom endeavoured, to suppress these military communities; both

because it was difficult to do so, and because a disguised protection

of them ensured, for the service of their wars, a body of men, who

could not otherwise be so cheaply maintained, or so perfectly

qualified. The commanders sometimes even relied so far upon this policy

of the several powers, as to frequent their capitals; and Montoni,

having met them in the gaming parties of Venice and Padua, conceived a

desire to emulate their characters, before his ruined fortunes tempted

him to adopt their practices. It was for the arrangement of his present

plan of life, that the midnight councils were held at his mansion in

Venice, and at which Orsino and some other members of the present

community then assisted with suggestions, which they had since executed

with the wreck of their fortunes.

On the return of night, Emily resumed her station at the casement.

There was now a moon; and, as it rose over the tufted woods, its yellow

light served to show the lonely terrace and the surrounding objects,

more distinctly, than the twilight of the stars had done, and promised

Emily to assist her observations, should the mysterious form return. On

this subject, she again wavered in conjecture, and hesitated whether to

speak to the figure, to which a strong and almost irresistible interest

urged her; but terror, at intervals, made her reluctant to do so.

“If this is a person who has designs upon the castle,” said she, “my

curiosity may prove fatal to me; yet the mysterious music, and the

lamentations I heard, must surely have proceeded from him: if so, he

cannot be an enemy.”

She then thought of her unfortunate aunt, and, shuddering with grief

and horror, the suggestions of imagination seized her mind with all the

force of truth, and she believed, that the form she had seen was

supernatural. She trembled, breathed with difficulty, an icy coldness

touched her cheeks, and her fears for a while overcame her judgment.

Her resolution now forsook her, and she determined, if the figure

should appear, not to speak to it.

Thus the time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by expectation,

and by the gloom and stillness of midnight; for she saw obscurely in

the moonlight only the mountains and woods, a cluster of towers, that

formed the west angle of the castle, and the terrace below; and heard

no sound, except, now and then, the lonely watch-word, passed by the

sentinels on duty, and afterwards the steps of the men who came to

relieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on the rampart by their

pikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then, by the few short

words, in which they hailed their fellows of the night. Emily retired

within her chamber, while they passed the casement. When she returned

to it, all was again quiet. It was now very late, she was wearied with

watching, and began to doubt the reality of what she had seen on the

preceding night; but she still lingered at the window, for her mind was

too perturbed to admit of sleep. The moon shone with a clear lustre,

that afforded her a complete view of the terrace; but she saw only a

solitary sentinel, pacing at one end of it; and, at length, tired with

expectation, she withdrew to seek rest.

Such, however, was the impression, left on her mind by the music, and

the complaining she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure, which

she fancied she had seen, that she determined to repeat the watch, on

the following night.

Montoni, on the next day, took no notice of Emily’s appointed visit,

but she, more anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to enquire,

at what hour he would admit her. He mentioned eleven o’clock, and Emily

was punctual to the moment; at which she called up all her fortitude to

support the shock of his presence and the dreadful recollections it

enforced. He was with several of his officers, in the cedar room; on

observing whom she paused; and her agitation increased, while he

continued to converse with them, apparently not observing her, till

some of his officers, turning round, saw Emily, and uttered an

exclamation. She was hastily retiring, when Montoni’s voice arrested

her, and, in a faultering accent, she said,—“I would speak with you,

Signor Montoni, if you are at leisure.”

“These are my friends,” he replied, “whatever you would say, they may

hear.”

Emily, without replying, turned from the rude gaze of the chevaliers,

and Montoni then followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a small

room, of which he shut the door with violence. As she looked on his

dark countenance, she again thought she saw the murderer of her aunt;

and her mind was so convulsed with horror, that she had not power to

recall thought enough to explain the purport of her visit; and to trust

herself with the mention of Madame Montoni was more than she dared.

Montoni at length impatiently enquired what she had to say? “I have no

time for trifling,” he added, “my moments are important.”

Emily then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came to

beg, that he would permit her to do so.—But when he looked surprised,

and enquired for the motive of the request, she hesitated, became paler

than before, trembled, and had nearly sunk at his feet. He observed her

emotion, with apparent indifference, and interrupted the silence by

telling her, he must be gone. Emily, however, recalled her spirits

sufficiently to enable her to repeat her request. And, when Montoni

absolutely refused it, her slumbering mind was roused.

“I can no longer remain here with propriety, sir,” said she, “and I may

be allowed to ask, by what right you detain me.”

“It is my will that you remain here,” said Montoni, laying his hand on

the door to go; “let that suffice you.”

Emily, considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore to

dispute his right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to be just.

“While my aunt lived, sir,” said she, in a tremulous voice, “my

residence here was not improper; but now, that she is no more, I may

surely be permitted to depart. My stay cannot benefit you, sir, and

will only distress me.”

“Who told you, that Madame Montoni was dead?” said Montoni, with an

inquisitive eye. Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, and she

did not dare to avow the having seen that spectacle in the

portal-chamber, which had compelled her to the belief.

“Who told you so?” he repeated, more sternly.

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

subject!”

She sat down on a bench to support herself.

“If you wish to see her,” said Montoni, “you may; she lies in the east

turret.”

He now left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to the

cedar chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen

Emily, began to rally him, on the discovery they had made; but Montoni

did not appear disposed to bear this mirth, and they changed the

subject.

Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion,

which he meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they

should lie in wait for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed,

reproached Orsino with want of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni

would let him lead on fifty men, he would conquer all that should

oppose him.

Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also listened.

Verezzi then proceeded with vehement declamation and assertion, till he

was stopped by an argument of Orsino, which he knew not how to answer

better than by invective. His fierce spirit detested the cunning

caution of Orsino, whom he constantly opposed, and whose inveterate,

though silent, hatred he had long ago incurred. And Montoni was a calm

observer of both, whose different qualifications he knew, and how to

bend their opposite character to the perfection of his own designs. But

Verezzi, in the heat of opposition, now did not scruple to accuse

Orsino of cowardice, at which the countenance of the latter, while he

made no reply, was overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who

watched his lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom.

But Verezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking

contrast to the complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and

continued boldly declaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily

laughing at his vehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino,

when the latter, retiring a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to

stab his adversary in the back. Montoni arrested his half-extended arm,

and, with a significant look, made him return the poniard into his

bosom, unseen by all except himself; for most of the party were

disputing at a distant window, on the situation of a dell where they

meant to form an ambuscade.

When Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on the

features of his opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicion of

his intention, he laid his hand on his sword, and then, seeming to

recollect himself, strode up to Montoni.

“Signor,” said he, with a significant look at Orsino, “we are not a

band of assassins; if you have business for brave men, employ me on

this expedition: you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you have

only work for cowards—keep him,” pointing to Orsino, “and let me quit

Udolpho.”

Orsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and rushed

towards Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his sword,

when Montoni and the rest of the party interfered and separated them.

“This is the conduct of a boy,” said Montoni to Verezzi, “not of a man:

be more moderate in your speech.”

“Moderation is the virtue of cowards,” retorted Verezzi; “they are

moderate in everything—but in fear.”

“I accept your words,” said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce and

haughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard.

“With all my heart,” cried Verezzi, “though I did not mean them for

you.”

He directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villain

Orsino made another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented.

The combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and

violent dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino,

whom he detained in private consultation for a considerable time.

Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for the

moment, his declaration, that she should continue in the castle, while

she thought of her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid in the

east turret. In suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus long

unburied, there appeared a degree of brutality more shocking than she

had suspected even Montoni could practise.

After a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to visit

the turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with which

design she returned to her chamber, and, while she waited for Annette

to accompany her, endeavoured to acquire fortitude sufficient to

support her through the approaching scene; for, though she trembled to

encounter it, she knew that to remember the performance of this last

act of duty would hereafter afford her consoling satisfaction.

Annette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former

endeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was,

with much difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret;

but no consideration could make her promise to enter the chamber of

death.

They now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the

staircase, which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared she

would go no further, and Emily proceeded alone. When she saw the track

of blood, which she had before observed, her spirits fainted, and,

being compelled to rest on the stairs, she almost determined to proceed

no further. The pause of a few moments restored her resolution, and she

went on.

As she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber

opened, she remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and

apprehended, that it might still be so. In this expectation, however,

she was mistaken; for the door opened at once, into a dusky and silent

chamber, round which she fearfully looked, and then slowly advanced,

when a hollow voice spoke. Emily, who was unable to speak, or to move

from the spot, uttered no sound of terror. The voice spoke again; and,

then, thinking that it resembled that of Madame Montoni, Emily’s

spirits were instantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, that stood in

a remote part of the room, and drew aside the curtains. Within,

appeared a pale and emaciated face. She started back, then again

advanced, shuddered as she took up the skeleton hand, that lay

stretched upon the quilt; then let it drop, and then viewed the face

with a long, unsettled gaze. It was that of Madame Montoni, though so

changed by illness, that the resemblance of what it had been, could

scarcely be traced in what it now appeared. She was still alive, and,

raising her heavy eyes, she turned them on her niece.

“Where have you been so long?” said she, in the same tone, “I thought

you had forsaken me.”

“Do you indeed live,” said Emily, at length, “or is this but a terrible

apparition?” She received no answer, and again she snatched up the

hand. “This is substance,” she exclaimed, “but it is cold—cold as

marble!” She let it fall. “O, if you really live, speak!” said Emily,

in a voice of desperation, “that I may not lose my senses—say you know

me!”

“I do live,” replied Madame Montoni, “but—I feel that I am about to

die.”

Emily clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned. They were

both silent for some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe her, and

enquired what had reduced her to this present deplorable state.

Montoni, when he removed her to the turret under the improbable

suspicion of having attempted his life, had ordered the men employed on

the occasion, to observe a strict secrecy concerning her. To this he

was influenced by a double motive. He meant to debar her from the

comfort of Emily’s visits, and to secure an opportunity of privately

dispatching her, should any new circumstances occur to confirm the

present suggestions of his suspecting mind. His consciousness of the

hatred he deserved it was natural enough should at first lead him to

attribute to her the attempt that had been made upon his life; and,

though there was no other reason to believe that she was concerned in

that atrocious design, his suspicions remained; he continued to confine

her in the turret, under a strict guard; and, without pity or remorse,

had suffered her to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a raging fever,

till it had reduced her to the present state.

The track of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed from

the unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame Montoni,

and which he had received in the late affray. At night these men,

having contented themselves with securing the door of their prisoner’s

room, had retired from guard; and then it was, that Emily, at the time

of her first enquiry, had found the turret so silent and deserted.

When she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was

sleeping, and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed to

delude her into a belief, that she was no more; yet had her terror

permitted her to persevere longer in the call, she would probably have

awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared much suffering. The

spectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed Emily’s

horrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen in the

affray, and the same which had been borne into the servants’ hall,

where she took refuge from the tumult. This man had lingered under his

wounds for some days; and, soon after his death, his body had been

removed on the couch, on which he died, for interment in the vault

beneath the chapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had passed to

the chamber.

Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning

herself, left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest she

felt for her aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment her

remonstrances might draw upon herself, and of the improbability of his

granting what she meant to entreat.

“Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,” said Emily, as soon as she saw

him—“Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment!

Suffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment,

and to have necessary comforts administered.”

“Of what service will that be, if she is dying?” said Montoni, with

apparent indifference.

“The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs

of conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same

situation,” said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni

soon made her sensible, by commanding her to quit his presence. Then,

forgetting her resentment, and impressed only by compassion for the

piteous state of her aunt, dying without succour, she submitted to

humble herself to Montoni, and to adopt every persuasive means, that

might induce him to relent towards his wife.

For a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all she

looked; but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily’s eyes,

seemed to touch his heart. He turned away, ashamed of his better

feelings, half sullen and half relenting; but finally consented, that

his wife should be removed to her own apartment, and that Emily should

attend her. Dreading equally, that this relief might arrive too late,

and that Montoni might retract his concession, Emily scarcely staid to

thank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, she quickly prepared Madame

Montoni’s bed, and they carried her a cordial, that might enable her

feeble frame to sustain the fatigue of a removal.

Madame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was

given by her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but Emily,

thankful that she had made such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it,

as well as that a second removal would instantly prove fatal, and he

suffered his wife to continue where she was.

During this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare

such little nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her,

and which Madame Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she

seemed sensible that they could not save her from approaching

dissolution, and scarcely appeared to wish for life. Emily meanwhile

watched over her with the most tender solicitude, no longer seeing her

imperious aunt in the poor object before her, but the sister of her

late beloved father, in a situation that called for all her compassion

and kindness. When night came, she determined to sit up with her aunt,

but this the latter positively forbade, commanding her to retire to

rest, and Annette alone to remain in her chamber. Rest was, indeed,

necessary to Emily, whose spirits and frame were equally wearied by the

occurrences and exertions of the day; but she would not leave Madame

Montoni, till after the turn of midnight, a period then thought so

critical by the physicians.

Soon after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to call

her, should any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully bade

Madame Montoni good night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits

were more than usually depressed by the piteous condition of her aunt,

whose recovery she scarcely dared to expect. To her own misfortunes she

saw no period, inclosed as she was, in a remote castle, beyond the

reach of any friends, had she possessed such, and beyond the pity even

of strangers; while she knew herself to be in the power of a man

capable of any action, which his interest, or his ambition, might

suggest.

Occupied by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, she did

not retire immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her open

casement. The scene before her of woods and mountains, reposing in the

moonlight, formed a regretted contrast with the state of her mind; but

the lonely murmur of these woods, and the view of this sleeping

landscape, gradually soothed her emotions and softened her to tears.

She continued to weep, for some time, lost to everything, but to a

gentle sense of her misfortunes. When she, at length, took the

handkerchief from her eyes, she perceived, before her, on the terrace

below, the figure she had formerly observed, which stood fixed and

silent, immediately opposite to her casement. On perceiving it, she

started back, and terror for some time overcame curiosity;—at length,

she returned to the casement, and still the figure was before it, which

she now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly unable to speak,

as she had formerly intended. The moon shone with a clear light, and it

was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that prevented her

distinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, the form before her. It

was still stationary, and she began to doubt, whether it was really

animated.

Her scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her, that

her light exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was stepping

back to remove it, when she perceived the figure move, and then wave

what seemed to be its arm, as if to beckon her; and, while she gazed,

fixed in fear, it repeated the action. She now attempted to speak, but

the words died on her lips, and she went from the casement to remove

her light; as she was doing which, she heard, from without, a faint

groan. Listening, but not daring to return, she presently heard it

repeated.

“Good God!—what can this mean!” said she.

Again she listened, but the sound came no more; and, after a long

interval of silence, she recovered courage enough to go to the

casement, when she again saw the same appearance! It beckoned again,

and again uttered a low sound.

“That groan was surely human!” said she. “I _will_ speak.” “Who is it,”

cried Emily in a faint voice, “that wanders at this late hour?”

The figure raised its head but suddenly started away, and glided down

the terrace. She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly in the

moonlight, but heard no footstep, till a sentinel from the other

extremity of the rampart walked slowly along. The man stopped under her

window, and, looking up, called her by name. She was retiring

precipitately, but, a second summons inducing her to reply, the soldier

then respectfully asked if she had seen anything pass. On her

answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down the

terrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in the

distance. But, as he was on guard, she knew he could not go beyond the

rampart, and, therefore, resolved to await his return.

Soon after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; and

then a voice still more distant answered, and, in the next moment, the

watch-word was given, and passed along the terrace. As the soldiers

moved hastily under the casement, she called to enquire what had

happened, but they passed without regarding her.

Emily’s thoughts returning to the figure she had seen, “It cannot be a

person, who has designs upon the castle,” said she; “such a one would

conduct himself very differently. He would not venture where sentinels

were on watch, nor fix himself opposite to a window, where he perceived

he must be observed; much less would he beckon, or utter a sound of

complaint. Yet it cannot be a prisoner, for how could he obtain the

opportunity to wander thus?”

If she had been subject to vanity, she might have supposed this figure

to be some inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under her casement in

the hope of seeing her, and of being allowed to declare his admiration;

but this opinion never occurred to Emily, and, if it had, she would

have dismissed it as improbable, on considering, that, when the

opportunity of speaking had occurred, it had been suffered to pass in

silence; and that, even at the moment in which she had spoken, the form

had abruptly quitted the place.

While she mused, two sentinels walked up the rampart in earnest

conversation, of which she caught a few words, and learned from these,

that one of their comrades had fallen down senseless. Soon after, three

other soldiers appeared slowly advancing from the bottom of the

terrace, but she heard only a low voice, that came at intervals. As

they drew near, she perceived this to be the voice of him, who walked

in the middle, apparently supported by his comrades; and she again

called to them, enquiring what had happened. At the sound of her voice,

they stopped, and looked up, while she repeated her question, and was

told, that Roberto, their fellow of the watch, had been seized with a

fit, and that his cry, as he fell, had caused a false alarm.

“Is he subject to fits?” said Emily.

“Yes, Signora,” replied Roberto; “but if I had not, what I saw was

enough to have frightened the Pope himself.”

“What was it?” enquired Emily, trembling.

“I cannot tell what it was, lady, or what I saw, or how it vanished,”

replied the soldier, who seemed to shudder at the recollection.

“Was it the person, whom you followed down the rampart, that has

occasioned you this alarm?” said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her

own.

“Person!” exclaimed the man,—“it was the devil, and this is not the

first time I have seen him!”

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

“No, no, I warrant not,” said another.

“Well,” rejoined Roberto, “you may be as merry now, as you please; you

were none so jocose the other night, Sebastian, when you were on watch

with Launcelot.”

“Launcelot need not talk of that,” replied Sebastian, “let him remember

how he stood trembling, and unable to give the _word_, till the man was

gone. If the man had not come so silently upon us, I would have seized

him, and soon made him tell who he was.”

“What man?” enquired Emily.

“It was no man, lady,” said Launcelot, who stood by, “but the devil

himself, as my comrade says. What man, who does not live in the castle,

could get within the walls at midnight? Why, I might just as well

pretend to march to Venice, and get among all the Senators, when they

are counselling; and I warrant I should have more chance of getting out

again alive, than any fellow, that we should catch within the gates

after dark. So I think I have proved plainly enough, that this can be

nobody that lives out of the castle; and now I will prove, that it can

be nobody that lives in the castle—for, if he did—why should he be

afraid to be seen? So after this, I hope nobody will pretend to tell me

it was anybody. No, I say again, by holy Pope! it was the devil, and

Sebastian, there, knows this is not the first time we have seen him.”

“When did you see the figure, then, before?” said Emily half smiling,

who, though she thought the conversation somewhat too much, felt an

interest, which would not permit her to conclude it.

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

“And where?”

“On the rampart, lady, higher up.”

“Did you pursue it, that it fled?”

“No, Signora. Launcelot and I were on watch together, and everything

was so still, you might have heard a mouse stir, when, suddenly,

Launcelot says—Sebastian! do you see nothing? I turned my head a little

to the left, as it might be—thus. No, says I. Hush! said

Launcelot,—look yonder—just by the last cannon on the rampart! I

looked, and then thought I did see something move; but there being no

light, but what the stars gave, I could not be certain. We stood quite

silent, to watch it, and presently saw something pass along the castle

wall just opposite to us!”

“Why did you not seize it, then?” cried a soldier, who had scarcely

spoken till now.

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

“You should have been there to have done that,” replied Sebastian. “You

would have been bold enough to have taken it by the throat, though it

had been the devil himself; we could not take such a liberty, perhaps,

because we are not so well acquainted with him, as you are. But, as I

was saying, it stole by us so quickly, that we had not time to get rid

of our surprise, before it was gone. Then, we knew it was in vain to

follow. We kept constant watch all that night, but we saw it no more.

Next morning, we told some of our comrades, who were on duty on other

parts of the ramparts, what we had seen; but they had seen nothing, and

laughed at us, and it was not till tonight, that the same figure walked

again.”

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

“When I left you, lady,” replied the man, “you might see me go down the

rampart, but it was not till I reached the east terrace, that I saw

anything. Then, the moon shining bright, I saw something like a shadow

flitting before me, as it were, at some distance. I stopped, when I

turned the corner of the east tower, where I had seen this figure not a

moment before,—but it was gone! As I stood, looking through the old

arch which leads to the east rampart, and where I am sure it had

passed, I heard, all of a sudden, such a sound!—it was not like a

groan, or a cry, or a shout, or anything I ever heard in my life. I

heard it only once, and that was enough for me; for I know nothing that

happened after, till I found my comrades, here, about me.”

“Come,” said Sebastian, “let us go to our posts—the moon is setting.

Good night, lady!”

“Aye, let us go,” rejoined Roberto. “Good night, lady.”

“Good night; the holy mother guard you!” said Emily, as she closed her

casement and retired to reflect upon the strange circumstance that had

just occurred, connecting which with what had happened on former

nights, she endeavoured to derive from the whole something more

positive, than conjecture. But her imagination was inflamed, while her

judgment was not enlightened, and the terrors of superstition again

pervaded her mind.