CHAPTER VI

Might we but hear

The folded flocks penn’d in their wattled 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 her fears for Annette, who came

at an early hour.

“Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, ma’amselle,” said

she, as soon as she entered the room,—“fine doings, indeed! Were you

not frightened, ma’amselle, at not seeing me?”

“I was alarmed both on your account and on my own,” replied Emily—“What

detained you?”

“Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do. It was not my

fault, indeed, ma’amselle, for I could not get out. That rogue Ludovico

locked me up again.”

“Locked you up!” said Emily, with displeasure, “Why do you permit

Ludovico to lock you up?”

“Holy Saints!” exclaimed Annette, “how can I help it! If he will lock

the door, ma’amselle, and take away the key, how am I to get out,

unless I jump through the window? But that I should not mind so much,

if the casements here were not all so high; one can hardly scramble up

to them on the inside, and one should break one’s neck, I suppose,

going down on the outside. But you know, I dare say, ma’am, what a

hurly-burly the castle was in last night; you must have heard some of

the uproar.”

“What, were they disputing, then?” said Emily.

“No, ma’amselle, nor fighting, but almost as good, for I believe there

was not one of the Signors sober; and what is more, not one of those

fine ladies sober, either. I thought, when I saw them first, that all

those fine silks and fine veils,—why, ma’amselle, their veils were

worked with silver! and fine trimmings—boded no good—I guessed what

they were!”

“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, “what will become of me!”

“Aye, ma’am, Ludovico said much the same thing of me. ‘Good God!’ said

he, ‘Annette, what is to become of you, if you are to go running about

the castle among all these drunken Signors?’

“‘O!’ says I, ‘for that matter, I only want to go to my young lady’s

chamber, and I have only to go, you know, along the vaulted passage and

across the great hall and up the marble staircase and along the north

gallery and through the west wing of the castle and I am in the

corridor in a minute.’ ‘Are you so?’ says he, ‘and what is to become of

you, if you meet any of those noble cavaliers in the way?’ ‘Well,’ says

I, ‘if you think there is danger, then, go with me, and guard me; I am

never afraid when you are by.’ ‘What!’ says he, ‘when I am scarcely

recovered of one wound, shall I put myself in the way of getting

another? for if any of the cavaliers meet you, they will fall

a-fighting with me directly. No, no,’ says he, ‘I will cut the way

shorter, than through the vaulted passage and up the marble staircase,

and along the north gallery and through the west wing of the castle,

for you shall stay here, Annette; you shall not go out of this room,

tonight.’ So, with that I says—”

“Well, well,” said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire on

another subject,—“so he locked 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 the passage, like a mad bull, and he mistook Ludovico’s hall, for

old Carlo’s; so he tried to burst open the door, and called out for

more wine, for that he had drunk all the flasks dry, and was dying of

thirst. So we were all as still as night, that he might suppose there

was nobody in the room; but the Signor was as cunning as the best of

us, and kept calling out at the door, ‘Come forth, my ancient hero!’

said he, ‘here is no enemy at the gate, that you need hide yourself:

come forth, my valorous Signor Steward!’ Just then old Carlo opened his

door, and he came with a flask in his hand; for, as soon as the Signor

saw him, he was as tame as could be, and followed him away as naturally

as a dog does a butcher with a piece of meat in his basket. All this I

saw through the key-hole. ‘Well, Annette,’ said Ludovico, jeeringly,

‘shall I let you out now?’ ‘O no,’ says I, ‘I would not—’”

“I have some questions to ask you on another subject,” interrupted

Emily, quite wearied by this story. “Do you know whether there are any

prisoners in the castle, and whether they are confined at this end of

the edifice?”

“I was not in the way, ma’amselle,” replied Annette, “when the first

party came in from the mountains, and the last party is not come back

yet, so I don’t know, whether there are any prisoners; but it is

expected back tonight, or tomorrow, and I shall know then, perhaps.”

Emily enquired if she had ever heard the servants talk of prisoners.

“Ah ma’amselle!” said Annette archly, “now I dare say you are thinking

of Monsieur Valancourt, and that he may have come among the armies,

which, they say, are come from our country, to fight against this

state, and that he has met with some of _our_ people, and is taken

captive. O Lord! how glad I should be, if it was so!”

“Would you, indeed, be glad?” said Emily, in a tone of mournful

reproach.

“To be sure I should, ma’am,” replied Annette, “and would not you be

glad too, to see Signor Valancourt? I don’t know any chevalier I like

better, I have a very great regard for the Signor, truly.”

“Your regard for him cannot be doubted,” said Emily, “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. And it was only the other night I dreamt—I dreamt I saw

him drive into the castle-yard all in a coach and six, and dressed out,

with a laced coat and a sword, like a lord as he is.”

Emily could not forbear smiling at Annette’s ideas of Valancourt, and

repeated her enquiry, whether she had heard the servants talk of

prisoners.

“No, ma’amselle,” replied she, “never; and lately they have done

nothing but talk of the apparition, that has been walking about of a

night on the ramparts, and that frightened the sentinels into fits. It

came among them like a flash of fire, they say, and they all fell down

in a row, till they came to themselves again; and then it was gone, and

nothing to be seen but the old castle walls; so they helped one another

up again as fast as they could. You would not believe, ma’amselle,

though I showed you the very cannon, where it used to appear.”

“And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette,” said Emily, smiling at this

curious exaggeration of the circumstances she had witnessed, “as to

credit these stories?”

“Credit them, ma’amselle! why all the world could not persuade me out

of them. Roberto and Sebastian and half a dozen more of them went into

fits! To be sure, there was no occasion for that; I said, myself, there

was no need of that, for, says I, when the enemy comes, what a pretty

figure they will cut, if they are to fall down in fits, all of a row!

The enemy won’t be so civil, perhaps, as to walk off, like the ghost,

and leave them to help one another up, but will fall to, cutting and

slashing, till he makes them all rise up dead men. No, no, says I,

there is reason in all things: though I might have fallen down 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 the superstitious weakness of Annette,

though she could not entirely subdue her own; to which the latter only

replied, “Nay, ma’amselle, you will believe nothing; you are almost as

bad as the Signor himself, who was in a great passion when they told of

what had happened, and swore that the first man, who repeated such

nonsense, should be thrown into the dungeon under the east turret. This

was a hard punishment too, for only talking nonsense, as he called it,

but I dare say he had other reasons for calling it so, than you have,

ma’am.”

Emily looked displeased, and made no reply. As she mused upon the

recollected appearance, which had lately so much alarmed her, and

considered the circumstances of the figure having stationed itself

opposite to her casement, she was for a moment inclined to believe 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 could be here in no other character, how

could he obtain the means of walking abroad on the rampart? Thus she

was utterly unable to decide, whether the musician and the form she had

observed, were the same, or, if they were, whether this was Valancourt.

She, however, desired that Annette would endeavour to learn whether any

prisoners were in the castle, and also their names.

“O dear, ma’amselle!” said Annette, “I forget to tell you what you bade

me ask about, the ladies, as they call themselves, who are lately come

to Udolpho. Why that Signora Livona, that the Signor brought to see my

late lady at Venice, is his mistress now, and was little better then, I

dare say. And Ludovico says (but pray be secret, ma’am) that his

_Excellenza_ introduced her only to impose upon the world, that had

begun to make free with her character. So when people saw my lady

notice her, they thought what they had heard must be scandal. The other

two are the mistresses of Signor Verezzi and Signor Bertolini; and

Signor Montoni invited them all to the castle; and so, yesterday, he

gave a great entertainment; and there they were, all drinking Tuscany

wine and all sorts, and laughing and singing, till they made the castle

ring again. But I thought they were dismal sounds, so soon after my

poor lady’s death too; and they brought to my mind what she would have

thought, if she had heard them—but she cannot hear them now, poor soul!

said I.”

Emily turned away to conceal her emotion, and then desired Annette to

go, and make enquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might be in the

castle, but conjured her to do it with caution, and on no account to

mention her name, or that of Monsieur Valancourt.

“Now I think of it, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “I do believe there are

prisoners, for I overheard one of the Signor’s men, yesterday, in the

servants hall, talking something about ransoms, and saying what a fine

thing it was for his _Excellenza_ to catch up men, and they were as

good booty as any other, because of the ransoms. And the other man was

grumbling, and saying it was fine enough for the Signor, but none so

fine for his soldiers, because, said he, we don’t go shares there.”

This information heightened Emily’s impatience to know more, and

Annette immediately departed on her enquiry.

The late resolution of Emily to resign her estates to Montoni, now gave

way to new considerations; the possibility, that Valancourt was near

her, revived her fortitude, and she determined to brave the threatened

vengeance, at least, till she could be assured whether he was really in

the castle. She was in this temper of mind, when she received a message

from Montoni, requiring her attendance in the cedar parlour, which she

obeyed with trembling, and, on her way thither, endeavoured to animate

her fortitude with the idea of Valancourt.

Montoni was alone. “I sent for you,” said he, “to give you another

opportunity of retracting your late mistaken assertions concerning the

Languedoc estates. I will condescend to advise, where I may command.—If

you are really deluded by an opinion, that you have any right to these

estates, at least, do not persist in the error—an error, which you may

perceive, too late, has been fatal to you. Dare my resentment no

further, but sign the papers.”

“If I have no right in these estates, sir,” said Emily, “of what

service can it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning

them? If the lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them,

without my interference, or my consent.”

“I will have no more argument,” said Montoni, with a look that made her

tremble. “What had I but trouble to expect, when I condescended to

reason with a baby! But I will be trifled with no longer: let the

recollection of your aunt’s sufferings, in consequence of her folly and

obstinacy, teach you a lesson.—Sign the papers.”

Emily’s resolution was for a moment awed:—she shrunk at the

recollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; but

then, the image of Valancourt, who so long had loved her, and who was

now, perhaps, so near her, came to her heart, and, together with the

strong feelings of indignation, with which she had always, from her

infancy, regarded an act of injustice, inspired her with a noble,

though imprudent, courage.

“Sign the papers,” said Montoni, more impatiently than before.

“Never, sir,” replied Emily; “that request would have proved to me the

injustice of your claim, had I even been ignorant of my right.”

Montoni turned pale with anger, while his quivering lip and lurking eye

made her almost repent the boldness of her speech.

“Then all my vengeance falls upon you,” he exclaimed, with a horrible

oath. “And think not it shall be delayed. Neither the estates in

Languedoc, nor Gascony, shall be yours; you have dared to question my

right,—now dare to question my power. I have a punishment which you

think not of; it is terrible! This night—this very night—”

“This night!” repeated another voice.

Montoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollect

himself, he proceeded in a lower tone.

“You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly; yet

this, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you.—I could tell

you of others—I could make you tremble at the bare recital.”

He was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath the

chamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it, impatience

and rage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade of fear

passed over his countenance. Emily sat down in a chair, near the door,

for the various emotions she had suffered, now almost overcame her; but

Montoni paused scarcely an instant, and, commanding his features,

resumed his discourse in a lower, yet sterner voice.

“I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of my

character, which it seems you do not understand, or you would not defy

me.—I could tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken—but I am

talking to a baby. Let me, however, repeat, that terrible as are the

examples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit you; for,

though your repentance would put an immediate end to opposition, it

would not now appease my indignation.—I will have vengeance as well as

justice.”

Another groan filled the pause which Montoni made.

“Leave the room instantly!” said he, seeming not to notice this strange

occurrence. Without power to implore his pity, she rose to go, but

found that she could not support herself; awe and terror overcame her,

and she sunk again into the chair.

“Quit my presence!” cried Montoni. “This affectation of fear ill

becomes the heroine who has 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 with difficulty.—“There again!

Do you hear nothing now?”

“Obey my order,” repeated Montoni. “And for these fool’s tricks—I will

soon discover by whom they are practised.”

Emily again rose, and exerted herself to the utmost to leave the room,

while Montoni followed her; but, instead of calling aloud to his

servants to search the chamber, as he had formerly done on a similar

occurrence, passed to the ramparts.

As, in her way to the corridor, she rested for a moment at an open

casement, Emily saw a party of Montoni’s troops winding down a distant

mountain, whom she noticed no further than as they brought to her mind

the wretched prisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to the castle. At

length, having reached her apartment, she threw herself upon the couch,

overcome with the new horrors of her situation. Her thoughts lost in

tumult and perplexity, she could neither repent of, nor approve, her

late conduct; she could only remember, that she was in the power of a

man, who had no principle of action—but his will; and the astonishment

and terrors of superstition, which had, for a moment, so strongly

assailed her, now yielded to those of reason.

She was, at length, roused from the reverie which engaged her, by a

confusion of distant voices, and a clattering of hoofs, that seemed to

come, on the wind, from the courts. A sudden hope, that some good was

approaching, seized her mind, till she remembered the troops she had

observed from the casement, and concluded this to be the party, which

Annette had said were expected at Udolpho.

Soon after, she heard voices faintly from the halls, and the noise of

horses’ feet sunk away in the wind; silence ensued. Emily listened

anxiously for Annette’s step in the corridor, but a pause of total

stillness continued, till again the castle seemed to be all tumult and

confusion. She heard the echoes of many footsteps, passing to and fro

in the halls and avenues below, and then busy tongues were loud on the

rampart. Having hurried to her casement, she perceived Montoni, with

some of his officers, leaning on the walls, and pointing from them;

while several soldiers were employed at the further end of the rampart

about some cannon; and she continued to observe them, careless of the

passing time.

Annette at length appeared, but brought no intelligence of Valancourt,

“For, ma’amselle,” said she, “all the people pretend to know nothing

about any prisoners. But here is a fine piece of business! The rest of

the party are just arrived, ma’am; they came scampering in, as if they

would have broken their necks; one scarcely knew whether the man, or

his horse would get within the gates first. And they have brought

word—and such news! they have brought word, that a party of the enemy,

as they call them, are coming towards the castle; so we shall have all

the officers of justice, I suppose, besieging it! all those

terrible-looking fellows one 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 to fall into the hands of those

sad-looking men! Why I used to shudder as I passed them, and should

have guessed what they were, if Ludovico had not told me.”

“We cannot be in worse hands than at present,” replied Emily,

unguardedly; “but what reason have you to suppose these are officers of

justice?”

“Why _our_ people, ma’am, are all in such a fright, and a fuss; and I

don’t know anything but the fear of justice, that could make them so. I

used to think nothing on earth could fluster them, unless, indeed, it

was a ghost, or so; but now, some of them are for hiding down in the

vaults under the castle; but you must not tell the Signor this,

ma’amselle, and I overheard two of them talking—Holy Mother! what makes

you look so sad, ma’amselle? You don’t hear what I say!”

“Yes, I do, Annette; pray proceed.”

“Well, ma’amselle, all the castle is in such hurly-burly. Some of the

men are loading the cannon, and some are examining the great gates, and

the walls all round, and are hammering and patching up, just as if all

those repairs had never been made, that were so long about. But what is

to become of me and you, ma’amselle, and Ludovico? O! when I hear the

sound of the cannon, I shall die with fright. If I could but catch the

great gate open for one minute, I would be even with it for shutting me

within these walls so long!—it should never see me again.”

Emily caught the latter words of Annette. “O! if you could find it

open, but for one moment!” she exclaimed, “my peace might yet be

saved!” The heavy groan she uttered, and the wildness of her look,

terrified Annette, still more than her words; who entreated Emily to

explain the meaning of them, to whom it suddenly occurred, that

Ludovico might be of some service, if there should be a possibility of

escape, and who repeated the substance of what had passed between

Montoni and herself, but conjured her to 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, tell him what I have to

apprehend, and what I have already 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 be amply rewarded. I cannot speak

with him myself, for we might be observed, and then effectual care

would be taken to prevent our flight. But be quick, Annette, and, above

all, be discreet—I will await your return in this apartment.”

The girl, whose honest heart had been much affected by the recital, was

now as eager to obey, as Emily was to employ her, and she immediately

quitted the room.

Emily’s surprise increased, as she reflected upon Annette’s

intelligence. “Alas!” said she, “what can the officers of justice do

against an armed castle? these cannot be such.” Upon further

consideration, however, she concluded, that, Montoni’s bands having

plundered the country round, the inhabitants had taken arms, and were

coming with the officers of police and a party of soldiers, to force

their way into the castle. “But they know not,” thought she, “its

strength, or the armed numbers within it. Alas! except from flight, I

have nothing to hope!”

Montoni, though not precisely what Emily apprehended him to be—a

captain of banditti—had employed his troops in enterprises not less

daring, or less atrocious, than such a character would have undertaken.

They had not only pillaged, whenever opportunity offered, the helpless

traveller, but had attacked, and plundered the villas of several

persons, which, being situated among the solitary recesses of the

mountains, were totally unprepared for resistance. In these expeditions

the commanders of the party did not appear, and the men, partly

disguised, had sometimes been mistaken for common robbers, and, at

others, for bands of the foreign enemy, who, at that period, invaded

the country. But, though they had already pillaged several mansions,

and brought home considerable treasures, they had ventured to approach

only one castle, in the attack of which they were assisted by other

troops of their own order; from this, however, they were vigorously

repulsed, and pursued by some of the foreign enemy, who were in league

with the besieged. Montoni’s troops fled precipitately towards Udolpho,

but were so closely tracked over the mountains, that, when they reached

one of the heights in the neighbourhood of the castle, and looked back

upon the road, they perceived the enemy winding among the cliffs below,

and at not more than a league distant. Upon this discovery, they

hastened forward with increased speed, to prepare Montoni for the

enemy; and it was their arrival, which had thrown the castle into such

confusion and tumult.

As Emily awaited anxiously some information from below, she now saw

from her casements a body of troops pour over the neighbouring heights;

and, though Annette had been gone a very short time, and had a

difficult and dangerous business to accomplish, her impatience for

intelligence became painful: she listened; opened her door; and often

went out upon the corridor to meet her.

At length, she heard a footstep approach her chamber; and, on opening

the door, saw, not Annette, but old Carlo! New fears rushed upon her

mind. He said he came from the Signor, who had ordered him to inform

her, that she must be ready to depart from Udolpho immediately, for

that the castle was about to be besieged; and that mules were preparing

to convey her, with her guides, to a place of safety.

“Of safety!” exclaimed Emily, thoughtlessly; “has, then, the Signor so

much consideration for me?”

Carlo looked upon the ground, and made no reply. A thousand opposite

emotions agitated Emily, successively, as she listened to old Carlo;

those of joy, grief, distrust and apprehension, appeared, and vanished

from her mind, with the quickness of lightning. One moment, it seemed

impossible, that Montoni could take this measure merely for her

preservation; and so very strange was his sending her from the castle

at all, that she could attribute it only to the design of carrying into

execution the new scheme of vengeance, with which he had menaced her.

In the next instant, it appeared so desirable to quit the castle, under

any circumstances, that she could not but rejoice in the prospect,

believing that change must be for the better, till she remembered the

probability of Valancourt being detained in it, when sorrow and regret

usurped her mind, and she wished, much more fervently than she had yet

done, that it might not be his voice which she had heard.

Carlo having reminded her, that she had no time to lose, for that the

enemy were within sight of the castle, Emily entreated him to inform

her whither she was to go; and, after some hesitation, he said he had

received no orders to tell; but, on her repeating the question,

replied, that he believed she was to be carried into Tuscany.

“To Tuscany!” exclaimed Emily—“and why thither?”

Carlo answered, that he knew nothing further, than that she was to be

lodged in a cottage on the borders of Tuscany, at the feet of the

Apennines—“Not a day’s journey distant,” said he.

Emily now dismissed him; and, with trembling hands, prepared the small

package, that she meant to take with her; while she was employed about

which Annette returned.

“O ma’amselle!” said she, “nothing can be done! Ludovico says the new

porter is more watchful even than Barnardine was, and we might as well

throw ourselves in the way of a dragon, as in his. Ludovico is almost

as broken-hearted as you are, ma’am, on my account, he says, and I am

sure I shall never live to hear the cannon fire twice!”

She now began to weep, but revived upon hearing of what had just

occurred, and entreated Emily to take her with her.

“That I will do most willingly,” replied Emily, “if Signor Montoni

permits it;” to which Annette made no reply, but ran out of the room,

and immediately sought Montoni, who was on the terrace, surrounded by

his officers, where she began her petition. He sharply bade her go into

the castle, and absolutely refused her request. Annette, however, not

only pleaded for herself, but for Ludovico; and Montoni had ordered

some of his men to take her from his presence, before she would retire.

In an agony of disappointment, she returned to Emily, who foreboded

little good towards herself, from this refusal to Annette, and who,

soon after, received a summons to repair to the great court, where the

mules, with her guides, were in waiting. Emily here tried in vain to

sooth the weeping Annette, who persisted in saying, that she should

never see her dear young lady again; a fear, which her mistress

secretly thought too well justified, but which she endeavoured to

restrain, while, with apparent composure, she bade this affectionate

servant farewell. Annette, however, followed to the courts, which were

now thronged with people, busy in preparation for the enemy; and,

having seen her mount her mule and depart, with her attendants, through

the portal, turned into the castle and wept again.

Emily, meanwhile, as she looked back upon the gloomy courts of the

castle, no longer silent as when she had first entered them, but

resounding with the noise of preparation for their defence, as well as

crowded with soldiers and workmen, hurrying to and fro; and, when she

passed once more under the huge portcullis, which had formerly struck

her with terror and dismay, and, looking round, saw no walls to confine

her steps—felt, in spite of anticipation, the sudden joy of a prisoner,

who unexpectedly finds himself at liberty. This emotion would not

suffer her now to look impartially on the dangers that awaited her

without; on mountains infested by hostile parties, who seized every

opportunity for plunder; and on a journey commenced under the guidance

of men, whose countenances certainly did not speak favourably of their

dispositions. In the present moments, she could only rejoice, that she

was liberated from those walls, which she had entered with such dismal

forebodings; and, remembering the superstitious presentiment, which had

then seized her, she could now smile at the impression it had made upon

her mind.

As she gazed, with these emotions, upon the turrets of the castle,

rising high over the woods, among which she wound, the stranger, whom

she believed to be confined there, returned to her remembrance, and

anxiety and apprehension, lest he should be Valancourt, again passed

like a cloud upon her joy. She recollected every circumstance,

concerning this unknown person, since the night, when she had first

heard him play the song of her native province;—circumstances, which

she had so often recollected, and compared before, without extracting

from them anything like conviction, and which still only prompted her

to believe, that Valancourt was a prisoner at Udolpho. It was possible,

however, that the men, who were her conductors, might afford her

information, on this subject; but, fearing to question them

immediately, lest they should be unwilling to discover any circumstance

to her in the presence of each other, she watched for an opportunity of

speaking with them separately.

Soon after, a trumpet echoed faintly from a distance; the guides

stopped, and looked toward the quarter whence it came, but the thick

woods, which surrounded them, excluding all view of the country beyond,

one of the men rode on to the point of an eminence, that afforded a

more extensive prospect, to observe how near the enemy, whose trumpet

he guessed this to be, were advanced; the other, meanwhile, remained

with Emily, and to him she put some questions, concerning the stranger

at Udolpho. Ugo, for this was his name, said, that there were several

prisoners in the castle, but he neither recollected their persons, nor

the precise time of their arrival, and could therefore give her no

information. There was a surliness in his manner, as he spoke, that

made it probable he would not have satisfied her enquiries, even if he

could have done so.

Having asked him what prisoners had been taken, about the time, as

nearly as she could remember, 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 what was doing at the castle. We had enough upon our

hands, we had warm work of it.”

Bertrand, the other man, being now returned, Emily enquired no further,

and, when he had related to his companion what he had seen, they

travelled on in deep silence; while Emily often caught, between the

opening woods, partial glimpses of the castle above—the west towers,

whose battlements were now crowded with archers, and the ramparts

below, where soldiers were seen hurrying along, or busy upon the walls,

preparing the cannon.

Having emerged from the woods, they wound along the valley in an

opposite direction to that, from whence the enemy were approaching.

Emily now had a full view of Udolpho, with its grey walls, towers and

terraces, high over-topping the precipices and the dark woods, and

glittering partially with the arms of the _Condottieri_, as the sun’s

rays, streaming through an autumnal cloud, glanced upon a part of the

edifice, whose remaining features stood in darkened majesty. She

continued to gaze, through her tears, upon walls that, perhaps,

confined Valancourt, and which now, as the cloud floated away, were

lighted up with sudden splendour, and then, as suddenly were shrouded

in gloom; while the passing gleam fell on the wood-tops below, and

heightened the first tints of autumn, that had begun to steal upon the

foliage. The winding mountains, at length, shut Udolpho from her view,

and she turned, with mournful reluctance, to other objects. The

melancholy sighing of the wind among the pines, that waved high over

the steeps, and the distant thunder of a torrent assisted her musings,

and conspired with the wild scenery around, to diffuse over her mind

emotions solemn, yet not unpleasing, but which were soon interrupted by

the distant roar of cannon, echoing among the mountains. The sounds

rolled along the wind, and were repeated in faint and fainter

reverberation, till they sunk in sullen murmurs. This was a signal,

that the enemy had reached the castle, and fear for Valancourt again

tormented Emily. She turned her anxious eyes towards that part of the

country, where the edifice stood, but the intervening heights concealed

it from her view; still, however, she saw the tall head of a mountain,

which immediately fronted her late chamber, and on this she fixed her

gaze, as if it could have told her of all that was passing in the scene

it overlooked. The guides twice reminded her, that she was losing time

and that they had far to go, before she could turn from this

interesting object, and, even when she again moved onward, she often

sent a look back, till only its blue point, brightening in a gleam of

sunshine, appeared peeping over other mountains.

The sound of the cannon affected Ugo, as the blast of the trumpet does

the war-horse; it called forth all the fire of his nature; he was

impatient to be in the midst of the fight, and uttered frequent

execrations against Montoni for having sent him to a distance. The

feelings of his comrade seemed to be very opposite, and adapted rather

to the cruelties, than to the dangers of war.

Emily asked frequent questions, concerning the place of her

destination, but could only learn, that she was going to a cottage in

Tuscany; and, whenever she mentioned the subject, she fancied she

perceived, in the countenances of these men, an expression of malice

and cunning, that alarmed her.

It was afternoon, when they had left the castle. During several hours,

they travelled through regions of profound solitude, where no bleat of

sheep, or bark of watch-dog, broke on silence, and they were now too

far off to hear even the faint thunder of the cannon. Towards evening,

they wound down precipices, black with forests of cypress, pine and

cedar, into a glen so savage and secluded, that, if Solitude ever had

local habitation, this might have been “her place of dearest

residence.” To Emily it appeared a spot exactly suited for the retreat

of banditti, and, in her imagination, she already saw them lurking

under the brow of some projecting rock, whence their shadows,

lengthened by the setting sun, stretched across the road, and warned

the traveller of his danger. She shuddered at the idea, and, looking at

her conductors, to observe whether they were armed, thought she saw in

them the banditti she dreaded!

It was in this glen, that they proposed to alight, “For,” said Ugo,

“night will come on presently, and then the wolves will make it

dangerous to stop.” This was a new subject of alarm to Emily, but

inferior to what she suffered from the thought of being left in these

wilds, at midnight, with two such men as her present conductors. Dark

and dreadful hints of what might be Montoni’s purpose in sending her

hither, came to her mind. She endeavoured to dissuade the men from

stopping, and enquired, with anxiety, how far they had yet to go.

“Many leagues yet,” replied Bertrand. “As for you, Signora, you may do

as you please about eating, but for us, we will make a hearty supper,

while we can. We shall have need of it, I warrant, before we finish our

journey. The sun’s going down apace; let us alight under that rock,

yonder.”

His comrade assented, and, turning the mules out of the road, they

advanced towards a cliff, overhung with cedars, Emily following in

trembling silence. They lifted her from her mule, and, having seated

themselves on the grass, at the foot of the rocks, drew some homely

fare from a wallet, of which Emily tried to eat a little, the better to

disguise her apprehensions.

The sun was now sunk behind the high mountains in the west, upon which

a purple haze began to spread, and the gloom of twilight to draw over

the surrounding objects. To the low and sullen murmur of the breeze,

passing among the woods, she no longer listened with any degree of

pleasure, for it conspired with the wildness of the scene and the

evening hour, to depress her spirits.

Suspense had so much increased her anxiety, as to the prisoner at

Udolpho, that, finding it impracticable to speak alone with Bertrand,

on that subject, she renewed her questions in the presence of Ugo; but

he either was, or pretended to be entirely ignorant, concerning the

stranger. When he had dismissed the question, he talked with Ugo on

some subject, which led to the mention of Signor Orsino and of the

affair that had banished him from Venice; respecting which Emily had

ventured to ask a few questions. Ugo appeared to be well acquainted

with the circumstances of that tragical event, and related some minute

particulars, that both shocked and surprised her; for it appeared very

extraordinary how such particulars could be known to any, but to

persons, present when the assassination was committed.

“He was of rank,” said Bertrand, “or the State would not have troubled

itself to enquire after his assassins. The Signor has been lucky

hitherto; this is not the first affair of the kind he has had upon his

hands; and to be sure, when a gentleman 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 done at once, without more ado. If you go to law,

you must stay till the judges please, and may lose your cause, at last.

Why the best way, then, is to make sure of your right, while you can,

and execute justice yourself.”

“Yes, yes,” rejoined Bertrand, “if you wait till justice 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 they will tell me he is

in the right, and I am in the wrong. Or, if a fellow has got possession

of property, which I think ought to be mine, why I may wait, till I

starve, perhaps, before the law will give it me, and then, after all,

the judge may say—the estate is his. What is to be done then?—Why the

case is plain enough, I must take it at last.”

Emily’s horror at this conversation was heightened by a suspicion, that

the latter part of it was pointed against herself, and that these men

had been commissioned by Montoni to execute a similar kind of

_justice_, in his cause.

“But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,” resumed Bertrand, “he is one of

those, who love to do justice at once. I remember, about ten years ago,

the Signor had a quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan. The story was told

me then, and it is still fresh in my head. They quarrelled about a

lady, that the Signor liked, and she was perverse enough to prefer the

gentleman of Milan, and even carried her whim so far as to marry him.

This provoked the Signor, as well it might, for he had tried to talk

reason to her a long while, and used to send people to serenade her,

under her windows, of a night; and used to make verses about her, and

would swear she was the handsomest lady in Milan—But all would not

do—nothing would bring her to reason; and, as I said, she went so far

at last, as to marry this other cavaliero. This made the Signor wrath,

with a vengeance; he resolved to be even with her though, and he

watched his opportunity, and did not wait long, for, soon after the

marriage, they set out for Padua, nothing doubting, I warrant, of what

was preparing for them. The cavaliero thought, to be sure, he was to be

called to no account, but was to go off triumphant; but he was soon

made to know another sort of story.”

“What then, the lady had promised to have Signor Orsino?” said Ugo.

“Promised! No,” replied Bertrand, “she had not wit enough even to tell

him she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to say,

from the first, she never meant to have him. And this was what provoked

the Signor, so, and with good reason, for, who likes to be told that he

is disagreeable? and this was saying as good. It was enough to tell him

this; she need not have gone, and married another.”

“What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?” said Ugo.

“I don’t know as for that,” replied Bertrand, “they said, indeed, that

she had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; but that is

nothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and then the

Signor would not have been so much provoked. She might have expected

what was to follow; it was not to be supposed 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 and her husband, and the road lay

over some barren mountains like these. This suited the Signor’s purpose

well. He watched the time of their departure, and sent his men after

them, with directions what to do. They kept their distance, till they

saw their opportunity, and this did not happen, till the second day’s

journey, when, the gentleman having sent his servants forward to the

next town, maybe to have horses in readiness, the Signor’s men

quickened their pace, and overtook the carriage, in a hollow, between

two mountains, where the woods prevented the servants from seeing what

passed, though they were then not far off. When we came up, we fired

our tromboni, but missed.”

Emily turned pale, at these words, and then hoped she had mistaken

them; while Bertrand proceeded:

“The gentleman fired again, but he was soon made to alight, and it was

as he turned to call his people, that he was struck. It was the most

dexterous feat you ever saw—he was struck in the back with three

stillettos at once. He fell, and was dispatched in a minute; but the

lady escaped, for the servants had heard the firing, and came up before

she could be taken care of. ‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor, when his men

returned—”

“Bertrand!” exclaimed Emily, pale with horror, on whom not a syllable

of this narrative had been lost.

“Bertrand, did I say?” rejoined the man, with some confusion—“No,

Giovanni. But I have forgot where I was;—‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor—

“Bertrand, again!” said Emily, in a faltering voice, “Why do you repeat

that name?”

Bertrand swore. “What signifies it,” he proceeded, “what the man was

called—Bertrand, or Giovanni—or Roberto? it’s all one for that. You

have put me out twice with that—question. Bertrand, or Giovanni—or what

you will—‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor, ‘if your comrades had done their

duty, as well as you, I should not have lost the lady. Go, my honest

fellow, and be happy with this.’ He gave him a purse of gold—and little

enough too, considering the service he had done him.”

“Aye, aye,” said Ugo, “little enough—little enough.”

Emily now breathed with difficulty, and could scarcely support herself.

When first she saw these men, their appearance and their connection

with Montoni had been sufficient to impress her with distrust; but now,

when one of them had betrayed himself to be a murderer, and she saw

herself, at the approach of night, under his guidance, among wild and

solitary mountains, and going she scarcely knew whither, the most

agonizing terror seized her, which was the less supportable from the

necessity she found herself under of concealing all symptoms of it from

her companions. Reflecting on the character and the menaces of Montoni,

it appeared not improbable, that he had delivered her to them, for the

purpose of having her murdered, and of thus securing to himself,

without further opposition, or delay, the estates, for which he had so

long and so desperately contended. Yet, if this was his design, there

appeared no necessity for sending her to such a distance from the

castle; for, if any dread of discovery had made him unwilling to

perpetrate the deed there, a much nearer place might have sufficed for

the purpose of concealment. These considerations, however, did not

immediately occur to Emily, with whom so many circumstances conspired

to rouse terror, that she had no power to oppose it, or to enquire

coolly into its grounds; and, if she had done so, still there were many

appearances which would too well have justified her most terrible

apprehensions. She did not now dare to speak to her conductors, at the

sound of whose voices she trembled; and when, now and then, she stole a

glance at them, their countenances, seen imperfectly through the gloom

of evening, served to confirm her fears.

The sun had now been set some time; heavy clouds, whose lower skirts

were tinged with sulphureous crimson, lingered in the west, and threw a

reddish tint upon the pine forests, which sent forth a solemn sound, as

the breeze rolled over them. The hollow moan struck upon Emily’s heart,

and served to render more gloomy and terrific every object around

her,—the mountains, shaded in twilight—the gleaming torrent, hoarsely

roaring—the black forests, and the deep glen, broken into rocky

recesses, high overshadowed by cypress and sycamore and winding into

long obscurity. To this glen, Emily, as she sent forth her anxious eye,

thought there was no end; no hamlet, or even cottage, was seen, and

still no distant bark of watch-dog, or even faint, far-off halloo came

on the wind. In a tremulous voice, she now ventured to remind the

guides, that it was growing late, and to ask again how far they had to

go: but they were too much occupied by their own discourse to attend to

her question, which she forbore to repeat, lest it should provoke a

surly answer. Having, however, soon after, finished their supper, the

men collected the fragments into their wallet, and proceeded along this

winding glen, in gloomy silence; while Emily again mused upon her own

situation, and concerning the motives of Montoni for involving her in

it. That it was for some evil purpose towards herself, she could not

doubt; and it seemed, that, if he did not intend to destroy her, with a

view of immediately seizing her estates, he meant to reserve her a

while in concealment, for some more terrible design, for one that might

equally gratify his avarice and still more his deep revenge. At this

moment, remembering Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the corridor, a

few preceding nights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was,

strengthened in her belief. Yet, why remove her from 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 to encounter was now so excessive,

that it sometimes threatened her senses; and, often as she went, she

thought of her late father and of all he would have suffered, could he

have foreseen the strange and dreadful events of her future life; and

how anxiously he would have avoided that fatal confidence, which

committed his daughter to the care of a woman so weak as was Madame

Montoni. So romantic and improbable, indeed, did her present situation

appear to Emily herself, particularly when she compared it with the

repose and beauty of her early days, that there were moments, when she

could almost have believed herself the victim of frightful visions,

glaring upon a disordered fancy.

Restrained by the presence of her guides from expressing her terrors,

their acuteness was, at length, lost in gloomy despair. The dreadful

view of what might await her hereafter rendered her almost indifferent

to the surrounding dangers. She now looked, with little emotion, on the

wild dingles, and the gloomy road and mountains, whose outlines were

only distinguishable through the dusk;—objects, which but lately had

affected her spirits so much, 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, could scarcely discern their way. The clouds, which

seemed charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens, showing,

at intervals, the trembling stars; while the groves of cypress and

sycamore, that overhung the rocks, waved high in the breeze, as it

swept over the glen, and then rushed among the distant woods. Emily

shivered as it passed.

“Where is the torch?” said Ugo, “it grows dark.”

“Not so dark yet,” replied Bertrand, “but we may find our way, and ’tis

best not light the torch, before we can help, for it may betray us, if

any straggling party of the enemy is abroad.”

Ugo muttered something, which Emily did not understand, and they

proceeded in darkness, while she almost wished, that the enemy might

discover them; for from change there was something to hope, since she

could scarcely imagine any situation more dreadful than her present

one.

As they moved slowly along, her attention was surprised by a thin

tapering flame, that appeared, by fits, at the point of the pike, which

Bertrand carried, resembling what she had observed on the lance of the

sentinel, the night Madame Montoni died, and which he had said was an

omen. The event immediately following it appeared to justify the

assertion, and a superstitious impression had remained on Emily’s mind,

which the present appearance confirmed. She thought it was an omen of

her own fate, and watched it successively vanish and return, in gloomy

silence, which was at length interrupted by Bertrand.

“Let us light the torch,” said he, “and get under shelter of the

woods;—a storm is coming on—look at my lance.”

He held it forth, with the flame tapering at its point.*

(*Note: See the Abbé Berthelon on Electricity. [A. R.])

“Aye,” said Ugo, “you are not one of those, that believe in omens: we

have left cowards at the castle, who would turn pale at such a sight. I

have often seen it before a thunder-storm, it is an omen of that, and

one is coming now, sure enough. The clouds flash fast already.”

Emily was relieved by this conversation from some of the terrors of

superstition, but those of reason increased, as, waiting while Ugo

searched for a flint, to strike fire, she watched the pale lightning

gleam over the woods they were about to enter, and illumine the harsh

countenances of her companions. Ugo could not 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 of the woods, or, displaying some opening in their

summits, illumined the ground beneath with partial splendour, the thick

foliage of the trees preserving the surrounding scene in deep shadow.

At length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch was lighted. The men then

dismounted, and, having assisted Emily, led the mules towards the

woods, that skirted the glen, on the left, over broken ground,

frequently interrupted with brush-wood and wild plants, which she was

often obliged to make a circuit to avoid.

She could not approach these woods, without experiencing keener sense

of her danger. Their deep silence, except when the wind swept among

their branches, and impenetrable glooms shown partially by the sudden

flash, and then, by the red glare of the torch, which served only to

make “darkness visible,” were circumstances, that contributed to renew

all her most terrible apprehensions; she thought, too, that, at this

moment, the countenances of her conductors displayed more than their

usual fierceness, mingled with a kind of lurking exultation, which they

seemed endeavouring to disguise. To her affrighted fancy it occurred,

that they were leading her into these woods to complete the will of

Montoni by her murder. The horrid suggestion called a groan from her

heart, which surprised her companions, who turned round quickly towards

her, and she demanded why they led her thither, beseeching them to

continue their way along the open glen, which she represented to be

less dangerous than the woods, in a thunder-storm.

“No, no,” said Bertrand, “we know best where the danger lies. See how

the clouds open over our heads. Besides, we can glide under cover of

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 as

stout a heart as the best, as many a poor devil could tell, if he were

alive again—but what can we do against numbers?”

“What are you whining about?” said Ugo, contemptuously, “who fears

numbers! Let them come, though they were as many as the Signor’s castle

could hold; I would show the knaves what fighting is. For you—I would

lay you quietly in a dry ditch, where you might peep out, and see me

put the rogues to flight.—Who talks of fear!”

Bertrand replied, with a horrible oath, that he did not like such

jesting, and a violent altercation ensued, which was, at length,

silenced by the thunder, whose deep volley was heard afar, rolling

onward till it burst over their heads in sounds, that seemed to shake

the earth to its centre. The ruffians paused, and looked upon each

other. Between the boles of the trees, the blue lightning flashed and

quivered along the ground, while, as Emily looked under the boughs, the

mountains beyond, frequently appeared to be clothed in livid flame. At

this moment, perhaps, she felt less fear of the storm, than did either

of her companions, for other terrors occupied her mind.

The men now rested under an enormous chesnut-tree, and fixed their

pikes in the ground, at some distance, on the iron points of which

Emily repeatedly observed the lightning play, 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 send us on this business. Hark! how it rattles above,

there! I could almost find in my heart to turn priest, and pray. Ugo,

hast got a rosary?”

“No,” replied Ugo, “I leave it to cowards like thee, to carry

rosaries—I carry a sword.”

“And much good may it do thee in fighting against the storm!” said

Bertrand.

Another peal, which was reverberated in tremendous echoes among the

mountains, silenced them for a moment. As it rolled away, Ugo proposed

going on. “We are only losing time here,” said he, “for the thick

boughs of the woods will shelter us as well as this chesnut-tree.”

They again led the mules forward, between the boles of the trees, and

over pathless grass, that concealed their high knotted roots. The

rising wind was now heard contending with the thunder, as it rushed

furiously among the branches above, and brightened the red flame of the

torch, which threw a stronger light forward among the woods, and showed

their gloomy recesses to be suitable resorts for the wolves, of which

Ugo had formerly spoken.

At length, the strength of the wind seemed to drive the storm before

it, for the thunder rolled away into distance, and was only faintly

heard. After travelling through the woods for nearly an hour, during

which the elements seemed to have returned to repose, the travellers,

gradually ascending from the glen, found themselves upon the open brow

of a mountain, with a wide valley, extending in misty moonlight, at

their feet, and above, the blue sky, trembling through the few thin

clouds, that lingered after the storm, and were sinking slowly to the

verge of the horizon.

Emily’s spirits, now that she had quitted the woods, began to revive;

for she considered, that, if these men had received an order to destroy

her, they would probably have executed their barbarous purpose in the

solitary wild, from whence they had just emerged, where the deed would

have been shrouded from every human eye. Reassured by this reflection,

and by the quiet demeanour of her guides, Emily, as they proceeded

silently, in a kind of sheep track, that wound along the skirts of the

woods, which ascended on the right, could not survey the sleeping

beauty of the vale, to which they were declining, without a momentary

sensation of pleasure. It seemed varied with woods, pastures, and

sloping grounds, and was screened to the north and the east by an

amphitheatre of the Apennines, whose outline on the horizon was here

broken into varied and elegant forms; to the west and the south, the

landscape extended indistinctly into the lowlands of Tuscany.

“There is the sea yonder,” said Bertrand, as if he had known that Emily

was examining the twilight view, “yonder in the west, though we cannot

see it.”

Emily already perceived a change in the climate, from that of the wild

and mountainous tract she had left; and, as she continued descending,

the air became perfumed by the breath of a thousand nameless flowers

among the grass, called forth by the late rain. So soothingly beautiful

was the scene around her, and so strikingly contrasted to the gloomy

grandeur of those, to which she had long been confined, and to the

manners of the people, who moved among them, that she could almost have

fancied herself again at La Vallée, and, wondering why Montoni had sent

her hither, could scarcely believe, that he had selected so enchanting

a spot for any cruel design. It was, however, probably not the spot,

but the persons, who happened to inhabit it, and to whose care he could

safely commit the execution of his plans, whatever they might be, that

had determined his choice.

She now ventured again to enquire, whether they were near the place of

their destination, and was answered by Ugo, that they had not far to

go. “Only to the wood of chesnuts in the valley yonder,” said he,

“there, by the brook, that sparkles with the moon; I wish I was once at

rest there, with a flask of good wine, and a slice of Tuscany bacon.”

Emily’s spirits revived, when she heard, that the journey was so nearly

concluded, and saw the wood of chesnuts in an open part of the vale, on

the margin of the stream.

In a short time they reached the entrance of the wood, and perceived,

between the twinkling leaves, a light, streaming from a distant cottage

window. They proceeded along the edge of the brook to where the trees,

crowding over it, excluded the moonbeams, but a long line of light,

from the cottage above, was seen on its dark tremulous surface.

Bertrand now stepped on first, and Emily heard him knock, and call

loudly at the door. As she reached it, the small upper casement, where

the light appeared, was unclosed by a man, who, having enquired what

they wanted, immediately descended, let them into a neat rustic cot,

and called up his wife to set refreshments before the travellers. As

this man conversed, rather apart, with Bertrand, Emily anxiously

surveyed him. He was a tall, but not robust, peasant, of a sallow

complexion, and had a shrewd and cunning eye; his countenance was not

of a character to win the ready confidence of youth, and there was

nothing in his manner, that might conciliate a stranger.

Ugo called impatiently for supper, and in a tone as if he knew his

authority here to be unquestionable. “I expected you an hour ago,” said

the peasant, “for I have had Signor Montoni’s letter these three hours,

and I and my wife had given you up, and gone to bed. How did you fare

in the storm?”

“Ill enough,” replied Ugo, “ill enough and we are like to fare ill

enough here, too, unless you will make more haste. Get us more wine,

and let us see what you have to eat.”

The peasant placed before them all that his cottage afforded—ham, wine,

figs, and grapes of such size and flavour, as Emily had seldom tasted.

After taking refreshment, she was shown by the peasant’s wife to her

little bed-chamber, where she asked some questions concerning Montoni,

to which the woman, whose name was Dorina, gave reserved answers,

pretending ignorance of his _Excellenza_’s intention in sending Emily

hither, but acknowledging that her husband had been apprized of the

circumstance. Perceiving that she could obtain no intelligence

concerning her destination, Emily dismissed Dorina, and retired to

repose; but all the busy scenes of her past and the anticipated ones of

the future came to her anxious mind, and conspired with the sense of

her new situation to banish sleep.