 The Mysteries of Voodolfo by Ann Radcliffe Volume 3, Chapter 8, Part 2 They had now crossed the second court, and reached the hall door, when the soldier, bidding them good night, hastened back to his post. And while they waited for admittance, Emily considered how she might avoid seeing Monteny, and retire unnoticed to her former apartment, for she shrunk from the thought of encountering either him or any of his party at this hour. The uproar within the castle was now so loud, that though Ugo knocked repeatedly at the hall door, he was not heard by any of the servants, a circumstance which increased Emily's alarm, while it allowed her time to deliberate on the means of retiring unobserved. Or though she might perhaps pass up the great staircase unseen, it was impossible she could find the way to her chamber. Without a light, the difficulty of procuring which, and the danger of wandering about the castle without one, immediately struck her. Bertrand had only a torch, and she knew that the servants never brought a taper to the door, for the hall was sufficiently lighted by the large tripod lamp which hung in the vaulted roof. And while she should wait till Annette could bring her a taper, Monteny or some of his companions might discover her. The door was now opened by Carlo, and Emily, having accrossed him to send Annette immediately with a light to the great gallery where she determined to await her, passed on with hasty steps towards the staircase, while Bertrand and Ugo, with the torch, followed old Carlo to the servants' hall, impatient for supper and the warm blaze of a wood fire. Emily, lighted only by the feeble rays which the lamp above threw between the arches of this extensive hall, endeavored to find her way to the staircase, now hidden in obscurity, while the shouts of merriment that burst from a remote apartment served by heightening her terror to increase her perplexity, and she expected every instant to see the door of that room open and Monteny and his companions issue forth. Looking at length, reached the staircase, and found her way to the top, she seated herself on the last stair to await the arrival of Annette, for the profound darkness of the gallery deterred her from proceeding farther, and while she listened for her footstep, she heard only distant sounds of revelry, which rose and saw neckos from among the arcades below. Once she thought she heard a low sound from the dark gallery behind her, and turning her eyes, fancy she saw something luminous move in it, and since she could not at this moment subdue the weakness that caused her fears, she quitted her seat and crept softly down a few stairs lower. Annette, not yet appearing, Emily now concluded that she was gone to bed, and that nobody chose to call her up, and the prospect that presented itself of passing the night in darkness in this place or in some other equally forlorn, for she knew it would be impracticable to find her way through the intricacies of the galleries to her chamber drew tears of mingled terror and despondency from her eyes. While thus she sat, she fancied she heard again an odd sound from the gallery, and she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but the increasing voices below overcame every other sound. Soon after she heard Montenille and his companions burst into the hall, who spoke as if they were much intoxicated, and seemed to be advancing towards the staircase. She now remembered that they must come this way to reach their chambers, and forgetting all the terrors of the gallery, hurried towards it with an intention of secreting herself in some of the passages that opened beyond, and of endeavoring, when the seniors were retired to find her way to her own room, or to that of Annette, which was in a remote part of the castle. With extended arms she crept along the gallery, still hearing the voices of persons below, who seemed to stop in conversation at the foot of the staircase, and then pausing for a moment to listen, half fearful of going further into the darkness of the gallery, where she still imagined, from the noise she had heard, that some person was lurking. They are already informed of my arrival, said she, and Montenille is coming himself to seek me. In the present state of his mind his purpose must be desperate. Then, recollecting the scene that had passed in the corridor on the night preceding her departure from the castle, O Valencor, said she, I must then resign you forever. To brave any longer the injustice of Montenille would not be fortitude but rashness. Still the voices below did not draw nearer, but they became louder, and she distinguished those of Veretzi and Bertolini above the rest, while the few words she caught made her listen more anxiously for others. The conversation seemed to concern herself, and having ventured to step a few paces nearer to the staircase, she discovered that they were disputing about her. Each seeming to claim some former promise of Montenille, who appeared at first inclined to appease and persuade them to return to their wine, but afterwards to be weary of the dispute, and saying that he left them to settle it as they could, was returning with the rest of the party to the apartment he had just quitted. Veretzi then stopped him. Where is she, signor, said he, in a voice of impatience. Tell us where she is. I have already told you that I do not know, replied Montenille, who seemed to be somewhat overcome with wine, but she is most probably gone to her apartment. Veretzi and Bertolini now desisted from their inquiries and sprang to the staircase together, while Emily, who during this discourse had trembled so excessively that she had with difficulty supported herself, seemed inspired with new strength, the moment she heard the sound of their steps, and ran along the gallery, dark as it was, with the fluteness of a fawn. But, long before she reached its extremity, the light which Veretzi carried flashed upon the walls. Both appeared, and instantly perceiving Emily pursued her. At this moment, Bertolini, whose steps though swift were not steady, and whose impatience overcame what little caution he had hitherto used, stumbled and fell at his length. The lamp fell with him, and was presently expiring on the floor, but Veretzi, regardless of saving it, seized the advantage this incident gave him over his arrival, and followed Emily, to whom, however, the light had shown one of the passages that branched from the gallery, and she instantly turned into it. Veretzi could just discern the way she had taken, and this he pursued, but the sound of her steps soon sunk in distance, while he, less acquainted with the passage, was obliged to proceed through the dark with caution, lest he should fall down a flight of steps, such as in this extensive old castle frequently terminated an avenue. This passage had length brought Emily to the corridor, into which her own chamber opened, and, not hearing any footsteps, she paused to take breath, and consider what was the safest design to be adopted. She had followed this passage merely because it was the first that had appeared, and now that she had reached the end of it, was as perplexed as before. Wither to go, or how further to find her way in the dark, she knew not. She was aware only that she must not seek her apartment, for there she would certainly be sought, and her danger increased every instant while she remained near it. Her spirits and her breath, however, were so much exhausted that she was compelled to rest for a few minutes at the end of the passage, and still she heard no steps approaching. As thus she stood, light glimmered under an opposite door of the gallery, and from its situation she knew that it was the door of that mysterious chamber, where she had made a discovery so shocking that she never remembered it, but with the utmost horror. That there should be light in this chamber, and at this hour, excited her strong surprise, and she felt a momentary terror concerning it, which did not permit her to look again, for her spirits were now in such a state of weakness that she almost expected to see the door slowly open, and some horrible object appear at it. Still she listened for a step along the passage, and looked up at, where not a ray of light appeared, she concluded that Veretzi had gone back for the lamp, and believing that he would shortly be there, she again considered which way she should go, or rather which way she could find in the dark. A faint ray still glimmered under the opposite door, but so great, and perhaps so just was her horror of that chamber, that she would not again have tempted its secrets, though she had been certain of obtaining the light so important to her safety. She was still breathing with difficulty, and resting at the end of the passage, when she heard a rustling sound, and then a low voice sewn very near her, that it seemed close to her ear, but she still had presence of mind to check her emotion, and to remain quite still. In the next moment she perceived it to be the voice of Veretzi, who did not appear to know that she was there, but to have spoken to himself. The air is fresher here, said he. This should be the corridor. Perhaps he was one of those heroes whose courage could defy an enemy better than darkness, and he tried to rally his spirits with the sound of his own voice. However this might be, he turned to the right, and proceeded with the same stealing steps towards Emily's apartment, apparently forgetting that in darkness she could easily lewd his search, even in her chamber. And like an intoxicated person, he followed pertinaciously the one idea that had possessed his imagination. The moment she heard his steps deal away, she left her station and moved softly to the other end of the corridor, determined to trust again to chance, and to quit it by the first avenue she could find. But before she could affect this, light broke upon the walls of the gallery, and looking back she saw Veretzi crossing it towards her chamber. She now glided into a passage that opened on the left without as she thought being perceived, but in the next instant another light, glimmering at the further end of this passage, threw her into a new terror. While she stopped and hesitated which way to go, the pause allowed her to perceive that it was Annette, who advanced, and she hurried to meet her. But her imprudence again alarmed Emily, unperceiving whom. She burst into a scream of joy, and it was some minutes before she could be prevailed with to be silent, or to release her mistress from the ardent clasp in which she held her. When at length Emily made Annette comprehend her danger, she hurried towards Annette's room, which was in a distant part of the castle. No apprehensions, however, could yet silence the latter. Oh dear Mamacelle, said she as they passed along, what a terrified time I have had of it. Oh, I thought I should have died a hundred times. I never thought I should live to see you again, and I was never so glad to see anybody in my whole life as I am to see you now. Hark! cried Emily. We are pursued. That was the Echo of Steps. No Mamacelle, said Annette. It was only the Echo of a door shutting. Sounds run along these vaulted passages so that one is continually deceived by it. If one does but speak or cough, it makes a noise as loud as a cannon. Then there is the greater necessity for us to be silent, said Emily. Pretty say no more till we reach your chamber. Here at length they arrived, without interruption. And Annette, having fastened the door, Emily sat down on her little bed to recover breath and composure. To her enquiry, whether Volinquor was among the prisoners in the castle, Annette replied that she had not been able to hear but that she knew there were several persons confined. She then proceeded, in her tedious way, to give an account of the siege, or rather a detail of her terrors and various sufferings during the attack. But, added she, when I heard the shouts of victory from the Ramparts, I thought we were all taken, and I gave myself up for lost, instead of which we had driven the enemy away. I went then to the North Gallery and saw a great many of them scampering away among the mountains. But the Rampart walls were all in ruin, as one may say, and there was a dismal sight to see down among the woods below, where the poor fellows were lying in heaps, but were carried off presently by their comrades. While the siege was still going on, the senor was here and there and everywhere at the same time, as Ludovico told me, for he would not let me see anything in the room hardly, and lock me up, as he has often done before, in a room in the middle of the castle, and used to bring me food and come and talk with me as often as he could, and I must say, if it had not been for Ludovico, I should have died outright. Well, Annette, said Emily, and how have affairs gone on since the siege? Oh, sad, hurly-burly doings Mammoncell, replied Annette. The Senors have done nothing but sit and drink and game, ever since. They sit up all night and play among themselves. For all those riches and fine things they brought in, sometimes since, when they used to go out or robbing, or as good for days together. And then they have dreadful quarrels about who loses and who wins. That fierce Senor Varetsi is always losing, as they tell me, and Senor Orsino wins from him, and this makes him very wroth, and they have had several hard set twos about it. Then all those fine ladies are at the castle still, and I declare I am frightened whenever I meet any of them in the passages. Surely Annette, said Emily, starting. I heard a noise. Listen. After a long pause, no Mammoncell, said Annette. It was only the wind in the gallery. I often hear it when it shakes the old doors at the other end. But once you go to bed Mammoncell, you surely will not sit out starving all night. Emily now laid herself down in the mattress, and desired Annette to leave the lamp burning on the hearth. Having done which, the latter placed herself beside Emily, who, however, was not suffered to sleep, for she again thought she heard a noise from the passage. Annette was again trying to convince her that it was only the wind, when footsteps were distinctly heard near the door. Annette was now starting from the bed, but Emily prevailed her to remain there, and listened with her in a state of terrible expectation. The steps still loitered at the door, when presently an attempt was made on the lock. And in the next instant, a voice called, For heaven's sake Annette, do not answer, said Emily softly, remain quite still, but I fear we must extinguish the lamp or its glare will betray us. Holy Virgin, exclaimed Annette, forgetting her discretion, I would not be in darkness now for the whole world. While she spoke, the voice became louder than before, and repeated Annette's name. Blessed Virgin, cried she suddenly, is only Ludovico. She rose to open the door, but Emily prevented her, till they should be more certain, that it was he alone, with whom Annette at length talked for some time, and learned that he was come to inquire after herself, whom he had let out of her room to go to Emily, and that he was now returned to lock her in again. Emily, fearful of being overheard, if they conversed any longer through the door, consented that it should be opened, and a young man appeared, whose open countenance confirmed the favorable opinion of him, which his care of Annette had already prompted her to form. She entreated his protection, should Varetsy make his requisite, and Ludovico offered to pass the night in an old chamber adjoining that opened from the gallery and on the first alarm to come to their defense. Emily was much soothed by this proposal, and Ludovico, having lighted his lamp, went to his station, while she once more endeavored to repose on her mattress. But a variety of interests pressed upon her attention and prevented sleep. She thought much on what Annette had told her of the disloot manners of Montenigne his associates, and more of his present conduct towards herself, and of the danger from which she had just escaped. From the view of her present situation she shrunk, as from a new picture of terror. She saw herself in a castle inhabited by vice and violence, seated beyond the reach of law or justice in the power of a man whose perseverance was equal to every occasion, and in whom passions, of which revenge was not the weakest, entirely supplied the place of principles. She was compelled, once more, to acknowledge that it would be folly, and not fortitude, any longer to dare his power. In resigning all hopes of future happiness with well and core, she determined that, on the following morning she would compromise with Montenigne, and give up her estates on condition that he would permit her immediate return to France. Such considerations kept her waking for many hours, but the night passed without further alarm from Varetsi. On the next morning Emily had a long conversation with Ludovico, in which she heard circumstances concerning the castle, and received hints of the designs of Montenigne that considerably increased her alarms. On expressing her surprise that Ludovico, who seemed to be so sensible of the evils of this situation, should continue it, he informed her that it was not his intention to do so, and she then ventured to ask him if he would assist her to escape from the castle. Ludovico assured her of his readiness to attempt this, but strongly represented the difficulty of the enterprise, and the certain destruction, which must ensure should Montenigne overtake them before they had passed the mountains. He, however, promised to be watchful of every circumstance that might contribute to the success of the attempt, and to think upon some plan of departure. Emily now provided to him the name of Fallen Core, and begged he would inquire for such a person among the prisoners in the castle, for the faint hope which this conversation awakened made her now recede from her resolution of an immediate compromise with Montenigne. She determined, if possible, to delay this till she heard further from Ludovico, and if his designs were found to be impracticable, to resign the estates at once. Her thoughts were on this subject when Montenigne, who was now recovered from the intoxication of the preceding night, sent for her, and she immediately obeyed the summons. He was alone. I find, said he, that you were not in your chamber last night. Where were you? Emily related to him some circumstances of her alarm, and detreated his protection from a repetition of them. You know the terms of my protection, said he. If you really value this, you will secure it. His open declaration that he would only conditionally protect her, while she remained a prisoner in the castle, chewed Emily the necessity of an immediate compliance with his terms. But she first demanded whether he would permit her immediately to depart, if she gave up her claim to the contested estates. In a very solemn manner, he then assured her that he would, and immediately laid before her a paper, which was to transfer the right of those estates to himself. She was, for a considerable time, unable to sign it, and her heart was torn with contending interests, for she was about to resign the happiness of all her future years, the hope which had sustained her in so many hours of adversity. After hearing from Montenigne a recapitulation of the conditions of her compliance, and a remonstrance that his time was valuable, she put her hand to the paper. When she had done which, she fell back in her chair, but soon recovered and desired that he would give orders for her departure, and that he would allow Annette to accompany her. Montenigne smiled. It was necessary to deceive you, said he. There was no other way of making you act reasonably. You shall go, but it must not be a present. You must first secure these estates by possession. When that is done, you may return to France, if you will. The deliberate villainy with which he violated the solemn engagement he had just entered into shocked Emily as much as the certainty that she had made a fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his prisoner. She had no words to express what she felt, and knew that it would have been useless if she had. As she looked piteously at Montenigne, he turned away, and at the same time desired she would withdraw to her apartment. But unable to leave the room, she sat down in a chair near the door and sighed heavily. She had neither words nor tears. Why will you indulge this childish grief, said he, and ever to strengthen your mind to bear patiently what cannot now be avoided? You have no real evil to lament. Be patient, and you will be sent back to France. At present, retire to your apartment. I dare not go, sir, said she, where I shall be liable to the intrusion of Signore Varetsi. Have I not promised to protect you, said Montenigne? You have promised, sir, replied Emily, after some hesitation, and is not my promise sufficient, added he sternly. You will recollect your former promise, Signore, said Emily, trembling, and may determine for me whether I ought to rely upon this. Will you provoke me to declare to you that I will not protect you, then, said Montenigne, in a tone of haughty displeasure? If that will satisfy you, I will do it immediately. Withdraw to your chamber before I retract my promise. You have nothing to fear there. Emily left the room and moved slowly into the hall, where the fear of meeting Varetsi or Bertolini made her quicken her steps, though she could scarcely support herself, and soon after she reached once more her own apartment. Having looked fearfully around her to examine if any person was there, and having searched every part of it, she fastened the door and sat down by one of the casements. Here, while she looked out for some hope to support her fainting spirits, which had been so long harassed and oppressed that, if she had not now struggled much against misfortune, they would have left her perhaps forever. She endeavored to believe that Montenigne did really intend to permit her return to France as soon as he secured her property, and that he would, in the meantime, protect her from insult. But her chief hope rested with Ludovico, who, she doubted not, would be uterous in her cause, though he seemed almost a despair of success in it. One circumstance, however, she had to rejoice in. Her prudence, or rather her fears, had saved her from mentioning the name of Volincor to Montenigne, which he was several times on the point of doing before she signed the paper, and of stipulating for his release if he should be really a prisoner in the castle. Had she done this, Montenigne's jealous fears would now probably have loaded Volincor with new severities and have suggested the advantage of holding him captive for life. Thus passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in this same chamber. When night drew on, she would have withdrawn herself to a next bed, had not a particular interest inclined her to remain in this chamber, in spite of her fears, for when the castle should be still and the customary hour arrived, she determined to watch for the music which she had formally heard. Though it sounds might not enable her to positively determine whether Volincor was there, they would perhaps strengthen her opinion that he was, and impart the comfort so necessary to her present support. But, on the other hand, if all should remain silent, she hardly dared to suffer her thoughts to glance that way, but waited with impatient expectation the approaching hour. The night was stormy, the battlements of the castle appeared to rock in the wind, and at intervals, long groans seemed to pass on the air, such as those which often deceived the melancholy mind in tempests and amid scenes of desolation. Emily heard, as formerly, the sentinels pass along the terrace to their posts, and, looking out from her casement, observed that the watch was doubled, a precaution which appeared necessary enough when she threw her eyes on the walls and saw their shattered condition. The well-known sounds of the soldier's march and of their distant voices, which passed her in the wind, were at last again recalled to her memory the melancholy sensation she had suffered when she formerly heard the same sounds, and occasioned almost involuntary comparisons between her present and her late situation. But this was no subject for congratulations, and she wisely checked the course of her thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet come, in which she had been accustomed to hear the music, she closed the casement and endeavored to await impatience. The door of the staircase she tried to secure, as usual, with some of the furniture in the room, but this expedient, her fears now represented to her to be very inadequate to the power and perfect chivalrence of a wretzy, and she often looked at a large and heavy chest that stood in the chamber, with wishes that she and Annette had strength enough to move it. While she blamed the long stay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico, and some of the other servants, she trimmed her wood fire to make the room appear less desolate, and sat down beside it with a book, which her eyes perused, while her thoughts wandered to Valencor and her own misfortunes. As she sat thus, she thought, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished music, and went to the casement to listen. But the loud swell of the gust overcame every other sound. When the winds sunk again, she distinctly heard, in a deep pause that succeeded, the sweet strings of a lute, but again the rising tempest bore away the notes, and again was succeeded by a solemn pause. Emily, trembling with hope and fear, opened her casement to listen, and to try whether her own voice could be heard by the musician. For to endure any longer the state of torturing suspense concerning Valencor, seemed to be utterly impossible. There was a kind of breathless stillness in the chambers that permitted her to distinguish from below the tender notes of the very lute she had formally heard, and with it a plaintive voice made sweeter by the low rustling sound that now began to creep along the wood tops, till it was lost in the rising wind. Their tall heads then began to wave, while, through a forest of pine on the left, the wind, groaning heavily, rolled onwards over the woods below, bending them almost to their roots. And, as the long resounding gale swept away, other woods on the right seemed to answer the loud lament. Then others further still softened it into a murmur that died into silence. Emily listened with mingled awe and expectation, hope and fear, and again the melting sweetness of the lute was heard, and the same solemn breathing voice. Convinced that these came from an apartment underneath, she leaned far out of her window that she might discover whether any light was there. But the casements below, as well as those above, were sunk so deep in the thick walls of the castle that she could not see them, or even the faint ray that probably glimmered through their paths. She then ventured to call, but the wind bore her voice to the other end of the terrace. And then the music was heard as before, in the paws of the gust. Suddenly she thought she heard a noise in her chamber, and she drew herself within the casement. But, in a moment after, distinguishing Annette's voice at the door, she concluded it was her she had heard before, and she let her in. Move softly, Annette, to the casement, said she, and listen with me. The music has returned. They were silent till, the measure changing, Annette exclaimed. Holy Virgin, I know that song well. It is a French song, one of the favorite songs of my dear country. This was the ballad Emily had heard on a former night, though not the one she had first listened to from the fishing house in Gascony. Oh, it is a Frenchman that sings, said Annette. It must be Montseur Valencor. Hark, Annette, do not speak so loud, said Emily. We may be overheard. What, by the chivalier, said Annette, no, replied Emily mournfully, but by someone who may report us to the signor. What reason have you to think it is Montseur Valencor who sings? But Hark, now the voice swells louder. Do you recollect those tones? I fear to trust my own judgment. I never happened to hear the chivalier sing, Montseur, replied Annette, who, as Emily was disappointed to perceive, had no stronger reason for concluding this to be Valencor than that the musician must be a Frenchman. Soon after she heard the song of the fishing house and distinguished her own name, which was repeated so distinctly that Annette had heard it also. She trembled, sunk into a chair by the window, and Annette called aloud, Montseur Valencor, Montseur Valencor, while Emily endeavored to check her, but she repeated the call more loudly than before, and the lute and the voice suddenly stopped. Emily listened for some time, in a state of intolerable suspense, but no answer being returned. It does not signify, Montseur, said Annette. It is the chivalier, and I will speak to him. No Annette, said Emily. I think I will speak to him myself. If it is he, you will know my voice and speak again. Who is it? said she, that sings at this late hour, a long silence ensued, and, having repeated the question, she perceived some faint accents mingling in the blast that swept by, but the sounds were so distant and passed so suddenly that she could scarcely hear them, much less distinguish the words they uttered or recognized the voice. After another pause, Emily called again, and again they heard a voice, but as faintly as before, and they perceived, and there were other circumstances besides the strength and direction of the wind to content with. For the great depth at which the casements were fixed in the castle walls contributed still more than the distance to prevent articulated sounds from being understood, though general ones were easily heard. Emily, however, ventured to believe, from the circumstance of her voice alone, having been answered, that the stranger was volencour, as well as that he knew her, and she gave herself up to speechless joy. Annette, however, was not speechless. She renewed her calls, but received no answer, and Emily, fearing that a further attempt, which certainly was, as present, highly dangerous, might expose them to the guards of the castle, while it could not perhaps terminate her suspense, insisted on Annette's dropping the inquiry for this night, though she determined herself to question Ludovico on the subject in the morning more urgently than she had yet done. She was now unable to say that the stranger whom she had formerly heard was still in the castle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it in which she was confined. Emily, attended by Annette, continued at the casement, for some time, but all remained still. They heard neither Lute or voice again, and Emily was now as much repressed by anxious joy, as she lately was by a sense of her misfortunes. With hasty steps, she paced the room, now half calling on volencour's name, then suddenly stopping, and now going to the casement and listening, where, however, she heard nothing but the solemn waving of the woods. Sometimes her impatient speak to Ludovico, prompted her to send Annette to call him, but a sense of the impropriety of this at midnight restrained her. Annette, meanwhile, as impatient as her mistress, went as often to the casement to listen, and returned almost as much disappointed. She, at length, pinched Senor Gretzi, and her fear lest he should enter the chamber by the staircase door. But the night is now almost past Mademoiselle, said she, recollecting herself. There is the morning light, beginning to peep over those mountains yonder in the east. Emily had forgotten him till this moment, as such a person existed as Gretzi, and all the danger that had appeared to threaten her. But the mention of his name renewed her alarm, and she remembered the old chest, which she had wished to place against the door, which she now, with Annette, attempted to move. But it was so heavy that they could not lift it from the floor. What is in this great old chest, Mademoiselle, said Annette, that makes it so weighty. Emily, having replied, that she found it in the chamber when she first came to the castle and never examined it. Then I will, Mademoiselle, said Annette, and she tried to lift the lid. But this was held by a lock, for which she had no key, and which, indeed, appeared from its peculiar construction to open with the spring. The morning now glimmered through the casements, and the wind had sunk into a calm. Emily looked out upon the dusky woods, and on the twilight mountains, just stealing in the eye, and saw the whole scene, after the storm, lying in profound stillness. The woods motionless, and the clouds above, through which the dawn trembled, scarcely appearing to move along the heavens. One soldier was pacing the terrace beneath, with measured steps, and two, more distant, were sunk asleep on the walls, wearied with the night's watch. Having inhaled, for a while, the pure spirit of the air, and of vegetation, which the late rains had called forth, and having listened, once more, for a note of music she now closed the casement, and retired to rest. According by Andrew Drinkwater, January 20th, 2008 The Mysteries of Udalfo by Anne Radcliffe Volume 3, Chapter 9, Part A Thus on the chill Leponians dreary land, for many a long month lost in snow profound, when soul from cancer sends the seasons bland, and in their northern cave the storms hath bound. From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, torrents are hurled, green hills emerge, and low, the trees with foliage, the cliffs with flowers are crowned. Pure rills through veils of verdure warbling go, and wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart overflow. Beaty, several of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Ludovico could only learn from the soldiers that there was a prisoner in the apartment described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman, whom they had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a party of his countrymen. During this interval, Emily escaped the persecutions of Bertolini and Varetsi by confining herself to her apartment, except that sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoining corridor. Monteny appeared to respect his last promise, though he had profaned his first, for to his protection only could she attribute her present repose, and in this she was now so secure that she did not wish to leave the castle till she could obtain some certainty concerning Valencor, for which she waited, indeed, without any sacrifice of her own comfort, since no circumstance had occurred to make her escape probable. On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her that he had hopes of being admitted to the presence of the prisoner, it being the turn of a soldier with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend him on the following night. He was not deceived in his hope, for under pretense of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison. Though his prudence having prevented him from telling the sentinel the real motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference with the prisoner a very short one. Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promised to accompany Annette to the corridor in the evening. Where, after several hours impatiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having then uttered the name of Valencor, could articulate no more, but hesitated in trembling expectation. The Chevalier would not entrust me with his name, Signora, replied Ludovico. But, when I just mentioned yours, he seemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so surprised as I expected. Does he then remember me, she exclaimed? Oh, it is Montsur Valencor, said Annette, and looked impatiently at Ludovico, who understood her look and replied to Emily. Yes, lady, the Chevalier does indeed remember you, and I am sure has a very great regard for you. And I made bold to say you had for him. He then inquired how you came to know he was in the castle, and whether you ordered me to speak to him. The first question I could not answer, but the second I did. And then he went off into his exorcise again. I was afraid his joy would have betrayed him to the Sentinel at the door. But how does he look, Ludovico, interrupted Emily? Is he not melancholy and ill with this long confinement? Why, as to melancholy, I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for he seemed in the finest spirits I ever saw anybody in, in all my life. His countenance was all joy, and if one may judge from that, he was very well, but I did not ask him. Did he send me no message? said Emily. Oh, yes, senora, and something besides, replied Ludovico, who searched his pockets. Surely I had not lost it, added he. The Chevalier said he would have written, madame, if he had had pen and ink, and was going to have sent a very long message when the Sentinel entered the room, but not before he had given me this. Ludovico then drew forth a miniature from his bosom, which Emily received with a trembling hand, and perceived to be a portrait of herself, the very picture which her mother had lost so strangely in the fishing house at Lavalle. Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico proceeded. Tell your lady, said the Chevalier, as he gave me the picture, that this has been my companion and only solace in all my misfortunes. Tell her that I have worn it next to my heart, and that I sent it her as the pledge of an affection which can never die, that I would not part with it but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that I now part with it only in the hope of soon receiving it from her hands. Tell her, just then, signora, the Sentinel came in, and the Chevalier said no more, but he had before asked me to contrive an interview for him with you. And when I told him how little hope I had of prevailing with the guard to assist me, he said, that was not perhaps of so much consequence as I imagined, and he made me contrive to bring back your answer. And he would inform me of more than he chose to do then. So this, I think, lady, is the whole of what passed. How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal? said Emily. But, indeed, I do not now possess the means. When can you see the Chevalier again? That is uncertain, signora, replied he. It depends on who stands guard next. There are not more than one or two among them, from whom I would dare ask admittance to the prison chamber. I need not bid you remember, Ludovico, resumed Emily, how very much interested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon. And when you do so, tell him that I have received the picture, and with the sentiments he wished. Tell him I have suffered much, and still suffer. She paused. But, but shall I tell him you will see him, lady? said Ludovico. Most certainly I will, replied Emily. But when, signora, and where? That must depend upon circumstances, returned Emily. The place and the hour must be regulated by his opportunities. As to the place, Mamacel, said Annette, there is no other place in the castle besides this corridor where we can see him in safety, you know. And, as for the hour, it must be when all the signoras are asleep, if that ever happens. You may mention these circumstances to the Chevalier Ludovico, said she, checking the flippancy of Annette. And leave them to his judgment, and opportunity. Tell him my heart is unchanged. But above all, let him see you again as soon as possible. And Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I shall very anxiously look for you. Having then wished her good night, Ludovico descended the staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep, for joy now rendered her as wakeful as she had ever been from grief. Monteny and his castle had all vanished from her mind, like the frightful vision of a necromancer, and she wandered once more in very scenes of unfading happiness. As when, beneath the beam of summer moons, the distant woods among, or by some flood, all silvered with the gleam, the soft embodied phase through eerie portal stream. A week elapsed before Ludovico again visited the prison, for the sentinels during that period were men in whom he could not confide, and he feared to awaken curiosity by asking to see their prisoner. In this interval, he communicated to Emily terrific reports of what was passing in the castle, of riots, quarrels, and of carousels more alarming than either. While from some circumstances, which he mentioned, she not only doubted whether Monteny meant ever to release her, but greatly feared that he had designs concerning her, such as she had formally dreaded. Her name was frequently mentioned in the conversations which Bertolini and Veretzi held together, and at those times, they were frequently in contention. Monteny had lost large sums to Veretzi, so there was a dreadful possibility of his designing her to be a substitute for the debt, but, as she was ignorant, that he had formally encouraged the hopes of Berlini also concerning herself, after the latter had done him some signal service, she knew not how to account for these contentions between Berlini and Veretzi. The cause of them, however, appeared to be of little consequence, for she thought she saw destruction approaching in many forms, and her entreaties to Ludovico would contrive an escape, and to see the prisoner again, were more urgent than ever. At length he informed her that he had again visited the Chevalier, who had directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom he had already received some instances of kindness, and who had promised to permit his going into the castle for half an hour on the ensuing night, when Monteny and his companions should be engaged at their carousels. This was kind, to be sure, added Ludovico, but Sebastien knows he runs no risk in letting the Chevalier out, for if he can get beyond the bars and iron doors of the castle, he must be cunning indeed. But the Chevalier desired me, senor, to go to you immediately, and to beg you would allow him to visit you this night, if it was only for a moment, for that he could no longer live under the same roof without seeing you. The hour, he said, he could not mention, for it must depend on circumstances, just as you said, senora, and the place he desired you would appoint, as knowing which was best for your own safety. Emily was now so much agitated by the near prospect of meeting Valencor that it was some time before she could give any answer to Ludovico, or consider of the place of meeting. When she did, she saw a nun that promised so much security as the corridor near her own apartment, which she was checked from leaving by the apprehension of meeting any of Monteny's guests on their way to their rooms, and she dismissed the scruples which delicacy opposed, now that a serious danger was to be avoided by encountering them. It was settled, therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the corridor at that hour of the night, which Ludovico, who was to be upon the watch, should judge safest. And Emily, as maybe imagined, passed this interval in a tumult of hope and joy, anxiety and impatience. Never since her residence in the castle had she watched, with so much pleasure, the sun set behind the mountains, and twilight shade and darkness bailed the scene, as on this evening. She counted the notes of the great clock, and listened to the steps of the sentinels, as they changed watch, only to rejoice that another hour was gone. Oh, Velenkor, said she, after all I have suffered, after our long separation, when I thought I should never, never see you more, we are still to meet again. Oh, I have endured grief and anxiety and terror, and let me, then, not sink beneath this joy. These were moments, when it was impossible for her to feel emotions of regret or melancholy. For any ordinary interests, even the reflection, that she had resigned the estates, which would have been a provision for herself and Velenkor for life, through only a light and transient shade upon her spirits. The idea of Velenkor, and that she should see him so soon, alone occupied her heart. At length, the clock struck twelve. She opened the door to listen, if any noise was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot and laughter, echoed feebly along the gallery. She guessed, that the signor and his guests were at the banquet. They are now engaged for the night, said she, and Velenkor will soon be here. Having softly closed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps, and often went to the casement to listen for the loot. But all was silent, and her agitation every moment increasing. She was, at length, unable to support herself and sat down by the window. Annette, whom she detained, was, in the meantime, as loquacious as usual, but Emily heard scarcely anything she said, and having at length risen to the casement, she distinguished the cords of the loot, struck with an expressive hand, and then the voice. She had formally listened to, accompanied it. Now, rising love they fanned, now pleasing dull, they breathed in tender musings through the heart, and now, a graver, sacred strain they stole, as when seraphic hands and him impart. Emily wept in doubtful joy and tenderness. And, when the strain ceased, she considered it as a signal that Velenkor was about to leave the prison. Soon after, she heard steps in the corridor. They were the light, quick steps of hope. She could scarcely support herself as they approached. But opening the door of the apartment, she advanced to meet Velenkor, and, in the next moment, sunk in the arms of a stranger. His voice, his countenance, instantly convinced her, and she fainted away. End of Volume 3, Chapter 9, Part A Madison, Wisconsin, January 27th, 2008 The Mysteries of Udolfo by Ann Radcliffe Volume 3, Chapter 9, Part B On reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who was watching over her recovery with the countenance of ineffable tenderness and anxiety. She had no spirits for reply or inquiry. She asked no questions, but burst into tears and disengaged herself from his arms. When the expression of his countenance changed to surprise and disappointment, and he turned to Ludovico for an explanation, Annette soon gave the information, which Ludovico could not. Oh, sir, said she, in a voice interrupted with sobs. Oh, sir, you are not the other chivalier. We expected Montsurvallancourt, but you are not he. Oh, Ludovico, how could you deceive us so? My poor lady will never recover it, never. The stranger, who now appeared much agitated, attempted to speak, but his words faltered, and then, striking his hand against his forehead, as if in sudden despair, he walked abruptly to the other end of the corridor. Suddenly, Annette dried her tears and spoke to Ludovico. But, perhaps, said she, after all, the other chivalier is not this. Perhaps the chivalier Vallancourt is still below. Emily raised her head. No, replied Ludovico, once your Vallancourt never was below if this gentleman is not he. If you, sir, said Ludovico, addressing the stranger, would but have had the goodness to trust me with your name, this mistake had been avoided. Most true, replied the stranger, speaking in broken Italian, but it was of the utmost consequence to me that my name should be concealed from Monteny. Madame, added he then, addressing Emily in French, Will you permit me to apologize for the pain I have occasioned you, and to explain to you alone my name and the circumstance which has led me into this error? I am a France. I am your countryman. We are met in a foreign land. Emily tried to compose her spirits, yet she hesitated to grant his request. At length, desiring that Ludovico would wait on the staircase, and detaining a net, she told the stranger that her woman understood very little Italian, and begged he would communicate what he wished to say in that language. Having withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor, he said, with a long drawn sigh, You, Madame, are no stranger to me, though I am so unhappy as to be unknown to you. My name is Dupont. I am a France of Gasticani, your native province, and have long admired, and why should I affect to disguise it, have long loved you. He paused, but in the next moment proceeded, My family, Madame, is probably not unknown to you, for we lived within a few miles of Lavalé, and I have, sometimes, had the happiness of meeting you, on visits in the neighborhood. I will not offend you by repeating how much you interested me, how much I loved to wander in the scenes you frequented, how often I visited your favorite fishing house, and lamented the circumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal my passion. I will not explain how I surrendered to temptation and became possessed of a treasure, which was to me inestimable, a treasure which I committed to your messenger a few days ago, with expectations very different from my present ones. I will say nothing of these circumstances, for I know they will avail me little. Let me only supplicate from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so unwarily returned. Your generosity will pardon the theft and restore the prize. My crime has been my punishment, for the portrait I stole has contributed to nourish a passion which must still be my torment. Emily now interrupted him. I think, sir, I may leave it to your integrity to determine whether, after what has just happened concerning Multio Valencor, I ought to return the picture. I think you will acknowledge that this would not be generosity, and you will allow me to add that it would be doing myself an injustice. I must consider myself honored by your good opinion, but, and she hesitated, the mistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me to save more. It does, madame, alas, it does, said the stranger, who, after a long pause, proceeded. But you will allow me to shoo my disinterestedness, though not my love, and will accept the services I offer. Yet alas, what services can I offer? I am myself a prisoner, a sufferer, like you. But, dear as liberty is to me, I would not seek it through half the hazards I would encounter to deliver you from this recess of vice. Accept the offered services of a friend. Do not refuse me the reward of having, at least, attempted to deserve your thanks. You deserve them already, sir, said Emily. The wish deserves my warmest thanks. But you will excuse me for reminding you of the danger you incur by prolonging this interview. It will be a great consolation to me to remember, whether your friendly attempts to release me succeed or not, that I have a countryman, who would so generously protect me. Dupont took her hand, which she but feebly attempted to withdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his lips. Allow me to breathe another ferment sigh for your happiness, said he, and to applaud myself for an affection which I cannot conquer. As he said this, Emily heard a noise from her apartment, and, turning round, saw the door from the staircase open, and a man rushed into her chamber. I will teach you to conquer it, cried he, as he advanced into the corridor and drew a stiletto, which he aimed at Dupont, who was unarmed but who, stepping back, avoided the blow, and then sprung upon Varetsy, from whom he wrenched the stiletto. While they struggled in each other's grasps, Emily, followed by Annette, ran further into the corridor, calling on Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the staircase, and, as she advanced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a distant noise that seemed to arise from the hall reminded her of the danger she was incurring, and, sending Annette forward in search of Ludovico, she returned to the spot where Dupont and Varetsy were still struggling for victory. It was her own cause which was to be decided, with that of the former, whose conduct, independently of this circumstance, would, however, have interested her in his success, even had she not disliked and dreaded Varetsy. She threw herself in a chair and supplicated them to desist from further violence, till, at length, Dupont forced Varetsy to the floor, where he lay stunned by the violence of his fall, and she then entreated Dupont to escape from the room before Montenille or his party should appear, but he still refused to leave her unprotected, and, while Emily, now more terrified for him than for herself, enforced the entreaty, they heard steps ascending the private staircase. Oh, you are lost, cried she. These are Montenille's people. Dupont made no reply, but supported Emily, while, with a steady, though eager countenance, he awaited their appearance, and in the next moment, Ludovico alone mounted the landing place, throwing a hasty glance around the chamber. Follow me, said he, as you value your lives. We have not an instant to lose. Emily inquired what had occurred, and with her they were to go. I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora, replied Ludovico. Fly, fly! She immediately followed him, accompanied by Montenille or Dupont, down the staircase, and along the vaulted passage, when suddenly she recollected a net and inquired for her. She waits us further on, Signora, said Ludovico, almost breathless with haste. The gates were opened, a moment since, to a party just come in from the mountains. They will be shot, I fear, before we can reach them. Through the door, Signora, and Ludovico holding down the lamp, take care, here are two steps. Emily followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood that her escape from the castle depended upon the present moment. While Dupont supported her and endeavored as they passed along to cheer up her spirits. Speak low, Signora, said Ludovico. These passages send echoes all around the castle. Take care of the light, cried Emily. You go so fast, the air will extinguish it. Ludovico now opened another door where they found a net, and the party then descended a short flight of steps into a passage which, Ludovico said, led round the inner court of the castle and opened into the outer one. As they advanced, confused and tumultuous sounds had seemed to come from the inner court alarmed Emily. Ne, Signora, replied Ludovico, our only hope is in that tumult, while the Signora's people are busied about the men who are just arrived. We may perhaps pass unnoticed to the gates, but hush, he added, as they approached a small door that opened into the outer court. If you remain here a moment, I will go to see whether the gates are open, and anybody is in the way. Pray extinguish the light, Signora, if you hear me talking, continued Ludovico, delivering the lamp to Dupont, and remain quite still. Saying this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door, listening anxiously to his departing steps. No voice, however, was heard in the court, which he was crossing, though a confusion of many voices yet issued from the inner one. We shall soon be beyond the walls, said Dupont to Emily, support yourself a little longer, Madame, and all will be well. But soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of some other person, and Dupont immediately extinguished the lamp. Ah, it is too late, exclaimed Emily, what is to become of us? They listened again, and then perceived that Ludovico was talking with the sentinel, whose voices were heard also by Emily's favorite dog, that had followed her from the chamber, and now barked loudly. This dog will betray us, said Dupont, I will hold him. I fear he has already betrayed us, replied Emily. Dupont, however, caught him up, and again listening to what was going on without, they heard Ludovico say, I'll watch the gates for a while. Stay a minute, replied the sentinel, and you need not have the trouble, for the horses will be sent round to the outer stables, and the gates will be shut, and I can leave my post. I don't mind the trouble, comrade, said Ludovico. You will do such another good turn for me sometime. Go, go, and fetch the wine. The rogues that are just come in will drink it all else. The soldier hesitated, and then called aloud to the people in the second court, to know why they did not send out the horses, that the gates might be shut, but they were too much engaged to attend him, even if they heard his voice. I, I, said Ludovico, they know better than that. They are sharing it all among them. If you wait till the horses come out, you must wait till the wine is drunk. I have had my share already, but since you do not care about yours, I see no reason why I should not have that too. Hold, hold, not so fast, cried the sentinel. Do watch then for a moment, I'll be with you presently. Don't hurt yourself, said Ludovico Cooley. I've kept the guard before now, but you may leave me your trombone, that if the castle should be attacked, you know, I may be able to defend the past like a hero. Note, a trombone is a kind of blunderbuss, AR. There, my good fellow, return the soldier, there, take it. It is seen serviced, though it could do little in defending the castle. I'll tell you a good story, though, about this same trombone. You'll tell it better when you've had the wine, said Ludovico. There, they're coming out from the court already. I'll have the wine, though, said the sentinel running off. I won't keep you a minute. Take your time, I am in no haste, replied Ludovico, who was already hurrying across the court when the soldier came back. Wither so fast, friend, wither so fast, said the latter. What, is this the way you keep watch? I must stand to post myself, I see. I, well, replied Ludovico. You have saved me the trouble of following you further, but I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind to drink the tuscumine wine, you must go to Sebastian. He is dealing it out. The other that Federico has is not worth having, but you are not likely to have any, I see, for they are all coming out. By Saint Peter, so they are, said the soldier, and again ran off. While Ludovico, once more at liberty, hastened to the door of the passage, where Emily was sinking under the anxiety this long discourse had occasioned. But, on his telling them the court was clear, they followed him to the gates, without waiting another instant, yet not before he had seized two horses that had strayed from the second court and were picking a scanty meal among the grass, which grew between the pavement of the first. They passed, without interruptions, the dreadful gates, and took the road that led down among the woods. Emily, Montseur de Pond, and a net on foot, and Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading the other. Having reached them, they stopped, while Emily and a net were placed on horseback, with their two protectors. When Ludovico leading the way, they set off as fast as the broken road, and the feeble light, which a rising moon threw among the foliage, would permit. Emily was so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she scarcely dared to believe herself awake. And she yet much doubted whether this adventure would terminate an escape. A doubt, which had too much probability to justify it. For, before they quitted the woods, they heard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from them, saw lights moving quickly near the castle above. Dupont whipped his horse, and, with some difficulty, compelled him to go faster. Ah, poor beast, said Ludovico, he is weary enough. He has been out all day, but, signor, we must fly for it. Now, for yonder are lights coming this way. Having given his own horse a lash, they now both set off on a full gallop, and, when they again looked back, the lights were so distant as scarcely to be discerned, and the voices were sunk into silence. The travelers then abated their pace, and, consulting with her they should direct their course, it was determined they should descend into Tuscany, and endeavor to reach the Mediterranean, where they could readily embark for France. Thither Dupont meant to attend Emily, if he should learn, that the regiment he had accompanied into Italy was now returned to his native country. They were now in the road which Emily had traveled with Hugo and Bertrand, but Ludovico, who was the only one of the party acquainted with the passes of these mountains, said that, a little further on, a by-road branching from this would lead them down into Tuscany with very little difficulty, and that, at a few leeds' distance, there was a small town where necessaries could be procured for their journey. But, I hope, added he, we shall meet with no struggling parties of banditee. Some of them are abroad, I know. However, I have got a good trombone which will be of some service, if we should encounter any of those brave spirits. You have no arm, senor? Yes, replied Dupont. I have the villain Stiletto, who would have stabbed me, but let us rejoice in our escape from Udolfo, nor torment ourselves with looking out for dangers that may never arrive. The moon was now risen high over the woods that hung upon the sides of the Nero Glen, through which they wandered, and afforded them light sufficient to distinguish their way, and to avoid the loose and broken stones that frequently crossed it. They now traveled leisurely and in profound silence, for they had scarcely yet recovered from the astonishment into which this sudden escape had thrown them. Emily's mind especially was sunk after the various emotions it had suffered into a kind of musing stillness, which the reposing beauty of the surrounding scene and the creeping murmur of the night breeze among the foliage above contributed to prolong. She thought of Valencor and of France with hope, and she would have thought of them with joy, had not the first events of this evening harassed her spirits too much to prevent her now to feel so lively a sensation. Meanwhile, Emily was alone the object of Dupont's melancholy consideration, yet with the despondency he suffered, as he mused on his recent disappointment, was mingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned by her presence, though they did not now exchange a single word. Annette thought of this wonderful escape of the bustle in which Montenigne's people must be, now that their flight was discovered, of her native country, with her she hoped she was returning and of her marriage with Ludovico, to which there no longer appeared any impediment for poverty she did not consider such. Ludovico on his part congratulated himself on having rescued his Annette and Signora Emily from the danger that had surrounded them. On his own liberation from people whose manners he had long detested, on the freedom he had given to Montseur Dupont, on his prospect of happiness with the object of his affections, and not a little on the address which which he had deceived the sentinel and conducted the whole of this affair. Thus variously engaged in thought, the travelers passed on silently for above an hour, a question only being now and then asked by Dupont, concerning the road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respecting objects seen imperfectly in the twilight. At length lights were perceived twinkling on the side of a mountain, and Ludovico had no doubt that they proceeded from the town he had mentioned, while his companions satisfied by this assurance sunk again into silence. Annette was the first who interrupted this. Holy Peter said she, what shall we do for money on our journey, for I know neither I nor my lady have a single sequin, the Signor took care of that. This remark produced a serious inquiry, which was ended in a serious and embarrassment, for Dupont had been rifled of nearly all his money when he was taken prisoner, the remainder he had given to the sentinel who had enabled him occasionally to leave his prison chamber, and Ludovico, who had for some time found a difficulty in procuring any part of the wages due to him, had now scarcely cash sufficient to procure necessary refreshment at the first town in which they should arrive. Their poverty was the more distressing since it would detain them among the mountains, where even in a town they could scarcely consider themselves safe from Montenille. The travelers, however, had only to proceed and dare the future, and they continued their way through lonely wilds and dusky valleys, where the overhanging foliage now admitted and then excluded the moonlight, wild soul desolate, that they appeared on the first glance as if no human being had ever trod them before. Even the road in which the party were did, but slightly contradict this error. For the high grass and other luxuriant vegetation, with which it was overgrown, told how very seldom the foot of a traveler had passed it. At length from a distance was heard the faint tinkling of a faint tinkling of a sheep bell, and soon after the bleed of flocks, and the party then knew that they were near some human habitation. For the light, which Ludovico had fancied to proceed from a town, had long been concealed by intervening mountains. Cheered by this hope, they quickened their pace along the narrow pass they were winding, and it opened upon one of those pastoral valleys of the Eponene, which might be painted for a scene of Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity are finally contrasted by the grandeur of the snow-topped mountains above. The morning light, now glimmering in the horizon, shooed faintly at a little distance upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from under the opening eyelids of the morn, the town they were in search of, and which they soon after reached. It was not without some difficulty that they there found a house, which could afford shelter for themselves and their horses, and Emily desired they might not rest longer than was necessary for refreshment. Her appearance excited some surprise, for she was without a hat, having had time only to throw on her veil before she left the castle. A circumstance that compelled her to regret again the want of money, without which it was impossible to procure this necessary article of dress. Ludovico, unexamining his purse, found it even insufficient to supply present refreshment, and Dupont, at length, ventured to inform the landlord, whose countenance was simple and honest, of their exact situation, and requested that he would assist them to pursue their journey, a purpose which he promised to comply with, as far as he was able, when he learned that they were prisoners escaping from Montenegro, whom he had too much reason to hate. But though he consented to lend them fresh horses to carry them to the next town, he was too poor himself to trust them with money, and they were again lamenting their poverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired horses to the hovel, which served for a stable, entered the room half frantic with joy, in which his auditors soon participated. On removing the saddle from one of the horses, he had found beneath it a small bag, containing, no doubt, the booty of one of the condottieri, who had returned from a plundering excursion. Just before Ludovico left the castle, and whose horse having strayed from the inner court, while his master was engaged in drinking, had brought away the treasure, which Seraphion had considered the reward of his exploit. Uncounting over this, Dupont found that it would be more than sufficient to carry them all to France, where he now determined to accompany Emily, whether he should obtain intelligence of his regiment or not. For, though he had as much confidence in the integrity of Ludovico, as his small knowledge of him allowed, he could not endure the thought of committing her to his care for their voyage. Nor, perhaps, had he resolution enough to deny himself the dangerous pleasure which he might derive from her presence. He now consulted them concerning the seaport, to which they should direct their way, and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of the country, said that Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence, which Dupont knew also to be the most likely of any in Italy to assist their plan, since from thence vessels of all nations were continually departing. Thither, therefore, it was determined that they should proceed. Emily, having purchased a little straw hat, such as was worn by the peasant girls of Tuscany, and some other little necessary equipment for the journey, and the travelers, having exchanged their tired horses for others better able to carry them, recommenced their joyous way, as the sun was rising over the mountains, and, after traveling through this romantic country for several hours, began to descend into the veil of Arno, and here Emily beheld all the charms of Sylvan and pastoral landscape united, adorned with the elegant villas of the Florentine nobles, and diversified with the various riches of cultivation. How vivid the shrubs that empowered the slopes, with the woods that stretched amphitheatrically along the mountains, and, above all, how elegant the outline of these waving epineen, now softening from the wildness, which their interior regions exhibited. At a distance in the east, Emily discovered Florence, with its towers rising on the brilliant horizon, and its luxuriant plain, spreading to the feet of the epineen, speckled with gardens and magnificent villas, or colored with groves of orange and lemon, with vines, corn, and plantations of olives and mulberry. While, to the west, the veil opened to the waters of the Mediterranean, so distant that they were known only by a bluish line that appeared upon the horizon, and by the light marine vapor, which just stained the aether above. With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves that were to bury her back to her native country, the remembrance of which, however, brought with it a pain, for she had there no home to receive, no parents to welcome her, but was going, like a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot, where he who was her father lay interred. Nor were her spirits cheered when she considered how long it would probably be before she should see Valencor, who might be stationed with his regimen in a distant part of France, and that, when they did meet, it would be only to lament the successful villainy of Montigny. Yet, still, she would have felt inexpressible delight at the thought of being once more in the same country with Valencor, had it even been certain that she could not see him. End of Chapter 9, Part B. The Mysteries of Udolfo by Ann Radcliffe. Volume 3, Chapter 9, Part C. The intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travelers to look out for a shady recess, where they might rest for a few hours, and the neighboring thickets, abounding with wild grapes, raspberries, and figs, promised them grateful refreshment. Soon after, they turned from the road into a grove, whose thick foliage entirely excluded the sunbeams, and where a spring, gushing from the rock, gave coolness to the air. And, having alighted and turned the horses to graze, Annette and Ludovico ran together fruit from the surrounding thickets, of which they soon turned with an abundance. The travelers, seated under the shade of a pine and cypress grove, and on turf, and rich with such a profusion of fragrant flowers, as Emily had scarcely ever seen, even among the Pyrenees, took their simple repast, and viewed with new delight beneath the dark umbrage of gigantic pines, the glowing landscapes stretching to the sea. Emily and Dupont gradually became thoughtful and silent, but Annette was all joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting the respectful distance which was due to his companions. The repast being over, Dupont recommended Emily to endeavor to sleep during these sultry hours, and, desiring the servants would do the same, said he would watch the while. But Ludovico wished to spare him this trouble, and Emily and Annette, reared with traveling, tried to repose while he stood guard with his trombone. When Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke, she found the sentinel asleep on his post and Dupont awake, but lost in melancholy thought. As the sun was yet too high to allow them to continue their journey, and, as it was necessary, that Ludovico, after the toils and trouble he had suffered, should finish his sleep, Emily took this opportunity of inquiring by what accident Dupont became Monteney's prisoner, and he, pleased with the interest this inquiry expressed, and with the excuse it gave him for talking to her of himself, he immediately answered her curiosity. I came into Italy, madam, said Dupont. In the service of my country, in an adventure among the mountains, our party, engaging with the bands of Monteney, was routed, and I, with a few of my comrades, was taken prisoner. When they told me whose captive I was, the name of Monteney struck me, for I remembered that Madame Charon, your aunt, had married an Italian of that name, and that you had accompanied them into Italy. It was not, however, till some time after, that I became convinced this was the same Monteney, or learned that you, madam, was under the same roof with myself. I will not pain you by describing what were my emotions upon this discovery, which I owed to a sentinel, whom I had so far won to my interest that he granted me many indulgences, one of which was very important to me, and somewhat dangerous to myself. But he persisted in refusing to convey any letter, or notice of my situation to you, for he justly dreaded the discovery and the consequent vengeance of Monteney. He, however, enabled me to see you more than once. You are surprised, madame, and I will explain myself, and at length I gained so far upon the pity or the avarice of the man that he gave me the means of walking on the terrace. Emily now listened, with very anxious attention, to the narrative of Dupont, who proceeded. In granting this indulgence, he knew that he had nothing to apprehend from a chance of my escaping from a castle which was visionally regarded, and the nearest terrace of which rose over a perpendicular rock. He should me also, continued Dupont, a door concealed in the cedar wainscot of the apartment where I was confined, which he instructed me how to open, and which, leading into a passage formed within the thickness of the wall that extended far along the castle, finally opened in an obscure corner of the eastern rampart. I have since been informed that there are many passages of the same kind concealed within the prodigious walls of that edifice, and which were undoubtedly contrived for the purpose of facilitating escapes and time of war. Through this avenue, at the dead of night, I often stole to the terrace, where I walked with the utmost caution lest my steps should betray me to the sentinels on duty in distant parts. For this end of it, being guarded by high buildings, was not watched by soldiers. In one of these midnight wanderings, I saw a light in a casement that overlooked the rampart, and which, I observed, was immediately over my prison chamber. It occurred to me that you might be in that apartment, and, with the hope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite the window. Emily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the terrace, and which had occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed. It was you then, Montier Dupont, who occasioned me much foolish terror. My spirits were, at the time, so much weakened by long suffering, that they took alarm at every hint. Dupont, after lamenting that he had occasioned her any apprehension, added, As I rested on the wall opposing your casement, the consideration of your melancholy situation and of my own called for me in voluntary sounds of lamentation, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement. I saw there a person whom I believed to be you. Oh, I will say nothing of my emotion at that moment. I wish to speak, but prudence restrained me, till the distant footstep of the sentinel compelled me suddenly to quit my station. It was some time before I had another opportunity of walking, for I could only leave my prison when it happened to be the turn of one man to guard me. Meanwhile, I became convinced from some circumstances related by him, that your apartment was over mine, and when again I ventured forth, I returned to your casement, where again I saw you, but without daring to speak. I waved my hand, and you suddenly disappeared. Then it was that I forgot my prudence and yielded to lamentation. Again you appeared. You spoke. I heard the well-known accent of your voice, and at that moment my discretion would have forsaken me again, had I not heard also the approaching steps of a soldier when I instantly quitted the place. Though not before the man had seen me, he followed down the terrace, and gained so fast upon me that I was compelled to make use of a stratagem, ridiculous enough to save myself. I had heard of the superstition of many of these men, and I uttered a strange noise with the hope that my pursuer would mistake it for something supernatural, and desist from pursuit, and luckily from myself I succeeded. The man it seems was subject to fits, and the terror he suffered threw him into one, by which accident I secured my retreat. A sense of the danger I had escaped, and the increased watchfulness, which my appearance had occasioned among the sentinels, adhered me ever after from walking on the terrace. But in the stillness of the night, I frequently beguiled myself with an old lute, procured for me by a soldier, which I sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes I will acknowledge with the hope of making myself heard by you. But it was only a few evenings ago that this hope was answered. I then thought I heard a voice in the wind calling me, yet even then I feared to reply, lest the sentinels at the prison door should hear me. Was I right, madame? In this conjecture, was it you who spoke? Yes, replied Emily with an involuntary sigh. You was right indeed. Dupont, observing the painful emotions which this question revived, now changed the subject. In one of my excursions through the passage, which I have mentioned, I overheard a singular conversation, said he. In the passage, said Emily with surprise, I heard it in the passage, said Dupont, but it proceeded from an apartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wand'd, and the shell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat decayed, that I could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other side. It happened that Montigny and his companions were assembled in the room, and Montigny began to relate the extraordinary history of the lady, his predecessor, in the castle. He did indeed mention some very surprising circumstances, and whether they were strictly true, his conscience must decide. I fear it will determine against him. But you, madame, have doubtless heard the report, which he designs should circulate. On the subject of that lady's mysterious fate, I have, sir, replied Emily, and I perceived that you doubt it. I doubted it before the period I am speaking of, rejoined Dupont, but some circumstances, mentioned by Montigny, greatly contributed to my suspicions. The account I then heard almost convinced me that he was a murderer. I trembled for you. The more so that I had heard, the gas mentioned your name in a manner that threatened your repose, and, knowing that the most impious men are often the most superstitious, I determined to try whether I could not weaken their consciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime I dreaded. I listened closely to Montigny, and in the most striking passages of his story, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words in a disguise and hollow tone. But was you not afraid of being discovered, said Emily? I was not, replied Dupont, for I knew that if Montigny had been acquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have confined me in the apartment to which it led. I knew also from better authority that he was ignorant of it. The party, for some time, appeared inattentive to my voice, but at length were so much alarmed that they acquitted the apartment, and, having heard Montigny order servants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was very distant from this part of the passage. I remember perfectly to have heard of the conversation you mentioned, said Emily. It spread a general alarm among Montigny's people, and I will own I was weak enough to partake of it. Montseur Dupont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montigny, and then of France, and of the plan of their voyage. When Emily told him that it was her intention to retire to a convent in Langdok, where she had been formally treated with much kindness, and from thence to write to her relation Montseur Connell, and inform him of her conduct. There she designed to wait, till la belay should again be her own, whether she hoped her income would sometime permit her to return. For Dupont now taught her to expect that the estate of which Montigny had attempted to defraud her was not irrecoverably lost, and again he congratulated her on her escape from Montigny, who, he had not a doubt, meant to have detained her for life. The possibility of recovering her on sustains for Valencor and herself lighted up a joy in Emily's heart, such as she had not known for many months. But she endeavored to conceal this from Montseur Dupont, lest it should lead him to a painful remembrance of his rival. They continued to converse till the sun was declining in the west, when Dupont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey. Gradually descending the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the Arno and wound along its best oral margin for many miles, delighted with the scenery around them, and with the remembrances which its classic waves revived. At a distance they heard the gaysong of the peasants among the vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint the waves with yellow lustre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the mountains, which, at length, deepened in tonight. Then Luchiola, the firefly of Tuscany, was seen to flash its sudden sparks among the foliage, while the Sicala, with its shrill note, became more clamorous than even during the noon day heat, loving best the hour when the English beetle, with the less offensive sound, wins. His small but sullen horn, as oft he rises, missed the twilight path, against the pilgrim born in heedless home. Collins. The travelers crossed the Arno by moonlight at a ferry, and, learning that Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they wished to have proceeded to thither in a boat, but as none could be procured, they set out on their weary horses for that city. As they approached it, the veil expanded into a plain, variegated with vineyards, corn, olives, and mulberry groves, but it was late before they reached its gates, where Emily was surprised to hear the busy sound of footsteps and the tones of musical instruments, as well as to see the lively groups that filled the streets, and she almost fancied herself again at Venice. But here was no moonlight sea, no gay gondolas dashing the waves, no Palladian palaces, to throw enchantments over the fancy, and lead it into the wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolled through the town, but no music trembled from the balconies over its waters, it gave only the busy voices of sailors on board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean, the melancholy heaving on the anchor, and the shrilled boatswain's whistle, sounds which, since that period, have there sunk almost into silence. They then served to remind Dupont that it was probable he might hear of a vessel sailing soon from France from this port, and thus be spared the trouble of going to Leghorn. As soon as Emily had reached the inn, he went therefore to the quay to make his enquiries, but after all the endeavors of himself and Ludovico, they could hear of no bark, destined immediately for France, and the travelers returned to their resting place. Here also, Dupont endeavored to learn where his regiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning it. The travelers retired early to rest after the fatigues of this day, and on the following, rose early and without pausing to view the celebrated antiquities of the place, or the wonders of a taming tower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours through a charming country rich with wine and corn and oil. The apanine no longer awful or even grand, here soften into the beauty of silvin and pastoral landscape, and Emily, as she descended them, looked down delighted on Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with vessels, and crowned with these beautiful hills. She was no less surprised and amused on entering this town to find it crowded with persons in the dresses of all nations, a scene which reminded her of a Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at the time of the carnival, but here was bustle without gaiety, and noise instead of music, while elegance was to be looked for only in the waving outlines of the surrounding hills. Once her Dupont immediately on their arrival went down to the quay, where he heard of several French vessels, and of one that was to sail in a few days for Marseille, from once another vessel could be procured without difficulty to take them across the gulf of lions toward Narbonne, on the coast not many leased from which the city he understood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to retire. He therefore immediately engaged with the captain to take them to Marseille, and Emily was delighted to hear that her passage to France was secured. Her mind was now relieved from the terror of pursuit, in the pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country, the country which held on core restored to her spirits a degree of cheerfulness, such as she had scarcely known since the death of her father. At legworn also Dupont heard of his regiment, and that it had embarked for France, a circumstance which gave him great satisfaction, for he could now accompany Emily Thither without reproach to his conscience, or apprehension of displeasure from his commander. During these days he scrupulously forebored to distress her by a mention of his passion, and she was compelled to esteem and pity, though she could not love him. He endeavored to muse her by shooing the environments of the town, and they often walked together on the seashore, and on the busy quays, where Emily was frequently interested by the arrival and departure of vessels, participating in the joy of meeting friends, and sometimes shedding a sympathetic tear to the sorrow of those that were separating. It was after having witnessed a scene on the latter kind that she arranged the following stanzas. The mariner, soft came the breath of spring, smooth flowed the tide, and blew the heaven in its mirror smiled. The white sail trembled, swelled, expanded wide. The soldiers at the anchor toiled, with anxious friends that shed the parting tear, the deck was thronged. How swift the moments fly. The vessel heaves, the farewell signs appear. Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye. The last dread moment comes. The sailor youth hides the big drop, and smiles amid his pain, soothes his sad bride, and vows eternal truth. Farewell, my love. We shall, shall meet again. Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood. The crowded shore sinks, lessening from his view. As gradual glides the bark among the flood. His bride is seen no more. Adieu, adieu. The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o'er. Dim seals her twilight down the crimson west. He climbs the topmost mast to seek once more the far-seen coast where all his wishes rest. He views its dark line on the distant sky, and fancy leads him to his little home. He sees his weeping love. He hears her sigh. He soothes her grief, and tells her of joys to come. Eve yields tonight the breeze to wintry gales. In one vast shade the seas and shores repose. He turns his aching eyes. His spirit fails. The chilled tear falls. Sad to the deck, he goes. The storm of midnight swells. The sails are furled. Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore. Fast o'er the waves the wretched bark is hurled. Oh, Ellen, Ellen, we must meet no more. Lightnings that chew the vast and foamy deep. The rending thunders as their onward roll. The loud, loud winds that o'er the billows sweep. Shake the firm nerve, appalled the bravest soul. Ah, what avails a seaman's toiling care? The straining cordage bursts. The mast is riven. The sounds of terror groan along the air, then sink afar. The bark on rocks is driven. Fierce o'er the wreck, the well-ming waters past. The helpless crew sunk in the ruining main. Henry's faint accents trembled in the blast. Farewell, my love. We never shall meet again. Off'd, at the calm and silent evening hour, when summer breezes linger on the wave, a melancholy voice is heard to pour its lonely sweetness o'er poor Henry's grave. And off'd, at midnight, airy strains are heard around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid. Nor is the dirge by villi-