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. CHAPTER VII

Was nought around but images of rest,
Sleep-soothing groves and quiet lawns between,
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept,
From poppies breath’d, and banks of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets play’d,
And hurled everywhere their water’s sheen,
That, as they bicker’d through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. THOMSON


When Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprised to
observe the beauties, that surrounded it. The cottage was nearly
embowered in the woods, which were chiefly of chesnut intermixed with
some cypress, larch and sycamore. Beneath the dark and spreading
branches appeared to the north and to the east the woody Apennines,
rising in majestic amphitheatre, not black with pines, as she had been
accustomed to see them, but their loftiest summits crowned with ancient
forests of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now animated with the rich
tints of autumn, and which swept downward to the valley
uninterruptedly, except where some bold rocky promontory looked out
from among the foliage, and caught the passing gleam. Vineyards
stretched along the feet of the mountains, where the elegant villas of
the Tuscan nobility frequently adorned the scene, and overlooked slopes
clothed with groves of olive, mulberry, orange and lemon. The plain, to
which these declined, was coloured with the riches of cultivation,
whose mingled hues were mellowed into harmony by an Italian sun. Vines,
their purple clusters blushing between the russet foliage, hung in
luxuriant festoons from the branches of standard fig and cherry trees,
while pastures of verdure, such as Emily had seldom seen in Italy,
enriched the banks of a stream that, after descending from the
mountains, wound along the landscape, which it reflected, to a bay of
the sea. There, far in the west, the waters, fading into the sky,
assumed a tint of the faintest purple, and the line of separation
between them was, now and then, discernible only by the progress of a
sail, brightened with the sunbeam, along the horizon. The cottage, which was shaded by the woods from the intenser rays of
the sun, and was open only to his evening light, was covered entirely
with vines, fig-trees and jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in size
and fragrance any that Emily had seen. These and ripening clusters of
grapes hung round her little casement. The turf, that grew under the
woods, was inlaid with a variety of wild flowers and perfumed herbs,
and, on the opposite margin of the stream, whose current diffused
freshness beneath the shades, rose a grove of lemon and orange trees. This, though nearly opposite to Emily’s window, did not interrupt her
prospect, but rather heightened, by its dark verdure, the effect of the
perspective; and to her this spot was a bower of sweets, whose charms
communicated imperceptibly to her mind somewhat of their own serenity. She was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant’s daughter, a girl
about seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad to
observe, seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, though the
others, that surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worst
qualities—cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter style
of countenance, especially, were those of the peasant and his wife. Maddelina spoke little, but what she said was in a soft voice, and with
an air of modesty and complacency, that interested Emily, who
breakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while Ugo and Bertrand
were taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their host, near
the cottage door; when they had finished which, Ugo, rising hastily,
enquired for his mule, and Emily learned that he was to return to
Udolpho, while Bertrand remained at the cottage; a circumstance, which,
though it did not surprise, distressed her. When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring
woods; but, on being told, that she must not quit the cottage, without
having Bertrand for her attendant, she withdrew to her own room. There,
as her eyes settled on the towering Apennines, she recollected the
terrific scenery they had exhibited and the horrors she had suffered,
on the preceding night, particularly at the moment when Bertrand had
betrayed himself to be an assassin; and these remembrances awakened a
train of images, which, since they abstracted her from a consideration
of her own situation, she pursued for some time, and then arranged in
the following lines; pleased to have discovered any innocent means, by
which she could beguile an hour of misfortune. THE PILGRIM*

Slow o’er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,
A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,
To deck the Lady of Loretto’s seat
With all the little wealth his zeal could pay. From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray,
And, stretch’d in twilight, slept the vale below;
And now the last, last purple streaks of day
Along the melancholy West fade slow. High o’er his head, the restless pines complain,
As on their summit rolls the breeze of night;
Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain:
The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height. Then to the vale his cautious step he press’d,
For there a hermit’s cross was dimly seen,
Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,
Cheer’d in the good man’s cave, by faggot’s sheen,
On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest. Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!