My
health and spirits suffered extremely from want of air and exercise,
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 Du
Pont, 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 vigilantly
guarded, and the nearest terrace of which rose over a perpendicular
rock; he showed me also,” continued Du Pont, “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 in 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 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 to 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, Monsieur Du Pont, who occasioned me much foolish terror;
my spirits were, at that time, so much weakened by long suffering, that
they took alarm at every hint.” Du Pont, after lamenting, that he had
occasioned her any apprehension, added, “As I rested on the wall,
opposite to your casement, the consideration of your melancholy
situation and of my own called from me involuntary sounds of
lamentation, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I saw there a
person, whom I believed to be you. O! I will say nothing of my emotion
at that moment; I wished to speak, but prudence restrained me, till the
distant foot-step of a 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 a hope, that my pursuer would mistake it
for something supernatural, and desist from pursuit. Luckily for 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, deterred me
ever after from walking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of 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 a 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 sentinel at the prison door should hear me. Was I
right, madam, in this conjecture—was it you who spoke?”

“Yes,” said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, “you were right indeed.”

Du Pont, 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 Du Pont, “but it proceeded from an
apartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, 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 Montoni and his companions were assembled in the room,
and Montoni 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,
madam, 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 perceive, that you doubt it.”

“I doubted it before the period I am speaking of,” rejoined Du
Pont;—“but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, 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 guests mention 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
awaken their consciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime
I dreaded. I listened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking
passages of his story, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words,
in a disguised and hollow tone.”

“But were you not afraid of being discovered?” said Emily. “I was not,” replied Du Pont; “for I knew, that, if Montoni 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.