Your _Excellenza_, yes—the wall of the rampart has tumbled
down in three places; then, the stairs, that lead to the west gallery,
have been a long time so bad, that it is dangerous to go up them; and
the passage leading to the great oak chamber, that overhangs the north
rampart—one night last winter I ventured to go there by myself, and
your _Excellenza_—”

“Well, well, enough of this,” said Montoni, with quickness: “I will
talk more with thee tomorrow.”

The fire was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs, wiped
the dust from a large marble table that stood near it, and then left
the room. Montoni and his family drew round the fire. Madame Montoni made several
attempts at conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed her, while
Emily sat endeavouring to acquire courage enough to speak to him. At
length, in a tremulous voice, she said, “May I ask, sir, the motive of
this sudden journey?”—After a long pause, she recovered sufficient
courage to repeat the question. “It does not suit me to answer enquiries,” said Montoni, “nor does it
become you to make them; time may unfold them all: but I desire I may
be no further harassed, and I recommend it to you to retire to your
chamber, and to endeavour to adopt a more rational conduct, than that
of yielding to fancies, and to a sensibility, which, to call it by the
gentlest name, is only a weakness.”

Emily rose to withdraw. “Good night, madam,” said she to her aunt, with
an assumed composure, that could not disguise her emotion. “Good night, my dear,” said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness,
which her niece had never before heard from her; and the unexpected
endearment brought tears to Emily’s eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and
was retiring; “But you do not know the way to your chamber,” said her
aunt. Montoni called the servant, who waited in the ante-room, and bade
him send Madame Montoni’s woman, with whom, in a few minutes, Emily
withdrew. “Do you know which is my room?” said she to Annette, as they crossed
the hall. “Yes, I believe I do, ma’amselle; but this is such a strange rambling
place! I have been lost in it already: they call it the double chamber,
over the south rampart, and I went up this great staircase to it. My
lady’s room is at the other end of the castle.”

Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as they
passed through which, Annette resumed her chat—“What a wild lonely
place this is, ma’am! I shall be quite frightened to live in it. How
often, and often have I wished myself in France again! I little
thought, when I came with my lady to see the world, that I should ever
be shut up in such a place as this, or I would never have left my own
country! This way, ma’amselle, down this turning. I can almost believe
in giants again, and such like, for this is just like one of their
castles; and, some night or other, I suppose I shall see fairies too,
hopping about in that great old hall, that looks more like a church,
with its huge pillars, than anything else.”

“Yes,” said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious
thought, “if we come to the corridor, about midnight, and look down
into the hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand
lamps, and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of
delicious music; for it is in such places as this, you know, that they
come to hold their revels. But I am afraid, Annette, you will not be
able to pay the necessary penance for such a sight: and, if once they
hear your voice, the whole scene will vanish in an instant.”

“O! if you will bear me company, ma’amselle, I will come to the
corridor, this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue; it
shall not be my fault if the show vanishes.—But do you think they will
come?”

“I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say, it
will not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish.”

“Well, ma’amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you: but I am
not so much afraid of fairies, as of ghosts, and they say there are a
plentiful many of them about the castle: now I should be frightened to
death, if I should chance to see any of them. But hush! ma’amselle,
walk softly! I have thought, several times, something passed by me.”

“Ridiculous!” said Emily, “you must not indulge such fancies.”

“O ma’am! they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedetto says these
dismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to live in;
and I verily believe, if I _live_ long in them I shall turn to one
myself!”

“I hope,” said Emily, “you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear of
these weak fears; they would highly displease him.”

“What, you know then, ma’amselle, all about it!” rejoined Annette. “No,
no, I do know better than to do so; though, if the Signor can sleep
sound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lie awake, I am
sure.” Emily did not appear to notice this remark. “Down this passage, ma’amselle; this leads to a back staircase. O! if I
see anything, I shall be frightened out of my wits!”

“That will scarcely be possible,” said Emily smiling, as she followed
the winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery: and then
Annette, perceiving that she had missed her way, while she had been so
eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about through
other passages and galleries, till, at length, frightened by their
intricacies and desolation, she called aloud for assistance: but they
were beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the other side of
the castle, and Emily now opened the door of a chamber on the left. “O! do not go in there, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “you will only lose
yourself further.”

“Bring the light forward,” said Emily, “we may possibly find our way
through these rooms.”

Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light
held up to show the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through not
half of it. “Why do you hesitate?” said Emily, “let me see whither this
room leads.”

Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious and
ancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others
wainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was,
seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an appearance of
grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with the
damps, and with age. “How cold these rooms are, ma’amselle!” said Annette: “nobody has lived
in them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go.”

“They may open upon the great staircase, perhaps,” said Emily, passing
on till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took the light
to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of battle.—He was
darting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet of the horse, and
who held up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier, whose
beaver was up, regarded him with a look of vengeance, and the
countenance, with that expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni.