Then, with a kind of
desperate resolution, she hurried towards the object that excited her
terror, when, perceiving the clothes of some person, on the floor, she
caught hold of them, and found in her grasp the old uniform of a
soldier, beneath which appeared a heap of pikes and other arms. Scarcely daring to trust her sight, she continued, for some moments, to
gaze on the object of her late alarm, and then left the chamber, so
much comforted and occupied by the conviction, that her aunt was not
there, that she was going to descend the turret, without enquiring
farther; when, on turning to do so, she observed upon some steps on the
second flight an appearance of blood, and remembering, that there was
yet another chamber to be explored, she again followed the windings of
the ascent. Still, as she ascended, the track of blood glared upon the
stairs. It led her to the door of a landing-place, that terminated them, but
she was unable to follow it farther. Now that she was so near the
sought-for certainty, she dreaded to know it, even more than before,
and had not fortitude sufficient to speak, or to attempt opening the
door. Having listened, in vain, for some sound, that might confirm, or
destroy her fears, she, at length, laid her hand on the lock, and,
finding it fastened, called on Madame Montoni; but only a chilling
silence ensued. “She is dead!” she cried,—“murdered!—her blood is on the stairs!”

Emily grew very faint; could support herself no longer, and had
scarcely presence of mind to set down the lamp, and place herself on a
step. When her recollection returned, she spoke again at the door, and again
attempted to open it, and, having lingered for some time, without
receiving any answer, or hearing a sound, she descended the turret,
and, with all the swiftness her feebleness would permit, sought her own
apartment. As she turned into the corridor, the door of a chamber opened, from
whence Montoni came forth; but Emily, more terrified than ever to
behold him, shrunk back into the passage soon enough to escape being
noticed, and heard him close the door, which she had perceived was the
same she formerly observed. Having here listened to his departing
steps, till their faint sound was lost in distance, she ventured to her
apartment, and, securing it once again, retired to her bed, leaving the
lamp burning on the hearth. But sleep was fled from her harassed mind,
to which images of horror alone occurred. She endeavoured to think it
possible, that Madame Montoni had not been taken to the turret; but,
when she recollected the former menaces of her husband and the terrible
spirit of vengeance, which he had displayed on a late occasion; when
she remembered his general character, the looks of the men, who had
forced Madame Montoni from her apartment, and the written traces on the
stairs of the turret—she could not doubt, that her aunt had been
carried thither, and could scarcely hope, that she had not been carried
to be murdered. The grey of morning had long dawned through her casements, before Emily
closed her eyes in sleep; when wearied nature, at length, yielded her a
respite from suffering. CHAPTER XI

Who rears the bloody hand? SAYERS


Emily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, without
receiving any notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except the
armed men, who sometimes passed on the terrace below. Having tasted no
food since the dinner of the preceding day, extreme faintness made her
feel the necessity of quitting the asylum of her apartment to obtain
refreshment, and she was also very anxious to procure liberty for
Annette. Willing, however, to defer venturing forth, as long as
possible, and considering, whether she should apply to Montoni, or to
the compassion of some other person, her excessive anxiety concerning
her aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of his presence, and she
determined to go to him, and to entreat, that he would suffer her to
see Madame Montoni. Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that some
accident had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in confinement;
Emily, therefore, resolved also to visit the chamber, where she had
spoken to her, on the preceding night, and, if the poor girl was yet
there, to inform Montoni of her situation. It was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and went
first to the south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a single
person, or hearing a sound, except, now and then, the echo of a distant
footstep. It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audible
upon the first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own and
Ludovico’s fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved to
death, if she was not let out immediately. Emily replied, that she was
going to beg her release of Montoni; but the terrors of hunger now
yielded to those of the Signor, and, when Emily left her, she was
loudly entreating, that her place of refuge might be concealed from
him. As Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the people
she met in the passages renewed her alarm. The latter, however, were
peaceable, and did not interrupt her, though they looked earnestly at
her, as she passed, and sometimes spoke. On crossing the hall towards
the cedar room, where Montoni usually sat, she perceived, on the
pavement, fragments of swords, some tattered garments stained with
blood, and almost expected to have seen among them a dead body; but
from such a spectacle she was, at present, spared. As she approached
the room, the sound of several voices issued from within, and a dread
of appearing before many strangers, as well as of irritating Montoni by
such an intrusion, made her pause and falter from her purpose. She
looked up through the long arcades of the hall, in search of a servant,
who might bear a message, but no one appeared, and the urgency of what
she had to request made her still linger near the door. The voices
within were not in contention, though she distinguished those of
several of the guests of the preceding day; but still her resolution
failed, whenever she would have tapped at the door, and she had
determined to walk in the hall, till some person should appear, who
might call Montoni from the room, when, as she turned from the door, it
was suddenly opened by himself. Emily trembled, and was confused, while
he almost started with surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance
unfolded themselves. She forgot all she would have said, and neither
enquired for her aunt, nor entreated for Annette, but stood silent and
embarrassed. After closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she had
not been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had overheard; an
accusation, which revived her recollection so far, that she assured him
she had not come thither with an intention to listen to his
conversation, but to entreat his compassion for her aunt, and for
Annette.