This girl, as affectionate as she was simple, lost in these
moments all her former fears of remaining in the chamber, and watched
alone by Emily, during the whole night. CHAPTER II

unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
Th’ immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook! IL PENSEROSO


Emily’s mind was refreshed by sleep. On waking in the morning, she
looked with surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair beside the
bed, and then endeavoured to recollect herself; but the circumstances
of the preceding night were swept from her memory, which seemed to
retain no trace of what had passed, and she was still gazing with
surprise on Annette, when the latter awoke. “O dear ma’amselle! do you know me?” cried she. “Know you! Certainly,” replied Emily, “you are Annette; but why are you
sitting by me thus?”

“O you have been very ill, ma’amselle,—very ill indeed! and I am sure I
thought—”

“This is very strange!” said Emily, still trying to recollect the
past.—“But I think I do remember, that my fancy has been haunted by
frightful dreams. Good God!” she added, suddenly starting—“surely it
was nothing more than a dream!”

She fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who, intending to quiet her,
said “Yes, ma’amselle, it was more than a dream, but it is all over
now.”

“She _is_ murdered, then!” said Emily in an inward voice, and
shuddering instantaneously. Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of
the circumstance to which Emily referred, she attributed her manner to
a disordered fancy; but, when she had explained to what her own speech
alluded, Emily, recollecting the attempt that had been made to carry
her off, asked if the contriver of it had been discovered. Annette
replied, that he had not, though he might easily be guessed at; and
then told Emily she might thank her for her deliverance, who,
endeavouring to command the emotion, which the remembrance of her aunt
had occasioned, appeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, in truth,
she heard scarcely a word that was said. “And so, ma’amselle,” continued the latter, “I was determined to be
even with Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret, by finding it
out myself; so I watched you, on the terrace, and, as soon as he had
opened the door at the end, I stole out from the castle, to try to
follow you; for, says I, I am sure no good can be planned, or why all
this secrecy? So, sure enough, he had not bolted the door after him,
and, when I opened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the torch, at the other
end of the passage, which way you were going. I followed the light, at
a distance, till you came to the vaults of the chapel, and there I was
afraid to go further, for I had heard strange things about these
vaults. But then, again, I was afraid to go back, all in darkness, by
myself; so by the time Barnardine had trimmed the light, I had resolved
to follow you, and I did so, till you came to the great court, and
there I was afraid he would see me; so I stopped at the door again, and
watched you across to the gates, and, when you were gone up the stairs,
I whipt after. There, as I stood under the gateway, I heard horses’
feet without, and several men talking; and I heard them swearing at
Barnardine for not bringing you out, and just then, he had like to have
caught me, for he came down the stairs again, and I had hardly time to
get out of his way. But I had heard enough of his secret now, and I
determined to be even with him, and to save you, too, ma’amselle, for I
guessed it to be some new scheme of Count Morano, though he was gone
away. I ran into the castle, but I had hard work to find my way through
the passage under the chapel, and what is very strange, I quite forgot
to look for the ghosts they had told me about, though I would not go
into that place again by myself for all the world! Luckily the Signor
and Signor Cavigni were up, so we had soon a train at our heels,
sufficient to frighten that Barnardine and his rogues, all together.”

Annette ceased to speak, but Emily still appeared to listen. At length
she said, suddenly, “I think I will go to him myself;—where is he?”

Annette asked who was meant. “Signor Montoni,” replied Emily. “I would speak with him;” and Annette,
now remembering the order he had given, on the preceding night,
respecting her young lady, rose, and said she would seek him herself. This honest girl’s suspicions of Count Morano were perfectly just;
Emily, too, when she thought on the scheme, had attributed it to him;
and Montoni, who had not a doubt on this subject, also, began to
believe, that it was by the direction of Morano, that poison had
formerly been mingled with his wine. The professions of repentance, which Morano had made to Emily, under
the anguish of his wound, was sincere at the moment he offered them;
but he had mistaken the subject of his sorrow, for, while he thought he
was condemning the cruelty of his late design, he was lamenting only
the state of suffering, to which it had reduced him. As these
sufferings abated, his former views revived, till, his health being
re-established, he again found himself ready for enterprise and
difficulty. The porter of the castle, who had served him, on a former
occasion, willingly accepted a second bribe; and, having concerted the
means of drawing Emily to the gates, Morano publicly left the hamlet,
whither he had been carried after the affray, and withdrew with his
people to another at several miles distance. From thence, on a night
agreed upon by Barnardine, who had discovered from the thoughtless
prattle of Annette, the most probable means of decoying Emily, the
Count sent back his servants to the castle, while he awaited her
arrival at the hamlet, with an intention of carrying her immediately to
Venice. How this, his second scheme, was frustrated, has already
appeared; but the violent, and various passions with which this Italian
lover was now agitated, on his return to that city, can only be
imagined. Annette having made her report to Montoni of Emily’s health and of her
request to see him, he replied, that she might attend him in the cedar
room, in about an hour. It was on the subject, that pressed so heavily
on her mind, that Emily wished to speak to him, yet she did not
distinctly know what good purpose this could answer, and sometimes she
even recoiled in horror from the expectation of his presence. She
wished, also, to petition, though she scarcely dared to believe the
request would be granted, that he would permit her, since her aunt was
no more, to return to her native country. As the moment of interview approached, her agitation increased so much,
that she almost resolved to excuse herself under what could scarcely be
called a pretence of illness; and, when she considered what could be
said, either concerning herself, or the fate of her aunt, she was
equally hopeless as to the event of her entreaty, and terrified as to
its effect upon the vengeful spirit of Montoni.