As she drew near the apartment, in which he sat with his guests, she
heard them in earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a moment,
trembling at the displeasure, which her sudden interruption would
occasion. In the next, their voices sunk all together; she then
ventured to open the door, and, while Montoni turned hastily and looked
at her, without speaking, she delivered her message. “Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged,” said he. Emily then thought it proper to mention the subject of her alarm. Montoni and his companions rose instantly and went to the windows, but,
these not affording them a view of the troops, they at length proceeded
to the ramparts, where Cavigni conjectured it to be a legion of
_condottieri_, on their march towards Modena. One part of the cavalcade now extended along the valley, and another
wound among the mountains towards the north, while some troops still
lingered on the woody precipices, where the first had appeared, so that
the great length of the procession seemed to include a whole army. While Montoni and his family watched its progress, they heard the sound
of trumpets and the clash of cymbals in the vale, and then others,
answering from the heights. Emily listened with emotion to the shrill
blast, that woke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoni explained the
signals, with which he appeared to be well acquainted, and which meant
nothing hostile. The uniforms of the troops, and the kind of arms they
bore, confirmed to him the conjecture of Cavigni, and he had the
satisfaction to see them pass by, without even stopping to gaze upon
his castle. He did not, however, leave the rampart, till the bases of
the mountains had shut them from his view, and the last murmur of the
trumpet floated away on the wind. Cavigni and Verezzi were inspirited
by this spectacle, which seemed to have roused all the fire of their
temper; Montoni turned into the castle in thoughtful silence. Emily’s mind had not yet sufficiently recovered from its late shock, to
endure the loneliness of her chamber, and she remained upon the
ramparts; for Madame Montoni had not invited her to her dressing-room,
whither she had gone evidently in low spirits, and Emily, from her late
experience, had lost all wish to explore the gloomy and mysterious
recesses of the castle. The ramparts, therefore, were almost her only
retreat, and here she lingered, till the grey haze of evening was again
spread over the scene. The cavaliers supped by themselves, and Madame Montoni remained in her
apartment, whither Emily went, before she retired to her own. She found
her aunt weeping, and in much agitation. The tenderness of Emily was
naturally so soothing, that it seldom failed to give comfort to the
drooping heart: but Madame Montoni’s was torn, and the softest accents
of Emily’s voice were lost upon it. With her usual delicacy, she did
not appear to observe her aunt’s distress, but it gave an involuntary
gentleness to her manners, and an air of solicitude to her countenance,
which Madame Montoni was vexed to perceive, who seemed to feel the pity
of her niece to be an insult to her pride, and dismissed her as soon as
she properly could. Emily did not venture to mention again the
reluctance she felt to her gloomy chamber, but she requested that
Annette might be permitted to remain with her till she retired to rest;
and the request was somewhat reluctantly granted. Annette, however, was
now with the servants, and Emily withdrew alone. With light and hasty steps she passed through the long galleries, while
the feeble glimmer of the lamp she carried only showed the gloom around
her, and the passing air threatened to extinguish it. The lonely
silence, that reigned in this part of the castle, awed her; now and
then, indeed, she heard a faint peal of laughter rise from a remote
part of the edifice, where the servants were assembled, but it was soon
lost, and a kind of breathless stillness remained. As she passed the
suite of rooms which she had visited in the morning, her eyes glanced
fearfully on the door, and she almost fancied she heard murmuring
sounds within, but she paused not a moment to enquire. Having reached her own apartment, where no blazing wood on the hearth
dissipated the gloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven her
attention, till Annette should come, and a fire could be kindled. She
continued to read till her light was nearly expired, but Annette did
not appear, and the solitude and obscurity of her chamber again
affected her spirits, the more, because of its nearness to the scene of
horror, that she had witnessed in the morning. Gloomy and fantastic
images came to her mind. She looked fearfully towards the door of the
staircase, and then, examining whether it was still fastened, found
that it was so. Unable to conquer the uneasiness she felt at the
prospect of sleeping again in this remote and insecure apartment, which
some person seemed to have entered during the preceding night, her
impatience to see Annette, whom she had bidden to enquire concerning
this circumstance, became extremely painful. She wished also to
question her, as to the object, which had excited so much horror in her
own mind, and which Annette on the preceding evening had appeared to be
in part acquainted with, though her words were very remote from the
truth, and it appeared plainly to Emily, that the girl had been
purposely misled by a false report: above all she was surprised, that
the door of the chamber, which contained it, should be left unguarded. Such an instance of negligence almost surpassed belief. But her light
was now expiring; the faint flashes it threw upon the walls called up
all the terrors of fancy, and she rose to find her way to the habitable
part of the castle, before it was quite extinguished. As she opened the
chamber door, she heard remote voices, and, soon after, saw a light
issue upon the further end of the corridor, which Annette and another
servant approached. “I am glad you are come,” said Emily: “what has
detained you so long? Pray light me a fire immediately.”

“My lady wanted me, ma’amselle,” replied Annette in some confusion; “I
will go and get the wood.”

“No,” said Caterina, “that is my business,” and left the room
instantly, while Annette would have followed; but, being called back,
she began to talk very loud, and laugh, and seemed afraid to trust a
pause of silence. Caterina soon returned with the wood, and then, when the cheerful blaze
once more animated the room, and this servant had withdrawn, Emily
asked Annette, whether she had made the enquiry she bade her. “Yes,
ma’amselle,” said Annette, “but not a soul knows anything about the
matter: and old Carlo—I watched him well, for they say he knows strange
things—old Carlo looked so as I don’t know how to tell, and he asked me
again and again, if I was sure the door was ever unfastened. Lord, says
I—am I sure I am alive?