“Signor,” said he, with a significant look at Orsino, “we are not a
band of assassins; if you have business for brave men, employ me on
this expedition: you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you have
only work for cowards—keep him,” pointing to Orsino, “and let me quit
Udolpho.”

Orsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and rushed
towards Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his sword,
when Montoni and the rest of the party interfered and separated them. “This is the conduct of a boy,” said Montoni to Verezzi, “not of a man:
be more moderate in your speech.”

“Moderation is the virtue of cowards,” retorted Verezzi; “they are
moderate in everything—but in fear.”

“I accept your words,” said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce and
haughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard. “With all my heart,” cried Verezzi, “though I did not mean them for
you.”

He directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villain
Orsino made another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented. The combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and
violent dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino,
whom he detained in private consultation for a considerable time. Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for the
moment, his declaration, that she should continue in the castle, while
she thought of her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid in the
east turret. In suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus long
unburied, there appeared a degree of brutality more shocking than she
had suspected even Montoni could practise. After a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to visit
the turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with which
design she returned to her chamber, and, while she waited for Annette
to accompany her, endeavoured to acquire fortitude sufficient to
support her through the approaching scene; for, though she trembled to
encounter it, she knew that to remember the performance of this last
act of duty would hereafter afford her consoling satisfaction. Annette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former
endeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was,
with much difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret;
but no consideration could make her promise to enter the chamber of
death. They now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the
staircase, which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared she
would go no further, and Emily proceeded alone. When she saw the track
of blood, which she had before observed, her spirits fainted, and,
being compelled to rest on the stairs, she almost determined to proceed
no further. The pause of a few moments restored her resolution, and she
went on. As she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber
opened, she remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and
apprehended, that it might still be so. In this expectation, however,
she was mistaken; for the door opened at once, into a dusky and silent
chamber, round which she fearfully looked, and then slowly advanced,
when a hollow voice spoke. Emily, who was unable to speak, or to move
from the spot, uttered no sound of terror. The voice spoke again; and,
then, thinking that it resembled that of Madame Montoni, Emily’s
spirits were instantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, that stood in
a remote part of the room, and drew aside the curtains. Within,
appeared a pale and emaciated face. She started back, then again
advanced, shuddered as she took up the skeleton hand, that lay
stretched upon the quilt; then let it drop, and then viewed the face
with a long, unsettled gaze. It was that of Madame Montoni, though so
changed by illness, that the resemblance of what it had been, could
scarcely be traced in what it now appeared. She was still alive, and,
raising her heavy eyes, she turned them on her niece. “Where have you been so long?” said she, in the same tone, “I thought
you had forsaken me.”

“Do you indeed live,” said Emily, at length, “or is this but a terrible
apparition?” She received no answer, and again she snatched up the
hand. “This is substance,” she exclaimed, “but it is cold—cold as
marble!” She let it fall. “O, if you really live, speak!” said Emily,
in a voice of desperation, “that I may not lose my senses—say you know
me!”

“I do live,” replied Madame Montoni, “but—I feel that I am about to
die.”

Emily clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned. They were
both silent for some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe her, and
enquired what had reduced her to this present deplorable state. Montoni, when he removed her to the turret under the improbable
suspicion of having attempted his life, had ordered the men employed on
the occasion, to observe a strict secrecy concerning her. To this he
was influenced by a double motive. He meant to debar her from the
comfort of Emily’s visits, and to secure an opportunity of privately
dispatching her, should any new circumstances occur to confirm the
present suggestions of his suspecting mind. His consciousness of the
hatred he deserved it was natural enough should at first lead him to
attribute to her the attempt that had been made upon his life; and,
though there was no other reason to believe that she was concerned in
that atrocious design, his suspicions remained; he continued to confine
her in the turret, under a strict guard; and, without pity or remorse,
had suffered her to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a raging fever,
till it had reduced her to the present state. The track of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed from
the unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame Montoni,
and which he had received in the late affray. At night these men,
having contented themselves with securing the door of their prisoner’s
room, had retired from guard; and then it was, that Emily, at the time
of her first enquiry, had found the turret so silent and deserted. When she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was
sleeping, and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed to
delude her into a belief, that she was no more; yet had her terror
permitted her to persevere longer in the call, she would probably have
awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared much suffering. The
spectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed Emily’s
horrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen in the
affray, and the same which had been borne into the servants’ hall,
where she took refuge from the tumult. This man had lingered under his
wounds for some days; and, soon after his death, his body had been
removed on the couch, on which he died, for interment in the vault
beneath the chapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had passed to
the chamber.