“Promise, that you will come,” he continued, “and I will release you
immediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.”

“Who are you?” demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror and
indignation, while she still struggled for liberty—“who are you, that
have the cruelty thus to insult me?”

“Why call me cruel?” said the man, “I would remove you from this dreary
solitude to a merry party below. Do you not know me?”

Emily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who were
with Montoni when she attended him in the morning. “I thank you for the
kindness of your intention,” she replied, without appearing to
understand him, “but I wish for nothing so much as that you would leave
me.”

“Charming Emily!” said he, “give up this foolish whim for solitude, and
come with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make part of
it; you, only, are worthy of my love.” He attempted to kiss her hand,
but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to liberate
herself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the door, before
he reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a chair, overcome by
terror and by the exertion she had made, while she heard his voice, and
his attempts to open the door, without having the power to raise
herself. At length, she perceived him depart, and had remained,
listening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat revived by not
hearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the door of the private
staircase, and that he might enter that way, since it was fastened only
on the other side. She then employed herself in endeavouring to secure
it, in the manner she had formerly done. It appeared to her, that
Montoni had already commenced his scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing
from her his protection, and she repented of the rashness, that had
made her brave the power of such a man. To retain the estates seemed to
be now utterly impossible, and to preserve her life, perhaps her
honour, she resolved, if she should escape the horrors of this night,
to give up all claims to the estates, on the morrow, provided Montoni
would suffer her to depart from Udolpho. When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed,
though she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal sounds,
that appeared to issue from the staircase. Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette
did not appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but,
not daring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain in
uncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence. Emily often stole to the staircase door to listen if any step
approached, but still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, to
watch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and desolate
couch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She thought of her
deceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt, and frequently
called upon their names; for the profound stillness, that now reigned,
was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind. While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant
music, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving this to
be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose, and
stepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to come
from a lower room. In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so full
of pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its sweet
and peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before; yet, if
this was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint recollection. It
stole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her present suffering, like
a celestial strain, soothing, and reassuring her;—“Pleasant as the gale
of spring, that sighs on the hunter’s ear, when he awakens from dreams
of joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill.”*

(*Note: Ossian. [A. R.])


But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with the
taste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of her
native province, to which she had so often listened with delight, when
a child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! To this
well-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native country, her
heart melted, while the memory of past times returned. The pleasant,
peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness of her parents,
the taste and simplicity of her former life—all rose to her fancy, and
formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so strikingly contrasted with
the scenes, the characters and the dangers, which now surrounded
her—that her mind could not bear to pause upon the retrospect, and
shrunk at the acuteness of its own sufferings. Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the
strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrew
from the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yet
beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and the
succeeding air called her again to the window, for she immediately
recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in the
fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which had
then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on her
memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and the manner,
in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable the
circumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had then
heard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted, like
lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, that
revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected, so
astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could not
resolve to discourage them. She sat down by the casement, breathless,
and overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and fear; then rose
again, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound,
listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name of
Valancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible,
that Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances, which
induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard. She
remembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, where she
had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seen
pencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt,
before he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herself
unexpectedly met him. It appeared, from these circumstances, more than
probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her
attention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tender
admiration;—who else, indeed, could it be?