Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood;
No friendly moon his giant shadow threw
Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim’s blood;
On as he went a vesper-hymn he sang,
The hymn, that nightly sooth’d him to repose. Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang! The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close. Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,
But, dying, for his murd’rer breath’d—a sainted pray’r! (*Note: This poem and that entitled _The Traveller_ in vol. ii, have
already appeared in a periodical publication. [A. R.])


Preferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons below
stairs, Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend her,
from whose simple conversation she learned, that the peasant and his
wife were old inhabitants of this cottage, which had been purchased for
them by Montoni, in reward of some service, rendered him, many years
before, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the steward at the castle, was nearly
related. “So many years ago, Signora,” added Maddelina, “that I know
nothing about it; but my father did the Signor a great good, for my
mother has often said to him, this cottage was the least he ought to
have had.”

To the mention of this circumstance Emily listened with a painful
interest, since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the character
of Marco, whose service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she could scarcely
doubt have been criminal; and, if so, had too much reason to believe,
that she had been committed into his hands for some desperate purpose. “Did you ever hear how many years it is,” said Emily, who was
considering of Signora Laurentini’s disappearance from Udolpho, “since
your father performed the services you spoke of?”

“It was a little before he came to live at the cottage, Signora,”
replied Maddelina, “and that is about eighteen years ago.”

This was near the period, when Signora Laurentini had been said to
disappear, and it occurred to Emily, that Marco had assisted in that
mysterious affair, and, perhaps, had been employed in a murder! This
horrible suggestion fixed her in such profound reverie, that Maddelina
quitted the room, unperceived by her, and she remained unconscious of
all around her, for a considerable time. Tears, at length, came to her
relief, after indulging which, her spirits becoming calmer, she ceased
to tremble at a view of evils, that might never arrive; and had
sufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts from the
contemplation of her own interests. Remembering the few books, which
even in the hurry of her departure from Udolpho she had put into her
little package, she sat down with one of them at her pleasant casement,
whence her eyes often wandered from the page to the landscape, whose
beauty gradually soothed her mind into gentle melancholy. Here, she remained alone, till evening, and saw the sun descend the
western sky, throw all his pomp of light and shadow upon the mountains,
and gleam upon the distant ocean and the stealing sails, as he sunk
amidst the waves. Then, at the musing hour of twilight, her softened
thoughts returned to Valancourt; she again recollected every
circumstance, connected with the midnight music, and all that might
assist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the castle, and,
becoming confirmed in the supposition, that it was his voice she had
heard there, she looked back to that gloomy abode with emotions of
grief and momentary regret. Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air, and her spirits soothed to a
state of gentle melancholy by the still murmur of the brook below and
of the woods around, she lingered at her casement long after the sun
had set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only the
grand outline of the surrounding mountains, shadowed upon the horizon,
remained visible. But a clear moonlight, that succeeded, gave to the
landscape, what time gives to the scenes of past life, when it softens
all their harsher features, and throws over the whole the mellowing
shade of distant contemplation. The scenes of La Vallée, in the early
morn of her life, when she was protected and beloved by parents equally
loved, appeared in Emily’s memory tenderly beautiful, like the prospect
before her, and awakened mournful comparisons. Unwilling to encounter
the coarse behaviour of the peasant’s wife, she remained supperless in
her room, while she wept again over her forlorn and perilous situation,
a review of which entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude,
and, reducing her to temporary despondence, she wished to be released
from the heavy load of life, that had so long oppressed her, and prayed
to Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her parents. Wearied with weeping, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and
sunk to sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber door,
and, starting up in terror, she heard a voice calling her. The image of
Bertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy,
and she neither opened the door nor answered, but listened in profound
silence, till, the voice repeating her name in the same low tone, she
demanded who called. “It is I, Signora,” replied the voice, which she
now distinguished to be Maddelina’s, “pray open the door. Don’t be
frightened, it is I.”

“And what brings you here so late, Maddelina?” said Emily, as she let
her in. “Hush! signora, for heaven’s sake hush!—if we are overheard I shall
never be forgiven. My father and mother and Bertrand are all gone to
bed,” continued Maddelina, as she gently shut the door, and crept
forward, “and I have brought you some supper, for you had none, you
know, Signora, below stairs. Here are some grapes and figs and half a
cup of wine.” Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lest this
kindness should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when she
perceived the fruit was gone. “Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,”
added Emily, “I shall suffer much less from the want of it, than I
should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject you to your
mother’s displeasure.”

“O Signora! there is no danger of that,” replied Maddelina, “my mother
cannot miss the fruit, for I saved it from my own supper. You will make
me very unhappy, if you refuse to take it, Signora.” Emily was so much
affected by this instance of the good girl’s generosity, that she
remained for some time unable to reply, and Maddelina watched her in
silence, till, mistaking the cause of her emotion, she said, “Do not
weep so, Signora! My mother, to be sure, is a little cross, sometimes,
but then it is soon over,—so don’t take it so much to heart. She often
scolds me, too, but then I have learned to bear it, and, when she has
done, if I can but steal out into the woods, and play upon my sticcado,
I forget it all directly.”

Emily, smiling through her tears, told Maddelina, that she was a good
girl, and then accepted her offering.