Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning
herself, left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest she
felt for her aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment her
remonstrances might draw upon herself, and of the improbability of his
granting what she meant to entreat. “Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,” said Emily, as soon as she saw
him—“Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment! Suffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment,
and to have necessary comforts administered.”

“Of what service will that be, if she is dying?” said Montoni, with
apparent indifference. “The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs
of conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same
situation,” said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni
soon made her sensible, by commanding her to quit his presence. Then,
forgetting her resentment, and impressed only by compassion for the
piteous state of her aunt, dying without succour, she submitted to
humble herself to Montoni, and to adopt every persuasive means, that
might induce him to relent towards his wife. For a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all she
looked; but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily’s eyes,
seemed to touch his heart. He turned away, ashamed of his better
feelings, half sullen and half relenting; but finally consented, that
his wife should be removed to her own apartment, and that Emily should
attend her. Dreading equally, that this relief might arrive too late,
and that Montoni might retract his concession, Emily scarcely staid to
thank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, she quickly prepared Madame
Montoni’s bed, and they carried her a cordial, that might enable her
feeble frame to sustain the fatigue of a removal. Madame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was
given by her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but Emily,
thankful that she had made such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it,
as well as that a second removal would instantly prove fatal, and he
suffered his wife to continue where she was. During this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare
such little nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her,
and which Madame Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she
seemed sensible that they could not save her from approaching
dissolution, and scarcely appeared to wish for life. Emily meanwhile
watched over her with the most tender solicitude, no longer seeing her
imperious aunt in the poor object before her, but the sister of her
late beloved father, in a situation that called for all her compassion
and kindness. When night came, she determined to sit up with her aunt,
but this the latter positively forbade, commanding her to retire to
rest, and Annette alone to remain in her chamber. Rest was, indeed,
necessary to Emily, whose spirits and frame were equally wearied by the
occurrences and exertions of the day; but she would not leave Madame
Montoni, till after the turn of midnight, a period then thought so
critical by the physicians. Soon after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to call
her, should any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully bade
Madame Montoni good night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits
were more than usually depressed by the piteous condition of her aunt,
whose recovery she scarcely dared to expect. To her own misfortunes she
saw no period, inclosed as she was, in a remote castle, beyond the
reach of any friends, had she possessed such, and beyond the pity even
of strangers; while she knew herself to be in the power of a man
capable of any action, which his interest, or his ambition, might
suggest. Occupied by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, she did
not retire immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her open
casement. The scene before her of woods and mountains, reposing in the
moonlight, formed a regretted contrast with the state of her mind; but
the lonely murmur of these woods, and the view of this sleeping
landscape, gradually soothed her emotions and softened her to tears. She continued to weep, for some time, lost to everything, but to a
gentle sense of her misfortunes. When she, at length, took the
handkerchief from her eyes, she perceived, before her, on the terrace
below, the figure she had formerly observed, which stood fixed and
silent, immediately opposite to her casement. On perceiving it, she
started back, and terror for some time overcame curiosity;—at length,
she returned to the casement, and still the figure was before it, which
she now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly unable to speak,
as she had formerly intended. The moon shone with a clear light, and it
was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that prevented her
distinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, the form before her. It
was still stationary, and she began to doubt, whether it was really
animated. Her scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her, that
her light exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was stepping
back to remove it, when she perceived the figure move, and then wave
what seemed to be its arm, as if to beckon her; and, while she gazed,
fixed in fear, it repeated the action. She now attempted to speak, but
the words died on her lips, and she went from the casement to remove
her light; as she was doing which, she heard, from without, a faint
groan. Listening, but not daring to return, she presently heard it
repeated. “Good God!—what can this mean!” said she. Again she listened, but the sound came no more; and, after a long
interval of silence, she recovered courage enough to go to the
casement, when she again saw the same appearance! It beckoned again,
and again uttered a low sound. “That groan was surely human!” said she. “I _will_ speak.” “Who is it,”
cried Emily in a faint voice, “that wanders at this late hour?”

The figure raised its head but suddenly started away, and glided down
the terrace. She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly in the
moonlight, but heard no footstep, till a sentinel from the other
extremity of the rampart walked slowly along. The man stopped under her
window, and, looking up, called her by name. She was retiring
precipitately, but, a second summons inducing her to reply, the soldier
then respectfully asked if she had seen anything pass. On her
answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down the
terrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in the
distance. But, as he was on guard, she knew he could not go beyond the
rampart, and, therefore, resolved to await his return. Soon after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; and
then a voice still more distant answered, and, in the next moment, the
watch-word was given, and passed along the terrace.