And,
now I think of it, I wonder what he could be afraid of in this lonely
old castle, that he should shut himself up for. But he is come abroad
now, for I met him on the rampart just this minute. I trembled when I
saw him, for I always was afraid of him, somehow; but I determined I
would not let him see it; so I went up to him, and made him a low
curtesy, ‘You are welcome to the castle, Signor Orsino,’ said I.”

“O, it was Signor Orsino, then!” said Emily. “Yes, ma’amselle, Signor Orsino, himself, who caused that Venetian
gentleman to be killed, and has been popping about from place to place,
ever since, as I hear.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, recovering from the shock of this
intelligence; “and is _he_ come to Udolpho! He does well to endeavour
to conceal himself.”

“Yes, ma’amselle, but if that was all, this desolate place would
conceal him, without his shutting himself up in one room. Who would
think of coming to look for him here? I am sure I should as soon think
of going to look for anybody in the other world.”

“There is some truth in that,” said Emily, who would now have concluded
it was Orsino’s music, which she had heard, on the preceding night, had
she not known, that he had neither taste, nor skill in the art. But,
though she was unwilling to add to the number of Annette’s surprises,
by mentioning the subject of her own, she enquired, whether any person
in the castle played on a musical instrument? “O yes, ma’amselle! there is Benedetto plays the great drum to
admiration; and then, there is Launcelot the trumpeter; nay, for that
matter, Ludovico himself can play on the trumpet;—but he is ill now. I
remember once—”

Emily interrupted her; “Have you heard no other music since you came to
the castle—none last night?”

“Why, did _you_ hear any last night, ma’amselle?”

Emily evaded this question, by repeating her own. “Why, no, ma’am,” replied Annette; “I never heard any music here, I
must say, but the drums and the trumpet; and, as for last night, I did
nothing but dream I saw my late lady’s ghost.”

“Your _late_ lady’s,” said Emily in a tremulous voice; “you have heard
more, then. Tell me—tell me all, Annette, I entreat; tell me the worst
at once.”

“Nay, ma’amselle, you know the worst already.”

“I know nothing,” said Emily. “Yes, you do, ma’amselle; you know, that nobody knows anything about
her; and it is plain, therefore, she is gone, the way of the first lady
of the castle—nobody ever knew anything about her.”

Emily leaned her head upon her hand, and was, for some time, silent;
then, telling Annette she wished to be alone, the latter left the room. The remark of Annette had revived Emily’s terrible suspicion,
concerning the fate of Madame Montoni; and she resolved to make another
effort to obtain certainty on this subject, by applying to Montoni once
more. When Annette returned, a few hours after, she told Emily, that the
porter of the castle wished very much to speak with her, for that he
had something of importance to say; her spirits had, however, of late
been so subject to alarm, that any new circumstance excited it; and
this message from the porter, when her first surprise was over, made
her look round for some lurking danger, the more suspiciously, perhaps,
because she had frequently remarked the unpleasant air and countenance
of this man. She now hesitated, whether to speak with him, doubting
even, that this request was only a pretext to draw her into some
danger; but a little reflection showed her the improbability of this,
and she blushed at her weak fears. “I will speak to him, Annette,” said she; “desire him to come to the
corridor immediately.”

Annette departed, and soon after returned. “Barnardine, ma’amselle,” said she, “dare not come to the corridor,
lest he should be discovered, it is so far from his post; and he dare
not even leave the gates for a moment now; but, if you will come to him
at the portal, through some roundabout passages he told me of, without
crossing the courts, he has that to tell, which will surprise you. But
you must not come through the courts, lest the Signor should see you.”

Emily, neither approving these “roundabout passage,” nor the other part
of the request, now positively refused to go. “Tell him,” said she, “if
he has anything of consequence to impart, I will hear him in the
corridor, whenever he has an opportunity of coming thither.”

Annette went to deliver this message, and was absent a considerable
time. When she returned, “It won’t do, ma’amselle,” said she. “Barnardine has been considering all this time what can be done, for it
is as much as his place is worth to leave his post now. But, if you
will come to the east rampart in the dusk of the evening, he can,
perhaps, steal away, and tell you all he has to say.”

Emily was surprised and alarmed, at the secrecy which this man seemed
to think so necessary, and hesitated whether to meet him, till,
considering, that he might mean to warn her of some serious danger, she
resolved to go. “Soon after sunset,” said she, “I will be at the end of the east
rampart. But then the watch will be set,” she added, recollecting
herself, “and how can Barnardine pass unobserved?”

“That is just what I said to him, ma’am, and he answered me, that he
had the key of the gate, at the end of the rampart, that leads towards
the courts, and could let himself through that way; and as for the
sentinels, there were none at this end of the terrace, because the
place is guarded enough by the high walls of the castle, and the east
turret; and he said those at the other end were too far off to see him,
if it was pretty duskyish.”

“Well,” said Emily, “I must hear what he has to tell; and, therefore,
desire you will go with me to the terrace, this evening.”

“He desired it might be pretty duskyish, ma’amselle,” repeated Annette,
“because of the watch.”

Emily paused, and then said she would be on the terrace, an hour after
sunset;—“and tell Barnardine,” she added, “to be punctual to the time;
for that I, also, may be observed by Signor Montoni. Where is the
Signor? I would speak with him.”

“He is in the cedar chamber, ma’am, counselling with the other Signors. He is going to give them a sort of treat today, to make up for what
passed at the last, I suppose; the people are all very busy in the
kitchen.”

Emily now enquired, if Montoni expected any new guests? and Annette
believed that he did not. “Poor Ludovico!” added she, “he would be as
merry as the best of them, if he was well; but he may recover yet. Count Morano was wounded as bad, as he, and he is got well again, and
is gone back to Venice.”

“Is he so?” said Emily, “when did you hear this?”

“I heard it last night, ma’amselle, but I forgot to tell it.”

Emily asked some further questions, and then, desiring Annette would
observe and inform her, when Montoni was alone, the girl went to
deliver her message to Barnardine.