Her resolution now forsook her, and she determined, if the figure
should appear, not to speak to it. Thus the time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by expectation,
and by the gloom and stillness of midnight; for she saw obscurely in
the moonlight only the mountains and woods, a cluster of towers, that
formed the west angle of the castle, and the terrace below; and heard
no sound, except, now and then, the lonely watch-word, passed by the
sentinels on duty, and afterwards the steps of the men who came to
relieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on the rampart by their
pikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then, by the few short
words, in which they hailed their fellows of the night. Emily retired
within her chamber, while they passed the casement. When she returned
to it, all was again quiet. It was now very late, she was wearied with
watching, and began to doubt the reality of what she had seen on the
preceding night; but she still lingered at the window, for her mind was
too perturbed to admit of sleep. The moon shone with a clear lustre,
that afforded her a complete view of the terrace; but she saw only a
solitary sentinel, pacing at one end of it; and, at length, tired with
expectation, she withdrew to seek rest. Such, however, was the impression, left on her mind by the music, and
the complaining she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure, which
she fancied she had seen, that she determined to repeat the watch, on
the following night. Montoni, on the next day, took no notice of Emily’s appointed visit,
but she, more anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to enquire,
at what hour he would admit her. He mentioned eleven o’clock, and Emily
was punctual to the moment; at which she called up all her fortitude to
support the shock of his presence and the dreadful recollections it
enforced. He was with several of his officers, in the cedar room; on
observing whom she paused; and her agitation increased, while he
continued to converse with them, apparently not observing her, till
some of his officers, turning round, saw Emily, and uttered an
exclamation. She was hastily retiring, when Montoni’s voice arrested
her, and, in a faultering accent, she said,—“I would speak with you,
Signor Montoni, if you are at leisure.”

“These are my friends,” he replied, “whatever you would say, they may
hear.”

Emily, without replying, turned from the rude gaze of the chevaliers,
and Montoni then followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a small
room, of which he shut the door with violence. As she looked on his
dark countenance, she again thought she saw the murderer of her aunt;
and her mind was so convulsed with horror, that she had not power to
recall thought enough to explain the purport of her visit; and to trust
herself with the mention of Madame Montoni was more than she dared. Montoni at length impatiently enquired what she had to say? “I have no
time for trifling,” he added, “my moments are important.”

Emily then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came to
beg, that he would permit her to do so.—But when he looked surprised,
and enquired for the motive of the request, she hesitated, became paler
than before, trembled, and had nearly sunk at his feet. He observed her
emotion, with apparent indifference, and interrupted the silence by
telling her, he must be gone. Emily, however, recalled her spirits
sufficiently to enable her to repeat her request. And, when Montoni
absolutely refused it, her slumbering mind was roused. “I can no longer remain here with propriety, sir,” said she, “and I may
be allowed to ask, by what right you detain me.”

“It is my will that you remain here,” said Montoni, laying his hand on
the door to go; “let that suffice you.”

Emily, considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore to
dispute his right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to be just. “While my aunt lived, sir,” said she, in a tremulous voice, “my
residence here was not improper; but now, that she is no more, I may
surely be permitted to depart. My stay cannot benefit you, sir, and
will only distress me.”

“Who told you, that Madame Montoni was dead?” said Montoni, with an
inquisitive eye. Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, and she
did not dare to avow the having seen that spectacle in the
portal-chamber, which had compelled her to the belief. “Who told you so?” he repeated, more sternly. “Alas! I know it too well,” replied Emily: “spare me on this terrible
subject!”

She sat down on a bench to support herself. “If you wish to see her,” said Montoni, “you may; she lies in the east
turret.”

He now left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to the
cedar chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen
Emily, began to rally him, on the discovery they had made; but Montoni
did not appear disposed to bear this mirth, and they changed the
subject. Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion,
which he meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they
should lie in wait for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed,
reproached Orsino with want of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni
would let him lead on fifty men, he would conquer all that should
oppose him. Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also listened. Verezzi then proceeded with vehement declamation and assertion, till he
was stopped by an argument of Orsino, which he knew not how to answer
better than by invective. His fierce spirit detested the cunning
caution of Orsino, whom he constantly opposed, and whose inveterate,
though silent, hatred he had long ago incurred. And Montoni was a calm
observer of both, whose different qualifications he knew, and how to
bend their opposite character to the perfection of his own designs. But
Verezzi, in the heat of opposition, now did not scruple to accuse
Orsino of cowardice, at which the countenance of the latter, while he
made no reply, was overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who
watched his lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom. But Verezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking
contrast to the complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and
continued boldly declaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily
laughing at his vehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino,
when the latter, retiring a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to
stab his adversary in the back. Montoni arrested his half-extended arm,
and, with a significant look, made him return the poniard into his
bosom, unseen by all except himself; for most of the party were
disputing at a distant window, on the situation of a dell where they
meant to form an ambuscade. When Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on the
features of his opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicion of
his intention, he laid his hand on his sword, and then, seeming to
recollect himself, strode up to Montoni.