Montoni seemed to doubt this assertion, for he regarded her
with a scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidently arose from no
trifling interest. Emily then further explained herself, and concluded
with entreating him to inform her, where her aunt was placed, and to
permit, that she might visit her; but he looked upon her only with a
malignant smile, which instantaneously confirmed her worst fears for
her aunt, and, at that moment, she had not courage to renew her
entreaties. “For Annette,” said he,—“if you go to Carlo, he will release the girl;
the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday.” Emily
shuddered.—“But my aunt, Signor”—said she, “O tell me of my aunt!”

“She is taken care of,” replied Montoni hastily, “I have no time to
answer idle questions.”

He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could not
be wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame Montoni was;
while he paused, and she anxiously watched his countenance, a trumpet
sounded, and, in the next moment, she heard the heavy gates of the
portal open, and then the clattering of horses’ hoofs in the court,
with the confusion of many voices. She stood for a moment hesitating
whether she should follow Montoni, who, at the sound of the trumpet,
had passed through the hall, and, turning her eyes whence it came, she
saw through the door, that opened beyond a long perspective of arches
into the courts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the
distance and her embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen
depart, a few days before. But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when
the trumpet sounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room,
and men came running into the hall from every quarter of the castle. Emily once more hurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she
was still pursued by images of horror. She reconsidered Montoni’s
manner and words, when he had spoken of his wife, and they served only
to confirm her most terrible suspicions. Tears refused any longer to
relieve her distress, and she had sat for a considerable time absorbed
in thought, when a knocking at the chamber door aroused her, on opening
which she found old Carlo. “Dear young lady,” said he, “I have been so flurried, I never once
thought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and wine,
and I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.”

“Thank you, Carlo,” said Emily, “this is very good of you. Did the
Signor remind you of me?”

“No, Signora,” replied Carlo, “his _Excellenza_ has business enough on
his hands.” Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame
Montoni, but Carlo had been employed at the other end of the castle,
during the time, that she was removed, and he had heard nothing since,
concerning her. While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knew
whether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the truth
from a fear of offending his master. To several questions, concerning
the contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited answers; but told,
that the disputes were now amicably settled, and that the Signor
believed himself to have been mistaken in his suspicions of his guests. “The fighting was about that, Signora,” said Carlo; “but I trust I
shall never see such another day in this castle, though strange things
are about to be done.”

On her enquiring his meaning, “Ah, Signora!” added he, “it is not for
me to betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.”

She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described the
chamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey her
immediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were the
persons just arrived. Her late conjecture was right; it was Verezzi,
with his party. Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with
Carlo; for, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to
hear the accents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy. An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping and
sobbing. “O Ludovico—Ludovico!” cried she. “My poor Annette!” said Emily, and made her sit down. “Who could have foreseen this, ma’amselle? O miserable, wretched,
day—that ever I should live to see it!” and she continued to moan and
lament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of grief. “We are continually losing dear friends by death,” said she, with a
sigh, that came from her heart. “We must submit to the will of
Heaven—our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!”

Annette took the handkerchief from her face. “You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,” added Emily. “Yes—yes,—ma’amselle,” sobbed Annette, “but I hope I shall meet him
again in this—though he is so wounded!”

“Wounded!” exclaimed Emily, “does he live?”

“Yes, ma’am, but—but he has a terrible wound, and could not come to let
me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been rightly
himself, till within this hour.”

“Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.”

“Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!”

Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thought
implied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily endeavoured
to encourage her. To enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, she could
give no satisfactory answers. “I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma’amselle,” said she, “for
I could think of nobody but poor Ludovico.”

Annette’s grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to make
enquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain no
intelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant
of her fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal it. This day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her aunt;
but she was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now that
Annette was liberated, she obtained food, without exposing herself to
danger, or impertinence. Two following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by any
occurrence, during which she obtained no information of Madame Montoni. On the evening of the second, having dismissed Annette, and retired to
bed, her mind became haunted by the most dismal images, such as her
long anxiety, concerning her aunt, suggested; and, unable to forget
herself, for a moment, or to vanquish the phantoms, that tormented her,
she rose from her bed, and went to one of the casements of her chamber,
to breathe a freer air. All without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light,
which was only the faint glimmer of the stars, showing imperfectly the
outline of the mountains, the western towers of the castle and the
ramparts below, where a solitary sentinel was pacing. What an image of
repose did this scene present! The fierce and terrible passions, too,
which so often agitated the inhabitants of this edifice, seemed now
hushed in sleep;—those mysterious workings, that rouse the elements of
man’s nature into tempest—were calm.