That she entered, opened first into a wide
gallery, along which she passed lightly and swiftly; for the lonely
aspect of the place awed her, and she started at the echo of her own
steps. On a sudden, she thought she heard a voice, and, not distinguishing
from whence it came, feared equally to proceed, or to return. For some
moments, she stood in an attitude of listening expectation, shrinking
almost from herself and scarcely daring to look round her. The voice
came again, but, though it was now near her, terror did not allow her
to judge exactly whence it proceeded. She thought, however, that it was
the voice of complaint, and her belief was soon confirmed by a low
moaning sound, that seemed to proceed from one of the chambers, opening
into the gallery. It instantly occurred to her, that Madame Montoni
might be there confined, and she advanced to the door to speak, but was
checked by considering, that she was, perhaps, going to commit herself
to a stranger, who might discover her to Montoni; for, though this
person, whoever it was, seemed to be in affliction, it did not follow,
that he was a prisoner. While these thoughts passed over her mind, and left her still in
hesitation, the voice spoke again, and, calling “Ludovico,” she then
perceived it to be that of Annette; on which, no longer hesitating, she
went in joy to answer her. “Ludovico!” cried Annette, sobbing—“Ludovico!”

“It is not Ludovico, it is I—Mademoiselle Emily.”

Annette ceased sobbing, and was silent. “If you can open the door, let me in,” said Emily, “here is no person
to hurt you.”

“Ludovico!—O, Ludovico!” cried Annette. Emily now lost her patience, and her fear of being overheard
increasing, she was even nearly about to leave the door, when she
considered, that Annette might, possibly, know something of the
situation of Madame Montoni, or direct her to the turret. At length,
she obtained a reply, though little satisfactory, to her questions, for
Annette knew nothing of Madame Montoni, and only conjured Emily to tell
her what was become of Ludovico. Of him she had no information to give,
and she again asked who had shut Annette up. “Ludovico,” said the poor girl, “Ludovico shut me up. When I ran away
from the dressing-room door today, I went I scarcely knew where, for
safety; and, in this gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who hurried me into
this chamber, and locked me up to keep me out of harm, as he said. But
he was in such a hurry himself, he hardly spoke ten words, but he told
me he would come, and let me out, when all was quiet, and he took away
the key with him. Now all these hours are passed, and I have neither
seen, nor heard a word of him; they have murdered him—I know they
have!”

Emily suddenly remembered the wounded person, whom she had seen borne
into the servants’ hall, and she scarcely doubted, that he was
Ludovico, but she concealed the circumstance from Annette, and
endeavoured to comfort her. Then, impatient to learn something of her
aunt, she again enquired the way to the turret. “O! you are not going, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “for Heaven’s sake,
do not go, and leave me here by myself.”

“Nay, Annette, you do not think I can wait in the gallery all night,”
replied Emily. “Direct me to the turret; in the morning I will
endeavour to release you.”

“O holy Mary!” exclaimed Annette, “am I to stay here by myself all
night! I shall be frightened out of my senses, and I shall die of
hunger; I have had nothing to eat since dinner!”

Emily could scarcely forbear smiling at the heterogeneous distresses of
Annette, though she sincerely pitied them, and said what she could to
sooth her. At length, she obtained something like a direction to the
east turret, and quitted the door, from whence, after many intricacies
and perplexities, she reached the steep and winding stairs of the
turret, at the foot of which she stopped to rest, and to reanimate her
courage with a sense of her duty. As she surveyed this dismal place,
she perceived a door on the opposite side of the staircase, and,
anxious to know whether it would lead her to Madame Montoni, she tried
to undraw the bolts, which fastened it. A fresher air came to her face,
as she unclosed the door, which opened upon the east rampart, and the
sudden current had nearly extinguished her light, which she now removed
to a distance; and again, looking out upon the obscure terrace, she
perceived only the faint outline of the walls and of some towers,
while, above, heavy clouds, borne along the wind, seemed to mingle with
the stars, and wrap the night in thicker darkness. As she gazed, now
willing to defer the moment of certainty, from which she expected only
confirmation of evil, a distant footstep reminded her, that she might
be observed by the men on watch, and, hastily closing the door, she
took her lamp, and passed up the staircase. Trembling came upon her, as
she ascended through the gloom. To her melancholy fancy this seemed to
be a place of death, and the chilling silence, that reigned, confirmed
its character. Her spirits faltered. “Perhaps,” said she, “I am come
hither only to learn a dreadful truth, or to witness some horrible
spectacle; I feel that my senses would not survive such an addition of
horror.”

The image of her aunt murdered—murdered, perhaps, by the hand of
Montoni, rose to her mind; she trembled, gasped for breath—repented
that she had dared to venture hither, and checked her steps. But, after
she had paused a few minutes, the consciousness of her duty returned,
and she went on. Still all was silent. At length a track of blood, upon
a stair, caught her eye; and instantly she perceived, that the wall and
several other steps were stained. She paused, again struggled to
support herself, and the lamp almost fell from her trembling hand. Still no sound was heard, no living being seemed to inhabit the turret;
a thousand times she wished herself again in her chamber; dreaded to
enquire farther—dreaded to encounter some horrible spectacle, and yet
could not resolve, now that she was so near the termination of her
efforts, to desist from them. Having again collected courage to
proceed, after ascending about half way up the turret, she came to
another door, but here again she stopped in hesitation; listened for
sounds within, and then, summoning all her resolution, unclosed it, and
entered a chamber, which, as her lamp shot its feeble rays through the
darkness, seemed to exhibit only dew-stained and deserted walls. As she
stood examining it, in fearful expectation of discovering the remains
of her unfortunate aunt, she perceived something lying in an obscure
corner of the room, and, struck with a horrible conviction, she became,
for an instant, motionless and nearly insensible.