Ten to one they will tell me he is
in the right, and I am in the wrong. Or, if a fellow has got possession
of property, which I think ought to be mine, why I may wait, till I
starve, perhaps, before the law will give it me, and then, after all,
the judge may say—the estate is his. What is to be done then?—Why the
case is plain enough, I must take it at last.”

Emily’s horror at this conversation was heightened by a suspicion, that
the latter part of it was pointed against herself, and that these men
had been commissioned by Montoni to execute a similar kind of
_justice_, in his cause. “But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,” resumed Bertrand, “he is one of
those, who love to do justice at once. I remember, about ten years ago,
the Signor had a quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan. The story was told
me then, and it is still fresh in my head. They quarrelled about a
lady, that the Signor liked, and she was perverse enough to prefer the
gentleman of Milan, and even carried her whim so far as to marry him. This provoked the Signor, as well it might, for he had tried to talk
reason to her a long while, and used to send people to serenade her,
under her windows, of a night; and used to make verses about her, and
would swear she was the handsomest lady in Milan—But all would not
do—nothing would bring her to reason; and, as I said, she went so far
at last, as to marry this other cavaliero. This made the Signor wrath,
with a vengeance; he resolved to be even with her though, and he
watched his opportunity, and did not wait long, for, soon after the
marriage, they set out for Padua, nothing doubting, I warrant, of what
was preparing for them. The cavaliero thought, to be sure, he was to be
called to no account, but was to go off triumphant; but he was soon
made to know another sort of story.”

“What then, the lady had promised to have Signor Orsino?” said Ugo. “Promised! No,” replied Bertrand, “she had not wit enough even to tell
him she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to say,
from the first, she never meant to have him. And this was what provoked
the Signor, so, and with good reason, for, who likes to be told that he
is disagreeable? and this was saying as good. It was enough to tell him
this; she need not have gone, and married another.”

“What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?” said Ugo. “I don’t know as for that,” replied Bertrand, “they said, indeed, that
she had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; but that is
nothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and then the
Signor would not have been so much provoked. She might have expected
what was to follow; it was not to be supposed he would bear her ill
usage tamely, and she might thank herself for what happened. But, as I
said, they set out for Padua, she and her husband, and the road lay
over some barren mountains like these. This suited the Signor’s purpose
well. He watched the time of their departure, and sent his men after
them, with directions what to do. They kept their distance, till they
saw their opportunity, and this did not happen, till the second day’s
journey, when, the gentleman having sent his servants forward to the
next town, maybe to have horses in readiness, the Signor’s men
quickened their pace, and overtook the carriage, in a hollow, between
two mountains, where the woods prevented the servants from seeing what
passed, though they were then not far off. When we came up, we fired
our tromboni, but missed.”

Emily turned pale, at these words, and then hoped she had mistaken
them; while Bertrand proceeded:

“The gentleman fired again, but he was soon made to alight, and it was
as he turned to call his people, that he was struck. It was the most
dexterous feat you ever saw—he was struck in the back with three
stillettos at once. He fell, and was dispatched in a minute; but the
lady escaped, for the servants had heard the firing, and came up before
she could be taken care of. ‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor, when his men
returned—”

“Bertrand!” exclaimed Emily, pale with horror, on whom not a syllable
of this narrative had been lost. “Bertrand, did I say?” rejoined the man, with some confusion—“No,
Giovanni. But I have forgot where I was;—‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor—

“Bertrand, again!” said Emily, in a faltering voice, “Why do you repeat
that name?”

Bertrand swore. “What signifies it,” he proceeded, “what the man was
called—Bertrand, or Giovanni—or Roberto? it’s all one for that. You
have put me out twice with that—question. Bertrand, or Giovanni—or what
you will—‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor, ‘if your comrades had done their
duty, as well as you, I should not have lost the lady. Go, my honest
fellow, and be happy with this.’ He gave him a purse of gold—and little
enough too, considering the service he had done him.”

“Aye, aye,” said Ugo, “little enough—little enough.”

Emily now breathed with difficulty, and could scarcely support herself. When first she saw these men, their appearance and their connection
with Montoni had been sufficient to impress her with distrust; but now,
when one of them had betrayed himself to be a murderer, and she saw
herself, at the approach of night, under his guidance, among wild and
solitary mountains, and going she scarcely knew whither, the most
agonizing terror seized her, which was the less supportable from the
necessity she found herself under of concealing all symptoms of it from
her companions. Reflecting on the character and the menaces of Montoni,
it appeared not improbable, that he had delivered her to them, for the
purpose of having her murdered, and of thus securing to himself,
without further opposition, or delay, the estates, for which he had so
long and so desperately contended. Yet, if this was his design, there
appeared no necessity for sending her to such a distance from the
castle; for, if any dread of discovery had made him unwilling to
perpetrate the deed there, a much nearer place might have sufficed for
the purpose of concealment. These considerations, however, did not
immediately occur to Emily, with whom so many circumstances conspired
to rouse terror, that she had no power to oppose it, or to enquire
coolly into its grounds; and, if she had done so, still there were many
appearances which would too well have justified her most terrible
apprehensions. She did not now dare to speak to her conductors, at the
sound of whose voices she trembled; and when, now and then, she stole a
glance at them, their countenances, seen imperfectly through the gloom
of evening, served to confirm her fears. The sun had now been set some time; heavy clouds, whose lower skirts
were tinged with sulphureous crimson, lingered in the west, and threw a
reddish tint upon the pine forests, which sent forth a solemn sound, as
the breeze rolled over them.