You did
well to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that question.”

“I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?”

“What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,” said Montoni. “Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,” replied Emily. “We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,” rejoined
Montoni, “in the conversation which preceded the writing of that note? I must do you the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this
same art of misunderstanding.”

Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answer
with becoming firmness. “Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or to
be wholly silent.”

“The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If Count
Morano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one: you
have changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if he can
have patience and humility enough to wait till tomorrow, he will
probably find it changed again: but as I have neither the patience nor
the humility, which you expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect
of my displeasure!”

“Montoni, you are too precipitate,” said the Count, who had listened to
this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;—“Signora, I
entreat your own explanation of this affair!”

“Signor Montoni has said justly,” replied Emily, “that all explanation
may now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer myself
to give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat
my late declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be
necessary for me to repeat it—I never can accept the honour of your
alliance.”

“Charming Emily!” exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, “let not
resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of
Montoni!—Revoke—”

“Offence!” interrupted Montoni—“Count, this language is ridiculous,
this submission is childish!—speak as becomes a man, not as the slave
of a pretty tyrant.”

“You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have
already proved insufficient to it.”

“All conversation on this subject, sir,” said Emily, “is worse than
useless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would
oblige me, pursue it no farther.”

“It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object of a
passion, which is the delight and torment of my life.—I must still
love—still pursue you with unremitting ardour;—when you shall be
convinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart must
soften into pity and repentance.”

“Is this generous, sir? is this manly? Can it either deserve or obtain
the esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from which I
have no present means of escaping?”

A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano’s countenance, revealed the
strong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered the
dark resentment, which contrasted his features. “By Heaven this is too much!” suddenly exclaimed the Count; “Signor
Montoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look for
explanation.”

“From me, sir! you shall have it;” muttered Montoni, “if your
discernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make
explanation necessary. And for you, madam, you should learn, that a man
of honour is not to be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, with
impunity, treat a _boy_ like a puppet.”

This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which he
had felt at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of the
insolence of Montoni, he determined to mortify him, by defending her. “This also,” said he, replying to Montoni’s last words, “this also,
shall not pass unnoticed. I bid you learn, sir, that you have a
stronger enemy than a woman to contend with: I will protect Signora St.
Aubert from your threatened resentment. You have misled me, and would
revenge your disappointed views upon the innocent.”

“Misled you!” retorted Montoni with quickness, “is my conduct—my
word”—then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring to restrain the
resentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he added, in a
subdued voice, “Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of conduct to
which I am not accustomed: it is the conduct of a passionate boy—as
such, I pass it over in contempt.”

“In contempt, Signor?”

“The respect I owe myself,” rejoined Montoni, “requires, that I should
converse more largely with you upon some points of the subject in
dispute. Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to convince
you of your error.”

“Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed with.”

Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for the
consequences of what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent. She
explained the whole subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni in the
morning, declaring, that she understood him to have consulted her
solely concerning the disposal of La Vallée, and concluding with
entreating, that he would write immediately to M. Quesnel, and rectify
the mistake. But Montoni either was, or affected to be, still incredulous; and Count
Morano was still entangled in perplexity. While she was speaking,
however, the attention of her auditors had been diverted from the
immediate occasion of their resentment, and their passion consequently
became less. Montoni desired the Count would order his servants to row
back to Venice, that he might have some private conversation with him;
and Morano, somewhat soothed by his softened voice and manner, and
eager to examine into the full extent of his difficulties, complied. Emily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the present
moments in endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatal
mischief between the persons who so lately had persecuted and insulted
her. Her spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song and
laughter, resounding from the grand canal, and at length entered again
between its stately piazzas. The _zendaletto_ stopped at Montoni’s
mansion, and the Count hastily led her into the hall, where Montoni
took his arm, and said something in a low voice, on which Morano kissed
the hand he held, notwithstanding Emily’s effort to disengage it, and,
wishing her a good evening, with an accent and look she could not
misunderstand, returned to his _zendaletto_ with Montoni. Emily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all the
unjust and tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseverance of
Morano, and her own desolate situation, removed from her friends and
country. She looked in vain to Valancourt, confined by his profession
to a distant kingdom, as her protector; but it gave her comfort to
know, that there was, at least, one person in the world, who would
sympathise in her afflictions, and whose wishes would fly eagerly to
release her.