He would have found
others, who had no scruples.”

“You have murdered her, then!” said Emily, in a hollow and inward
voice—“I am talking with a murderer!” Barnardine stood silent; while
Emily turned from him, and attempted to leave the place. “Stay, lady!” said he, “You deserve to think so still—since you can
believe me capable of such a deed.”

“If you are innocent, tell me quickly,” said Emily, in faint accents,
“for I feel I shall not be able to hear you long.”

“I will tell you no more,” said he, and walked away. Emily had just
strength enough to bid him stay, and then to call Annette, on whose arm
she leaned, and they walked slowly up the rampart, till they heard
steps behind them. It was Barnardine again. “Send away the girl,” said he, “and I will tell you more.”

“She must not go,” said Emily; “what you have to say, she may hear.”

“May she so, lady?” said he. “You shall know no more, then;” and he was
going, though slowly, when Emily’s anxiety, overcoming the resentment
and fear, which the man’s behaviour had roused, she desired him to
stay, and bade Annette retire. “The Signora is alive,” said he, “for me. She is my prisoner, though;
his _Excellenza_ has shut her up in the chamber over the great gates of
the court, and I have the charge of her. I was going to have told you,
you might see her—but now—”

Emily, relieved from an unutterable load of anguish by this speech, had
now only to ask Barnardine’s forgiveness, and to conjure, that he would
let her visit her aunt. He complied with less reluctance, than she expected, and told her,
that, if she would repair, on the following night, when the Signor was
retired to rest, to the postern-gate of the castle, she should,
perhaps, see Madame Montoni. Amid all the thankfulness, which Emily felt for this concession, she
thought she observed a malicious triumph in his manner, when he
pronounced the last words; but, in the next moment, she dismissed the
thought, and, having again thanked him, commended her aunt to his pity,
and assured him, that she would herself reward him, and would be
punctual to her appointment, she bade him good night, and retired,
unobserved, to her chamber. It was a considerable time, before the
tumult of joy, which Barnardine’s unexpected intelligence had
occasioned, allowed Emily to think with clearness, or to be conscious
of the real dangers, that still surrounded Madame Montoni and herself. When this agitation subsided, she perceived, that her aunt was yet the
prisoner of a man, to whose vengeance, or avarice, she might fall a
sacrifice; and, when she further considered the savage aspect of the
person, who was appointed to guard Madame Montoni, her doom appeared to
be already sealed, for the countenance of Barnardine seemed to bear the
stamp of a murderer; and, when she had looked upon it, she felt
inclined to believe, that there was no deed, however black, which he
might not be prevailed upon to execute. These reflections brought to
her remembrance the tone of voice, in which he had promised to grant
her request to see his prisoner; and she mused upon it long in
uneasiness and doubt. Sometimes, she even hesitated, whether to trust
herself with him at the lonely hour he had appointed; and once, and
only once, it struck her, that Madame Montoni might be already
murdered, and that this ruffian was appointed to decoy herself to some
secret place, where her life also was to be sacrificed to the avarice
of Montoni, who then would claim securely the contested estates in
Languedoc. The consideration of the enormity of such guilt did, at
length, relieve her from the belief of its probability, but not from
all the doubts and fears, which a recollection of Barnardine’s manner
had occasioned. From these subjects, her thoughts, at length, passed to
others; and, as the evening advanced, she remembered, with somewhat
more than surprise, the music she had heard, on the preceding night,
and now awaited its return, with more than curiosity. She distinguished, till a late hour, the distant carousals of Montoni
and his companions—the loud contest, the dissolute laugh and the choral
song, that made the halls re-echo. At length, she heard the heavy gates
of the castle shut for the night, and those sounds instantly sunk into
a silence, which was disturbed only by the whispering steps of persons,
passing through the galleries to their remote rooms. Emily now judging
it to be about the time, when she had heard the music, on the preceding
night, dismissed Annette, and gently opened the casement to watch for
its return. The planet she had so particularly noticed, at the
recurrence of the music, was not yet risen; but, with superstitious
weakness, she kept her eyes fixed on that part of the hemisphere, where
it would rise, almost expecting, that, when it appeared, the sounds
would return. At length, it came, serenely bright, over the eastern
towers of the castle. Her heart trembled, when she perceived it, and
she had scarcely courage to remain at the casement, lest the returning
music should confirm her terror, and subdue the little strength she yet
retained. The clock soon after struck one, and, knowing this to be
about the time, when the sounds had occurred, she sat down in a chair,
near the casement, and endeavoured to compose her spirits; but the
anxiety of expectation yet disturbed them. Everything, however,
remained still; she heard only the solitary step of a sentinel, and the
lulling murmur of the woods below, and she again leaned from the
casement, and again looked, as if for intelligence, to the planet,
which was now risen high above the towers. Emily continued to listen, but no music came. “Those were surely no
mortal sounds!” said she, recollecting their entrancing melody. “No
inhabitant of this castle could utter such; and, where is the feeling,
that could modulate such exquisite expression? We all know, that it has
been affirmed celestial sounds have sometimes been heard on earth. Father Pierre and Father Antoine declared, that they had sometimes
heard them in the stillness of night, when they alone were waking to
offer their orisons to heaven. Nay, my dear father himself, once said,
that, soon after my mother’s death, as he lay watchful in grief, sounds
of uncommon sweetness called him from his bed; and, on opening his
window, he heard lofty music pass along the midnight air. It soothed
him, he said; he looked up with confidence to heaven, and resigned her
to his God.”

Emily paused to weep at this recollection. “Perhaps,” resumed she,
“perhaps, those strains I heard were sent to comfort,—to encourage me! Never shall I forget those I heard, at this hour, in Languedoc! Perhaps, my father watches over me, at this moment!” She wept again in
tenderness.