They stood round him
with fierce, yet subjugated, looks, while he, speaking earnestly, and
pointing to the walls, did not perceive Emily, who remained at some
distance, waiting till he should be at leisure, and observing
involuntarily the appearance of one man, more savage than his fellows,
who stood resting on his pike, and looking, over the shoulders of a
comrade, at Montoni, to whom he listened with uncommon earnestness. This man was apparently of low condition; yet his looks appeared not to
acknowledge the superiority of Montoni, as did those of his companions;
and sometimes they even assumed an air of authority, which the decisive
manner of the Signor could not repress. Some few words of Montoni then
passed in the wind; and, as the men were separating, she heard him say,
“This evening, then, begin the watch at sunset.”

“At sunset, Signor,” replied one or two of them, and walked away; while
Emily approached Montoni, who appeared desirous of avoiding her: but,
though she observed this, she had courage to proceed. She endeavoured
to intercede once more for her aunt, represented to him her sufferings,
and urged the danger of exposing her to a cold apartment in her present
state. “She suffers by her own folly,” said Montoni, “and is not to be
pitied;—she knows how she may avoid these sufferings in future—if she
is removed to the turret, it will be her own fault. Let her be
obedient, and sign the writings you heard of, and I will think no more
of it.”

When Emily ventured still to plead, he sternly silenced and rebuked her
for interfering in his domestic affairs, but, at length, dismissed her
with this concession—That he would not remove Madame Montoni, on the
ensuing night, but allow her till the next to consider, whether she
would resign her settlements, or be imprisoned in the east turret of
the castle, “where she shall find,” he added, “a punishment she may not
expect.”

Emily then hastened to inform her aunt of this short respite and of the
alternative, that awaited her, to which the latter made no reply, but
appeared thoughtful, while Emily, in consideration of her extreme
languor, wished to sooth her mind by leading it to less interesting
topics: and, though these efforts were unsuccessful, and Madame Montoni
became peevish, her resolution, on the contended point, seemed somewhat
to relax, and Emily recommended, as her only means of safety, that she
should submit to Montoni’s demand. “You know not what you advise,” said
her aunt. “Do you understand, that these estates will descend to you at
my death, if I persist in a refusal?”

“I was ignorant of that circumstance, madam,” replied Emily, “but the
knowledge of it cannot withhold me from advising you to adopt the
conduct, which not only your peace, but, I fear, your safety requires,
and I entreat, that you will not suffer a consideration comparatively
so trifling, to make you hesitate a moment in resigning them.”

“Are you sincere, niece?” “Is it possible you can doubt it, madam?” Her
aunt appeared to be affected. “You are not unworthy of these estates,
niece,” said she: “I would wish to keep them for your sake—you show a
virtue I did not expect.”

“How have I deserved this reproof, madam?” said Emily sorrowfully. “Reproof!” replied Madame Montoni: “I meant to praise your virtue.”

“Alas! here is no exertion of virtue,” rejoined Emily, “for here is no
temptation to be overcome.”

“Yet Monsieur Valancourt—” said her aunt. “O, madam!” interrupted
Emily, anticipating what she would have said, “do not let me glance on
that subject: do not let my mind be stained with a wish so shockingly
self-interested.” She immediately changed the topic, and continued with
Madame Montoni, till she withdrew to her apartment for the night. At that hour, the castle was perfectly still, and every inhabitant of
it, except herself, seemed to have retired to rest. As she passed along
the wide and lonely galleries, dusky and silent, she felt forlorn and
apprehensive of—she scarcely knew what; but when, entering the
corridor, she recollected the incident of the preceding night, a dread
seized her, lest a subject of alarm, similar to that, which had
befallen Annette, should occur to her, and which, whether real, or
ideal, would, she felt, have an almost equal effect upon her weakened
spirits. The chamber, to which Annette had alluded, she did not exactly
know, but understood it to be one of those she must pass in the way to
her own; and, sending a fearful look forward into the gloom, she
stepped lightly and cautiously along, till, coming to a door, from
whence issued a low sound, she hesitated and paused; and, during the
delay of that moment, her fears so much increased, that she had no
power to move from the spot. Believing, that she heard a human voice
within, she was somewhat revived; but, in the next moment, the door was
opened, and a person, whom she conceived to be Montoni, appeared, who
instantly started back, and closed it, though not before she had seen,
by the light that burned in the chamber, another person, sitting in a
melancholy attitude by the fire. Her terror vanished, but her
astonishment only began, which was now roused by the mysterious secrecy
of Montoni’s manner, and by the discovery of a person, whom he thus
visited at midnight, in an apartment, which had long been shut up, and
of which such extraordinary reports were circulated. While she thus continued hesitating, strongly prompted to watch
Montoni’s motions, yet fearing to irritate him by appearing to notice
them, the door was again opened cautiously, and as instantly closed as
before. She then stepped softly to her chamber, which was the next but
one to this, but, having put down her lamp, returned to an obscure
corner of the corridor, to observe the proceedings of this half-seen
person, and to ascertain, whether it was indeed Montoni. Having waited in silent expectation for a few minutes, with her eyes
fixed on the door, it was again opened, and the same person appeared,
whom she now knew to be Montoni. He looked cautiously round, without
perceiving her, then, stepping forward, closed the door, and left the
corridor. Soon after, Emily heard the door fastened on the inside, and
she withdrew to her chamber, wondering at what she had witnessed. It was now twelve o’clock. As she closed her casement, she heard
footsteps on the terrace below, and saw imperfectly, through the gloom,
several persons advancing, who passed under the casement. She then
heard the clink of arms, and, in the next moment, the watch-word; when,
recollecting the command she had overheard from Montoni, and the hour
of the night, she understood, that these men were, for the first time,
relieving guard in the castle. Having listened till all was again
still, she retired to sleep. CHAPTER X

And shall no lay of death
With pleasing murmur sooth
Her parted soul? Shall no tear wet her grave?