And the other man was
grumbling, and saying it was fine enough for the Signor, but none so
fine for his soldiers, because, said he, we don’t go shares there.”

This information heightened Emily’s impatience to know more, and
Annette immediately departed on her enquiry. The late resolution of Emily to resign her estates to Montoni, now gave
way to new considerations; the possibility, that Valancourt was near
her, revived her fortitude, and she determined to brave the threatened
vengeance, at least, till she could be assured whether he was really in
the castle. She was in this temper of mind, when she received a message
from Montoni, requiring her attendance in the cedar parlour, which she
obeyed with trembling, and, on her way thither, endeavoured to animate
her fortitude with the idea of Valancourt. Montoni was alone. “I sent for you,” said he, “to give you another
opportunity of retracting your late mistaken assertions concerning the
Languedoc estates. I will condescend to advise, where I may command.—If
you are really deluded by an opinion, that you have any right to these
estates, at least, do not persist in the error—an error, which you may
perceive, too late, has been fatal to you. Dare my resentment no
further, but sign the papers.”

“If I have no right in these estates, sir,” said Emily, “of what
service can it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning
them? If the lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them,
without my interference, or my consent.”

“I will have no more argument,” said Montoni, with a look that made her
tremble. “What had I but trouble to expect, when I condescended to
reason with a baby! But I will be trifled with no longer: let the
recollection of your aunt’s sufferings, in consequence of her folly and
obstinacy, teach you a lesson.—Sign the papers.”

Emily’s resolution was for a moment awed:—she shrunk at the
recollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; but
then, the image of Valancourt, who so long had loved her, and who was
now, perhaps, so near her, came to her heart, and, together with the
strong feelings of indignation, with which she had always, from her
infancy, regarded an act of injustice, inspired her with a noble,
though imprudent, courage. “Sign the papers,” said Montoni, more impatiently than before. “Never, sir,” replied Emily; “that request would have proved to me the
injustice of your claim, had I even been ignorant of my right.”

Montoni turned pale with anger, while his quivering lip and lurking eye
made her almost repent the boldness of her speech. “Then all my vengeance falls upon you,” he exclaimed, with a horrible
oath. “And think not it shall be delayed. Neither the estates in
Languedoc, nor Gascony, shall be yours; you have dared to question my
right,—now dare to question my power. I have a punishment which you
think not of; it is terrible! This night—this very night—”

“This night!” repeated another voice. Montoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollect
himself, he proceeded in a lower tone. “You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly; yet
this, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you.—I could tell
you of others—I could make you tremble at the bare recital.”

He was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath the
chamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it, impatience
and rage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade of fear
passed over his countenance. Emily sat down in a chair, near the door,
for the various emotions she had suffered, now almost overcame her; but
Montoni paused scarcely an instant, and, commanding his features,
resumed his discourse in a lower, yet sterner voice. “I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of my
character, which it seems you do not understand, or you would not defy
me.—I could tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken—but I am
talking to a baby. Let me, however, repeat, that terrible as are the
examples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit you; for,
though your repentance would put an immediate end to opposition, it
would not now appease my indignation.—I will have vengeance as well as
justice.”

Another groan filled the pause which Montoni made. “Leave the room instantly!” said he, seeming not to notice this strange
occurrence. Without power to implore his pity, she rose to go, but
found that she could not support herself; awe and terror overcame her,
and she sunk again into the chair. “Quit my presence!” cried Montoni. “This affectation of fear ill
becomes the heroine who has just dared to brave my indignation.”

“Did you hear nothing, Signor?” said Emily, trembling, and still unable
to leave the room. “I heard my own voice,” rejoined Montoni, sternly. “And nothing else?” said Emily, speaking with difficulty.—“There again! Do you hear nothing now?”

“Obey my order,” repeated Montoni. “And for these fool’s tricks—I will
soon discover by whom they are practised.”

Emily again rose, and exerted herself to the utmost to leave the room,
while Montoni followed her; but, instead of calling aloud to his
servants to search the chamber, as he had formerly done on a similar
occurrence, passed to the ramparts. As, in her way to the corridor, she rested for a moment at an open
casement, Emily saw a party of Montoni’s troops winding down a distant
mountain, whom she noticed no further than as they brought to her mind
the wretched prisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to the castle. At
length, having reached her apartment, she threw herself upon the couch,
overcome with the new horrors of her situation. Her thoughts lost in
tumult and perplexity, she could neither repent of, nor approve, her
late conduct; she could only remember, that she was in the power of a
man, who had no principle of action—but his will; and the astonishment
and terrors of superstition, which had, for a moment, so strongly
assailed her, now yielded to those of reason. She was, at length, roused from the reverie which engaged her, by a
confusion of distant voices, and a clattering of hoofs, that seemed to
come, on the wind, from the courts. A sudden hope, that some good was
approaching, seized her mind, till she remembered the troops she had
observed from the casement, and concluded this to be the party, which
Annette had said were expected at Udolpho. Soon after, she heard voices faintly from the halls, and the noise of
horses’ feet sunk away in the wind; silence ensued. Emily listened
anxiously for Annette’s step in the corridor, but a pause of total
stillness continued, till again the castle seemed to be all tumult and
confusion. She heard the echoes of many footsteps, passing to and fro
in the halls and avenues below, and then busy tongues were loud on the
rampart.