The hollow moan struck upon Emily’s heart,
and served to render more gloomy and terrific every object around
her,—the mountains, shaded in twilight—the gleaming torrent, hoarsely
roaring—the black forests, and the deep glen, broken into rocky
recesses, high overshadowed by cypress and sycamore and winding into
long obscurity. To this glen, Emily, as she sent forth her anxious eye,
thought there was no end; no hamlet, or even cottage, was seen, and
still no distant bark of watch-dog, or even faint, far-off halloo came
on the wind. In a tremulous voice, she now ventured to remind the
guides, that it was growing late, and to ask again how far they had to
go: but they were too much occupied by their own discourse to attend to
her question, which she forbore to repeat, lest it should provoke a
surly answer. Having, however, soon after, finished their supper, the
men collected the fragments into their wallet, and proceeded along this
winding glen, in gloomy silence; while Emily again mused upon her own
situation, and concerning the motives of Montoni for involving her in
it. That it was for some evil purpose towards herself, she could not
doubt; and it seemed, that, if he did not intend to destroy her, with a
view of immediately seizing her estates, he meant to reserve her a
while in concealment, for some more terrible design, for one that might
equally gratify his avarice and still more his deep revenge. At this
moment, remembering Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the corridor, a
few preceding nights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was,
strengthened in her belief. Yet, why remove her from the castle, where
deeds of darkness had, she feared, been often executed with
secrecy?—from chambers, perhaps

With many a foul, and midnight murder stain’d. The dread of what she might be going to encounter was now so excessive,
that it sometimes threatened her senses; and, often as she went, she
thought of her late father and of all he would have suffered, could he
have foreseen the strange and dreadful events of her future life; and
how anxiously he would have avoided that fatal confidence, which
committed his daughter to the care of a woman so weak as was Madame
Montoni. So romantic and improbable, indeed, did her present situation
appear to Emily herself, particularly when she compared it with the
repose and beauty of her early days, that there were moments, when she
could almost have believed herself the victim of frightful visions,
glaring upon a disordered fancy. Restrained by the presence of her guides from expressing her terrors,
their acuteness was, at length, lost in gloomy despair. The dreadful
view of what might await her hereafter rendered her almost indifferent
to the surrounding dangers. She now looked, with little emotion, on the
wild dingles, and the gloomy road and mountains, whose outlines were
only distinguishable through the dusk;—objects, which but lately had
affected her spirits so much, as to awaken horrid views of the future,
and to tinge these with their own gloom. It was now so nearly dark, that the travellers, who proceeded only by
the slowest pace, could scarcely discern their way. The clouds, which
seemed charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens, showing,
at intervals, the trembling stars; while the groves of cypress and
sycamore, that overhung the rocks, waved high in the breeze, as it
swept over the glen, and then rushed among the distant woods. Emily
shivered as it passed. “Where is the torch?” said Ugo, “it grows dark.”

“Not so dark yet,” replied Bertrand, “but we may find our way, and ’tis
best not light the torch, before we can help, for it may betray us, if
any straggling party of the enemy is abroad.”

Ugo muttered something, which Emily did not understand, and they
proceeded in darkness, while she almost wished, that the enemy might
discover them; for from change there was something to hope, since she
could scarcely imagine any situation more dreadful than her present
one. As they moved slowly along, her attention was surprised by a thin
tapering flame, that appeared, by fits, at the point of the pike, which
Bertrand carried, resembling what she had observed on the lance of the
sentinel, the night Madame Montoni died, and which he had said was an
omen. The event immediately following it appeared to justify the
assertion, and a superstitious impression had remained on Emily’s mind,
which the present appearance confirmed. She thought it was an omen of
her own fate, and watched it successively vanish and return, in gloomy
silence, which was at length interrupted by Bertrand. “Let us light the torch,” said he, “and get under shelter of the
woods;—a storm is coming on—look at my lance.”

He held it forth, with the flame tapering at its point. *

(*Note: See the Abbé Berthelon on Electricity. [A. R.])


“Aye,” said Ugo, “you are not one of those, that believe in omens: we
have left cowards at the castle, who would turn pale at such a sight. I
have often seen it before a thunder-storm, it is an omen of that, and
one is coming now, sure enough. The clouds flash fast already.”

Emily was relieved by this conversation from some of the terrors of
superstition, but those of reason increased, as, waiting while Ugo
searched for a flint, to strike fire, she watched the pale lightning
gleam over the woods they were about to enter, and illumine the harsh
countenances of her companions. Ugo could not find a flint, and
Bertrand became impatient, for the thunder sounded hollowly at a
distance, and the lightning was more frequent. Sometimes, it revealed
the nearer recesses of the woods, or, displaying some opening in their
summits, illumined the ground beneath with partial splendour, the thick
foliage of the trees preserving the surrounding scene in deep shadow. At length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch was lighted. The men then
dismounted, and, having assisted Emily, led the mules towards the
woods, that skirted the glen, on the left, over broken ground,
frequently interrupted with brush-wood and wild plants, which she was
often obliged to make a circuit to avoid. She could not approach these woods, without experiencing keener sense
of her danger. Their deep silence, except when the wind swept among
their branches, and impenetrable glooms shown partially by the sudden
flash, and then, by the red glare of the torch, which served only to
make “darkness visible,” were circumstances, that contributed to renew
all her most terrible apprehensions; she thought, too, that, at this
moment, the countenances of her conductors displayed more than their
usual fierceness, mingled with a kind of lurking exultation, which they
seemed endeavouring to disguise. To her affrighted fancy it occurred,
that they were leading her into these woods to complete the will of
Montoni by her murder.