THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 24
CHAPTER III
Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,
Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,
Lingering, and sitting, by a new-made grave.
MILTON
On the
following day, Montoni sent a second excuse to Emily, who was surprised at the
circumstance. 'This is very strange!' said she to herself. 'His conscience
tells him the purport of my visit, and he defers it, to avoid an explanation.'
She now almost resolved to throw herself in his way, but terror checked the
intention, and this day passed, as the preceding one, with Emily, except that a
degree of awful expectation, concerning the approaching night, now somewhat
disturbed the dreadful calmness that had pervaded her mind.
Towards
evening, the second part of the band, which had made the first excursion among
the mountains, returned to the castle, where, as they entered the courts,
Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their loud shouts and strains of exultation,
like the orgies of furies over some horrid sacrifice. She even feared they were
about to commit some barbarous deed; a conjecture from which, however, Annette
soon relieved her, by telling, that the people were only exulting over the
plunder they had brought with them. This circumstance still further confirmed
her in the belief, that Montoni had really commenced to be a captain of
banditti, and meant to retrieve his broken fortunes by the plunder of
travellers! Indeed, when she considered all the circumstances of his
situation—in an armed, and almost inaccessible castle, retired far among the
recesses of wild and solitary mountains, along whose distant skirts were
scattered towns, and cities, whither wealthy travellers were continually
passing—this appeared to be the situation of all others most suited for the
success of schemes of rapine, and she yielded to the strange thought, that
Montoni was become a captain of robbers. His character also, unprincipled,
dauntless, cruel and enterprising, seemed to fit him for the situation.
Delighting in the tumult and in the struggles of life, he was equally a
stranger to pity and to fear; his very courage was a sort of animal ferocity;
not the noble impulse of a principle, such as inspirits the mind against the oppressor,
in the cause of the oppressed; but a constitutional hardiness of nerve, that
cannot feel, and that, therefore, cannot fear.
Emily's
supposition, however natural, was in part erroneous, for she was a stranger to
the state of this country and to the circumstances, under which its frequent
wars were partly conducted. The revenues of the many states of Italy being, at
that time, insufficient to the support of standing armies, even during the
short periods, which the turbulent habits both of the governments and the
people permitted to pass in peace, an order of men arose not known in our age,
and but faintly described in the history of their own. Of the soldiers,
disbanded at the end of every war, few returned to the safe, but unprofitable
occupations, then usual in peace. Sometimes they passed into other countries,
and mingled with armies, which still kept the field. Sometimes they formed
themselves into bands of robbers, and occupied remote fortresses, where their
desperate character, the weakness of the governments which they offended, and
the certainty, that they could be recalled to the armies, when their presence
should be again wanted, prevented them from being much pursued by the civil
power; and, sometimes, they attached themselves to the fortunes of a popular
chief, by whom they were led into the service of any state, which could settle
with him the price of their valour. From this latter practice arose their
name—CONDOTTIERI; a term formidable all over Italy, for a period, which
concluded in the earlier part of the seventeenth century, but of which it is
not so easy to ascertain the commencement.
Contests
between the smaller states were then, for the most part, affairs of enterprize
alone, and the probabilities of success were estimated, not from the skill, but
from the personal courage of the general, and the soldiers. The ability, which
was necessary to the conduct of tedious operations, was little valued. It was
enough to know how a party might be led towards their enemies, with the
greatest secrecy, or conducted from them in the compactest order. The officer
was to precipitate himself into a situation, where, but for his example, the
soldiers might not have ventured; and, as the opposed parties knew little of
each other's strength, the event of the day was frequently determined by the
boldness of the first movements. In such services the condottieri were eminent,
and in these, where plunder always followed success, their characters acquired
a mixture of intrepidity and profligacy, which awed even those whom they
served.
When they
were not thus engaged, their chief had usually his own fortress, in which, or
in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksome rest; and, though their wants
were, at one time, partly supplied from the property of the inhabitants, the
lavish distribution of their plunder at others, prevented them from being
obnoxious; and the peasants of such districts gradually shared the character of
their warlike visitors. The neighbouring governments sometimes professed, but
seldom endeavoured, to suppress these military communities; both because it was
difficult to do so, and because a disguised protection of them ensured, for the
service of their wars, a body of men, who could not otherwise be so cheaply
maintained, or so perfectly qualified. The commanders sometimes even relied so
far upon this policy of the several powers, as to frequent their capitals; and
Montoni, having met them in the gaming parties of Venice and Padua, conceived a
desire to emulate their characters, before his ruined fortunes tempted him to
adopt their practices. It was for the arrangement of his present plan of life,
that the midnight councils were held at his mansion in Venice, and at which
Orsino and some other members of the present community then assisted with
suggestions, which they had since executed with the wreck of their fortunes.
On the
return of night, Emily resumed her station at the casement. There was now a
moon; and, as it rose over the tufted woods, its yellow light served to shew
the lonely terrace and the surrounding objects, more distinctly, than the
twilight of the stars had done, and promised Emily to assist her observations,
should the mysterious form return. On this subject, she again wavered in
conjecture, and hesitated whether to speak to the figure, to which a strong and
almost irresistible interest urged her; but terror, at intervals, made her
reluctant to do so.
'If this
is a person who has designs upon the castle,' said she, 'my curiosity may prove
fatal to me; yet the mysterious music, and the lamentations I heard, must
surely have proceeded from him: if so, he cannot be an enemy.'
She then
thought of her unfortunate aunt, and, shuddering with grief and horror, the
suggestions of imagination seized her mind with all the force of truth, and she
believed, that the form she had seen was supernatural. She trembled, breathed
with difficulty, an icy coldness touched her cheeks, and her fears for a while
overcame her judgment. Her resolution now forsook her, and she determined, if
the figure should appear, not to speak to it.
Thus the
time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by expectation, and by the gloom
and stillness of midnight; for she saw obscurely in the moon-light only the
mountains and woods, a cluster of towers, that formed the west angle of the
castle, and the terrace below; and heard no sound, except, now and then, the
lonely watch-word, passed by the centinels on duty, and afterwards the steps of
the men who came to relieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on the rampart
by their pikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then, by the few short
words, in which they hailed their fellows of the night. Emily retired within
her chamber, while they passed the casement. When she returned to it, all was
again quiet. It was now very late, she was wearied with watching, and began to
doubt the reality of what she had seen on the preceding night; but she still
lingered at the window, for her mind was too perturbed to admit of sleep. The
moon shone with a clear lustre, that afforded her a complete view of the
terrace; but she saw only a solitary centinel, pacing at one end of it; and, at
length, tired with expectation, she withdrew to seek rest.
Such,
however, was the impression, left on her mind by the music, and the complaining
she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure, which she fancied she had
seen, that she determined to repeat the watch, on the following night.
Montoni,
on the next day, took no notice of Emily's appointed visit, but she, more
anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to enquire, at what hour he would
admit her. He mentioned eleven o'clock, and Emily was punctual to the moment;
at which she called up all her fortitude to support the shock of his presence
and the dreadful recollections it enforced. He was with several of his
officers, in the cedar room; on observing whom she paused; and her agitation
increased, while he continued to converse with them, apparently not observing
her, till some of his officers, turning round, saw Emily, and uttered an exclamation.
She was hastily retiring, when Montoni's voice arrested her, and, in a
faultering accent, she said,—'I would speak with you, Signor Montoni, if you
are at leisure.'
'These
are my friends,' he replied, 'whatever you would say, they may hear.'
Emily,
without replying, turned from the rude gaze of the chevaliers, and Montoni then
followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a small room, of which he shut
the door with violence. As she looked on his dark countenance, she again
thought she saw the murderer of her aunt; and her mind was so convulsed with
horror, that she had not power to recall thought enough to explain the purport
of her visit; and to trust herself with the mention of Madame Montoni was more
than she dared.
Montoni
at length impatiently enquired what she had to say? 'I have no time for
trifling,' he added, 'my moments are important.'
Emily
then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came to beg, that he
would permit her to do so.—But when he looked surprised, and enquired for the
motive of the request, she hesitated, became paler than before, trembled, and
had nearly sunk at his feet. He observed her emotion, with apparent
indifference, and interrupted the silence by telling her, he must be gone.
Emily, however, recalled her spirits sufficiently to enable her to repeat her
request. And, when Montoni absolutely refused it, her slumbering mind was
roused.
'I can no
longer remain here with propriety, sir,' said she, 'and I may be allowed to
ask, by what right you detain me.'
'It is my
will that you remain here,' said Montoni, laying his hand on the door to go;
'let that suffice you.'
Emily,
considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore to dispute his
right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to be just. 'While my aunt
lived, sir,' said she, in a tremulous voice, 'my residence here was not
improper; but now, that she is no more, I may surely be permitted to depart. My
stay cannot benefit you, sir, and will only distress me.'
'Who told
you, that Madame Montoni was dead?' said Montoni, with an inquisitive eye.
Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, and she did not dare to avow the
having seen that spectacle in the portal-chamber, which had compelled her to
the belief.
'Who told
you so?' he repeated, more sternly.
'Alas! I
know it too well,' replied Emily: 'spare me on this terrible subject!'
She sat
down on a bench to support herself.
'If you
wish to see her,' said Montoni, 'you may; she lies in the east turret.'
He now
left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to the cedar chamber,
where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen Emily, began to rally him,
on the discovery they had made; but Montoni did not appear disposed to bear
this mirth, and they changed the subject.
Having
talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion, which he meditated
for a future day, his friend advised, that they should lie in wait for the
enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed, reproached Orsino with want of
spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni would let him lead on fifty men, he would
conquer all that should oppose him.
Orsino
smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also listened. Verezzi then
proceeded with vehement declamation and assertion, till he was stopped by an
argument of Orsino, which he knew not how to answer better than by invective.
His fierce spirit detested the cunning caution of Orsino, whom he constantly
opposed, and whose inveterate, though silent, hatred he had long ago incurred.
And Montoni was a calm observer of both, whose different qualifications he
knew, and how to bend their opposite character to the perfection of his own
designs. But Verezzi, in the heat of opposition, now did not scruple to accuse
Orsino of cowardice, at which the countenance of the latter, while he made no
reply, was overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who watched his lurking
eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom. But Verezzi, whose face,
glowing with crimson, formed a striking contrast to the complexion of Orsino,
remarked not the action, and continued boldly declaiming against cowards to
Cavigni, who was slily laughing at his vehemence, and at the silent
mortification of Orsino, when the latter, retiring a few steps behind, drew
forth a stilletto to stab his adversary in the back. Montoni arrested his
half-extended arm, and, with a significant look, made him return the poinard
into his bosom, unseen by all except himself; for most of the party were
disputing at a distant window, on the situation of a dell where they meant to
form an ambuscade.
When
Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on the features of his
opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicion of his intention, he laid
his hand on his sword, and then, seeming to recollect himself, strode up to
Montoni.
'Signor,'
said he, with a significant look at Orsino, 'we are not a band of assassins; if
you have business for brave men employ me on this expedition: you shall have
the last drop of my blood; if you have only work for cowards—keep him,'
pointing to Orsino, 'and let me quit Udolpho.'
Orsino,
still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and rushed towards
Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his sword, when Montoni and
the rest of the party interfered and separated them.
'This is
the conduct of a boy,' said Montoni to Verezzi, 'not of a man: be more moderate
in your speech.'
'Moderation
is the virtue of cowards,' retorted Verezzi; 'they are moderate in every
thing—but in fear.'
'I accept
your words,' said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce and haughty look, and
drawing his sword out of the scabbard.
'With all
my heart,' cried Verezzi, 'though I did not mean them for you.'
He
directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villain Orsino made
another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented.
The
combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and violent
dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino, whom he detained
in private consultation for a considerable time.
Emily,
meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for the moment, his
declaration, that she should continue in the castle, while she thought of her
unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid in the east turret. In suffering
the remains of his wife to lie thus long unburied, there appeared a degree of
brutality more shocking than she had suspected even Montoni could practise.
After a
long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to visit the turret, and
to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with which design she returned to
her chamber, and, while she waited for Annette to accompany her, endeavoured to
acquire fortitude sufficient to support her through the approaching scene; for,
though she trembled to encounter it, she knew that to remember the performance
of this last act of duty would hereafter afford her consoling satisfaction.
Annette
came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former endeavoured to
dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was, with much difficulty,
prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret; but no consideration could make
her promise to enter the chamber of death.
They now
left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the stair-case, which Emily
had formerly ascended, Annette declared she would go no further, and Emily
proceeded alone. When she saw the track of blood, which she had before
observed, her spirits fainted, and, being compelled to rest on the stairs, she
almost determined to proceed no further. The pause of a few moments restored
her resolution, and she went on.
As she
drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber opened, she
remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and apprehended, that it might
still be so. In this expectation, however, she was mistaken; for the door
opened at once, into a dusky and silent chamber, round which she fearfully
looked, and then slowly advanced, when a hollow voice spoke. Emily, who was
unable to speak, or to move from the spot, uttered no sound of terror. The
voice spoke again; and, then, thinking that it resembled that of Madame
Montoni, Emily's spirits were instantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, that
stood in a remote part of the room, and drew aside the curtains. Within,
appeared a pale and emaciated face. She started back, then again advanced,
shuddered as she took up the skeleton hand, that lay stretched upon the quilt;
then let it drop, and then viewed the face with a long, unsettled gaze. It was
that of Madame Montoni, though so changed by illness, that the resemblance of
what it had been, could scarcely be traced in what it now appeared. She was still
alive, and, raising her heavy eyes, she turned them on her niece.
'Where
have you been so long?' said she, in the same tone, 'I thought you had forsaken
me.'
'Do you
indeed live,' said Emily, at length, 'or is this but a terrible apparition?'
she received no answer, and again she snatched up the hand. 'This is
substance,' she exclaimed, 'but it is cold—cold as marble!' She let it fall.
'O, if you really live, speak!' said Emily, in a voice of desperation, 'that I
may not lose my senses—say you know me!'
'I do
live,' replied Madame Montoni, 'but—I feel that I am about to die.'
Emily
clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned. They were both silent for
some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe her, and enquired what had
reduced her to this present deplorable state.
Montoni,
when he removed her to the turret under the improbable suspicion of having
attempted his life, had ordered the men employed on the occasion, to observe a
strict secrecy concerning her. To this he was influenced by a double motive. He
meant to debar her from the comfort of Emily's visits, and to secure an
opportunity of privately dispatching her, should any new circumstances occur to
confirm the present suggestions of his suspecting mind. His consciousness of
the hatred he deserved it was natural enough should at first led him to
attribute to her the attempt that had been made upon his life; and, though
there was no other reason to believe that she was concerned in that atrocious
design, his suspicions remained; he continued to confine her in the turret,
under a strict guard; and, without pity or remorse, had suffered her to lie,
forlorn and neglected, under a raging fever, till it had reduced her to the
present state.
The track
of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed from the unbound wound
of one of the men employed to carry Madame Montoni, and which he had received
in the late affray. At night these men, having contented themselves with
securing the door of their prisoner's room, had retired from guard; and then it
was, that Emily, at the time of her first enquiry, had found the turret so
silent and deserted.
When she
had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was sleeping, and this
occasioned the silence, which had contributed to delude her into a belief, that
she was no more; yet had her terror permitted her to persevere longer in the
call, she would probably have awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared
much suffering. The spectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed
Emily's horrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen in the affray,
and the same which had been borne into the servants' hall, where she took
refuge from the tumult. This man had lingered under his wounds for some days;
and, soon after his death, his body had been removed on the couch, on which he
died, for interment in the vault beneath the chapel, through which Emily and
Barnardine had passed to the chamber.
Emily,
after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning herself, left her,
and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest she felt for her aunt, made
her now regardless of the resentment her remonstrances might draw upon herself,
and of the improbability of his granting what she meant to entreat.
'Madame
Montoni is now dying, sir,' said Emily, as soon as she saw him—'Your
resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment! Suffer her to be
removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment, and to have necessary
comforts administered.'
'Of what
service will that be, if she is dying?' said Montoni, with apparent
indifference.
'The
service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs of conscience
you must suffer, when you shall be in the same situation,' said Emily, with
imprudent indignation, of which Montoni soon made her sensible, by commanding
her to quit his presence. Then, forgetting her resentment, and impressed only
by compassion for the piteous state of her aunt, dying without succour, she
submitted to humble herself to Montoni, and to adopt every persuasive means,
that might induce him to relent towards his wife.
For a considerable
time he was proof against all she said, and all she looked; but at length the
divinity of pity, beaming in Emily's eyes, seemed to touch his heart. He turned
away, ashamed of his better feelings, half sullen and half relenting; but
finally consented, that his wife should be removed to her own apartment, and
that Emily should attend her. Dreading equally, that this relief might arrive
too late, and that Montoni might retract his concession, Emily scarcely staid
to thank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, she quickly prepared Madame
Montoni's bed, and they carried her a cordial, that might enable her feeble
frame to sustain the fatigue of a removal.
Madame
was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was given by her
husband, that she should remain in the turret; but Emily, thankful that she had
made such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it, as well as that a second
removal would instantly prove fatal, and he suffered his wife to continue where
she was.
During
this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare such little
nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her, and which Madame
Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she seemed sensible that they
could not save her from approaching dissolution, and scarcely appeared to wish
for life. Emily meanwhile watched over her with the most tender solicitude, no
longer seeing her imperious aunt in the poor object before her, but the sister
of her late beloved father, in a situation that called for all her compassion
and kindness. When night came, she determined to sit up with her aunt, but this
the latter positively forbade, commanding her to retire to rest, and Annette
alone to remain in her chamber. Rest was, indeed, necessary to Emily, whose
spirits and frame were equally wearied by the occurrences and exertions of the
day; but she would not leave Madame Montoni, till after the turn of midnight, a
period then thought so critical by the physicians.
Soon
after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to call her, should
any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully bade Madame Montoni good
night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits were more than usually
depressed by the piteous condition of her aunt, whose recovery she scarcely
dared to expect. To her own misfortunes she saw no period, inclosed as she was,
in a remote castle, beyond the reach of any friends, had she possessed such,
and beyond the pity even of strangers; while she knew herself to be in the
power of a man capable of any action, which his interest, or his ambition,
might suggest.
Occupied
by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, she did not retire
immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her open casement. The scene
before her of woods and mountains, reposing in the moon-light, formed a
regretted contrast with the state of her mind; but the lonely murmur of these
woods, and the view of this sleeping landscape, gradually soothed her emotions
and softened her to tears.
She
continued to weep, for some time, lost to every thing, but to a gentle sense of
her misfortunes. When she, at length, took the handkerchief from her eyes, she
perceived, before her, on the terrace below, the figure she had formerly
observed, which stood fixed and silent, immediately opposite to her casement.
On perceiving it, she started back, and terror for some time overcame
curiosity;—at length, she returned to the casement, and still the figure was
before it, which she now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly unable
to speak, as she had formerly intended. The moon shone with a clear light, and
it was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that prevented her distinguishing,
with any degree of accuracy, the form before her. It was still stationary, and
she began to doubt, whether it was really animated.
Her
scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her, that her light
exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was stepping back to remove it,
when she perceived the figure move, and then wave what seemed to be its arm, as
if to beckon her; and, while she gazed, fixed in fear, it repeated the action.
She now attempted to speak, but the words died on her lips, and she went from
the casement to remove her light; as she was doing which, she heard, from
without, a faint groan. Listening, but not daring to return, she presently
heard it repeated.
'Good
God!—what can this mean!' said she.
Again she
listened, but the sound came no more; and, after a long interval of silence,
she recovered courage enough to go to the casement, when she again saw the same
appearance! It beckoned again, and again uttered a low sound.
'That
groan was surely human!' said she. 'I WILL speak.' 'Who is it,' cried Emily in
a faint voice, 'that wanders at this late hour?'
The
figure raised its head but suddenly started away, and glided down the terrace.
She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly in the moon-light, but heard
no footstep, till a sentinel from the other extremity of the rampart walked
slowly along. The man stopped under her window, and, looking up, called her by
name. She was retiring precipitately, but, a second summons inducing her to
reply, the soldier then respectfully asked if she had seen any thing pass. On
her answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down the terrace,
Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in the distance. But, as he
was on guard, she knew he could not go beyond the rampart, and, therefore,
resolved to await his return.
Soon
after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; and then a voice
still more distant answered, and, in the next moment, the watch-word was given,
and passed along the terrace. As the soldiers moved hastily under the casement,
she called to enquire what had happened, but they passed without regarding her.
Emily's
thoughts returning to the figure she had seen, 'It cannot be a person, who has
designs upon the castle,' said she; 'such an one would conduct himself very
differently. He would not venture where sentinels were on watch, nor fix
himself opposite to a window, where he perceived he must be observed; much less
would he beckon, or utter a sound of complaint. Yet it cannot be a prisoner,
for how could he obtain the opportunity to wander thus?'
If she
had been subject to vanity, she might have supposed this figure to be some
inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under her casement in the hope of seeing
her, and of being allowed to declare his admiration; but this opinion never
occurred to Emily, and, if it had, she would have dismissed it as improbable,
on considering, that, when the opportunity of speaking had occurred, it had
been suffered to pass in silence; and that, even at the moment in which she had
spoken, the form had abruptly quitted the place.
While she
mused, two sentinels walked up the rampart in earnest conversation, of which
she caught a few words, and learned from these, that one of their comrades had
fallen down senseless. Soon after, three other soldiers appeared slowly advancing
from the bottom of the terrace, but she heard only a low voice, that came at
intervals. As they drew near, she perceived this to be the voice of him, who
walked in the middle, apparently supported by his comrades; and she again
called to them, enquiring what had happened. At the sound of her voice, they
stopped, and looked up, while she repeated her question, and was told, that
Roberto, their fellow of the watch, had been seized with a fit, and that his
cry, as he fell, had caused a false alarm.
'Is he
subject to fits?' said Emily.
'Yes,
Signora,' replied Roberto; 'but if I had not, what I saw was enough to have
frightened the Pope himself.'
'What was
it?' enquired Emily, trembling.
'I cannot
tell what it was, lady, or what I saw, or how it vanished,' replied the
soldier, who seemed to shudder at the recollection.
'Was it
the person, whom you followed down the rampart, that has occasioned you this
alarm?' said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her own.
'Person!'
exclaimed the man,—'it was the devil, and this is not the first time I have
seen him!'
'Nor will
it be the last,' observed one of his comrades, laughing.
'No, no,
I warrant not,' said another.
'Well,'
rejoined Roberto, 'you may be as merry now, as you please; you was none so
jocose the other night, Sebastian, when you was on watch with Launcelot.'
'Launcelot
need not talk of that,' replied Sebastian, 'let him remember how he stood
trembling, and unable to give the WORD, till the man was gone, If the man had
not come so silently upon us, I would have seized him, and soon made him tell
who he was.'
'What
man?' enquired Emily.
'It was
no man, lady,' said Launcelot, who stood by, 'but the devil himself, as my
comrade says. What man, who does not live in the castle, could get within the
walls at midnight? Why, I might just as well pretend to march to Venice, and
get among all the Senators, when they are counselling; and I warrant I should
have more chance of getting out again alive, than any fellow, that we should
catch within the gates after dark. So I think I have proved plainly enough,
that this can be nobody that lives out of the castle; and now I will prove,
that it can be nobody that lives in the castle—for, if he did—why should he be
afraid to be seen? So after this, I hope nobody will pretend to tell me it was
anybody. No, I say again, by holy Pope! it was the devil, and Sebastian, there,
knows this is not the first time we have seen him.'
'When did
you see the figure, then, before?' said Emily half smiling, who, though she
thought the conversation somewhat too much, felt an interest, which would not
permit her to conclude it.
'About a
week ago, lady,' said Sebastian, taking up the story.
'And
where?'
'On the
rampart, lady, higher up.'
'Did you
pursue it, that it fled?'
'No,
Signora. Launcelot and I were on watch together, and every thing was so still,
you might have heard a mouse stir, when, suddenly, Launcelot says—Sebastian! do
you see nothing? I turned my head a little to the left, as it might be—thus.
No, says I. Hush! said Launcelot,—look yonder—just by the last cannon on the
rampart! I looked, and then thought I did see something move; but there being
no light, but what the stars gave, I could not be certain. We stood quite
silent, to watch it, and presently saw something pass along the castle wall
just opposite to us!'
'Why did
you not seize it, then?' cried a soldier, who had scarcely spoken till now.
'Aye, why
did you not seize it?' said Roberto.
'You
should have been there to have done that,' replied Sebastian. 'You would have
been bold enough to have taken it by the throat, though it had been the devil
himself; we could not take such a liberty, perhaps, because we are not so well
acquainted with him, as you are. But, as I was saying, it stole by us so
quickly, that we had not time to get rid of our surprise, before it was gone.
Then, we knew it was in vain to follow. We kept constant watch all that night,
but we saw it no more. Next morning, we told some of our comrades, who were on
duty on other parts of the ramparts, what we had seen; but they had seen
nothing, and laughed at us, and it was not till to-night, that the same figure
walked again.'
'Where
did you lose it, friend?' said Emily to Roberto.
'When I
left you, lady,' replied the man, 'you might see me go down the rampart, but it
was not till I reached the east terrace, that I saw any thing. Then, the moon
shining bright, I saw something like a shadow flitting before me, as it were,
at some distance. I stopped, when I turned the corner of the east tower, where
I had seen this figure not a moment before,—but it was gone! As I stood,
looking through the old arch, which leads to the east rampart, and where I am
sure it had passed, I heard, all of a sudden, such a sound!—it was not like a
groan, or a cry, or a shout, or any thing I ever heard in my life. I heard it
only once, and that was enough for me; for I know nothing that happened after,
till I found my comrades, here, about me.'
'Come,'
said Sebastian, 'let us go to our posts—the moon is setting. Good night, lady!'
'Aye, let
us go,' rejoined Roberto. 'Good night, lady.'
'Good
night; the holy mother guard you!' said Emily, as she closed her casement and
retired to reflect upon the strange circumstance that had just occurred,
connecting which with what had happened on former nights, she endeavoured to
derive from the whole something more positive, than conjecture. But her
imagination was inflamed, while her judgment was not enlightened, and the
terrors of superstition again pervaded her mind.
