an ancient servant of the castle appeared, forcing back the huge folds of the portal to admit his lord. As the carriage-wheels rolled heavily under the portcullis, Emily's heart sunk, and she seemed as if she was going into her prison. The gloomy court into which she passed served to confirm the idea, and her imagination, ever awake to circumstance, suggested even more terrors than her reason could justify.

"Do you know which is my room?" said she to Annette, as they crossed the hall.

"Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle; but this is such a strange, rambling place! I have been lost in it already. They call it the double chamber, over the south rampart, and I went up this great staircase. My lady's room is at the other end of the castle."

Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as they passed through which, Annette resumed her chat. "What a wild, lonely place this is, ma'am! I shall be quite frightened to live in it. How often and how often have I wished myself in France again! I little thought, when I came with my lady to see the world, that I should ever be shut up in such a place as this, or I would never have left my own country. — This way, ma'amselle, down this turning. I can almost believe in giants again, and such like, for this is just like one of their castles; and some night or other I suppose I shall see fairies, too, hopping about in that great old hall, that looks more like a church, with its huge pillars, than anything else."

"Yes," said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious thought. "If we come to the corridor about midnight, and look down into the hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand lamps, and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of delicious music; for it is in such places as this, you know, that they come to hold their revels. But I am afraid, Annette, you will not be able to pay the necessary penance for such a sight; and if they once hear your voice, the whole scene will vanish in an instant."

"Oh! if you will bear me company, ma'amselle, I will come to the corridor this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue; it shall not be my fault if the show vanishes. But do you think they will come?"

"I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say it will not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish."

"Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you; but I am not so much afraid of fairies as of ghosts, and they say there are plentiful many of them about the castle. Now I should be frightened to death if I should chance to see any of them. But hush! ma'amselle, walk softly! I have thought, several times, something passed by me!"

"Ridiculous!" said Emily. "You must not indulge such fan

cies."

"Oh, ma'am, they are not fancies, for aught I know. Benedetto says these dismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to live in; and I verily believe if I live long in them, I shall turn to one myself!"

"I hope," said Emily, "you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear of these weak fears; they would highly displease him."

"What! you know, then, ma'amselle, all about it!" rejoined Annette. "No, no, I do know better than to do so; though if the signor can sleep sound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lay awake, I am sure.'

Emily did not appear to notice this remark.

"Down this passage, ma'amselle; this leads to a back staircase. Oh, if I see anything I shall be frightened out of my wits!"

"That will scarcely be possible," said Emily, smiling, as she followed the winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery.

And then Annette, perceiving that she had missed her way while she had been so eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about through other passages and galleries, till at length, frightened by their intricacies and desolation, she called aloud for assistance. But they were beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the other side of the castle; and Emily now opened the door of a chamber on the left.

"Oh, do not go in there, ma'amselle," said Annette. "You will only lose yourself farther."

"Bring the light forward," said Emily; "we may possibly find our way through these rooms."

Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light held up to show the chamber; but the feeble ray spread through not half of it.

"Why do you hesitate?" said Emily. "Let me see whither this room leads."

Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious and ancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others wainscoted with cedar and black larchwood. What furniture there was seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an appearance of grandeur though covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with the damps and with age.

"How cold these rooms are, ma'amselle!" said Annette. "Nobody has lived in them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go."

"They may open upon the great staircase, perhaps," said Emily, passing on till she came to a chamber hung with pictures, and took the light to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of battle. He was darting his spear upon a man who lay under the feet of the horse, and who held up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier, whose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of vengeance, and the countenance, with that expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni. She shuddered, and turned from it, passing the light hastily over several other pictures, till she came to one concealed by veil of black silk. The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped before it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thus carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage.

"Holy Virgin! what can this mean?" exclaimed Annette. "This is surely the picture they told me of at Venice."

"What picture?" said Emily.

"Why, a picture—a picture,” replied Annette, hesitatingly; "but I never could make out exactly what it was about, either."

"Remove the veil, Annette."

"What! I, ma'amselle? I? Not for the world!"

Emily, turning round, saw Annette's countenance grow pale. "And pray what have you heard of this picture to so terrify you, my good girl?" said she.

"Nothing, ma'amselle; I have heard nothing; only let us find our way out."

'Certainly; but I wish first to examine the picture. Take the light, Annette, while I lift the veil."

Annette took the light, and immediately walked away with it, disregarding Emily's call to stay, who, not choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length followed her. . . .

"Hush!" said Emily, trembling.

They listened, and, continuing to sit quite still, Emily heard a slow knocking against the wall. It came repeatedly. Annette then screamed loudly, and the chamber door slowly opened. It was Caterina, come to tell Annette that her lady wanted her. Emily, though she now perceived who it was, could not immediately overcome her terror; while Annette, half laughing, half crying, scolded Caterina for thus alarming them, and was also terrified lest what she had told had been overheard. Emily, whose mind was deeply impressed by the chief circumstance of Annette's relation, was unwilling to be left alone, in the present state of her spirits; but, to avoid offending Madame Montoni, and betraying her own weakness, she struggled to overcome the illusions of fear, and dismissed Annette for the night.

...

MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS

THE MONK

1795

[This romance, the most famous of the "tales of terror," was written partly under the influence of Mrs. Radcliffe's Udolpho (see above), though the story was taken from that of Santon Barsisa in The Guardian (No. 148). It was published when the author was twenty years old. A prosecution was begun, on the ground that certain passages were immoral, and in a second edition the author expunged them. The extract here reprinted is the conclusion of the tale, and exemplifies in particular both Lewis's fondness for the supernatural and his use of the details of physical horror.]

AMBROSIO, rather dead than alive, was left alone in his dungeon. . . . He looked forward to the morrow with despair, and his terrors increased with the approach of midnight. Sometimes he was buried in gloomy silence; at others he raved with delirious passion, wrung his hands, and cursed the hour when he first beheld the light. In one of these moments his eye rested upon Matilda's mysterious gift. His transports of rage were instantly suspended. He looked earnestly at the book; he took it up, but immediately threw it from him with horror. He walked rapidly up and down his dungeon - then stopped, and again fixed his eyes on the spot where the book had fallen. He reflected that here at least was a resource from the fate which he dreaded. He stooped, and took it up a second time. He remained for some time trembling and irresolute; he longed to try the charm, yet feared its consequences. The recollection of his sentence at length fixed his indecision. He opened the volume; but his agitation was so great that he at first sought in vain for the page mentioned by Matilda. Ashamed of himself, he called all his courage to his aid. He turned to the seventh leaf; he began to read it aloud; but his eyes frequently wandered from the book, while he anxiously cast them round in search of the spirit whom he wished yet dreaded to behold. Still he persisted in his design; and with a voice unassured, and frequent interrup