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 L161— O-1096
 
 FATAL REVENGE 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOx.. . 
 a laomancc, 
 
 BY DENNIS JASPER MURPHY 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES, 
 
 JLCCIAN, ^^TuTXOTlZvTti, 
 
 I wished not merely to see cities and vcods as one can see them in maps; 
 
 ^ut merif &nd vhat they do, and vbat they say. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HU 
 PATEBNOST 
 
 18C
 
 printed by C> Sttver Paternoster Row;
 
 v.l 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The present style of novels is most 
 piteouslv bewailed by those who are, 
 or say they are, well affected to the 
 cause of literature. Didvoleriey tales 
 Jit to frighten tlie nursery, German 
 horrors, are the best language they 
 give us. Whatever literary articles 
 have been imported in the plague ship 
 of German letters, I heartily w^ish 
 were pronounced contraband by com- 
 petent inspectors. But I really con- 
 ceive that the present subjects of 
 novels and romances, are calculate I 
 a 2 ta
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 to unlock evciy store of fancy and of 
 feeling. 1 question whether there be 
 a source of emotion in the whole 
 mental frame, so powerful or uni- 
 versal as the fear arising from ob- 
 jects of inulsihle terror. Perhaps 
 there is no other that has been at some 
 period or other of life, the predomi- 
 nant and indelible sensation of every 
 mind, of every class, and under every 
 circumstance. Love, supposed to be 
 the most general of passions^ has cer- 
 tainly been felt in its purity by very 
 few, and by some not at all, even in 
 its most indefinite and simple state. 
 
 The same might be said, a fortiori, 
 of other passions. But who is there 
 that has never feared ? Who is there 
 that has not involuntarily remember- 
 ed the gossip's tale in solitude or in 
 darkness? Who is there that has not 
 
 sometimes
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 sometimes shivered under an influence 
 he would scarce acknowledge to him- 
 self. I might trace this passion to a 
 high and obvious source. 
 
 It is enough for my purpose to 
 assert its existence and prevalency, 
 which will scarcely be disputed by 
 those w^ho remember it. It is ab- 
 surd to depreciate this passion, and 
 deride its influence. It is not the 
 weak and trivial impulse of the nur- 
 sery, to be forgotten and scorned by 
 manhood. It is the aspiration of a 
 spirit; "it is the passion of immortals," 
 that dread and desire of their final 
 habitation. 
 
 The abuse of the influence of this 
 passion by vulgar and unhallowed 
 hands, is no argument against its 
 use. The magic book has indeed 
 
 often
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 often been borne by a rude ignorant, 
 like William of Deloraine, journeying 
 from the abbey of Melrose with his 
 wizard treasure. The wand and robe 
 of Prospero have often been snatch- 
 ed by Caliban ; but, in a master's 
 hand, gracious Heaven! what won- 
 ders might it work ! 
 
 1 have read novels, ghost-stories, 
 where the spirit has become so inti- 
 mate with flesh and blood, and so 
 affable, that 1 protest I have almost 
 expected it, and some of its human 
 interlocutors, like the conspirators in 
 Mr. Bayes's play, to *' take out their 
 snuff-boxes and feague it avray." 
 Such writers have certainly made ri- 
 diculous what Shakespeare has con- 
 sidered and treated as awful. 
 
 Such have occasioned the outcry 
 
 against
 
 PREFACE. Vll 
 
 against converting the theatre of lite- 
 rature into a phantasmagoria, and sub- 
 stituting the figures of a German 
 magic lanthorn, for those forms which 
 are visible to *' the eye in a Jine fren- 
 zy rolling,'' But pace tantorwn 
 viroruWy I have presumed to found ^ 
 the interest of a Romance on the pas- 
 sion of supernatural fear, and on that 
 almost alone. It is pitiful to depre- 
 cate deserved and inevitable censure; 
 every work must ha\e faults, and the 
 Review^ers are heartily welcome to 
 mine. I am not insensible of praise, 
 nor inaccessible, 1 hope, to animad- 
 version. If youth, in acquaintance 
 with literary habits, and the ** original 
 sin" of national dulness, be any mi- 
 tigation of severity, critical y or eclec- 
 tic, or of the cold and hitter blasts 
 
 of
 
 VllI PREFACE. 
 
 of the north) let this serve to informrv 
 my Readers, that I am four and twen* 
 ty, that I never had literary friend or 
 counsellor, and that I am an Irishman 
 of the name of 
 
 Dennis Jasper Murphy. 
 
 Dublin, 
 December \b J 1806. 
 
 INTRO-
 
 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 At the siege of Barcelona by the 
 French, in the year 1O97, two young 
 officers entered into the service at its 
 most hot and critical period. Their 
 appearance excited some surprise and 
 perplexity. Their melancholy was 
 Spanish, their accent Italian, their 
 names and habits French. 
 
 They distinguished themselves in 
 the service, by a kind of careless and 
 desperate courage, that appeared 
 equally insensible of praise or of dan- 
 ger. They forced themselves intoa 
 b all
 
 INTROD-UCTION. 
 
 all the coup de mains, the wild and 
 perilous sallies that abound in a spi- 
 rited siege, and mark it with a grea- 
 ter variety and vivacity of character, 
 than a regular campaign. Here they 
 were in their element. But among 
 their brother officers, so cold, so dist- 
 ant, so repulsive, that even they who 
 loved their courage, or were interested 
 by their melancholy, stood aloof in 
 awkward and hesitating sympathy. 
 Still, though they would not accept 
 the offices of the benevolence their 
 appearance inspired^ they were invo- 
 luntarily, always conciliating. Their 
 figures and motions were so eminently 
 noble and striking, their affection for 
 each other so conspicuous, and their 
 youthful melancholy so deep and 
 hopeless, that every one inquired, and 
 sought intelligence of them from an 
 
 impulse
 
 INTRaDUCTIOy. XI 
 
 impulse stronger than curiosity. No- 
 thing could be learnt; nothing was 
 known, or even conjectured of them. 
 
 During the siege, an Italian officer, 
 of middle age, arrived to assume the 
 command of a post of distinction. 
 His first meeting with these young 
 men was remarkable. They stood 
 speechless and staring at each other 
 for some time. In the mixture of 
 emotions that passed over their coun- 
 tenances, no one predominant or de- 
 cisive could be traced by the many 
 and anxious witnesses that surrounded 
 them. 
 
 As soon as they separated, the 
 Italian officer was persecuted with 
 inquiries about the strangers. He 
 answered none of them ; yet he ad- 
 mitted that he knew circumstances 
 sufficiently extraordinary relating to 
 b 2 tke
 
 Xn INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the young men, who, be said, were 
 natives of Italy. 
 
 A few days after> Barcelona was 
 taken by the French forces. The as- 
 sault was terrible ; the young officers 
 were in the very rage of the fight ; 
 they coveted and courted danger; 
 they stood amid showers of grape 
 and ball ; they rushed into the heart 
 and crater of explosions ; they lite- 
 rally '* wrought in the fire." The 
 effects of their dreadful courage were 
 foreseen by all, and cries of recal 
 and expostulation sounded around 
 them on every side, in vain. 
 
 On the French taking possession of 
 the town, there was a general de- 
 mand for the brothers. With diffi- 
 culty the bodies were discovered, and 
 brought with melancholy pomp into 
 the commander's presence. The Ita- 
 lian
 
 INTRODUCTION. XI] 1 
 
 lian officer was there ; every eye was 
 turned on him. 
 
 There was an appeal in the general 
 silence. The Italian felt and answer- 
 ed it. ^' No circumstances but these,'* 
 said he, *Mn which I see those brave, 
 unhappy men, wouldjustify me in the 
 disclosure I am about to make. I am 
 acquainted with their name, and their 
 countrv, and their misfortunes. The 
 discovery cannot affect tliein now. 
 TheysLYG for ever beyond the reach of 
 shame or pain ; but for the living, 
 who are not beyond instruction, the 
 tale is intended, and to them may it 
 prove useful.'* At intervals which 
 its length required, he related the 
 following story. 
 
 FATAL
 
 FATAL REVENGE ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIQ. 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 Sacva Pelopis domus. Horace. 
 *• Pelops' cruel offspring.'* 
 
 About the year 1690, the family of 
 Montorio, one of the most distinguished 
 in Italy, occupied their hereditary seat, 
 in the vicinity of Naples. To the tale 
 of the strange fortunes of this family, it 
 may be necessary to prefix a sketch of 
 its character. 
 
 It was marked by wild and uncommon 
 features, such as rarely occur in those of 
 more temperate climates. But in a coun- 
 
 vQL. I. B try
 
 2 FATAL REVENGE ,* OR, 
 
 try, like the seat of these adventures, 
 where climate and scenery have almost as 
 much effect on the human mind, as habit 
 and education, the wonder dissolves, and 
 the most striking exhibition of moral 
 phenomena present only the reflected 
 consequences of the natural. 
 
 The general idea of the Italian cha- 
 racter was fully realized in that of the 
 Montorio family; weak, yet obstinate; 
 credulous, but mistrustful; inflamed with 
 wild wishes to attain the secrets and com- 
 munion of another world, yet sunk in 
 the depth of both national and local super- 
 stition. Their palaces were haunted by 
 groups of monks, and magicians, and 
 alchymists, and astrologers; and amid the 
 most superstitious state of the country of 
 superstition, the House of Montorio was 
 distinguished by weak and gloomy cre- 
 dulity. The character and habits of the 
 present Count were, like those of his pre- 
 decessors, singular. In the early part of 
 
 his
 
 TilE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 3 
 
 his life, he had unexpectedly succeeded 
 to his ancestorial wealth and honours, by 
 the sudden death of their possessor and 
 all his family. Shocked by such a con- 
 cun'cnce of domestic calamity, the Count 
 had precipitately quitted his castle, nor 
 could he, till after a considerable time, 
 prevail on himself to quit Apulia, and 
 revisit it. When at length he returned, 
 it was visible that the blow, which his 
 spirits had sustained, was irrecoverable. 
 He returned^ accompanied by his Count- 
 ess, his children, and a numerous retinue 
 of attendants, and from that moment, the 
 sight or sound of cheerfulness was banished 
 from the walls of Muralto. The aged do- 
 mestics, who had resided there in their 
 lord's absence, and to whom that absence 
 had felt like their own exile, now saw 
 with sorrow, that the change his return 
 had produced was almost for the worse. 
 The habits of the castle and its present 
 possessor, recalled to their memory the 
 B 2 former
 
 4 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 former master, and the festivity of hap- 
 pier days, threw a deeper shade over the 
 stately gloom of the present. Of their 
 former lord, they were lavish in commen- 
 dation; and as it is the nature of enthu- 
 siasm to remember only the virtues of the 
 object it delights to praise, while they 
 celebrated the excellences and graces of 
 his character, they forgot that he had 
 been jealous, violent, and vindictive, even 
 beyond Italian irritability; that his credu- 
 lity was without bounds, his rage without 
 restraint^ and his vengeance without re- 
 morse. The many graces however of his 
 person and mind, and the melancholy fate 
 of a man who had suddenly died amid the 
 most exquisite sensibility and enjoyment 
 of domestic delights, drew a shade over 
 the memory of his failings, and those who 
 remembered him, remembered him only 
 as the master whose eye poured forth 
 benignity, and whose hand was lavish of 
 bounty. 
 
 To
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. O 
 
 To the remembrance of such days and 
 characters, the present afforded a striking 
 contrast. The Count, dark, silent, soli- 
 tary, repelled all approach, retreated 
 from all attachment ; and when his at- 
 tendants raised their eyes to his, it was 
 said they sav/ an expression there which 
 made them withdraw them, under an im- 
 pulse of terror, intuitive and inexpress- 
 ible. The temper of a master, however 
 ungenial, soon pervades his household. 
 The servants glided through the apart- 
 ments with steps that seemed to dread their 
 own echo ; orders were communicated m 
 whispers, and executed in silence; and 
 the bells that summoned its inmates to 
 rest or to relisfion, were almost the onlv 
 sounds heard within its w^alls. Sometimes 
 this calm was suddenly and strangely bro- 
 ken, and the Count, attended by his con- 
 fessor, would often summon the family to 
 attend him at midnight to the chapel, where 
 t'.iey remained engaged in solemn and se- 
 vere
 
 D FATAL revenge; OR^ 
 
 vere acts of religion till morning; and 
 often^ under still more terrible agitations 
 of mind, he would hurry the Countess and 
 his family from their rest^ and compel them 
 to accompany him by night to Naples, 
 from whence, after a short residence, he 
 would return to his castle, to silence and 
 to solitude. A conduct so extraordinary 
 excited many comments ; but the recent 
 misfortunes, and known character of the 
 family, were a sufficient answer to these, 
 and curiosity soon grew weary of a sub- 
 ject that furnished nothing to gratify in- 
 quiry. Besides, the Count had now arriv- 
 ed at that period of life when a man is 
 chiefly represented by his children ; when 
 the stronger features of a character are 
 dimmed by the distance of retirement and 
 rest — when declining ambition reposes 
 itself amongst those for whom it has toiled, 
 and the hopes and views of society are 
 transferred to its young successors. 
 
 Of
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. / 
 
 Of the Count's numerous family^ four 
 sons, and four daughters, still survived. 
 All of them partook of the peculiarities 
 which marked their house, the two elder 
 sons eminently. Amid the family group, 
 the bold and original figure of the Count- 
 ess stood alone. Her beauty still un- 
 touched by time, her mind unimpaired 
 by the weakness of her sex or country, sife 
 yet seemed to share the dark despondency 
 of her husband. But while the source and 
 degree of their secret suffering appeared 
 the same, their modes of sustaining it were 
 strikingly different. His, was the gloom 
 of a mind bowed by affliction; — hei-s, of 
 a mind resolved to malle affliction bow to 
 it. He, was wild, dejected, and unequal; 
 — she, calm, collected, and silent. But 
 her calmness was evidently that of subdued 
 pain; it was the calmness of one, who, 
 stretched upon the rack, suffers not a 
 groan to escape him. In the lower circles 
 of domestic duty, she moved with a care- 
 less
 
 8 FAfAL KEViiNGis; OTt, 
 
 less absence^, which was neither the absence 
 of indolence nor of affectation; it was the 
 abstraction of a mind obviously capable of 
 higher occupations, and from which the 
 discharge of common duties neither re- 
 quired an effort, nor a suspension of its 
 inward and peculiar operations. She per- 
 formed the severest ofiiccs of religion, 
 which her superstitious husband exacted 
 from her, with the steady patience of one 
 who submits to a remedy, but who expects 
 not relief — with her children she took no 
 comfort ; from her husband she sought 
 no counsel : Vv^hatever were her secret 
 trials, she seemed bent to bear them, un- 
 aided, unallied, and alone. She presented 
 the image of a great mind sinking under 
 calamity, but sinking without complaint 
 or weakness, like Ca?sar falling at the base 
 of Pompey's statue, but covering his face 
 as he fclh 
 
 Of her children, her daughters appeared 
 the most beloved, and of her sons, the two 
 
 younger.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 9 
 
 younger, though the elder were confeBS- 
 edly more the favourites of nature as well 
 as of society. At Naples, the elder, the 
 beautiful and dissipated Ippolito, was the 
 delight of every assembly, the soul of eveiy 
 pleasure. Driven from retirement, from 
 the gloom of the castle and its inmates, 
 entitled by his rank to mingle in the first 
 assemblies, and indulged by his father with 
 a splendid establishment, Ippolito, plung- 
 ing into all the voluptuous madness of 
 Naples, seemed resolved to indemnify 
 himself for the short restraint of his early 
 Years. All the rich assemblag^e of imaoerv 
 that youth, talents, and sensibility can 
 present, and flattery raagnify and embel- 
 lish, Ippolito sought to realize in his bril- 
 liant and tumultuous career. Thus the 
 flame of genius, which should have be^n 
 fed by close and inward cultivation, was 
 wasted in wild and eccentric blazes, and 
 society, with heedless selfishness, exhausted 
 the powers in whose display it delighted. 
 B 5 Had
 
 10 FATAL revenge; OB, 
 
 Had this young man been instructed, 
 either by nature or by habit, in the con- 
 duct of his imagination, or the conquest 
 of his passions, his being would have 
 answered some better purpose than the 
 delight of dissipation, or the example of 
 a moral tale. Ippolito resembled his mo- 
 ther in the graces of a person which re- 
 vived the finished forms of classic anti- 
 quity : — a face, warm with the rich tints 
 of Italian beauty, a dark-brown complex- 
 ion, over which the glow of conversation 
 or of sentiment, the hurry of motion or of 
 accident, spread a speaking crimson ;— eyes, 
 whose lustre, sometimes softened, some- 
 times deepened, as his dark locks were 
 parted, or permitted to cluster over them, 
 spoke sensibility in every change — fea- 
 tures, over which the very soul of ex- 
 pression hovered, in a thousand charms, 
 mingled and mutable. Such was the form, 
 that enclosed a mind bold, ardent, credu- 
 lous, and volatile; — of which the reason 
 
 was
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 11 
 
 was as little under regulation as the pas- 
 sions. He possessed talents, but he rather 
 delighted in their display, than their e.r- 
 ercise — and that display was of the most 
 fantastic kind. He loved to soar into the 
 untravelled regions of thought^ to raise 
 the airy fabrics of fancy on vacancy^ to 
 enter on the very confines of intellect, 
 and bend over the world of shadows and 
 unreal forms. This mental malady was 
 aggravated by indulgence till no proposi- 
 tion struck him, but under the form of a 
 paradox, no event interested him, unless 
 darkened by a shade of mystery or adven- 
 ture ; — but this intellectual obliquity was 
 only partial, it was confined to his mode 
 of apprehending y not of pursuing objects; 
 for, when the direction of his mind was 
 once discovered, by an artful application 
 to its assailable part, its future progress 
 might be ascertained without the least al- 
 lowance for delay or deviation. Under 
 this heated and irregular state of mind he 
 
 had
 
 1 2 FATAL REVENGE ; 01?, 
 
 had embraced the study of astrology; a 
 study of which none but those who have 
 travelled know the influence, which is 
 as general as it is violent, and under which 
 foreign nobility are often known to main- 
 tain a professional astrologer in their pa- 
 laces, rather as an assistant of habitual 
 knowledge, than a hidden agent of super- 
 stition. On a mind like that of Ippolito, 
 this pursuit operated with peculiar dan- 
 ger; by pointing out, as the subjects of 
 its study, some of the most striking ob- 
 jects of sense, it tempted a mind but too 
 susceptible of impressions from such sub- 
 jects. Few can resist the emotions inspired 
 by the night-view of an Italian sky; a view, 
 unfolding the Host of Heaven in lustre, 
 magnitude, and number, never witnessed 
 and never imagined in our cloudy and 
 contracted hemisphere; — and few can cal- 
 culate the awful solicitude to which those 
 emotions swell, when the gazer thinks he 
 beholds in those solemn objects the arbi- 
 ters
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 13 
 
 ters of his destiny, traces in their progress 
 the mysterious movements of fate, and 
 seeks from their position, a knowledge of 
 those events, which all are alike solicitous to 
 know, though conscious that their know- 
 ledge can neither hasten nor retard their ap- 
 proach, neither diminish their certainty, nor 
 mitigate their inflictions. At first, this study 
 was confined to the more serious events of 
 life ; but in a short time, its influence 
 became so extensive, that it mingled in 
 the most trivial, even in those lighter mo- 
 ments of which solemn thought is deemed 
 an interruption. If this topic was alluded 
 to, the laugh was hushed, the frolic sus- 
 pended, and the giddy Ippolito became 
 intensely thoughtful, or laboriously inqui- 
 sitive. Of this a proof occurred shortly 
 after his arrival in Naples, attended by 
 circumstances somewhat peculiar. At the 
 gay season of the carnival, when supersti- 
 tion indulges her votaries with a remission 
 of austerity, Ippolito was present at a 
 
 masked
 
 ti FATAL BEVENGE; OR, 
 
 masked ball given by a Neapolitan of 
 rank. On this gay evening, every hour 
 saw him a new character, and every cha- 
 racter was marked by some frolic of 
 levity, or some sally of wit. Through the 
 gardens, which the softened lights, the 
 foliage, the fountains, the invisible min- 
 strelsy, and mingled moon-light, made to 
 resemble the bowers of enchantment, he 
 glided, sometimes as the shepherd of 
 Guarini, and sometimes as the hero of 
 Ariosto; he now attracted the multitude 
 by a spontaneous burst of eloquence and 
 song, and now entertained a female mask 
 with the most animating gallantry^ — at 
 length, weary of frolic, he assumed the 
 habit of a domino, and mixing among 
 the groups, endeavoured to receive the 
 amusements he had so lavishly afforded. 
 In a short time his attention was arrested 
 by a mask who had hovered around the 
 whole evening, apparently unconnected 
 with any party. The dress and figure were 
 A fantastic
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 15 
 
 fantastic, even beyond the lice^ice of a 
 mask; it had united the characters of a 
 gipsy and an astrologer^ under an em- 
 blematic habit ; its mask depicted a coun- 
 tenance wild and haggard^ and its language, 
 unlike the quaint jargon of the place, was 
 sombrous, solemn, and unusual. This mask 
 had frequently approached Ippolito du- 
 ring the evening, yet when he attempted 
 to address it, abruptly turned away. But 
 its language and gesture were inviting, for 
 it sometimes sung, and sometimes scat- 
 tered among the groups, the following 
 lines: 
 
 I. 
 
 Agents of this earthy sphere, 
 Now on joy's bright billo\v swelh'ng, 
 Now pent in misery's murky dwelling, 
 The sport of hope, the prey of care — • 
 But wildly anxious, still, to know 
 The mystic current's ebb and flow, 
 Attend my song, my skill revere. 
 List to believe, and pause to hear — 
 
 II.
 
 16 FATAL EEVENGE; OS, 
 
 TI. 
 
 'Tis mine to bid life's colours glow, 
 To swell its bliss, or sooth its woe ; 
 From doubt's dim sphere, bid shadows fly, 
 And people void futuritj' ; — ■ 
 To sooth pale passion's feverous dream, 
 To feed ambition's lurking flame, 
 Chastise proud joy with menaced ill. 
 Fierce pain, with promised pleasure, still, 
 Till hope wears, 'mid the mimic strife^ 
 The tints of truth, the forms o-f life. - 
 
 III. 
 
 Nor wants me source the skill to gain 
 That mocks at nature's bounded reign-— 
 Where ocean beats against the sky, 
 Beyond their mingling bounds I fly, 
 And all amid the wheeling spheres 
 I read their viewless characters — 
 Those waning form;*, so wan and pale, . 
 That thwart the moon, all dimly sail, 
 To the wrapt eye that reads, unfold 
 ^lore than to mortal may be told — 
 Anon I wing the waste of night. 
 Arrest the comet in his flight. 
 And shoot upon his burning wing, 
 And round my spells of wonder fling. 
 
 Agents
 
 THE I'AMILY OF MONTORIO. 17 
 
 Agents of this lower sphere 
 
 List to believe, and pause to hear. 
 
 The festivity was now closing, and the 
 masks dispersing, and amid the last mur- 
 murs of departing gaiety, this mask 
 again approached Ippolito; — he turned, 
 it paused, and when it spoke, its voice 
 was tremulous and hesitating. — '' Youth,'* 
 it said;, " thy favourable star presides to- 
 night." — '' I have as yet experienced but 
 little of its influence," said Ippolito, with 
 careless gaiety : '' I have sought amuse- 
 ment, and found only weariness and dis- 
 appointment. I have sought nectar on 
 the lip of a Hebe, and been almost 
 stifled with the scent of diabolone. I was 
 on the point of conducting the goddess 
 of chastity to a cassino, when, intreating 
 her to remain no longer under an eclipse, 
 I removed her mask, and discovered Diana 
 converted into Hecate. I encountered a 
 vestal virgin, whose shrine"— Here he was 
 
 interrupted
 
 18 ^ FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 interrupted by the mask^ who, mingling 
 moral strictures with a characteristic 
 speech, informed him, he was commis- 
 sioned by the stars to announce the ap- 
 proach of an aerial monitor, a little, be- 
 nign, officious sylph ; '' Just now," said 
 he, '' darting from the planet Mercury, on 
 an invisible line of light — invisible to all 
 eyes but mine. His task is to be your 
 moral improvement, your happiness hi§ 
 delight and reward. He will assume a 
 form, he will speak a language like your 
 own. He \vil! attend, he will watch, he 
 will warn you. Beware you repel him 
 not, for if you do, he spreads his fairy 
 pennons, and happiness flies you for 
 ever.'* 
 
 On Ippolito*s peculiarly constructed 
 mind, this address had its full effect; 
 similar language, on any other subject, he 
 had heard with derision, but this, because 
 mingled with the terms of astrology, ar- 
 rested his attention and his curiosity. The 
 
 circumstances^
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 1<> 
 
 circumstances, too, of time and place, 
 gave an unsuspected force to the impres- 
 sion. Solitude succeeding to the con- 
 course of crowds, and silence to their 
 clamours, which still left a mixt murmur 
 on the ear — the dim and partial light 
 which fell on the wild features of the 
 mask, and the tones of its voice, which 
 every moment assumed a more plaintive 
 and natural earnestness. " When and 
 ^vhere shall I see this messenger of the 
 stars/' said Jppolito, almost seriously, " if 
 you have power to announce his ap- 
 proach, you have also power to expedite 
 it — shew me his form, let me hear his 
 voice." — If I do,*' interrupted the mask, 
 " will you believe my prediction — will 
 you admit the object of it to your service, 
 your confidence?" Ippolito assented. The 
 mask hesitated incredulously. His curi- 
 osity was now inflamed, and he promised 
 solemnly. '' Look here," said the mask, 
 drawing from beneath its garment a glass, 
 
 figured
 
 20 FATAL kevenge; or^ 
 
 figured with strange characters^ *' look 
 here, you are obeyed." — Ippolito eagerly 
 gazed on the glass, and beheld a fate, 
 which looking over his shoulder, disap- 
 peared in a moment; the view w^as instan- 
 taneous, but the impression indelible; for 
 the features bore a peculiar arid interest- 
 ing expression, which once seen, could 
 scarce be fororotten. The mask glided 
 away, and, w^hile Ippolito yet paused in 
 wonder. v;as lost aiTiong the groups and 
 the shadows. 
 
 Of his v>^onder, he felt the effect to be 
 both pleasing and painful ; pleasing, be- 
 cause it soothed his love of the marvellous, 
 and painful, because the curiosity it ex- 
 cited was lingratined. As he slowly re- 
 turned hoaiew^ards, he almost expected 
 his promised visitor to appear behind the 
 shade of a pillar as he passed, or cross 
 his path with some strange greeting. He 
 had arrived, however, without interrup- 
 tion at the Palazzo di Montorio, and was 
 
 preparing
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOPvIO. 21 
 
 preparing to ascend the steps, when 
 a light figure, which had been leaning 
 half unseen against the balustrade, ap- 
 proached, and solicited reception in the 
 language of the mask : as it spoke, it 
 withdrew a large hat which shaded its 
 face, and discovered the very features 
 which Ippolito had seen flit over the glass 
 of the wizard. Disarmed at this moment 
 of every power, but the power to gaze, 
 he viewed the figure, and for an instant 
 suffered himself to doubt if it belonged 
 to earth or not; then endeavouring to 
 recal his spirits, addressed it in a style of 
 appropriate gaiety : — inquired from what 
 sphere it had fallen — and asked whether 
 it had travelled on a meteor or a moon- 
 beam? His raillery was only answered by 
 more earnest petitions for admission, with 
 which Ippolito, on whom the circum- 
 stances of the night had made more im- 
 pression than he would either acknow- 
 ledge or resist, at length complied. 
 
 Such
 
 !I2 FATAL revenge; or. 
 
 Such was the conduct of this light-minded 
 young man, whose judgment and ima- 
 ginati n were at perpetual though un- 
 equal war, and who ridiculed at one mo- 
 ment the feelings, whose impulse, at the 
 next, was suffered to decide the events of 
 life. — He knew not, if the person he had 
 admitted was not an assassin or a heretic, 
 but he knew, that to admit him flattered 
 his favourite propensity — the love of the 
 marvellous. 
 
 CHAR 
 
 i
 
 THE FAMILY Or MONTORIO. 23 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 Ah, wretch! believed the spouse of God in vaia. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 On the succeeding day, Ippolito found 
 a recent extraordinary circumstance the 
 theme of every as!?embly he visited. 
 In narratives of wonders, we are never 
 contented with facts, without inquiring 
 into motives, though the subtler springs 
 of human actions often elude the dis- 
 covery of the agents themselves. — But 
 here was ample room for conjecture : — 
 
 On
 
 ^4 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 On Rosolia di Valozzi, the daughter of a 
 noble family, resident at Naples, were 
 bestowed the most dangerous gifts of na- 
 ture, an interesting form, and a mind sus- 
 ceptible '"^ even to madness.'* 
 
 All the softer, and all the stronger, 
 modes of this dangerous quality were 
 assembled in her mind : — there is a do- 
 mestic sensibility which expends itself on 
 the common vicissitudes, and petty dis- 
 asters of life ; and there is a lofty frame 
 of feeling which, overlooking the lower 
 modes of human suffering, creates for 
 itself a system of heroic dignity, and 
 unaffecting distress. 
 
 The more subtle spirit of both these 
 was hers, but both purified, blended, and 
 reconciled ; the former, without its hack- 
 nied parade of daily exhibition; the 
 latter, without its proud and pedantic 
 inutility. — Thus she was prevented from 
 knowing that relief which vulgar and ro- 
 mantic sensibility indmdiiallij enjoy, (the 
 
 one
 
 TtlE FAMILY OF MONTOPxIO. 25 
 
 one from the natural diminution of di- 
 vided feeling, the other from the neces- 
 sary remission of superhuman loftiness) 
 and her feelings were tempered to that 
 exquisite mixture of softness and firm- 
 ness, which, whilst it sought its object 
 and its exercise among the things of this 
 w^orld, w^ould employ in their attainment 
 a reach and energy of power, only com- 
 mensurate to the great objects of another. 
 
 These uncommon faculties were first 
 developed amid objects and scenery emi- 
 nently calcutated to elicit the latent, and 
 stimulate the awakening sensibility of a 
 young mind ; — amid woods, whose depth 
 of shade soothed and solemnized — seas, 
 whose vastness and serenity poured still- 
 ness^ on the soul — mountains, whose wilder 
 features mixed fear with wonder — masses 
 of Gothic and Grecian ruins, whose very 
 stones breathed round them that nameless 
 spirit of antiquity, which makes us trem- 
 ble with a delicious dread on the ground 
 
 vcL. u c marked
 
 56 FATAL revenge; ok, 
 
 marked by its remains : — amid such scenes, 
 Rosolia, yet an infant, wandered — amid 
 such her mind imbibed a tincture of 
 enthusiasm, full, rich and deep : — amid 
 such scenes, stood the convent where 
 Rosolia, with other female nobility, was 
 educated. Here she wandered, without a 
 guide, or a companion ; for melancholy 
 is unsocial, and enthusiasm impatient of 
 restraint or interruption, and the feelings 
 >vhich she delighted to indulge, sought no 
 participation, and disdained all control. 
 Here life w^as expended in stimulating a 
 sensibility already too exquisite for rea- 
 son, or almost for life, and instead of sub- 
 duing her mind to the pursuit of rational 
 utility andl practicable happiness, in ele- 
 vating herself into the agent of another 
 system, surrounded by forms and objects 
 of her own creation, whose brilliancy pro- 
 claimed their want of reality, and whose ex- 
 quisite and fallacious delights untiaied her 
 mind for the simplicity of substantial en- 
 
 iovment.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MOXTORIO. 27 
 
 joyment. Nature and solitude gradually- 
 lead the mind to abstraction, and of abstract 
 imagery, the most powerful and splendid 
 are the presence and perfections of the 
 Deity. To these, therefore, her mind was 
 naturally elevated; and no impressions 
 from external or temporal objects could 
 pervert the homage of her feelings. 
 
 At the age of fourteen, therefore, never 
 concluding that her feelings could have 
 any other object or occasion of exercise 
 than the present — that any subject of in- 
 tercst could exist beyond the bounds of a 
 cloister, or the sphere of monasticism ; 
 she announced her intention of taking the 
 veil within the walls of the convent where 
 she had been educated. Pier family, too 
 wealthy for the needy policy which devotes 
 the younger daughters of Italian families 
 to the veil, heard her resolution v;ith 
 regret, and endeavoured to dissuade her 
 from her purpose. She remained inflex- 
 ible, and her parents were compelled to 
 c 2 content
 
 28 FATAL REVENtiE; OR, 
 
 content themselves with obtaining the 
 respite of one year, which it was proposed 
 she should pass with them at Naples. 
 To this invitation she acceded, with that 
 disdain of temptation, from which it bor- 
 rows its greatest danger; and, rather to 
 gratify her religious feelings by a solemn 
 exercise, than to bind them by inviolable 
 security, alone, at midnight, at the foot 
 of the altar, she engaged herself by a so- 
 lemn vow, when the importunity of the 
 world had ceased, to return to the con- 
 vent, and assume the veil. Thus fortified, 
 she entered the world, to bestow on it a 
 passing glance of disdain, and then quit 
 it for ever, — and on her first appearance, 
 was received with wonder and delight. 
 Her pensive and nun-like beauty, the 
 simplicity of her manner, and her mind, 
 over which the glow of enthusiasm, and 
 the shade of melancholy chased each other 
 alternately, like the varying shades of a 
 beautiful complexion; the careless over- 
 
 2 flow
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOPvia §9 
 
 flow of her sentiinents, at once reaching 
 by happy excellence all that the reMne- 
 ments of practice, and the labours of art 
 profess slowly and painfully to teach ; all 
 this made her, even to the sophisticated 
 sense of fashion, a new and exquisite 
 feast. Rosolia at first retreated ; for, 
 thoush not unconscious of excellence, she 
 was too timid for notoriety, and too de- 
 licate for flattery. But we are easily 
 reconciled to our own praises, and she soon 
 appeared content to stay a little longer 
 in the world, to irradiate and delight it. 
 Amid this blaze of admiration, while 
 a soft consciousness of pleasure seemed to 
 be stealing over her mind and senses, she 
 became on a sudden more lonely and pen- 
 sive than ever ; her cheek grew pale, and 
 her eye wandered. Her familv, who ob- 
 served the change, and enquired the cause, 
 received evasive answers; and v/hen their 
 solicitude, increasing with her increasing- 
 malady, became importunate, it was an- 
 swered
 
 30 FATAL KEVENGE ,* OR, 
 
 swered by her declaring, that her resolu- 
 tion to take the veil had been delayed too 
 long, and she was resolved to put it in 
 immediate execution. 
 
 The scruples of conscience, though all 
 lamented, none could oppose, and about 
 a year after her entrance into the world, 
 she quitted it for ever. But from the 
 moment that the grate was closed on her, 
 her silence became oloom, and her me- 
 lancholy, misery ; and after lingering a 
 a few months in hopeless dejection, she 
 •disappeared one evening after vespers, and 
 w^as seen no more. Of an event so 
 strange, none could assign cither the 
 motive or the means; and after the 
 usual forms of inquiry and lam.entation 
 were observed^ a wild conjecture, or 
 an exclamation of wo.ndcr, were all 
 that commemorated the fate of Rosolia. 
 When Ippolito returned to the palace, he 
 found a letter from his brother Annibal, who 
 resided with the family at the Castle, and 
 
 with
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 51 
 
 with whom he maintained a regular cor- 
 respondence. The attachment which pro- 
 duced this w^as rendered remarkable by 
 the total dissimilarity of their characters. 
 Annibal was as timid, gloomy, and mis- 
 trustful, as Ippolito was bold, open, and 
 credulous; but both partook equally of 
 that attachment to dark pursuits which 
 characterized the family, and of that in- 
 flexibility of sombrous resolution, with 
 w^hich they adhered to a visionary pursuit, 
 however irregularly conceived. — The sub- 
 stance of the letter was nearlv as follows. — 
 
 c5 
 
 CHAP.
 
 52 TATAh KEVENGE; Ofi> 
 
 CHAP. Ill 
 
 PriEterea fult in tectis de marmore templura— 
 Hinc exaudiri vcces, et verba vocaniis.— 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 A marble temple stood within the grove—— 
 
 Oft, when she visited this lonely dome, 
 
 Strange voices issued from her husband's lomb, 
 
 DrydeK, 
 
 My mind has been so occupied by strange 
 events, and the reflections thev have sug- 
 gested, that I have forborn, for some 
 time past, to v/iite to you. When about 
 to relate them, I again revolve those cir- 
 cumstanceSj so simple in their commence- 
 ment.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. OO 
 
 nient^ yet gradually unfolding something 
 that arrests incredulity itself, and still 
 pointing* onward to things dark and un- 
 known—I revolve all this, I seem in a 
 dream^ and try in vain to give form and 
 reality to the shadows that are hovering 
 round me. ■ 
 
 I have slept and awoke again — I have 
 stood at my casement — this is the arbutus 
 and the laurel that wave beneath it — this 
 is the sea-^breeze that breathes freshness 
 on me — I see the glorious sun standing 
 in the heaven, — these all are the objects of 
 the senses, and they make their due and, 
 wonted impression on mine. Yet the 
 objects I have lately witnessed are not less 
 palpable than these. You have often 
 laughed at my visionary gloom, prepare 
 now to share the ridicule, or to resign 
 the evidence of your senses. 
 
 The old chapel, without the walls of 
 the castle, has long been dilapidated, 
 and is at present filled v;ith vrorkmen. 
 
 Youi
 
 34t FATAL revenge; or. 
 
 You know my fondness for ruins. I 
 strolled there after my siesle. 1 found 
 the threat doors closed, and that the work- 
 men had entered through a chasm under 
 one of the shattered windows. As I look- 
 ed through the cavity, the various fea- 
 tures of the view, the fragments of ruin, 
 the rustic groups, some labouring, some 
 gazing vacantly around, alid the figure 
 of a boy, who placed in a recess half- 
 hid among \^\^ clustering shrubs, breathed 
 a few wild notes on his pipe, touched 
 me v/ith that pleasant melancholy, which 
 is suggested by the view of ancient decay 
 and modern apathy, of desolated majesty, 
 and ignorance gazing amongst its ruins. 
 As 1 continued to lean on a projection 
 of the chasm, unseen, I overheard a con- 
 versation, suggested by the place, and 
 si^ch as I would live to listen to on 
 a wintry night, by a low, flitting, em- 
 ber-fire. It told of spirit and shadow, 
 and ^elf-lighted tapers, and bells that 
 
 rung
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 35 
 
 rung untouched within those deserted 
 walls. I listened with curiosity plea- 
 santly stiiTcd, till I was roused by some 
 dark allusions. I listened, but could 
 not understand; they spake '' of the 
 Count's not resting better in his bed, 
 than his ancestors in their graves, if 
 those things were known ;' and observ- 
 ed that '' old, white-headed Michelo, 
 in spite of his guarded silence, was too 
 well acquainted with them. '^' Though my 
 first impulse, on returning to the castle, 
 was to send for the old groom of the 
 chambers, and satiate my appetite for 
 the marvellous with hi& legendary won- 
 ders, I had no other object than to pass 
 a vacant hour in listening to a tale 
 that required little effort either of 
 thought or credit. I had at least little 
 apprehension of what awaited mo, little 
 fear of being in a state like that of one 
 who is gradually impelled towards a pre- 
 cipice, the terrors of which he can nei- 
 4 ther
 
 56 FATAL IlEVENGE ,* OR^ 
 
 thcr measure nor avoid. Michelo came 
 on my summons. Desirous of full infor- 
 mation, and aware of his cautious and 
 timid temper, I endeavoured to frame 
 my request skilfully. " Michelo," said I^ 
 '^ I have often listened with delight to 
 the family legends your memory is so 
 well stored with; — but I am informed you 
 are in possession of some still more mar- 
 vellous and terrible, something you will 
 not communicate to a common ear, and 
 which I hope you have reserved for 
 mine." This address, so far from an 
 accusation, and only implying a know- 
 ledge compatible with the purest inno- 
 cence, produced the most terrible effect 
 on i\\Q old man. His lips quivered, and 
 his countenance changed, and with the 
 most earnest solemnity he besought me, 
 not to importune him for the disclosure 
 I referred to. The impression I received 
 from his agitation was indescribable. The 
 vague curiosity with which I had begun 
 
 the
 
 THE FAMILY OP MONTORIO. 57 
 
 the convei'sation was at once exchanged 
 for the pursuit of somethinf^ 1 could not 
 well define, but whose importance was 
 increased 'by its obscurity. 
 
 I told him I was now convinced he was 
 acquainted with something — '^ something 
 which it is perhaps necessary for me, as 
 a son of this house, to know — something 
 into which more than curiosity ought to 
 inquire/' I assured him of my favour if 
 he complied, and if not, menaced hint 
 with my fathers displeasure. His answer, 
 though confused and broken, I shall not 
 soon forget. *' Oh, Signor, for the Virgin's 
 sake, let not my lord your father know 
 of this conference ; do not draw his ven- 
 geance on us, his vengeance is terrible. 
 Little do you know, little alas, do I know 
 myself, if I knew all, or even believed 
 what I have heard, how could I pass the 
 chapel, as I do at night, how could I tra- 
 verse these lone apartments, or venture 
 to sleep in that little turret, over the 
 
 xierif
 
 38 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 *vcry room — where the wind sings so dole- 
 ful that if I suffered myself to think I 
 might fancy it was — I might run mad 
 listening to it/* I bade him be composed^ 
 but the composure 1 recommended, I 
 was far from enjoying myself. My anx- 
 ious love of the marvellous was mixed 
 with other feelings; nor could I, (though 
 I affected to do so) believe the agitation 
 of the old man was occasioned by the 
 nugatory tales of menial superstition. 
 He rose from his knees, condemning 
 himself for having '' foolishly and wick- 
 edly betrayed himself, overcome by my 
 sudden question and piercing eye.'* — I will 
 not harass you with the repetition of 
 menace and intreaty, of expostulation and 
 evasion. He at length consented to ad- 
 mit me to his lone, remote turret that 
 night, for he still dreaded our being dis- 
 covered or even observed by the family. 
 The night, like every other period to 
 which solicitude adds an imaginary length, 
 was slow in arrival. When 
 
 i
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 39 
 
 When I ascended the turret, I thought 
 I observed in the old man's face an ex- 
 pression of artificial composure, the effort 
 of recollected and resolute craftiness. He 
 seated himself, trimmed his lamp, and 
 then abruptly demanded what it was I 
 required him to relate. In the tumult of 
 expectation, in that state of suspense which 
 expects the disclosure of something un- 
 known, this had entirely escaped me; 
 and apprehending that my cuviosity would 
 be mocked by some temporary and trivic-^l 
 invention, hastily and almost unintention- 
 ally, I desired him to relate the circum- 
 stances by which my fathei% who I under- 
 stood was distantly related to the late 
 possessor, had succeeded to the family 
 honours. He appeared confounded, but 
 unable to retreat; and it occurred to me, 
 if I could engage him to commence the 
 narrative, I might trust to his habitual 
 prolixity to disclose what he might at first 
 intend to conceal. After some delay, he 
 
 informed
 
 40 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 informed me^ that possessor had been 
 my uncle, my father's own brother. Of 
 this man he gave a character th:it seemed 
 to warm him into eloquence; he described 
 it as a mixture of the most shining qua- 
 lities, and the fiercest passions. His love 
 was madness, his courage, rashness, his 
 hatred deadly, and his vengeance, though 
 honourable, as the cavaliers in Naples 
 call it, there was no escaping from with 
 life. — " All your house," continued he, 
 ^' v/ere much attached to secret studies; 
 your uncle was in particular much versed 
 in strange books and arts, and in a w\iy 
 of going up to ask the stars whether he 
 was to be happy or miserable; — Alas, it 
 would have been better to have asked his 
 own heart. — Many a night would my lord 
 pass on the high turrets of his castle, and 
 on his descent, he would walk about his 
 apartment for hours, talking to himself 
 about trines, and sextiles, and quadrants, 
 and horoscopes, and ascendants, hard 
 
 words.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 41 
 
 words^ which I learnt, from hearing them 
 repeated so often, without knowing their 
 meaning. 
 
 '' I would not, to be lord of this castle, 
 know it. For a holy benedictine once as- 
 sured me, it w^as all heresy, and that 
 these were only different names for 
 Lucifer." I will endeavour to abridge 
 Michelo's narrative : he mentioned my 
 uncles marriage with the loveliest, the 
 gentlest, the most heavenly of women. 
 He mentioned that he had children; the 
 picture of the Countess, he said, was 
 yet in a deserted part of the castle, with 
 most of the furniture of those gay days; 
 there he had removed them on my fa- 
 ther's return to the castle. The story 
 was sad and intricate ; he told of my 
 uncle's domestic happiness being sud- 
 denly and strangely suspended by a habit 
 of fierceness and gloom, which he cmpha- 
 t ica II 1/ d^ted from the arrival of my father^ 
 and a confidential servant of his, whom he 
 
 called
 
 A2 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 called Aseanio^ at the castle. — '' Even amid 
 all the revelry and mirth on my lord's 
 arrival/' said he, '' it was v^^hispered by 
 the domestics, who accompanied them from 
 Naples, that the lady was likely to lead 
 a life of lone, uncomfortaUle splendour; for 
 owing either to my lord's jealousy, or 
 some secret cause of disquiet, that even 
 then spread a shade of melancholy over 
 her beautiful face ; they both, seemed 
 resolved on total retirement. — Matters 
 grew more dark and strange ; my lady 
 wept in her chamber alone ; my lord 
 stalked silently through his; your father 
 appeared distracted with the distress he 
 witnessed, and alternately conferred with 
 each alone, I suppose, endeavouring to 
 conciliate and soolh them. At length it 
 was announced that my lord was to make 
 an excursion to the Grecian Isles; this 
 excursion the Countess, now near her con- 
 finement, was not to accompany; he was 
 to be attended only by Ascanio. Ascanio, 
 
 at
 
 THE FAMILY Of MONTORIO. 45 
 
 at this time, appeared to enjoy the confi- 
 dence of both brothers exclusively. I 
 envied him not; ?/^j/ love and fidelity to 
 mv lord were, what a domestic's should 
 be, humble, and distant, though dear; I 
 lamented my master's sorrow^ without 
 presuming to inquire into them, but 
 Ascanio was bold, forward, and subtle."— 
 '' Is this Ascanio yet alive,'' said I, " he 
 might eke out your narrative with some 
 strange particulars." ^^ He might indeed,^* 
 said the old man — " no, vSignor, he is dead, 
 and his end was strange and fearful." I 
 would not tempt him to digression by 
 inquiring. ^' When my lord had now been 
 some months gone, we could perceive 
 that a greater consternation than ever 
 reigned in the castle; packets were hour- 
 ly arriving from abroad, the Countess 
 never quitted her apartment, and my lord 
 your father appeared overborne with agi- 
 tation. At length, it was about the close 
 of autumn, it had been a sickly, sultry 
 
 season.
 
 44 FATAL REVENGE ,* OE, 
 
 season, and the mountain had been tur- 
 bulent, and the people while they listened 
 to its murmurs, said, that they presaged 
 sad and strange events would soon happen. 
 We were assembled in the hall of the 
 castle for vespers, for the chapel was 
 then repairing ; a hot intermitting blast 
 breathed through the casement, and some 
 of the domestics who had been in Naples 
 that day, told us that the mountain had 
 sent forth strange sounds in the night, 
 and that the city awaited the approach of 
 that evening in terror ; one of them said, 
 that as they came along, there was a 
 heavy murmuring through the woods, and 
 that their tops waved without a breath of 
 wind — '' Yes,'' said another, '' but that 
 was not the strangest object I saw in the 
 woods to day/' We desired him to ex- 
 plain, and the domestic then affirmed with 
 solemn asseverations, that the Count his 
 master had appeared to him that day in 
 the wood at a little distance from— at 
 
 this
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 45 
 
 this fantastic account o[ one whom we 
 knew to be absent in the Grecian Islands, 
 all laughedj when the man suddenly rising 
 from his seat, and rushing into the passage 
 that communica:es wirh the great s'.,jrs, 
 called us loudly to '' ?( /. . v-- 
 them, and beckoning to him uc . e 
 balustrade/' — In a moment eyery inciivi- 
 dual was in the passage, the echo of a 
 step was distinctly heard, and some ayer- 
 red they saw a shadow pass on the staii-s — 
 but our attention was quickly withdrawn. 
 Ascanio arriyed, breathless and spent, and 
 pushing away the eager inquirers with 
 both his hands, hastened to your father's 
 apartment. Meanwhile evening was ag- 
 gravated by a gathering darkness ; a mass 
 of yapour issued from the mountain, and 
 the sun appeared as a dim and bloody 
 globe in the midst of an immense vault 
 of black cloud—every one breathed an 
 inward prayer, and none told their fears 
 to the other — when^ as in a moment, a 
 
 column
 
 46 FATAL revenge; ok, 
 
 column of fire, brighter than noon, rose 
 from the mountain, flashing a horrible 
 glare of yellow light on the woods, and 
 shore, its edgings lanced with lightnings, 
 and its centre white with intense heat; it 
 was suspended a moment at its greatest 
 height, or appeared so to our eyes, and 
 the next came rushing down the sides of 
 the mountain in floods of fire — a strong 
 concussion of the earth followed, the air 
 and elements were in wondrous motion, 
 and the lightnings, or meteors rather, 
 broad and flaky, hissed and wreathed in 
 fearful play on the turret points and 
 casements. When the first burst of ter- 
 ror was over, I thought of the Countess 
 and her children ; she used to sit with 
 them in a high and lonely tower, of 
 which I scarcely believed but it was 
 crumbled to ashes. I hastened up the 
 great stairs, when — the terrors of my tale 
 are coming on, they are too strong for 
 me, let me have air, let me have breath, 
 Signor/'- Solicitous
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 4T 
 
 Solicitaus, both for the old domestic 
 and his story, I assisted him to vise, and 
 supported him to his narrow casement. 
 In a few moments he respired ; I watched 
 the progress of his recovery ; my eye was 
 fixed on his ; it became suddeiily fixed and 
 hollow ; he extended his arm from the 
 casement ; but the breath which he had 
 but just recovered, utterly forsook him — 
 he could not speak — my eye followed the 
 pointing of his finger. The night was still 
 and dark, the ruined chapel was beneath 
 4:he casement — as I gazed, a light, pale but 
 distinct, fell on the walls, and on the 
 shrubs that have mantled round them ; 
 I watched it, it wandered^, borne by no 
 hand, accompanied by no step, along the 
 chancel, (I saw it gkaming past our win- 
 dows), and expired at the tomb of our 
 uncle. ?»Iichelo and I remained aghast — 
 we remained near an hour, silent, scarcelv 
 breathing — we saw it return. Then I 
 tried to swallow down the thick and 
 
 stifling
 
 48 FATAL revekge; or, 
 
 stifling sensation with which my throat 
 w?v filled. '' Michelo/' said 1, '' has this 
 be : srjn before?'' '^ Often/' said the 
 old man, " by me." '' Has no visible form, 
 no distinct sound attended it ?" '' Often/' 
 said he again. " And have you ever wit- 
 nessed?" — " Listen, Signer, — to you alone 
 would I tell what I have witnessed : other 
 strange appearances have long been talked 
 of within these walls ; this is but recent. 
 A few nights ago, when I first observed 
 that light, I was tempted to follow it. I 
 thought it might be some one whom cu- 
 riosity or ignorance had led there, and I 
 entered without apprehension. The light 
 that glided before me, disappeared at the 
 tomb of Count Orazio ; I heard a sound 
 issuing from it, that could scarce be called 
 a groan, or any thing that signifies a hu- 
 man accent. I approached it, I know not 
 how ; I shudder now to tell it ; yet I re- 
 member I did not shudder then. The 
 massive grating of the vault was wrenched 
 
 open —
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 49 
 
 open — I descended — yes, I did descend : 
 a flash of light burst forth again, and as 
 it hissed on the damp arching, the palls 
 waved with a visible motion — the coffins 
 rattled on the biers — something, I could 
 neither distinguish nor describe, hovered 
 before my eyes — a pressure (not of a 
 fleshly hand) came over my face; it was 
 bony, a"nd cold, and damp. I lost all fur- 
 ther power or feeling, and when I reco- 
 vered, I was laid without the walls of the 
 chapel, on the damp grass, my lamp 
 burning beside me; could I have travelled 
 there in trance ? I hasted to my turret- 
 room, I stood to collect my breath, my 
 eyes fell on that miiTor you are looking at 
 now, my face reeked with livid streaks 
 of blood! >! — To none but you have I 
 mentioned this." 
 
 No one could hear the old man's earn- 
 est voice, and look on his pale face, and 
 disbelieve him. You know my habit, to 
 
 YOL. I. D reason
 
 50 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 Tcason on every thing : but what could I 
 do, with what I had just seen and heard; 
 they were too palpable for fancy, yet too 
 wild for conjecture, and I endeavoured, 
 alike in vain, to treat them as a fume of 
 mental vapour, or try them by any rule 
 of sober solution. My thoughts wandered 
 from Michelo and his narrativ:e to myself; 
 insensibly I began to conceive myself in 
 his situation, possessed, it should seem, of 
 dark secrets, and tempted to supernatural 
 intercourse. I examined, involuntarily, 
 how such an emergency would find me 
 prepared. I calculated the chances of de- 
 ception. I inquired into the constitution 
 of my mind, and the probable power of 
 such impressions over it, were it exposed 
 to them. The result gave me a strange 
 satisfaction. I felt as if I were called to 
 such a trial, and would approve myself in 
 it. I am strong of frame, steady of nerve, 
 slow^ in perception ; possessing but little 
 
 ©f
 
 THE FAMILY OF MOKTORIO. 51 
 
 of the light or fantastic po Wei's of mind; 
 seldom indulging them in their airy play; 
 and when I do^ surveying it as the tra- 
 veller surveys the fi^iliacious dance of the 
 fairy lights, only to shun their illusions. 
 Such a character presents only one assail- 
 able part, in that attachment to visionary 
 subjects by which, I have heard, our 
 family are distinguished. 
 
 But even this has attained no habitual 
 or positive influence over my mind. It 
 diffuses rather a shade than a gloom ; its 
 effect has been like that of twilight, whose 
 shadows inspire a dubious and grateful 
 awe, not midnight that peoples its dark 
 recesses with shapes of fear. The result 
 of my deliberations has been what perhaps 
 it would have been, if I had not deli- 
 berated at all, — to gratify the simple and 
 original impulse of curiosity, by a pur- 
 suit of which I vainly flatter myself the 
 object is higher. I determined to make 
 D a Michel© 
 
 mVERSlTY OF 
 iHmiS UBRARY
 
 52 FATAL kevenge; oe, 
 
 Michelo conclude his narrative; I deter- 
 mined to visit the tomb of Count Orazio 
 at night. 1 need not tell you I accepted 
 Michelo's offer to accompany me, without 
 reluctance. He has a knowledge of pri- 
 vate passages in the castle which may be 
 useful in eluding observation. " Signor/' 
 " said he, '' the passages we must traverse, 
 lead near those apartments so long shut 
 up, the apartments of your late uncle 
 and his Countess. You must permit me, 
 as we pass them, to shut my eyes; do 
 you, Signor, lead me, and as we draw near 
 them speak cheerfully, and let me feel 
 your hand on mine.*' 
 
 I consented to his conditions. The 
 rcotch-night has arrived ; the family are 
 at rest, and T am in the turret, awaiting 
 the arrival of Michelo. Ippolito ! what 
 is there in that nature and state, to which 
 our better part aspires, that the belief of 
 its agency is thus awful, that the thought 
 
 of
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 53' 
 
 of its visible approach or presence is scarce 
 supportable. I have no definite appre- 
 hension of what I may meet or see, but 
 there is a busy and alarmed motion within 
 TBG, as if something of evil impended, 
 whose magnitude was too extensive, or 
 whose features wxre too terrible even for 
 expectation. I feel, at least, that its con- 
 templation leaves room for no other ob- 
 ject, though it is thus indefinite and vague 
 itself. I have brought books ; I cannot 
 read them. I have commenced several 
 trains of thought ; 1 have started from them 
 all J imagining I was in tJie vault. In spite 
 of my resolution, I feel my respiration- 
 grow short, and a sensation like swelling, 
 oppressing my throat. 1 will walk up 
 and down my narrow apartment. It wilL 
 not do* • • 'my steps seemed limited to a 
 certain track, beyond which I almost feared 
 to extend them, and their echo was too 
 loud. The hour is approaching; a few 
 
 moments
 
 54 I'ATAL RLVi.NGE; OK. 
 
 moments more, and the castle bell will 
 toll. The hour that I have longed for, I 
 almost begin now to wish more distant. I 
 almost dread to hear the steps of Michelo. 
 ' • • -Hark ! — the bell tolls — the old turret 
 seems to rock to its echo ; and the silence 
 that succeeds, how deep, how stilly — 
 would I could hear an owl scream. — Ha ! 
 'twas the lightning that gleamed across 
 me. 1 will go to the casement; the roar 
 of the elements will be welcome at such 
 
 a moment as this The night is 
 
 dark and unruly — the w^ind bursts in 
 strong and fitful blasts against the case- 
 ment. The clouds are hurried along in 
 scattering masses. There is a murmur 
 from the forests below, that in a lighter 
 hour I could trust fancy to listen to; but 
 in my present mood, I dare not follow 
 her wanderings. Would my old guide 
 were come ! I feel that any state of fear 
 rs supportable, accompanied by the sight 
 
 or
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 55' 
 
 or sound of a human being- • • -Was that 
 shriek fancy ? — again, again — impossible ! 
 Hark! there is a tumult in the castle — 
 lights and voices beneath the turret* • • • 
 What is this they tell me ? 
 
 CHiltP.
 
 56 F>iTAL lUA'tNGE ; OR, 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 Nec mens mihi, nee color 
 
 Certa sede manet, humor et in genas 
 
 Furlim labitur, arguens 
 
 Quam lentis penitus macerer ignibus. 
 
 Horace, 
 
 My reason in confusion flies, 
 
 And on my cheek th' uncertain colour dies j 
 
 While the down-stealing tear betrays 
 
 The lingering flame that on my vitals preys. 
 
 Drydxjt, 
 
 From the messenger who brought this 
 letter, no further intelligence could be 
 obtained. While Ippolito read it, thiy 
 visionary spirit kindled within him, and 
 he wished himself at the castle, to feast 
 Im fancy with the dark imagery of 
 
 spectred
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 57 
 
 spectred terrors; while AnnibaPs mind, 
 differently constructed^ was employed in 
 resisting suspected imposition^ and sub- 
 mitting with stubborn reluctance to the 
 influence that thus inscrutably overcame 
 him. But Ippolito's curiosity was now as 
 much occupied by his young domestic,. as 
 his brother's was by his old one. Amused 
 by the strange circumstances of his intro- 
 duction, Ippolito had assigned him an 
 apartment near his own, and exempted 
 him from every office of servitude. This 
 was indeed a gratuitous indulgence, for 
 had Cyprian, as he called himself, actually 
 dropt from the sphere of another planet, 
 he could scarce have been more ignorant 
 of every thing relative to this. Ippolito 
 perceived it, and resigned him to his own 
 pui-suits. 
 
 The form of Cyprian was slight and de' 
 licate, a profusion of chesnut hair shaded 
 his cheeks, and deepened the dark tint of 
 melancholy thought, that sat for ever on 
 
 D 5 his
 
 58 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 his face. His head was seldom raised 
 from a declining posture ; his features 
 seldom varied their pensive expression ; 
 but when they did, their sudden and eager 
 bi'ightness of intelligence^ bespoke a mind 
 of suppressed energies, and habitual de- 
 jection. Though voluntarily assuming a 
 station of servitude, he possessed all the 
 refinements of manner and acquirement 
 that mark the higher ranks of society. 
 Seated at the harp, or organ, Cyprian 
 poured through his delicate, half-open 
 lips a stream of sound, more resembling 
 respiration than tones modulated by art 
 and practice ; they were the very sighs of 
 inucic ; while his fingers, sinking into the 
 strings, seemed almost to partVke living 
 sensibility, and forget the power of mo- 
 tion at the cadence. As a painter, his 
 merit was distinguished; but in all he did, 
 nothing appeared laboured, nothing even 
 finished; he seemed to possess the genius 
 €>r art, apparently without its rules or its 
 
 labour
 
 THE FAMILY OF MOXTORIO, 59 
 
 labours, and over all was spread a species 
 of fragility, a certain delicacy of imper- 
 fection, that characterized the desultoiy 
 efforts of a mind which only required 
 stability to arrive at perfection. But it 
 was soon discovered, that neither as a- 
 painter, nor a musician, did he remit that 
 influence w^hich he claimed for his/her 
 offices. He entered on his office of mo- 
 nitor to Ippolito with a spirit and power 
 that actually seemed given him from 
 above. Ippolito listened with surprise, 
 but it was surprise which the gentleness 
 of the pleader disarmed of anger, and 
 into which his eloquence infused admira- 
 tion. 
 
 Turning into jest, however, a conflict 
 with a boy, he collected the powers of 
 sophistry and declamation he was too well . 
 accustomed to wield, and imagined that a 
 few sentences of rapid brilliancy, would 
 overwhelm the poor little pleader at once. 
 But this meretricious array was displayed 
 
 before
 
 60 ^ATAL revenge; or, 
 
 before Cyprian in vain ; simple, earnest, 
 sincere, he pursued his florid opponent 
 "with the eloquence of a man, and the 
 fervency of an angel. He was neither 
 dazzled by verbiage, nor disconcerted by 
 subtlety, and Ippolito's pride summoned 
 him in vain to the cause which his con- 
 science deserted. The conclusion of the 
 debate proved that it was not for victory 
 the young disputant had engaged ; he pro- 
 ceeded with tenfold earnestness to press 
 the practical consequences of his conces- 
 .sions on Ippolito. Such was his inge- 
 nuous pride, that what he could not de- 
 fend he dared not practice ; and a boy 
 caught the promise of reformation from 
 a blushing libertine. But a more difficult 
 task yet remained — to direct the choice of 
 life while it was yet suspended, and to 
 elfect a transition from one mode and 
 habitude to another ; yet to conceal the 
 interruption, and prevent the interme- 
 diate wanderings of vacancy. At this 
 
 moment
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 6l 
 
 moment, therefere, Cyprian displayed all 
 his resources; painting, and harmony, 
 and poetry ; and over all his taste spread a 
 charm, chaste and mellow, like that of 
 moon-hght on a landscape — till Ippolito 
 was delighted by the conscious expansion 
 of latent powers, which he mistook for 
 the acquisition of new ones ; and Cyprian 
 succeeded in recalling to the forgotten 
 pleasures of nature and of taste, a mind, 
 fevered by the noxious stimulants of arti- 
 ficial voluptuousness. But minds thus 
 habituated are not easily weaned from 
 periodical indulgence, and when the night 
 arrired, not all the taste or talents of 
 Cyprian could prevent the chronic fit of 
 vacancy. When they failed, even the 
 pensiveness of the little monitor would 
 yield to his solicitude for his pupil; in the 
 graceful petulance of airy command, he 
 would wind his slender arms around Ip- 
 polito, and y^'iih. female blandishments, de- 
 .clare he should not quit the palace, blan- 
 dishments.
 
 62 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 dishments, to which he bowed with the 
 pouting smile of yielding reluctance. 
 
 They loved to wander amid the scenery 
 of the shore;, to gaze on the last rich day- 
 streak of purple, on the landscape melting 
 into shade, and flattering the eye with a 
 thousand mixt and visionary forms. The 
 sea pouring forth an expanse of infinite 
 brightness, dotted with dark skiffs and 
 gallies, the moles vnd promontories 
 stretching their narrow lines into the sea, 
 and terminating in v/atch-towers, whose 
 summits still retained the sun-light ; and 
 to the North-East, Vesuvius, filling the 
 view with masses of bold, tumultuous 
 darkness. They lingered and listened to 
 the stilly sounds of evening, the flow of 
 the sea-breeze, the ripple of the tide, the 
 hoarse voices of the seamen, and the 
 lighter tones of peasants, who v/ere danc- 
 ing in groups on the shore, and mingled 
 with, though distinct from, all that hum of 
 ceaseless sound, which a populous city 
 
 sends
 
 THK FAMILY OP MONTORIO. 65 
 
 sends forth at night, forming together a 
 kind of animal music, which soothed^ if 
 it did not elevate. They lingered till 
 Ippolito's mind, ^' not touched but rapt/' 
 suggested to Cyprian an opportunity for 
 the object of his never-ending solicitude. 
 
 He spoke of earthly things in all their 
 excellency and beauty, being but as a veil 
 spread before the fulness of impassible 
 perfection, to which we are not to look;, 
 but through them; he spake of the disso- 
 lution of earthly things, as but the with- 
 drawing of a veil, when that which it con- 
 cealed shall break upon us in all its glo- 
 rious beauty, filling our renewed faculties 
 with a fulness of joy, "^ such as eye hath 
 not seen, nor ear heard/' 
 
 Ippolito listened, and was '^ almost /?er- 
 suaded to be a Christian,"' 
 
 e»AR
 
 64 FATAL revenge; or> 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 Cam subito e sylvls, macie confecta supremi 
 Ignoti nova forma viri, miserajidaque cultu 
 Proccdit. * Virgil, 
 
 When from the woods there bolts before our slght^ 
 
 Somewhat betwixt a mortal and a spright. 
 
 So thin, so ghastly, meagre, and so wan, 
 
 So bare of flesh, he scarce resembled man. Dr"x den. 
 
 Second Letter from Annlbal. 
 
 My last conclusion was abrupt ; I broke 
 off in expectation of something import- 
 ant — I was disappointed — the cries I heard 
 were uttered by a servant, who passing 
 near the chapel saw, or imagined he 
 
 saw.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MOMTORIO. 65 
 
 saw, something that temfied him almost 
 to death. I listened to his story — I will 
 listen to such no more; they unhinge 
 and dissipate the powers which I would 
 wish to concentrate and to fortifv. I 
 have a dark, inward intimation that I 
 shall be called to something which will 
 require no common energies of thought 
 and action. The only circumstance of 
 this man's fear worth relating, was, that 
 when he recovered his senses, he de- 
 manded to be led to my father, and 
 requested his confessor to attend. My 
 father with a facility that astonished me, 
 consented — but the monk was no where 
 to be found. My father then seemed to 
 recollect something that disturbed him^ 
 and w^as dismissing the man when, from 
 the small door of his oratory, the monk 
 issued, and stood among us. His ap- 
 pearance just at this juncture, his gaunt 
 and sallow visage, the knots of his dis- 
 ciplim stained with blood, the loose darl^ 
 
 drapery
 
 C6 FATAL revenge; eit^ 
 
 drapery of his habit^ which as he stood 
 in the shade, gave a kind of floating ob- 
 scurity to his form, combined to make 
 an impression on me, I do not like to 
 recal. On the man, who had desired to 
 see him, it was terrible; he again became 
 insensible, and was conveyed from the 
 apartment. I found Michelo had taken 
 advantage of the confusion this incident 
 had produced to defeat my intention of 
 visiting the chapel that night, an inten- 
 tion of which it would be difficult to 
 tell, whether the late circumstances had 
 
 increased or diminished the force. 
 
 Have I mentioned the confessor to you 
 before, Ippolito? — If I have not, let me 
 do it now; he is a strange being. He 
 was originally an ecclesiastic of the Greek 
 communionj the errors of which he 
 renounced, and shortly after entered 
 into a convent in the neighbourhood of 
 Naples, the superior of which recom^ 
 mfnded him as a person of uncommoH 
 
 sanctity
 
 THE -FAMILY OF MOXTORIO. 67 
 
 sanctity and unction. To this was added 
 the reputation of his strict and ahnost 
 .supernatural austerity ; qualifications still 
 more welcome to our gloomy father. 
 
 I never saw a form and air more un- 
 earthly, a whole appearance more remote 
 from the beings or business of this world, 
 than this man's, whose name is Father 
 Raffaello Schemoli. In his large fixed 
 eye, all human fire appears to be dead ; 
 his face is marked with the traces of 
 past, rather than the expression of pre- 
 sent, passions or events ; it seems like 
 the bed of a torrent that has flowed 
 away, but whose violence may yet be 
 traced in its deep, dry, unlevelled fur- 
 rows. The very few who have seen or 
 known this man, speak of him with a kind 
 of obscure fear. He is indeed an object 
 for superstition or fancy to scare them- 
 selves with. Even to my mind, he often 
 has borne the aspect of those beings who 
 are said to hold communion with both. 
 
 worlds^
 
 68 FATAL revenge; OKj 
 
 worlds, who are permitted to mock us 
 with a semblance of human shape and 
 intercourse, while they are doing their 
 dark offices in other elements than ours. 
 I am ashamed to write thus superstitiously 
 of him, but I would you could see him. 
 For three following days Michelo shrunk 
 from me; at length I met him in the west 
 corridor, and without waiting for a reply 
 which I was determined to disregard, 1 
 told him I would visit his turret that night, 
 and quitted him. But on my repairing 
 to his chamber at night, what was my 
 astonishment when he tenaciously re- 
 fused to conclude the narrative of my 
 uncle's disappearance. I entreated and 
 expostulated; he was silent; I again threat- 
 ened him with my father's interference. 
 He shook his head emphatically : '' Inter- 
 ference in this business^" said he, '^ my 
 lord is not likely to use ; he already knows 
 all that can be told, and perhaps is not 
 solicitous that all should be known to. 
 
 you."
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 69 
 
 you/' Incensedj I intimated violent 
 
 means. — " Violence can do nothing but 
 destroy/' said he, '' and what pleasure 
 can there be in sending with pain an old 
 man to the grave but a few days before 
 he would sink into it tranquilly/' To this 
 pathetic obstinacy of the old man what 
 could be replyed? Yet still I continued 
 to importune him, till casting a searching 
 glance round the chamber, and rising, he 
 grasped my hands for a moment, and 
 whispered, '' Signor, 1 am fordid." — I be- 
 lieve he meant to convey the impression 
 which I at once received from these words, 
 that the influence which constrained hina 
 was more than human ; still my solicitude 
 was resistless, more resistless for this dark 
 intimation, — And 1 pursued the subject in 
 the hope of leading him by vague and 
 indirect questions to unfold it. '' Have 
 my uncle and his Countess been long 
 dead," — '' their tombs have stood in the 
 old chapel now eighteen years/' — *' This 
 2 is
 
 70 FATAL revenge; OR;, 
 
 is evasive, Michelo, your knowledge mus 
 be positive/' "Is it then possible to know 
 the living from the dead/' said ho^ wildly. 
 i' There are some who go in and out, and 
 walk amongst us as living things, over whom 
 has long been laid many a good weight 
 of earth and stone, but*' (checking him- 
 self) '' for the Count Orazio, peace ta^ 
 his bones, they never rested in the chapel 
 of his ancestors/' — '^ Explain, Michelo/* 
 '^ Yes, Signor, for that I can tell. Shortly 
 after the report of the late Countess's 
 death," — " The Countess then is dead/' 
 " Pardon m,e, Signor, I only mentioned 
 the report of her death-— I was returning 
 from a journey, (on which I had been 
 sent by your father, ) and on approaching 
 the castle by night I saw the chapel illu- 
 minated, and heard the chaunt of many 
 voices, chaunting the requiem. I hast- 
 ened forward and learnt from some of 
 the attendants, that my lord had died 
 abroad^ and that they were now interring 
 
 th€
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 71 
 
 the remains, which had been brought 
 over by Ascanio. I was at first stupified 
 at the shock of such a desolation. The 
 Countess, the children, my lord, wiihiii 
 a few months!!! — I recovered a little — I 
 wandered into the chapel — the service 
 was over; the monks and attendants were 
 dispersing ; most of the torches were ex- 
 tinguished ; nothing was heard but the 
 low, faint beat of the last bell — I ap- 
 proached the bier, they had descended 
 into the vault to prepare for its reception. 
 I was alone, and longed for a last look 
 of my master's face. As I bowed over 
 the bier I thought the pall moved. — I 
 retreated, but returned, and with a qui- 
 Tering hand, withdrew it. — There was 
 neither shrcud, nor cear cloth. I exami- 
 ned it with astonishment ; there was no 
 corse, nor any thing belonging to a corse 
 within ; the bier was overspread with pall 
 and vestment only. I replaced them, I 
 heard the steps of attendants ascending 
 
 from
 
 72 FATAL revenge; OR., 
 
 from the vault — I retired/'— In vain I 
 pressed Michelo for conjectures on this 
 extraordinary circumstance — at length he 
 said, '' sometimes I think Sign or, that if 
 he be indeed dead, they have laid him in 
 some remote and unhallowed place, and 
 the poor wanderer comes here to seek 
 rest among his ancestors, but cannot 
 obtain it." A long pause followed this 
 melancholy and unsatisfying solution. I 
 recollected, that these circumstances must 
 when they occurred, have caused some 
 amazement, and I asked, had no doubts 
 been suggested, no inquiries been made, 
 had society slept over these marvels ? 
 
 Michelo appeared lo enter on his nar- 
 rative with fear. " Shortly after the.se cir- 
 cumstances," said he, '"my lord, your fa- 
 ther, retired to his estates in Apulia, where 
 you, and most of your family were born. 
 / still resided in this castle, from which I 
 brought my accounts to your father in his 
 Apulian residence. About ten years ago, 
 
 I set
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOIUO. 73 
 
 1 set out on such a journey, in the close 
 of autumn. As I was obliged to cross the 
 Apulian mountains, 1 took care to provide 
 me a host in that wild country, who, as 
 is the custom there, shifted his hut and 
 flocks, according to the vicissitude of the 
 seasons. I expected to find him among 
 the woody recesses of the mountains, but 
 after wasting the evening in search of him, 
 I at length directed my mule to the foot 
 of the mountains, in hopes of meeting 
 some other hut in which to pass the night. 
 In the first I saw, a large company of 
 peasants w^ere assembled round a blazing 
 wood-fire; I joined them, and perceived 
 my old host among them ; he was re- 
 lating a marvellous tale, to w^hich I list- 
 ened among the rest. It was wild and 
 strange; it told of something that had 
 been lately seen on the mountains, the 
 terror of which had driven them together 
 into the valley ; ichat it was, I could not 
 comprehend; some described ita« a good, 
 VOL. I, E ^omc
 
 74 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 some as an evil spirit ; some said it was 
 a human creature like themselves, and 
 some affirmed, that it pursued and scared 
 travellers out of their senses, to drag 
 them to its den, and prey on their bodies. 
 In this discourse the night passed on, and 
 when the flaggons were dry, and the em- 
 bers low, we stretched ourselves on skins 
 and leaves around it, to sleep. 
 
 The strange tales I had heard, kept me 
 for some time awake, and as the dying fire 
 threw its red gleams around the hut, I 
 almost fancied I saw shapes quivering in 
 its light. At length, however, I com- 
 mended my soul to the patron-saint of 
 the mountain, and tried to rest, I heard 
 a gentle noise at the door of the hut, as 
 if the latch were raised and let down 
 again ; I immediately roused, and just 
 leaned up on one elbow; my head was 
 full of what I had just heard, and I watched 
 the door silently. In a few moments, it 
 opened, and something appeared at it 
 5 which
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. / O 
 
 which, after a pause, entered the hut. 
 When I beheld it, I conjectured at once 
 it was the shape that was seen on the 
 mountain. It was indeed ghastly and hor- 
 rible, and as it moved, all by the dusky 
 ember-light, surely it seemed like some- 
 thing that had strayed from its prison- 
 house of pain : I know not whether it was 
 from curiosity, or the very extremity of 
 my fear, but / disturbed no one, and it 
 seemed to disregard vie. At length it 
 drew near the fire, and began a low mut- 
 tering sound, accompanied with strange 
 gestures, and I, who began to fear it was 
 busied in some witchery, dreaded that the 
 hut and its inhabitants would in a moment 
 be wafted into the air. However^ after 
 some time, it rose and tottered out again, 
 but after that, all the long night, as the 
 blast came strong and loud from the 
 mountains, such dolorous sounds were 
 scattered on it as I could scarce think were 
 uttered by a human voice. The next
 
 76 PATAL revenge; OHj 
 
 tiiorning I concluded my journey.'' — '' And 
 did no consequence or explanation follow 
 all this ?" — '' Whenever after that I went 
 into Apulia, Signor^ I was sure to hear 
 the same tales repeated. It was about 
 two years after that, passing over the 
 mountains, I reached about the close of 
 evening, a woody defile, thick and dark, 
 with ash, and elm, and chesnut. As I 
 entered it, I thought I heard a voice call 
 on me; the sound was like no sound ever 
 heard or uttered before. I turned, and 
 saw approaching from behind, the very 
 figure I had beheld in the woodland hut; 
 my mule stopped — it approached, and 
 uttered a sound that I thought resembled 
 my name. It was dismal ; around me 
 were the thick trees, and the light dimly 
 appearing above their tops. I tried to 
 rush into the wood, but my mule would 
 not move. Istood trembling, and crossing 
 myself, and now it came nearer, and now 
 it was close to me. It spake; but the 
 
 sounds
 
 THE 'FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 77 
 
 sounds were wilder than the hovvl of wolves. 
 Its language was all mows and chattering^; 
 yet still it held me, and still seemed anx- 
 ious for conference; I spoke, I know not 
 what, in a pacifying tone> and I perceived, 
 as my fear diminished, it became articulate. 
 It spake at length in a kind of strange 
 rhyme, which, though I did not under- 
 stand, I cannot forget: among other 
 things it said — 
 
 There is anothor of us here, 
 
 And we two dwell alone ; 
 The raven that meets us, back doth fly, 
 And the she-wolf looketh ghastily 
 
 ^^'hen she sees us by the moon. 
 
 I now acquired some courage, and spoke 
 to it rationally — but it interrupted me — - 
 
 And will thou on ray errand go, 
 Nor baffle me with mock and mow — 
 Like the foul things, v/hose nightly nest 
 Is in the cranny of my breast. — 
 A fiery gush is in nny throat, 
 And drowns confession's struggling note — • 
 
 Thev
 
 78 FATAL revenge; or. 
 
 They bind me stron;;^ with darkling spell, 
 
 And what I wis — I may not tell — 
 
 And oft I bid on errand go 
 
 The leaf that falls, the gales that blow. 
 
 'TJs in the roar of dark-brown flood — 
 
 'Tis in the moan of wintry wood — 
 
 And every form that nature wears 
 
 Blairs it in burnish'd characters. 
 
 And still no eye the tale can read, 
 
 And still no tongue doth trump the deed — 
 
 Still, till my ghastly tale is told, 
 
 I scream a-night on wood aiKi wold. — 
 
 When it had ceased^ it released me^ and 
 1 sprung onward. But in a moment after- 
 wai'ds it crossed me, and all (he live long 
 night it beset me. Sometimes it would 
 Cv-itcli wy rnulc's bridle, and sh^re ir^e- in 
 the lace; anon it would be seen playing 
 its goblin-gambols among the branches 
 of the trees, from which it would drop 
 down beneath my ^eet, and then, with a 
 wild cry, bound away into the woods. I 
 arrived^ spent, and breathless at a hamlet 
 in the wood^, and" — '' But how can this 
 
 contribute
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. / 9 
 
 contribute to the explanation of any events 
 that may have happened at the castle?" 
 '' Paixlon the prolixity of an old man, 
 Signor; if I do not tell events in the 
 order they occurred to me, I shall be 
 uaable to relate them at all. It is not Ion": 
 now, since I sojourned for the last time, 
 with my old host in the valley; I saw 
 when I entered, he was bursting with 
 fctrange intelligence, nor did I v/ait long 
 for his informiation. ' Two nights ago,' 
 said he. ' we heard a knockino: at the 
 wicket of the hiit^ v/e were too much 
 afraid of //^e vampire to open it ; hcv/ever, 
 when the door zva-s opened in the morn- 
 ing, 2/ was found extended before it, 
 without sense or motion. When it was 
 brought in, and revived, we began to 
 mistrust that it was a human creature, and 
 w^hen it was recovered, it addressed us 
 in christian accents, and just like a chris- 
 tian man, besought us for shelter and 
 blessed charity, and talked like one that 
 
 was
 
 80 i-'ATAL revekge; ok, 
 
 was rccoTcring from a long trance, and 
 beginning to feel human feelings about 
 his heart agaiq. All that day he was faint 
 and feeble, but still spoke in christian 
 accents; but towards night, we somehow 
 began to feel uneasy again, not knowing 
 v/hat evil thing it might be, and fearful 
 of some unknown mischief, we made a 
 great fire, and sat round it all night, 
 telling our beads, and watching as it lay ; 
 it started and groaned often, but made 
 Ho other movements all night. Towards 
 morning it was still weaker, and it be- 
 sought them for the love of the virgin, 
 to send for some pious man, and have 
 the offices of christian charity and grace 
 done by it. They sent with all speed for 
 a holy monk to a monastery in the moun- 
 tains, and when he came^ he started at 
 the sight of such an object, but on con- 
 versing with him, and receiving clear and 
 pious answers, he prepared to receive his 
 confession, and administer the last rites. 
 
 The
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOl^IO. 81 
 
 The peasant and his family left the hiit^ 
 and the monk and the dying man were 
 left alone. They were shut up that day 
 and evenino^, and when the old man re- 
 turned, he was struck with terror at w^hat 
 he beheld. The penitent had scarce a 
 moment to live^ and the confessor ap- 
 peared nearly in the same state. He held 
 out the crucifix w^ith a tremblino- hand to 
 the dying man, and the moment the breath 
 left the body, he fainted. While they 
 were using rrieans for his recoverv, he 
 uttered some extraordinary words, which 
 they believed referred to some terrible 
 secret the confession had di^iciosed. When 
 he recovered, he immediately prepared 
 to return to the monastery, but a storm 
 arose, that rendered it impossible for him 
 to proceed. The monk was in an agony 
 of solicitude; he stalked about the hut, 
 and peeped from the casement, and at 
 length demanded if the old peasant conld 
 supply him with materials for writing; 
 E 5 ' For
 
 82 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 ^ For if said he, ' the smallest article of 
 what I am to attest, should escape, the 
 consequences might be visited on me here- 
 after.* — The materials were procured, the 
 monk sat down, and wrote all night, often 
 crossing himself, and dropping his pen, 
 and then again compelling himself to pro- 
 ceed. At length when he had finished 
 his vmting, he set out to return to the 
 monastery ; ' And we,' said the old man, 
 ' are preparing to follow him with the 
 body for interment.' I inquired, was 
 the body still under his roof, and hast- 
 ened to the room where it was laid. I 
 approached it in curiosity and fear, for 
 I remembered our encounter in the forest, 
 when no power could have persuaded 
 me the being I saw was human. I bent 
 over it; the distortion of filth, and famine, 
 and madness, was on the countenance no 
 longer. I viewed it; I could not credit 
 my eyes; again I looked on it, and again; 
 it was indeed the figure I had beheld in 
 
 the
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOBIO, 8S 
 
 the wood, and that figure^ Signor, was — 
 Ascanio." — ''How, Michelo, who? — the 
 confidential servant whom you mentioned 
 in your former narrative/' — '' The same, 
 Signor: in my late visits to Apulia, I had 
 indeed observed Ascanio's absence, and 
 heard the strange conjectures of the 
 domestics/* — '' But then, Michelo, the 
 monk and the secret subject of the con- 
 fession — did nothing ever transpire ? are 
 these intricacies to be without solution, 
 and without end T' — " Peace be with the 
 souls of the departed," said Michelo, 
 crossing himself. '' Strange means, it is 
 said, were employed to suppress that 
 story. Shortly after my return to the castle, 
 there was a kind of report, that the monk 
 was in possession of some secret; dark and 
 terrible, relating to the Family of Mon- 
 torlo : it became an affair of public con- 
 sternation and solicitude. The whole ter- 
 ritory of Naples had their eyes fixed on 
 the supposed movements of the monastery; 
 
 it
 
 84 FATAL REVENGE ; ORy 
 
 it was said, they ^vere preparing to divulge 
 something to high authority, and that 
 the monk who confessed the dying wan- 
 derer v/as to have an audience of the 
 Pope himself; others said, that he had 
 never been himself since the confession, 
 and that the subject of ii had been com- 
 municated to the prior, who was to assume 
 the conduct of the affair. At length it 
 was certain, that the monk set out on a 
 journey w^ith numerous attendants; that 
 he seemed greatly agitated; that he tra- 
 velled with extraordinary expedition; that 
 he was often heard to say, (though in 
 perfect health) he never would live to 
 conclude the journey, and that after arriv- 
 ing at an obscure inn oiT the road to Rome, 
 he could be traced no further ; there was 
 much inquiry and commotion about it. 
 The host and his family were lodged in 
 the Inquisition ; and several in the neigh- 
 bouring village apprehended, and vast 
 rewards offered for the smallest intelli- 
 gence
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 85 
 
 gence of the monk or of the documents 
 that were supposed to be in his possession, 
 when he disappeared. The prior of the 
 convent, supported, it was said, by the 
 enemies of the Family of Montorio, pur- 
 sued the search with all the zeal and 
 tenacity of an inquisitor; but th==' grave 
 kept its secrets well. — Thus, Signor, the 
 last remaining possibility of any intelli- 
 gence relative to those events, was re- 
 moved, and thus we remain, in ignorance 
 and in fear." 
 
 What passed through my mind, a m.o- 
 ment after he ceased to speak, I will not 
 dare to breathe even to you, Ippolito ; 
 if you can discover it from the question 
 I asked, you may. — " My father, was he 
 much shocked at these events ?" — " He 
 xvas much shocked at these events," said 
 the old man, as if fearful of using any 
 words but mine. 
 
 " Perhaps," said I, '' his present gloomy 
 dejection is owing to their preying on 
 
 him
 
 86 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 him still;" — "I firmly believe," said Mi- 
 chelo, " they continue o prey on him 
 still." — There was a dreary pause; the 
 bell tolled three; — " ^Tis late, Signor, 
 we have wasted many hours in this me- 
 lancholy conference ; permit me to see 
 you to your chamber." — I rose almost 
 unconsciously; the sound of what I had 
 heard was yet in my ears, nor did it quit 
 them after I retired to rest. 
 
 CHAR
 
 1HB FAMILY P» MONTORIO, 87 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 Attonltusque legK 
 
 Terrai frugiferai.- 
 
 It was not extraordinary that on Tppolito 
 these letters should produce an effect 
 merely slight and partial. His mind was 
 not constructed to receive the impressions 
 Annibal wanted to convey. That some 
 strange obscurity had gathered over the 
 fate of the late Count and his Countess, 
 was plain from every part of the nan-ative; 
 yet Ippolito, innocent and noble of mind, 
 
 perused
 
 88 FATAL revenge; GR;, 
 
 perused the letters, not with suspicion, 
 but with curiosity; and in the avidity 
 with which he read a narratioe ofxvondcrs, 
 the observation (relative to his father*s 
 concern in those transactions) v;hich had 
 been suggested to the dark penetration 
 of Annibal, was totally overlooked by his 
 brother. His two predominant passions, 
 love of the marvellous, and love of Iicroic 
 adventure, inspired him with the thought, 
 that some dark act of oppression or vio- 
 lence had been committed, the unfolding 
 of which was reserved for him ; and, as he 
 thought, of relieving distress, or of vin- 
 dicating virtue, his cheek glowed, and his 
 frame mantled and dilated with generous 
 enthusiasm. He was roused from his trance 
 of heroism, by Cyprian, who invited him 
 to their evening excursion. Ippolito, who 
 was in that state of mind, which is pleased 
 with itself and its purposes, complied ; and 
 the smile which, as he assented, lit up his 
 beautiful countenance, gave to it almost 
 
 an
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 89 
 
 an ans^el briofhtness and benionitv. From 
 such an expression in Ippolito's face, Cy- 
 prian was always observed to turn away 
 abruptly and tremblingly. When that face 
 was partially averted, he would view it, with 
 such a fixedness, as if his very viind was 
 eye ; when it w^as turned towards him with 
 no marked expression, he would venture, 
 timidly to look up; but when Ippolito 
 smiled, Cyprian shrunk from him, with a 
 sick and miserable delight, which was 
 equally difficult to describe or account 
 for. 
 
 They set out. It was one of those 
 evenings, of which it is difficult for one 
 not conversant with Italian scenery and 
 climate to imagine the beauty. There 
 was a blaze of animated, but tranquil 
 loveliness, diffused over earth, and sea, 
 and sky ; there was a splendour which did 
 not dazzle, a richness which did not satiate, 
 there was not a cloud in heaven, not a 
 dark spot on earth ; the eye wandered 
 
 over
 
 90 FATAL RKVENGE ; OR, 
 
 over an extent _cf view^ which its bright- 
 ness made seem immeasurable, and rested 
 on it with a fulness of complacency. The 
 West, that presented a broad sweep of 
 golden light ; the sea, that chequered the 
 reflection by the heaving of its waters, 
 and the gliding of its vessels; the wooded 
 windings of the shore, and the promontories 
 clothed in their most verdurous and lovely 
 hues, endless variety of shape and shade, 
 from the dark brown tufts, to the feathery 
 spray, that quivered in the breeze, and 
 aaniiii'ea rne blue sky through its fibres; 
 the spires and palaces, whose glowing 
 western fronts, shone like jasper and topaz 
 in the setting sun — all these objects, 
 seemed to produce a kind of visible har- 
 moriy, as sensible to sight, as the mingled 
 accordance of sounds to th^ ear. 
 
 They ascended a path they knew, which 
 conducted them to a recess, where sha- 
 dowed by the arbutus and the mangolia, 
 they sat, and surveyed the prospect. 
 
 After
 
 THE fam#1y of montorio. 91 
 
 After a silent pause — '' Tell me/' said 
 Cyprian^ '^ What is necessary to form a 
 poet, but to be conversant amid such 
 scenery as this?" '^ Many things more 
 are necessary," said Ippolito ; ^' labour, 
 and art, and study, and knowledge, which 
 must be supplied by experience, by ob- 
 servation on the mixt forms of artificial 
 life, and by those hereditary habits of as< 
 sociation, both of sentiment and language, 
 which must be acquired by an intimacy 
 with the works of similar authors. He 
 who exposes himself merely to the im- 
 pressions of nature, will indeed acquire 
 a sensibility of them, but it will be a sa- 
 vage and bOlitary feeling, which cannot be 
 embellished from want of internal cultiva- 
 tion, and cannot be communicated, from 
 w^ant of the aids and colourings of appro- 
 priate language." '' Pardon me," said 
 Cyprian, " your own observation seems 
 favourable to me: you mention habits of 
 hereditary association derived from one 
 
 poet
 
 ^2 FATAL REVENGE ,* OR, 
 
 poet to another — that this is true I admit; 
 and if it be true, it must follow that the 
 first representations were distinguished by 
 their fidelity and excellence; now the 
 early poets must have copied from nature 
 solely^ for society was in a crude and ele- 
 mentary state, and of previous models tli^ 
 first artists can have bad none/' 
 
 " When I mentioned the early poets,'* 
 said Ippolito, '' 1 did not mean the abo- 
 rigines of Parnassus, the bards of savage 
 tribes, as savage as they — whose effusions 
 were oral and traditionary — I meant the 
 poets of an age cultivated, but not so 
 cultivated as our own. Nature must inr 
 deed be the object of poetical represenrif- 
 tion, but it must be nature modified and 
 conformed io the existino- habits and taste 
 of society." 
 
 i( Were I a poet," said Cyprian, " I 
 should invert your rule, and admit the in- 
 fluence of prevailing manners into my 
 strains, so far as they were conformable 
 
 to
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 93 
 
 to nature. From that species called pas- 
 toral, for instance, I would banish that 
 trim and fantastic garniture, which re- 
 moves it from every thing with which the 
 observation or fancy has ever held alliance. 
 Shepherds laying aside all concern for the 
 simple objects and pleasures of a pastoral 
 life, to pursue their mistresses with speeches, 
 which to them ouoht to be unaffectino; and 
 unintelligible, expending a portion of time 
 which rural life can seldom spare, to talk 
 of pains and pleasures, which even refine- 
 ment feigns to feel, and which here, there- 
 fore, divest fiction of all imposing resem- 
 blance to truth. All this I would exchange 
 for the true and visible imagery of rural 
 life: — For the little peasant boy chasing 
 the fire-fly, or feeding the silk- worm, slum- 
 bering in the shade at nocn, or led, in 
 pursuit of some wanderer of the flock, to 
 a scene of unexplored wildness, treading 
 with rude awe where his steps are not 
 echoed by a human sound, and gazing on 
 2 views,
 
 94 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 views, which no eye^ save the eye of the 
 lone genius of the place, had ever before 
 beheld ; or touched with local and rural 
 superstition, trembling* in moon-light or 
 in storm, amid ruins, deemed the resort of 
 beings not of this earth. Or^ if shep- 
 herds must be in love, I would represent 
 them loving like shepherds, v^ith simple 
 fidelity, with unfastidious jealousy, with 
 services such as pastoral life may require 
 and receive, and with hopes of rustic enjoy- 
 ment, such as labour may acquire, and sim- 
 plicity relish. I am sure an assemblage of 
 such imagery would give pleasure to those 
 who love nature, and those who do not, 
 might find at operas and carnivals, shep- 
 herds and shepherdesses sufficiently courtly 
 and unnatural." 
 
 " You should study the poesy of the 
 heretic English, as a penance for your 
 own poetical heterodoxy," said Ippolito, 
 '' though perhaps the task would harv-e 
 little of penance in it. I have been 
 
 acquainted
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 95 
 
 acquainted some time with the chaplain 
 of the English Embassy ; he is reckoned a 
 man of literature in his own country^ and 
 were he not a heretic, I should think him 
 a man of sense and probity. He tells me, 
 that (from the surly independence of the 
 national spirit, from the roughness of the 
 climate, or from a taste derived from their 
 ancestry) there is a spirit in their poesy, 
 quite different from that of the conti- 
 nental. A simple appeal to the strong 
 and common feelings of our nature, often 
 made in such language as the speakers of 
 common life clothe their conceptions in. 
 Of this he describes the effect to be in- 
 conceivable by a reader accustomed to 
 the poetry of Italy. From their dramas 
 and poems, remote and heroic adventures 
 are almost banished, and they turn with 
 more emotion to the indigent peasant, 
 weeping over her famishing babes — to 
 the maniac, who shrieks on the nightly 
 waste — to age, pining in lonely misery — 
 
 to
 
 96 FATAL REVENGE* OH; 
 
 to honest toil crushed in the sore and 
 fruitless struggle with oppression and ad- 
 versity — than to the raving princess, or 
 the declaiming hero. They have also a 
 species of poesy among them, (unknown 
 I believe to any but the northern nations 
 of Europe,) which contributes to main- 
 tain this taste — the traditionary tales of 
 their ancestry, the rude chronicles of a 
 bold and warlike people, of which the 
 language is wild and peculiar even to the 
 ears of its admirei's, from a kind of quaint 
 and antique rhythm, which irresistibly as- 
 sociated in the minds of the hearers, with 
 the thoughts of times long past, with 
 melancholy and awe-breathing remem- 
 brances. Ihese are the ballads of the 
 West and North of Europe ; they are set 
 to a simple and monotonous melody, and 
 chaunted with enthusiasm. 
 
 " There is a nation of people wild and 
 little known, in a Western island, whose 
 national poetry is still richer^ and whose 
 
 harnjony
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 97 
 
 harmony is said to be more melting than 
 that of the English — I have forgot their 
 name, but of a people so endowed, the 
 name will not be always obscure. The 
 little poem I am about to read to you, 
 relates the actions of a rude chiefcain of 
 that country/' 
 
 Bruno-Lin, the Irish Ontlcacr' 
 A. D. 1302. 
 
 Bru NO-LIN awoke in the night, 
 He griped his mace, and he rouscd his might, 
 He deemed it long till his followers all 
 V.'ith food and plunder filled his hall.— 
 
 •* The subject of the follov.-ing lines was taken from a 
 note on a Poem, from which it is an honour to borrow a hint 
 however slight or remote. It is perhaps the only merit of 
 this trifle that it was suggested on reading a passage in *' The 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel," It is lamented that the scenery 
 of this Ballad is so topical, that whoever has not been 
 in Ireland, can scarce read it with pleasure ; whoever has, 
 will not be sorry to think again of the ruins of Melik, 
 and the waters of the Shannoi). — Bruno-Lin, (or Bryan-o- 
 Lin, as he is sometimes called), is a Chieftain still famous 
 in the memory of Irish song. 
 
 VOL. I, r His
 
 98 FATAL revenge; ok. 
 
 His followers food and plunder sought 
 From ^\arded tower to hurdled cot — 
 A band of blood — They raised the spear, 
 And never a foeman stood anear. — 
 A band of blood — They laid them down 
 And there was not a meal for four miles round. 
 
 Where saintly peace at Melik* dwells, 
 They burst the convent's seared cells.; 
 And broke the pix at altar's base. 
 And flung the wine in the Sacristan's face. 
 
 He griped his mace with a grimly smile, 
 (Hard to lift, and heavy to feel. 
 Banded with brass, and studded with steel) 
 The moon shone thro' a rift the while. — 
 He griped it, and swore by Mary^s migh t, 
 To go and meet the traveller- wighU— 
 
 Bruno. Lin he left his tower 
 
 All in the mirk and midnight hour, 
 
 Through mossy bog, and matted brier,. 
 
 He sprung with the speed of fairy fire, 
 
 Nor rested till his firm step stood 
 
 Where foids + dispart the wandering flood. 
 
 * Melik, an Abbey, whose beautiful ruins a: e yet extant 
 on the banks of the Shannon, where it flows between Gal- 
 way and Leinster, 
 
 f Fords of Melik. 
 
 O'er
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOKIO. 9^ 
 
 O'or Shannon's broad and bridgelesa btrcam, 
 Was passage else nor far nor near — 
 Through buttrcsb'd arch, and shadowy pier, 
 In its dark blue wave, now frequent gleam. 
 
 He leaned with his mace on the red -moss stone, 
 
 And watched for the step of traveller lone. 
 
 — Was not a sound to stir the ear — 
 
 — Was not a form that thought could fear — 
 
 The owlet slept in tufted nest; 
 
 The river's ripplings whispered — rest. 
 
 The ear might list, till murmurs still 
 
 Of unheard sound the sense did fill. — 
 
 The eye might gaze, till forms of night 
 
 'Gan quiver in the misty sight. — 
 
 The breathless calm of the lone hour 
 Held o'er his soul unwonted power. — 
 Bruno cursed the stilly nighf, 
 And waved his mace, to wake his might — 
 He would rather hear the tempest rave, 
 And shout to the toss of the crested wave. — ■ 
 
 A step — he lurks behind the stone; 
 
 A step — he comes — the traveller lone.— 
 
 It was a knight of moody mien, 
 His hand unglaised, his lance in rest ; 
 His barded steed scarce felt the rein, 
 His footing stint the stirrup prcsa'd. — 
 
 r ^ Thrice
 
 100 FATAL revenge; OR^ 
 
 Thrice as his step the brink assay'd, 
 A voice of woe did sweep the stream ; 
 And thrice beneath the moon's wan beam 
 
 A bloody stain the waves embayed. 
 
 Bruno rushed from his trysting place, 
 And dashed in the courser's front his mace — • 
 In bone and brain the iron stood, 
 Reek'd to its base both spike and stud— 
 The mad steed bounding with the pain 
 Rose like a meteor in the air, 
 Left in sore plight his rider there, 
 And plunged into the flood amain. — 
 
 Bruno rushed on the struggling wight. 
 And bore him to the earth outright : 
 On ringing plate, and riven mail, 
 The massive mace did bound like hail. 
 He cannot rise, he cannot breathe- — 
 His lance is locked, his sword in sheathe ; 
 prom gash and rent the life-blood flows. 
 And faint and short his struggling grows : 
 His quivering head, and stark-swoln breast 
 The chase of hunted life confest — 
 " Lay me on Melik's holy shore !'' 
 His last prayer sped— he breathes no more. — 
 
 Three paces backward Bruno strode, 
 And on the corse did sometime gaze ; 
 
 Then
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 104 
 
 Then in his arms assayed to raise — 
 
 And felt it uas a dead -man'' s load. — 
 He rent the mail from his bleeding breast, 
 He rent the gems from his plumed crest : 
 The shield from his left arm unwrcathed. 
 And half the burnislied brand unsheathed : 
 But he would not the visor's band unbrace, 
 For he cared not to look on the dead man's face; 
 He heaps the spoil on the red-moss stone, 
 And lists for the step of traveller lone. 
 
 He comes — a lone and lowly wight, 
 Scant was his speed— and vilde his plight: 
 He is y'douned in dusky weeds. 
 And loud, as he goes, he tells his beads. — 
 Bruno 'sdeigned, this enemy 
 ^Vith crafl, or weaponed might assail. 
 Or mell in perilous battaile ; 
 So forth he strode, and bad him *^ die.'* 
 '' For Christ's bless'd mother spare my blood ; 
 
 I do not plead for craven life ; 
 
 'Tis for a soul's most precious strife ; 
 By Him who died on holy rood. — 
 
 Warrior — I held a wide domain. 
 Iron portals fenced my keep, 
 Mailed warders watched my sleep : 
 
 Warrior — I led an hardy train^ 
 
 This
 
 102 FATAL REVEN^GE; 6Ti, 
 
 This hand, that marshalled my bold crew 
 In the fell foray of the Pale, 
 Armed with glaive of iron scale. 
 
 This hand an only brother slow !— 
 
 Oh, what shall give a murderer rest ! 
 Still, still I feel the worm within, 
 Still burns the unquenched fire for sin — 
 
 And I have roamed from east to west. 
 Full fifty choirs their requiems raise; 
 On fifty shrines the tapers blaze, 
 T^c?n fifty priests do Vvatcli by night 
 With missal chaunt, and taper'd rite ; 
 O'er flourished cross, and irophicd tombj 
 His banner waves in warlike gloom, 
 And bells shall toll— till day of doom. — 
 
 Oh, what shall give the murderer rest ! 
 I feel th' undying worm within, 
 ■Still burns th' unquenched fire for sin, 
 And I have roamed from east to west. 
 
 Aid from each sainted name I crave, 
 From cloistered tower to Eremite's cave ; 
 To stone and well I ceacclcss wend, 
 At cross and cairn my head I bend ; 
 I've knelt and wept from morn to morn, 
 My knees are stone, mine eyes are horn — - 
 
 All
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 103 
 
 f penanced lore, the retle "^ 
 
 relic, and charmed bead, > 
 prJc, and pilgrim weed. J 
 
 All vain of penanced lore, the rede 
 Kite, and 
 And vigil p: 
 
 And now wilh faltering step I go — 
 These costly gifts shall Melik gain, 
 To the last rood of my domain — 
 
 (The dark licnd doth beset me so) 
 Peace to the parted soul to win 
 Or free the living soul from sin. 
 
 Warrior — for grace thy iireapon sheathe, 
 So may thy last prayer gracious be, 
 So may thy soul part peacefully, 
 So may it triumph gloriously ; 
 
 Nor plunge a soul unbless'd in death.-' — 
 
 Bruno scarce marked his woful tale; 
 Small was his wreck of penance — rede 
 Scant was his ruth of saintly weed : 
 
 ** Pilgrim, a shorter shrift shall 'vail. 
 If without book thou kno\rcst a prayer, 
 Address thee, for thy corse lies thcie." 
 Sore strove the man in agony J 
 
 But Bruno wrenched him without toil, 
 
 Like tufted weed from mossy soil, 
 And plunged him in the darksome waste — 
 And still his death-cry swcll'd the blast > 
 
 « Might
 
 104 FATAL REVENGl!:; GE, 
 
 " Might I but reach the shadowed sjiire, 
 Within its shadow but expire" — — ■ 
 Till the dark waters quench'd his cry. 
 Then Bruno from his scrip 'gan pour 
 Pix, and chalice, and taper high, "^ 
 
 And rood, and altar's imager}', > 
 
 And vase, and ve^t for sacristy, j 
 
 Of monkish wealth, a goodly store: 
 
 lie heaped them on the mossy stone — • 
 'V^ails not to tell, how many a wight 
 Bowed beneath his mace that night; 
 * Vails not to tell, how, rich foray 
 With dint of perilous assay 
 
 Was won that night from traveller lone. 
 
 Biuno homeward now doth wend, 
 
 His prey around him heavy iiung; 
 Beneath a part his shoulders bend. 
 
 Part in his mantle broad he Hung, 
 And some was tied to his mace's end. 
 
 Home he wends with footsteps \\ight, 
 'I he moss beneath his backward tread, 
 
 Scant bow'd his lithe and limber head : 
 When lo — a meteor flames his tower, 
 Bright as the beam from faery bower 
 
 When wanderers,— mark oVr wat'ry Strath, 
 
 How burns the Elfin's taper'd path — 
 
 So shoiie that bright and wonderous light. — 
 
 Swift
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 10 J 
 
 Swift he comes — his followers all 
 With feast and foray had filled his hall. 
 'J'here was note of boasting loud, 
 Pointing to prey, and staunching of blood, 
 Till Bruno check'd the wasscl rude. 
 His eye was lit with high disdain, 
 As he threw the predc upon the ground -^ 
 And leant on his mace with idlesse stound, C 
 All-while his followers gazed it round : 1 
 
 Then sudden with a startled mien — 
 
 '' Who lapped our keep in nightly fire ? 
 On towery ridge of castled wall. 
 Bartizan and beacon-spire, 
 Casement arch, and arrow loop. 
 And grated cleft and chink withal j 
 A flood of sheeny flame did tower — 
 When, as I entered, all was mirk/' 
 None the cause could rode, I trow. 
 Much they mus'd, and murmur'd low : 
 *' The lonely taper that iiglUsour hall, 
 Gleams in a crevice of the wall ; 
 Not broader seen than Mclik's spire, 
 O'er Shannon's far and moon-light wave/' 
 
 Eut soon they started from moody stound^ 
 
 And as they bask round ruddy fire, 
 
 Gibe, and jest, in gamesome sort, 
 
 With the wide wassel cup went round — 
 
 r 5 'When
 
 106 iPATAL revenge; or. 
 
 When hark ! — when hark ! • 
 
 A blow upon the barred door ! 
 
 The band, — each drew his un wiped dirk, 
 Indrew with quivering lip his breath, 
 And starting, grasped the board unneath, 
 
 And glanced around the hollow eye. 
 When louder, as of iron stave, 
 On boss and bar, the smiting rung — 
 
 The boldest of the revcr's train. 
 Pressed on his lip his wary hand, 
 Seized with shortcn'd gripe his brand, 
 And went — but ne'er returned again. 
 
 Loud and more loud the smiting grew, 
 As bar and bolt in splinters flew : 
 Another goes — his mazed feere 
 
 With ear that faltered on the sound, 
 Listened as down the stair he wound ; 
 But thence nor voice nor step could hear — 
 
 Loud and more loud the smiting grew— 
 Others still, and others went — 
 Bruno sat in his lonely selle — 
 He heard his band, as one by one 
 They trod the winding stair of stone; 
 Adowii the footing, hard and dank, 
 He heard their sandals' iron clank ; 
 He heard them reach the arched door, 
 But thence nor step, nor voice heard more. 
 
 Was
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 107 
 
 Was nigh him now, nor friend nor fecre — 
 Lonely thought his heart 'gan quell, 
 His proud eye 'vailed its hardiment : 
 
 As slow he rose^ and now through mist 
 Of umber'd arch the door mote see, 
 He^iga'd the cross, which he deemed a spell. 
 And faltered a broken Ave-Maric. — 
 
 Untouched — the door far backwards flew. 
 What shapes are they — through mist and fog 
 
 Now dimly seen, now sudden lost, 
 That lap in flame the fenny bog. 
 And distant now, and now anear, 
 Edge the dark lining of the cloud. 
 Sweep in dim march the heathy hill, 
 And now below in darkling dell, 
 Mantle the toothed and matted briar 
 
 With ridgy head, and spiky hand, 
 Talon and fang, of fringed fire — 
 All instantly and visibly ' 
 
 Shapes, now sheeted inpaley fire, 
 
 Tbat shimmer like the moon-shine frost. 
 
 Now embound in flaky gyre 
 
 Of eddying flame, whose high career 
 Whirls them round with waftage loud — 
 While through its bickering volumes still, 
 
 Fitful gleam'd the shadowings blue, 
 
 In
 
 108 FATAL revenge; or^ 
 
 In umbered skull, of flamy eyne, 
 Like steely studs in Morion dun, 
 Or tombed tapers sapphire sheen, 
 Or carbuncle in ebony. 
 
 The sight was drear — but Bruno bold 
 
 Had deemed it but some pageant strange, 
 Play'd by the quaint and antic sprites 
 Through fog and fen that darkling range, 
 Till 'mid the ghostly rout he knew 
 The shadowed forms of those he slew. 
 
 Stern scowl'd the knigJtt — his rifted mail 
 
 Disclosed his body gashed and bi\re : 
 
 Wan gleamed the penitent ?>o pale, 
 
 And signed a shadowy cross in air : 
 
 And far, far off in cloudy sail 
 
 Other and sadder shapes were there. — 
 Forward — the gasted murderer fled. 
 Mid horror's pith to plunge his head. 
 Even in that dread and darkling hour, 
 His soul's first impulse urged its power. 
 
 Forward — his thoughts unbidden tend ; 
 
 Forward — his steps unconscious bend. — 
 
 While as he turned his scared eye, 
 
 31e sees athwart the reddening sky, 
 
 i'he spectre-cloud, in folding fires 
 
 Enwrap his castle's smouldering spires — 
 
 Giant-shapes of warlike sheen 
 
 Grasping
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 109 
 
 Grasping what seemed dart and spear : 
 And sulphurous lightning's streamy lance, 
 O'er crested tower their wild forms rtar, 
 And mouths of other than earthly mould 
 
 (Gleaming through the casements barr'd, 
 
 Or o'er the portal battle-scarred) 
 Through ebon horns rung war-notes bold — 
 
 And every hue and tint so pale 
 Shone out in that unearthly light ; 
 Shadowy stole and form of mist, 
 
 Flar'd like the sunny chrysolite, 
 
 Ruby or opals argent mail, 
 
 And emerald, and amethyst. — 
 
 Onward iheghasted murderer rushed, 
 
 Till Shannon's dark wave checked his flight : 
 
 Onward the tiery fabric urged, 
 
 And as he turned with hurrying tread, 
 Still seemed to toppie o'er his head. 
 Still voU^ing, on the sulphured gale 
 Came skriek, and gibber, and ghost-like wail 
 
 Like stripes, his il}ing steps that scourg'd. 
 
 The river's depths lay dark in night — 
 And his broad Mirfacc, still and clear. 
 Gave b.ick no gijam of unbless'a light. 
 
 He paused a moment in breathless fear — 
 Then with a cry, (whose nightly yell 
 
 on
 
 1 10 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 Oft sweeps its stream, as legends tell) 
 
 He plung'd beneath — the winds are whist — 
 
 The echoes sleep — and all is hush'd. 
 
 " I confess/' said Cyprian, " in these 
 I find a pleasure, which I seek in vain 
 amid the sententious and cold concetti of 
 our poetry. Would I were one of the 
 Arxadi, or of those whose eminence in 
 the literary world enables them to extend 
 their influence to the arts." '' Why should 
 you wish for that influence, and how 
 would you employ it ?" said Ippolito. " I 
 should wish for it/' replied Cyprian, '' be- 
 cause the connexion between literature 
 and the arts is intimate and inseparable ; 
 I would therefore make each the channel 
 of reciprocal improvement to the other. 
 How rauch more striking would the effect 
 be, if instead of the stiff figures of our 
 drama, coming forward in modern habili- 
 ments to warbje modern music, contrast- 
 ing instead of representing the classic or 
 romantic characters whose names they 
 
 usurp
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 1 1 1 
 
 usurp — the bard of those distant days and 
 regions you have described^ should appear 
 with the rude and flowing drapery, the 
 harp of bold^ unmeasured song, the 
 themes of old and wondrous story ; and 
 all amid scenes suited to his character; 
 not among the glare of artificial lights and 
 picturings, but amid rocks and ruins, the 
 murmurs of waters, and the tremblino^s of 
 moon-light. I have mentioned only one 
 character, but might there not be a thou- 
 sand others, and all with the appropriate 
 melody of their age and nation, simple^ 
 or rude, and wild, as they might be, but 
 all rendered more interesting by remem- 
 bered and heart-touching association, than 
 the most scientific strains uttered by mo- 
 dern harmonists .?" 
 
 '' And how would you contrive/' said 
 Ippolito, '' to extend a similar improve- 
 ment to the department of painting ?" 
 
 '' Oh V said Cyprian, '' that mute lan- 
 guage whose powers I am convinced are 
 
 yet
 
 112 FATAL KEVENGE ; OR, 
 
 yet unexplored, that language now only 
 intelligible to the eye, I would te.ich to 
 speak to the very soul. Instead of copy- 
 ing the colouring of one artist, the design 
 of another, the trees, and the sun-light, 
 and the ruins, that afe handed down from 
 age to age, with mechanical improvement 
 and imitation that excludes originality — 
 I would have the painter look around life, 
 and within himself; I would have him 
 copy from nature in a state of motion, 
 from existing life ; from those forms and 
 shades of manner and feeling, which are 
 in a perpetual state of animated fluctua- 
 tion around us, more numerous, more 
 varied^ and more vivid than they could 
 have been, from the unimproved state of 
 sociely, in the time of the elder masters : 
 I would make all my figures, characters, 
 and ail my groups circumstantial and nar- 
 rative. But for sensible representation, 
 it is better to furnish example than argu- 
 ment. I saw a painting by an obscure 
 
 master.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 113 
 
 master; the subject was common; it was 
 the interment of a corse; it was the mo- 
 ment after the vault was closed : from the 
 devices I conjectured it was the burial of 
 a young person, and from the counte- 
 nance of an old man (who assumed no 
 particular attitude) I was convinced it 
 was his only child. Over the face of the 
 priest was spread a chaste and holy sad- 
 ness, such as men may be supposed to 
 fee], to whom the fixed hope of a better 
 life, have made the inflictions of this of 
 light and trivial avail. But the wretched 
 parent was bowing to the priest, for having 
 performed the last rites ; was thanking 
 him with the humility of courteous misery^ 
 for having for ever removed from him his 
 last earthly stay and hope. There was 
 something in the expression of the old 
 man, thus trying to work features, con- 
 vulsed with anguish, into a gentle smile, 
 to blend the duties of the moment with 
 the wrung feelings of the parent, and not 
 5 forget
 
 114 FATAL revenge; or^ 
 
 forget the decencies of grief, amid its 
 
 stings and bitterness 1 cannot express 
 
 myself, but I looked at the other contents 
 of the gallery with sufficient tranquillity. 
 Such are the subjects I would introduce 
 or search for, in every effort of mind or 
 of taste; and to every subject, mental or 
 artificial, I would attach its appropriate 
 features of scenery and character/' 
 
 " And with the present scene, what 
 group would you associate?'' said Ippolito. 
 Cyprian paused. '* What if I were to 
 take the pencil from you, and become an 
 artist in your new school. I feel the in- 
 spiration coming: let me try — shall I 
 sketch a XilxX^y friendly, monitory sylph, 
 soliciting with gentle art, a giddy, grace- 
 less wanderer, from a vitiated sensibility 
 of pleasure, and recalling him to those 
 pure and innocent enjoyments which he 
 blushes to have forsaken so Ions:." 
 
 '' Oh, my master, my beloved master !" 
 said Cyprian, " look forth, and wonder 
 
 that
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 1 15 
 
 that you ever forsook them. This dim 
 light that veils from us the forms and 
 colours of the earth, gives to the sky a 
 dense and sombrous majesty^ v/hich I love 
 better than the bright blue of noon, or 
 even the amber-glow of sun-set. See the 
 high arch of heaven, above our heads, 
 how vast, how spacious, without a star, 
 and without a cloud. There is something 
 in its aspect of calm stability and im- 
 mutable duration. It stands in its strength, 
 and its silence tells of eternity.'* 
 
 '' And see far off, just over Capri," said 
 Ippolito, '' where the sky is of a paler 
 blue, one little twinkling star of silver 
 lire; and above it, the moon, with her 
 slant crescent, slowly coming up. Does 
 she not seem like a bark of pearl, floating 
 on the deep, dark blue ocean. x\nd see, 
 while we speak, ten thousand stars are 
 bursting into brightness. There is my 
 natal Saturn — just where I point; how 
 wan he looks to-night ; oh, for a mental 
 
 telescope
 
 116 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 telescope to read the characters inscribed 
 on that dark speck!" He mused, and Cy- 
 prian observed with anguish the change 
 on his countenance, '' Observe," said he, 
 recovering himself, " in this deep silence 
 of the nighty the distinctness of the most 
 faint and distant sound. Listen to that 
 bell from the city ; I think I could tell 
 the very convent from which it sounds : 
 how solemn it swells on the air — it is n 
 death-bell/* 
 
 *^ Peace to the parting soul — oh, it 
 gazes on this scene with other eyes," said 
 Cyprian, crossing himself. 
 
 " Yes, in a moment, how changed its 
 views, its capacities, its range of existence 
 and motion," said Ippolito, ^'^ from the 
 dark, narrow bed of suffering, where all 
 of nature that was admitted, was the sickly 
 light that struggled with the watch-taper — 
 in a moment, to see with a spirit's bright 
 and boundless view, r.ll nature, with her 
 worlds and her systems, her laws, her 
 
 causes.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 117 
 
 causes, and her motions; yea, and the 
 mighty Mover himself! Oh, wonderful!" 
 
 " And thither shall we follow ; though 
 not now, we shall be there in a space, 
 w^hich to the duration of that v. orld, is as a 
 moment," said Cyprian, '' and be assured, 
 that these cool and healthful moments of 
 reposing thought, snatched from the fe- 
 vering turmoils of the world, will have an 
 effect that shal' not be unfelt or forgotten 
 there. There the best hours of our lives 
 are numbered and valued, and the best of 
 our hours, I believe, are passed amid the 
 stillness of nature, and the silence of 
 thought/'' 
 
 They descended, and returned to Na- 
 ples. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 118 FATAI, revenge; ORj 
 
 CHAP. VIL 
 
 The influence which in these conference^ 
 Cyprian had obtained over the mind ol 
 Ippolito, was singular and powerful. Th< 
 obscurity of his introduction^, the pecu- 
 liarity of his manners, gave even a hover- 
 ing shade of awe to impressions^ of which 
 the character had otherwise been faint 
 and fugitive. Not of a sex to inspire 
 love^ and still too female-like for the solid 
 feelings of manly friendship, Cyprian ho- 
 vered round his master, like his guardian 
 sylph, with the officiousness of unwearied 
 zeal, and the delight of communicated 
 purity. 
 
 On
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 119 
 
 On their return to Naples^ Cyprian ob- 
 served, that a length of time elapsed be- 
 fore Jppolito joined him, though they had 
 quitted the carnage together, and when 
 he did appear, that his aspect was strange 
 and altered. It wore an expression of 
 ghastly wonder. His lips were white, and 
 his eye vacant. He addressed abrupt in- 
 quiries to the servants, with the air of a 
 man who wishes to satisfy his curiosity, 
 without betraying the object of it ; but 
 from them he learned nothing. They 
 " had seen no shape,'' they " had heard 
 no sound," and Ippolito's inquiries seemed 
 suddenly checked by something more than 
 the difficulty of satisfying them. Shortly 
 after, Jppolito retired to dress for an as- 
 sembly, and Cyprian to his closet, where, 
 m his master's absence, he was constantly 
 employed in writing, and where (some 
 whom the prying habits of an Italian ser- 
 vant had induced to watch him, declaredj 
 that) he gave himself up to emotions so 
 
 ten-ible,
 
 120 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 terrible, they wondered so delicate a 
 frame could support them. 
 
 When Montorio returned, his valet was 
 summoned to attend him alone. His ca- 
 binet was contiguous to Cyprian's, who 
 obeying an impulse, which his concern for 
 his master justified to himself, listened at 
 a partition, in a state of solicitous feeling, 
 which the low, broken sounds, that issued 
 at intervals through it, irritated instead 
 
 of appeasing. At times, the words 
 
 " strange" — " fearful" — '' terrible" — and 
 every expression of painful wonder met 
 his ear. Some observation was then made 
 by the servant, of a tendency apparently 
 palliative or explanatory, to which Ip- 
 polito answered with solemnity : " Impos- 
 sible ; if I have life and sense 1 saw it — 
 three times to-night, distinct and terrible." 
 
 A sentence followed from the servant, 
 which, partly from the stretch of most 
 painful attenticr;, and partly from the 
 answer, Cyprian conjectured to be an 
 
 inquiry
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTaRIO. 12 1 
 
 inquiry about some form or shape. It 
 %vas followed by some imperfect answer 
 from Ippolito, but of which Cyprian could 
 not discover whether the imperfection 
 arose from the form being too obscure or 
 too horrible for description. 
 
 The conference ceased, and Cyprian 
 had scarce time to sit down to his papers, 
 which he turned over with shaking hands, 
 and a vacant eye, when Montorio entered 
 the room. He stalked about for some 
 time gloomily, then like one who wakens 
 slowly from an oppressive dream, he 
 gazed around him, and sighed heavily. 
 Cyprian, who wished to ascribe to himself 
 -the uneasiness that prevailed, lest he 
 should irritate a disturbed spirit, said 
 timidly, " I have been writing, since you 
 told me of the English poetry, and this 
 has been the cause of all tlti^ foolish em- 
 bari^assinent ; I was anxious and ashamed 
 to shew it to you." He held out a paper, 
 
 VOL. I. r, ' which
 
 12 J FATAL REVENCE; OR, 
 
 tvhich Ippolito took with a listless hand, 
 and while he read it, Cyprian watched his 
 ^countenance with an emotion, the fate of 
 his poetry did not excite. 
 
 The Lady and her Page. 
 I. 
 
 It was a sweet and gentle hour, 
 
 'Twas the night of a Summer day, 
 When a lady bright, on her palfrey white, 
 
 Paced across the moorland grey. 
 
 11. 
 
 And oft she checked her palfrey^s rein, 
 
 As if she heard footsteps behind, 
 ^Twas her heart of fear that deceived her car^ 
 
 And she heard but the passing wind. 
 
 III. 
 
 There trips a page, that lady beside, 
 
 To guide the silken rein. 
 And he holds up there, with duteous care, 
 
 Xier foot-cloths sweeping train. 
 
 IV.
 
 THE FAMILY OP MONTORIO. 123 
 
 IV. 
 
 And that page was a knight — who in menial plight, 
 
 For love of that stately dame, 
 Long served at her board, though a high-bom lord. 
 
 And a foe to her father's name. 
 
 V. 
 
 Across the haze, there streamed a pale blaze. 
 And the page's cheek blanched with fear ; 
 
 *' Oh, see, lady, see! — at the foot of yon tree, 
 The blue fire that bums so clear. 
 
 VI. 
 
 *' 'Tis the prince of the night, 'tis the elfin sprite, 
 
 With his ghostly revelry : 
 Sweet lady stand, with this cross in thine hand, 
 
 Or thou and I must die. 
 
 VII. 
 
 *' For as legends tell, an unseen spell « 
 
 Doth screen him from mortal wound. 
 
 Unless the steel be dipped in a well 
 That holy wall doth bound." 
 
 VIII. 
 Sad was her heart when she saw her page part, 
 
 And she feared she would see him no more, 
 For in secret long, her soul was wrung 
 
 With a love that ne'er trembled before. 
 
 G 2 IX.
 
 124? FATAL revenge; ORj 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oh! what is the sound seems to come from the 
 ground , 
 
 And now sweeps along on the air 
 
 She dared not to look, for with terror she shook, 
 
 And she tremblingly murmured a prayer. 
 
 X, 
 
 And o*cr the dun heath, a balmy breath 
 
 Stole like roses and violets sweet. 
 And the lavender blue, all dropping with dew, 
 
 Strewed the ground at that lady's feet. 
 
 XL 
 ** Fair maiden come, to our twilight home. 
 
 Where we'll sport so merrily ; 
 The glow-worm by night, shall lend us her light. 
 
 As we dance round the grey ash-tree. 
 
 XIL 
 
 " Or with unwet wings, we'll sport in the springs 
 
 That roll far beneath the sea ; 
 Or to the bright moon, we'll fly as soon 
 
 If my love thou wilt deign to be." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Askance she gazed — and her eye she raised — 
 
 A youth stood timidly nigh, 
 And of a truth, 'twas as lovely a youth 
 
 As ever met maiden's eye. XIV.
 
 niE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 125 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Ills tresses brown, that came mantling down, 
 
 Seemed his snowy neck to veil ; 
 And with chrysolite eyes, his wings' crimson dyes 
 
 Were starred like the peacock-tail. 
 
 XV. 
 His eye was bright, as the north-streamerb' light, 
 
 But his cheek was sad and pale ; 
 And the lines of care that were written there, 
 
 A spirit might read and wail. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But his sky-tinctured vest to his eye-lids was prest, 
 And his heart seemed bursting with woe, 
 
 And the white, white rose that wreathed his brows 
 Seemed pale and paler to grow. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ** I've watched thee late and early, 
 
 I've watched thee night and day, 
 IVe loved thee, lady, dearly. 
 
 With a lovG that can never decay. 
 
 XVIII. 
 '' I've heard thy sleeping sigh, lady, 
 
 I've heard thy waking prayer, 
 No mortal foot was nigh, lady, 
 But I was weeping there, 
 
 XIX.
 
 136 FATAL hevekge; or, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ** With an eye that no thought can deceive, lady, 
 I've seen love sweetly stealing on thee ; 
 
 I know that young bosom can heave, lady, 
 And shall it not heave for me." 
 
 XX. 
 
 The lady stood — and her unchilled blood 
 
 Gave her lip its warmest hue ; 
 But the cross to her breast, was fervidly prest 
 
 And still her heart was true. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 ** Yet rest thee here, oh ! lady dear, 
 
 And my minstrel spirits gay, 
 With harp and lute, and fairy flute 
 • Shall play thee a roundelay." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 All was hushed and still, on the elfin hill. 
 All was hushed in the evening vale, 
 
 Not a whisper was heard, not a footstep stirred, 
 Not an aspen-leaf shook in the gale. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Then soft and slow, a note of woe 
 
 Came far on the breathless air ; 
 Twas wild as the strain of the mermaid train, 
 
 When they're combing their yellow hair. 
 
 XXIV.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 12T 
 
 XXIV. 
 Twas wild as the dirge, that floats on the surge, 
 
 The mariner's lonely grave 
 
 All-whiic mortals sleep, they sing and they weep, 
 
 And they glide on the moon-light wave. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Then it rose rich and high, like the chaunt of joy, 
 That breathes round the hermit-bower ; 
 
 When cherubim bright leave their mansions of joy 
 To soothe his dying hour. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Oh ! how the heart beat of that lady sweet, 
 But her heart did not beat with fear. 
 
 The strain so wild, her senses had guiled, 
 And she loved though she trembled to hear. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But who is he that flics, with his soul in his eyes, 
 Wide waving a fauichion of steel ? 
 
 By the flush on her cheek, ere a word she could 
 speak, 
 A nursling babe might tell. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 (Twas an urchin-sprite, in the guise of her knight, 
 
 'Twas a wile of the elfin king. 
 And the vision so quaint, in form and in teint, 
 
 Her soul to her cheek did bring). 
 
 XXIX.
 
 1^8 FATAL REVENGE ; OR^ 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 ** Hushed, hushed, be your fear, for your true 
 knight is here, 
 
 With the brand that liis patron saint gave, 
 No eliin wight may dare its might, 
 
 For 'tis dipped in St. Angelo's wave. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 *' And the cowled friar, and convent quire, 
 
 Are waiting our nuptials to say ; 
 Haste, lady, haste, for the night's fading fast, 
 
 And the eastern cloud is grey. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 '* But give me the cross that's hid in thy breast, 
 
 And give me the' rosary too, 
 And Fl] lead thee o'er the perilous moor, 
 
 On the faith of a knight so true." 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 Oh, she gave up the cross that was hid in her breast,' 
 
 And she gave up the rosary too — 
 As he grasped them, he frowned, and he smote the 
 ground, 
 
 And out rushed the elfin crew. 
 
 XXXIIl. 
 
 And the goblin rout gave a maddening shout, 
 And danced lound them in many a wild ring, 
 
 And
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 129 
 
 And the slender waist of that lady chaste. 
 Was clasped by the elfin king. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 All loose was her hair, and her bosom was bare, 
 And his eye it glared fierce and bold, 
 
 And her wan lip he pressed, and her shuddering 
 breast, 
 And he grasped her locks of gold. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 But instant a blow made the caitiff forego 
 
 His gripe of that victim fair. 
 And deadly he groaned, as he shrunk from the 
 wound, 
 
 And phantom crew vanished in air. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 *' I've saved thee, my love, by help from above, 
 
 I've saved thee from mortal harms," 
 And no word she spoke, but she gave him a look. 
 
 And sunk in her frwe-knight's arms*. 
 
 This poem was communicated by a friend. 
 
 G 5 IppolitOj
 
 f30 FATAL revenge; ORj 
 
 Ippolito, though he perused these lines 
 with the apathy of one occupied by other 
 thoughts^ still seemed anxious to escape 
 from them, by tenaciously seeking em- 
 ployment. He snatched up the papers 
 that lay before Cyprian, and vehemently 
 began to peruse them. Cyprian, all agi- 
 tation, rose, and besought him to restore 
 them. — " They are not to be read/' — 
 " You increase my anxiety to examine a 
 composition that is written— «o/ to be 
 read,'' said Ippolito, with a languid smile, 
 *' They must not be read by you — to you 
 they can afford no pleasure ; they are a 
 simple tale of woman's love^ and we men 
 believe that women cannot love ; it is a 
 tale not to be told in an hour of levity, or 
 when an intercourse with the light, cold 
 characters of the world has hardened the 
 heart, and made it slow to believe, that 
 there ore beings, who only live to feel, 
 and who have died of feeling. Choose 
 somjp other hour, and bring with you 
 
 another
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 131 
 
 another heart. I shall make no demands 
 of outrageous sympathy, for I know that 
 the subject is removed too far from the 
 world's line and topic of feeling, to ex- 
 pect it. Nor do I think that real suffering 
 ever sought relief, but in the patience of 
 unanswering belief This is all 1 would 
 ask, but this I fear I would ask in vain at 
 such an hour from you." — " Cyprian,'* 
 said Montorio, touched by his words, '' the 
 frivolity in which you see me immersed, 
 is artificial and irksome ; I have a heart 
 capable of passion, but the object capa- 
 ble of inspiring it, I yet seek in vain. 
 It is but a little while since I entered 
 society, with feelings ardent in youth, 
 and exalted by hope — those feelings are 
 repelled, crushed, almost extinguished. 
 I submit to a pitiful compromise with 
 the depraved system of society; I trifle 
 with the triflersofthe day, and languish 
 even for the refreshing hope of imaginary 
 excellence. AR who are beautiful, I can 
 
 admire.
 
 132 
 
 ndmire; her only, who can love, can / 
 love.*' — He clasped his hands, and threw 
 up his dark, ardent eye to heaven, and 
 stood with the look and energy of inspi- 
 ration. — '' If such a being ever existed/* 
 said Cyprian, " there is her history." — 
 " And is she yet alive," said Ippolito, 
 '' and is she to be found ?" — " No ; she 
 lives no more, she has passed away, as 
 few have perished, without note, and 
 without remembrance. All that loves to 
 cling round the image and memoi*y of 
 ihe dead, has forsaken her; she perished 
 without a tear, without a memorial, with- 
 out a grave ! 
 
 " This is a narrative of thoughts, not of 
 circumstances — no ear heard, and no eye 
 saw her sufferings ; and never did the 
 subject of her sole thought enter into the 
 thought of another. It is necessary be- 
 fore 1 begin to read these fragments, to 
 mention to you, that the writer was 
 young in years and in sentiment ; the 
 
 very
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. ] 33 
 
 very child of simplicity and enthusiasm ; 
 an union not impossible in young minds. 
 She entered into the world, she was sur- 
 rounded, dazzled, and confused. But her 
 feelings expanded, as the eye becomes 
 accustomed to the glare of recent light. 
 In the tumult of new pleasures, she saw 
 an object, on whom she gazed with the 
 smile of new-born love ; it was her last, 
 last smile. — He was indifferent, because 
 he was unconscious ; she never told her 
 love, till its posthumous disclosure was 
 no longer a crime in a vestal. '^ 
 
 Ippolito prepared to listen, though it 
 was now late, for every object combined 
 to soften him to attention; the chaste and 
 mellowed light, the quiet apartment, 
 whose floating perfumes just stirred the 
 sense, the soothing pensiveness of Cyprian, 
 who concealed his face with his hand, and 
 who reads with the voice of one who 
 fears to trust his own emotions, as he 
 reads, — " The fii-st fragment," said he, 
 
 " describes
 
 134 ' FATAL REVENGE ; OR^ 
 
 '' describes her feelings on the sight of 
 this object," 
 
 April 1st. 
 
 It is midnight — all is silent around me — 
 not a breezC;, not a murmur, above, be- 
 low. And J, amid this stillness of nature, 
 how and what am I? — What is this feverish 
 tumult of mind and sense that contrasts 
 and deepens the silence around me ? Whom 
 have I seen? I know not; let me not 
 speak his name; I will not think who he 
 is ; I am most happy. My feelings dwell 
 in silence on their inward treasure. The 
 gladness within me is still and balmy, like 
 the morning-sun of a vernal day. There 
 is no being blest as I am this night, ex- 
 cept him ; he must be happy, he is so 
 
 beautiful. How is a 
 
 tumult so wild, a calm sa*deep, as I feel 
 to-night, reconcileable ? — My spirits are 
 agitated but my mind is still.* ..•..<... 
 
 Jprii
 
 THE FAMILY OP MONTORIO. 135 
 
 April 7th. 
 
 The costly dullness, the cold faces, the 
 heavy feasts of supercilious grandeur — 
 All are vanished — All that is tedious, has 
 ceased to be felt. What matters it where 
 I am, when he is with me every where ? 
 A single spell of thought, an unuttered 
 wish, a moving of tht mental \v^%y brings 
 him to my mind. There is a precious 
 store of pleasant thought which we love 
 to dwell on in solitude without commu- 
 nication, and w^ithout suspicion. This 
 with me, is the thought of him. 
 
 There comes to me amid crowds a men- 
 tal and inaudible whisper of his name. I 
 think of him, and happiness steals over 
 me like the silent perfum^e of evening; 
 like music trembling over a length of 
 moon-lit waters. 
 
 Jpril Ml, 
 
 For hours to-day have I sat, without 
 
 the consciousness of thought, yet without 
 
 vacancy ;
 
 136; FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 vacancy ; his image fills up the miHd as 
 if by fascination. Many passed me ; I 
 heard their steps, without feeling their 
 presence. — Is not tJiis like love 9 — Imposs- 
 ible; 2i vestal cannot love ; — no, my hap- 
 piness is unmixed with a lover's misery ; 
 no restlessness, no jealousy, no torture 
 of impossible hope, no anguish of disap- 
 pointment. — No ; I may indulge these 
 dreams without danger, and without fear ; . 
 for / cannot love; — It is not of his beauty 
 I think, 'tis of himself; yet I remember 
 well his heavenly form, his sunny cheek, 
 and the ringlets of his brown, brown hair; 
 yet I do not think of them; I need not; 
 they are before me for ever.- 
 
 April 9.(^th. 
 
 Whence is this new wish to mingle in 
 
 the world ? Can it be a wish to see him 
 
 again.? Why should I see him? — Those 
 
 who have watched the showery scintillation 
 
 of
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 1S7 
 
 of the meteor, and gazed upon the glo- 
 rious vision with uplift hands and eyes, 
 do not wait for its return ; why should I 
 waste away life in gazing ! I have no 
 other hope. What am I doing ? Where 
 have I wandered? hope and he — It is some- 
 times dangerous to think of danger. — 
 
 Jpril 30th. 
 
 I think too much of him; what I once 
 thought impossible, is certain; I think of 
 hitn too much. And must I lose that 
 cherished thought ; that charm, whose 
 silent agency opens a glimpse of mental 
 fairy land? Who would rob the poor her- 
 mit of his only treasure, the lovely face 
 of his Madonna, that only smiling face 
 he is ever permitted to see, and to which 
 he turns in the hour of solitude and va- 
 cancy, vrith devotion animated, not ex- 
 tinguished ? 
 
 Such I had hoped his image had been 
 to me in the vigils of the dark hour, in 
 
 the
 
 138 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 the loneliness of my cell — and must I 
 resign it ? 
 
 At this moment, several servants en- 
 tered, with each of whom Ippolito suc- 
 cessively whispered, and after listening 
 with much perturbation to their answei^, 
 he rushed from the palace, to which he did 
 not return till late the following evening. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 ^HE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 139 
 
 CHAP. VIII, 
 
 Gaudet imagine rcrum — 
 Rejoices in the pictured forms of past events. 
 
 The Castle di Muralto, the residence of 
 the Montorio family, was totally unlike 
 the modern mansions of the Italian nobi- 
 lity. Very few vestiges of Gothic archi- 
 tecture yet remain on the Continent in 
 a tenanted state. 
 
 The style of their paktes is marked by 
 elegance, lightness, and novelty. Their 
 polished structures are composed o(^ mar- 
 ble.
 
 140 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 ble, mingled with materials which are 
 reckoned precious in more northern climes; 
 they are beautified with all the orders and 
 ornaments of architecture, and present 
 images the most remote from gloom and 
 solemnity. The castle had been built in 
 the time of the Norman kings of Sicily ; it 
 possessed all the rude and massive cha- 
 racters of that age, darkened by the in- 
 juries of time, and the gloom of antiquity. 
 The ramparts, like piles of rock, the deep 
 length of windowless wall, the turretted 
 and embattled angles^ the narrow-arched 
 doors crested with the defaced arms of the 
 house and its alliances, some bearing 
 the pedestals, and some the remains of 
 the gigantic statues that once frowned 
 over them ; and whose huge fragments 
 obstructed the approach of those their 
 hoary grandeur invited to examine them ;: 
 all these seemed to realize the descriptions 
 of Gothic romance, and fill the mand 
 with melancholy awe, and wild solemnity. 
 
 It
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOltlO. 141 
 
 k Stood on an eminence of the rich Cam- 
 pagna, near the foot of the mountain; 
 and amid a country luxuriant v/ith culti- 
 vation^ and] sparkling with palaces, the 
 castle reared its scathed and warlike front; 
 seeming to enjoy a sullen repose from the 
 wounds of war and time, and to tell the 
 grandeur of those ages that beheld it in 
 its strength. Such was the castle, of 
 which it was necessary to tell thus much, 
 to give clearness to circumstances, which 
 would appear obscure and strange if re- 
 lated to have passed within the walls of a 
 modern palace. — A few days brought 
 another letter from Annibal. 
 
 1 had before apprized 
 
 Micheloofmy intention to visit the apart- 
 ments so long shut up. He had again 
 recourse to dissuasives; but contradictory 
 dissuasives defeat themselves, and I was 
 only confirmed in my pursuit, by his tell- 
 ing
 
 112 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 ing me at one time, it would lead to n« 
 discovery, and at another, that the dis- 
 coveries I should make, would prove a 
 source of lasting inquietude. I was vexeS^ 
 that the old man should thus treat me as 
 a child, who was only seeking to gratify 
 a childish propensity, and could be divert- 
 ed from it by childish arguments. 
 
 I entered on a vindication of my mo- 
 tives, and as the sudden flash of zeal often 
 discovers what was concealed from our- 
 selves, I involuntarily detected an earnest- 
 ness and solemnity in my purposes, of 
 which 1 had not hitherto been conscious. 
 I desired him to consider me not as gra- 
 tifying a vague and puerile impulse, 
 but as pursuing a definite object, of ob- 
 scure but real importance, and if real, 
 demanding all the zeal, the energy, and 
 the capacity of the most powerful mind. 
 
 " If my presages are just, Michelo, I 
 shall enjoy the highest honour allowed to 
 
 man^
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 143 
 
 man, that of confirming the evidence, and 
 fulfilling the purposes of divine interpo- 
 sition, and if they are not, 1 shall at least 
 relieve myself from doubts and fears that 
 are becoming intolerable; I shall probably 
 detect and punish fraud, and certainly 
 possess a resource against future imposi- 
 tion/* As I said this, I turned my eye 
 on Michelo, but his countenance was 
 unaltered. I have irdeed no reason to 
 suspect him, I now declared my inten- 
 tion to visit the apartments that evening, 
 and inquired whether he would be able to 
 procure their keys ? *' I have kept those 
 keys for m.any years, Signor; I enjoyed 
 in my youth extensive trust under your 
 uncle, and still there are some employ- 
 ments which my lord your father would 
 (iot willingly trust to othei*s, and which I 
 am therefore still permitted to discharge/' 
 Michelo, 1 find, is one who tortures his 
 hearers by perpetual allusions to secrets, 
 of which nothing more than the hints are 
 5 ever
 
 144 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 ever suffered to escape him ; who awak- 
 ens expectation to a painful state of sus- 
 pended existence, and leaves it there 
 gasping and unsatisfied; and this not so 
 much from malevolence^ or casual indis- 
 cretion detecting itself as from a perpe- 
 tual struggle between a mind pressed with 
 a burthen too great for its powers, (and 
 therefore anxious to relieve itself by com- 
 munication, ) and the monitions of con- 
 science, which tell it is not right, or of 
 fear, which whispers it is not safe to 
 disclose it. 
 
 I have therefore become accustomed 
 to his manner, and forborne to importune 
 him. In the dusk of the evening he pro- 
 mised to attend me. But by the beauty 
 of two succeeding evenings, my father 
 was induced to order ices and refresh- 
 ments to the pavillion of the fountain ; 
 we were obliged to attend him. There, 
 amid the indulgence of every wish, and 
 every sense ; music and fragrance, flowei-s 
 
 and
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 1 45 
 
 and feasting ; perspectives, through the 
 foliaged lattices, of luxuriant gardens, 
 warm with the brilliant amber of sun-set, 
 which played on the limits of the view, 
 in a quivering flood of indefinite bright- 
 ness : of waters and woods, among which 
 distant melody floated, breathing a low 
 and dying note, so sweet, it seemed 
 caught and echoed by the shells of listen- 
 ing spirits. Amid such scenes we sat in 
 sombrous state, the mute, sad libellers of 
 nature and enjoyment, more like statues 
 that decked the feast, than human beings, 
 partaking its pleasantness. 
 
 The third evening I awaited Michelo, 
 in my apartment, and he arrived at the 
 appointed hour. It was the dusky still- 
 f\ess of twilight; all was tranquil in the 
 castle, and the grey light that came paler 
 through the casements, seemed to pro- 
 mise quiet and obscurity. We passed 
 hastily through the vaulted cloisters that 
 lead to the lower stories of the tower; and 
 VOL. I. H then
 
 145 FATAL revenge; 0"R^ 
 
 then opening a door, that led to a long 
 passage/ we seemed to enter on a new 
 region of the castle. Here all signs of 
 life and habitation seemed to cease; the 
 walls appeared never to have enclosed a 
 human habitant. The very echoes had a 
 strange hollowness, as if they were for 
 the first time awakened by the tread of a 
 human foot. We reached another door, 
 which seemed intended never to open ; 
 Michelo applied one of several keys which 
 he now produced, and I was obliged to 
 assist him with my utmost strength be- 
 fore it yielded. 1 now discovered the 
 foot of a stair- case, which wound beyond 
 the sight, and on the ballustrade of which 
 Michelo paused to take breath. I as- 
 cended the stairs, they were dark and 
 narrow, and conducted us to a door which 
 required our united strength again, to 
 open. Michelo, who had exhausted his 
 in the effoit, feebly staggered onward 
 when it yielded, and sunk into a seat. 
 
 I followed^
 
 THE FAxMILY OF MONTORIO. 14T 
 
 I followed, gazing round me ; it was a 
 spacious apartment, apparently heaped 
 with faded furniture, but of which nothing 
 could be distinctly seen, for the light 
 that broke through the dismantled case- 
 ments, and torn tapestries of the windows, 
 could only discover its size. Michelo 
 falteringly withdrew the drapery that 
 obscured one of the windows. I now look- 
 ed around the apartment ; the decay 
 appeared to proceed more from neglect 
 than from age; Every thing was covered, 
 and almost consumed by dust: all the 
 furniture of a sumptuous chamber v/as 
 there. The bed stood under a canopy, 
 dark and defaced, but still retaining its 
 draperies, its pillare, and its plumage. 
 '' This was the bridal apartment of the 
 Count Orazio," said Michelo ; '' here the 
 Countess passed most of her melancholy 
 life; and here" — he turned av/ay. 
 
 I inquired why these apartments had been 
 
 shut up, aiid why the costly furniture, 
 
 n 2 that
 
 148 FATAL REVENGE ; OR^ 
 
 that might decorate the most modern 
 apartments, was here sufTered to decay 
 in obscurity. — '* They would perhaps 
 have revived painful recollections/' said 
 Michelo, falteringly ; " when my lord 
 therefore returned to his castle, I received 
 orders to remove hither the furniture of 
 those gay apartments, and then to close 
 these doors for e'cer ; an order which I la- 
 ment I have been tempted to infringe." 
 Again filled with wonder, which the cir- 
 cumstances of the place, and these dark 
 suggestions inspired, I renewed my im- 
 portunities to Michelo, to finish the tale 
 he had begun in the turret-chamber. 
 
 He heard me with increasing anguish of 
 perplexity, but with unyielding resolution. 
 His eye wandered round the apartment, 
 as if he dreaded that even the broken and 
 tinmeaning words he uttered were over- 
 heard; ''^ I cannot, I dare not, you know not 
 how I am straitened; "{ he wrung his hands, 
 and whispered in the struggling tones of 
 
 misery)
 
 THE FAMILY OF .MONTOIUO. 149 
 
 misery) " a strong arm is stretched out 
 upon me; it deals with me darkly, but 
 feelingly; no, I cannot, I dare not." An 
 impulse of inquiry struck me that moment, 
 which I indulged, though I could not 
 account for. — " Michelo, is this myste- 
 rious silence, connected in its cause, or 
 its object, with the confessor Schemoli.*' 
 I shall never forget the look which he 
 assumed at this question; his counte- 
 nance expressed the most exquisite pain, 
 as if for danger 1 had incurred by the 
 question, while rising on his feeble feet, 
 and pressing his whole hand on his lips, 
 he conveyed in the strongest manner by 
 his attitude the dread of being overheard, 
 though w^here we were it w^as impossible 
 for human listeners to penetrate. — I was 
 so confounded by his aspect, that I for- 
 bore to renew my question, and a long 
 pause followed. — " Do you wish to see 
 the other apartments Signor,'* .said he; 
 I followed him with that sullen silence, 
 
 with
 
 150 FATAL KEVENGE ; OR^ 
 
 with which we comply with the proposal 
 of one wiio has recently disappointed us_, 
 and from whom we wish in our spleen, 
 to conceal that the remainder of his in- 
 formation has interested us. — We entered 
 the other apartment — when I write these 
 w^ords, I pause in thought; I recollect 
 how important in the account of life/ 
 that moment will be : and I wonder that 
 even unconsciously 1 approached it with 
 so little emotion. This apartment was 
 like the other, dark and decayed. The 
 light that streamed through dim disco- 
 loured windows, the last faint ray of 
 evening, accorded well with the objects 
 it disclosed. The silent mouldering of 
 decay, the dusky stillness of desolation, 
 and the old pensioner of memory, point- 
 ing with withered hand, to the images 
 that supplied her morbid and melancholy 
 pleasures. 
 
 He proceeded to display the pictures : 
 the first was that of the Count Orazio. 
 
 I think
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOEIO. i.Ol 
 
 I diink the painter to whom he sat, must 
 have trembled to raise his eye to him ; he 
 must have felt as the prophet did, when 
 he beheld steadfastly the countenance 
 of Hazael, and foretold the sufferings of 
 his country. It was one of those faces 
 which tells the character at a look ; the 
 bold, thoughtful front, the dark brows 
 that almost met, the strong curve, and 
 prominent lines of the nose, the proud 
 curl of the upper lip, of which even the 
 smile seemed to hold alliance with con- 
 tempt, the wch, dark, sanguine complex- 
 ion, which seems to be the shade the 
 stronger passions love. From such a cha- 
 racter I would expect the fiercest bursts 
 of passion; the proudest sternness of 
 heroism ; soarings of super-human virtue, 
 or sallies of outrageous dcpraviry ; the 
 impassive brightness of an angel, or the 
 potent and glaring malignity of a fiend. 
 
 Michelo supported this picUire with an 
 averted ey^, and as he replaced it, shook 
 
 in
 
 152 VATAL revenge; os^ 
 
 in every limb — *' And this/' said he. dis~ 
 playing another, '' is the portrait of the 
 Countess Erminia ; vv'hen I look on that 
 picture, twenty years seem to pass away, 
 and I feel as I did when I first saw her; 
 such she was, with that gay air of care- 
 less loveliness; yet even then there were 
 some who spoke of a melancholy, a de- 
 jection, that they said was discoverable 
 ihrough all her beauty and splendour. 
 I could not see it, she was so lovely, 
 that to me, she ever appeared to smile/' 
 He continued to speak, 1 believe; I heard 
 him not ; yet the murmur of his praise 
 dwelt on my ear, as something that ac- 
 corded with my own feelings, and that 
 was pleasant, though not distinct to me. 
 I remained in the mute trance of admi- 
 ration ; I knelt without a breath, without 
 a sound, almost without a thought before 
 that picture. It was the first time I had 
 ever beheld beauty, ever knew what was 
 love : I will not call beauty, that assem- 
 blage
 
 THE FAMILY OP MONTORIO. 153. 
 
 blage of colours, to ^vhich the cold eye 
 of judgment gives the praise of harmony, 
 and quits it; — no; — it is the communica- 
 tion of unknown pleasure; it is the dis- 
 covery of that unexplored chord of mind, 
 which is touched for the first time by the 
 hand of harmony: it is the realizing those 
 forms which float in the morning*s dream, 
 in the musings of twilight : it is the pic- 
 ture of Erminia. In a space which appears 
 as a moment, I had experienced every 
 emotion that accompanies the varied cha- 
 racter of passion ; the delicious anguish, 
 the painful joy, the fear sweeter than hope, 
 the hope sweeter than enjoyment ; the 
 visionary existence, the pictured dream 
 of thought, the high and super-human 
 tone which this passion alone gives to 
 the feelings and the character; in a moment 
 1 had lived the whole life of a lover; it 
 was no longer a picture before which I 
 knelt, I was convinced the original yet 
 existed. It seemed to me more |)robable 
 II 5 that
 
 154 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 that the sun should be blotted from heaven^ 
 than that such a being should be permitted 
 to quit existence, w^ithout trace, and with- 
 out resemblance. There was a reality in 
 my feelings, a fixed persuasion of her 
 certain existence, which I know not what 
 to ascribe to, except the living loveliness 
 of that form. Bi'ows that thought; eyes 
 that spoke; lips that smiled; smiled mu- 
 tably with living and sensible change ; 
 hair, of which lest I should disturb the 
 gauzy waving, I held my breath as I 
 gazed. She stood as in her days of early 
 happiness ; the scene and attitude were 
 sylvan ; a fawn was flying from her, to 
 whom she held out her hand ; mine was 
 extended too. — And her hair; — it is that 
 da k brown^ whose deepening waves, and 
 tendril ringlets, have a sunny and bur- 
 nished brightness^ that resembles the 
 foliage of a bower, tinged with the rich 
 varieties of autumnal light : — but oh, to 
 play with those ringlets, to look in those 
 
 living
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 155 
 
 living eyes, to kiss that breathing neck— 
 You think me mad — I mav be so — was I 
 so, when kneeling and attesting the lovely- 
 form itself, I vowed to pursue the ori- 
 ginal through the world; — to preserve my 
 affections for her with vestal-sacredness ; 
 to make life a long pilgrimage of love; 
 and never to know peace of mind or body^ 
 till I discovered and possessed her. 
 
 Whatever may be thought of such a 
 resolution, I at least experienced from it, 
 what I expected; — it composed my mind; 
 it exalted and gratified my feelings; from 
 its bold impracticability, I actually deri- 
 ved an inviting omen. It seemed worthy 
 of the dignity of my passion; it seemed 
 to promise that no diihculties should ob- 
 struct that pursuit, which had set out by 
 daring all. 
 
 The light was now declining fast; an hour 
 had elapsed since I entered the cabinet ; 
 my original purpose had been utterly for- 
 gotten; but another resource was suggest- 
 l ed
 
 } 5G FATAL r.EVENGE; OR, 
 
 cd to me^, as I was quitting it, and the 
 thought made me bless my happy facility in 
 designing. I took out my tablets, and be- 
 fore the beam that seemed to linger on her 
 countenance, like my own gaze, had died 
 away, I sketched a likeness with such fide- 
 lity as convinced me the original inventor 
 of painting, was love. I continued to com- 
 pare it with the original, by a light which 
 none but the quickened eye of passion 
 could have distinguished any thing by; 
 and the sketch so perfect at first, seemed 
 to want a million of touches, when held 
 to the picture. I continued to add them, 
 rather with the pleasure, than the Jwpe of 
 amendment. — But Michelo, terrified at my 
 delay, supplicated me so earnestly, not 
 to expose us to the danger of discovery, 
 that reluctantly, at length, I quitted the 
 apartment. It w^as late when I regained 
 my own, which I did however in safety, 
 2nd obscurity When I was seated at my 
 lamp, I reflected (and you probably have 
 5 anticipated
 
 THE FAMILY OF MOKTORIO. 157 
 
 anticipated me) on the views with which 
 my pursuit had commenced, and the visi- 
 onary indulgence by which I had suffered 
 them to be suspended. The being who 
 goes forth in the doubtful confidence of 
 a supernal summons, and the shadowy 
 dignity of an agent of heaven ; armed 
 with all the powers of his nature, and 
 dreading a demand for more than all ; and 
 who, when arrived, employs the hour of 
 his trial in kneeling before a picture, and 
 pouring out passion to an insensible repre- 
 sentative of the dead L certainly presents 
 no very consistent inK^e of human reso- 
 lution. While occupied in these sage 
 thoughts^ my eyes glanced on the picture 
 in my hand, and I forgaxe myself. — The 
 remainder of the night was passed not in 
 self-reproach, and resolutions of future 
 fortitude, but in finishing and cclourincj 
 it. 1 now mix with the familv, with the 
 picture of Erminia in my bosom, and 
 feel, like one who has found a treasure, 
 
 which
 
 158 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 which he smiles to think those around him. 
 are ignorant of; like one who carries 
 about him an invisible talisman against 
 care and pain, against the apathy of 
 unawakened feeling, and the vacancy of 
 an unemployed life. 
 
 CHAR
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 159 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 Set] mihi rel tellus optera prius, ima dehiscat, 
 
 Vtl pater omnipotens adi^^at me fulmine ad umbras,— 
 
 Ante pudor quam te violo> aut tua jura resolvo. 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 But oh { may earth her dreadful gulph display. 
 And, gaping, snatch me from the golden day; 
 May I be hurl'd by^ heaven's almighty sire. 
 Transfixed in thunder, and involved in fire, 
 Down to the shades of hell, from realms of light— 
 Ere, sacred honour ! I betray thy cause 
 In word, or thought, or violate thy laws, 
 
 Pitt. 
 
 In this letter, romantic as it was, Ippolito 
 discovered strong traces of real passton, 
 such as exists under the most unexpected 
 circumstances, and contends for its ex- 
 istence
 
 l60 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 istence with difficulties which any other 
 passion would decline as impracticable. 
 But for light subjects of thought^, he had 
 now no leisure, and no wish. One object^, 
 dark and bewildering, filled all his thoughts. 
 Since the night he had betrayed so much 
 agitation on his return from an excur- 
 tion with Cyprian, he had never recovered 
 his tranquillity. He appeared either in 
 contemplation, or in strong mental de- 
 bate ; perplexity and fear were in all his 
 movements, and these had become so 
 irregular, as to suggest he was engaged 
 in no ordinary pursuit. The day he 
 usually passed alone ; about midnight 
 he quitted the palace, and passed the 
 remainder of the night, xvhere no one 
 followed, and none could conjecture. At 
 this change, his gayer acquaintance laugh- 
 ed, his friends wondered, and Cyprian 
 wept. But silence and wonder were all 
 the resources they had; his silence re- 
 mained impenetrable. Sometimes he 
 
 mingled
 
 THE l-'xVMILY OF MONTORIO. 161 
 
 mingled in society, and laughed and 
 fluttered with the eager gaiety of one 
 who is resolved to snatch a respite from 
 pain : — but however pleased, or pleasing 
 others, the clock striking twelve, dissolv- 
 ed the spell. Beyond that hour neither 
 pleasure nor importunity could procure 
 his stay. He rose abruptly^, dismissed his 
 servants, nor was visible till the morning, 
 when he returned alone and slowly 
 through the Strada di Toledo. Some- 
 times, he admitted Cyprian^ and listened 
 to a continuation of the fragments^ be- 
 cause he was not interrupted by demands 
 for comment or approbation ; w^hile Cy- 
 prian, ignorant of any thing that held 
 alliance with art, read simply on, hoping 
 that attention was included in silence, 
 or even when he discovered negligence^, 
 compromising for the pleasure of being 
 admitted into the presence of Ippolito. 
 
 May ItJu
 
 162 FATAL revenge; on^ 
 
 May ItTu 
 This perpetual struggle is worse than 
 either alternative. — To do all I dread' 
 to do: — to see him again, were only the 
 guilt of a moment; would it not "be better 
 than to waste life in this misery of un- 
 certain debate, which neither possesses^ 
 the resolution of innocence, nor the en- 
 joyments of guilt: — what if I see him no 
 more— But why not see him, ever present 
 as he is to my thoughts ; — is he not per- 
 haps more seductive, more fatally lovely, 
 to the eyes of imagination, than of sense ^ 
 Yes, I will see him, I will gaze on him, I 
 will discover how unlike the object of my 
 thought, the image of this dream he is;^ 
 and then I shall cease to think of him. 
 
 Mai/ 16th. 
 I have again seen him ; — I am yet breath- 
 less; — I cannot yet look into my mind; 
 yet let me think — yes, I have thought 
 enough now for life. I shall think my 
 
 live-long
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 163 
 
 live-long convent hours away. — Oh, he 
 is gloriously beautiful. What thoughts 
 hover around his image; like music 
 streaming before the approach of aerial 
 visitant ; like the clouds of amber and 
 rose that invest and mingle with the form 
 of some fine creature of the elements. In 
 such a gay blaze of mental brightness he 
 burst upon me. — When the tints of the 
 evening gathered round the group on the 
 Corso, I hoped, I dared to hope, he 
 might pass — in the obscurity he might 
 pass without seeing me — my sigh would 
 be unheard, my burning cheek w^ould 
 only be felt by me — I might see him, I 
 might even touch him as he passed. 
 Among a group near nie, I saw a plume 
 that overtopped the rest — it advanced — oh 
 the tremulous pant, the suffocating swell 
 of expectation ; — ^I could not believe it 
 for very excess of jov — he approached ; I 
 saw him not, nor heard him; it was all 
 mist and darkness with me then; hut I 
 
 felt--
 
 164 FATAL REVENGE ; OR^ 
 
 felt — it was he; and I ^^\\ he was gone, 
 liis departing was like the dying away of 
 a scented gale; rich, languid, overpower- 
 ing; from that moment there was a deli- 
 cious sickness in the air ; there was a soft 
 oppression at my heart; I could not speak, 
 and had any one spoken to me, I feel I 
 must have answered v/ith my tears. All 
 night have I sat, repeating to myself at 
 long intervals, ''\ have seen him." — Morn- 
 ing is now dawning through my chamber, 
 yet still is evening and the Corso with 
 me. 
 
 May mth. 
 Can I remain in this state of dotage ? 
 Yet dare 1 look into my heart, he is food 
 and rest to me ; — yet I say I do not love ; 
 he is thought, and dream, and vision to 
 me; — yet I say I do not love; my prayers 
 are offered to him; — yet 1 do not love. 
 Oh, whither shall I turn ? I am sore beset. 
 Let me fall into the hands of him whom 
 
 I
 
 THE FAMILY OF MOMoilIO. 165 
 
 I have offended; rather than that heart 
 which has betrayed and destroyed me. 
 What shall I say '' I have sinned?" Must 
 it, must it then be a sin to love? 
 
 May 27th. 
 And this was love; darkly I floated on; 
 I never felt the tide; but when the light 
 breaks, I am on the ocean waste ; alone, 
 frozen, aghast. — Had I heard of a tale 
 like this in my days of innocence, how 
 had I condemned the self-deluding, self- 
 betrayed wretch ? Oh ye, who boast of 
 virtue yet untried, who defy temptations 
 that mercy yet has spared you ! I was 
 once pure like you; like you I was proud. 
 But I have strayed from the fold, I have 
 wandered in the wilderness. The servant 
 of the Lord hath forsaken her first love, 
 the guide of her youth, and gone after 
 strangers. 
 
 June 3d. 
 It is neither light nor darkness with me 
 
 now;
 
 16(5 FATAL revenge; or^ 
 
 now ; I am in a mixed and twilight state, 
 would I could sleep. Oh, for a deep, still 
 dumber such a> I slept, when 1 dreamt 
 I did not love; and oh for such dreams 
 that lit that slumber — for those bright 
 bursts of vision, that had drank the 
 meteor's lisrht, and were the forms of 
 heaven. — They are gone 
 
 They talk of going to Rome : let them 
 carry me where they will : whence is thi 
 passiveness? — He has quitted Naples — I 
 smite my breast, but my heart continues 
 to beat there still. 
 
 July 7 th. 
 
 What have a few, a very few months 
 made of me ! Oh, heaven ! I was so happy, 
 it was a sin to make me miserable. 1 was 
 absorbed in divine things, dead, though 
 in the world, to the things of the world ; 
 alive only ta the objects of that where I 
 
 believed
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 167 
 
 believed my heart and treasure were. 
 Mine were the pure pleasures, the hallow- 
 ed hopes, the calm, corrected mind; a 
 light that flowed from heaven shed a glad 
 and quiet brightness around me, and I 
 rejoiced to walk in that light. The morn- 
 ing awoke me to prayer; at night I paus- 
 ed upon the blameless day, and sunk to 
 sleep in prayer. I reckoned that every 
 day should be like the last, as free from 
 guilt, as far from pain; that ^ should 
 float on their equal motion, as on the 
 wings of a cherubim, to that place of 
 which I believed my enjoyment certain 
 and near. Is it so short a space ? And am 
 I so already lost ? Am I already this 
 feverish, distracted, gifi^^i/ being, who 
 ventures every day a more daring length 
 in indulgence, a length she would have 
 trembled at the preceding one, and while 
 she measures with miserable and reverted 
 eye, the distance she has strayed from tbe 
 path of peace, feels also that it has brought 
 
 no
 
 1G8 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 no nearer the object for which she has 
 wandered till she has lost herself? 
 
 ****** 
 
 July 15th. 
 It came to me cherub-smiling; it rose 
 on me like the morning with her hundred 
 hues and shapes of brightness; joy, and 
 beauty, and splendour, all that is gay 
 and rich in life, all that can seduce the 
 senses and the heart, danced around it in 
 fairy-vision. I looked, and listened, and 
 was destroyed ; and this was love. In the 
 smiles of its birth, in the cherub-dawn of 
 voung passion, who thought of groans 
 and anguish ? — Yet let me acquit heaven; 
 from the first I trembled and I feared ; I 
 touched the cup with a faltering lip ;— 
 but oh the sweet, sweet draught. • 
 
 Juli/ '27th. 
 And I took no warning from my dis- 
 tracted devotions; from my long volup- 
 tuous day-dreams; from my coldness to 
 
 better
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 169 
 
 better thoughts. Oh I if these sufferings 
 would make me hate their cause. If these 
 anguished and consuming hours could 
 make me impatient or resisting, there 
 might be hope; but, oh! not tears flow- 
 ing for ages, could w^ash away the cha- 
 racters his first and single sight wrote on 
 my heart. 
 
 Day and night my mind seems to hang 
 over that with silent and helpless contem- 
 plation. Nothing rouses me, except to 
 an impatience of disturbance. Guilty I 
 cling to it. Miserable I cling to it. Self- 
 condemned I cling to it. I have sunk 
 into a dull and lethargic passiveness^ and 
 the reproaches of conscience sound like 
 the storm in the ear of sheltered dotage, 
 vexing his deafness^ but not disturbing 
 his sluggish comforts. 
 
 lull/ 21. 
 I pray — while a lurking hope tells me 
 :iy prayers will not avail ; I vary their 
 ^oi. I. I form;
 
 IZQ FATAL REViJNGE; OR^ 
 
 form ; I seem to redouble my earnestness, 
 while something dares to whisper me, I 
 would recal them, did I fear they would 
 be granted. 
 
 I determined on some occupation for 
 the day, to hide from myself how it is 
 always occupied ; and while I think I am 
 engaged, a consciousness that to think of 
 Iu7?i will be its only employment, seems 
 to mock at my eiforts, and I feel it with- 
 out emotion — without a wish to resist, or 
 a fear to yield. Resolutions formed with 
 a consciousness they will not be kept — 
 the purposes of life maintaining a faint 
 war with its employments. Tears, stifled 
 by indulgences, from which their feeble 
 remonstrances take away pleasure, while 
 they leave the guilt ; and prayers contra- 
 -dicted at the moment they are offered up, 
 by the whispers of a rebel heart. 
 
 JSuch am I become! — object of fatal 
 passion — come and see what you have 
 made me?— -No. — Come not to see me 
 
 rejoice
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 171 
 
 rejoice in my guilt — come not to cast 
 away compassion on sufferings whose enu- 
 meration only gives me a strange ^ud 
 dreadful delight. 
 
 Ju/i/ 23. 
 
 'Tis in vain — I resist no longer — I can- 
 not live, and not be this being — or to 
 cease to be ffuiltv, I must cease to be — 
 Nor dare I wish that ; nor do I wish it — 
 This misery is but too precious to me — 
 all that I have ever tasted of pleasure 
 should not purchase from me^ love's 
 lonely, bitter, midnight tear. And dare 
 I call this suffering ? Oh, no. — No, no. 
 His smile; his wicked, witching smile, 
 upbraids me when I do. 
 
 His eye is on me, it seems to ask me. 
 Do I complain? — Strange and wondrous 
 being, what hast thou done with me? — 
 His image comes to my soul like the 
 moon in the night of storms. Amid the 
 dark masses— -amid the billowy ridges — 
 I % amid
 
 172 FATAL Revenge; or, 
 
 amid the mixed and angry streaks — she 
 bursts in brief and rejoicing splendour, 
 and gilding tlieir thwarted and fighting 
 forms with beauty, while the vexed tra- 
 veller looks up and blesses the sight for a 
 moment. 
 
 July 25. 
 And is it a crime to love ? — ■ — Have I 
 changed the passion, or the name ? — In 
 my childhood, I loved the light of the 
 setting sun — the gush of the twilight 
 breeze — the pale and wandering moon — 
 glossing with her light the fleecy fretwork 
 of a summer sky. I said I loved them, 
 can I not love him, as I loved them— with 
 sinless, placid, untroubled love ! Is he 
 not the work of the same hand: were 
 they not both formed to be loved ? Is it 
 my curse, that I must mingle guilt with 
 the feelings which all others indulge in 
 innocence ? Can I not think of him as of 
 them — bright, beautiful, distant, impass- 
 able ?
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 173 
 
 able ? Can 1 not sit and gaze life away, 
 
 without a wish to soar upwards ? No, 
 
 no. These words fall from my pen, they 
 come not from the heart. 
 
 The wild and lawless thought, the wish 
 of the dream, I dare not tell myself of, 
 teach me a vestal cannot love a human 
 being, as she loved a moon-beam in her 
 childhood. 
 
 Juhj 26. 
 There are a thousand ebbs and flows of 
 feeling, known only to the mind that loves; 
 but Vrhich make me tremble every mo- 
 ment, lest my perturbation should discover 
 them to others. His name I hear without 
 emotion, when any other member of his 
 family is mentioned by it — but when ap- 
 plied to him, when he is talked of by the 
 most careless speaker, my frame thrills, 
 my eyes grow misty, ruined as I am, my 
 mind smiles with a sad and guilty joy at 
 
 that name 
 
 His
 
 174 FATAL HE VENGE ; OlR, 
 
 His name I scarce ever dare pronounce, 
 my throat swells when I would breathe it; 
 but how I delight to hear it uttered, and 
 how many wretched pretexts of subtlety I 
 employ, to introciiice a conversation that 
 will involve the mentioa of him; and 
 when it succeeds, and when his name is 
 mentioned, do they not see how I pause, 
 and how I tremble ! Alas, what if they 
 do ? Am I not beheld by an eye, to 
 shrink from which, the detection of a 
 world would be well exchanged ?. . . . 
 
 My sufferings are very great ; 
 
 who but me has known misery without 
 relief; who but me has known despair 
 Vv'ithout hope: we deceive ourselves with 
 sound- : when we talk of despair, we 
 mean not, that relief is impossible, but 
 
 that relief is distant or doubtful. 
 
 But whither shall 1 turn — is there one 
 speck in my horizon ? No, no, no, Dai'k 
 and deserted, I wade through floods of de- 
 speration. I struggle without vigour. I 
 
 rise
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 175 
 
 rise without consolation. I sink without 
 hope. In those hours of intolerable an- 
 guish, when the mind, wearied with suf- 
 fering, and stung to frantic energy, is 
 driven, like the importunate widow^ to 
 knock loud and eager at the door of hope. 
 In those hours, 1 have said to myself — who 
 or what shall aid me ? Shew me difficul- 
 ties to be overcom.e — shew me sufferings 
 to be endured. Give me to contend with 
 all earthly and possible things ; and I will 
 do it. What will I not do ? But I am as 
 dust in the whirlwind. I am as a leaf in 
 the torrent, that has swept away the forest. 
 The force and current of things bear me 
 along. To please me^ the order of na- 
 ture must be inverted. The Deity must 
 change. The woman must seek the man> 
 and be accepted. The vestal must be per- 
 jured w^ith impunity, therefore I turn to 
 hope, I turn to time, I turn to space : I 
 turn to self, (for to self, endless in re- 
 source, and exhaustless in consolation, we 
 
 turn
 
 i7G FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 turn and cling last), and all is despai?'. — 
 But shall I dare to say so ? I have made 
 my purchase — yes — I have sold my soul 
 for a sniilc' — I am betrayed with a kiss.— 
 Oh! my love, my love — hast thou not 
 asked too much. Oh ! look not on me 
 with that smile of innocent loveliness — 
 Glance not on me that fatal, fatal eye — 
 Move not before me, with that witching 
 form. Do not, or I shall think all, all too 
 little. But surely thou hast asked much, 
 my love • • • • 
 
 Juiy 27. 
 
 Of the moon — I sometimes think he 
 gazes on it when I gaze, and then a gush 
 of tearful pleasure fills my eye, and I 
 wipe it away to catch the moment of 
 simultaneous gazing. Of the breeze — I 
 guess it is cooling him, and then I spread 
 my parched and pallid cheek to it, to taste 
 pleasure with him. 
 
 But my supreme delight is to breathe 
 
 his
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 177 
 
 his name to the ear of midnight, with 
 ideot stealth; in the deep and silent hour, 
 when the night-vapour, fine as an infant's 
 breath, stands in the air — when the leaf of 
 the poplar and the aspen is unmoved — 
 when there is a hissing in the ear for very 
 stillness — then I love to lean from my 
 casement, and utter his name — once and 
 softly : then swift, and bright, and throng- 
 ing myriads of images, float in glittering 
 play around me. 
 
 Then the early morn, the tepid glow, 
 the vernal birth of cherub-passion, rushes 
 on me. The first meeting — the rapturous 
 flutter of young alarm — the expansion of 
 a new sense — the opening burst of a 
 world of pleasure. These are with me — 
 his name makes them present. I am ab- 
 sorbed in them, I rush on with their un- 
 conscious flow. Some image of new and 
 daring indulgence arrests me — I start, I 
 recoil — but I only recoil to see I have 
 gone so far. Tis less impossible to go 
 I 5 too
 
 178 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 too far, than to return. I hesitate — I am 
 lost • • • • when I recover, I am weeping : 
 thinking I ought to shed the tear of peni- 
 tence, and feeling it is only the tear of 
 passion. 
 
 Juhf W. 
 
 And is it a crime to love ?— I cannot 
 unite the thoughts of guilt and him — 
 when I bend over my mind — when his 
 image smiles on me — when the gush of 
 early pleasure fills nty heart — I am no 
 longer guihy — I am no more wretched-— 
 I am only the happy visionary, who has 
 gtven up life for a dream of joy. 
 
 Yet, sometimes, I am sorely smitten 
 with fear and perplexity. Sometimes I 
 would give worlds ^o know if I am thus 
 utterly lost — if there is no hope for one 
 who has dared to love. I have leant from 
 my window in the anguish of my solici- 
 tude — I have gazed on the stars walking 
 in their brightness — I have asked them. 
 
 Is
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 279 
 
 Is there any hope ? I determined to de- 
 cide it by the first I should see fall to the 
 right — and I dared to dream, that he who 
 regulates the sparrow's flight;, might direct 
 the fall of the meteor for good to his wait- 
 ing, trembling creature. I lingered, and- 
 there fell one to the right — and then — 'I 
 felt it gave no ease to me^ 
 
 Returning^ through the portico this 
 evening, I met a dbg, who looked wist- 
 fully at me — the mute, melancholy eye 
 caught me — I attempted to go — he con- 
 tinued to gaze on me — In the importunity 
 of my misery, I said — art thou a spirit — 
 
 and hast thou a power to serve me? 1 
 
 tore myself away in time to save my reason. 
 
 ^* And was there such sensibility,'* said 
 Ippolito, bursting out; '' and was it suf- 
 fered to pine to death ? Was there such 
 a heart ? And was it permitted to break ?~ 
 0h thou lorn and lovely trembler ! had I 
 hcen the object of thy affections^ strong 
 and gentle as they were, how would I 
 
 have
 
 180 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 have sought, how I would have soothed 
 thee, how would I have kissed away the 
 precious, precious tears, and looked in 
 thy timid eye for the first beam of restor- 
 ed hope ?" — " These are but sounds of 
 softness," said Cyprian ; *' alas, what 
 could you have done for one whom na- 
 ture and society condemned." — '' Nature," 
 said Ippolito, '' is no enemy to love ; and 
 for society, I would have borne her in my 
 arms through the world, while one re- 
 mained for me ; I would have resisted 
 every person that opposed ; I would have 
 fought with every man who dared to as- 
 perse her ; I would have borne her to 
 some quiet retreat, hallowed by solitude 
 and love; for her I would have despised 
 and relinquished a world that could nei- 
 ther understand nor taste such enjoyments 
 as ours ; and in the breathing pause of 
 quiet delight, smiling I would have asked 
 her, had love no counterbalance for his 
 pains?" ^' Dreadful, delicious, maddening 
 
 sounds,"
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 181 
 
 sounds/' murmured Cyprian ; " they had 
 undone her; blessed be the saints she 
 heard them not ; shame was not added 
 to her sufferings; she died by draughts 
 of slow and cruel poison; but not the 
 maddening cup of feverish impurity : of 
 love she died, but pure and penitent. 
 Had she heard such sounds, even dying 
 she would have felt the racking wish ; 
 the luxurious tumult; the groan of death 
 had been mixed with the sigh of desire; 
 you could not have kept the sinner on 
 earth ; and you would have rent a peni- 
 tent from heaven. But no, no, no ; she 
 slumbers in the dark bed ; she cannot 
 hear those sounds, her ear is as dull as 
 the dead." — '' Boy,'' said Ippolito, " it 
 would have saved us both; she had not 
 died -of disappointed passion, and I had 
 been spared many a dark and feverish 
 hour. — But I wander; I was not the 
 object of the passion you describe."— 
 *' You^ and you alone;" said Cyprian, 
 
 with
 
 18S FAfAL revenge; or, 
 
 with a burst of feeling — ''You she lo\'^d; 
 and by you was she destroyed. For you* 
 she tempted the dangers of guilty plea^ 
 sure; for you she dared to wish, to hope, 
 to madden ; for you she trembled, she 
 sorrowed, and she wept; will you believe, 
 she loved, Montorio, she died for you/' 
 *' For me — for me," exclaimed Ippolito; 
 while his frame quivered, and a glow of 
 lovely shame suffused his cheeks and' 
 forehead ; " why then did she not live 
 for me ? Gyprian> you only mock my 
 vanity. '* — '' No,'" said Cyprian, who had' 
 risen, and whose whole form mantled; 
 and was buoyed up with sudden anima- 
 tion, — " no^ I deceive you not; her spirit' 
 hovers near us, to attest the truths to wit- 
 ness the avowal. Hear me, Montorio, would 
 you have loved her.?" — "You but mockmy 
 credulity;*' said Ippolito, smiling; — "No, 
 by her presence, by her near presence, 
 which I feel this moment, I mock not. An- 
 swer my question, could you have loved her, 
 
 Montorio.^*'
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORlO. 183 
 
 Montorio?" — *' Could I >'* replied Ippo- 
 lito, darting his eye to heaven, " if her 
 spirit be indeed present^ it is satisfied 
 with the homage of my heart/' *' It is 
 present/' said Cyprian, eagerly, ''it is 
 present, and it must hover near us, till 
 it be absolved." — ** Enthusiast, what would 
 you mean, what would you ask?" — ''Ima- 
 gine me her for a moment," said Cyprian, 
 sinking at Ippolito's feet, and hiding his 
 face — " Imagine me her; give me one 
 kiss/' " Enthusiastic boy/' " Give me 
 but one, and her spirit shall depart, pleas- 
 ed and absolved/' " Visionary, you do 
 what you will with me; I never kissed 
 one of my own sex before ; but do what 
 you will with me;" half blushing, half 
 pouting, he offered his red lip, Cyprian 
 touched it and fainted. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 184 FATAL revenge; oh^ 
 
 CHAP. X, 
 
 Letter from Jnnibal cU Montorm 
 
 I HAVE been so tossed with doubt and 
 distraction, since I wrote to you, that, I 
 have been unable to form one sane re- 
 flection, or to divide events from the 
 feelings that accompanied them. I de- 
 ferred the continuance of my letters, there- 
 fore, in hopes of writing them at length 
 in calmness, and in ease. The hope has 
 been fruitless. The e.vtraordi nary clrciini' 
 stances in which I have been engaged* 
 have deprived me of all distinct powders of 
 
 discrimination
 
 TFIE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 185 
 
 discrimination and reflection ; ihey are 
 so woven into my habits of thought, that 
 I feel myself able to do little more than 
 to describe them ; and even that, not as 
 a spectator would, and as a philosophic 
 mind would wish to do, but with all the 
 confused perceptions, the superstitious 
 minuteness, and the weak amplifications 
 of real and present fear. I know not whe- 
 ther you will prefer this to a more com- 
 posed account or not ; but if you do not, 
 you must compound with necessity ; for 
 it is the only one my present state of 
 mind enables me to furnish you with. 
 
 The night was approaching, on which I 
 had determined to re-visit the apartments, 
 and to suffer Michelo to tell his tale. I 
 remembered how I had once been over- 
 powered by fear, and once by pleasure ; 
 and I now determined to collect every 
 powder, and confirm every resolution that 
 could preserve me from the influence of 
 weakness or of deception. 
 
 I even
 
 186 FATAL KEVEKGE; OHj 
 
 I even perused some of the old legenc)s 
 of our library, that abound in adventures 
 similar to mine ; I endeavoured to act a 
 personal part in the narrative, and to shun 
 the weakness, or acquire the fortitude, 
 which their various agents exhibited. I 
 passed some time in this mental disciplin- 
 ing ; but I find ineffectually, if its influ- 
 ence was to have preserved me from fear. 
 
 As the hour approached, my wish to 
 view the spot I was to visit so soon be- 
 came irrepressible. I ventured on the 
 terrace that leads to the tower, and I 
 found myself under the walls of the apart- 
 ment ; its appearance without resembled 
 that within, dark, lonely, and deserted 
 I saw a range of windows, which from 
 their direction, I conceived lit the long 
 passage through which I had been con- 
 ducted by Alichelo. They were narrow, 
 and dismantled, and at a distance from 
 the ground, but many cavities in the 
 walls, together with fragments of the 
 
 battlements
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 187 
 
 battlements that had fallen on the terrace, 
 assisted me to climb to their lexel ; I now 
 looked round me ^vith security; I had 
 taken a time at which the servants were 
 engaged in a distant part of the castle ; 
 and 1 enjoyed the leisure of fall gratifi- 
 cation. I looked through the window, 
 it lit the passage as I had imagined ; the 
 passage appeared, as on the night I had 
 visited it, damp, and dusky, and solitary; 
 but, as, by holding my face parallel to 
 the window, I looked down its deep 
 length, I imagined I saw a figure issuing 
 from the wall at the other end, and ao- 
 proaching with a slow, unsteady motion. 
 That it vv-as a human figure, I could only 
 conjecture from its loose garments; of 
 which, the darkness still prevented me 
 from distinguishing the shape or habit. 
 
 It advanced — nor was it with a pleasant 
 emotion that I recollected it must pass by 
 the window at which I hung. It advanced, 
 its head w^as covered; one arm was ex- 
 tended
 
 188 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 tended, and the dark drapery which hung 
 from it, shrouded the face. I was so ab- 
 sorbed in wonder and curiosity, that till 
 it drew within a few paces of the window, 
 I forgot my station would discover me ; 
 I relaxed my hold, and concealed my 
 head under the large pediment of the win- 
 dow. It passed ; and though I felt through 
 the shattered casement-pan nels, the air 
 impelled by its approach, its step gave 
 no sound; I raised my head, it had passed; 
 and I saw it floating away in the distant 
 obscurity of the passage. I lingered long 
 under the casement ; but there was neither 
 sound nor object. Of what I had seen, 
 1 knew not what to think ; that it was not 
 Michelo, I was certain ; and no other 
 being had means to enter those walls, 
 except by such means as I was almost 
 impelled to believe that form was master 
 of. I loitered in vague and unsatisfied 
 conjecture, till the hour at which Michelo 
 had promised to attend me; when that 
 
 arrived. 
 
 1
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 189 
 
 arrived, he joined mc, and employing 
 the same precautions, v/e reached the 
 apartments unobserved. Michelo again 
 paused, to recover himself from fear and 
 from haste; and I examined the apart- 
 ments, with more leisure, and a better 
 light than the last evening had allowed. 
 
 '^ Signor,'* said Michelo, recalling me^ 
 '^ I have led you hither that I might men- 
 tion without interruption, and without 
 fear, what in any other part of the castle 
 I might notsafely mention, not even in my 
 own remote turret, at midnight; I came 
 hither to shun the suspicions which I fear 
 are already excited ; those observations 
 v/hich I dread our frequent conferences 
 may suggest, and which it is impossible 
 to exercise here/' Of this position I felt 
 not quite assured; but concealing what I 
 had seen, desired him to proceed. — My 
 attention was that moment excited by a 
 strange appearance on the floor. '' Can 
 this, Michelo, be the effect of the shade 
 5 which
 
 1^0 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 which these closed windows throw on the 
 jfloor ?" Michelo was silent. '' See where 
 it spreads in long, and dusky streaks, and 
 eaids just beside that door." — " It is 
 bJood," said the old man, shivering. — 
 "' Blood!" I repeated; "this stain that 
 overspreads half the room! impossible; 
 to produce this there must have been a 
 massacre, not a murder in this apartment.** 
 *' It is blood,'" said the old man, rising, 
 and feebly following me, as I examined 
 the traces — ''here it fell; and here, 
 splashes of it are on this wall, as if it had 
 been forced out by violence; and at this 
 door, all appearances of it cease." — I 
 paused; all those dispersed causes and ap- 
 pearances, that had hitherto floated vague- 
 ly in my mind, exciting only a partial 
 and unproductive emotion of fear, or won- 
 der, or anxiety, now rushed on it with 
 collected for^e, and produced one appall- 
 ing conviction. *' Here has been murder, 
 JVlichelo; and you who know in whose 
 
 veins
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 191 
 
 IS this blood has flowed; you who 
 e perhaps present at that hour, a wit- 
 less to that deed ; ycu preserve an 
 Dbdurate silence ; though perhaps your 
 strange sufferings are owing to the visits 
 >f the victim; though perhaps it lin- 
 gers near this spot, where its blood was 
 ooured, unabsolved, and unrequired ; 
 bough perhaps its shroudless form was 
 icen to-night, wandering in the passages 
 >f this chamber ' — '' Pursue your path/' 
 md the okl man, with solemnity, *• whi- 
 :her a hand mightier than mine seems to 
 :onduct you ; I can lead you but a little 
 iray; my time is brief, and ray task 
 restrained; I would willingly have fo!- 
 <»fc'ed on, but a power, I may not resist, 
 »ith-holds me." — Pursuing the traces, we 
 aad reached the other apartment, here 
 they had ceased; but in my impatience 
 of discover)', I again adverted, to the 
 iarring looseness of the floor, and the 
 lamp and death-like steam thru floated 
 through it. I strode
 
 192 FATAL REVENGE ; OR^, 
 
 I Strode across the room, it shook under 
 me ; frantic with impatience, I resolved 
 to rend the boards asunder ; a task my 
 strength would have been easily equal to^ 
 and which would probably give some re- 
 lief or object to my mind, which now 
 could scarce support its feelings, wrought 
 up as they had been to a pitch, solemn, 
 severe, and terrible. — '' Forbear, forbear, '■ 
 Signor," said Michelo, " solitary as these ^ 
 apartments seem, there is one who visits 
 them ; the Count, your father, I have 
 too sure proof, repairs, at tbe appointed 
 time, to these chambers; oh, fear his 
 vengeance, should he discover that other 
 feet beside his own, had trod these bloody 
 floors, his vengeance is terrible !*' — 
 *' Twice,'* said I, eagerly grasping at his 
 words, '^ twice, Michelo, have you utter- 
 ed these words: that thev have a meaning 
 beyond common fear, is evident; and 
 whatever that meaning may be, I will 
 know it before I quit this spot : what have 
 
 vou
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 193 
 
 you known or felt of his vengeance?" 
 '' His vengeance is terrible/' said 2. voice, 
 deep and distinct, beside me. " Again 
 you have repeated it/' I said, for impa- 
 tience had confused my perceptions. '' 1 
 spoke not, I breathed not," said Michelo, 
 aghast, and clinging to me ; '' a voice 
 issued from the wall; quit this spot, for 
 holy St. Gennaro's sake, quit this spot, 
 if yet we may quit it alive/' 
 
 I was not, like him, congealed and 
 rendered helpless by fear ; but I suffered 
 perhaps more from the keenness and 
 strength of my own perceptions. Resist 
 it as we may, the presence, or the fear 
 of the presence of the dead, is almost in- 
 tolerable. We endure it in a tale, because 
 it is a tale; and the consciousness of 
 fiction produces a balance with the pain 
 of credulity. But I was oppressed by 
 evidence that appeared irresistible, and 
 I felt the natural fear, which I have in 
 common with the peasant, and the child, 
 
 VOL. I. K and
 
 194 FATAL EEVENCE ; OR, 
 
 and which my improved perceptions per- 
 haps magnified with many an iinfelt and 
 subtle circumstance of addition. I deli- 
 berated a moment; a gush of visionary 
 heroism came to my mind, and I resolved 
 to examine the flooring, when Michelo, 
 unable to speak, grasped my arm, and 
 pointed to the opposite wall. My eye 
 followed his involuntarily; they rested 
 on the figure of an armed man in the 
 tapestry, whose bold and prominent out- 
 lines rendered it even strongly visible in 
 that dim light. A weapon which it held, 
 was pointed in the direction I was about 
 to explore; the head was thrown back, 
 and the features of a strong profile were 
 fixed on the same direction. As I gazed 
 on hj the large eye appeared to live ; it 
 moved; it looked at me; it turned to the 
 spot, to which the arm pointed, and the 
 arm vibrated with a slow and palpable 
 motion ; then all became lifeless and dis- 
 coloured and dead, as an artificial form. 
 
 What
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 193 
 
 What I had seen and heard, was enough 
 for me. I became inflamed, impelled, 
 exalted; a certain supernal dignity ming- 
 led with my feelings, I felt myself the 
 summoned agent of destiny, yet not the 
 less did I feel that I was surrounded by 
 hDrrors ; that I was treading v*^here the 
 Iving inhabited not; that I was called by 
 "soices nature shudders to hear. But they 
 rppeared to me the instruments by which 
 I was appointed to work out some great 
 purpose, and I grasped them with a con- 
 vulsed but daring hand. 
 
 I began to examine the apartment. In 
 every part of the wainscot under it, pannels 
 had been detached and shattered by age and 
 neglect. But they only betrayed the solid 
 wall. One that appeared less impaired than 
 the rest, I examined therefore moreclosely. 
 It resisted ; but strength^ such as 1 felt at 
 that moment, was not easily resisted; and 
 I soon wrenched it from the wainscot. 
 The cloud of dust that followed, was soon 
 K 2 dispersed.
 
 106 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 dispersed, and I discovered steps rugged 
 and unequal, and feebly lit, winding 
 within it. I addressed a few words of 
 comfort and courage to Michelo, who 
 leant exhausted against the wall, and pre- 
 pared to descend them. He attemptel 
 feebly to dissuade me; I heard him not. 
 The stairs, down which I attempted n 
 vain to descend steadily, appeared fron 
 the roughness of their formation, to have 
 been scooped out of the wall ; a disco- 
 loured light seemed to stream on them 
 from a grating which appeared at a vast 
 height in the roof above me. The dust 
 that rose under every step, scarce permit- 
 ted me to distinguish them; and the heavy 
 steams I had observed in the adjacent 
 chamber, seemed to constitute the very: 
 atmosphere of this passage. 
 
 The steps, decending for some time, ter-i 
 
 minated in a door which no key could open, 
 
 and no effort could force; and Michelo, who 
 
 had now followed me, declared he knew not, 
 
 2 nor
 
 THE FAMILY OF MeNTORIO. 197 
 
 nor could conjecture from his knowledge 
 of the castle, where that door conducted. 
 Here all progress seemed to be suspended ; 
 and I looked around me with a desponding 
 eye. That some secret was within my 
 reach, 1 was convinced; and to lose its 
 knowledge, after so much expectation and 
 toil, appeared insupportable. My very 
 exertions reproached me with my want of 
 success. The very dull and murky still- 
 ness of the place seemed to offer a mock- 
 ery to my inquietude. 
 
 Reluctantly as I returned, still examining 
 every object, I observed a part of the wall, 
 where there seemed a rejxular fracture, run- 
 ning through the stones in nearly a square 
 direction; I applied my hand to it, it shook 
 under the pressure, and a large portion of 
 detached rubbish fell at my ^eet I felt 
 inspirited ; with the assistance of Michelo, 
 I soon discovered, under a thin coat of 
 plaster, that mouldered at the touch, a 
 door, that had nothing else to conceal or 
 
 to
 
 IQS FATAL HEVENCE ,* OR, 
 
 to fasten it. I dragged it open, it discover- 
 ed a dim cavity, barely wide enough to ad- 
 mit me. I entered it, stooping and con- 
 tracted, and from its narrow dimensions 
 (partly by feeling, and partly from the 
 pale light the grating still afforded me,) 
 soon discovered a kind of rude chest, dis- 
 jointed and ill-secured. With an impatience 
 •which urged me to violence, I endeavour- 
 ed to rend it open. From the loose and 
 lumbering rattle of its contents, I had a 
 shuddering suspicion what they were. I 
 yet persisted; Michelo, who appeared 
 animated by a sudden impulse of his own, 
 endeavoured to assist me. With the feverish 
 strength of eager weakness I succeeded. 
 The decayed pannelsgave way. Ippolito, 
 oh Ippolito! — my hand touched the mealy 
 and carious bones of a skeleton ! the dry 
 limbs clattered as the pannels fell about. 
 The light fell on the head, as it lay, and 
 gave a deadlier holiowness to the cavities 
 of the mouth and eyes. Panting and pale, 
 
 I staggered
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 199 
 
 I staggered back; the heat of exertion and 
 pursuit was over; I had reached a terrible 
 point of proof; the mute and ghastly 
 "witness before me spoke. Murder hurtl- 
 ed in mine ears, as 1 viewed it^ yet still 
 I was uncertain and dioquieted. The 
 crime was revealed, but the object and 
 agents were still unknown. 
 
 Meanwhile I saw Michelo bend over the 
 corpse, and examine it with attention ; I saw 
 him shudder, and clasp his hands. There is 
 a state of mind, in which we only converse 
 b)' actions. I hastened to him, and enter- 
 ing the den, surveyed the skeleton again. 
 Michelo, with strong and speechless ex- 
 pression, pointed ta one of its w^asted 
 arms ; the hand had been severed from it. 
 We looked on each other as conscious that 
 each was brooding on his own convictions. 
 At length I spake, and felt myself articu- 
 late with difficulty. " Michelo, does your 
 knowledge of past events, suggest any 
 thing that might explain this spectacle } 
 
 If
 
 200 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 If it may, oh forbear to wrong your own 
 soul, and the soul of the murdered, by 
 longer concealment/' The old man smote 
 his breast, and crossed himself. " I am 
 innocent," he murmured, " I am inno- 
 cent ; but thi ; object brings to my me- 
 mory a report I had long forgotten, and 
 which, when I had heard, I considered 
 but as some tale which ignorance had 
 invented to dissolve the mystery of that 
 terrible night. It was whispered by 
 many, that, on that night, some one had 
 been privately brought into the castle, 
 murdered, and interred in some unknown 
 part of it ; who he was, and for what 
 cause, or by whom he was dispatched, 
 none pretended to tell.'' 
 
 This account, though it increased my 
 suspicions, did not diminish my perplexity. 
 That some unhallowed deed had been done 
 on that night, so often referred to, seemed 
 certain; the hand thathaddone it, appeared 
 shrouded from all human view or inquisi- 
 tion.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 20T 
 
 tion. — '^ xtlichelo ! — one question more, 
 and I shall cease for ever to importune 
 you : Do you believe this to be the 
 body of my uncle, of Count Orazio ?" — 
 *' From many circumstances, Signor, I 
 should have been led to fear, this was the 
 body of the late Count ; but others would, 
 seem to contradict it. — But why s ould I 
 wish to suggest to you, that he was mur- 
 dered?'* 
 
 '' Here, it is said," he continued, ''bells 
 have tolled, and forms have moved. — 
 Sometimes, long processions, with blazing 
 lights, have been seen gliding past the 
 windows; and sometimes a burst of voices, 
 of no human tone, have been heard 
 chaunting the funeral chaunt,'* 
 
 *' These are tales, Michelo, told and be- 
 lieved promiscuously every where by the 
 vulgar and the timid.*' — " Aye, but Signor, 
 I myself have seen" — '' What have you 
 seen ?" '' Things, Signor, that prevented 
 my being much surprised at the discovery 
 K 5 we
 
 902 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 we have recently made. I have seen lights 
 moving, and heard sounds issuing from 
 those apartments, at a time when I knew 
 no human cause could have produced 
 either," '' Were the appearances you 
 mention, similar to those that occurred in 
 the ruined chapel ?" " Ask me no more, 
 Signor," said the old man, " as far, and 
 farther than was in my power to gratify 
 it, your curiosity has been satisfied : let us 
 quit this dismal place/' 
 
 His words seemed to awake me from a 
 trance. That momentary courage, which 
 the emergency had invested me with, 
 seemed suddenly to desert me. I looked 
 around me; two lonely beings, shuddering 
 over a discovery which conveyed nothing 
 but terror to them, by the dim evening 
 light, in the rem.ote and long- deserted 
 towers of an ancient castle, far from the 
 comfort of human aid or presence, and 
 feeling that they were unable to en- 
 counter an additional circumstance or ob- 
 ject
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 205 
 
 ject of fear, yet dreading lest, while they 
 lingered, some other would overtake 
 them; — two such beings I felt myself and 
 Alichelo to be, and started at the convic- 
 tion. The confidence of the delegate of 
 heaven was over: I felt myself a timid 
 human being, encompassed by things, and 
 the fear of things, which nature shrinks 
 from ; and only anxious to escape by a 
 blind and hasty extrication from them; — 
 like a child, that by shutting his eyes, and 
 walking speedily past some spot of terror, 
 imagines itself to be safe. 
 
 I turned from the revolting spectacle 
 before me : 1 looked along the dim 
 and narrow passage ; I wondered at m^ 
 own temerity in exploring it. A few 
 moments past, and I felt as if nothing 
 could check my progress ; at the pre- 
 sent, nothing could impel me to pursue 
 it. For a moment I wondered at myself, 
 and almost ascribed the change to an in- 
 fluence that made part of the wonders 
 
 of
 
 g04r FATAL REVENGE f OR, 
 
 of the place. But the lassitude that mixed 
 with my timidity, dissolved the wonder, 
 I discovered it was only the natural re- 
 iTiission of over-stimulated feeling; and 
 that if heaven was pleased to employ my 
 agency, it would prevent the confidence 
 of its instrument being inflated by pre- 
 sumption, by leaving him at intervals to 
 the infirmities of his nature, to his com- 
 mon habits of impulse and cessation, to 
 those usual ebbs and flows of mind, which 
 prove to us, that our best frames are 
 of imperfect influence, and interrupted 
 length. 
 
 I assisted Michelo, by the light that 
 ^et remained, to All up the cavity with 
 .he stones and rubbish we had removed 
 from it, and then preparer' to quit the 
 stairs. As we returned, I endeavoured 
 to forbear looking at its dark and silent 
 wails; at the roof, where the light ap- 
 peared so pale and so distant, it reminded 
 me of that which streams on the hollow 
 
 eye
 
 THE FAMILY OF . ORIO. 205 
 
 eye of a captive^ through the bars of his 
 dungeon. Nay, on the rucl-^, uncouth 
 steps themselves, that seemed just fit to 
 be pressed by the assassin, stealing to the 
 bed of sleep, or bearing away his prey to 
 deposit it in some den such as we had dis- 
 covered. But, wherever I looked, I found 
 some food for sombre thought. I quick- 
 ened my pace. 
 
 In our hurried passage through the ca- 
 binet and the chamber, we walked with 
 silent and breathless fear, grasping each 
 other, and endeavouring to fix our eyes 
 on the floor ; yet feeling they were every 
 moment involuntarily raised to meet the 
 approach of something w^e did not dare 
 to intimate to each other. We had now 
 reached the stairs, by which we were 
 hasting to descend, when we distinctly 
 heard, in the apartment we had just 
 quitted, the loud tread of a foot that 
 seemed to be pursuing us. Michelo, stu- 
 pified by fear, was lingering at the top of 
 
 the
 
 206 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 the stairs; with a desperate effort, I 
 dragged him along with me, and hurried 
 down. 
 
 The tread came yet louder and quicker 
 behind us; I dared not to look behind; 
 I rushed on with headlong blindness, 
 dragging my breathless companion with 
 me. 
 
 The foot came nearer and nearer; I 
 could feel the stairs bending under its 
 pressure behind me ; every moment I 
 dreaded to feel the indenture of its "fiery 
 fang.'' But we had now reached the door 
 communicating with the passage — I drag- 
 ged it open, and with that involuntary 
 provision, which fear often makes against 
 its objects, with averted head, I drew it 
 after me, and locked it, while I thought 
 I heard the murmurs of a voice within, 
 but whether its tones were those of pain 
 or terror, I could not discover. Whatever 
 might be the power of our pursuer, he 
 then ceased to exert it; no sound pursued 
 
 us.
 
 THE FAMILY 07 MONTORIO. 207 
 
 US, and we encountered no object. We 
 made a hasty and silent progress through 
 the passage, and regained the inhabited 
 part of the castle without observation. 
 
 By these events, I have neither been 
 enlightened nor assured ; I have been 
 only perplexed and terrified. I have re- 
 flected, but without attaining conviction. 
 I have debated, but without forming a re- 
 solution. Sometimes my exertion appears 
 temerity, and sometimes my supineness 
 cowardice ! 
 
 Am I the agent of heaven, or the dupe 
 of fear and deception ? — Was the voice I 
 heard, intended to summon or forbid ? — • 
 Has the arm been bared to beckon or to 
 repel ? — Shall I pause, or shall I proceed ? 
 
 In this dark and turbid state, I look at 
 the picture of Erminia — and taste a mo- 
 mentary, a delicious calm. Adio. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 208 FATAL kevenge; ok. 
 
 CHAP. XL 
 
 Ut assidens implumibus puUis avis 
 Serpentium allapsus timet 
 Magis relictis ; non, ut adsit, auxilii 
 Latura plus praesentibus — — — — 
 
 Horace. 
 
 i 
 
 Thus, if the motlier-blrd f... ^ake 
 
 Her unfledged young, she dreads the glidiJiig snake, 
 
 With deeper agonies afraid, 
 
 Not that her presence could afford them aid. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 By the time this letter had arrived at Na- 
 ples, Ippolito's habits of gloom and ab- 
 straction had increased. The scenes of 
 passing enjoyment, he had some times 
 permitted to checquer that gloom, he had 
 
 now
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 209 
 
 now relinquished ; and except the hours 
 that he attended that summons, his whole 
 time was occupied in feeding gloomy 
 thought with solitude. When this letter 
 arrived, none of the servants would ven- 
 tuie to disturb their once-undreaded mas- 
 ter; and Cyprian, who heard them debating^ 
 seized the opportunity of venturing into 
 liis presence. Ippolito had been for some 
 hours alone in his own apartment : Cy- 
 prian, with the letter in his hand, knocked 
 at the door; a voice, of which the tones 
 had never been harsh before, demanded^ 
 '*' Who was there ?" '*' I am afraid to an- 
 swer to that voice,'' said Cyprian, '' speak 
 in another tone, and 1 will say, 'tis Cy- 
 prian." " You may enter,*' said Ippolito. 
 Cyprian approached timidly. His master 
 was extended on a sopha ; his eyes were 
 shaded by his hand ; his attitude bespoke 
 a wish to counter-balance mental in- 
 quietude with bodily ease. " This is a 
 
 letter
 
 SIO FATAL KEVENGE ; OR, 
 
 letter from youv brother/' said Cyprian, 
 offerinor it with an unnoticed hand. After 
 a moment's pause, he left it down, and 
 placed himself before the sopha with fold- 
 ed arms. " Why do you wait }" said Ip- 
 polito, in a hollow and languid tone. 
 " I know not why I wait/' said Cyprian^ 
 whose anguish now burst forth in tears, 
 and who hurried towards the door — " I 
 know not why I live ; there is neither joy 
 nor use in me now; I know not why I live." 
 Blind with his tears, he endeavoured in: 
 vain to open the door, when Ippolito, 
 starting from the sopha, intercepted him. 
 *^ Pardon me, Cyprian, I knew not it was 
 you; I heard the tones of your voice, but 
 I felt not you were near me. Pardon me; 
 Cyprian. For many days past, my senses 
 have been dull and distempered; the 
 vigils of my nights have disturbed them. 
 Even now, while I gaze upon you, you 
 seem to me not as you ought; and should 
 
 you
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 21 I 
 
 you change while I look upon you, to 
 some strange shape, such as I have lately 
 seen, 1 could scarce feel surprise." 
 
 " Oh, do not talk thus," said Cyprian, 
 " v/hat shapes and what sufferings are these 
 you talk of? What dream of visionary 
 anguish pursues and preys upon you ? 
 What invisible arm has torn you from life 
 and enjoyment, and chained you down in 
 a prison-house of pain and solitude ? Are 
 you persecuted by the power of the living 
 or of the dead? I am importunate, perhaps, 
 for 1 am fearless. Two days — two dreadful 
 days, I have been deprived of your sight ; 
 your sight which is the very food of my 
 existence. A thousand times in that pe- 
 riod have I approached your door — list- 
 ening for a cheerful sound or motion to 
 encouraore me to enter : with a breakinoj 
 heart I wandered back, for I heard only 
 your heavy groans. But I am so miser- 
 able ; all fear of your displeasure has 
 
 ceased ;
 
 S12 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 ceased; I will even support that, if you 
 will not drive me from you ; chide, and 
 look sternly on me, if you can, but let 
 me be near you: the sound of your voice 
 will repay me for any thing it can utter. 
 The image of your anguish, when absent, 
 and im.agined, is a thousand times more 
 terrible, than present; or perhaps the sight 
 
 of you, makes all suffering light/' 
 
 " You would be near me," said Ip- 
 polito, appearing to collect with difficulty 
 what had been said ; " You do not 
 know, then, that misery is contagious?" 
 '' Misery V* echoed Cyprian, '' whence,, 
 oh ! whence, is this perverse repining of 
 self-inflicted suffering ? If you murmur, 
 who shall not be suffered to groan ? Oh, 
 too lovely — too brilliant — too bright, as 
 you are — more like the gay phantom of a 
 youthful wish, than a human being, the 
 destined partaker of infirmity and suffer- 
 ing — you seem almost without a wish, as 
 
 without
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 213 
 
 without a fear. What is this sirocco of the 
 mind, that bursts forth in the summer- 
 noon of life, and blasts the freshness of 
 its enjoyments? Why need I enumerate 
 blessings you cannot be blind to — for of 
 the distinctions of nature none are forget- 
 ful ? Why need I remind you what, oh ! 
 what you are?'* ^' You need not remind 
 me what I am. I know, I feel it but too 
 well. T am a pursued, a haunted, a per- 
 secuted being. The helpless prey of an 
 invisible tormentor. Cyprian, a cruel, 
 an inward fire consumes me. The springs 
 of life, the sources of enjoyment, are dried 
 up within me. I feel the energies of my 
 mind seared and withered by the contem- 
 plation of a terrible subject, as the eyes 
 would be, by being fixed on an object of 
 intense and scorching heat; yet I cannot 
 withdraw them. One subject, one only 
 subject is involuntarily present with me — 
 wherever I turn i behold it — whatever I 
 
 do
 
 214 FATAL KEVENGE; OR, 
 
 do it is mingled with. Nay, when from 
 the weariness of over-wrought suffering, 
 I become almost vacant of thought or 
 feeling, a dumb and sullen sense of pain 
 mixes its leaven with those moments of 
 unconsciousness. 
 
 You have wrung this from me, Cy- 
 prian, by your cruel pity, superfluously 
 cruel to yourself and to me. Your suffer- 
 ings may be increased by the communica- 
 tion of mine ; but mine cannot be dimi- 
 nished by your participation of them. 
 1 bore the storm long to shelter you; 
 now you have exposed your feebleness 
 to it ; and I can no longer enjoy the dig- 
 nity of solitary suffering, or the aid of 
 valid support." — ''Oh, no,'' said Cyprian, 
 ** you know not the power and office of 
 strong affection ; it loves not to mix its 
 beam with the summer-blaze of joy; to 
 add its note to the choral song of flattery 
 and pleasure ; it reserves them for the 
 
 dark^
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 215 
 
 dark, disastrous hour, ^vhen the amazed 
 sufferer looks round on a desert world ; 
 when, what he thought he held, is dust 
 within his grasp ; when, what he hoped, 
 to trust to, is a reed under his steps. 
 Then is the power, and the hour of strong 
 affection; then it rushes to him; it grasps 
 him by the cold hand ; it speaks words of 
 comfort in his stunned and frozen ears; 
 it clings to him with all the strength of its 
 being, with powers stronger than suffering 
 and death; it abides the conflict of the 
 dark hour; and enters the valley of the 
 shadow of death, with its companion. For 
 such is its true nature and power ; such 
 emergencies only develope and realize 
 them; among such only it expands it 
 powers, it feels its existence; nay, it seeks 
 its reward. Tell me not therefore of sor- 
 row or of suffering; 'tis there fore 1 seek, and 
 'ivill not leave you. Something whispers me, 
 tliis is an hour of confidence, not of de- 
 jection;
 
 216 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 jection; that I can do much to serve and 
 to save you; that I can perform something 
 that will make men wonder at the energy 
 of zealous weakness. Montorio, I love 
 you, I love you; and to that name nothing 
 is impossible. Montorio, I will examine 
 your heart; and you will confess the 
 cause, when I have discovered it.*' — '' For- 
 bear, my gentle, my darling boy, forbear; 
 you spread your little slender branches to 
 the storm that heeds you not; in passing 
 it will lay you in the dust, and rush to me 
 unobstructed. Cyprian, I have had a sore 
 struggle ; the enemy has assailed me with 
 terrible strength once and again ; my 
 strength and my defences are declining ; 
 and he will yet prevail; yes, he will pre- 
 vail, and have me yet in his dark thrall.'' 
 " Oh why do we thus magnify the 
 trivial distresses of life," said Cyprian, 
 ^^ with words of such melancholy and 
 mysterious import, that while we listen 
 
 to
 
 THE FAMILY OF xMONTORIO. 217 
 
 10 them, we almost persuade ourselves 
 we are suffering something humanity 
 never suffered before^ and claim such dig- 
 nity from their support, or such wonder 
 from their confession, that at length we 
 begin to find a delight in misery. You 
 have perhaps encountered some common 
 evil, some visitation of human infirmity, 
 or of youthful deviation; your mind, 
 generous, noble, and fostered by long 
 luxury, starts from the prospect of pain, 
 or the recollection of error. But fear not 
 yet; yours viust, must have been a venial 
 one; and ifyour own reflections have an- 
 ticipated the censures of society, you may 
 listen to them with the calmness of re- 
 established rectituds, nor suffer them to 
 interrupt the even direction of the mind, 
 that has regained the p:;th of right." 
 ^' And do I hear Cyprian," said Ippoiito, 
 *' confounding the complexions of good 
 and evil, and teaching an honourable mind 
 to forego that susceptibility of praise from 
 VOL. 1 L which
 
 218 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 which it derives its best security, as well as 
 its highest reward ? Is this my monitor?" 
 "^ Oh forgive me, forgive me/' said Cy- 
 prian, " for your own sake ; 'tis you have 
 corrupted my judgment and my heart. 
 My love for you has made me almost 
 annihilate the distinctions of good and 
 evil. When I look on you, Montorio, I 
 cannot believe you guilty, your mind I 
 cannot think less perfect than your form ; 
 and the dreadful deception practised on 
 my own judgment, I endeavour, with 
 guilty fondness, to extend to yours. How 
 have I laboured to restore you to the paths 
 of purity and peace, from which your 
 lavish youths and glowing temptations had 
 caused a noble heart to deviate ! How 
 have I watched and warned ! How have I 
 toiled and importuned ! How have I trem- 
 bled and prayed for you ! This one great 
 point and object of my life, what could 
 compel me to counteract ? What, but the 
 strong affection that compelled me to 
 
 undertake
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 219 
 
 undertake it. I find I cannot bear to 
 
 behold you suffer. I saw you erring, and 
 
 I hazarded life; yes, hazarded life, to re- 
 
 cal and reclaim you. But when I saw you 
 
 suffer, I could only weep, and be guilty; 
 
 II forgot the great purpose of my mission; 
 
 11 forgot I was your monitor; and remem- 
 
 Iberedonly Iloved; forgive me, Montorio, 
 
 for your own sake forgive me." — " I will 
 
 i forgive you every thing. Cyprian, but this 
 
 waste of lavish love, on a wretch whom it 
 
 'Wounds but cannot profit"'— "Oh yet, do not 
 
 ssay so: I have great resources; more than of 
 
 3 hope or of advice ; substantial resources. 
 
 What is this heavy load of mind ? 
 
 Montorio, I have marked your nightly 
 
 wanderings. Have you been seduced 
 
 to the feverish vigils of the gamesters? 
 
 have you become the wretched thing of 
 
 calculations and chances ; the agitn*.d 
 
 sport of knavish skill ; the ruined dupe 
 
 of confederate deception ? Oh thank the 
 
 blessed saints for the wholesome lesson 
 
 I 2 of
 
 220 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 of your ruin. In that dreadful pursuit, 
 to succeed is certainly to be lost ; though 
 to be ruined, is possibly to be saved. Be 
 not yet dejected ; the riches of your house 
 are immense, and your father, though I 
 have heard stern and severe, is proud, and 
 will not suffer the honour of his family to 
 be impaired by debt: or should your losses 
 •not require the fortunes of a house to 
 repair them, I have resources, Montorio ; 
 resources, happily stored up against this 
 hour of pressure; take them, my beloved^ 
 take all/' — "Forbear, Cyprian, forbear; 
 your conjecture is erroneous: mine are* 
 not the vigils of a gamester: miserable asj 
 Ij knov^ them to be, I could almost wish^ 
 they were." — " Oh what is this,'* saidj 
 Cyprian, distressed and amazed, '' what] 
 is this more terrible than misery and; 
 ruin ? Do I read another cause in your' 
 pale and listless lip ; in your darkened 
 cheek; in your fixed eye? Such, they 
 say, are the looks of those who love. 
 
 Do
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 221 
 
 Do you love, Montorio? Alas, is it pos- 
 sible you can love, and yet despair ! 
 Oh, no, no; too happy woman! too 
 happy, methinks, for the indulgence of 
 allowed caprice; too happy, for the petty, 
 prescriptive triumph of her disdain ; she 
 cannot have punished herself to give you 
 pain; or if she has, let her behold you 
 nov/; now in this seducing shade of me- 
 lancholy beauty; andshe must —she will — 
 oh why that groan, Montorio? Can you, 
 oh can you be the victim of love, of law- 
 less passion? Alas, what shall I say ! 
 I have heard of wretched, wretched 
 women, who can love for gold ; who 
 would take deformity and decrepitude to 
 their arms, instead of even you, if they 
 could outweigh you in the price of their 
 body's and soul's perdition ; for such you 
 cannot long languish : alas, what am I 
 saying? Oh spare me, spare me, my be- 
 loved ; make me not the reluctant agent 
 of pollution ; tear not from my agonized 
 
 affection^
 
 T2^ FATAL REV£KGE; Ot, 
 
 affection;, its long, its last, cherished in- 
 tegrity, Alas, alas, such is the madness 
 of ray guilty love ; I can bear to see you 
 criminal, but cannot, cannot bear to see 
 you miserable/' — " Perplex yourself no 
 more with this mental casuistry; torture 
 yourself no longer with the superfluous 
 remorse of imputed guilt ; I cannot give 
 you the consolation of thinking mine is 
 a case of common suffering, or within the 
 reach of ordinary relief; would, oh would 
 I were the subject of any, or all the suf- 
 ferings you could name, rathtr than what 
 I am:' 
 
 Cyprian w^s silent from the perplexity 
 of severe dismay. At every gradation of 
 their conference, he had drawn closer to 
 fppolito, and now pressing his hand, he 
 murmured feebly, '' If that last, and 
 dreadful guilt, the brand of civilized 
 society, the dreadful imposition of an 
 abitrary phantom, be yours; if you have 
 hurried from earth, and from hope, your 
 
 rash.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 233 
 
 rash, offending brother; andif for a crime 
 man could not forgive, you have sent 
 him to answer for all before the Judge; his 
 course unfinished, his task unfulfilled, his 
 soul unabsolved, his salvation unobtained; 
 if you have found that what society can 
 palliate and pardon, conscience cannot; 
 oh yet is there a dawn of hope! If the 
 agents of justice or of revenge pursue 
 you, let us fly, oh let us fly, this land of 
 perverted and bloody manners; where 
 the sore alternative of infamv or "iuilt, 
 urges the revolting hand of virtue, to 
 deeds^ its praise cannot purify, nor its 
 sanction expiate. Oh, let us fiy, and the 
 prayers of good and holy men shall be 
 with us for good : there is a blessed vir- 
 tue in those, and the offices of our holy 
 faith, to obtain peace and remission for 
 the soul so sore beset." — '' Can murder 
 then be forgiven } and if the bare crime, 
 under strong temptation, and most urgent 
 cause, hardly dare plead for mercy ; what 
 
 shall
 
 ^^i fAtal revenge ; OK, 
 
 shall be said for murder, impelled by no 
 motive, justified by no pretext, sheltered 
 by no confederacy? For guilt, laborious, 
 determined, inveterate ? And this, oh all 
 this is nothing to the shades of this dark 
 \ision." — " I understand not this terrible 
 language/' said Cyprian, v^ho looked 
 aghast. ''If you have any thing to dis- 
 close, tell it quicklvj for my senses are 
 dull, and I am wearied with pleading," 
 *' I have a tale to tell, but it is not for 
 ycur ears;*' he rose hastily, he grasped 
 Cyprian's arm, '' wretched boy, why have 
 you allied yourself to me, why will you 
 cling to me with this helpless force ? I 
 am hunted and hard-pressed; every night, 
 listen, Cyprian, every night a fire is kind- 
 led in my heart; a dagger is put into my 
 hand; the midnight ministers of destiny 
 are round me; they urge — they impel, 
 me, onward — onward : — all around me is 
 still — the stillness ofdreadful preparation. 
 My approach cannot be calculated; my 
 
 blow
 
 THE FAMILY OT MONTORIO. 22.1 
 
 blow cannot be averted; my victim cannot 
 resist; my associates cannot betray; yet I 
 linger- — ^yet I would shrink — yet I would 
 retreat : but my fate cannot be resisted. — 
 No, no^ no; my fate cannot be resisted." 
 Cyprian listened in helpless horror. 
 
 Ippolito approached the window; he 
 leant against the foliaged lattice; the 
 breeze of evening blew back his dark hair. 
 Cyprian gazed on him with that mingled 
 pang of anguish and love, of which the 
 bitterness is more than of death. In those 
 visions in which the mind wanders for 
 relief, under the pressure of suffering, 
 but finds it only deepened and refined, 
 he imagined he beheld thoss rich locks 
 rent in distraction; that yet glowing cheek 
 hollow and pale; that noble form wrecked 
 and defaced by suffering; he felt a pang- 
 that must not be told; and scarce sup- 
 pressed the cry that darted to his lips. — ■ 
 Ippolito leant against the casement ; 
 it looked into the garden of the palace; 
 L 5 the
 
 226 FATAL REVENGE ,* OR^ 
 
 the breeze that breathed over groves of 
 rose and orange, played on his cheek; the 
 setting suu sent his beams through the 
 twinkling foliage; they tinged with ruddy 
 amber, they fleckered the waters of a 
 fountain, that gurgled among them, and 
 whose bason where the waters, that play- 
 ed in silver showers in the centre, lay still 
 and deep, gave back the bright and lovely 
 blue of the heavens, without a spot, and 
 without a shade. — Ippolito remained silent 
 long; at length, *' I behold all this,*' said 
 he, *' joyless and unmoved; the burthen 
 that sits so heavy on my soul, has oppress- 
 ed my senses too. Or is it that I am al- 
 ready become a disastrous, discordant atom 
 amid these elements of harmony and love. 
 And am I already at war with nature ? Oh 
 how dreadful to be an alien from our own 
 system and species; not to be able to 
 drink the evening breeze; or glow with 
 the setting beams of the sun; not even to 
 know the pleasure those insects are tasting 
 5 in
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. S27 
 
 in his rays. To wish in vain for the quiet 
 life of the fountain that flows, of the leaf 
 that falls. But no, no, no; to be forced 
 to agency ; to be invested with dreadful 
 responsibility; to hew out with groaning 
 toil, the weight that is to crush me to 
 atoms; is there no other task for me, 
 amid the thousand, thousand lines of hu- 
 man life, branching and intersecting ia 
 endless motion, and infinite directions ? 
 Is there not one for me but this ? And for 
 me, whose heart never harboured a pur- 
 pose of enmity to living thing; who knew 
 not what men meant by hatred } In my 
 days of childhood, Cyprian, I have for- 
 born to disturb the insect that fluttered 
 round me, to crush the reptile that crawled 
 beneath me ; and I must — must — and is 
 there no repeal? And is thefe no retreat? 
 Author of my being and of my fate ! hear 
 my groans! hear my despair! — Father, 
 they are not the groans of a rebel heart ! 
 it is not the despair of daring outrage ! 
 
 but
 
 228 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 but spare me; spare me." 
 
 He rent his hair by handfuls, he cast him- 
 self upon the ground. Cyprian, terrified, 
 but unrestrained, fell beside him, and at- 
 tempted to raise and to sooth him. In a 
 few moments, he sprang from the ground^; 
 he stood erect, but tottering; his hair was 
 dishevelled, his hands were clenched, his 
 eyes were inflamed and wandering, his 
 face was varied by a thousand shades; but 
 a fixed and burning spot of crimson tinged 
 kis cheek, " Whither do you go,-' cried 
 Cyprian, grasping him as he endeavoured 
 to rush from the apartment. " To the 
 theatre, to the gambling-house, to the 
 brothel," he roared, " to floods of wine, 
 to songs of madness; — this cannot be 
 borne ; off, release me, or will you ac- 
 company me, Cyprian, to dissipation, to 
 irenzy, to ruin.*' 
 
 No prayers could pacify, and no strug- 
 gles could withhold him : he seized his 
 sword and cloak, and rushed from the pa- 
 lace.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 259 
 
 lace, madly calling on Cyprian to follow 
 him. The unhappy Cyprian paused; this 
 moment seemed to him the critical one of 
 his life and happiness. To be seen in the 
 streets of Naples, was to encounter a cer- 
 tain and terrible death. He had so long 
 considered life merely as a medium of ser- 
 vice to his master, that this consideration 
 would scarce have detained him to exa- 
 mine it. But what hope in pursuing the 
 career of a maniac.'^ What profit to Ippo- 
 lito in witnessing those orgies he could 
 save him from no longer? He lingered a 
 moment; strong afTectioti triumphed, and 
 he felt the danger of exposing himself, and 
 the despair of serving his master, vanish 
 before that sad and nameless pleasure, 
 v/hich we feel from the simple act of 
 clinging to the persons of those we love ; 
 even when aid is impossible, and consola- 
 tion fruitless. He followed INIontorio, 
 but he followed him with tottering steps; 
 nor could the impassioned strength of his 
 
 feelings
 
 g30 FATAL hevenge; or, 
 
 feelings resist the shock he felt on being 
 for the first time on foot, and unprotected 
 in the streets of Naples. Feeble and terri- 
 fied, he yet tried to keep up with the 
 hurried pace of Ippolito; who, with that 
 lightning-burst of generous feeling, that 
 blazed even through the storm of his pas- 
 sions, turned to him, spoke some consoling 
 but incoherent words, and then support- 
 ing him with his arm, hurried on. From 
 time to time of their progress, Cyprian 
 endeavoured to breathe a few soothing 
 sounds; but the anguish with which the 
 sight of Ippolito's fevered cheek, and 
 fixed eye struck him, drove them back 
 to his heart; or if uttered, they were so 
 inarticulate, that Ippolito was insensible 
 of them. They proceeded with astonishing 
 rapidity, but without any apparent object, 
 till Cyprian, with the provisional caution 
 of fear, tried as he passed, to distinguish 
 the windings of the streets, among which 
 he feared, he might. shortly be left desert- 
 ed 
 
 ~
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 231 
 
 ed and alone. They reached in a short 
 time the extremity of that part of the city 
 where the Montorio palace stood ; they 
 entered a dark, lonely inclosiire. Ippolito 
 who appeared to have been lulled into 
 vacancy by the hum and concourse of the 
 streets through which they passed, now 
 paused and looked around him eagerly, as 
 if struck by the stillness and solitude of the 
 place. " Why have we wandered here?" 
 said Cyprian, timidly ; *' Because^" said 
 Ippolito, in broken tones, '' because it is 
 wild, and dark, and deserted, because it 
 is meet for the ' unt of ruin, and wretch- 
 edness. I love to gaze on this stilly 
 gloom; lo hear the hollow wind that stirs 
 the trees : — w^ould, the evening-shades 
 would settle on this spot for ever ; would, 
 I could dose away being and consciousness 
 here in stunned and stupid listlessness/' 
 
 He leant against one of the trees; his 
 cloak folded on his arm. Twice with a 
 full heart, Cyprian tried to speak, but 
 
 could 
 
 \
 
 232 FATAL revenge; 0% 
 
 could not form a sound. Ippolito heard 
 the murmurs of inarticulate distress near 
 him. " Are you there stilly, Cyprian, 
 will you still cling to me? Leave me, 
 oh leave me to myself; to the dark fight 
 I must encounter alone. Cyprian, you 
 might as well attempt to stop the pro- 
 gress of the night that is spreading round 
 us, as of that darker and portentous ga- 
 thering that involves me; go from me, 
 and be safe ; why should I destroy you ; 
 sweet and innocent boy, approach me 
 not, love me not. But forme, you might 
 have flourished in stainless and joyful puri- 
 ty; but you xvould tempt the fate of a ruined 
 man ; you would go side by side with me in 
 that dark untravelled pat?!, which we must 
 tread in suffering, and terminate in despair. 
 Go from me, while I yet can warn you, yet 
 can commiserate, yet can pity you; a mo- 
 ment longer, and 1 shall be wild and 
 wreckless a3 the hunted savage that rush- 
 es on the weapons of his persecutors, and 
 
 grinds them with his tusks/' 
 
 '' And
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO, 233 
 
 '' And is this then, indeed, our last hour 
 of peace and goodness ! — Is agonized 
 affection summoned to her last trial-task ? 
 Will you indeed be Ippolito no more? — 
 I have no more then to say, no more to 
 ^suffer. — But with my dying hand I must 
 hold you ; I must cling to you with that 
 strength which overcometh all things, with 
 love, which is stron^fer than death ! — I 
 know not the fate which awaits you ; it 
 comes in mist and cloud; nor am I 
 anxious to unfold them, to behold it. 
 Suffice it, it is yours. Therefore, by strong 
 necessity of love, it must be mine. Of 
 my brief and unhappy life, the only ob- 
 ject has been ijoii — for you I have lived— ^ 
 and I must, must, die with yon'' 
 
 Blind with fears, stiPied with convulsive 
 sobs, he grasped Ippolito, who, breaking 
 from him, with a \vild unmeaning laugh, 
 hastily rushed towards a building, which 
 was recently lit up, and to which numbers 
 appeared to be thronging. Stupified with 
 
 astonishment.
 
 ^34 FATAt REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 astoniyhinent, Cyprian beheld this change, 
 but the instinctive fear of desertion im- 
 pelled him to follow. When he entered 
 the building, not even his ignorance could 
 preserve him from discovering its destina- 
 tion. It was a gaming-house, apparently 
 of the lowest description, numbers were 
 already engaged in the pursuit of the 
 evening ; and Ippolito mingled among 
 them with a bold and vivacious eagerness, 
 which his companion beheld with additional 
 anguish. His flushed and impetuous man- 
 ner, his vociferous impatience, his noble 
 air and figure — while they awed the ma- 
 jority, allured a few wily prowlers, who 
 believing him to be disarmed by inebriety, 
 marked him for a sure and profitable prey. 
 Cyprian, aghast, alone, unoticed, stunned 
 by the lights, the confusion, and the jar- 
 gon, objects as new as revolting to a 
 mind of vestal purity, and almost vestal 
 seclusion, yet retained his observation, 
 which was only preserved by the strength 
 
 of
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 2S5 
 
 of those feelingSj that had exposed him 
 ahnost to lose it. From these violent 
 vicissitudes he collected, not that Ippolito's 
 sufferings were too great for the powers 
 of his reason, but that they were too 
 great for the powers of resistance in a 
 mind which, though not destitute of na- 
 tural strength, had been so long accus- 
 tomed to artificial resources of pleasure 
 and consolation, that finding itself unable 
 to adjust its present grievance, by the 
 usual balance of extrinsic relief, it writhed 
 under it in convulsive despair, and pro- 
 duced those throes of grief and fury, of 
 gloom and madness, which had been al- 
 most as terrible to the witness as to the 
 sufferer himself 
 
 He had no long leisure for recollection, 
 for Ippolito, whose success had been as 
 rapid as it was unexpected, sweeping to- 
 gether the money which poured in on him 
 from all parts of the table, scattered it 
 among some Lazaroni who loitered round 
 
 the
 
 S35 FATAL REVENGE ; OT,, 
 
 the door, and with a shout of triumpii, 
 flew from the oramino:- house. 
 
 Cyprian pursued him with all the speed 
 fatigue and fear had left him, but in vain; 
 he called on him, but received no an- 
 swer; he attempted to follow the direc- 
 tion of his steps; hut found he was only 
 pursuing a stranger. Then fear and an- 
 guish came on him; — a wanderer in a 
 populous city, timid, alone, and exposed 
 to greater dangers than he appeared to be 
 threatened by, for one moment of his 
 life he felt a pang in which his feelings 
 for Ippolito had no share. He hastened 
 on with faint and terriiied speed through 
 many streets and avenues, with a blind 
 satisfaction in the thought of proceeding, 
 yet with increasing alarm at every step, 
 till he found himself ao-ain in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the Montorio palace. Ippolito 
 rushed on his mind — further pursuit of 
 him was impossible, yet it was equally 
 impossible to Cyprian to desert him. He 
 
 suddenly
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 237 
 
 suddenly bethought himself of going to 
 the Alberotti palace, which he knew to be 
 at a small distance, and of which he also 
 knew the possessor to be Ippolito's uncle^ 
 of informing him of the late events, and 
 imploring his interference. Wild as this 
 scheme was, and obviously involving the 
 dangers attendant on Cyprian's being re- 
 cognised; he sprang forward, with new 
 and eager strength to execute it. But 
 on reaching the Albeiotli palace, he found 
 the avenues obstructed by carriages, and 
 the portico blazing with torches; there 
 was a conversazione, at which the greater 
 part of the Neapolitan nobility were 
 assembled; among whom, detection was 
 unavoidable, and death was therefore 
 certain. 
 
 From this last resource, he turned away, 
 weary in mind and frame; he attempted 
 to totter a few paces homevvard, but the 
 thought of Ippolito, abandoned to disbipa- 
 lion and depravity, stung through his 
 
 heart
 
 238 FATAL revenge; OK;, 
 
 heart; his limbs failed, he sunk on the 
 steps of an adjacent house, and burst 
 into that helpless flood of anguish, which 
 bespeaks us equally unable to restrain, or 
 derive consolation from them. 
 
 The sudden emptiness of the street, the 
 mildness of the night, tranquillity, silence, 
 and subsiding emotion combined to soften 
 him into a kind of placid imbecility. 
 The thunder-burst of passion was over, 
 and he wept a soft and heavy shower of 
 tears. Too much exhausted for acute or 
 agonised feeling, the images that had 
 passed before him, shed over his mind a 
 gleam of melancholy sorrow, not the glare 
 of madness and despair. Every image of 
 former tenderness or brightness, every 
 dream that had once dressed the thought 
 of Ippolito in the tints of attraction, or 
 the beams of splendour, now aw^akened 
 with cruel contrast the sense of his pre- 
 sent state; low in vice and in wretched- 
 ness, the abasement of his own feelings 
 
 thrilled
 
 TWE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. i253 
 
 thrilled to his heart, and he felt the difTer- 
 ence between those which accompany the 
 tear of rapture, and the tear of humbled 
 regret; between the being he almost bow- 
 ed to worship^ and the being he pursued 
 to rescue, and stooped to raise. 
 
 He wept and ^vas refreshed; he rose 
 cahn and sad, and endeavoured to return 
 to the Montorio palace, with the feeble 
 hope, that some intelligence of their way- 
 ward master, might have reached the do- 
 mestics. As he turned the corner of the 
 Strada di Toledo, a lamp burning before 
 the image of St. Gennaro caught his eye ; 
 and with a smitten eye he turned to pay 
 his passing devotions, where he was con- 
 scious the perturbed state of his mind had 
 too often withheld him from. As he ap- 
 proached the lamp, the figure of a man, 
 muffled and moving hastily, passed him. 
 But no disguise could avail. — " Montorio, 
 oh Montorio!'' — he almost shrieked ; — he 
 flew from the saint, and pursued the 
 
 figure
 
 240 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 figure. It moved with a speed that defied 
 pursuit ; and the utmost exertion of 
 Cyprian's could only keep it in sight. 
 \t followed a direction far from the pa- 
 lace, and Cyprian at length beheld it at 
 some distance enter a spacious house, that 
 appeared filled with company. Cyprian 
 paused and doubted the evidence of his 
 senses; he might be pursuing a stranger, 
 and pursuing him where to follow was 
 dangerous. He had acquired a kind of local 
 courage in these frequent emergencies. 
 
 He saw at a distance two cavaliers of 
 sober demeanour, he approached them, 
 and in a voice of which the tones were 
 like those of a wandering cherub, seeking 
 the way to a purer region, demanded 
 whose house it was, into which the cavalier 
 who had passed them, had entered. The 
 older of the cavaliers looked at him for a 
 moment — '' Perhaps, Signor," said he, "I 
 should, from principle, decline to satisfy 
 your inquiry, but as your youth and ap- 
 pearance
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 211 
 
 pearance prompt me to hope 'tis not 
 urged by a personal motive, I shall inform 
 you, that is the house of Nerina di — — 
 the most celebrated courtezan in Naples.'^ 
 They passed on, and Cyprian remained 
 alone. Stupi/ied by the last inteUigence, 
 he had yet heard every syllable of it, and 
 retained its full meaning. 
 
 Montcrio, in the house of lewdness and 
 shame; the last object of life frustrated; 
 its ^ole hope extinct :— but though the 
 prospect of good was lost, the fear of evil 
 yet remained; the danger of his entering 
 the confines of vice could not be averted, 
 that of his remaining within them still 
 might; yet Cyprian hesitated to follow 
 him. Eut the delicate o[loss.of his feeling 
 v/as now worn off; the shock of encounter 
 had diminis:.ed the danger, or, when com- 
 pared with Ippolito's, all danger seemed 
 to disappear. 
 
 From the first moment he had fatally 
 beheld Montorio, he had never been him- 
 
 YOL. I. M seliV
 
 t4S FATAL KEVENGE ; OR,, 
 
 self. He had patieutly and successively 
 assumed the complexion which Tppolito's 
 character and fortunes had given him ; his 
 smiles or his sufferings were the uniform 
 and necessary echoes of his master's; he 
 had been the passive dependant of his 
 attachment^ whose happiness external cir- 
 cumstances might controul; whose fidelity, 
 rione could, ever. By pursuing him to 
 the verge of ruin, he seemed to be only 
 pursuing the course appointed to him ; 
 in plunging with him, from its final point, 
 he appeared only to be fulfilling the se- 
 vere, but absolute task assigned him. 
 
 These refiectionsrushed through his mind 
 in a moment, and almost unconsciously, 
 he found himself in an apartment of the 
 house. To his inquiries for Montorio, no 
 attention was paid; every one was busied 
 in something that appeared remote from- 
 the purpose which had brought him there. 
 Sick, faint, and terrified, he wandered 
 from to room to room, 5till callingy stilb 
 
 inquiring ;
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 243 
 
 iiiquiring; the house was loud, festive, 
 and tumultuous. - His heart was oppressed, 
 his senses achedi his limbs tottered. Half 
 insensible, but still exclaiming, he rushed 
 against a door, which opening discovered 
 Montorio surrounded by some of the most 
 licentious of the young nobility, revelling, 
 shouting, drunk with licentiousness, and 
 dissolved in wine. Among such a group, 
 Cyprian, (whom some of them had seen 
 at the Montorio palace) was beheld with 
 delight, as an object of mockery and per- 
 secution. They surrounded, they over- 
 whelmed, him with derisive congratulati^ 
 ons; they contended for the distinctions 
 of doing the honours of the revel to him. 
 
 With a strength of mind and frame, which 
 we sometimes owe to the partial absence 
 of reason, Cyprian brake from them, and 
 staggeringto the seat where Ippolitoredin- 
 ed, clung to him, exclainjing, save me, save 
 me; save your own soul alive — take me from 
 thi^:^ house of sin, or I die at your feet." 
 M 2 Ippolito,
 
 244 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 Ippolito, starting as if from a trance^ 
 protected Cyprian with his arm, and 
 repelh'ng his persecutors with a fierce- 
 ness which awed even the rage of drunk- 
 enness, rushed from the house bear- 
 ing his breathless preserver with him. 
 They were pursued by the unheeded roar 
 of dissolute malignity, but in a short time 
 it was unheard, and they drank without 
 interruption, the dewy freshness of the 
 breeze of night ; they saw the chaste and 
 silent brightness of the stars; they caught 
 that deep and stilly humming, so pleasant 
 to the ear, that loves to listen by night. 
 
 They reached the Montorio palace in 
 silence, and Cyprian with joy perceived 
 Ippolito preparing to enter it. — They had 
 now reached the portico, when the clock 
 in the great hall was heard to strike 
 " twelve." Ippolito started and paused, 
 and by the lamps of the portico, Cyprian 
 f^^w his eye roll fearfully. — He turned — 
 *' Whither, oh whither do you go } -Have 
 
 I sought
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIG. 245 
 
 I sought, have I saved you for this?'' 
 cried Cyprian^ clinging to him^ with re- 
 newed and impatient anguish. — " Off, 
 release me, I may not be held ; longer 
 than midnight I must not delay; there 
 is no danger ; whither I go, human good 
 and evil cannot come; virtue and vice are 
 negative things: at this houif, I am no 
 more a mortal agent ; — release me ; my 
 hour is come, I may not be delayed/* 
 ** These are words of madness," said Cy- 
 prian, struggling, though hopelessly, to 
 hold him; " whither have I not followed? 
 and wherefore must I be repelled ? Fear, 
 nor danger, nor sin have deterred me! 
 Oh let me not be left behind ! What can I 
 witness worse than I shall fear 1 What can I 
 suffer so terrible as your danger?'' — He 
 pleaded in vain. Ippolito was gone with 
 a speed which the iktigues of the iiight 
 had rendered marvclKous, and Cypiian 
 entered the palace with a fieshn.ss of 
 anguish which its suiTeriiigs had not ex- 
 hausted. CiiAP.
 
 ^46 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 
 lAjter fro^ Annibal di Moniorio. 
 
 Turn demum horrisono stridcntes cardine sacrae 
 Panduntur portge. Cernis^ cuatodia quails 
 Vestibulo sedcat. 
 
 Virgil, lib. vi. 
 
 Then of itself, unfolds th' eternal door : 
 With dreadful sounds the brazen hinges roar. 
 You see before the gate^ what stalking ghost 
 Commands the guard, what Gentries keep the post. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Whatever be the termination oX theise 
 researches^, I ah'eady lament the efFeets or 
 their progress, nor can I review the tif-'^ 
 cumstances 1 am about to relate, wittforit' 
 
 many
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 247 
 
 many reproaches on my timidity and 
 more on my obduracy. The feelings 
 of doubt and uncertainty which had been 
 suggested by my late visit to the apart- 
 ments I communicated to Michelo, who, 
 eager to adopt any thing that promised a 
 Temission of the task imposed on him, 
 avowed it his belief, that the tenant of 
 that tower had signified his displeasure 
 of our intrusion by the signs we had wit- 
 nessed, of which he declared our further 
 misconstruction might expose us to dan-^ 
 gers he dared not to name. I took coun- 
 sel of his fear, unhappily for both, and 
 believing, or compelling myself to be- 
 lieve, that one avenue was rendered im- 
 passable by a strength it would be impiety 
 to resist, I resolved to repair at midnight 
 to the chapel, and visit the tomb of 
 Count Orazio, where the appearances, I 
 determined to examine, were more fre- 
 qfient and obvious, and where therefore, 
 some suspicion of their being produced, 
 
 by
 
 MS FATAL revenge; OK;, 
 
 % an agent such as myself, qualified the 
 fear which in the tower I had found in- 
 supportable without such relief Michelo, 
 who had become as, w^eary of deprecating, 
 as I of importuning, made no resistance, 
 and when (to compensate to myself for 
 the timidity that had mingled in my de-' 
 sign of omitting the tower) I determined 
 to visit the tomb on that night, he pro- 
 mised to attend me. 
 
 He was to procure the keys, for he de- 
 clined with so much terror the subterra- 
 nean passages by which we had once 
 resorted there, that I declined the pro- 
 posal. Our few preparations were soon 
 adjusted — long cloaks — a lamp carried in 
 a lanthorn — and I determined to bring 
 my sword. These arrangements v/ere 
 made with the whispering caution of 
 fear, and we separated. During the re- 
 ijiainder of the day, I felt myself involun- 
 tarily shunning the eye of Michelo, from 
 a lurking apprehension that every glance 
 
 we
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 249 
 
 we exchano;ed was observed and inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 The night at length arrived; our dull 
 and regular household dispersed; I retired 
 to T\y apartment; my thoughts were 
 occupied by the purpose of the nighty 
 and I endeavoured to banish from my 
 recollection the circumstances that had 
 attended my last visit to the chapel. 
 They rose before me in strong shape and 
 clearness; 1 saw them on every side, as 
 I stalked acre :S my chamber. I felt them, 
 as I endeavoured to heave them off my 
 breast^ pressing on it, a thick and impal- 
 pable weight. With them came many a 
 disastrous presage of uncertain evil. The 
 whole ghastly troop seemed to be array- 
 ing for the encounter at niidnigiit, in the 
 tomb. My tenors increased, and though 
 I felt that Michelo's arrival was but the 
 signal for those terrors to commence, I 
 yet longed for his approach, for the pre- 
 sence of a human being. — This struggle 
 M 5 of
 
 S50 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 of involuntary meditation was interrupt- 
 ed by a noise at the door ; it was Miche-; 
 lo. — '' Hush, Signor, it is T; are you pre^ 
 pared ?" — " I am. '' — " Then come, Signor,* 
 but speak ^nd tread softly/' — '' Why this 
 caution, have not the family retired?'* 
 " All, Signor, but the pages who are now 
 assembling to watch in my lord's chamber. 
 But then, Signor," — '' What then, why 
 this hesitation V — '' There is one in this 
 house," pushing his pale face close to me, 
 and whispering, " one who never sleeps, 
 or if he does, can do all the actions of 
 of a living man; yea, and more, wTiile 
 he would seem to sleep.'' — '^ Absui'd, 
 Michelo, banish these dreams bf featY^' 
 '' Nay, KSignor — but I am silent,— tread 
 softly, however, Signor." 
 
 We proceeded through the gallery wit% 
 cautious steps ; we had now reached the 
 stairs, when a distant sound was heard; 
 "Hark," said I. Michelo turned round, and 
 started on observing we were near the a, 
 
 partment
 
 THE FAMILY QP MONTORIO. 251' 
 
 partment of Father Schemoli. He commu- 
 nicated this in a whisper. "Proceed,"' said 
 L< ** L isaw the confessor retire to his apart- 
 ment an hour ago."' — " Yes/' muttered Mi- 
 chelo^** but heaven knows what apartments 
 inclose him now." — W« descended the stair- 
 case, muffling our lanthorn, and starting 
 as the wind shook the casements, and the 
 steps creaked beneath our tread. We 
 reached the great hall, and stole through 
 it almost, without touching the pave- 
 ment. 
 
 The deep and midnight silence, the 
 
 dampness and dull echoes of the marble 
 
 floor; the huge and dusky height of the 
 
 walls and roof, over which our single 
 
 lamp shed a dull ,unpiercing gleam, m.ade 
 
 our passage appear like a progress through- 
 
 a vault. Michelo applied the key to the 
 
 great door, and I wrapped rny cloak about 
 
 the lock to suppress the sound while he 
 
 turned the key. Wonder, not at thisfeeble 
 
 minujteness; I cannafc 4hinkj of myself, 
 
 creeping
 
 ^62 ^Atal revenge; Oi?, 
 
 creeping along in silence and in fear, with- 
 out wishing you to accompany me; for 
 sufferings, whether voluntary or not, we 
 always expect some compensation, eithet 
 of participation, or of pity. — We issued 
 into the outer court, and I felt refresh- 
 ment in the air of heaven, though it blew 
 damp and sultry. 
 
 We now entered the chapel, and. ha- 
 ving reached, through many ruinous ob- 
 structions, the tomb of the late Count, 
 we concealed our lamps, mufficd our cloaks 
 about us, so as to conceal as much of the 
 human form (if seen) as possible; and 
 lurking behind a projecting pediment of 
 the tomb, awaited the event in a state of 
 feeling difficult to describe.- — There was 
 nothing to relax its intense and severe 
 controul. There was no external sound- 
 no light, no motion. It was one of those 
 nights, in which you icel, from time to 
 time, a hot blast hissing paist yoii, that 
 sinks again into silence. Anight, in 
 
 which
 
 THE FAMILY OP MONTORIO. ^53 
 
 which the dark and heavy clouds seem to 
 be working with inward tumults; in which^ 
 from expecting a storm long, we begin 
 almost to wish for its approach. 
 
 The moon, often struggling through 
 the clouds, tinged for a moment their 
 sombrous and surging masses, with a 
 bright and sudden light that vanished in 
 a moment ; and the night-dew3 fell with 
 almost perceptible damp and heaviness. 
 On the dubious features of the structure^ 
 tombs and monuments, windows dusky 
 with foliage, and arches shapeless in 
 ruin, these bursts of light and darkness 
 played with such shadowy influence, 
 that he must have had senses not easily 
 deluded, who could be convinced he saw 
 nothing more there than might be seen 
 by day. 
 
 I, however, felt that my situation re- 
 quired me to collect firmness, not to dis- 
 sipate it, and 1 attempted to converse with 
 * Michela.
 
 254 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 Michelo. *' Tell me/' said I, " why, \st\\m 
 the vaults of this chapel were already nu- 
 merous and spacious enough to contain 
 the remains of our family, why was a mo- 
 nument erected for Count Orazio, for onq 
 too, whose end, I have reason to believe, 
 was obscure and tragical ? And why, 
 above all, was it erected in this ruinous 
 and deserted pile, instead of that within, 
 the walls of the castle, which is still fre- 
 quented by the family/* 
 
 " There is a strange report;, Signor," 
 whispered the old man, " concerning thi& 
 tomb, and the reason of its being built. 
 Many things had concurred to drive it 
 from my memory, but your inquiry has 
 recalled it. It is needless to remind you, 
 Sit^nor, how much all your illustrious fa- 
 mily have been attached to secret studies. 
 But of all, the Count your great grand- 
 father was most engaged in them. He 
 devoted his entire soul to them ; nay^, 
 some said so in such a tone, as if they 
 
 wished
 
 THE .FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 955 
 
 wished to be understood literally. But, 
 oh ! Signor, what am I saying — rest his 
 bones, they lie within a few steps of us/* 
 '' Why this interruption, Michelo ?'* — " Is 
 it not fearful, Signor, to speak of the 
 dead, when we feel them to be so near 
 us!'' The effect of this observation on my- 
 self, I endeavoured to conceal, by urging 
 him to proceed. '^ Well, Signor, (lower- 
 ing his Toice as if to deceive the dead,) 
 be that as it may, no power could drag 
 him from these studies; and at length it 
 was said he had invented by his art, a 
 glass, that could shew him every event 
 and person he wished to see. It is cer- 
 tain, that after his decease, my Lord, your 
 gi'and father, spent many days shut up in 
 his father's closet — examining and des- 
 troying his instruments and books; and 
 "'tis said, strange and doleful sounds were 
 heard to issue from the room while he was 
 tli'us employed. But the task was an invo- 
 luntary one, for I have heard the Inquisi- 
 tion
 
 256 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 tion were beginning to consider his pro- 
 ceedings as offi'nsive, and had actually 
 dismissed their ministers to examine into 
 them, and to search the castle. 
 
 "Aliltle before the old Count's death, he 
 is said to have discovered by his wi dom, 
 that there was a spot in the circuit of the 
 castle, which would be the seat of calamity 
 ancj destruction to the family. He imme-. 
 diately set himself to disco'^'Cr where this 
 spot might be; and I ( onciude, that, if it' 
 required so much skill to Tind out that it 
 did exist, it required still more to discover 
 where. However, your great grandfather 
 was in no wise dismayed, he pursued his 
 point resolutely, and at length discovered 
 the fatal spot to be the very one on v/hich 
 we now stand." — '' What ! the spot on 
 which this tomb has been built }" — " The 
 same, Signor. I have heard that the Count 
 apprized his family of this circumstance, 
 but the discovery slumbered unnoticed, 
 till your uncle, Count Orazio, hearing of 
 
 it.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 257 
 
 it, and beino^, as I have mentioned, much 
 versed in those studies himself, ordered a 
 monuoieiit for himself to be erected on 
 the spot, hoping by this means to fulfil, 
 and yet to avert tlie prediction — to defeat, 
 yet not appear to defy it." 
 
 tew that connected what I had wit- 
 nessed on this spot, with what I now 
 heard; could blame the emotion to which 
 I yielded for a moment. But, though the 
 denunciation was terrible, there is a so- 
 lemnity in whatever we suppose to be 
 connected with our fate, that divests it of 
 the hideous ghastliness attending other 
 subjects of supernatural aspect, and that 
 marks the bounds of awe and of horror. — 
 Under a decree^ the m^ind bends in con- 
 trolled and gloomy passiveness, appalled 
 but not convulsed — without the reluct- 
 ance and revoltings of visionary terror. 
 As the attempt to relax my feelings had 
 been so unsuccessful, I tuined for relief 
 to silence and to meditation. — The bell 
 tolled twelve.—- — Michelo
 
 §58 FATAL revenge; or^ 
 
 , Michelo now^ eagerly, but still whisper- 
 ing, said, " Look, Signor, look, through- 
 this <:hasm in the wall you may see— nay 
 Signor, lower, yet lower — you must bend,. 
 Signor, — now do you see, Signor, a frag- 
 ment of the castle, just above the great 
 stairs?"'—-"! do see that part of the castle, 
 which I believe to be adjacent to the great 
 stairs/" 
 
 \^' There, Signor, is Father Schemoli's 
 apartment; that part of the tower, and 
 that narrow window, in which you see a 
 light burning, belong to his oratory : — ► 
 now Signor, every night his lamp is to be 
 seen in that window till midnight, and 
 ever when the bell tolls it is said tp disap- 
 pear; nor, from that hour, can he be 
 found, nor can it be conjectured, whcf^ 
 or how he is employed: — this only a is 
 known, he is not to be found in his apartr. 
 ment. But his friends, it is said, are a* 
 no loss to find employment for l^m;^;^- 
 Sometimes he holds a feast with . them; in 
 
 the
 
 THE FAMILY OTMONTORIO. 259 
 
 the vault — and sometimes he mixes in 
 I procession with them^ thi?ough that tower, 
 andsings in their unholy mass at midnight. '* 
 j ""What w^ords are these, Michelo, and what 
 ^ is their import ? '' '' Heed not me, Signor, 
 niia'k the lamp ; see, Signor, see, it grows 
 i dita, and more dim, and now it is gone — 
 Holy Peter — it will be with us momently/' 
 The emotion with which 1 had watch- 
 ed the extinction of the lamp, I endea- 
 voured to resist, as the cause was utter- 
 ly inadequate to excite it — "And what 
 I are we to infer from this, Michelo?- 
 I The Confessor may be permitted to extin- 
 guish his lamp at midnight?' " Ah ! but, 
 Signor, (depressing his voice to its lowest- 
 tones,) 'tis from that moment, that strange 
 appearances at this tomb are said to com- 
 mence/' — " Of the truth of that, we shall 
 then soon be enabled to judge,'" said I, 
 endeavouring to derive fortitude from the 
 I intelligence. The expectation which it 
 suggested, scarce permitted me -to draw 
 
 my
 
 260 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 my breath. I continued to gaze vacantly, 
 but fixedly, for : knew not in what direc- 
 tion to expect the approach of this visita- 
 tion. '^ Lock, look, K^ ignor/' Michelo ex- 
 claimed, " look yonder, — now, Signor, do 
 you believe, now do you behold'" — Ashe 
 spake, a light resembling that we had once 
 before seen, a pale, dull light, appeared 
 moving along a passage, which opens by 
 an arch into the east wing of the chapel. 
 In amaze 1 observed it issue from the 
 lower end, where I knew there was neither 
 door nor aperture. 
 
 I marked its approach, for it was slow : 
 it seemed to have proceeded from the 
 ground, gradually arising and advancing, 
 and looking dim^ tremulous, and sepul- 
 chral. 
 
 Michelo, leaning across the angle of 
 the monument, grasped my arm; there 
 was no sound; the very wind was still; 
 I heard the beating of my heart. At this 
 moment, the jnoon riding over the billowy 
 
 clouds.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 261 
 
 clouds, poured a broad and sudden light 
 through that passage. It played uncer- 
 tainly through the rifted roof^ and fell 
 full on the arch communicating %vith the 
 chapel. In that instant I beheld a figure 
 standing beneath the arch; a dark gigan- 
 tic figure; its form and attitude I could 
 nat discover; the light was brief and sud- 
 den, and the vision confused and imper- 
 fect; but I discovered, that, as if folded 
 in its vesture, it held the lis^ht we had 
 seen, and which, in the moon -shine, was 
 diminished to a sm.al], dull twinkle. I 
 pressed Michelo's arm in token of obser- 
 vation, he returned the pressure; neither 
 of us spoke; — all was dark — even that 
 pale light had disappeared. — " He has 
 seen us," murmured Michelo. — " Hush," 
 said I, '' let us await its approach in si- 
 lence." — '' vSomething is near/' said the 
 old man, ^' I feel the ground near me 
 pressed, as if by feet."— " Kush,'* said I, 
 *' all is silent, a body, cannot move with- 
 2 out
 
 S63 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 out sound."—'*' There is something near/' 
 whispet-ed he again, " for I feel the air 
 driven to my face, as if some one passed 
 me."—" '1 is the bat," said I, '' that whiz- 
 zes past you, or the wind that waves the 
 ivy; 1 have heard, or felt nothing yet." 
 '' Oh no, Signor, there is a strange mo- 
 tion in the air; a rank and stifling chill- 
 ness, as if something that was not good, 
 breathed upon us.'* 
 
 There came indeed a blast across us, not 
 like the blasts of that night, loud and fever- 
 ish; but cold and noisome, like a charnel- 
 stream. We shuddered as it passed ; I felt 
 some effort necessary, to resist the palsied 
 feeling that was stealing over me: ^^ Mi- 
 chelo, let us not be baffled a second time. 
 This form, whatever it be, is probably ap* 
 proaching; before it oppress us with 
 some strange influence, I will rush forth 
 and meet it : and be they favourable or 
 malignant, I will know its power and pur- 
 poses.'' 
 
 Michelo's
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOItlO. 363 
 
 Michek>'s faint voice of dissuasion was 
 Jost in the wind that sighed hollowly 
 through the aisles. I clambered out from 
 my lurking place, and endeavoured to feel 
 my way in the direction of the light and 
 of the figure; for the central aisle was 
 how totally dark. I advanced a few paces, 
 I felt something rush past me — not with 
 the distinct and alternate step of a hu- 
 man foot, but as if it glided above the 
 earth, and was borne on without effort. 
 I paused^ and extended my arms — they 
 encountered something that felt like a 
 human hand, raised, and extended, and 
 as it were, pointing onwards; I now call- 
 ed aloud to Michelo to turn the lanthorn, 
 and to guard the door of the vault. By 
 the noise that followed, I conceived he 
 attempted to obey me, but at that mo- 
 ment a cry of horror burst from the 
 tomb ; the light disappeared, and the 
 door of the vault, closed with a thun- 
 dering crash. — All remained in «lence 
 
 .' \: . and
 
 264 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 and darkness. — I stood petrified; I called 
 on Michelo, and shuddered at the echoes 
 of my own voice — I attempted to move, 
 but felt as if a step beyond the spot on 
 which J stood, would be into a gulph. 
 At length I broke from this trance of fear; 
 I felt my way to the tomb — I called on 
 Michelo again ; believing him to have 
 swooned. I felt all the pavement and 
 pediments *vvith the hilt of my sword — ■ 
 Mirhclo was not to be found; the tomb 
 appeared to have opened her mouth, and 
 sw llowcd him up. I applied my utmost 
 strength in vain to the door of the vault, 
 and though I almost expected it to burst 
 open, and disclose a sight that would 
 sear the eye, or unsettle the brain — I yet 
 persisted to struggle with frantic force ; 
 no success attended my efforts, no sound 
 encoura2:ed them. Once i thou^rht I heard 
 a low and feeble moaning — but it was lost 
 in that confused and humming sound, 
 with which the eflfort to listen intensely, 
 
 jilled
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOBIO. S65 
 
 filled my ear. Fear and shame, and im- 
 patience distracted me; — to force the 
 wretched, reluctant, old victim, to a pur- 
 suit from which he recoiled; to betray 
 him into the veiy grasp and circle of it; 
 to leave him expiring amid horrors, of 
 which even to th'mk was not safe; to do 
 I this, was to me impossible. 
 
 The being, at whose approach I had 
 shuddered, I would at that moment have 
 encountered and grappled with, to rescue 
 his miserable prey; but there was no hope, 
 and no power of assistance. I could not 
 rend open the vault, and to alarm the 
 castle, would be to draw on us from my 
 father's resentment, consequences as ter- 
 rible as any power could menace us 
 with. More than an hour was spent in 
 fruitless efforts and expedients; at length, 
 I conceived it possible to rouse some of 
 the servants who were lodged in an adja- 
 cent wing of the castle, and by rewards to 
 secure their silence with regard to the ob- 
 
 voi„ T. N lect
 
 266 FATAL REVENGE ,* OR, 
 
 ject for which their services were required. 
 
 It was when I moved from the cha- 
 pel to execute this purpose, that I 
 felt terrors of which I had been before 
 insensible. Alone, at midnight, among 
 the dead and their mansions, and pro- 
 bably near to some being, whose influ- 
 ence and image were the more terrible, 
 because they were undefined and un- 
 imaginable; because they hovered, with 
 a dim aspect of uncertainty, between 
 the elements and agency of different 
 worlds; because they could not be refer- 
 red to any distinct or sensible point of 
 fear, nor admitted of any preparation 
 against them, such as men can always 
 make against a human foe, and some- 
 times against an invisible one. 
 
 Haunted by these feelings, I yet mov- 
 ed on. The night was now still and dark; 
 and in the massy line of shapeless dark- 
 ness, which the castle spread before me, 
 I would have given half its value to have 
 
 discovered
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 
 
 267 
 
 discovered one spark oriight; there was 
 not one. In that deep stillness (which 
 made the echo of my steps seem like the 
 tread of many) the slightest sound was 
 not lost. I had almost reached the castle- 
 terrace, and was debating which wing ta 
 approach, when the hoarse and heavy 
 grating of the door of the vault reached 
 my ear. — I paused —I heard it close. 
 Doubting, fearing, yet with a vague ex- 
 pectation of relief, I hastened back. — ■ 
 A light breeze waved my hair as I passed, 
 and the volumes of cloud and vapour, 
 floated back from the east, like a dark 
 curtain-fold, and the moon stood calm 
 and bright, in a deep azure field, tinging 
 the fractured and shifting masses with 
 silver as they retired. I blessed it, and 
 wondered how often I had beheld that 
 lovely light with apathy, or with plea- 
 sure, in which sympathy for the benight- 
 ed whom it cheered, or for the v/anderer 
 whom it succoured, had no share. 
 
 N 2 I sought
 
 f6S FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 I sought the aisle again. The moon 
 poured a light as broad as day; through 
 the windows. I saw the tomb of Count 
 Orazio. I beheld a figure seated on it; 
 I advanced in hope and fear. It was 
 Michelo — he sat like a mariner^ who leans 
 on a bare and single crag, after the tem- 
 pest and the wreck; he w^as haggard, spent, 
 and gasping. — I rushed to him, but he 
 appeared not to hear my moving; his 
 head was raised, and his look fixed on 
 the arched passage; the moon-light pour- 
 ed a ghastly and yellow paleness on his 
 still features. I looked in his eyes, they 
 were hollow and glazed; I touched his 
 hand, it was cold and dropped from mine. 
 I shuddered, and scarce thought him an 
 earthly man. A moment reproached my 
 fears, and I tried to address some words 
 of comfort and inquiry to him, but I was 
 repelled by an awe in which I scarce 
 thought Michelo an agent. 
 ^/ Woe^ woe/' groaned the old man, with 
 
 a voice
 
 THE FAIvnLY OF MONTORIO. 26 S 
 
 a voice unlike a mortal sounds, his arms rais- 
 ed and outspread, his eye wild and dilated, 
 his whole form and movement rapt into a 
 burst of prophetic ecstacy. I involunta- 
 rily retreated from him: " Alas, how is it 
 with you, IMichelo ! let me conduct you 
 from this spot; never will I forgive my- 
 self for having forced you to it. Haste 
 away with me ; my father may rouse in 
 the night, the domestics may be sum- 
 moned to attend his vigils in the chapel, 
 and we shall be discovered ; hasten back 
 with me, Michelo." — '' Woe, woe, w^oe,*' 
 said the old man again, and bowed his 
 head, and fell on the pavement. 
 
 I bore him from the chapel in my arms; 
 tottering, for the weight of age and insen- 
 sibility is heavy. The air seemed to revive 
 him ; and I saw, by the moonlight, some- 
 thing like colour, come to his dead face 
 again. As I gazed on, and spoke to him, 
 a shadow stronger than the weaving of the 
 cypi ess-boughs, crossed the spot. I look- 
 ed
 
 270 FATAL PJ;VENGE ; OR, 
 
 ed up, I beheld issuing from behind the 
 buttress^ against which I leaned with my 
 burthen^ the dark, and shapeless form I 
 had beheld, — (The moon disappeared.) — 
 h passed me, and proceeded towards the 
 castle. I gasped, but could not speak to 
 it — I stretched out my arms, but had no 
 power to pursue it — It floated onward, 
 and with these eyes I beheld it enter the 
 wall of the castle. It was at the solid but- 
 tress angle of a tower, whose strong line 
 was visible in the shade ; there was nei- 
 ther door nor aperture, but there was 
 neitherobstruction nor delay. The moon 
 burst forth again as it retired, and Michelo 
 imclosed his weak eye on its beam. He 
 rose tremblingly; I supported him. We 
 proceeded towards the castle ; neither of 
 us spoke, but he moaned heavily, and 
 closed his eye from time to time. We 
 <reached the great hall, the door of which 
 we had left open; all pov/er or wish of 
 inquiry died w^ithin me, . 
 
 When
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 271 
 
 When we heard our steps on the pave- 
 ment of the hall, and felt vve trod in the 
 house of the living, Michelo with a falter- 
 ing hand made the sign of the cross, and 
 swooned again. I had much difficulty 
 in brin^j^ing him to my apartment, and 
 often I thought I heard sounds that passed 
 me, and felt a motion in the passages 
 other than what myself occasioned; but 
 I was in a state of mind in which it is 
 difficult to avoid the illusions of fear. 
 V/hen revived and recovered, he implored 
 to be led to his own apartment. His eye 
 w^as yet wild, and his words were inco- 
 herent. I hesitated, but yielded to his 
 earnestness. — '' Lead me, Signor," said 
 he, " to my turret, other hands shall bear 
 me from it ; lead me to my bed, a better 
 rest than it shall give me^, is near/' 
 
 I attended him. I had forborne to impor- 
 tune him, but the wild resolution, the 
 mystery of his silence, wrought with my 
 abated fears of his safety, to excite a soli- 
 citude
 
 S72 FATAL revenge; OR, 
 
 citude I could not resist. I seated him 
 in his chair, I trimmed his lamp, and de- 
 parting with a rekictant step, asked, 
 " Michelo, what have you seen?" — " The 
 secrets of the grave/' said the old man, 
 without a pause, and without a whisper. 
 His boldness emboldened me. '' And dare 
 you relate them, Michelo?'* — '' And dare 
 you listen to them, if I dare?" said the 
 old man, fixing his eyes, which shone 
 with strange light, on me. '' I dare — so 
 help me heaven, and all the saints, as no 
 weak, peifsonal concern or fear mingles in 
 the spirit with which I await the deve- 
 lopment of these mysteries." — " No more 
 to-right, Signor," said the old man, re- 
 lapsing into weakness, '• leave me to- 
 night, leave me to silence, and to heaven. 
 I have need of prayer and of preparation ; 
 my time is brief, and my task terrible. 
 But come to the turret, and knock to- 
 morrow, and if I be alive, I will answer 
 you." — lie fell before a crucifix, and 
 
 prayed
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO, 273 
 
 prayed fervently. The lamp shed its light 
 on his white temples and closed eyes. I 
 retired, and when I closed the door of the 
 the narrow turret-room, I felt as if I had 
 closed the door of a tomb. 
 
 The preceding lines were written in 
 the remainder of that disastrous night, 
 which had left me too much agitated for 
 sleep; I have forborne to send them that I 
 mio:ht add to them an account of our- • • • 
 
 Ippolito, I am distracted with shame 
 and contrition. Michelo is indeed dying. 
 The first domestic whom I saw this morn- 
 ing, told me, (what I endeavoured to 
 listen to, as unexpected,) that Michelo 
 was ill, and that he had sent for a monk 
 of St. Nicolo, in Naples, to attend him. 
 *' Strange, Signor/' said the sei^ant, '' that 
 N 5 ' with
 
 €74 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 with so pious a confessor as Father Sche- 
 moli in the castle^, he would prefer send- 
 ing to the monastery of St. Nicolo.*' 
 
 'I endeavoured to reconcile myself to 
 thisintelligence.thatthough Michelo might 
 suffer by the shock he had received, it 
 was unlikely those sufferings would be 
 long or severe^ far less mortal^ and I de- 
 termined to visit him in the evening, 
 when delay would disarm suspicion, if 
 any existed. But what was my conster- 
 nation, when I heard the family physi- 
 cian declare that his patient would not 
 probably outlive the day. The vital system, 
 he said, had received a shock he could 
 neither discover nor remove. ''^AJichelo 
 is neither dying of age, nor of disease, 
 but he will not probably outlive the day." 
 I have heard it whispered in the castle 
 that my father, on this intelligence, de- 
 sired an interview with Michelo, which 
 was determinately declined. Strange con- 
 descension, and Btrange refusal ! Twice 
 
 to-day
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 275 
 
 to-day have I endeavoured to see him^ 
 but his confessor has not yet left him ; 
 they have been alone for hours. Hark I 
 I am summoned — he will iee me now. 
 The monk has left the castle abruptly. — 
 My spirits are solemnly touched. A mo- 
 ment ago, they were agitated, but this 
 summons, and the expectation it has 
 breathed through me, has hushed them 
 into a severe stillness. Amid all ray re- 
 gret for this unhappy old man, whom 
 I have klMed as surely as if I had thrust 
 my stiletto into his heart, there survives 
 an impression of solicitude, of doubt, and 
 of awe, which I am anxious to feed with 
 strange intelligence. The hour, the place, 
 the purpose, are most solemn; it is 
 night — I go to the bed of a dying man, 
 to learn the secrets of the grave ! • . • . 
 
 I am
 
 276 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 I am returned, and the impression I 
 have brought with me, what shall efflice ? 
 My mind^ is so completely filled, that I 
 feel as if no other subject would ever 
 occupy it, and I write, almost as I think, 
 involuntarily. — I found Michelo in his 
 narrow bed. A pale and single lamp lit 
 the room, he held a crucifix in his hand, 
 to which he raised his dim eye from time 
 to time. There was another person in 
 the room, whom, when I became accus- 
 tomed to that faint light, I discovered to 
 be Filippo, the nephew of Michelo. 
 '' Signor Annibal,'' said the old man, 
 ** draw near, I have many things to say; 
 but my last hours are under that dark 
 controul which has held them long, and 
 till a certain moment 1 can utter nothing 
 of import. Signor, you see me dying ; 
 this is the reward of my long and guilty 
 silence. Alas I flattered myself, that si- 
 lence was not participation ; but a death- 
 bed convicts a 1 self-deceivers. The holy 
 
 monk
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 277 
 
 monk is now in possession of my last de- 
 claration; prepare you, Signer, for its con- 
 sequences. You have sought a discovery, 
 which will anticipate your efforts. Even 
 I who would have concealed it, by par- 
 tial communications, and pacifying ex- 
 pedients, am made an instrument of its 
 disclosure. / see its approach, with the 
 indifference of a man who has no more part 
 in this world; but you, oh you, how shall 
 I prepare you, young, noble, and impetu- 
 ous, how prepare you for it ! The House 
 of Montorio must fall I'* 
 
 Indignation and amaze kept me silent a 
 moment; the dying m.an before me was no 
 object for the former ; but I fervently wish- 
 ed those words were uttered by some other 
 mou th, down which I might thrust them with 
 ay sword's point. '^ Tis well for him,'' said 
 I, " your intelligence came from no living 
 man; but even from the dead, I will not 
 believe it true." The old man kissed the 
 crucifix. " So may He to whom lam hast- 
 ening.
 
 278 FATAL revenge; ORj 
 
 ening, receive my soul." I paused^ and 
 trembled^ and signified by a motion to 
 him, to proceed. " Not yet, not yet, 
 Signor; my hour is not come; and till that 
 arrive, I cannot be released: but many 
 are the signs that tell me it is near. 
 
 " I shall not linfi:er lono^, Sio^nor, 
 tell me the hour, and tell me the mo- 
 ment.'' '' But five minutes more/' said 
 J, " and it will be eleven." '' Five 
 minutes," repeated he, '' it seems but a 
 short space to one who has seen sixty-five 
 years; yet I would they were over. — 
 Look still, Signor, asid count to every 
 moment as it passes." I did so. The old 
 man repeated the numbers as I told them. 
 " And now, Signor, now," said he, " is 
 the last arrived ? " " The hand is on the 
 last stroke ; now it reaches it, and now— 
 hark to the bell. "< — " It is eleven — Fiiippo 
 leave us." Fiiippo retired. I drew nearer 
 the bed. 
 
 The old man spoke feebly, and with 
 5 many
 
 THE FAMILY O? MONTORIO. 279 
 
 many pauses. " I draw near the hour of 
 my dissolution. — What I have known, or 
 "v.'hat I have concealed, will soon be pub- 
 lished. That the disclosure will probably 
 affect the fortunes and honours of your 
 house, I presage too well. To prepare 
 you for it, Signor, shall be the task of my 
 last hour. — There is a being — he is no 
 living man ; his thoughts and movements 
 are beyond our knowledge; yet he passes 
 before your eyes^ and moves^, and speaks^ 
 and looks with a show and form of life. 
 This being, I dvire not name his name, 
 has held meTong in his controul. I dared 
 not to speak or move, but as I was bidden, 
 for he held power which man might not 
 resist. But I am now released, for I am 
 dying. I shall soon be as he is, and 
 shudder not to meet him. But while I 
 yet speak with a huip.an voice, let me 
 warn you of what impends over yonr 
 house, Signor. He is ilie evil genius of it 
 — he is the very power commissioned to 
 
 act
 
 280 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 act and to witness its destruction/* 
 " Who is this of whom you speak ?" He 
 crossed his brow. " I may not name 
 his name ; all that rests is to tell what he 
 has told, and what he has told, shall sure- 
 ly come to pass. 
 
 " Many a night have I dimly beheld him 
 — many a night have I felt his hollow whis- 
 per pass into mine ears: but, last night, I 
 saw him — I saw him,'' said he, shuddering, 
 " face to face ! " '^'Whom? — where? delay 
 this terrible intelligence no longer; what 
 have you seen^, and what have you heard ?" 
 
 " I was at the door of the vault," said 
 he, faltering ; " you left me, and wan- 
 dered up the aisle — I felt that unearthly 
 thing approach ; you called to me to ex- 
 pose the light ; I tried to do so ; but I v/as 
 grasped by an influence that froze me up. 
 The cold and bony hand was on me ; the 
 blood in my veins thrilled and crept like 
 tb^ cold motion of a worm ; the door of 
 the vault was rent open; I was dashed 
 
 down
 
 THE FAMILY OF MOXTORIO. 281 
 
 down \t, as if by a whirlwind. — The door 
 was closed on us, and I felt as if I was no 
 more a human being. — I did not lose my 
 reason; I knew J was among the dead, 
 and with one I feared more than the dead; 
 but I had a kind of ghastly courage. I felt 
 as if the touch of that hand had made me 
 like him that owned it. I was able to 
 look around me. The moon-light broke 
 through the rifts of the vault. I saw his 
 form moving among coffins and bones ; 
 and in that dim, and shuddering light, 
 it appeared to mix with them : then it 
 seemed to sink into the coffin of the Count 
 Orazio ; and from thence there came a 
 
 voice to me that said" . 1 listened with 
 
 all bodily and mental ear — 
 
 " Woe and death," murmured a voice 
 from beneath us. It was not like a hu- 
 man tone; it was like the moaning 
 blast of midnight ; — like the deep, long, 
 hollow murmur of a distant sea; but the 
 sounds it bore, were distinct and clear. 
 
 The
 
 S82 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 The old man's hair rose^ and his eyes 
 glared. *' What did you hear?" said he. 
 The truth was too near and terrible to be 
 denied or concealed. '^ 1 heard a voice/* 
 said I^ ^' that said^ ' woe and death.' " He 
 smote his hands, and sunk backward. '' My 
 repentance is too late : — that was the spi- 
 rit's death-cry. — And l77mst die, and leave 
 it untold ; and I must die, and leave it 
 unexpiated." 
 
 He fell — he gasped — he blackened. 
 I knelt beside him in terrible enthu- 
 siasm. " Speak, I adjure you, while 
 a breath is spared — while a moment is al- 
 lowed you. Speak, as you would depart 
 in peace — as you would go to glory.'* 
 There came only a hollow rattle from his 
 throat. I bent over him, agonizing for 
 an articulate sound. He muttered deep 
 and inward, " It is too late — Erminia — Ora- 
 zio," (he added a name I could not catch) 
 '' murdered, murdered. — Their forms are 
 before my eyes; their blood is on my 
 
 soul/
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 285 
 
 soul.'' He shook; he was convulsed; he ex- 
 pired. I called Filippo to in y assistance; 
 but assistance was fruitless— Michelo is 
 no more ! 
 
 CHAP.
 
 284 FATAL REVENGE ; OB5, 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 Tempus abire tibi est— - 
 
 Horace. 
 
 'Tis time for thee to quit the wanton stage. 
 
 At the Montorio palace all was con- 
 fusion and riot. All the influence once 
 obtained, and the concessions once exacted 
 by Cyprian, were scattered and lost by 
 this new sally of riot. 
 
 Ippolito returned to his former pursuits, 
 with an avidity that promised to compen- 
 sate for his short abstinence from them. 
 His days were days of pleasure ; his even- 
 ings,
 
 THE ^FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 285 
 
 ings, evenings of revelry ; but his nights, 
 remained nights of mystery. Every day 
 he became more enflamed, more restless, 
 and more intractable. His sense of in- 
 ternal anguish appeared to be more in- 
 tense in proportion to his efforts to deaden 
 it. And often, while he shook the dice, 
 or swallowed the wine, his haggard coun- 
 tenance betrayed a heart far from holding- 
 alliance with a thought of joy or ease. 
 The fatigues of his revels and his vigils 
 combined, the fatigues of a mind thatsought 
 tumult even in pleasure, and banished 
 ease from its very relief, preyed rapidly 
 and equally on his frame and temper. 
 
 The high, romantic spirit, the vicissi- 
 tude of tender and of lofty feeling, the 
 carelessness of happy vivacity, the play 
 of unlaboured mirth were gone ; and, in 
 their place, intervals of gloom and of 
 fury, of spirits stimulated to unjoyous 
 and fierce excess, or sunk to sullen de- 
 jection. His beauty only remained; for, 
 
 whether
 
 286 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 wheHier flushed by the dark, fever-glow- 
 of riot, or pale with the gloomy weari- 
 ness of his nightly watchings, he was 
 ever most beautiful. 
 
 At such moments, Cyprian beheld him 
 with that piteous and painful delight, with 
 which we see the dim and altered face of 
 a native dwelling, or the scarred, and 
 dismantled branches of a tree, that has 
 delighted us with its beauty, and refreshed 
 us with its shade. 
 
 On one of those nights, that Cyprian^ 
 left to utter solitude, felt it only embit- 
 tered by the thought of him who had 
 once filled and delighted all solitude, he 
 was informed that a stranger of rank de- 
 manded to see him. The demand was 
 unusual and alarming ; and Cyprian was 
 at first about to decline complying with 
 it, but his ever-wakeful solicitude sug- 
 gested that the purport of this visit might 
 relate to Ippolito, and he desired the 
 stranger to be conducted to him. He 
 
 entered.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 2S7 
 
 entered. He was a Spanish oilicer, about 
 the middle of liTe ; the bold and imposing 
 air of his profession v/as mingled with 
 the stateliness of his nation; and he sa- 
 luted Cyprian with that ease which be- 
 speaks a familiarity w^lth many modes of 
 life. 
 
 " Signor Cyprian, I presume/* said he. 
 Cyprian bowed. *' I am not ignorant, 
 Signor, of your character and attachment 
 to Count Montorio; my confidence in 
 your zeal has been the motive of this 
 visit. I myself know, and regard him ; 
 he is a young nobleman of worth and 
 honour, otherwise," said he, touching his 
 w'hiskers, '' a Castilian could feel no inte- 
 rest for him." 
 
 Cyprian, w^armed by Ippolito's praises, 
 listened with a pleasure he had long been 
 a stranger to. '' It is therefore," said the 
 Spaniard, '' that I feel myself deeply 
 affected by the state in which I see him 
 plunged ; — but first permit me to inquire, 
 
 whether
 
 288 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 whether his domestic habits have under- 
 gone the same perversion with his social 
 ones. You^ of course^ are well acquainted 
 with them, and can pronounce whether 
 he appears at home, restless, perturbed, 
 and unequal; or whether those appear- 
 ances are only the consequence of the 
 excesses in which he is immersed when 
 abroad/* ^' Alas, no, cavalier;'' said 
 Cyprian, *' a new and dreadful revolu- 
 tion has convulsed his whole frame of 
 mind; it affects him at all times, and 
 everywhere ; he enjoys no repose at home ; 
 he is no longer Ippolito di Montorio." 
 " The change is as violent as it is exten- 
 sive then ;" said the Spaniard, " he plays 
 for stakes at which it would be madness 
 to take him up ; he plunges into frequent 
 inebriety, a vice rare in your climate : 
 he seeks every abode of licentiousness in 
 Naples ; his whole effort seems to be, to 
 extinguish his reason, and to consume 
 his health. Yet all this appears to be 
 
 the
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 289 
 
 the result, not of a rage for pleasure, but 
 of an impatience of pain ; these excesses 
 appear the dreadful alternative of anguish 
 that is insupportable. Such vices," said 
 the liberal soldier, '•' as I have described, 
 might be forgiven in a young man of san- 
 guine constitution, and splendid rank, but 
 never should any excess lead a nobleman 
 to derogate from his dignity, and the state- 
 liness of high-born demeanour, and mix 
 levity with licentiousness." Cyprian had 
 sufficient knowledge of mankind to dis- 
 cover, that the motives to rectitude will 
 always vary with the character and habits 
 of the mind that forms them; though, 
 therefore, he revolted from the distinc- 
 tions of this w^orldly theory, he adopted 
 the consequences drawn from it. 
 
 " I, at first," said the Spaniard, '' be- 
 lieved this to be only a sally of sudden 
 impetuosity, the consequence of some 
 casual disappointment of his views or hk 
 
 VOL. I. o passions;
 
 290 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 passions; but recent circumstances have 
 induced me to think, that a mind of such 
 noble and energetic powers could be per- 
 verted by no trivial cause ; and I am con- 
 firmed in my suspicions by the event of 
 last night/* " Suspicions of what ? What do 
 you suspect?" exclaimed Cyprian, rising 
 in agitation. " Suspicions," said the Spa- 
 niard, in the deepest tones of his deep 
 voice, '' of his being engaged in some 
 bond of connexion, either hostile to his 
 soul's or body's welfare, from which he 
 tries to extricate himself, but tries either 
 too late or too faintly. Were I less ac- 
 quainted with Count Ippolito's honour, I 
 should fear him to be associated in some 
 dark design against the state; as it is, I 
 believe he pursues some object of private 
 hostility, yet often recoils : sometimes de- 
 terred by the magnitude or invidiousness 
 of the enterprise, and sometimes by the 
 danger of the means he must employ to 
 
 accomplish
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 291 
 
 accomplish it." — " Impossible !" said Cy- 
 prian, with the most animated action of 
 enthusiasm, '' impossible, that Ippolito's 
 mind could embrace an object of guilty 
 or obdurate rancour; or if he did, thiit 
 danger could ever deter him from its 
 pursuit/' 
 
 '' I was about to inform you,'' said the 
 Spaniaid, '' of the circumstances that led 
 me to that conclusion; they were his own 
 words, sometimes dropt unguardedly, and 
 sometimes extorted by a sudden pang; 
 but they at best, are but inconclusive. 1 
 hasten to inform you, therefore, of the 
 fact of last night, for I need not remind 
 you, Signor, that no Castilian ever draws 
 a rash or hasty conclusion.", 
 
 Cyprian felt he had offended by his ab- 
 ruptness, but the emiOtion that had caused 
 left him also unable to apologize for it. 
 
 " Last night," said the Spaniard, '' a 
 
 large party of us had assembled in a casino 
 
 o 5 near
 
 292 FATAL revenge; ORj 
 
 near the Corso; there was high and general 
 play^ and several strangers were mixed 
 through the company, who were, several 
 of them, as usual in masks. Count Ippolito 
 was among the rest, in that perturbed 
 and feverish frame we have lamented. He 
 played for immense stakes, and stimulated 
 his spirits by incessant draughts of wine. 
 His vociferation, his eagerness, and his 
 air and figure, which exhibited a kind of 
 splendid and dissolute madness, had drawn 
 all eyes on him. But they were diverted 
 by the appearance of a stranger, whom I 
 can no more describe, than I can define 
 the impression his presence appeared to 
 make on the company and on me. He 
 was clothed in a long, loose, dark cloak, 
 that completely concealed him. He wore 
 a mask, over which the dark plumage de- 
 pending from his hat, hung so as almost to 
 hide it. He moved along with a slow 
 stride, appearing to know no one, and to 
 
 be
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 293 
 
 be known by none. Kis presence, though 
 it did not suspend amusement, appeared 
 to suspend all the spirit of it. The loud 
 and eager voices of the gamblers were 
 gradually softened almost into whispers; 
 the loiterers deserted the places he drew 
 near, and one old knight of Malta told me, 
 he felt the air breathe a strange chiihiesSj 
 as this person past him. 
 
 '' I should not have i^iven credit to such 
 effects attending the presence of a single, 
 silent, solitary man, had I not felt myself, 
 a strange sensation w^hich I cannot de- 
 scribe, and do not w^ish to recal; a sensa- 
 tion, such as I never ft\i in the battle or 
 in the breach. This person, after many 
 movements, at length placed himself at the 
 table at which Count Ippolito was playing, 
 and stood, in a fixed attitude, directly 
 opposite to him. I was near them — a su- 
 perficial observer w^ould have imagined, 
 from the Count's manner, that he was in- 
 sensible
 
 294 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 sensible of his presence, but from the in- 
 creased loudness, eagerness, and careless 
 desperation of his manner, I at once drew 
 a contrary conclusion. The eyes of all 
 were fix;ed on that table. The stranger, 
 after standing some time in silence and 
 motionless, began at length to make some 
 strange and unintelligible gestures, which 
 were evidently directed at the Count. The 
 only notice the latter took of them, was 
 hastily to call for and swallow more wine, 
 and to double his stake. The stranger 
 then slowly raising his arm, and extending 
 it from his cloak, pointed it full at the 
 Count, it was naked, bony, and gigantic; 
 some said it was spotted with blood ; I 
 saw none. The Count, bending over the 
 table, furiously bid his antagonist, who 
 had paused aghast, to attend to his play. 
 They pursued it. The stranger spoke not; 
 but drawing out a watch, held it opposite 
 the candle which stood by the Count — 
 
 the
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 295 
 
 the light fell on it — the hand pointed to 
 twelve. x-Iany, who stood on the other 
 side, said that the reverse was inscribed 
 with strange figures — I could not have 
 seen them, if it had. ISIontorio ea^erlv 
 pushed away the light. The stranger re- 
 treated, but all eyes followed him. Ke 
 stood still opposite to the Count — he ap- 
 peared to feel in his garment for some- 
 thing : a suspicion that he was an assassin, 
 now arose in the casino, and there was a 
 slight murmur heard. But it was quickly 
 hushed by amaze. The stranger, drawing 
 for(h a dagger, marked with many a stain 
 of blood, held it up, and waved it with a 
 slow, but menacing motion at Montorio. 
 At that spectacle his fierceness forsook 
 him ; he gazed a moment, then exclaim- 
 ing, in a tone between a shriek and a 
 laugh, ' Hell has triumphed,' rushed 
 from the table. The stranger, concealing 
 his dagger, slowly retired from the i:«om.
 
 ^9G FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 at every step turning and beckoning to 
 Montorio, who followed him with falter- 
 ing stepS;, with straining eyes^ and with a 
 shivering frame. 
 
 Such i& the fact, witnessed by several of 
 rank last night, in a crowded casino. They, 
 who v/itnessed it, did not chuse to follow; 
 and when inquiry v/as made of the attend- 
 ants, they acknowledged they had seen 
 them pass — but had immediately lost sight 
 of them." 
 
 Gyprian listened in sore and fearful per- 
 plexity. '' After consulting with some of 
 Count Montorio's friends, we agreed that 
 the circumstai ces we had witnessed, could 
 only be ascribed toone of the causes I hint- 
 ed at. We therefore determined to inquire 
 whether the same change had been ob- 
 serv^^d by his family, and if it were, to re- 
 commend the expediency of some steps to 
 be taken, to discover and remove the cause 
 of it. Your attachment, and the benign- 
 ant influence you are said to exercise on 
 
 the
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 597 
 
 the Count's habits and dispositions, pointed 
 you out as the most proper object for this 
 disclosure. With you, therefore, I leave 
 it — and leave it also with you, in your dis- 
 cretion, to decide whether an application 
 to his family, or to spiritual advice or autho- 
 rty,be most expedient on this emergency/* 
 The acknowledgments Cyprian w^as pre- 
 paring to make for this communication, 
 were'interrupted by loud clamours from thi 
 portico. '' It is the Count returning from 
 the Corso," said the Spaniard, " with some 
 of his noisy associates. I w^as engaged to 
 sup with them here, and took advantage 
 of the invitation to introduce myself and 
 information to you." " Stay then, I con- 
 jure you/' said Cyprian, " stay with him 
 this night, he is so accustomed at this 
 hour to be abroad, that his return filli 
 me with strange presages; perhaps this 
 night he means to break that fearful bond 
 that binds him. Oh, stay with him then, 
 o 5 and
 
 298 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 and let him not lose himself in the mad- 
 ness of the revel. You are a man of 
 steady mind and arm — a man, such as I 
 would lay h.old of in my hour of peril, 
 and bid abide with me. I will be in 
 the adjacent room, and, oh ! should any 
 thing- only remember me.'* 
 
 The revellers were now ascending the 
 stairs, the Spaniard retired to join them; 
 and Cyprian hastened to a room adjacent 
 to that where they assembled, where he 
 remained struggling with hope and fear. 
 
 But he was soon agitated by feelings 
 less remote : — the conversations of the 
 banqueters soon reached his ear, and he 
 listened with horror, which while it moved 
 him to depart, rivetted him to the spot, 
 to the impurity, the wickedness, and the 
 wildness, that was poured out by those 
 sons of mirth and ease. Gaiety, of which 
 the happiest feature is fantastic lightness, 
 appeared to be industriously excluded by 
 
 the
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOEIO. 299 
 
 the accumulation of every image, whose 
 fulsomeness could disgust, whose depra- 
 vity could offend, or whose profaneness, 
 terrify. Often he wished for the wand of 
 the enchanter, or the " wings of the morn- 
 ing," to bear Ippolito from pollution, in 
 which his partial hope refused to believe 
 him willingly immersed. 
 
 But Ippolito s voice was loudest in pro- 
 voking, and circulating the frenzy of arti- 
 ficial joy; and Cyprian began to feel 
 little consolation in the thought he had 
 remitted his midnight vibit ; when, in one 
 of those dead and sudden pauses, fictitious 
 mirth is often compelled to make, he heard 
 Montorio say, *' If a stranger wxre per-^ 
 mitted to view this joyous band, what 
 would he conceive of us?" " Explain 
 yourself?" said one of the cavaliers. — • 
 *^ Would he imagine there were among 
 us beings who dared not encounter this 
 hour alone, who rushed to this meeting, 
 
 not
 
 \ 
 
 300 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 not for delight, but for shelter ?" Of those 
 to whom this question was addressed, 
 many laughed, and all answered in the 
 negative : " Would such a one imagine," 
 continued Montorio, with increased em- 
 phasis " there were those among us, who 
 were assembled here to shun a hand which 
 follows, and fixes its grasp on them ; — to 
 fly an influence, that even here, extin- 
 guishes the lights, and poisons the wines, 
 and makes the flushed faces around me 
 seem as if they were seen through a gleam 
 of sulphur-blue?'' *' No, no, no!*' was 
 
 again vociferated by the company. 
 
 '^ Would he imagine, that of these rioters, 
 yet a few moments, and every voice will 
 be hushed, and every cheek pale?" The 
 negative was again repeated, but it was 
 repeated by fewer voices, and in a fainter 
 
 tone. ^* Then," said Montorio, " he 
 
 would judge falsely." — A pause followed 
 this strange remark. — '^ What do these 
 
 questions
 
 THE FAMILY OP MONTORIO. 301 
 
 questions mean?" murmured the cavaliers. 
 " You grow pale. Count Montorio?" said 
 the Spaniard. " Do I? and wherefore do 
 I?** said Ippolito, in quick and broken 
 toneSj " my hour is not yet come, let us 
 be merry till the bell tolls, why do ye 
 sit round me like statues, all silent and 
 aghast ? — Let me feel the grasp of your 
 hands, and hear the sound of your voices. 
 Laugh, laugh again : I implore you to 
 laugh : I would laugh myself — but when 
 I try, a raven seems to croak from my 
 throat." He snatched up a guitar, and 
 burst into extempore stanzas, which as he 
 sung, he adapted, to a wild and varied 
 melody : 
 
 I. 
 
 Fill, fill the bowl, the ills of life 
 I'll value not a feather, 
 
 No cloud shall cross my soul to-night, 
 Or shade its sunny weather. 
 
 IVe
 
 302 FATAL revenge; ORj 
 
 I've sorrowed till my heart was sore, 
 And groan'd — but hence with prosing; 
 
 My last care dies upon this draught, 
 My last sigh's in this closing. 
 
 III. 
 
 ril revel with a bitter joy, 
 And mock at bafllcd sorrow; 
 
 Nor ivill I wreck how many a pang^ 
 Must waken with the morrow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 *Tis a sweet flower, the late, late rose 
 That decks the sallow autumn, 
 
 And those the dearest beams of joy 
 That burst where least we sought'cm. 
 
 He threw down the guitar. " I am all 
 discord — I have neither tone of mind nor 
 of voice — But I must have music. Go, some 
 of you, and call Cyprian. — Let him bring 
 his harp, and hasten to us." 
 
 Cyprian
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 303 
 
 Cyprian, who heard every word, re- 
 treated in horror at these, and was hast- 
 ening from the contiguous room ; but 
 the servants who had seen him going 
 there, when the cavaliers entered in that 
 hasty obedience which their master's way- 
 ward moods had lately taught them, threw 
 open the door, and disclosed him. Ippo- 
 lito clamorously called him forward ; and 
 Cyprian, whose compliance with that call, 
 w^as mechanical and unconscious, advanc- 
 ed, though abashed and terrified. Of 
 the cavaliers, many were intoxicated, and 
 all had resumed the obstreperous gaiety 
 which Montorio's questions had suspended. 
 Some were calling for play, and some 
 for more wine; but Ippolito, with lavish 
 and boisterous praises of Cyprian's skill, 
 called for a harp, and insisted on his 
 gratifying the company with his perform- 
 ance. Cyprian, silently but earnestly, 
 pleaded with his eyes for indulgence; but 
 
 the
 
 304 FATAL revenge; ORi 
 
 the demand grew more vehement, the 
 harp was brought, and he sat down with 
 sad and sore reluctance to an employment 
 remote from its congenial scenery and 
 spirits. He touched it with a trembling 
 hand, its broken tones seemed, like him 
 to mourn their altered destination. The 
 times, when he had hoped the exertion 
 of his talent would have cherished sensi- 
 bility, and delighted virtue; when the 
 grateful silence of praise struck more 
 deeply on his delicate sense, than the 
 boisterous delight, which rather terrified 
 than encouraged him; when he hoped, 
 the alternate sway of pleasures that refined, 
 and of influence that rectified Montorio's 
 mind, would have divided his life between 
 the exercises and enjoyments of virtue; 
 instead of lulling into vacancy, the inter- 
 vals of Bacchanalian frenzy, with a despis- 
 ed and prostituted talent; — those times 
 and hopesj struck on his mind^ and tears 
 
 fell
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 305 
 
 fell fast on his hands, as he hurried over 
 the strings. 
 
 But the emotion that shook him, added 
 to the expression, what it denied to the 
 execution, his eye was raised to Monto- 
 rio, and the inspiration came on. He ap- 
 peared to him, amongst that rout, like a 
 frail and wandering spirit, seduced by the 
 apostate host, and mingling in sad asso- 
 ciation; his brightness dimmed, but not 
 lost, his nature '' cast down, but not de- 
 stroyed/' The enthusiasm of genius was 
 exalted by the intenseness of feeling, and 
 he poured forth tones, that might have 
 w^on such a spirit back to its original sphere 
 and glory. All were suspended in rapture; 
 the feast was forgotten ; they hung all 
 ear and eye on the minstrel. The clock 
 struck twelve unheard. At that moment, a 
 loud exclamation burst from Ippolito, who 
 started from his seat, and stood bending 
 from it, with arms extended towards the 
 
 door.
 
 §06 FATAL EI^VENGE ; OK/ 
 
 door. Every eye followed the direction 
 of his. The servants who were collected 
 round the door, hastily retreated; while 
 emerging from it, was seen the figure 
 which many of them had seen the preced- 
 ing evening at the casino. 
 
 Its appearance was x\\q: same as the 
 Spaniard had described; it was dark, 
 shapeless, and gigantic ; its face was con- 
 cealed in a mask, and its head oversha- 
 dowed by plumage. The cavaliers stared 
 and murmured; Cyprian pressed close to 
 Ippoiito, and the figure stalked slowly 
 into the midst of the hall. An utter 
 silence succeeded; the very rustling of . 
 the cloaks of the guests, as they laid down 
 their untasted wine, and turned to gaze 
 on the stranger, had now ceased; and the 
 sound of their shortened respiration, al- 
 most cam.e to the ears; when the stran- 
 ger turning from Ippoiito, opposite 
 whom he had planted himself, addressed 
 
 the
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 307 
 
 the company — " I am here an unbidden 
 guest; docs no one receive the stranger? 
 Then I must welcome myself." — He seated 
 himself near the head of the table, while 
 tho^*:^ next whom he placed himself, seem- 
 ed doubtful whether to withdrav/ from 
 him or not; — his appearance had amazed, 
 but his voice had congealed the company. 
 There was something so peculiar in its 
 tone, so hollow, yet so emphatic, so 
 distinct, yet so seemingly distant, that 
 they who heard it, listened not to the 
 words, but to the sound, and hung on 
 its echo as on something that issued from 
 an invisible direction. 
 
 Ippolito now sunk slov;ly back into 
 his chair, with a face still turned, and eyes 
 still fixed on the stranger. — '^^ Pursue your 
 mirth, cavaliers," said the figure again, 
 in a tone that seemed to annihilate all 
 mirth, " my business is alone with the 
 Count Montorio." — '' You shall not have 
 
 me.
 
 308 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 me, unless you bear me hence in a whirls 
 wind. From this night no power carries 
 me, willing or alive, to your haunts." 
 '' You know my purpose and my power; 
 delay not, resist not, retreat not/' — '* This 
 is most strange,'* said Ippolito, recoiling 
 in his chair, and grasping the arm of the 
 Spaniard, and muttering in hollow and 
 hurried tones while his eyes wandered 
 eagerly over the stranger; " this is most 
 strange — ye see how he sits there, in 
 strong and visible shape, amongst us ; 
 every eye can behold, and every ear can , 
 hear him. This is most strange; — the 
 forms that float before us, in our sleep- 
 ing or waking dreams, or those more 
 substantial ones that mingle in scenes of 
 horror, in the solitude of midnight, in 
 the vaults of the dead, in the chambers 
 of sorcery; these can be banished as they 
 are raised, by local influence, they can 
 be dispersed by light, by human presence, 
 
 nay
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 309 
 
 nay by the effort of a recollected mind. 
 But when they pursue us to the very hold 
 and circle of our shelter, when they sit 
 before us, amid our mirth and wine, 
 in the blaze of lights, and the loud and 
 comforting tone of human voices; when 
 they do this, and will not be repelled, 
 what shall we think?" — '*■ Ippolito di 
 Montorio," said the stranger, "delay not, 
 resist not, retreat not ; must I speak the 
 words of power, must I produce the seal 
 of your bond?'* — *^' Summon your instru- 
 ments and your powei^s/' raved Monto- 
 rio, with a shrieking laugh ; " let them 
 bear me off in their visible grasp; shake 
 this house to its foundations, and amid 
 the ruin, bury me, or bear me off; if ye 
 will have me, I shall be no easy prey." 
 The stranger rose, Cyprian shrieked, the 
 cavaliers rose, murmuring and preparing 
 to draw their swords — the stranger waved 
 his arm; '' Children of earth," said he, 
 
 2 in
 
 310 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 in a voice of thunder, ''avaunt! For you 
 there is neither task nor summons here; 
 Ippolito di Montorio, I call on you; the 
 bell has tolled; the hour is past. Ippolito 
 di Montorio come with me." 
 
 Ippolito remained silent and unmoved* 
 The stranger, as before, produced a watch^, 
 it was fifteen minutes past twelve. " Know- 
 est thou this hour/' said he, ^' knowest 
 thou the deed which must be done at this 
 hour? Ippolito di Montorio, come with 
 me." Ippolito remained silent and un- 
 moved. The stranger again produced the 
 terrible dagger; the stains were numerous 
 and livid ; be waved it again before Mon- 
 torio, whose eye seemed to lose all intel- 
 ligence as he gazed on it. " By this dread- 
 ful instrument I adjure thee; by his blood 
 which has rusted the blade I adjure thee; 
 T adjure thee by those w^ho saw it shed, 
 whom thou mayest not deceive and, canst 
 not escape. Ippolito di Montorio^ come 
 '5 with
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 311 
 
 with me." — '' Liar — liar accursed/' thun- 
 dered IppolitO;, '' he lives, his blood is in 
 his veins — no dagger has ever drained 
 them. Why stand ye all round me in this 
 dead distraction? Seize him^ secure him; 
 another moment, and his witcheries will 
 chain you to your seats; or waft ye miles 
 away ; seize that dagger — I have disco- 
 veries to make." While he spoke, he and 
 the company had surrounded the stranger ; 
 swords were now drawn, and arms ex- 
 tended to seize him — all was confusion 
 and tumult; Cyprian, who had rushed 
 forward, heard an eager contention of 
 voices. — ''Seize him!" — '' Where is he ?*' 
 ''Here,"—'' There."—" Gone !" 
 
 The company gazed on each other with 
 vacant and fruitless amaze. There were 
 only two doors to the apartment; through 
 neither of which had he been observed to 
 pass. There was but a momentary pause, 
 for Montorio exclaiming — " He that is not 
 
 bereft
 
 312 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 bereft of reason, follow me," rushed from 
 the palace. The company, partly in that 
 perplexity which takes its omen from the 
 first voice it hears, and partly in that 
 solicitude to which any new object is a 
 relief, accompanied him, and were at- 
 tended by the servants, who seemed to 
 have an ominous dread of remaining in 
 the hall; and of the witnesses of this 
 strange transaction, Cyprian alone remain- 
 ed in the deserted apartment. 
 
 When the pursuers reached the street, 
 they perceived the necessity of adopting 
 different directions. Among them w^as 
 a nobleman, who had been intimate with 
 the father and uncle of Ippolito ; but 
 whom his riper years had not yet taught 
 to retire from the revels of youth. From 
 the first appearance of the stranger in the 
 hall, he had appeared uncommonly agi- 
 tated. His attention to the figure, its voice, 
 and its words, had been marked and ear- 
 nest.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 313 
 
 nest, and on the proposal to pursue diffe- 
 rent directions, he chose one that appear- 
 ed most remote from the discovery of the 
 object, and insisted on pursuing it alone. 
 These circumstances were however but 
 Jittle attended to, in the mingled lumult 
 of intoxication and terror ; and the no- 
 bleman was suffered to pursue his way- 
 alone. 
 
 Two others, who had tried theirs with- 
 out success, w^ere returning to the ren- 
 dezvous, when they heard behind the pro- 
 jecting tower of a church, through whose 
 portico they were passing, voices which 
 appeared to whisper, and sounds that 
 resembled a struggle. They halted in 
 that hesitation, in which the senses wish 
 to assure themselves of their objects, and 
 they then heard distinctly, in the terrible 
 voice whose tones yet dwelt on their ears, 
 '^ Release me, you know not w^ho I am/' 
 ''^ Then by these blessed walls," said the 
 nobleman who had gone alone, *' I will 
 
 ^'«i.. I. p know.
 
 314 FATAL revenge; oil, 
 
 know, "before I release you. Contend 
 not with me, but tell me what you are, 
 your life is in my power, if you are in- 
 deed a living man." A pause succeeded, 
 which was followed by a loud and fearful 
 cry, from the lips of the last speaker. The 
 listeners now rushed, and found the no- 
 bleman, alone, and extended on the pave- 
 ment in a swoon. They heard not the 
 steps, nor saw even the shadow, of him 
 they believed had been with him; but 
 had they, their companion would have 
 occupied their attention more powerfully, 
 as they believed him to be dying. 
 
 The others who were dispersed in neigh- 
 bouring directions, were collected by the 
 noise, and assisted to support the Duke 
 
 di 1. to the palace. Each expected 
 
 abundant information on the subject of 
 their pursuit, on his^ recovery, from the 
 report of those who had been in the por- 
 tico ; but that recovery appeared long 
 doubtful ; medical assistance was procured, 
 
 and
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 3l5 
 
 and the patient slowly regained the power 
 of speech and motion. But when he did, 
 it was only to aggravate the suspense of 
 the listeners. From time to time, he mur- 
 mured, '' I have seen him, it is he" — and 
 the weakness into which he relapsed, 
 forbid further inquiiy. Another object 
 now engaged their disappointed attention. 
 It w^as discovered by Cyprian's eager in- 
 quiries that Ippolitohad not returned Vvith 
 the rest, and of the direction he had taken, 
 all seemed to be ignorant. 
 
 The Duke was now borne, still par- 
 tially insensible, to his carriage, and the 
 convivial party separated, aghast, amazed, 
 and unsatisfied. More inquiries, prompted 
 by curiosity than solicitude, attended the 
 bed of the invalid the next day. He con- 
 tinued virtually insensible; to his friends* 
 he made no communication, to his medi- 
 cal attendant, no complaint, to his spirit- 
 ual, no confession. The words, '' I have 
 seen him, it is he,'' were ever on his lipr. 
 p 2 He
 
 S16 FATAL revenge; or. 
 
 He lingered a few days in this partial deli- 
 riunij and then expired, uttering these 
 woi-ds. 
 
 The day following the feasts Ippolito 
 returned, as usual, distracted and oppress- 
 ed, but with unsubdued activity. He 
 that day visited his companions, and so- 
 lemnly intreated them to conceal the trans- 
 actions of the preceding night. The re- 
 quest was easily complied with, for they 
 could have told little but their own fear 
 and uncertainty. And Ippolito returned 
 without interruption or interference to 
 his vigils. — In a few days a billet arrived 
 from Annibal, of which the former part 
 seemed to refer to some letter recently 
 received from Ippolito. 
 
 Letter from Annibal. 
 
 You are then as / am — your letter 
 describes an agency similar to that by 
 which I seem to be led ; what shall we 
 
 think i
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 317 
 
 think ? ]3y whom and whither are we con- 
 ducted ? I fear to follow, and I fear to 
 pause ; nor do I know whether these cor- 
 responding operations should remove or 
 suggest doubt, should confirm the sus- 
 picion of deception, or of a power that 
 extends every where, and blends charac- 
 ters and situations the most remote in the 
 completion of its purposes. Either appre- 
 hension confirms my intention of pursuing 
 my search and my inquiries ; they must 
 eventually lead either to the detection of 
 fraud, or the discovery of truth. How 
 do we flatter our motives. Were mine ex- 
 amined, perhaps, curiosity would be found 
 the principal cause of my visionary hero- 
 ism ; yet I have witnessed things that ren- 
 der curiosity almost a duty. Filippo who- 
 has much attached himself to me since his 
 uncle's death, often attends me with a face 
 of busy significance, that seems to tempt 
 an inquiry; but I should only be mocked 
 by the grossness of vulgar superstition ; 
 
 he
 
 3 18 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 he has nothing to relate, which I need 
 wish to know. What Michelo concealed 
 from me^ he would not possibly commu- 
 nicate to him. 
 
 Nightj 11 o'clccL 
 The castle is in confusion — some ex- 
 traordinary intelligence is said to have 
 arrived ; there was a messenger from 
 Naples — he is gone ; no one knew his 
 ermnd or his employer. But every thing 
 seems in silent, eager preparation. What 
 may this mean ? 
 
 Fiiippo has just been with me. '' Have 
 you heard, Signor, of the intelligence 
 from Naples ?" — '' What have ^ou heard, 
 Fiiippo, for I perceive you wish to dis- 
 close something.'' — " I, Signor ^ nothing 
 Signor, I assure yoo, nothing I can re- 
 port as certain. Just now, I heard it said, 
 indeed, there v/as some great visitor ex- 
 pected
 
 TUE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. !^19 
 
 pected from Naples, for whom, prepara- 
 tions were to be made, and whose arrival 
 it w^as said, surprised my lord, your fa- 
 ther extremely. The cause of this visit, 
 Signor," said he, glancing his shrewd, 
 dark eye at me, '' none of us presume to 
 guess." — '- Do you knov; wiio this visitor 
 is Fillppo ?" — '' There Signor^ I scarce dare 
 venture my information again; tut it is 
 said," lowering his voice, though vve were 
 alone, '' it is said to be the Duke di Pal- 
 lerini, his Majesty's confidential favourite; 
 that is, Signor, not his ostensible minister, 
 but as it were, a kind of trusty agent, who 
 is always employed on secret and import- 
 ant services; you understand me, Signor." 
 The gravity with which I endea- 
 voured to listen, silenced him : sliall I 
 trust this man or not? There is a shrewd 
 promptitude about him, I like : will this 
 visit bear any relation to the object of my 
 pursuit? Beset as I am, with perplexity 
 and fear, I lay hold on every thing for 
 
 relief;
 
 3W FATAL revenge; or^ 
 
 relief; and every thing deserts or deceives 
 
 me. 
 
 Noon. 
 The Duke has indeed arrived. Have 
 you heard any thing, in Naples, of the 
 purpose of this visit ? If it be an object 
 of weight and of secrecy, I pronounce the 
 man, from the first viev7 of him, adequate 
 to the trust. At first you perceive in him 
 nothing but the suavity of the courtier; 
 but a little observation discovers this to 
 be only a veil to the other qualities of 
 that character. His conversation is guard- 
 edly limited to indifferent topics, of which 
 the charm of his maimers conceals the 
 insignificance. His very V7ords seemed 
 weighed in the balance of diplomatic de- 
 corum, yet you see an object ever direct- 
 ing his most trivial movements; he seems 
 to me a mental assassin, who lurks in the 
 shade of his purpose, to spring on the 
 prey. But we often drav/ conclusions, 
 
 not
 
 THE FAMILY OP MONTCRIO. 321 
 
 not from what we see, but from what we 
 determine to see. His presence has diffus- 
 ed something like life through this gloomy 
 house. My father, my mother, appear to 
 be gratified by this visit. The rest of the 
 family with myself welcome it as a sus- 
 pension of dreary monotony. 
 
 Filippo has been again with me^ — there 
 was a secret in his countenance, which he 
 did not suffer to burthen him long. " Does 
 the Signor," said he, '' recollect that there 
 are certain apartments in the castle, which 
 are supposed to have been unvisited for 
 many years, and of which my late uncle 
 had the keys ?" — " I have heard of such 
 apartments.'' — "And /have heard, Sig- 
 nor, that since my lord your uncle's death, 
 they have never been entered, never been 
 opened, never even approached." '' That,"' 
 said I, almost unconsciously, " I know to 
 p 5 be
 
 3S^ FATAL REVENGE ; OE, 
 
 be a falsehood/* — ^' And so do I/* return^ 
 ed Filippo, with quickness. " You, ".said 
 J, astonished. — ^^ And if my Signor will 
 please to listen/' he added^ " he will hear 
 something still more strange. Our apart^ 
 ments, Signor, are situated near that 
 tower; mine is directly under a passage 
 which is said to lead by a stair-case to 
 those apartments; and often when I have 
 lain and listened to the wind as it moaned 
 so hollow down that passage, I have 
 thought I heard other sounds mingling 
 with it. Since a late period indeed, those 
 noises increased, and often have I expect* 
 ed to hear the feet that fell so distinctly 
 in that passage, enter my room and move 
 round my bed, so plain and certain was 
 their sound. But the danger which my 
 mention of the adventure near the old 
 chapel, incurred, taught me silence and 
 fear. 
 
 Last night, however, Signor, it was my 
 lord's order that we should feast the 
 
 Duke's
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 323 
 
 Duke's servants, and give abundance of 
 wine to them; such store, Signor, was 
 given out, even lachryma? Christi was not 
 grudged them ; — close knaves they were, 
 and shrewd. The more wine was poured 
 down their throats, the more silent they 
 grew, and at length they all pretended to 
 sleep; some of them did so. in reality; 
 and then wx saw huge stilettos peeping 
 from under their cloaks. Strange, that 
 one nobleman coming to visit another, 
 should arm his attendants so ' " — '' And is 
 thisall you had to communicate Filippo?" 
 *' Pardon me, Signor, I was s^oinor to in— 
 form you, we separated late, and just as 
 I had got to bed, I thought I heard the 
 door of the passage open — I listened — it 
 was a sound 1 had never heard before; for 
 t-hough steps had often trod that passage, 
 they seemed to have issued from the vyall^ 
 neither lock nor door had I heard ever till 
 last night. It seemed to be opened slow- 
 ly and cautiouiiy, and many steps then 
 
 brubhed
 
 324 FATAL "revenge; or, 
 
 brushed ov^r n\j head. I sat up in my 
 bed, and looked upwards, vacantly; — but 
 the ceili'sg is old and shattered, and 
 through the chinks I could see light pass- 
 ing, till it had gone beyond my room. 
 I know not Signor, whether the wine I 
 had drank, gave me courage, but I rose, 
 and leaving my room softly, I went where 
 a few steps lead to the door of that pas- 
 sage — I ventured up them — the door was 
 open, and as 1 looked down it, I saw dis- 
 tinctly figures moving, and among them, 
 one whose habit resembled a monk's. I 
 staid till they disappeared, and then I 
 heard other doors opening ; and all night 
 after I was disturbed by frequent noises 
 in that direction; noises I might have mis- 
 taken for the wind, had I not seen what 
 I did. But now, Signor, the strangest 
 part of all, is, that recollecting the events 
 of the night, I ventured, when the ser- 
 vants were in another direction, to exa- 
 mine the door this morning ; it was still 
 
 open ;
 
 THE FAMILY OF MOKTORIO. 325 
 
 open. Twice since have I gone to it; it re- 
 mains open — that is, Signor, closed but 
 not locked : now if my Signor had any 
 curiosity to visit those apartments"— I was 
 struck by the circumstance he related. 
 " You informed me/' said I, concealing 
 my knowledge, '^ that your uncle had the 
 key of those apartments; who has obtain- 
 ed them since his death?" — ^^That, Signor, 
 no one knows; nay, no one ever knew^ 
 but by conjecture, whether they were in 
 old Michelo's possession or not. He never 
 owned it; and the servants, would ask him 
 for the keys of the tower, when they 
 wished to torment him." 
 
 I mused for some moments; so many 
 objects, and opportunities, and agents, 
 all contributing their unconscious, but 
 regular operations to the same point, all 
 varying in the means and direction, but 
 all agreeing in the end; all acting invo- 
 luntarily, yet with an uniformity that sug- 
 gested
 
 3i^ FATAL revenge; or^ 
 
 gested the idea of a su|)erior infiiience ; 
 their agency neither obstructed by diffi- 
 culty, nor deterred by fear; nor, as it 
 should seem, dying with the death of 
 their principal mover. Air these struck 
 me with a conviction of fatality, in the 
 direction they pointed out, which I could 
 not resist, and to which if I did, resistance 
 would be vain. I submitted therefore 
 silently, with awe, but not gloom; re- 
 signed, but not dejected. '*" Yes/' said 
 I, with an earnestness that appeared to 
 surprise my attendant; '^ yes, we will visit 
 those apartments; to-night, the servants 
 wearied with attendance^ and probably 
 stupified with wine, v/ill sleep sound and 
 deep. Come, after the Duke has been 
 conducted to his apartment, come to 
 mine, and we will visit those apartments." 
 Filippo assented with a pleasure, which 
 flashed in his dark eyes, — Ippolito, I go 
 again to the tower; often disappointed by 
 partial discoveries, and fantastic hinderan- 
 
 ces^
 
 THE FAMILY OP MONTORIO. S27 
 
 ces, I go to-night with a solemnity of 
 feeling and purpose^ that tell me I shall 
 not visit it in vain. 
 
 Adieu. 
 
 He went; and, strange to relate^ was 
 seen no more by the inhabitants of the 
 castle. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 328 FATAL revenge; ORj 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 But let both worlds disjoint 
 
 '£re we will eat onr meal in fear, and'slcep 
 In the affliction of those terrible dreams 
 That shake us nightly. 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
 The cause of the visit alluded to in 
 Annibal's last letter^ may be explained 
 by the following one, which had preced- 
 ed the arrival of the writer one day, ^nd. 
 which was directed to the 
 
 Count di Mont or to. 
 
 '* His Majesty, the King of Naples, ever 
 attentive to the interests of his subjects, 
 
 and
 
 THE FAMILY OF MOXrOBlO. 329 
 
 and psculiarly zealous of the honour of 
 the hio^her orders, has received in forma- 
 tion that induces him to establish an in- 
 quiry into some events that are said to 
 have occurred in the illustrious house of 
 Montorio. With a confidence that their 
 representative will completely exculpate 
 himself from their imputed responsibility; 
 and will view, not with resentment, but gra- 
 titude, the opportunity allowed him for this 
 purpose by his gracious sovereign.— The 
 Duke de Pallerini, to whom his majesty 
 has been pleased to commit the inquiry 
 into this delicate and important subject, 
 begs leave to point to the Count Mon- 
 torio, another instance of the royal be- 
 nignity — the Inquisition is to be private; 
 without the fornalities of a court, or the 
 publicity of witnesses and documents. 
 The Duke de Pallerini proposes himself 
 the pleasure of a visit to the Count's castle; 
 from which he expects to return, with full 
 
 proofs
 
 330 FATAL kevenge; or, 
 
 proof, of the futility of the allegations he 
 is appointed to examine/' 
 
 This letter, the genuine production of 
 an Italian statesman, who in the com- 
 mencement of his letter, disguises the in- 
 vidiousness of his office, by making the 
 king the principal agent, who conceals 
 the feeble and illegitimate character of the 
 charge, by affecting to deprecate the of- 
 fensive publicity of a court, and who pre- 
 vents the possibility of preparation, by 
 the conceahrient of his object, while he 
 disarms the anxiety for it, by affecting to 
 treat it with levity. This letter was 
 brought by a courier, and presented to 
 the Count; who, on reading it, conti- 
 nued to muse for an hour, and then de- 
 sired the Countess might be summoned. 
 The Countess followed the messenger; 
 the attendants quitted the apartment, the 
 Cpunt locked, with his own hand, the 
 door of the anti-chamber, and returning, 
 pointed to the letter^ which lay on the 
 
 table,.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO/ O^^l 
 
 table ; and covering his face, sunk back 
 on his chair. 
 
 The Countess read^ without uttering a 
 sound, or altering a feature, and then 
 with a n'lovement which caution had made 
 habitual, tore and consumed it. The 
 Count raised his eye slowly, and fixed it 
 on her; his must have been a steady as- 
 pect, that could have met it unrepelled; 
 but hers sought and fixed it with a fuller 
 meaning than its own. 
 
 " The storm has gathered," he mur- 
 mured — " Then let it burst," replied the 
 Countess, ** what have we to fear, or to 
 provide?' — " What have we to fear?" re- 
 peated the Count, '^ do you speak in 
 despair or in defiance? What have we 
 to fear ? They who are compelled to 
 trust or employ human agents, have ever 
 to fear. The impotency of human power 
 confounds and distracts us. The single 
 arm cannot execute its own purpose. From 
 thoie bold and daring conceptions, that 
 
 swell
 
 332 FATAL REVENGE ,' OR, 
 
 swell the mind almost with a conscious- 
 ness of its omnipotence, it must descend 
 to the drudgery of means and agents ; it 
 must ask the aid of wretches whom it fears 
 and hates; wretches, who are ever weigh- 
 ing the price of blood in one hand, against 
 the price of treachery in the other. 
 Commit the secret of your guilt to but 
 one human being, let it be breathed but 
 in one ear, ever so remote, ever so se- 
 cured, ever so unassailed, and — tremble, 
 as I do now." — '^ And wherefore do you 
 tremble ? Have we not secured, by oaths, 
 by bribes, by mutual fear and danger, 
 every being either conscious or partaking 
 in our deed ? Is not every mouth stopt, 
 and eveiy hand tied up ? Nay, have we 
 not, of some, the final, certain, terrible 
 pledge of silence and safety ?" — '' Hush^ 
 hush, hush;'* said the Count, waving one 
 hand impatiently, while Xho, other still 
 concealed his face; "ever — ever those 
 sounds — whatever words I hear, they are 
 
 mixed
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTOEIO. 333 
 
 mixed with; whatever object I see, they 
 are written on, and you must goad me 
 with the repetition. Can you not speak 
 without adverting to it ; or, if you must, 
 why advert to it so distinctly ? Can you 
 not speak like one ignorant of it ; or, if 
 knowing, one who knows it not so deep- 
 ly ? 1 need no remembrancer — no, I 
 need no remembrancer." 
 
 '' What is this weak and sickly wayward- 
 ness, that shrinks not at the deed, but at 
 the name. When the prevention of evil 
 was yet possible, it might have been in- 
 dulged; now that it is no longer so, ex- 
 chano^e it for those views of advantasie 
 that prompted you to it. By absurdly 
 inverting the places of desire and remorse, 
 we lose both the tranquillity of innocence, 
 and the enjoyments of guilt. If remorse 
 may prevent guilt, let it precede it; but 
 if guilt promises enjoyment, let enjoy- 
 ment follow it. Ah ! no, no, Montorio^ 
 this waywardness is not for us ; strange 
 
 deeds
 
 334r FATAL REVENGE; 0R> 
 
 deeds have made us familiar with strange 
 language; — we must confer in the cold, 
 hard terms of necessity/* " If we must 
 then — rf we must talk like midnight as- 
 sassins in their cave of blood — if it must 
 be so — sit down by me, close and hushed; 
 and let us consult from what quarter 
 this danger approaches, and how its pur- 
 pose and bearing may be discovered." 
 
 " There is but one quarter from which 
 danger can approach us. The woman is 
 secured, secured by her guilt ; but Ascanio, 
 Oh, Ascanio, that business, unfinished, 
 unknown, unascertained, since we left 
 Apulia, has haunted me with strange 
 fears ; it has tinged my thoughts, my very 
 dreams/' 
 
 " Would that were all that haunted 
 mine," said the Count, inwardly. " That 
 dark story, never fully told, in the wild 
 fables of the Apulian peasants, I have 
 often thought there might be some trace 
 of Ascanio — then the monk of the moun- 
 tains
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 335 
 
 tains — the confession — the letters of 
 doubtful menace you received from the 
 
 prior of the monastery '' '' Who is 
 
 now/' interrupted the County, '' the prior 
 of St. Nicholo, in Naples/' ''Is he.in- 
 deedj indeed, Montorio ?" '' He is; but 
 %vhy do you tremble?" '•' It was from 
 that convent^ that a confessor came to 
 old Michelo, when dying/' '' True, 
 true, he did/' said the Count, smiting 
 his forehead. '' Oh, what a chao&is 
 here ! thought crossing thought, and 
 circumstance clashing circumstance — yet 
 nothing is certain, nothing direct. I have 
 no motive for fear, but the consciousness 
 of guilt. These circumstances might 
 have happened in the common course of 
 things. A maniac might have died — a 
 monk might have attended his dying 
 bed — the prior of a monastery might be 
 removed, without danger or fear to me. 
 But there is a coherence here — a consist- 
 5 ency
 
 336 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 ency — a seeming order and form ; as if 
 some still, slow, invisible hand were bu- 
 sied in unravelling and displaying the 
 train. Or, is it the curse of guilt to be- 
 lieve every common cause and agent in 
 nature fraught with its detection — to see a 
 tempest in the very blaze of noon ? It is, 
 it is; — the worm within me never dieth; 
 and every thought and object it converts 
 into its own morbid fbod," 
 
 " Montorio, have I come here only 
 to hear your complainings? If there 
 be danger, the interval is short, and our 
 preparation must be — Hush ! — hark ! — 
 What sound is that ? Did you lock the 
 antichamber door?'* " I did, I did ; 
 listen again. We are undone, there is a 
 listener there/' '' And will you be un- 
 done ? Have you not a dagger ? Possibly 
 there is but one, and he can soon be dis- 
 patched." 
 
 They had risen ; they were rushing 
 
 to
 
 THE FAMILY OP MONTORIO. S5T 
 
 to the door. " What! more blood!"* 
 said Montorio, half recoiling, '*' must 
 there be more blood ?" 
 
 The Countess replied but by a look, 
 and an effort to wrest the dagger from 
 him; but the noise was occasioned by 
 drawing back the bolts of another door, 
 that which communicated with the con- 
 fessor's, who opening it, suddenly entered 
 the apartment. Montorio staggered to 
 his chair, while his wife, with the invo- 
 1 luntary movement of fear, held up the 
 light to the. stranger's face, to discover 
 if indeed it were the confessor. 
 
 The monk spake in hurried and eager 
 tones, but w'ithout the eagerness of dis- 
 covery. '' I know ye; I know the secret 
 of your fear; — I know the purpose." — 
 '' Whom, and what do you know, and 
 "whence this intrusion?*' said the Coun- 
 tess, passing with dexterous quickness be- 
 tween the Count and the confessor, to 
 conceal the pale and fear-stricken visage of 
 
 VOL. I. Q the
 
 333 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 the former; on whom she cast looks 
 of smothered fury, and muttered, 
 '' Shame! — shame!" through her shut 
 teeth. 
 
 " It is in vain," said the Count, with 
 a look of anguish and horror, " it is in 
 vain, he knows it all." '' I know it all,'* 
 repeated the monk. " He echoes your 
 words, will you prompt him yourself? — 
 Or if he knows it all — have you not still 
 a resource? " She pointed to his dagger ; 
 then turning boldly to the monk, to con- 
 ceal the movements of the Count, again 
 demanded of him what he knew, and where- 
 fore he was there. The monk laugh- 
 ed. — The blood of Montorio and his 
 wife ran cold to hear his laugh; they 
 almost wished he had told his disco- 
 very. 
 
 " Lady," said he, '^ urge me not. — I 
 know the deed — and the time — and the 
 place — and the sign. I can repeat the 
 signal of the secret. I have read the 
 
 marl'
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 339 
 
 mark on the brow. — Do you remember 
 your miserable agent, Ascanio? Do you 
 remember the monk of the mountains ? 
 — the confession — secret — the letters of 
 the prior — and how you trembled at their 
 dark intimations?'* 
 
 '' Who, who is this ?" said the Coun- 
 tess, in terror. — " Must I go on, or is 
 your soul shaken yet ? — Do you remember 
 Orazio and Eiminia — the betrayed — the 
 distracted — the murdered?" 
 
 '' Hold, hold, what, oh, what are you ? ' 
 " Do you remember,'* said the monk, 
 in a voice that froze them, ^' do you re- 
 member that night, that terrible night, 
 when the thunder roared, and the earth 
 was rent to appal you, in vain ? Do you 
 remember the north tower — the narrow 
 staircase — the evening gloom? — Do you 
 remember how your victim struggled ? — 
 Do you remember her dying curse — her 
 dying scream ? — Six strokes your dagger 
 gave — I feel them all; at the seventh his 
 Q 2 blood
 
 3A0 FATAL retenge; -ok^ 
 
 blood rose to the hilt. You heard him chat- 
 ter — ^you saw him convulsed — you felt him 
 quiver — ha ! ha ! ha ! — Go^ comfort your 
 pale husband yonder^ he seems to swoon." 
 
 Pie released her arm, which he had 
 grasped with violence; she staggered 
 from him, and fell senseless on the floor. 
 The Count remained petrified, holding 
 his half- drawn dagger. 
 
 '^ Look to the lady," said the monk. — ■ 
 ^^I came not to terrify, but to save. You 
 are in danger; I know its direction, its 
 nature — nay its very degree. But fear 
 you not; they can do nothing without 
 me ; you are safe from all human power, 
 and all human vengeance. I am your 
 dark, invisible shield. Be bold and reck- 
 less of them. Montorio, sad and fearful 
 man, be bold. It is midnight now, and 
 I must hence, on a far and dreary sum- 
 mons. Montorio, be bold and reckless." 
 
 He disappeared through the secret door. 
 The Count raised and supported his wife 
 
 Sb
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 341 
 
 She recovered. She murmured, " Are 
 we?" — '' Alone/' said the Count, " you 
 called no assistance ? None saw us." 
 '" None!" "Right, right," panted the 
 Countess, '' better death than discovery ! " 
 
 She rose, feebly leaning on Montorio, 
 the energy of her mind, contending with 
 bodily weakness. She could scarce stand, 
 but her eye and tone were firm. 
 
 " What fearful voice was that which 
 spake to me?*' " It was no fearful voice; 
 it spake of strength and courage. Aye, 
 snd-do'i fe^I iitrarigc courage aad strength 
 within me since it spake." '' Are you 
 mad, Montorio? he knows our secret — 
 pui-sue him, he is unarmed; he has not 
 quitted the passage." 
 
 *' Woman ! woman !'* scowled Mon- 
 torio, '' weak and daring ; — but now you 
 fainted at the name of blood, and now 
 you urge me to shed it. I will not pursue 
 him. Were he here, and at my very 
 sword's point, I could not thrust at him. 
 
 Zenobia 1
 
 34^ FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 Zenobia ! that man is the very agent of 
 our fate. From the first moment I be- 
 held his dark eye, and heard his deep voice, 
 I felt my mind and genius in subjection 
 to his. At our first conference^, he ap- 
 peared to be in possession of the bur- 
 then that presses on my soul: and he 
 appeared to possess it, not in the vulgar joy 
 of an inquisitive spirit, but with the deep 
 consciousness and compassion that thinks 
 not of the crime, but of the criminal. 
 He has prayed with, and for me, in fervent 
 agony the live-long night, till the big 
 drops, like those of death, stood on his 
 pale forehead; — but never till to-night 
 did he own the extent of his knowledge, 
 though he must have long been in pos- 
 session of it. When I talk to him, events 
 the most distant — the most secret — the 
 most minute, seem all perfectly known to 
 him; wherever I have been, he seems 
 to have been — to have seen all I have 
 seen— and to have known all I know.—- 
 
 His
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 343 
 
 His presence — his voice seem to act 
 me like a spell. Either my spirit, weary 
 of suffering, sinks into that lassitude, 
 which precedes dissolution ; or it bows 
 to its arbiter, with conscious submission, 
 and tells me to rest on him. And even 
 now departing, he bid me be bold and 
 fearless. I will not fear — I will rest on 
 him." 
 
 '' Montorio, you mistake the amaze- 
 ment of a harassed spirit, for the con- 
 fidence of a controlled one. This is the 
 monk of the mountains, whom your super- 
 stition would transform into the minister 
 of your fate ; — he holds the confession 
 secret ; which, perhaps, he only awaits 
 the arrival of Pallerini to disclose to- 
 morrow. And will you, w^ill you, see the 
 serpent crawling within your walls, and 
 whetting the sting that is to pierce you, 
 without an effort to crush him?" 
 
 '' It is impossible to reach him now," 
 said Montorio. '' Impossible !" " Yes, 
 
 when
 
 344 FATAL revenge; OJt, 
 
 ■when he came to reside here^ he told me, 
 I must never summon him at night, for 
 every night he said, he had a task, which 
 might neither he deferred nor suspended.'^ 
 " A pretence for an opportunity of pry- 
 ing." *' No ; often in my midnight- 
 visitings, have 1 sent for him; but never 
 was he to be found. The castle gates are 
 locked every night; but he passes every 
 where without noise or obstruction ; he 
 knows the secret avenues better than we 
 do. I have seen him appear from walls> 
 Vnere no door was ; — I have seen him in 
 
 the passages of the the-— — tower, 
 
 but never at night may he be found." 
 
 '' Your account almost tempts me to your 
 own c onfidence in him. But what have 
 we else to grasp at, it is the involuntary 
 fortitude of misery, that converts its in- 
 struments of suffering, into instruments 
 of relief — At least, lam content to abide 
 till to-morrow, for what can be done or 
 known till then?" '^ Yes, to-morrow 
 
 much
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 345 
 
 much will be known/' '' Did you speak, 
 Zenobia?" " No, I was sheathing the 
 dagger you had dropt." " I thought I 
 heard a voice murmur, to-morrow; but I 
 am often so deceived. Good night, Ze- 
 nobia. Let the attendants return, and 
 look you give orders for to-morrow's pre- 
 paration with a cheerful tone/' 
 
 The (^ountess rose to depart, but as she 
 crossed, he grasped her arm ; his eyes 
 were cast upward; their lids quivered; 
 his teeth were strongly shut; his frame 
 rose and dilated with an intense and strain- 
 ing movement ; he held her strenuously, 
 but spoke not. '' How is this, Montorio ? 
 Speak, what do you see, or feel, Montorio? 
 speak to me — jnust I call assistance? '^ 
 '' Stir not, speak not,'* he hissed through 
 his shut teeth. '* What, and wherefore is 
 this?" '' There — there — there," he 
 sighed slowly, while the influence that 
 held him, seemed to relax. His eyes mov- 
 Q 5 ed
 
 516 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 ed again, and the muscles resumed their 
 tone and direction. 
 
 He sunk into the chair, still holding her 
 arm, and almost dragging her with him. — 
 '' So, now, you must not leave me to- 
 night." " Not leave you V " No; the 
 feeling has been with me ; I know its 
 deadly language; it tells me what shall 
 befal to-night.'' '' What shall befal to- 
 night !" '' Aye ; ever when it comes, 
 my eyes grow dim — my ears ring — my 
 flesh creeps and quivers. Then I know 
 that I shall walk in my sleep that night; 
 and you must abide by me, Zenobia. 
 From the strange looks of those who watch 
 with me, I know I talk in those nightly 
 visitings ; you must abide by me, Zenobia ; 
 none but the murderess must hear the 
 ravings of the murderer.'' ^' Yes, I will ' 
 watch with you. This is the meed of our 
 daring. — But how know you it will come 
 on to-night ?"' '' Whenever my mind is I 
 shaken by the mention of those events, 
 
 then
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 347 
 
 then 1 know it will visit me. I have also 
 a short, convulsive summons that betokens 
 it; — you have seen me wrought by that; 
 but now — prepare for the night, good 
 wife; for what a night must I prepare ! ' 
 
 "How is the night?" said the Count, 
 raising his heavy eyes to his wife. *^*^ Tis 
 almost twelve." — '' Then my hour is very 
 near; I feel its summons coming on; 'tis 
 heavier than sleep, yet 'tis not like the 
 drowsiness of sleep." — " Is there no means 
 of preventing or of mitigating it; can 
 you not turn your thoughts in another di- 
 rection ?" — "Can you!" replied Monto- 
 rio, fixing his eye on her. " Is it not at 
 least possible to repel sleep, and so repel 
 this terrible companion r"—'*^ No, no, 
 no ;" murmured he, with the heaviness 
 of reluctant drowsiness, '' I have tried a 
 thousand ways, a thousand times, but 
 
 never
 
 348 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 never could I resist the lead-like weight 
 of that unnatural sleep. Oh it were mock- 
 ery to tell you, Zenobia, the childish, 
 miserable things I have done to prevent 
 these nightly visitings. I have wasted 
 the day in fatigue, and the night in dis- 
 soluteness; but ever when it came, though 
 the sleep that seized me were as deep as 
 death, I rose almost as soon as my head 
 touched the pillow. I have determined 
 to watch at my casements, to mark the 
 moon and clouds, their changes and shapes. 
 I have turned my thoughts intently to 
 one point and object, and still as it stole 
 from my mind, I have tried to recal it. 
 I have counted the sparks in the embers, 
 the figures in the tapestry to force atten- 
 tion to wakefulness; but ever when mid- 
 night came on, I sunk into sleep, with all 
 the horrid consciousness that it was not 
 slumber, nor rest, but a living hell that 
 awaited me. I have made my attendants 
 
 read
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 549 
 
 read to me, varying their tone and subject, 
 and bid them, if they saw me slumber, 
 shake and rouse me up; but all in vain. 
 When I have started from my dream, I 
 have beheld them asleep with their books 
 in their hands, and when I upbraided them 
 with negligence, they fell on their knees, 
 and declared, they neither could rouse 
 me, nor preserve themselves from the in- 
 fluence that overcame them/' — " Merciful 
 heaven, and this, the moment your eyes 
 are closed." — " My eyes never close," 
 said Montorio, with a piteous ghastliness 
 of visage; "on those nights; they con- 
 tinue open during the whole of my wan- 
 dering." — '' It will be a fearful sight for 
 me to behold you." — '*^Aye; we must 
 bear them though ; we must learn to grap- 
 ple with our fate, and all its terrible cir- 
 cumstance and feature. But mark me — • 
 however ghastly the sight, close not your 
 eyes, close them not for a moment; if 
 
 you
 
 350 FATAL revenge; or^ 
 
 you do, sleep may overcome you ; and 
 the prying knaves of the chamber may 
 listen or enter unobserved : no- — thoujrh 
 spent and affrighted, the wife of the mur- 
 derer must not sleep." — " Fear me not, I 
 shall neither slumber nor fear."' — ''How- 
 ever desperate my convulsions, my strug- 
 gles, my sufferings, if my very hair stand 
 upright, if blood gush from my nostrils, if I 
 bedrenched with the sweat of fearful agony, 
 yet waken me not, Zenobia; let the vision 
 spend its teriiMe force; for if wakened 
 in its paroxysm, reason is irrecoverably 
 lost. — Alas, Zenobia, by the light I see 
 your eyes begin to wander, and your 
 voice sounds faint ; — rouse, rouse, you 
 must not sleep, Zenobia; tell me the hour, 
 and how much of it has our melancholy 
 conference wasted }" — '' The time-piece 
 is beside you.'' — " Aye, but I want to see 
 you move, and hear the sound of your 
 voice answering me ; tell me the hour, 
 good wife?' — '' 'Tis but a quarter past 
 
 twelve."
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 351 
 
 twelve." — '' But, but a. quarter ! I thought 
 we had almost dragged out one hour; when 
 by some strong effort^ I have resisted its 
 influence for an hour^ with what delight 
 have I heard the bell toll one, and thought 
 it was so much nearer morning ; that so 
 much of the terrible night was elapsed. 
 But even that miserable respite is denied 
 to-night. I feel that deadly sleep coming 
 on me fast ; speak, speak to me, Zenobia; 
 let me feel your hand, or hear you move; 
 no, no, no; all palsied, numb, and drow- 
 sy." — '' Try to rise, and walk up and 
 down your apartment ; I will support." — 
 ''In vain, in vain;" he murmured, '' I 
 should sleep if rocking on a w^ave.*'^'' At 
 least retire to bed, before this oppresses 
 you; perhaps you might get some sleep." 
 '' No, no ; I will remain in this chair; 
 even in my slumber, I feel the horrid mo- 
 tion of rising from the bed." 
 
 The last sentence was almost inarticu- 
 late; he shivered— he moaned — he fell 
 
 backward :
 
 Si59 FATAL REVENGE ,* OH, 
 
 backward ; his eyes closed for a moment^ 
 but opening again^ remained' staring, mo- 
 tionless^ and dead; — his hands moved 
 with a faint tremour, and his heavy respi- 
 ration sounded like a groan. The Count- 
 esS;, with involuntary fear, caught a cross 
 that hung on her bosom^ but dropt it 
 again, while a terrible expression crossed 
 her countenance ; *' What have I to do 
 with thee," she half-murmured, and half- 
 thought; she then seized a book that lay 
 on the table, and began to read v/ith fixed 
 and vehement attention, studiously . con- 
 fining her eye to the page. She was dis- 
 turbed by the louder groans of Montorio; 
 she read aloud in the endeavour to drown 
 them, but they became stronger and more 
 terrible; she could no longer hear what 
 she read, the book fell from her hand. 
 
 The groans were followed by some inar- 
 ticulate sounds, and he then began to 
 speak, in tones so distinct, yet so unlike 
 
 human
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 353 
 
 human accents, that she thought the groans 
 had not ceased. 
 
 *' Zenobia, Zenobia/' he said in a quick 
 low voice, " where are you gone ? What 
 is this melancholy light by which I follow 
 you ? — ^the pale glow of embers ! — Nay 
 then, she must be near. — Let me draw the 
 curtains of this bed; — Is this you, Zenobia? 
 Ha ! — lightning rive me ! — Erminia ! — let 
 rne, let me fly ; no, no, no : — her eye 
 has fixed, her touch has frozen me. Must 
 I stand here for ever; rooted, congealed, 
 gazing, face to face; touch to touch? I 
 cannot move my foot, or withdraw my 
 eye, or think myself away. — Ha, her cold 
 shroud encloses me like a snow-cloud ; 
 her dead arms creep round ; the icy dart 
 of her eye numbs my brain. — Help, help 
 me, Zenobia ! I sink, I sink wdth her I 
 Oceans of mist and snow ! storms of icy 
 sleet and shower ! cold, cold ; oh, cold.'* 
 
 His teeth chattered with frightful loud- 
 ness.
 
 Ov34 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 ness, and the seat shook with his shaking 
 limbs. '^ Whither, whither now !" he 
 muttered; "aye, I know your haunt; 
 I know, whence this dim unnatural 
 light steals from ! ye shall not drag me 
 to the tower; it is in the castle, I know, 
 and not in this misty bay. I will lurk 
 in this gulph, and shun it. Ha ! 'tis 
 here ; I move without feet, and without 
 change of place; this is witchery! I will 
 pray and cross me, and then no evil 
 thing shall control. — Father Schemoli, 
 cross me on the left breast, there— near 
 the heart, for they say it is troubled 
 and impure ; I would do it myself, but 
 my hands are bloody! — Ha! ha! ha! 
 What hand was that which wrote on my 
 breast ? I bid it sign the cross — Orazio ! 
 Erminia ! — Verdoni! in letters of burning 
 sulphur. — Help, here !— Water ! — steel ! 
 wash it ! — erase it ! — tear it out ! — it eats 
 into my flesh ! — it drinks up my blood ! 
 
 Now
 
 THB FAMILY OF MONOTRIO. 355 
 
 Now they surround me ! — save me, save 
 me ! — I stand their burning food ! — Oh, 
 their hot pincer-fangs! they hiss in my 
 flesh! — Oh, rend out my heart, and let 
 me have ease ! — see, they divide it a- 
 mong them ! —it spreads, it burns, up- 
 ward, upward ! my hairs blaze up, my 
 eye-balls melt ! — I burn blue, and green, 
 and red ! — I am a hell I — Fire, fire, fire!'' 
 He roared with strong and horrid force, 
 and started from his chair, and spread his 
 arms, with the action of one who strug- 
 gled with flames. A scream rose to 
 the Countess's throat, she suppressed it 
 with convulsive firmness. A dead silence 
 followed this burst, and in its pause, the 
 Countess heard the deep and heavy breath- 
 ing of the sleeping pages in the anti-cham- 
 ber. She felt there was something ex- 
 traordinary in their torpor, but the secu- 
 rity w^hich it promised, balanced the 
 fearful thoughts it whispered; and she 
 listened to it with delight. 
 
 He
 
 S5C FATAL revenge; OK) 
 
 He advanced from his chair, with a slow 
 tut steady motion; he moved to the door; 
 there he seemed to encounter some ob- 
 ject, whom he addressed in low and pa- 
 cifying tones. — '' 'Tis true, my lord, 'tis 
 true, you must be satisfied ; — there is rea- 
 son for it. — Let me have the keys of the 
 north tower. — Filthy knaves, why do you 
 bring them smeared with blood, and twist- 
 ed v;ith worms ? — Take them hence, and — 
 ha ! the doors open of themselves : 'tis a 
 good omen, my lord ; — enter first, I 
 entreat you ; nay, I would, but these old' 
 floors groan so under a man's tread, and 
 if I entered first, you might think they 
 groaned, because I trod them." 
 
 He went eagerly around the room, touch- 
 ing and pointing to different objects: — the 
 Countess shrunk from every spot he ap- 
 proached. *'See, my lord, see, — all is jiafe. 
 Men will die — and they must be buried- — 
 and there will be a death-like steam, and a 
 
 mist —
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 357 
 
 mist — a mistj my lori but these things 
 can be removed, and who will guess them 
 then ? Ha !" smiting with fury at the w^all, 
 " villains! villains! w^ho has rent open 
 this wall ? Who points down that stair ? 
 Go not thither, Pallerini ; nothing, no- 
 thing but a lumbering skeleton. Some 
 dry, decayed bones, a sorry sight of mor- 
 tality. It can tell nothing. Who has 
 heard the dead speak? Ask it not to 
 write, it hath not the means. See, I will 
 touch it ; 'tis a fearful sight, but a harm- 
 less one. Now, were I the murderer, the 
 blood would gush from the holes of its 
 skull: — ha! what is that! who raised its 
 fleshless and clattering arm to smite me 
 on my mouth ? — again ! — again ! away — 
 away, where the dead move is no place 
 for us. But you heard yourselves, he did 
 not say I did it."^ — He paused; he waved 
 his arm with a slow, commanding air. 
 '' Prepare the feast — the wine — the music; 
 
 but look there be no knives like dag- 
 .5 gers
 
 358 FATAL REVENGE ; OR^ 
 
 gers on the table; and let not the 
 attendants wear those murderers' looks. 
 Ho there^ let us be merry !" 
 
 He sunk into his chair, and spread out 
 his arms. *' Give me some wine.— Ha ! 
 who is this ? Ascanio ! — Get thee hence, 
 with that grim, sorry face. Ascanio, I 
 have wished to see thee long, but this is 
 no time, no place — avaunt ! why dost 
 thou stand grinning at me ? — I tell thee 
 this is no time. Noble Pallerini, I pledge 
 you." 
 
 He writhed his mouth. " Ha ! damned 
 potion — what is this ! Erminia's — blood ! 
 ^—Villains ! why am I served thus ! — and 
 this! What's this before me ! — a bloody 
 dagger ! Why do you all stare distractedly } 
 Wherefore do you laugh, Pallerini } Ha ! 
 bold, the taper's here. Blasting light- 
 nings ! 'tis Orazio, — Erminia, — Verdoni, 
 away — break up the feast, the dead are 
 among us. The lights are sulphur ; the 
 music i§ a howl ; — away — away ; — who 
 
 nails
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 359 
 
 nails me to my chair ? — The floor sinks 
 under me! — down — down — down. Let 
 me grasp at the air — will nothing hold 
 me? — Sinking for ages — lower — lower — - 
 lower. My breath — my sense — -my sight 
 are gone ! — Oh ! — Oh!" 
 
 He staggered — he shrieked — he awoke. 
 The Countess hastened to hold him. 
 " Hush, hush, Montorio ; all is well. 
 You are alive — you are awake — you are 
 in my arms.'' He shook and tottered in 
 her grasp. His eyes were fixed on her; 
 but he saw her not. Her voice was mixed 
 with the voices of his sleep. Again she 
 spake, again she soothed him in low, and 
 cautious whispers. '' Am I alive } — am I 
 safe } — am I only a muraerer still ! Thank 
 heaven 1 my hour is not yet come — my 
 hour of flames and agony." '' Hush, 
 tush, Montorio ; be yourself again. Are 
 you unmanned by the fears that visit the 
 infant's sleep — by the fantasy of a dream ?" 
 ** And are you without fear or distraction? 
 2 do
 
 B60 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 do you sleep all the long night ? Have 
 you no dark dreams, such as visit not an 
 infant's sleep ?'' '' Often ; but I deride 
 tlieniy and myself. Often is my sleep 
 broken with horrid starts of fear. Often 
 do I see^ through my curtains, forms 
 with fixed eyes, and forms with none, that 
 glare on me, in their emptiness. Often I 
 hear, around my bed, those low, doubtful, 
 moving sounds, which the ear can neither 
 discover to proceed from itself, nor 
 from outward objects. Then I shake my 
 curtains, or trim the night-lamp, or mock 
 the terrors that come too late for preven- 
 tion, and too trfling for remorse.'' '' Speak 
 no more," said Montorio. " Words of 
 comfort from the mouth of guilt, are 
 like the prayers of the wizard, inverted as 
 they are uttered. I would not live thii 
 life of horrors, but in the hope to com- 
 pound for their mitigation in another."— 
 
 They
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 361' 
 
 They sat in silence till near the morn- 
 ing. A light doze, which had fallen on 
 them as they sat, was broken, by the open- 
 ing of the secret door. Again the monk 
 stood before them. They looked upon 
 him, with that helpless stupefaction with 
 which we view one who has the secret of 
 our ruin, but over w^hom we have no in- 
 fluence to secure its concealment. '' I 
 have been far distant since," said he. " I 
 have learned much. I would confer with 
 you.* 
 
 The Countess stared with reluctant 
 amaze; but the confessor heeded her not. 
 He prepared to speak ; the Count pointed 
 to a seat. "No rest for me; I would 
 speak, and ye must hear.'' " Speak, then, 
 but speak low^; the attendants are in 
 the antichamber,*' said the Countess, *"' and 
 withdraw yoi,!r cowl from your face, holy 
 father, for my senses are dull and spent, 
 with last night's struggles, and 1 scarce 
 can hear you." " Wherefore that re- 
 
 voL. I. R quest ?'*
 
 S63 TATAL revenge; or, 
 
 quest ?'* said the monk, " none have ever 
 seen my cowl withdrawn, none ever must, 
 
 till." 
 
 He paused. The Count and Countess 
 tent forward with concealed faces, and 
 fixed ears. The monk began his commu- 
 nications in a low tone, accompanied by 
 violent gesture, and interrupted only by 
 looks of silent ghastliness, which JVJontorio 
 and his wife exchanged at different periods 
 «f it. The communication lasted till the 
 watch-lights burnt dull and dim in the 
 blue light that streamed through the cur- 
 tains. The confessor rose from the chair, 
 over which he had bent to whisper. " For 
 this,'* said he, folding his dark drapery, 
 *' your preparation must be instant." '' Fear 
 us not; our demeanour shall evince no- 
 thing but ease and tranquillity." '^ Pardon 
 me, lady, I never doubted your power of 
 assuming what form or language you 
 needed, but," said the monk, with un- 
 heeded irony, '^ I speak of another 
 
 preparation.
 
 THE FAMILY »F MONTORIO. 363 
 
 preparation. I speak of a place, hard to 
 secure, and hard to conceal : of a place 
 w^here the search of Pallerini might be 
 directed, and where that search might dis- 
 cover a dumb, but fearful witness of our 
 secret. Know you of such a place in 
 this castle, lady?" '' He speaks of the 
 north tower, of the burial-hole, on t\iQ 
 secret stair." ^' Why, why particularize 
 it, with such hideous minuteness? Yes 
 1 know it well, holy father; we must an- 
 ticipate all search there ; that body must 
 be removed." '' When, and how^, and 
 by whom?" said the monk, in a hollow 
 tone. '' This following night," said the 
 Countess. " And by you," added Mon- 
 torio. " By me ?" " Aye, by you. 
 Contend not with me, I am a man of wrung 
 and harassed soul. I will not visit those 
 apartments." The few remaining points 
 were adjusted in whispers. The monk 
 retired. The Count summoned his atten- 
 dants, and the castle was soon employed 
 R 2 in
 
 364: FATAL REVENGE j OR^ 
 
 in glad and busy preparation for the 
 arrival of the visitor 
 
 A day and a night passed in festivity. 
 '^ I may expect then to meet you in your 
 apartment, at midnight. Count?" "I shall 
 attend you, Duke." But on that night, 
 while the family were assembled in the 
 hall, the confessor entered, and whispered 
 the Count, who, startled and agitated, 
 rose, and committing the entertainment 
 to the Countess, retired. " You will 
 not forget your engagement, Count?" 
 said the Duke, as Montorio past him, with 
 a solemnity so brief, it scarce seemed to 
 borrow a moment from the levity of his 
 mirth. '' I go io prepare for it," was 
 the answer. Montorio and the monk 
 retired. 
 
 The Countess, who felt the necessary 
 claim on her exertions, redoubled them ; 
 
 though
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 365 
 
 though she would have almost exchanged 
 her chair of state for a rack^ to have learn- 
 ed the cause of the Count's absence. 
 Midnight arrived; artificial levity could 
 exist no longer. The Countess almost 
 talked to herself; and the Duke appeared 
 perplexed and suspicious, when one of 
 the attendants acquainted him that the 
 Count was in his apartment! This was 
 the signal of their meeting. The family- 
 separated; the Duke retired to his own 
 chamber, which, when he conceived the 
 castle was at rest, he quitted for Mon- 
 torio's. 
 
 The Count and Countess were alone. 
 The Duke entered, with two attendants, 
 in silence. The faces, the persons, the 
 manners of the meeting, had undergone 
 a sudden and total change. There were 
 no compliments, no gaiety, no polished 
 festivity; the countenances of the group 
 were only marked by different shades of 
 suspicious or sullen gloom, as they be- 
 tokened
 
 36 6 FATAL BEVENGE ; OK, 
 
 tokened the varied characters of the 
 inquisitors and the criminals. The Duke 
 advanced. '' Is it necessary/* said the 
 County pointing to the attendants, '*is itne- 
 cessary that your lacqueys should witness 
 this extraordinary procedure ?" " I trusty," 
 said the Duke, *'you will regard the cir- 
 cumstance I am about to acquaint you with, 
 as an additional proof of the consideration 
 ioY you which is mingled through the whole 
 procedure. These persons are the officers 
 of justice^ disguised as my attendants, and 
 appointed to register the minutes of the ex- 
 amination, I am commissioned to institute; 
 others are dispersed through your castle, 
 in the same disguise, ready to execute any 
 orders, which the event of the examination 
 may render it expedient for me to issue. 
 Under these circumstances. Count, you 
 will observe opposition to be perfectly 
 ineffectual, and I trust you commend 
 the delicacy which suggested the expe- 
 dient." *' Proeeed to your commission,'* 
 5 reph'ed
 
 THE FA^riLY OF MONTORIO. 367 
 
 replied the Count. '' Will not the Coun- 
 tess retire?" said the Duke, '' this is no 
 place for female presence, nor will the 
 terms and objects of our conference be 
 pleasing to her. " '' The place where the 
 honour of my family is discussed, is the 
 fittest for the mistress of it/' replied the 
 Countess. 
 
 The secretaries seated themselves at a 
 low table, in a remote part of the room. 
 The Count removed the lights near which 
 he sat, and the rustling of papers was all 
 that interrupted a long and general pause. 
 " You had a brother, Count/' '' I had." 
 *' He was married, and had children.'' 
 The Count bowed. " How Ions is it 
 since that sad and obscure end befel him?" 
 " Twenty years." " And during that 
 long period, has no inquiry been made? 
 no solicitude excited for the fate of a 
 brother?" '' Pardon me, there needed no 
 inquiry. I was well informed of its mode 
 and circumstance.'* *' And yet under- 
 took
 
 3G8 PATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 took no measure for the punishment of 
 the murderer." " The murderer had pu- 
 nished himself; my brother fell by his 
 own hand." 
 
 " How ! this is contrary both to com- 
 mon report, and to the documents now in 
 my possession.' — '' My brother died by 
 his own hand, in a fit of despair, on the 
 intelligence of his wife's death.'' — " Her 
 death then preceded his; was it also a 
 death of suicide ?" — ^"No: she was preg- 
 nant ; the terrors of the last eruption, 
 which w^as twenty years ago, brought on 
 a premature labour; she and her child 
 perished." — ''This can of course, be easily 
 substantiated, a woman of her rank was 
 certainly, suitably attended?" — " Her dan- 
 ger was too brief and mortal; she was 
 only attended by the nurse of her chil- 
 dren." — " Is she alive ?"—*' No ; she did 
 not long survive her mistress." *' A strange 
 fatality attended all the agents in this af- 
 fair; the storm of that night had many 
 2 victims.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 369 
 
 victims. Count. But you mentioned child- 
 ren, how did they disappear?" — ''They 
 were conveyed that night to their nurse's 
 sister. Jest they should disturb the Count- 
 ess; they died of complaints incidental 
 to infancy." — ''How considerate tore- 
 move them from the castle on that night 1 
 Doubtless their mother enjoyed repose 
 soon after their absence ; but, may I in- 
 quire, is the woman with whom they died, 
 still living?" — "She is," interrupted the 
 Countess, *' she is now living in the Ab- 
 ruzzo; her name is Teresa Zanetti." — " The 
 air of the Abruzzo is favourable to weak, 
 infantine complaints ?*' — "We have rea- 
 son to say so/' observed the Countess ; 
 " our eldest sons, Ippolito and Annibal 
 were nursed by that woman, and in that 
 cottage, and they are strong and healthy 
 young men." — " To return to the Count 
 Orazio," said the duke, " 1 have heard 
 he perished in Greece ; was the suicide 
 committed there, and by whom, if com- 
 R 5 mitted
 
 370 FATAL revenge; or^ 
 
 mitted, was it witnessed?" — "A confi- 
 dential servant was intrusted with the in- 
 telligence, but my brother started into 
 madness on hearing it, and dashed him- 
 self from a rock, under which he was re- 
 posing on his return from a fishing party." 
 ^' And of his numerous attendants, (for 
 a nobleman would scarce undertake a jour- 
 ney into Greece alone, ) were there none 
 that could prevent this catastrophe?"— 
 " He went alone, for he was fond of so- 
 litary recreation ; Ascanio met him alone, 
 and the efforts of madness which often 
 defy numbers, were not to be resisted by 
 a single arm.*' — '' Of course, you soothed 
 your grief for this melancholy event, by 
 a public and magnificent memorial, your 
 brother s remains were brought over, and 
 his funeral solemnized by the family." — 
 '^ Ascanio who knew what I would have 
 suffered from the shocking intelligence 
 thaltthe body was so torn and scattered 
 
 as 
 
 I
 
 THF FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 371 
 
 as to be unfit for interment, ordered a 
 funeral, and pretended to bury the re- 
 mains : I have since heard they were so 
 mangled, that was impossible." — '' Did 
 no one but the trusty Ascanio, see those 
 remains?'' — " I was not concerned in the 
 inquiring how many savage fishermen 
 gazed on a carcase/* — " You appear then: 
 by your own confession/* said the Duke,, 
 while the secretaries pens went fast, " to 
 be ignorant whether your brother perished 
 or not ; since to prove it, you have only 
 the bare report of a solitary menial, who 
 had neither witness nor evidence for his 
 report, and who was capable of deceiving 
 you in the most material part of the event 
 itself May I ask w^hether even this Asca- 
 nio is yet alive?'* — '' He has been dead 
 some years/' — '' Did he die in your ser- 
 vice ?'*- — '' No, he died abroad, in whose 
 service I know not/' — '' Strange,, the dis- 
 mission of a servant so useful, so confi- 
 dential, so considerate/' — " If you expect 
 
 from
 
 372 FATAL REVENGE ; OR^ 
 
 from me the memoirs of every servant I 
 have dismissed^ I fear your commission 
 will prove an unsatisfactory one." 
 
 A long pause followed; the Duke whis^ 
 pered with his secretaries. " You declare 
 then you are utterly ignorant of this As^ 
 canio ; of his motives for leaving your 
 service ; or of any events which may have 
 befallen him since." — " I declare it.''— 
 ^' Count/' said the duke, " there are two 
 ways of evading the issue of an inquiry, 
 by partial answerings of an artful struc- 
 ture^ or by a sullen and uniform negative; 
 the latter mode is certainly the most safe; 
 for subtilty may be ensnared, and guilt is 
 apt to detect ; but an universal disavowal 
 is the shelter of obstinacy. Yet still I fear 
 even this will not avail you; for I have not 
 come unfurnished to this great commis- 
 sion ; I have documents, Count Montorio; 
 documents and proofs so powerful" — ^ 
 " That is false," said a voice behind him. 
 The inquirer^ the accused, and the at* 
 
 tendants.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 373 
 
 tendants, stared in consternation. Beside 
 the chair of the former, the monk was 
 discovered standing ; his entrance had 
 been observed by none, his face was con- 
 cealed, and after speaking, he remained 
 so fixed and motionless, that the hearers 
 almost doubted if the voice had issued 
 from him. '' Who is he, that is among 
 us ?" asked the Duke in a tone that spake 
 the resolution of fear ; '' speak, whence 
 are you, and wherefore do you come?" 
 " Whence, and wherefore 1 come," said 
 the monk, without moving limb or mus- 
 cle, '* it matters not; enough, that I know 
 your commission, and your powers to 
 the uttermost; you have no proofs — and 
 he who has them, will not easily delegate 
 them to kings or ministers." — " By what 
 right have you intruded yourself into this 
 presence?" demanded the Duke, " or 
 under what powers do you pretend to 
 dispute the exercise of mine. ^'* — "The 
 
 power
 
 371- FATAL revenge; OHj 
 
 power under which I act/' murmured the 
 monk, " may neither be questioned nor 
 controlled. The power which has com^ 
 missioned me, does not act with the in- 
 firmity of earthly movements ; it does not 
 seek to supply a deficiency of proofs by 
 confidence of assumption, nor make an 
 extorted confession a substitute for the 
 absence of witnesses ; it does not leave 
 me, as your's has left you, to shrink from 
 a bold inquiry, and be abased by the up- 
 braidings of falsehood; it empowers, as 
 this moment, to acquit the Count Mon- 
 torio, and to pronounce there is against 
 him, neither witness, accuser, nor proof." 
 *' This is an excellent expedient, Count," 
 said the Duke with indignation, '' and 
 your confessor, with the assistance of a 
 secret door, plays his part admirably. 
 But your next examination, shall be con- 
 ducted in a place, secure at least from 
 the intrusion of presumptuous ecclesi- 
 astics.''
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 375 
 
 astics." As he spake these words, his 
 eyes were directed to the Count ; but 
 the expression of unguarded astonishment 
 with which the latter viewed his strano-e 
 defender, undeceived him at once, pre- 
 possessed as he was with the belief of 
 some confederacy between them. 
 
 *' Why will you persist to contend with 
 your conscience/' pursued the monk; with 
 dogmatical asperity, " 1 have told you, vou 
 have no proofs; you have none ; they are 
 distant, and deep; where, none can reach, 
 and such as none can penetrate." — *' You 
 admit then that there are proofs," said 
 the Duke, with the habitual spirit of 
 availing himself of concessions, though 
 hopeless of any favourable issue from 
 this. — '' Yes, there are proofs/' said the 
 monk ; " but they are not for the sight 
 of day, or the knowledge of man; there 
 are proofs, but name them not; for there 
 is a dignity in the supreme of horrors, 
 not to be violated by the tongues of com- 
 mon
 
 376 FATAL revenge; ok, 
 
 mon men. For, the weak instrument of 
 extrinsic and ineffectual agency^ there is 
 also a proof ; a proof sufficient, that ^ow 
 have neither 'part nor lot in this matter;' 
 that your time is not yet come, and when 
 it does, it will summon you to no such 
 task; such are only for spirits of high 
 elect class. Follow me, and you shall 
 behold this proof" 
 
 The Duke looked irresolute; the Count, 
 and the attendants remained in mute as- 
 tonishment. '' Follow me,'' repeated the 
 monk ; " we must be alone.*' — There was 
 about this man, a fearlessness, a careless 
 and melancholy confidence, above huma- 
 nity ; he seemed to walk in a sphere of 
 his own, in a cheerless, unsocial exemption 
 from pain or fear, or every thing that can 
 conciliate compassion or sympathy ; and 
 never to glance down on the ways or feel- 
 ings of men, but with contempt for infir- 
 mity, or indignation for guilt. He pos- 
 sessed a commanding solemnity that infus^
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 377 
 
 ed enough of terror into his injunctions 
 to render them irresistible; they who list- 
 ened, could not but follow them; and 
 they who foliowedj followed with a mix- 
 ture of confidence and of fear, almost 
 indescribable. 
 
 The Duke arose^ but glanced at his 
 sword, as if to intimate he was prepared 
 for danger : the wild disdain of the monk's 
 smile was lost in dark folds that concealed 
 his face. The Duke and he passed slowly 
 into another apartment. The emotion 
 with which the Count and Countess had 
 beheld this scene, and now awaited its 
 conclusion, was such as cannot be de- 
 scribed. They were restrained from ex- 
 pressing it by the presence of the sec e- 
 taries, who amazed, and unknowing how 
 to proceed, yet continued in the room. 
 Of the interference of the monk, the mo- 
 tives that prompted it, or the modes which 
 he had adopted to render it effectual, 
 they were utterly ignorant; that he was 
 
 acquainted
 
 378 FATAL revenge; ORj 
 
 acquainted with their guilt, to them was 
 certain, and it was also certain that he 
 appeared determined to exclude every one 
 else from its knowledge or its prosecution. 
 But in the miserable uncertainty of cul- 
 prits, they sometimes thought he was only 
 about to make the communication more 
 certain and more terrible, by this mode 
 of disclosure; and this fear, which their 
 looks communicated to each other, as 
 distinctly as language, was rendered al- 
 most intolerable by the impossibility of 
 discussing it freely, or concerting any ex- 
 pedient that might delay or mitigate its 
 danger; a glance or motion, indicative 
 of solicitude, would have degraded that 
 port of offended dignity, which they 
 thought necessary to support before the 
 assistants; but they listened, with dread- 
 ful intentness, to the sounds which they 
 imagined, issued from time to time, from 
 the adjacent room. This state, which they 
 deemed of intolerable length, lasted but 
 
 a few
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 379 
 
 a few moments^ for the Duke rushed from 
 the apartment, with horror in his face, 
 and scarce commanding breath to bid the 
 attendants withdraw, made an abrupt and 
 indistinct excuse to the Count for his visit 
 and its circumstances. Every doubt, he 
 faltered out, was removed, every suspi- 
 cion dispelled, and nothing now remained, 
 but to apologize for the disturbance he 
 had caused, and to retire. This was done 
 •on the approach of morning, leaving the 
 Count and Countess in security, mingled 
 with amazement and fear. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 380 
 
 TATAL revenge; OK, 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 ^' I HAVE brought my harp/* said Cyprian, 
 *' may 1 touch it ? — Shall I read you 
 those lines we found in the grotto of 
 Posilippo ? — I have coloured that sketch 
 of the Castel Novo you praised, would 
 it amuse you to see it ?" — A dead silence 
 followed each of these questions. Ippo- 
 lito, to whom they were addressed, re- 
 mained with clasped hands, and eyes fixed 
 on a point, in utter silence. 
 
 '' I am
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 381 
 
 ^'I am very wretched/' sighed Cyprian, 
 after a pause, which his companion's ab- 
 sence made to resemble solitude. '' That is 
 false/' said Ippolito, " and when uttered 
 he knew it to be so." — '* Alas, what words 
 are those," said Cyprian, '' and to whom 
 do vou talk with such fearful earnestness 
 of look and gesture ?" — '' Did you not 
 say I was a murderer?" exclaimed Ippo- 
 lito, starting up. — '' Blessed Virgin, be 
 calm ! no one is here, no one speaks, but 
 me/' — " And is he not here ?'' said Ippo- 
 lito, sighing, and gazing vacantly around; 
 *' I could have sworn by all the saints, 
 I saw him, and he spoke with me but now. 
 But he is ever near me ; 'tis strange, Cy- 
 prian, but I see him in darkness, I feel 
 him in solitude ; he is ever with me.'' — . 
 'Ml may be so, dear Ippolito, our sen- 
 ses, are weak and deceitful organs; 
 mine I believe, are failing too: even 
 while I speak, you seem different from 
 
 what
 
 382 FATAL REVENGfi ,* OR, 
 
 ^hat you have seemed to me ; your voice^ 
 sounds not like what I have listened to, in 
 dear and other hours." He wept and sob- 
 bed with uncontrolled emotion. '' It is not 
 true/' said Ippolito, who had not heard 
 him, *'but let us change the subject. All 
 power is limited by place and time ; and 
 the change of those may modify that 
 power. I only say this, — because — if you 
 should hear of my going to Capua to- 
 night'* — *' To-night ! to leave Naples to- 
 night!" exclaimed Cyprian. — ''Yes/* 
 said Ippolito, "to-night, perhaps;'* then 
 added, *' if the power that pursues me, 
 can control the elements; if the hand 
 that is stretched out over me, can indeed 
 reach through every part of space; then 
 I must be as one who can struggle no 
 longer ; I must shrink into its grasp ; and 
 be'* — " Oh for mercy, for heaven's love, 
 shake me not with these terrible fears ; 
 much longer I cannot bear them; what 
 would you be, or do? — I will go with 
 
 you ; 
 
 i
 
 tllE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 383 
 
 you; if you will fly, let me go with 
 you/* — "Go with me ! never; so may 
 all the visitings of a dark and wayward 
 fate^ be on my head, as your's escape it." 
 He spoke with solemn tenderness, and laid 
 his hand on Cyprian's head. But Cyprian 
 felt his throat swell, and his head grow 
 giddy ; amid all his sufferings, the thought 
 of being deserted by him he loved, had 
 never been suggested to him ; and when 
 now it was presented to his mind, he felt 
 as if he had never been unhappy before. 
 An incapacity either to plead or to re- 
 monstrate, overcame him ; with dim eyes 
 and quivering hands, he attempted to 
 follow Ippolito, feebly repeating, " I will 
 fly with you; you said you loved me; 
 take me with you, I will follow you bare- 
 foot and in beggary through the worlds 
 Did you not say you loved me ?''— He 
 spoke to the walls. Ippolito was gone ,• 
 he remained stupified, gasping, and vainly 
 trying to awake from what he felt to be 
 
 like
 
 384 FATAL REVENGE j OR, 
 
 like the spell of a dream. But it was 
 soon dissolved ; the clock struck twelve. 
 Tfhe thoughts of Montorio*s engagement 
 at that mysterious hour rushed on him ; 
 he knelt on the ground, and prayed with 
 fresh and fervent sorrow for him, for 
 whom he began to fear his prayer was 
 vain. 
 
 At that hour — the hour of midnight ; 
 in a spot of which no one knew the site 
 or direction, below the surface of the 
 ground, and assembled by signals and 
 avenues not to be discovered, were col- 
 lected a number of beings whose appear- 
 ance seemed to hold terrible alliance with 
 the place and circumstance of their meet- 
 ing. Of their forms many were distorted 
 by tbose fantastic horrors^ that startle the 
 -sleeper from his dream, and visit the eyes 
 of the fearful when left in solitary dark- 
 ness;
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 385 
 
 ness; and many were involved in a gloom 
 through which the eye fancied it could 
 trace shapes and shadowings of more un- 
 imaginable ghastliness, than I'ght could 
 reveal. All were silently and intently 
 employed, but their gestures and move- 
 ments were so different from life, that how 
 they were employed, might not easily be 
 known. A fitful and unsteady blaze of 
 light played on them as they moved ; it 
 issued from a human skeleton, which 
 stood in a recess of the vault, around 
 whose bones a pale blue fire quivered 
 without consuming them; and in whose 
 eyeless sockets burned a deep and sullen 
 fiame. In other cavities of the walls, a 
 dim, dull light appeared, supplied by 
 tapers, which were held by shrivelledhu- 
 man hands, whose deadly yellowness be- 
 came more visible in the light they dis- 
 persed. That light showed many other 
 sights of terror; strange forms and cha- 
 voL. I. s racters
 
 obO FATAL revenge; ORj 
 
 racters were on the walls and roof, over 
 whose dark and measureless extent^ th<^ 
 €ye sought in vain for a point or limit of 
 distance. Some were in motion with a 
 horrid resemblance of life; others were 
 still, as the grave, from which they ap- 
 peared to be but lately torn. At one ex^ 
 tremity, if that could be called so, which 
 was quite undefined, hung something that 
 was intended as a separation between that 
 iind an interior vault, but of which the 
 eye could not discover whether it was a 
 curtain, or a volume of transparent wall^ 
 as its ;iiassive shadows appeared like the 
 foldings of either. Before it was extended 
 something that resembled an altar, on 
 which a dark cloud brooding, concealed 
 -the deed and implements, through it^ a 
 dull and ghastly light was seen, across 
 which moved the shadows of things still 
 more terrible; and above it was extended 
 the body of a man, blue, livid, and re- 
 laxed.
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. S87 
 
 laxed, as if but lately dead, but the eyes 
 were open, and that glassiness Vnich death 
 only can give, lent them a strange light, 
 like life; the right hand was raised, and 
 the finger on the lips ; and this posture, 
 with the glazed fixedness of the eyes, gave 
 a speaking and terrible effect to the corse. 
 On a sudden was heard a sound which re- 
 sembled what might be supposed to be the 
 effect of a bell, tolled in the air, and heard 
 at a vast distance under ground ; sus- 
 pense and doubt were visible in the aspect 
 of the assembly, as they listened to it. 
 AH employrnent ceased ; they looked du- 
 biously on each other, and around them^ 
 as the deep tones died avray, awaking 
 echoes to a distance, that seemed never 
 to have been visited by sound before. 
 Their suspense was short — another sound 
 succeeded, which was accompanied by the 
 rush of a strong blast; the fires flared and 
 bickered, as it swept them; their strong 
 s "Z and
 
 388 FATAL revenge; or, 
 
 and sudden glow, making its noisome 
 chillncss more felt. In the dead silence 
 that followed, nothing but the low hissing 
 of the flames was heard ; but the next mo- 
 ment, they caught the tread of a human 
 foot, descending steps ; it came nearer 
 and louder — " He is ours for ever," ex- 
 claimed the band, — and Ippolito rushed 
 into the vault ! . . . . j 
 
 From his short, uneasy sleep, Cyprian 
 had been often roused that night, by sud- 
 den noises in the palace ; but they were 
 so mixed with those of his sleep, that he 
 believed both to be the same, and tried 
 to compose himself again : — he was awak- 
 ened from that late and heavy slumber, to 
 which those who pass restless nights are 
 accustomed, by a servant inquiring at 
 what hour he preferred dinner, as it was 
 
 la^ar 
 s 
 
 I
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 389 
 
 near noon ; with some surprise at the in- 
 quiry, he referred it to their master. '' The 
 Signor is gone," replied the man, '' and 
 we are ordered to take directions from 
 you." — '^Gone!" shrieked Cyprian, whi- 
 ther ! — when ! — how ! — speak !' — -'^ Whi- 
 ther, or how, Signor, none of us know," 
 replied the servant ; " he left Naples 
 about two hours after midnight, attended 
 by only one servant; you might have 
 heard the noise of his departure, for we 
 were all roused on his return ; and — but 
 perhaps, Signor, this letter which he left 
 for you, will explain/' — '' 1 heard the 
 noise of his departure,'' exclaimed Cypri- 
 an, " I heard, and did not feel he was 
 going; — wretch, miserable wTetch !" he 
 opened the letter eagerly; the contents 
 did not contribute to diminish his emo- 
 tion. 
 
 " From a persecution, which, though 
 hopeless to escape, I am yet unable to 
 
 endure.
 
 390 FATAL PEVENGE ; OR^ 
 
 endure, I fly, whither I know not, nor does 
 it matter; he that dvives me hence, can 
 pursue me every where. I am hopeless 
 of resistance or escape ; yet I will fiy, 
 for r will be no easy prey. I will run 
 to m.y chain's full length, and grapple with 
 that, and make it a means of respite if 
 not release. Some dreadful fate will be- 
 f'il me, cut off from the flush and joy of 
 life, which never mortal loved as 1 did, 
 
 and dragged to Oh, that it were 
 
 possible to compound for the misery and 
 escape the guilt. Oh, that I might be 
 a wanderer and a vagabond on the face of 
 the earth, and never know habitation, or 
 rest, or quiet of domestic dearness, so I 
 might shun but that. I know not whi- 
 ther I go. I will write to you, but write 
 not to me, for I shall probably remain 
 in no place longer than a night. Besides,, 
 the direction might betray me. Alas! 
 what does human device avail against him 
 with whom I h?iv€to contend? FareweU, 
 
 beloved
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO, 591 
 
 beloved Cyprian, my madness and misery 
 have not left me one tear to shed, one tender 
 thought to think of vou. There was a time 
 when I would not — but I am hot, and reck- 
 less, and insensate; yet oh ! foi your pa- 
 tience, your long suffering love, your sub- 
 missive and wife-like affeciion and fldelitv. 
 what shall I give you back? I am a heart- 
 smitten and harassed man I cannot pray; 
 I will not bless you, for I am cursed with 
 
 The servant, at the conclusion of the 
 letter, informed Cyprian, that by the 
 Signer's orders, the establishment was to 
 be maintained for him in the same style, 
 and his orders were to be absolute in the 
 household. Cyprian heard him not. The 
 whole of that dreadful day he passed in a 
 kind of stupefaction, that did not yet ex- 
 clude sensibility of pain. Montorio, his 
 name and presence, had always seemed to 
 him so necessary to his existence, that 
 
 now
 
 S92 FATAL REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 now he was, in his absence, scarcely con- 
 iscious of life. He wandered from room 
 to room, with a face of busy vacancy, that 
 sought every where for an object, for 
 whose absence it bore an expression of 
 helplessness and dismay inconceivable. 
 
 Towards eveninir, in mere bodilv weak- 
 ness, he sunk on a sofa, and felt recollec- 
 tion return by increasing pain. It grew 
 dark, and a servant entering, announced 
 that a stranger was proceeding to the 
 apartment, without informing any of the 
 attendants of his name or intentions. 
 Cyprian was alarmed, yet too feeble to 
 make any inquiry or preparation, when 
 the stranger entered the room, and mo- 
 tioned to the servant to withdraw. The 
 light v/asdim, but Cyprian, in his striking 
 sir, discovered a resemblance to the house 
 of Montorio. He advanced. *V I . feel 
 th^t-in this house,'' said he, " I ought to 
 be secure ; yet, I enter it in doubt and in 
 fear/' " In the bouse of Moatorio, Sig- 
 
 nor
 
 THE FAMILY OF MON'TORIO. 393 
 
 nor cavalier/' said Cyprian^ '' every man 
 of honour is secure.' '' I have claims/' 
 said the stranger^ hesitating, " which it 
 were better perhaps to conceal ; yet the 
 tones of your voice bid me trust you. 
 This must be Cyprian. I am Annibal di 
 Montorio." '*' Annibal !" echoed Cy- 
 prian, wild with joy, " Annibal ! Oh, 
 fiy, follow him, bring him back ! Or have 
 you found him? is he with you? Speak, 
 speak, of him !" Annibal started. " Where 
 is Ippolito ? I came to him for shelter — 
 where is Ippolito?" '^ Oh!" said Cy- 
 prian, retreating and sick w^ith fear, " is 
 he not with you ? I thought — I hoped you 
 had known his movements. You are his 
 
 brother, and when 1 saw you, I oh ! do 
 
 you not know thenw^here he is?" '' You 
 amaze me — you alarm me. I knew not 
 of his absence. I fled to him, for refuge, 
 from danger, and extremity. I am scarce 
 safe, in his absence. Yet how shall. I fol- 
 low him, when you know not where, he 
 
 is?
 
 394f FATAL revenge; ok, 
 
 is? Tell me," collecting his habitual 
 caution, '' are the present domestics re- 
 cently engaged ? and are they natives of 
 the city? " I believe they are." *' ^1 hen 
 I am safe, for some time at least. Put I 
 am worn and overwatched. I have lurked 
 in the forest all day, let me h' ve some 
 refreshment, and let my own servant 
 only, who has escaped with nie, be em-^ 
 ployed about us; you shall learn all — all 
 I know, and all 1 fear. My brother repos- 
 es unlimited confidence in you." Cy- 
 prian obeyed him, trembling with unsatis- 
 fied solicitude, and expected calamity, 
 
 Refreshments were procured, and An- 
 nibal eat his silent meal in secrecy and 
 lear, attended by Cyprian, who could 
 scarce suppress his inquiries; and by 
 Filippo, who could hardly contain his 
 communications, from the joy he felt at 
 his own and his master's escape, as well as 
 triumph in the dexterity he had exerted 
 to effect it. , 
 
 Lights 
 
 1
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 395 
 
 Lights had been introduced with the 
 ^ame caution, and Filippo had departed. 
 Annibal rose. He examined the room, 
 he secured the doors; he drew a stiletto, 
 from his vest, and laid it with his pistols 
 on the table. Cyprian beheld his prepa- 
 rations with an oppressing sensation of 
 fear. Annibal returned; he traversed the 
 room, listening to the steps of the do- 
 mestics, as they passed through the rooms. 
 The echo of the last had ceased — all was 
 silence. Midnight arived; Annibal look- 
 ed round him with an expression of secu- 
 rity, then resuming his seat by Cyprian, 
 and pressing his forehead with the air of 
 a man who struffsles throus^h weakness 
 and weariness, to collect facts, whose 
 weight burthens his faculties, said, " My 
 brother's value for you justifies the commu- 
 nications I am about to make. No pow. r 
 but confidence could extort them from 
 me. They are wonderful, dark and peril- 
 ous; nor do 1 know what danger you 
 
 may
 
 3j)6 FATAL eevenge; or, 
 
 may incur by becoming a partaker of them. 
 But by comparing our mutual information 
 on this dark topic^ something may be 
 known, which silence would have con- 
 cealed. Or/ perhaps, I am only yielding 
 to the natural wea];ncss of an oppressed 
 mind. * A dark and doubtful way is before 
 me. I must tread it alone, without guide, 
 and without companion ; and before I 
 go I would willingly leave with another, 
 what my own tongue may never be per- 
 mitted to tell. I would willingly think, 
 that my memory may not be lost in ob- 
 livion, as miy life will probably be. 1 will, 
 therefore, relate the circumstances that 
 have, within the last four months, befallen 
 Ippolito and me. With the latter, he in- 
 formed rae, you were unacquainted; in- 
 deed, with both, except those effects 
 which it was impossible to conceal." 
 
 Annibal
 
 THE FAMILY OF MONTORIO. 397 
 
 Annibal had proceeded thus far in his 
 narrative, when he observed Cyprian had 
 no longer the power of listening, in 
 an agony of terror and devotion, he 
 fluno: himself on the o^round, and call- 
 ed on the saints to forgive and to 
 plead for the unhappy wanderer. An- 
 nibal joined him with equi^l, though 
 calmer devotion, mentally mingling his 
 own name in his aspirations. " It is now 
 finished/' said Cyprim, as he rose from 
 his knees, '' it is all told ? is it not ?'* 
 Annibal shook his he?d. " Merciful hea- 
 ven — what ! more horrors ! worlds would 
 not bribe me to listen to them for ano- 
 ther hour;" — "Not more than half an 
 hour has elapsed since I began the nar- 
 rative,'* said Annibal. '' It has seemed 
 to me a term of dreadful length," said 
 Cyprian; "yet though I cannot listen to 
 more, I can speak of none but him ; let 
 us sit all night, and talk where he may 
 be fled/'—" Where he has fled," said An- 
 2 nibal,
 
 398 FATAl *REVENGE ; OR, 
 
 llibal, it IS now perhaps impossible to 
 know. I had proposed, on my escape 
 from the castle, to have come to him> 
 and persuaded him to accompany me to 
 France ; the martial spirit of Louis the 
 fourteenth, and of his government, holds 
 out an encouragement to young and 
 brave adventurers; and abroad, if the 
 hand of heaven be not stretched out over 
 us for evil, we might forget our country, 
 our name, and those disastrous hauntings 
 that seem to be inseparable from them." 
 *' And have you then experienced a 
 similar persecution ? Have you been dri- 
 ven also from your home? This is most 
 horrible,'* said Cyprian; "is it a fiend 
 that haunts your house?'' — *' It is a fiend," 
 said Annibal, gloomily, '' whom no pow- 
 'er can chase from his prey ; whom no 
 exorcist can subdue; a craving fiend, who 
 ■will have blood !*' 
 
 He rose, and tossed his arms eagerly, and 
 strode across the room. '' Cyprian, horrid 
 
 thoughts
 
 THE FAMILY OP MONTORIO. 399 
 
 thoughts are besetting me ; yes, I will 
 hasten to France : 1 have relatives too, 
 there! — my breath is choaked, my heart 
 cannot beat here. But I must at least stay 
 to-morrow ; to-day I might say, ( ^or see 
 the dawn has broke upon our melancholy 
 talk,) for 1 can only travel by night. If 
 you are not yet weary of these things, 
 wild and dark; things that defeat the 
 reason, and make even fancy shudder; 
 I will tell you a tale of such — I will tell 
 you what has befallen me.' — '' Go on,*^ 
 said Cyprian, in a voice of hollow 
 strength, " I 'can hear any thing now." 
 " No, not now,*' said Annibal, shrinking 
 from his own proposal ; '* I will now take 
 a little rest ; 1 will throw myself on this 
 sofa. Lay those pistols near me, Cyprian^ 
 and loosen' that dagger in its sheath; 
 how you tremble ! stay, I will do it my- 
 self" — He ilung himself on the sofa, 
 but starting up a moment after, asked 
 Cyprian would he not try to sleep." 
 1 '^ I am
 
 iOb FATAL KEVENGE. 
 
 '^ I am too anxious ^oy you, to sleep'' said 
 Cyprian; '' let me go into the anti-cham- 
 ber, where the slightest noise will reach 
 me, and 1 can sooner rouse you." — " This 
 is a wretched substitute for sleep, for 
 quif tj unsuspicious rest, - to lie down, 
 pillowed on daggers, and starting up to 
 catch the step of the assassin/' — " I doubt 
 nevertheless, my short sleep will be calm 
 and deep ; I have a stern tranquillity 
 within me, suited to the time." He per- 
 mitted Cyprian to go into the outer room, 
 locked the door, and composed himself 
 again to rest. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 ERRATUM. 
 
 T{ige 17, line 16. jor diabolone, read a diavolone. 
 
 C. Slower, Printer, Pat«rno6ter Row.