murmuring sounds of the woods, as they waved in the breeze, and then
by the distant bell of the convent, striking one. She now withdrew
from the window, and, as she sat at her bed-side, indulging melancholy
reveries, which the loneliness of the hour assisted, the stillness was
suddenly interrupted not by music, but by very uncommon sounds, that
seemed to come either from the room, adjoining her own, or from one
below. The terrible catastrophe, that had been related to her, together
with the mysterious circumstances, said to have since occurred in the
chateau, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk, for a
moment, under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did not
return, and she retired, to forget in sleep the disastrous story she had
heard.

CHAPTER IV

Now it is the time of night,
That, the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his spite,
In the church-way path to glide.
SHAKESPEARE

On the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothee came to
Emily's chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had been
particularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended along
the north side of the chateau, forming part of the old building; and, as
Emily's room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extent
of the castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whose
observations Dorothee was anxious to avoid, since it might excite
enquiry, and raise reports, such as would displease the Count. She,
therefore, requested, that Emily would wait half an hour, before they
ventured forth, that they might be certain all the servants were gone
to bed. It was nearly one, before the chateau was perfectly still, or
Dorothee thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval, her
spirits seemed to be greatly affected by the remembrance of past events,
and by the prospect of entering again upon places, where these had
occurred, and in which she had not been for so many years. Emily too was
affected, but her feelings had more of solemnity, and less of fear.
From the silence, into which reflection and expectation had thrown them,
they, at length, roused themselves, and left the chamber. Dorothee, at
first, carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much with infirmity
and alarm, that Emily took it from her, and offered her arm, to support
her feeble steps.

They had to descend the great stair-case, and, after passing over a
wide extent of the cha