Cesario proposed to go out, and enquire for a cottage, that might receive his master, before he attempted to remove him: but Morano was impatient to be gone; the anguish of his mind seemed to be even greater than that of his wound, and he rejected, with disdain, the offer of Cavigni to entreat Montoni, that he might be suffered to pass the night in the castle. Cesario was now going to call up the carriage to the great gate, but the Count forbade him. “I cannot bear the motion of a carriage,” said he: “call some others of my people, that they may assist in bearing me in their arms.”
At length, however, Morano submitted to reason, and consented, that Cesario should first prepare some cottage to receive him. Emily, now that he had recovered his senses, was about to withdraw from the corridor, when a message from Montoni commanded her to do so, and also that the Count, if he was not already gone, should quit the castle immediately. Indignation flashed from Morano’s eyes, and flushed his cheeks.
“Tell Montoni,” said he, “that I shall go when it suits my own convenience; that I quit the castle, he dares to call his, as I would the nest of a serpent, and that this is not the last he shall hear from me. Tell him, I will not leave another murder on his conscience, if I can help it.”
“Count Morano! do you know what you say?” said Cavigni.
“Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and he will understand well what I mean. His conscience will assist his understanding, on this occasion.”
“Count Morano,” said Verezzi, who had hitherto silently observed him, “dare again to insult my friend, and I will plunge this sword in your body.”
“It would be an action worthy the friend of a villain!” said Morano, as the strong impulse of his indignation enabled him to raise himself from the arms of his servants; but the energy was momentary, and he sunk back, exhausted by the effort. Montoni’s people, meanwhile, held Verezzi, who seemed inclined, even in this instant, to execute his threat; and Cavigni, who was not so depraved as to abet the cowardly malignity of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdraw him from the corridor; and Emily, whom a compassionate interest had thus long detained, was now quitting it in new terror, when the supplicating voice of Morano arrested her, and, by a feeble gesture, he beckoned her to draw nearer. She advanced with timid steps, but the fainting languor of his countenance again awakened her pity, and overcame her terror.
“I am going from hence forever,” said he: “perhaps, I shall never see you again. I would carry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay more—I would also carry your good wishes.”
“You have my forgiveness, then,” said Emily, “and my sincere wishes for your recovery.”
“And only for my recovery?” said Morano, with a sigh. “For your general welfare,” added Emily.
“Perhaps I ought to be contented with this,” he resumed; “I certainly have not deserved more; but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to think of me, and, forgetting my offence, to remember only the passion which occasioned it. I would ask, alas! impossibilities: I would ask you to love me! At this moment, when I am about to part with you, and that, perhaps, forever, I am scarcely myself. Emily—may you never know the torture of a passion like mine! What do I say? O, that, for me, you might be sensible of such a passion!”
Emily looked impatient to be gone. “I entreat you, Count, to consult your own safety,” said she, “and linger here no longer. I tremble for the consequences of Signor Verezzi’s passion, and of Montoni’s resentment, should he learn that you are still here.”
Morano’s face was overspread with a momentary crimson, his eyes sparkled, but he seemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion, and replied in a calm voice, “Since you are interested for my safety, I will regard it, and be gone. But, before I go, let me again hear you say, that you wish me well,” said he, fixing on her an earnest and mournful look.
Emily repeated her assurances. He took her hand, which she scarcely attempted to withdraw, and put it to his lips. “Farewell, Count Morano!” said Emily; and she turned to go, when a second message arrived from Montoni, and she again conjured Morano, as he valued his life, to quit the castle immediately. He regarded her in silence, with a look of fixed despair. But she had no time to enforce her compassionate entreaties, and, not daring to disobey the second command of Montoni, she left the corridor, to attend him.
He was in the cedar parlour, that adjoined the great hall, laid upon a couch, and suffering a degree of anguish from his wound, which few persons could have disguised, as he did. His countenance, which was stern, but calm, expressed the dark passion of revenge, but no symptom of pain; bodily pain, indeed, he had always despised, and had yielded only to the strong and terrible energies of the soul. He was attended by old Carlo and by Signor Bertolini, but Madame Montoni was not with him.
Emily trembled, as she approached and received his severe rebuke, for not having obeyed his first summons; and perceived, also, that he attributed her stay in the corridor to a motive, that had not even occurred to
