The Mysteries of Udolpho

Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber;

Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,

Which busy care draws in the brains of men;

Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

SHAKESPEARE

The Count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, and,

anxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the north apartment; but, the

outer door having been fastened, on the preceding night, he was obliged

to knock loudly for admittance. Neither the knocking, or his voice was

heard; but, considering the distance of this door from the bed-room, and

that Ludovico, wearied with watching, had probably fallen into a deep

sleep, the Count was not surprised on receiving no answer, and, leaving

the door, he went down to walk in his grounds.

It was a gray autumnal morning. The sun, rising over Provence, gave only

a feeble light, as his rays struggled through the vapours that ascended

from the sea, and floated heavily over the wood-tops, which were now

varied with many a mellow tint of autumn. The storm was passed, but the

waves were yet violently agitated, and their course was traced by long

lines of foam, while not a breeze fluttered in the sails of the vessels,

near the shore, that were weighing anchor to depart. The still gloom of

the hour was pleasing to the Count, and he pursued his way through the

woods, sunk in deep thought.

Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along the

brow of the promontory, that overhung the Mediterranean. Her mind was

now not occupied with the occurrences of the chateau, and Valancourt

was the subject of her mournful thoughts; whom she had not yet taught

herself to consider with indifference, though her judgment constantly

reproached her for the affection, that lingered in her heart, after her

esteem for him was departed. Remembrance frequently gave her his parting

look and the tones of his voice, when he had bade her a last farewel;

and, some accidental associations now recalling these circumstances

to her fancy, with peculiar energy, she shed bitter tears to the

recollection.

Having reached the watch-tower, she seated herself on the broken steps,

and, in melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour,

as they came rolling towards the shore, and threw up their light spray

round the rocks below. Their hollow murmur and the obscuring mists, that

came in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity to the scene, which was

in harmony with the temper of her mind, and she sat, given up to

the remembrance of past times, till this became too painful, and

she abruptly quitted the place. On passing the little gate of the

watch-tower, she observed letters, engraved on the stone postern, which

she paused to examine, and, though they appeared to have been rudely

cut with a pen-knife, the characters were familiar to her; at length,

recognizing the hand-writing of Valancourt, she read, with trembling

anxiety the following lines, entitled