The Mysteries of Udolpho
it. He, therefore, ordered one of his servants to knock at the gate,
who was advancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the
loop-hole of one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but,
receiving no answer, he went up to the gate himself, and struck upon it
with an iron-pointed pole, which had assisted him to climb the steep.
When the echoes had ceased, that this blow had awakened, the renewed
barking,—and there were now more than one dog,—was the only sound, that
was heard. The Count stepped back, a few paces, to observe whether the
light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that it was gone, he returned
to the portal, and had lifted the pole to strike again, when again he
fancied he heard the murmur of voices within, and paused to listen. He
was confirmed in the supposition, but they were too remote, to be heard
otherwise than in a murmur, and the Count now let the pole fall heavily
upon the gate; when almost immediately a profound silence followed. It
was apparent, that the people within had heard the sound, and their
caution in admitting strangers gave him a favourable opinion of them.
“They are either hunters or shepherds,” said he, “who, like ourselves,
have probably sought shelter from the night within these walls, and are
fearful of admitting strangers, lest they should prove robbers. I will
endeavour to remove their fears.” So saying, he called aloud, “We are
friends, who ask shelter from the night.” In a few moments, steps were
heard within, which approached, and a voice then enquired—“Who calls?”
“Friends,” repeated the Count; “open the gates, and you shall know
more.”—Strong bolts were now heard to be undrawn, and a man, armed with
a hunting spear, appeared. “What is it you want at this hour?” said he.
The Count beckoned his attendants, and then answered, that he wished to
enquire the way to the nearest cabin. “Are you so little acquainted
with these mountains,” said the man, “as not to know, that there is
none, within several leagues? I cannot show you the way; you must seek
it—there’s a moon.” Saying this, he was closing the gate, and the Count
was turning away, half disappointed and half afraid, when another voice
was heard from above, and, on looking up, he saw a light, and a man’s
face, at the grate of the portal. “Stay, friend, you have lost your
way?” said the voice. “You are hunters, I suppose, like ourselves: I
will be with you presently.” The voice ceased, and the light
disappeared. Blanche had been alarmed by the appearance of the man, who
had opened the gate, and she now entreated her father to quit the
place; but the Count had observed the hunter’s spear, which he carried;
and the words from the tower encouraged him to await the event. The
gate was soon opened, and several men in hunters’ habits, who had heard
above what had passed below, appeared, and, having listened some time
to the Count, told him he was welcome to rest there for the night. They
then pressed him, with much courtesy, to enter, and to partake of such
fare as they were about to sit down to. The Count, who had observed
them attentively while they spoke, was cautious, and somewhat
suspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of the approaching storm,
and of encountering alpine heights in the obscurity of night; being
likewise somewhat confident in the strength and number of his
attendants, he, after some further consideration, determined to accept
the invitation. With this resolution he called his servants, who,
advancing round the tower, behind which some of them had silently
listened to this conference, followed their Lord, the Lady Blanche, and
St. Foix into the fortress. The strangers led them on to a large and
rude hall, partially seen by a fire that blazed at its extremity, round
which four men, in the hunter’s dress, were seated, and on the hearth
were several dogs stretched in sleep. In the middle of the hall stood a
large table, and over the fire some part of an animal was boiling. As
the Count approached, the men arose, and the dogs, half raising
themselves, looked fiercely at the strangers, but, on hearing their
masters’ voices, kept their postures on the hearth.
Blanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall; then at the men,
and to her father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, addressed himself to
the hunters. “This is a hospitable hearth,” said he, “the blaze of a
fire is reviving after having wandered so long in these dreary wilds.
Your dogs are tired; what success have you had?” “Such as we usually
have,” replied one of the men, who had been seated in the hall, “we
kill our game with tolerable certainty.” “These are fellow hunters,”
said one of the men who had brought the Count hither, “that have lost
their way, and I have told them there is room enough in the fort for us
all.” “Very true, very true,” replied his companion, “What luck have
you had in the chace, brothers? We have killed two izards, and that,
you will say, is pretty well.” “You mistake, friend,” said the Count,
“we are not hunters, but travellers; but, if you will admit us to
hunters’ fare, we shall be well contented, and will repay your
kindness.” “Sit down then, brother,” said one of the men: “Jacques, lay
more fuel on the fire, the kid will soon be ready; bring a seat for the
lady too. Ma’amselle, will you taste our brandy? it is true Barcelona,
and as bright as ever flowed from a keg.” Blanche timidly smiled, and
was going to refuse, when her father prevented her, by taking, with a
good humoured air, the glass offered to his daughter; and Mons. St.
Foix, who was seated next her, pressed her hand, and gave her an
encouraging look, but her attention was engaged by a man, who sat
silently by the fire, observing St. Foix, with a steady and earnest
eye.
“You lead a jolly life here,” said the Count. “The life of a hunter is
a pleasant and a healthy one; and the repose is sweet, which succeeds
to your labour.”
“Yes,” replied one of his hosts, “our life is pleasant enough. We live
here only during the summer, and autumnal months; in winter, the place
is dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend from the heights, put a
stop to the chace.”
“’Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,” said the Count: “I should like
to pass a month in your way very well.”
“We find employment for our guns too,” said a man who stood behind the
Count: “here are plenty of birds, of delicious flavour, that feed upon
the wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the valleys. Now I think of it,
there is a brace of birds hung up in the stone gallery; go fetch them,
Jacques, we will have them dressed.”
The Count now made enquiry, concerning the method of pursuing the chace
among the rocks and precipices of these romantic regions, and was
listening to a curious detail, when a horn was sounded at the gate.
Blanche looked timidly at her father, who continued to converse on the
subject of the chace, but whose countenance was somewhat expressive of
anxiety, and who often turned his eyes towards that part of the hall
nearest the gate. The horn sounded again, and a loud halloo succeeded.
“These are some of our companions, returned from their day’s labour,”
said a man, going lazily from his seat towards the gate; and in a few
minutes, two men appeared, each with a gun over his shoulder, and
pistols in his belt. “What cheer, my lads? what cheer?” said they, as
they approached. “What luck?” returned their companions: “have you
brought home your supper? You shall have none else.”
“Hah! who the devil have you brought home?” said they in bad Spanish,
on perceiving the Count’s party, “are they from France, or Spain?—where
did you meet with them?”
“They met with us, and a merry meeting too,” replied his companion
aloud in good French. “This chevalier, and his party, had lost their
way, and asked a night’s lodging in the fort.” The others made no
reply, but threw down a kind of knapsack, and drew forth several brace
of birds. The bag sounded heavily as it fell to the ground, and the
glitter of some bright metal within glanced on the eye of the Count,
who now surveyed, with a more enquiring look, the man, that held the
knapsack. He was a tall robust figure, of a hard countenance, and had
short black hair, curling in his neck. Instead of the hunter’s dress,
he wore a faded military uniform; sandals were laced on his broad legs,
and a kind of short trowsers hung from his waist. On his head he wore a
leathern cap, somewhat resembling in shape an ancient Roman helmet; but
the brows that scowled beneath it, would have characterised those of
the barbarians, who conquered Rome, rather than those of a Roman
soldier. The Count, at length, turned away his eyes, and remained
silent and thoughtful, till, again raising them, he perceived a figure
standing in an obscure part of the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St.
Foix, who was conversing with Blanche, and did not observe this; but
the Count, soon after, saw the same man looking over the shoulder of
the soldier as attentively at himself. He withdrew his eye, when that
of the Count met it, who felt mistrust gathering fast upon his mind,
but feared to betray it in his countenance, and, forcing his features
to assume a smile, addressed Blanche on some indifferent subject. When
he again looked round, he perceived, that the soldier and his companion
were gone.
The man, who was called Jacques, now returned from the stone gallery.
“A fire is lighted there,” said he, “and the birds are dressing; the
table too is spread there, for that place is warmer than this.”
His companions approved of the removal, and invited their guests to
follow to the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared distressed, and
remained seated, and St. Foix looked at the Count, who said, he
preferred the comfortable blaze of the fire he was then near. The
hunters, however, commended the warmth of the other apartment, and
pressed his removal with such seeming courtesy, that the Count, half
doubting, and half fearful of betraying his doubts, consented to go.
The long and ruinous passages, through which they went, somewhat
daunted him, but the thunder, which now burst in loud peals above, made
it dangerous to quit this place of shelter, and he forbore to provoke
his conductors by showing that he distrusted them. The hunters led the
way, with a lamp; the Count and St. Foix, who wished to please their
hosts by some instances of familiarity, carried each a seat, and
Blanche followed, with faltering steps. As she passed on, part of her
dress caught on a nail in the wall, and, while she stopped, somewhat
too scrupulously, to disengage it, the Count, who was talking to St.
Foix, and neither of whom observed the circumstance, followed their
conductor round an abrupt angle of the passage, and Blanche was left
behind in darkness. The thunder prevented them from hearing her call
but, having disengaged her dress, she quickly followed, as she thought,
the way they had taken. A light, that glimmered at a distance,
confirmed this belief, and she proceeded towards an open door, whence
it issued, conjecturing the room beyond to be the stone gallery the men
had spoken of. Hearing voices as she advanced, she paused within a few
paces of the chamber, that she might be certain whether she was right,
and from thence, by the light of a lamp, that hung from the ceiling,
observed four men, seated round a table, over which they leaned in
apparent consultation. In one of them she distinguished the features of
him, whom she had observed, gazing at St. Foix, with such deep
attention; and who was now speaking in an earnest, though restrained
voice, till, one of his companions seeming to oppose him, they spoke
together in a loud and harsher tone. Blanche, alarmed by perceiving
that neither her father, nor St. Foix were there, and terrified at the