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 The castle of Mazzini was still the scene of dissension and . The and of the marquis being daily increased by the absence of the duke, he dispatched servants to the forest of Marentino, to the occasion of this circumstance. They returned with intelligence that neither Julia, the duke, nor any of his people were there. He therefore concluded that his daughter had fled the cottage upon information of the approach of the duke, who, he believed, was still engaged in the pursuit. With respect to Ferdinand, who yet pined in sorrow and anxiety in his , the rigour of the marquis's conduct was unabated. He that his son, if , would quickly discover the retreat of Julia, and by his advice and assistance confirm her in disobedience.  
Ferdinand, in the stillness and of his dungeon, brooded over the late in gloomy ineffectual . The idea of Hippolitus—of Hippolitus murdered—arose to his imagination in busy intrusion, and the strongest efforts of his . Julia too, his beloved sister—unprotected—unfriended—might, even at the moment he her, be sinking under sufferings dreadful to humanity. The airy schemes he once formed of future felicity, resulting from the union of two persons so justly dear to him—with the gay visions of past happiness—floated upon his fancy, and the they reflected served only to heighten, by contrast, the obscurity and gloom of his present views. He had, however, a new subject of astonishment, which often withdrew his thoughts from their accustomed object, and substituted a sensation less painful, though scarcely less powerful. One night as he lay on the past, in dejection, the stillness of the place was suddenly interrupted by a low and sound. It returned at in hollow sighings, and seemed to come from some person in deep . So much did fear operate upon his mind, that he was uncertain whether it arose from within or from without. He looked around his dungeon, but could distinguish no object through the impenetrable darkness. As he listened in deep , the sound was repeated in moans more hollow. Terror now occupied his mind, and disturbed his reason; he started from his , and, to be satisfied whether any person beside himself was in the dungeon, groped, with arms extended, along the walls. The place was empty; but coming to a particular spot, the sound suddenly arose more distinctly to his ear. He called aloud, and asked who was there; but received no answer. Soon after all was still; and after listening for some time without hearing the sounds renewed, he laid himself down to sleep. On the following day he mentioned to the man who brought him food what he had heard, and concerning the noise. The servant appeared very much terrified, but could give no information that might in the least account for the circumstance, till he mentioned the vicinity of the dungeon to the southern buildings. The dreadful relation given by the marquis instantly to the mind of Ferdinand, who did not hesitate to believe that the moans he heard came from the restless spirit of the murdered Della Campo. At this conviction, horror thrilled his nerves; but he remembered his oath, and was silent. His courage, however, yielded to the idea of passing another night alone in his prison, where, if the vengeful spirit of the murdered should appear, he might even die of the horror which its appearance would inspire.
The mind of Ferdinand was highly superior to the general influence of ; but, in the present instance, such strong correlative circumstances appeared, as compelled even incredulity to yield. He had himself heard strange and awful sounds in the southern buildings; he received from his father a dreadful secret relative to them—a secret in which his honor, even his life, was bound up. His father had also confessed, that he had himself there seen appearances which he could never after remember without horror, and which had occasioned him to quit that part of the castle. All these recollections presented to Ferdinand a chain of evidence too powerful to be resisted; and he could not doubt that the spirit of the dead had for once been permitted to revisit the earth, and to call down on the descendants of the murderer.
This conviction occasioned him a degree of horror, such as no of mortal powers could have excited; and he determined, if possible, to prevail on Peter to pass the hours of midnight with him in his dungeon. The strictness of Peter's yielded to the of Ferdinand, though no could him to the of the marquis, by permitting an escape. Ferdinand passed the day in lingering anxious expectation, and the return of night brought Peter to the dungeon. His kindness exposed him to a danger which he had not foreseen; for when seated in the dungeon alone with his prisoner, how easily might that prisoner have conquered him and left him to pay his life to the fury of the marquis. He was preserved by the humanity of Ferdinand, who instantly perceived his advantage, but to involve an innocent man in destruction, and the suggestion from his mind.
Peter, whose friendship was stronger than his courage, trembled with apprehension as the hour drew nigh in which the had been heard on the preceding night. He recounted to Ferdinand a variety of terrific circumstances, which existed only in the heated imaginations of his fellow-servants, but which were still admitted by them as facts. Among the rest, he did not omit to mention the light and the figure which had been seen to issue from the south tower on the night of Julia's intended elopement; a circumstance which he with innumerable aggravations of fear and wonder. He concluded with describing the general it had caused, and the consequent behaviour of the marquis, who laughed at the fears of his people, yet to quiet them by a formal review of the buildings whence their terror had originated. He related the adventure of the door which refused to yield, the sounds which arose from within, and the discovery of the fallen roof; but declared that neither he, nor any of his fellow servants, believed the noise or the proceeded from that, 'because, my lord,' continued he, 'the door seemed to be held only in one place; and as for the noise—O! Lord! I never shall forget what a noise it was!—it was a thousand times louder than what any stones could make.'
Ferdinand listened to this in silent wonder! wonder not occasioned by the adventure described, but by the hardihood and rashness of the marquis, who had thus exposed to the of his people, that dreadful spot which he knew from experience to be the haunt of an injured spirit; a spot which he had hitherto from human eye, and human curiosity; and which, for so many years, he had not dared even himself to enter. Peter went on, but was presently interrupted by a hollow moan, which seemed to come from beneath the ground. 'Blessed !' exclaimed he: Ferdinand listened in awful expectation. A longer and more dreadful was repeated, when Peter started from his seat, and snatching up the lamp, rushed out of the dungeon. Ferdinand, who was left in total darkness, followed to the door, which the affrighted Peter had not stopped to fasten, but which had closed, and seemed held by a lock that could be opened only on the outside. The sensations of Ferdinand, thus compelled to remain in the dungeon, are not to be imagined. The horrors of the night, whatever they were to be, he was to endure alone. By degrees, however, he seemed to acquire the valour of despair. The sounds were repeated, at intervals, for near an hour, when silence returned, and remained undisturbed during the rest of the night. Ferdinand was alarmed by no appearance, and at length, overcome with anxiety and watching, he sunk to .
On the following morning Peter returned to the dungeon, scarcely knowing what to expect, yet expecting something very strange, perhaps the murder, perhaps the supernatural of his young lord. Full of these wild , he dared not venture alone, but persuaded some of the servants, to whom he had communicated his terrors, to accompany him to the door. As they passed along he , that in the terror of the preceding night he had forgot to fasten the door, and he now feared that his prisoner had made his escape without a miracle. He hurried to the door; and his surprize was extreme to find it fastened. It instantly struck him that this was the work of a supernatural power, when on calling aloud, he was answered by a voice from within. His absurd fear did not suffer him to recognize the voice of Ferdinand, neither did he suppose that Ferdinand had failed to escape, he, therefore, attributed the voice to the being he had heard on the preceding night; and starting back from the door, fled with his companions to the great hall. There the occasioned by their entrance called together a number of persons, amongst whom was the marquis, who was soon informed of the cause of alarm, with a long history of the circumstances of the foregoing night. At this information, the marquis assumed a very stern look, and reprimanded Peter for his imprudence, at the same time reproaching the other servants with their undutifulness in thus disturbing his peace. He reminded them of the he had practised to dissipate their former terrors, and of the result of their examination. He then assured them, that since indulgence had only encouraged intrusion, he would for the future be severe; and concluded with declaring, that the first man who should disturb him with a repetition of such ridiculous apprehensions, or should attempt to disturb the peace of the castle by circulating these idle notions, should be rigorously punished, and his . They shrunk back at his , and were silent. 'Bring a torch,' said the marquis, 'and shew me to the dungeon. I will once more to confute you.'
They obeyed, and with the marquis, who, arriving at the dungeon, instantly threw open the door, and discovered to the astonished eyes of his attendants—Ferdinand!—He started with surprize at the entrance of his father thus attended. The marquis upon him a severe look, which he comprehended.—'Now,' cried he, turning to his people, 'what do you see? My son, whom I myself placed here, and whose voice, which answered to your calls, you have transformed into unknown sounds. Speak, Ferdinand, and confirm what I say.' Ferdinand did so. 'What dreadful spectre appeared to you last night?' resumed the marquis, looking stedfastly upon him: 'gratify these fellows with a description of it, for they cannot exist without something of the marvellous.' 'None, my lord,' replied Ferdinand, who too well understood the manner of the marquis. ''Tis well,' cried the marquis, 'and this is the last time,' turning to his attendants, 'that your shall be treated with so much lenity.' He ceased to urge the subject, and forbore to ask Ferdinand even one question before his servants, concerning the nocturnal sounds described by Peter. He quitted the dungeon with eyes in anger and suspicion upon Ferdinand. The marquis suspected that the fears of his son had inadvertently betrayed to Peter a part of the secret to him, and he artfully Peter with seeming carelessness, concerning the circumstances of the preceding night. From him he drew such answers as honorably Ferdinand of indiscretion, and relieved himself from apprehensions.
The following night passed quietly away; neither sound nor appearance disturbed the peace of Ferdinand. The marquis, on the next day, thought proper to the severity of his sufferings, and he was removed from his dungeon to a room strongly grated, but exposed to the light of day.
Meanwhile a circumstance occurred which increased the general , and threatened Emilia with the loss of her last remaining comfort—the advice and of Madame de Menon. The marchioness, whose passion for the Count de Vereza had at length yielded to absence, and the pressure of present circumstances, now her smiles upon a young Italian cavalier, a visitor at the castle, who too much of the spirit of gallantry to permit a lady to in vain. The marquis, whose mind was occupied with other passions, was insensible to the misconduct of his wife, who at all times had the address to disguise her beneath the of and innocent freedom. The was discovered by madame, who, having one day left a book in the oak parlour, returned thither in search of it. As she opened the door of the apartment, she heard the voice of the cavalier in ; and on entering, discovered him rising in some confusion from the feet of the marchioness, who, at madame a look of severity, arose from her seat. Madame, shocked at what she had seen, instantly , and buried in her own that secret, the discovery of which would most have poisoned the peace of the marquis. The marchioness, who was a stranger to the of sentiment which actuated Madame de Menon, doubted not that she would seize the moment of , and expose her conduct where most she it should be known. The consciousness of tortured her with fear of discovery, and from this period her whole attention was employed to dislodge from the castle the person to whom her character was committed. In this it was not difficult to succeed; for the of madame's feelings made her quick to perceive, and to withdraw from a treatment unsuitable to the natural dignity of her character. She therefore resolved to depart from the castle; but to take an advantage even over a successful enemy, she determined to be silent on that subject which would instantly have transferred the triumph from her to herself. When the marquis, on hearing her determination to retire, earnestly enquired for the of her conduct, she forbore to acquaint him with the real one, and left him to and disappointment.
To Emilia this design occasioned a distress which almost subdued the resolution of madame. Her tears and intreaties the artless energy of sorrow. In madame she lost her only friend; and she too well understood the value of that friend, to see her depart without feeling and expressing the deepest distress. From a strong to the memory of the mother, madame had been induced to undertake the education of her daughters, whose engaging had a kind of affection. Regard for Emilia and Julia had alone for some time detained her at the castle; but this was now succeeded by the influence of considerations too powerful to be resisted. As her income was small, it was her plan to retire to her native place, which was in a distant part of the island, and there take up her residence in a convent.
Emilia saw the time of madame's departure approach with increased distress. They left each other with a sorrow, which did honour to their hearts. When her last friend was gone, Emilia wandered through the forsaken apartments, where she had been accustomed to with Julia, and to receive consolation and sympathy from her dear instructress, with a kind of known only to those who have experienced a similar situation. Madame pursued her journey with a heavy heart. Separated from the objects of her fondest affections, and from the scenes and occupations for which long habit had formed claims upon her heart, she seemed without interest and without motive for . The world appeared a wide and gloomy desert, where no heart welcomed her with kindness—no brightened into smiles at her approach. It was many years since she quitted Calini—and in the , death had swept away the few friends she left there. The future presented a melancholy scene; but she had the of years spent in honorable endeavour and strict integrity, to cheer her heart and encouraged her hopes.
But her utmost endeavours were unable to express the anxiety with which the uncertain fate of Julia overwhelmed her. Wild and terrific images arose to her imagination. Fancy drew the scene;—she deepened the shades; and the terrific aspect of the objects she presented was heightened by the obscurity which involved them.

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