Montoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollect himself, he proceeded in a lower tone.
“You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly; yet this, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you.—I could tell you of others—I could make you tremble at the bare recital.”
He was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath the chamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it, impatience and rage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade of fear passed over his countenance. Emily sat down in a chair, near the door, for the various emotions she had suffered, now almost overcame her; but Montoni paused scarcely an instant, and, commanding his features, resumed his discourse in a lower, yet sterner voice.
“I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of my character, which it seems you do not understand, or you would not defy me.—I could tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken—but I am talking to a baby. Let me, however, repeat, that terrible as are the examples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit you; for, though your repentance would put an immediate end to opposition, it would not now appease my indignation.—I will have vengeance as well as justice.”
Another groan filled the pause which Montoni made.
“Leave the room instantly!” said he, seeming not to notice this strange occurrence. Without power to implore his pity, she rose to go, but found that she could not support herself; awe and terror overcame her, and she sunk again into the chair.
“Quit my presence!” cried Montoni. “This affectation of fear ill becomes the heroine who has just dared to brave my indignation.”
“Did you hear nothing, Signor?” said Emily, trembling, and still unable to leave the room.
“I heard my own voice,” rejoined Montoni, sternly.
“And nothing else?” said Emily, speaking with difficulty.—“There again! Do you hear nothing now?”