We made an easy two days’ journey of it; for I had insisted, on Monkton’s account, that we should travel slowly.
On the first day the excessive agitation6 of my companion a little alarmed me; he showed, in many ways, more symptoms of a disordered mind than I had yet observed in him. On the second day, however, he seemed to get accustomed to contemplate calmly the new idea of the search on which we were bent7, and, except on one point, he was cheerful and composed enough. Whenever his dead uncle formed the subject of conversation, he still persisted — on the strength of the old prophecy, and under the influence of the apparition8 which he saw, or thought he saw always — in asserting that the corpse9 of Stephen Monkton, wherever it was, lay yet unburied. On every other topic he deferred10 to me with the utmost readiness and docility11; on this he maintained his strange opinion with an obstinacy12 which set reason and persuasion13 alike at defiance14.
On the third day we rested at Fondi. The packing-case, with the coffin in it, reached us, and was deposited in a safe place under lock and key. We engaged some mules15, and found a man to act as guide who knew the country thoroughly16. It occurred to me that we had better begin by confiding17 th e real object of our journey only to the most trustworthy people we could find among the better-educated classes. For this reason we followed, in one respect, the example of the fatal dueling18-party, by starting, early on the morning of the fourth day, with sketch-books and color-boxes, as if we were only artists in search of the picturesque19.
After traveling some hours in a northerly direction within the Roman frontier, we halted to rest ourselves and our mules at a wild little village far out of the track of tourists in general.
The only person of the smallest importance in the place was the priest, and to him I addressed my first inquiries20, leaving Monkton to await my return with the guide. I spoke21 Italian quite fluently, and correctly enough for my purpose, and was extremely polite and cautious in introducing my business, but in spite of all the pains I took, I only succeeded in frightening and bewildering the poor priest more and more with every fresh word I said to him. The idea of a dueling-party and a dead man seemed to scare him out of his senses. He bowed, fidgeted, cast his eyes up to heaven, and piteously shrugging his shoulders, told me, with rapid Italian circumlocution22, that he had not the faintest idea of what I was talking about. This was my first failure. I confess I was weak enough to feel a little dispirited when I rejoined Monkton and the guide.
After the heat of the day was over we resumed our journey.
About three miles from the village, the road, or rather cart-track, branched off in two directions. The path to the right, our guide informed us, led up among the mountains to a convent about six miles off. If we penetrated23 beyond the convent we should soon reach the Neapolitan frontier. The path to the left led far inward on the Roman territory, and would conduct us to a small town where we could sleep for the night. Now the Roman territory presented the first and fittest field for our search, and the convent was always within reach, supposing we returned to Fondi unsuccessful. Besides, the path to the left led over the widest part of the country we were starting to explore, and I was always for vanquishing25 the greatest difficulty first; so we decided26 manfully on turning to the left. The expedition in which this resolution involved us lasted a whole week, and produced no results. We discovered absolutely nothing, and returned to our headquarters at Fondi so completely baffled that we did not know whither to turn our steps next.
I was made much more uneasy by the effect of our failure on Monkton than by the failure itself. His resolution appeared to break down altogether as soon as we began to retrace27 our steps.
He became first fretful and capricious, then silent and desponding. Finally, he sank into a lethargy of body and mind that seriously alarmed me. On the morning after our return to Fondi he showed a strange tendency to sleep incessantly28, which made me suspect the existence of some physical malady29 in his brain. The whole day he hardly exchanged a word with me, and seemed to be never fairly awake. Early the next morning I went into his room, and found him as silent and lethargic30 as ever. His servant, who was with us, informed me that Alfred had once or twice before exhibited such physical symptoms of mental exhaustion31 as we were now observing during his father’s lifetime at Wincot Abbey. This piece of information made me feel easier, and left my mind free to return to the consideration of the errand which had brought us to Fondi.
I resolved to occupy the time until my companion got better in prosecuting32 our search by myself. That path to the right hand which led to the convent had not yet been explored. If I set off to trace it, I need not be away from Monkton more than one night, and I should at least be able, on my return, to give him the satisfaction of knowing that one more uncertainty33 regarding the place of the duel3 had been cleared up. These considerations decided me. I left a message for my friend in case he asked where I had gone, and set out once more for the village at which we had halted when starting on our first expedition.
Intending to walk to the convent, I parted company with the guide and the mules where the track branched off, leaving them to go back to the village and await my return.
For the first four miles the path gently ascended34 through an open country, then became abruptly35 much steeper, and led me deeper and deeper among thickets36 and endless woods. By the time my watch informed me that I must have nearly walked my appointed distance, the view was bounded on all sides and the sky was shut out overhead by an impervious37 screen of leaves and branches. I still followed my only guide, the steep path; and in ten minutes, emerging suddenly on a plot of tolerably clear and level ground, I saw the convent before me.
It was a dark, low, sinister-looking place. Not a sign of life or movement was visible anywhere about it. Green stains streaked38 the once white facade39 of the chapel40 in all directions. Moss41 clustered thick in every crevice43 of the heavy scowling44 wall that surrounded the convent. Long lank45 weeds grew out of the fissures46 of roof and parapet, and, drooping47 far downward, waved wearily in and out of the barred dormitory windows. The very cross opposite the entrance-gate, with a shocking life-sized figure in wood nailed to it, was so beset48 at the base with crawling creatures, and looked so slimy, green, and rotten all the way up, that I absolutely shrank from it.
A bell-rope with a broken handle hung by the gate. I approached it — hesitated, I hardly knew why — looked up at the convent again, and then walked round to the back of the building, partly to gain time to consider what I had better do next, partly from an unaccountable curiosity that urged me, strangely to myself, to see all I could of the outside of the place before I attempted to gain admission at the gate.
At the back of the convent I found an outhouse, built on to the wall — a clumsy, decayed building, with the greater part of the roof fallen in, and with a jagged hole in one of its sides, where in all probability a window had once been. Behind the outhouse the trees grew thicker than ever. As I looked toward them I could not determine whether the ground beyond me rose or fell — whether it was grassy49, or earthy, or rocky. I could see nothing but the all-pervading leaves, brambles, ferns, and long grass.
Not a sound broke the oppressive stillness. No bird’s note rose from the leafy wilderness50 around me; no voices spoke in the convent garden behind the scowling wall; no clock struck in the chapel-tower; no dog barked in the ruined outhouse. The dead silence deepened the solitude51 of the place inexpressibly. I began to feel it weighing on my spirits — the more, because woods were never favorite places with me to walk in. The sort of pastoral happiness which poets often represent when they sing of life in the woods never, to my mind, has half the charm of life on the mountain or in the plain. When I am in a wood, I miss the boundless52 loveliness of the sky, and the delicious softness that distance gives to the earthly view beneath. I feel oppressively the change which the free air suffers when it gets imprisoned53 among leaves, and I am always awed54, rather than pleased, by that mysterious still light which shines with such a strange dim luster42 in deep places among trees. It may convict me of want of taste and absence of due feeling for the marvelous beauties of vegetation, but I must frankly55 own that I never penetrate24 far into a wood without finding that the getting out of it again is the pleasantest part of my walk — the getting out on to the barest down, the wildest hill-side, the bleakest56 mountain top — the getting out anywhere, so that I can see the sky over me and the view before me as far as my eye can reach.
After such a confession57 as I have now made, it will appear surprising to no one that I should have felt the strongest possible inclination58, while I stood by the ruined outhouse, to retrace my steps at once, and make the best of my way out of the wood. I had, indeed, actually turned to depart, when the remembrance of the er rand which had brought me to the convent suddenly stayed my feet. It seemed doubtful whether I should be admitted into the building if I rang the bell; and more than doubtful, if I were let in, whether the inhabitants would be able to afford me any clew to the information of which I was in search. However, it was my duty to Monkton to leave no means of helping59 him in his desperate object untried; so I resolved to go round to the front of the convent again, and ring at the gate-bell at all hazards.
By the merest chance I looked up as I passed the side of the outhouse where the jagged hole was, and noticed that it was pierced rather high in the wall.
As I stopped to observe this, the closeness of the atmosphere in the wood seemed to be affecting me more unpleasantly than ever.
I waited a minute and untied60 my cravat61.
Closeness? surely it was something more than that. The air was even more distasteful to my nostrils62 than to my lungs. There was some faint, indescribable smell loading it — some smell of which I had never had any previous experience — some smell which I thought (now that my attention was directed to it) grew more and more certainly traceable to its source the nearer I advanced to the outhouse.
By the time I had tried the experiment two or three times, and had made myself sure of this fact, my curiosity became excited. There were plenty of fragments of stone and brick lying about me. I gathered some of them together, and piled them up below the hole, then mounted to the top, and, feeling rather ashamed of what I was doing, peeped into the outhouse.
The sight of horror that met my eyes the instant I looked through the hole is as present to my memory now as if I had beheld63 it yesterday. I can hardly write of it at this distance of time without a thrill of the old terror running through me again to the heart.
The first impression conveyed to me, as I looked in, was of a long, recumbent object, tinged65 with a lightish blue color all over, extended on trestles, and bearing a certain hideous66, half-formed resemblance to the human face and figure. I looked again, and felt certain of it. There were the prominences67 of the forehead, nose, and chin, dimly shown as under a veil — there, the round outline of the chest and the hollow below it — there, the points of the knees, and the stiff, ghastly, upturned feet. I looked again, yet more attentively68. My eyes got accustomed to the dim light streaming in through the broken roof, and I satisfied myself, judging by the great length of the body from head to foot, that I was looking at the corpse of a man — a corpse that had apparently70 once had a sheet spread over it, and that had lain rotting on the trestles under the open sky long enough for the linen71 to take the livid, light-blue tinge64 of mildew72 and decay which now covered it.
How long I remained with my eyes fixed73 on that dread74 sight of death, on that tombless, terrible wreck75 of humanity, poisoning the still air, and seeming even to stain the faint descending76 light that disclosed it, I know not. I remember a dull, distant sound among the trees, as if the breeze were rising — the slow creeping on of the sound to near the place where I stood — the noiseless whirling fall of a dead leaf on the corpse below me, through the gap in the outhouse roof — and the effect of awakening77 my energies, of relaxing the heavy strain on my mind, which even the slight change wrought78 in the scene I beheld by the falling leaf produced in me immediately. I descended80 to the ground, and, sitting down on the heap of stones, wiped away the thick perspiration81 which covered my face, and which I now became aware of for the first time. It was something more than the hideous spectacle unexpectedly offered to my eyes which had shaken my nerves as I felt that they were shaken now. Monkton’s prediction that, if we succeeded in discovering his uncle’s body, we should find it unburied, recurred82 to me the instant I saw the trestles and their ghastly burden. I felt assured on the instant that I had found the dead man — the old prophecy recurred to my memory — a strange yearning83 sorrow, a vague foreboding of ill, an inexplicable84 terror, as I thought of the poor lad who was awaiting my return in the distant town, struck through me with a chill of superstitious85 dread, robbed me of my judgment86 and resolution, and left me when I had at last recovered myself, weak and dizzy, as if I had just suffered under some pang87 of overpowering physical pain.
I hastened round to the convent gate and rang impatiently at the bell — waited a little while and rang again — then heard footsteps.
In the middle of the gate, just opposite my face, there was a small sliding panel, not more than a few inches long; this was presently pushed aside from within. I saw, through a bit of iron grating, two dull, light gray eyes staring vacantly at me, and heard a feeble husky voice saying:
“What may you please to want?’
“I am a traveler —” I began.
“We live in a miserable88 place. We have nothing to show travelers here.”
“I don’t come to see anything. I have an important question to ask, which I believe some one in this convent will be able to answer. If you are not willing to let me in, at least come out and speak to me here.”
“Are you alone?”
“Quite alone.”
“Are there no women with you?”
“None.”
The gate was slowly unbarred, and an old Capuchin, very infirm, very suspicious, and very dirty, stood before me. I was far too excited and impatient to waste any time in prefatory phrases; so, telling the monk2 at once how I had looked through the hole in the outhouse, and what I had seen inside, I asked him, in plain terms, who the man had been whose corpse I had beheld, and why the body was left unburied?
The old Capuchin listened to me with watery89 eyes that twinkled suspiciously. He had a battered90 tin snuff-box in his hand, and his finger and thumb slowly chased a few scattered91 grains of snuff round and round the inside of the box all the time I was speaking. When I had done, he shook his head and said: “That was certainly an ugly sight in their outhouse; one of the ugliest sights, he felt sure, that ever I had seen in all my life!”
“I don’t want to talk of the sight,” I rejoined, impatiently; “I want to know who the man was, how he died, and why he is not decently buried. Can you tell me?”
The monk’s finger and thumb having captured three or four grains of snuff at last, he slowly drew them into his nostrils, holding the box open under his nose the while, to prevent the possibility of wasting even one grain, sniffed92 once or twice luxuriously93 — closed the box — then looked at me again with his eyes watering and twinkling more suspiciously than before.
“Yes,” said the monk, “that’s an ugly sight in our outhouse — a very ugly sight, certainly!”
I never had more difficulty in keeping my temper in my life than at that moment. I succeeded, however, in repressing a very disrespectful expression on the subject of monks94 in general, which was on the tip of my tongue, and made another attempt to conquer the old man’s exasperating95 reserve. Fortunately for my chances of succeeding with him, I was a snuff-taker myself, and I had a box full of excellent English snuff in my pocket, which I now produced as a bribe96. It was my last resource.
“I thought your box seemed empty just now,” said I; “will you try a pinch out of mine?”
The offer was accepted with an almost youthful alacrity97 of gesture. The Capuchin took the largest pinch I ever saw held between any man’s finger and thumb — inhaled98 it slowly without spilling a single grain — half closed his eyes — and, wagging his head gently, patted me paternally99 on the back.
“Oh, my son,” said the monk, “what delectable101 snuff! Oh, my son and amiable102 traveler, give the spiritual father who loves you yet another tiny, tiny pinch!”
“Let me fill your box for you. I shall have plenty left for myself.”
The battered tin snuff-box was given to me before I had done speaking; the paternal100 hand patted my back more approvingly than ever; the feeble, husky voice grew glib103 and eloquent104 in my praise. I had evidently found out the weak side of the old Capuchin, and, on returning him his box, I took instant advantage of the discovery.
“Excuse my troubling you on the subject again,” I said, “but I have particular reasons for wanting to hear all that you can tell me in explanation of that horrible sight in the outhouse.”
“Come in,” answered the monk.
He drew me inside the gate, closed it, and then leading the way across a grass-grown courtyard, looking out on a weedy kitchen-garden, showed me into a long room with a low ceiling, a dirty dresser, a few rudely-carved stall seats, and one or two grim, mildewed105 pictures for ornaments106. This was the sacristy.
“There’s nobody here, and it’s nice and cool,” said the old Capuchin. It was so damp that I actually shivered. “Would you like to see the church?” said the monk; “a jewel of a church, if we could keep it in repair; but we can’t. Ah! malediction107 and misery108, we are too poor to keep our church in repair!”
Here he shook his head and began fumbling109 with a large bunch of keys.
“Never mind the church now,” said I. “Can you, or can you not, tell me what I want to know?”
“Everything, from beginning to end — absolutely everything. Why, I answered the gate-bell — I always answer the gate-bell here,” said the Capuchin.
“What, in Heaven’s name, has the gate-bell to do with the unburied corpse in your house?”
“Listen, son of mine, and you shall know. Some time ago — some months — ah! me, I’m old; I’ve lost my memory; I don’t know how many months — ah! miserable me, what a very old, old monk I am!” Here he comforted himself with another pinch of snuff.
“Never mind the exact time,” said I. “I don’t care about that.”
“Good,” said the Capuchin. “Now I can go on. Well, let us say it is some months ago — we in this convent are all at breakfast — wretched, wretched breakfasts, son of mine, in this convent! — we are at breakfast, and we hear bang! bang! twice over. ‘Guns,’ says I. ‘What are they shooting for?’ says Brother Jeremy. ‘Game,’ says Brother Vincent. ‘Aha! game,’ says Brother Jeremy. ‘If I hear more, I shall send out and discover what it means,’ says the father superior. We hear no more, and we go on with our wretched breakfasts.”
“Where did the report of firearms come from?” I inquired.
“From down below — beyond the big trees at the back of the convent, where there’s some clear ground — nice ground, if it wasn’t for the pools and puddles110. But, ah! misery, how damp we are in these parts! how very, very damp!”
“Well, what happened after the report of firearms?”
“You shall hear. We are still at breakfast, all silent — for what have we to talk about here? What have we but our devotions, our kitchen-garden, and our wretched, wretched bits of breakfasts and dinners? I say we are all silent, when there comes suddenly such a ring at the bell as never was heard before — a very devil of a ring — a ring that caught us all with our bits — our wretched, wretched bits! — in our mouths, and stopped us before we could swallow them. ‘Go, brother of mine,’ says the father superior to me, ‘go; it is your duty — go to the gate.’ I am brave — a very lion of a Capuchin. I slip out on tiptoe — I wait — I listen — I pull back our little shutter111 in the gate — I wait, I listen again — I peep through the hole — nothing, absolutely nothing that I can see. I am brave — I am not to be daunted112. What do I do next? I open the gate. Ah! sacred Mother of Heaven, what do I behold113 lying all along our threshold? A man — dead! — a big man; bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than anybody in this convent — buttoned up tight in a fine coat, with black eyes, staring, staring up at the sky, and blood soaking through and through the front of his shirt. What do I do? I scream once — I scream twice — and run back to the father superior!”
All the particulars of the fatal duel which I had gleaned114 from the French newspaper in Monkton’s room at Naples recurred vividly115 to my memory. The suspicion that I had felt when I looked into the outhouse became a certainty as I listened to the old monk’s last words.
“So far I understand,” said I. “The corpse I have just seen in the outhouse is the corpse of the man whom you found dead outside your gate. Now tell me why you have not given the remains116 decent burial.”
“Wait — wait — wait,” answered the Capuchin. “The father superior hears me scream and comes out; we all run together to the gate; we lift up the big man and look at him close. Dead! dead as this (smacking the dresser with his hand). We look again, and see a bit of paper pinned to the collar of his coat. Aha! son of mine, you start at that. I thought I should make you start at last.”
I had started, indeed. That paper was doubtless the leaf mentioned in the second’s unfinished narrative117 as having been torn out of his pocketbook, and inscribed118 with the statement of how the dead man had lost his life. If proof positive were wanted to identify the dead body, here was such proof found.
“What do you think was written on the bit of paper?” continued the Capuchin “We read and shudder119. This dead man has been killed in a duel — he, the desperate, the miserable, has died in the commission of mortal sin; and the men who saw the killing120 of him ask us Capuchins, holy men, servants of Heaven, children of our lord the Pope — they ask us to give him burial! Oh! but we are outraged121 when we read that; we groan122, we wring123 our hands, we turn away, we tear our beards, we —”
“Wait one moment,” said I, seeing that the old man was heating himself with his narrative, and was likely, unless I stopped him, to talk more and more fluently to less and less purpose —“wait a moment. Have you preserved the paper that was pinned to the dead man’s coat; and can I look at it?”
The Capuchin seemed on the point of giving me an answer, when he suddenly checked himself. I saw his eyes wander away from my face, and at the same moment heard a door softly opened and closed again behind me.
Looking round immediately, I observed another monk in the sacristy — a tall, lean, black-bearded man, in whose presence my old friend with the snuff-box suddenly became quite decorous and devotional to look at. I suspected I was in the presence of the father superior, and I found that I was right the moment he addressed me.
“I am the father superior of this convent,” he said, in quiet, clear tones, and looking me straight in the face while he spoke, with coldly attentive69 eyes. “I have heard the latter part of your conversation, and I wish to know why you are so particularly anxious to see the piece of paper that was pinned to the dead man’s coat?”
The coolness with which he avowed124 that he had been listening, and the quietly imperative125 manner in which he put his concluding question, perplexed126 and startled me. I hardly knew at first what tone I ought to take in answering him. He observed my hesitation127, and attributing it to the wrong cause, signed to the old Capuchin to retire. Humbly128 stroking his long gray beard, and furtively129 consoling himself with a private pinch of the “delectable snuff,” my venerable friend shuffled130 out of the room, making a profound obeisance131 at the door just before he disappeared.
“Now,” said the father superior, as coldly as ever, “I am waiting, sir, for your reply.”
“You shall have it in the fewest possible words,” said I, answering him in his own tone. “I find, to my disgust and horror, that there is an unburied corpse in an outhouse attached to your convent. I believe that corpse to be the body of an English gentleman of rank and fortune, who was killed in a duel. I have come into this neighborhood with the nephew and only relation of the slain132 man, for the express purpose of recovering his remains; and I wish to see the paper found on the body, because I believe that paper will identify it to the satisfaction of the relative to whom I have referred. Do you find my reply sufficiently133 straightforward134? And do you mean to give me permission to look at the paper?”
“I am satisfied with your reply, and see no reason for refusing you a sight of the paper,” said the father superior; “but I have something to say first. In speaking of the impression produced on you by beholding135 the corpse, you used the words ‘disgust’ and ‘horror.’ This license136 of expression in relation to what you have seen in the precincts of a convent proves to me that you are out of the pale of the Holy Catholic Church. You have no right, therefore, to expect any explanation; but I will give you one, nevertheless, as a favor. The slain man died, unabsolved, in the commission of mortal sin. We infer so much from the paper which we found on his body; and we know, by the evidence of our own eyes and ears, that he was killed on the territories of the Church, and in the act of committing direct violation137 of those special laws against the crime of dueling, the strict enforcement of which the holy father himself has urged on the faithful throughout his dominions138 by letters signed with his own hand. Inside this convent the ground is consecrated139, and we Catholics are not accustomed to bury the outlaws140 of our religion, the enemies of our holy father, and the violators of our most sacred laws in consecrated ground. Outside this convent we have no rights and no power; and, if we had both, we should remember that we are monks, not grave-diggers, and that the only burial with which we can have any concern is burial with the prayers of the Church. That is all the explanation I think it necessary to give. Wait for me here, and you shall see the paper.” With those words the father superior left the room as quietly as he had entered it.
I had hardly time to think over this bitter and ungracious explanation, and to feel a little piqued141 by the language and manner of the person who had given it to me, before the father superior returned with the paper in his hand. He placed it before me on the dresser, and I read, hurriedly traced in pencil, the following lines:
“This paper is attached to the body of the late Mr. Stephen Monkton, an Englishman of distinction. He has been shot in a duel, conducted with perfect gallantry and honor on both sides. His body is placed at the door of this convent, to receive burial at the hands of its inmates142, the survivors143 of the encounter being obliged to separate and secure their safety by immediate79 flight. I, the second of the slain man, and the writer of this explanation, certify144, on my word of honor as a gentleman that the shot which killed my principal on the instant was fired fairly, in the strictest accordance with the rules laid down beforehand for the conduct of the duel.
“(Signed), F.”
“F.” I recognized easily enough as the initial letter of Monsieur Foulon’s name, the second of Mr. Monkton, who had died of consumption at Paris.
The discovery and the identification were now complete. Nothing remained but to break the news to Alfred, and to get permission to remove the remains in the outhouse. I began almost to doubt the evidence of my own senses when I reflected that the apparently impracticable object with which we had left Naples was already, by the merest chance, virtually accomplished145.
“The evidence of the paper is decisive,” said I, handing it back. “There can be no doubt that the remains in the outhouse are the remains of which we have been in search. May I inquire if any obstacles will be thrown in our way should the late Mr. Monkton’s nephew wish to remove his uncle’s body to the family burial-place in England?”
“Where is this nephew?” asked the father superior.
“He is now awaiting my return at the town of Fondi.”
“Is he in a position to prove his relationship?”
“Certainly; he has papers with him which will place it beyond a doubt.”
“Let him satisfy the civil authorities of his claim, and he need expect no obstacle to his wishes from any one here.”
I was in no humor for talking a moment longer with my sour-tempered companion than I could help. The day was wearing on me fast; and, whether night overtook me or not, I was resolved never to stop on my return till I got back to Fondi. Accordingly, after telling the father superior that he might expect to hear from me again immediately, I made my bow and hastened out of the sacristy.
At the convent gate stood my old friend with the tin snuff-box, waiting to let me out.
“Bless you, may son,” said the venerable recluse146, giving me a farewell pat on the shoulder, “come back soon to your spiritual father who loves you, and amiably147 favor him with another tiny, tiny pinch of the delectable snuff.”
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1
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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15
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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17
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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18
dueling
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| n. 决斗, 抗争(=duelling) 动词duel的现在分词形式 | |
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19
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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22
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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23
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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24
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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25
vanquishing
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| v.征服( vanquish的现在分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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26
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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27
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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28
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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29
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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30
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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31
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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32
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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33
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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34
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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36
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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37
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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38
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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39
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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40
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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41
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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42
luster
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| n.光辉；光泽，光亮；荣誉 | |
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43
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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44
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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45
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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46
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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48
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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49
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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50
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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51
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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52
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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53
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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56
bleakest
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| 阴冷的( bleak的最高级 )； （状况）无望的； 没有希望的； 光秃的 | |
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57
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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58
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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59
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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60
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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61
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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62
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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63
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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64
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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65
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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67
prominences
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| n.织物中凸起的部分；声望( prominence的名词复数 )；突出；重要；要事 | |
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68
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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69
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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70
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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71
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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72
mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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73
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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74
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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75
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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76
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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77
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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78
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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79
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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80
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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81
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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82
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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83
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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84
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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85
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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86
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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87
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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88
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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89
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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90
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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91
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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92
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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93
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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94
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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95
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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96
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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97
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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98
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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100
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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101
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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102
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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103
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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104
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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105
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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107
malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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108
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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109
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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110
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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111
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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112
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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114
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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115
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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116
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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117
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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118
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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119
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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120
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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121
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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122
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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123
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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124
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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125
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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126
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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127
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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128
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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129
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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130
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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131
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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132
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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133
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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134
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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135
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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136
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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137
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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138
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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139
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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140
outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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141
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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142
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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143
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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144
certify
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| vt.证明，证实；发证书(或执照)给 | |
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145
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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146
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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147
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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