The house had been built originally as a retreat for the short-lived loves of some grand seigneur. The grounds were very large; the gardens on either side extending from the first houses of Montreuil to the thatched cottages near the barrier, so that the owner could enjoy all the pleasures of solitude2 with the city almost at his gates. By an odd piece of contradiction, the whole front of the house itself, with the principal entrance, gave directly upon the street. Perhaps in time past it was a tolerably lonely road, and indeed this theory looks all the more probable when one comes to think of it; for not so very far away, on this same road, Louis Quinze built a delicious summer villa3 for Mlle. de Romans, and the curious in such things will discover that the wayside casinos are adorned4 in a style that recalls traditions of the ingenious taste displayed in debauchery by our ancestors who, with all the license5 paid to their charge, sought to invest it with secrecy6 and mystery.
One winter evening the family were by themselves in the lonely house. The servants had received permission to go to Versailles to celebrate the wedding of one of their number. It was Christmas time, and the holiday makers7, presuming upon the double festival, did not scruple8 to outstay their leave of absence; yet, as the General was well known to be a man of his word, the culprits felt some twinges of conscience as they danced on after the hour of return. The clocks struck eleven, and still there was no sign of the servants.
A deep silence prevailed over the country-side, broken only by the sound of the northeast wind whistling through the black branches, wailing9 about the house, dying in gusts10 along the corridors. The hard frost had purified the air, and held the earth in its grip; the roads gave back every sound with the hard metallic12 ring which always strikes us with a new surprise; the heavy footsteps of some belated reveler, or a cab returning to Paris, could be heard for a long distance with unwonted distinctness. Out in the courtyard a few dead leaves set a-dancing by some eddying13 gust11 found a voice for the night which fain had been silent. It was, in fact, one of those sharp, frosty evenings that wring14 barren expressions of pity from our selfish ease for wayfarers15 and the poor, and fills us with a luxurious16 sense of the comfort of the fireside.
But the family party in the salon17 at that hour gave not a thought to absent servants nor houseless folk, nor to the gracious charm with which a winter evening sparkles. No one played the philosopher out of season. Secure in the protection of an old soldier, women and children gave themselves up to the joys of home life, so delicious when there is no restraint upon feeling; and talk and play and glances are bright with frankness and affection.
The General sat, or more properly speaking, lay buried, in the depths of a huge, high-back armchair by the hearth19. The heaped-up fire burned scorching20 clear with the excessive cold of the night. The good father leaned his head slightly to one side against the back of the chair, in the indolence of perfect serenity21 and a glow of happiness. The languid, half-sleepy droop22 of his outstretched arms seemed to complete his expression of placid23 content. He was watching his youngest, a boy of five or thereabouts, who, half clad as he was, declined to allow his mother to undress him. The little one fled from the night-gown and cap with which he was threatened now and again, and stoutly24 declined to part with his embroidered25 collar, laughing when his mother called to him, for he saw that she too was laughing at this declaration of infant independence. The next step was to go back to a game of romps26 with his sister. She was as much a child as he, but more mischievous27; and she was older by two years, and could speak distinctly already, whereas his inarticulate words and confused ideas were a puzzle even to his parents. Little Moina’s playfulness, somewhat coquettish already, provoked inextinguishable laughter, explosions of merriment which went off like fireworks for no apparent cause. As they tumbled about before the fire, unconcernedly displaying little plump bodies and delicate white contours, as the dark and golden curls mingled28 in a collision of rosy29 cheeks dimpled with childish glee, a father surely, a mother most certainly, must have understood those little souls, and seen the character and power of passion already developed for their eyes. As the cherubs30 frolicked about, struggling, rolling, and tumbling without fear of hurt on the soft carpet, its flowers looked pale beside the glowing white and red of their cheeks and the brilliant color of their shining eyes.
On the sofa by the fire, opposite the great armchair, the children’s mother sat among a heap of scattered31 garments, with a little scarlet32 shoe in her hand. She seemed to have given herself up completely to the enjoyment33 of the moment; wavering discipline had relaxed into a sweet smile engraved35 upon her lips. At the age of six-and-thirty, or thereabouts, she was a beautiful woman still, by reason of the rare perfection of the outlines of her face, and at this moment light and warmth and happiness filled it with preternatural brightness.
Again and again her eyes wandered from her children, and their tender gaze was turned upon her husband’s grave face; and now and again the eyes of husband and wife met with a silent exchange of happiness and thoughts from some inner depth.
The General’s face was deeply bronzed, a stray lock of gray hair scored shadows on his forehead. The reckless courage of the battlefield could be read in the lines carved in his hollow cheeks, and gleams of rugged37 strength in the blue eyes; clearly the bit of red ribbon flaunting38 at his button-hole had been paid for by hardship and toil39. An inexpressible kindliness40 and frankness shone out of the strong, resolute41 face which reflected his children’s merriment; the gray-haired captain found it not so very hard to become a child again. Is there not always a little love of children in the heart of a soldier who has seen enough of the seamy side of life to know something of the piteous limitations of strength and the privileges of weakness?
At a round table rather further away, in a circle of bright lamplight that dimmed the feebler illumination of the wax candles on the chimney-piece, sat a boy of thirteen, rapidly turning the pages of a thick volume which he was reading, undisturbed by the shouts of the children. There was a boy’s curiosity in his face. From his lyceens uniform he was evidently a schoolboy, and the book he was reading was the Arabian Nights. Small wonder that he was deeply absorbed. He sat perfectly42 still in a meditative43 attitude, with his elbow on the table, and his hand propping44 his head — the white fingers contrasting strongly with the brown hair into which they were thrust. As he sat, with the light turned full upon his face, and the rest of his body in shadow, he looked like one of Raphael’s dark portraits of himself — a bent45 head and intent eyes filled with visions of the future.
Between the table and the Marquise a tall, beautiful girl sat at her tapestry46 frame; sometimes she drew back from her work, sometimes she bent over it, and her hair, picturesque47 in its ebony smoothness and darkness, caught the light of the lamp. Helene was a picture in herself. In her beauty there was a rare distinctive48 character of power and refinement49. Though her hair was gathered up and drawn50 back from her face, so as to trace a clearly marked line about her head, so thick and abundant was it, so recalcitrant51 to the comb, that it sprang back in curl-tendrils to the nape of her neck. The bountiful line of eyebrows52 was evenly marked out in dark contrasting outline upon her pure forehead. On her upper lip, beneath the Grecian nose with its sensitively perfect curve of nostril53, there lay a faint, swarthy shadow, the sign-manual of courage; but the enchanting54 roundness of contour, the frankly55 innocent expression of her other features, the transparence of the delicate carnations56, the voluptuous57 softness of the lips, the flawless oval of the outline of the face, and with these, and more than all these, the saintlike expression in the girlish eyes, gave to her vigorous loveliness the distinctive touch of feminine grace, that enchanting modesty58 which we look for in these angels of peace and love. Yet there was no suggestion of fragility about her; and, surely, with so grand a woman’s frame, so attractive a face, she must possess a corresponding warmth of heart and strength of soul.
She was as silent as her schoolboy brother. Seemingly a prey59 to the fateful maiden60 meditations61 which baffle a father’s penetration62 and even a mother’s sagacity, it was impossible to be certain whether it was the lamplight that cast those shadows that flitted over her face like thin clouds over a bright sky, or whether they were passing shades of secret and painful thoughts.
Husband and wife had quite forgotten the two older children at that moment, though now and again the General’s questioning glance traveled to that second mute picture; a larger growth, a gracious realization63, as it were, of the hopes embodied64 in the baby forms rioting in the foreground. Their faces made up a kind of living poem, illustrating65 life’s various phases. The luxurious background of the salon, the different attitudes, the strong contrasts of coloring in the faces, differing with the character of differing ages, the modeling of the forms brought into high relief by the light — altogether it was a page of human life, richly illuminated66 beyond the art of painter, sculptor67, or poet. Silence, solitude, night and winter lent a final touch of majesty68 to complete the simplicity69 and sublimity71 of this exquisite72 effect of nature’s contriving73. Married life is full of these sacred hours, which perhaps owe their indefinable charm to some vague memory of a better world. A divine radiance surely shines upon them, the destined74 compensation for some portion of earth’s sorrows, the solace75 which enables man to accept life. We seem to behold76 a vision of an enchanted77 universe, the great conception of its system widens out before our eyes, and social life pleads for its laws by bidding us look to the future.
Yet in spite of the tender glances that Helene gave Abel and Moina after a fresh outburst of merriment; in spite of the look of gladness in her transparent78 face whenever she stole a glance at her father, a deep melancholy79 pervaded80 her gestures, her attitude, and more than all, her eyes veiled by their long lashes81. Those white, strong hands, through which the light passed, tinting82 them with a diaphanous83, almost fluid red — those hands were trembling. Once only did the eyes of the mother and daughter clash without shrinking, and the two women read each other’s thoughts in a look, cold, wan36, and respectful on Helene’s part, sombre and threatening on her mother’s. At once Helene’s eyes were lowered to her work, she plied84 her needle swiftly, and it was long before she raised her head, bowed as it seemed by a weight of thought too heavy to bear. Was the Marquise over harsh with this one of her children? Did she think this harshness needful? Was she jealous of Helene’s beauty? — She might still hope to rival Helene, but only by the magic arts of the toilette. Or again, had her daughter, like many a girl who reaches the clairvoyant85 age, read the secrets which this wife (to all appearance so religiously faithful in the fulfilment of her duties) believed to be buried in her own heart as deeply as in a grave?
Helene had reached an age when purity of soul inclines to pass over-rigid judgments86. A certain order of mind is apt to exaggerate transgression87 into crime; imagination reacts upon conscience, and a young girl is a hard judge because she magnifies the seriousness of the offence. Helene seemed to think herself worthy88 of no one. Perhaps there was a secret in her past life, perhaps something had happened, unintelligible89 to her at the time, but with gradually developing significance for a mind grown susceptible90 to religious influences; something which lately seemed to have degraded her, as it were, in her own eyes, and according to her own romantic standard. This change in her demeanor91 dated from the day of reading Schiller’s noble tragedy of Wilhelm Tell in a new series of translations. Her mother scolded her for letting the book fall, and then remarked to herself that the passage which had so worked on Helene’s feelings was the scene in which Wilhelm Tell, who spilt the blood of a tyrant93 to save a nation, fraternizes in some sort with John the Parricide94. Helene had grown humble95, dutiful, and self-contained; she no longer cared for gaiety. Never had she made so much of her father, especially when the Marquise was not by to watch her girlish caresses96. And yet, if Helene’s affection for her mother had cooled at all, the change in her manner was so slight as to be almost imperceptible; so slight that the General could not have noticed it, jealous though he might be of the harmony of home. No masculine insight could have sounded the depths of those two feminine natures; the one was young and generous, the other sensitive and proud; the first had a wealth of indulgence in her nature, the second was full of craft and love. If the Marquise made her daughter’s life a burden to her by a woman’s subtle tyranny, it was a tyranny invisible to all but the victim; and for the rest, these conjectures97 only called forth98 after the event must remain conjectures. Until this night no accusing flash of light had escaped either of them, but an ominous100 mystery was too surely growing up between them, a mystery known only to themselves and God.
“Come, Abel,” called the Marquise, seizing on her opportunity when the children were tired of play and still for a moment. “Come, come, child; you must be put to bed —”
And with a glance that must be obeyed, she caught him up and took him on her knee.
“What!” exclaimed the General. “Half-past ten o’clock, and not one of the servants has come back! The rascals101! — Gustave,” he added, turning to his son, “I allowed you to read that book only on the condition that you should put it away at ten o’clock. You ought to have shut up the book at the proper time and gone to bed, as you promised. If you mean to make your mark in the world, you must keep your word; let it be a second religion to you, and a point of honor. Fox, one of the greatest English orators102, was remarkable103, above all things, for the beauty of his character, and the very first of his qualities was the scrupulous104 faithfulness with which he kept his engagements. When he was a child, his father (an Englishman of the old school) gave him a pretty strong lesson which he never forgot. Like most rich Englishmen, Fox’s father had a country house and a considerable park about it. Now, in the park there was an old summer-house, and orders had been given that this summer-house was to be pulled down and put up somewhere else where there was a finer view. Fox was just about your age, and had come home for the holidays. Boys are fond of seeing things pulled to pieces, so young Fox asked to stay on at home for a few days longer to see the old summer-house taken down; but his father said that he must go back to school on the proper day, so there was anger between father and son. Fox’s mother (like all mammas) took the boy’s part. Then the father solemnly promised that the summer-house should stay where it was till the next holidays.
“So Fox went back to school; and his father, thinking that lessons would soon drive the whole thing out of the boy’s mind, had the summer-house pulled down and put up in the new position. But as it happened, the persistent105 youngster thought of nothing but that summer-house; and as soon as he came home again, his first care was to go out to look at the old building, and he came in to breakfast looking quite doleful, and said to his father, ‘You have broken your promise.’ The old English gentleman said with confusion full of dignity, ‘That is true, my boy; but I will make amends106. A man ought to think of keeping his word before he thinks of his fortune; for by keeping his word he will gain fortune, while all the fortunes in the world will not efface107 the stain left on your conscience by a breach108 of faith.’ Then he gave orders that the summer-house should be put up again in the old place, and when it had been rebuilt he had it taken down again for his son to see. Let this be a lesson to you, Gustave.”
Gustave had been listening with interest, and now he closed the book at once. There was a moment’s silence, while the General took possession of Moina, who could scarcely keep her eyes open. The little one’s languid head fell back on her father’s breast, and in a moment she was fast asleep, wrapped round about in her golden curls.
Just then a sound of hurrying footsteps rang on the pavement out in the street, immediately followed by three knocks on the street door, waking the echoes of the house. The reverberating109 blows told, as plainly as a cry for help that here was a man flying for his life. The house dog barked furiously. A thrill of excitement ran through Helene and Gustave and the General and his wife; but neither Abel, with the night-cap strings110 just tied under his chin, nor Moina awoke.
“The fellow is in a hurry!” exclaimed the General. He put the little girl down on the chair, and hastened out of the room, heedless of his wife’s entreating111 cry, “Dear, do not go down —”
He stepped into his own room for a pair of pistols, lighted a dark lantern, sprang at lightning speed down the staircase, and in another minute reached the house door, his oldest boy fearlessly following.
“Who is there?” demanded he.
“Let me in,” panted a breathless voice.
“Are you a friend?”
“Yes, friend,”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes! But let me in; they are after me!”
The General had scarcely set the door ajar before a man slipped into the porch with the uncanny swiftness of a shadow. Before the master of the house could prevent him, the intruder had closed the door with a well-directed kick, and set his back against it resolutely113, as if he were determined114 that it should not be opened again. In a moment the General had his lantern and pistol at a level with the stranger’s breast, and beheld115 a man of medium height in a fur-lined pelisse. It was an old man’s garment, both too large and too long for its present wearer. Chance or caution had slouched the man’s hat over his eyes.
“You can lower your pistol, sir,” said this person. “I do not claim to stay in your house against your will; but if I leave it, death is waiting for me at the barrier. And what a death! You would be answerable to God for it! I ask for your hospitality for two hours. And bear this in mind, sir, that, suppliant116 as I am, I have a right to command with the despotism of necessity. I want the Arab’s hospitality. Either I and my secret must be inviolable, or open the door and I will go to my death. I want secrecy, a safe hiding-place, and water. Oh! water!” he cried again, with a rattle117 in his throat.
“Who are you?” demanded the General, taken aback by the stranger’s feverish118 volubility.
“Ah! who am I? Good, open the door, and I will put a distance between us,” retorted the other, and there was a diabolical119 irony120 in his tone.
Dexterously121 as the Marquis passed the light of the lantern over the man’s face, he could only see the lower half of it, and that in nowise prepossessed him in favor of this singular claimant of hospitality. The cheeks were livid and quivering, the features dreadfully contorted. Under the shadow of the hat-brim a pair of eyes gleamed out like flames; the feeble candle-light looked almost dim in comparison. Some sort of answer must be made however.
“Your language, sir, is so extraordinary that in my place you yourself —”
“My life is in your hands!” the intruder broke in. The sound of his voice was dreadful to hear.
“Two hours?” said the Marquis, wavering.
“Two hours,” echoed the other.
Then quite suddenly, with a desperate gesture, he pushed back his hat and left his forehead bare, and, as if he meant to try a final expedient124, he gave the General a glance that seemed to plunge125 like a vivid flash into his very soul. That electrical discharge of intelligence and will was swift as lightning and crushing as a thunderbolt; for there are moments when a human being is invested for a brief space with inexplicable126 power.
“Come, whoever you may be, you shall be in safety under my roof,” the master of the house said gravely at last, acting127, as he imagined, upon one of those intuitions which a man cannot always explain to himself.
“God will repay you!” said the stranger, with a deep, involuntary sigh.
“Have you weapons?” asked the General.
For all answer the stranger flung open his fur pelisse, and scarcely gave the other time for a glance before he wrapped it about him again. To all appearance he was unarmed and in evening dress. Swift as the soldier’s scrutiny128 had been, he saw something, however, which made him exclaim:
“Where the devil have you been to get yourself in such a mess in such dry weather?”
“More questions!” said the stranger haughtily129.
At the words the Marquis caught sight of his son, and his own late homily on the strict fulfilment of a given word came up to his mind. In lively vexation, he exclaimed, not without a touch of anger:
“What! little rogue130, you here when you ought to be in bed?”
“Because I thought I might be of some good in danger,” answered Gustave.
“There, go up to your room,” said his father, mollified by the reply. —“And you” (addressing the stranger), “come with me.”
The two men grew as silent as a pair of gamblers who watch each other’s play with mutual131 suspicions. The General himself began to be troubled with ugly presentiments132. The strange visit weighed upon his mind already like a nightmare; but he had passed his word, there was no help for it now, and he led the way along the passages and stairways till they reached a large room on the second floor immediately above the salon. This was an empty room where linen133 was dried in the winter. It had but the one door, and for all decoration boasted one solitary134 shabby looking-glass above the chimney-piece, left by the previous owner, and a great pier135 glass, placed provisionally opposite the fireplace until such time as a use should be found for it in the rooms below. The four yellowish walls were bare. The floor had never been swept. The huge attic136 was icy-cold, and the furniture consisted of a couple of rickety straw-bottomed chairs, or rather frames of chairs. The General set the lantern down upon the chimney-piece. Then he spoke137:
“It is necessary for your own safety to hide you in this comfortless attic. And, as you have my promise to keep your secret, you will permit me to lock you in.”
The other bent his head in acquiescence138.
“I asked for nothing but a hiding-place, secrecy, and water,” returned he.
“I will bring you some directly,” said the Marquis, shutting the door cautiously. He groped his way down into the salon for a lamp before going to the kitchen to look for a carafe139.
“Well, what is it?” the Marquise asked quickly.
“Nothing, dear,” he returned coolly.
“But we listened, and we certainly heard you go upstairs with somebody.”
“Helene,” said the General, and he looked at his daughter, who raised her face, “bear in mind that your father’s honor depends upon your discretion140. You must have heard nothing.”
The girl bent her head in answer. The Marquise was confused and smarting inwardly at the way in which her husband had thought fit to silence her.
Meanwhile the General went for the bottle and a tumbler, and returned to the room above. His prisoner was leaning against the chimney-piece, his head was bare, he had flung down his hat on one of the two chairs. Evidently he had not expected to have so bright a light turned upon him, and he frowned and looked anxious as he met the General’s keen eyes; but his face softened141 and wore a gracious expression as he thanked his protector. When the latter placed the bottle and glass on the mantel-shelf, the stranger’s eyes flashed out on him again; and when he spoke, it was in musical tones with no sign of the previous guttural convulsion, though his voice was still unsteady with repressed emotion.
“I shall seem to you to be a strange being, sir, but you must pardon the caprices of necessity. If you propose to remain in the room, I beg that you will not look at me while I am drinking.”
Vexed142 at this continual obedience143 to a man whom he disliked, the General sharply turned his back upon him. The stranger thereupon drew a white handkerchief from his pocket and wound it about his right hand. Then he seized the carafe and emptied it at a draught144. The Marquis, staring vacantly into the tall mirror across the room, without a thought of breaking his implicit70 promise, saw the stranger’s figure distinctly reflected by the opposite looking-glass, and saw, too, a red stain suddenly appear through the folds of the white bandage. The man’s hands were steeped in blood.
“Ah! you saw me!” cried the other. He had drunk off the water and wrapped himself again in his cloak, and now scrutinized145 the General suspiciously. “It is all over with me! Here they come!”
“I don’t hear anything,” said the Marquis.
“You have not the same interest that I have in listening for sounds in the air.”
“You have been fighting a duel146, I suppose, to be in such a state?” queried147 the General, not a little disturbed by the color of those broad, dark patches staining his visitor’s cloak.
“Yes, a duel; you have it,” said the other, and a bitter smile flitted over his lips.
As he spoke a sound rang along the distant road, a sound of galloping149 horses; but so faint as yet, that it was the merest dawn of a sound. The General’s trained ear recognized the advance of a troop of regulars.
“That is the gendarmerie,” said he.
He glanced at his prisoner to reassure151 him after his own involuntary indiscretion, took the lamp, and went down to the salon. He had scarcely laid the key of the room above upon the chimney-piece when the hoof152 beats sounded louder and came swiftly nearer and nearer the house. The General felt a shiver of excitement, and indeed the horses stopped at the house door; a few words were exchanged among the men, and one of them dismounted and knocked loudly. There was no help for it; the General went to open the door. He could scarcely conceal153 his inward perturbation at the sight of half a dozen gendarmes154 outside, the metal rims155 of their caps gleaming like silver in the moonlight.
“My lord,” said the corporal, “have you heard a man run past towards the barrier within the last few minutes?”
“Towards the barrier? No.”
“Have you opened the door to any one?”
“Now, am I in the habit of answering the door myself —”
“I ask your pardon, General, but just now it seems to me that —”
“Really!” cried the Marquis wrathfully. “Have you a mind to try joking with me? What right have you —?”
“None at all, none at all, my lord,” cried the corporal, hastily putting in a soft answer. “You will excuse our zeal157. We know, of course, that a peer of France is not likely to harbor a murderer at this time of night; but as we want any information we can get —”
“A murderer!” cried the General. “Who can have been —”
“M. le Baron158 de Mauny has just been murdered. It was a blow from an axe34, and we are in hot pursuit of the criminal. We know for certain that he is somewhere in this neighborhood, and we shall hunt him down. By your leave, General,” and the man swung himself into the saddle as he spoke. It was well that he did so, for a corporal of gendarmerie trained to alert observation and quick surmise159 would have had his suspicions at once if he had caught sight of the General’s face. Everything that passed through the soldier’s mind was faithfully revealed in his frank countenance160.
“Is it known who the murderer is?” asked he.
“No,” said the other, now in the saddle. “He left the bureau full of banknotes and gold untouched.”
“It was revenge, then,” said the Marquis.
“On an old man? pshaw! No, no, the fellow hadn’t time to take it, that was all,” and the corporal galloped161 after his comrades, who were almost out of sight by this time.
For a few minutes the General stood, a victim to perplexities which need no explanation; but in a moment he heard the servants returning home, their voices were raised in some sort of dispute at the cross-roads of Montreuil. When they came in, he gave vent99 to his feelings in an explosion of rage, his wrath156 fell upon them like a thunderbolt, and all the echoes of the house trembled at the sound of his voice. In the midst of the storm his own man, the boldest and cleverest of the party, brought out an excuse; they had been stopped, he said, by the gendarmerie at the gate of Montreuil, a murder had been committed, and the police were in pursuit. In a moment the General’s anger vanished, he said not another word; then, bethinking himself of his own singular position, drily ordered them all off to bed at once, and left them amazed at his readiness to accept their fellow servant’s lying excuse.
While these incidents took place in the yard, an apparently162 trifling163 occurrence had changed the relative positions of three characters in this story. The Marquis had scarcely left the room before his wife looked first towards the key on the mantel-shelf, and then at Helene; and, after some wavering, bent towards her daughter and said in a low voice, “Helene your father has left the key on the chimney-piece.”
The girl looked up in surprise and glanced timidly at her mother. The Marquise’s eyes sparkled with curiosity.
“Well, mamma?” she said, and her voice had a troubled ring.
“I should like to know what is going on upstairs. If there is anybody up there, he has not stirred yet. Just go up —”
“I?” cried the girl, with something like horror in her tones.
“Are you afraid?”
“No, mamma, but I thought I heard a man’s footsteps.”
“If I could go myself, I should not have asked you to go, Helene,” said her mother with cold dignity. “If your father were to come back and did not see me, he would go to look for me perhaps, but he would not notice your absence.”
“Madame, if you bid me go, I will go,” said Helene, “but I shall lose my father’s good opinion —”
“What is this!” cried the Marquise in a sarcastic164 tone. “But since you take a thing that was said in joke in earnest, I now order you to go upstairs and see who is in the room above. Here is the key, child. When your father told you to say nothing about this thing that happened, he did not forbid you to go up to the room. Go at once — and learn that a daughter ought never to judge her mother.”
The last words were spoken with all the severity of a justly offended mother. The Marquise took the key and handed it to Helene, who rose without a word and left the room.
“My mother can always easily obtain her pardon,” thought the girl; “but as for me, my father will never think the same of me again. Does she mean to rob me of his tenderness? Does she want to turn me out of his house?”
These were the thoughts that set her imagination in a sudden ferment165, as she went down the dark passage to the mysterious door at the end. When she stood before it, her mental confusion grew to a fateful pitch. Feelings hitherto forced down into inner depths crowded up at the summons of these confused thoughts. Perhaps hitherto she had never believed that a happy life lay before her, but now, in this awful moment, her despair was complete. She shook convulsively as she set the key in the lock; so great indeed was her agitation166, that she stopped for a moment and laid her hand on her heart, as if to still the heavy throbs167 that sounded in her ears. Then she opened the door.
The creaking of the hinges sounded doubtless in vain on the murderer’s ears. Acute as were his powers of hearing, he stood as if lost in thought, and so motionless that he might have been glued to the wall against which he leaned. In the circle of semi-opaque darkness, dimly lit by the bull’s-eye lantern, he looked like the shadowy figure of some dead knight168, standing169 for ever in his shadowy mortuary niche170 in the gloom of some Gothic chapel171. Drops of cold sweat trickled172 over the broad, sallow forehead. An incredible fearlessness looked out from every tense feature. His eyes of fire were fixed173 and tearless; he seemed to be watching some struggle in the darkness beyond him. Stormy thoughts passed swiftly across a face whose firm decision spoke of a character of no common order. His whole person, bearing, and frame bore out the impression of a tameless spirit. The man looked power and strength personified; he stood facing the darkness as if it were the visible image of his own future.
These physical characteristics had made no impression upon the General, familiar as he was with the powerful faces of the group of giants gathered about Napoleon; speculative174 curiosity, moreover, as to the why and wherefore of the apparition175 had completely filled his mind; but Helene, with feminine sensitiveness to surface impressions, was struck by the blended chaos176 of light and darkness, grandeur177 and passion, suggesting a likeness178 between this stranger and Lucifer recovering from his fall. Suddenly the storm apparent in his face was stilled as if by magic; and the indefinable power to sway which the stranger exercised upon others, and perhaps unconsciously and as by reflex action upon himself, spread its influence about him with the progressive swiftness of a flood. A torrent179 of thought rolled away from his brow as his face resumed its ordinary expression. Perhaps it was the strangeness of this meeting, or perhaps it was the mystery into which she had penetrated180, that held the young girl spellbound in the doorway181, so that she could look at a face pleasant to behold and full of interest. For some moments she stood in the magical silence; a trouble had come upon her never known before in her young life. Perhaps some exclamation182 broke from Helene, perhaps she moved unconsciously; or it may be that the hunted criminal returned of his own accord from the world of ideas to the material world, and heard some one breathing in the room; however it was, he turned his head towards his host’s daughter, and saw dimly in the shadow a noble face and queenly form, which he must have taken for an angel’s, so motionless she stood, so vague and like a spirit.
“Monsieur . . . ” a trembling voice cried.
The murderer trembled.
“A woman!” he cried under his breath. “Is it possible? Go,” he cried, “I deny that any one has a right to pity, to absolve183, or condemn184 me. I must live alone. Go, my child,” he added, with an imperious gesture, “I should ill requite185 the service done me by the master of the house if I were to allow a single creature under his roof to breathe the same air with me. I must submit to be judged by the laws of the world.”
The last words were uttered in a lower voice. Even as he realized with a profound intuition all the manifold misery186 awakened187 by that melancholy thought, the glance that he gave Helene had something of the power of the serpent, stirring a whole dormant188 world in the mind of the strange girl before him. To her that glance was like a light revealing unknown lands. She was stricken with strange trouble, helpless, quelled190 by a magnetic power exerted unconsciously. Trembling and ashamed, she went out and returned to the salon. She had scarcely entered the room before her father came back, so that she had not time to say a word to her mother.
The General was wholly absorbed in thought. He folded his arms, and paced silently to and fro between the windows which looked out upon the street and the second row which gave upon the garden. His wife lay the sleeping Abel on her knee, and little Moina lay in untroubled slumber191 in the low chair, like a bird in its nest. Her older sister stared into the fire, a skein of silk in one hand, a needle in the other.
Deep silence prevailed, broken only by lagging footsteps on the stairs, as one by one the servants crept away to bed; there was an occasional burst of stifled192 laughter, a last echo of the wedding festivity, or doors were opened as they still talked among themselves, then shut. A smothered193 sound came now and again from the bedrooms, a chair fell, the old coachman coughed feebly, then all was silent.
In a little while the dark majesty with which sleeping earth is invested at midnight brought all things under its sway. No lights shone but the light of the stars. The frost gripped the ground. There was not a sound of a voice, nor a living creature stirring. The crackling of the fire only seemed to make the depth of the silence more fully123 felt.
The church clock of Montreuil had just struck one, when an almost inaudible sound of a light footstep came from the second flight of stairs. The Marquis and his daughter, both believing that M. de Mauny’s murderer was a prisoner above, thought that one of the maids had come down, and no one was at all surprised to hear the door open in the ante-chamber. Quite suddenly the murderer appeared in their midst. The Marquis himself was sunk in deep musings, the mother and daughter were silent, the one from keen curiosity, the other from sheer astonishment195, so that the visitor was almost half-way across the room when he spoke to the General.
“Sir, the two hours are almost over,” he said, in a voice that was strangely calm and musical.
“You here!” cried the General. “By what means ——?” and he gave wife and daughter a formidable questioning glance. Helene grew red as fire.
“You!” he went on, in a tone filled with horror. “You among us! A murderer covered with blood! You are a blot196 on this picture! Go, go out!” he added in a burst of rage.
At that word “murderer,” the Marquise cried out; as for Helene, it seemed to mark an epoch197 in her life, there was not a trace of surprise in her face. She looked as if she had been waiting for this — for him. Those so vast thoughts of hers had found a meaning. The punishment reserved by Heaven for her sins flamed out before her. In her own eyes she was as great a criminal as this murderer; she confronted him with her quiet gaze; she was his fellow, his sister. It seemed to her that in this accident the command of God had been made manifest. If she had been a few years older, reason would have disposed of her remorse198, but at this moment she was like one distraught.
The stranger stood impassive and self-possessed122; a scornful smile overspread his features and his thick, red lips.
“You appreciate the magnanimity of my behavior very badly,” he said slowly. “I would not touch with my fingers the glass of water you brought me to allay199 my thirst; I did not so much as think of washing my blood-stained hands under your roof; I am going away, leaving nothing of my crime” (here his lips were compressed) “but the memory; I have tried to leave no trace of my presence in this house. Indeed, I would not even allow your daughter to —”
“My daughter!” cried the General, with a horror-stricken glance at Helene. “Vile wretch200, go, or I will kill you —”
“The two hours are not yet over,” said the other; “if you kill me or give me up, you must lower yourself in your own eyes — and in mine.”
At these last words, the General turned to stare at the criminal in dumb amazement201; but he could not endure the intolerable light in those eyes which for the second time disorganized his being. He was afraid of showing weakness once more, conscious as he was that his will was weaker already.
“An old man! You can never have seen a family,” he said, with a father’s glance at his wife and children.
“Yes, an old man,” echoed the stranger, frowning slightly.
“Fly!” cried the General, but he did not dare to look at his guest. “Our compact is broken. I shall not kill you. No! I will never be purveyor202 to the scaffold. But go out. You make us shudder203.”
“I know that,” said the other patiently. “There is not a spot on French soil where I can set foot and be safe; but if man’s justice, like God’s, took all into account, if man’s justice deigned204 to inquire which was the monster — the murderer or his victim — then I might hold up my head among my fellows. Can you not guess that other crimes preceded that blow from an axe? I constituted myself his judge and executioner; I stepped in where man’s justice failed. That was my crime. Farewell, sir. Bitter though you have made your hospitality, I shall not forget it. I shall always bear in my heart a feeling of gratitude205 towards one man in the world, and you are that man. . . . But I could wish that you had showed yourself more generous!”
He turned towards the door, but in the same instant Helene leaned to whisper something in her mother’s ear.
“Ah! . . . ”
At the cry that broke from his wife, the General trembled as if he had seen Moina lying dead. There stood Helene and the murderer had turned instinctively206, with something like anxiety about these folk in his face.
“What is it, dear?” asked the General.
“Helene wants to go with him.”
The murderer’s face flushed.
“If that is how my mother understands an almost involuntary exclamation,” Helene said in a low voice, “I will fulfil her wishes. She glanced about her with something like fierce pride; then the girl’s eyes fell, and she stood, admirable in her modesty.
“Helene, did you go up to the room where ——?”
“Yes, father.”
“Helene” (and his voice shook with a convulsive tremor), “is this the first time that you have seen this man?”
“Yes, father.”
“Then it is not natural that you should intend to —”
“If it is not natural, father, at any rate it is true.”
“Oh! child,” said the Marquise, lowering her voice, but not so much but that her husband could hear her, “you are false to all the principles of honor, modesty, and right which I have tried to cultivate in your heart. If until this fatal hour you life has only been one lie, there is nothing to regret in your loss. It can hardly be the moral perfection of this stranger that attracts you to him? Can it be the kind of power that commits crime? I have too good an opinion of you to suppose that —”
“Oh, suppose everything, madame,” Helene said coldly.
But though her force of character sustained this ordeal207, her flashing eyes could scarcely hold the tears that filled them. The stranger, watching her, guessed the mother’s language from the girl’s tears, and turned his eagle glance upon the Marquise. An irresistible208 power constrained209 her to look at this terrible seducer210; but as her eyes met his bright, glittering gaze, she felt a shiver run through her frame, such a shock as we feel at the sight of a reptile211 or the contact of a Leyden jar.
“Dear!” she cried, turning to her husband, “this is the Fiend himself. He can divine everything!”
The General rose to his feet and went to the bell.
“He means ruin for you,” Helene said to the murderer.
The stranger smiled, took one forward stride, grasped the General’s arm, and compelled him to endure a steady gaze which benumbed the soldier’s brain and left him powerless.
“I will repay you now for your hospitality,” he said, “and then we shall be quits. I will spare you the shame by giving myself up. After all, what should I do now with my life?”
“You could repent,” answered Helene, and her glance conveyed such hope as only glows in a young girl’s eyes.
“I shall never repent,” said the murderer in a sonorous212 voice, as he raised his head proudly.
“His hands are stained with blood,” the father said.
“I will wipe it away,” she answered.
“But do you so much as know whether he cares for you?” said her father, not daring now to look at the stranger.
The murderer came up a little nearer. Some light within seemed to glow through Helene’s beauty, grave and maidenly213 though it was, coloring and bringing into relief, as it were, the least details, the most delicate lines in her face. The stranger, with that terrible face still blazing in his eyes, gave one tender glance to her enchanting loveliness, then he spoke, his tones revealing how deeply he had been moved.
“And if I refuse to allow this sacrifice of yourself, and so discharge my debt of two hours of existence to your father; is not this love, love for yourself alone?”
“Then do you too reject me?” Helene’s cry rang painfully through the hearts of all who heard her. “Farewell, then, to you all; I will die.”
“What does this mean?” asked the father and mother.
Helene gave her mother an eloquent214 glance and lowered her eyes.
Since the first attempt made by the General and his wife to contest by word or action the intruder’s strange presumption215 to the right of staying in their midst, from their first experience of the power of those glittering eyes, a mysterious torpor216 had crept over them, and their benumbed faculties217 struggled in vain with the preternatural influence. The air seemed to have suddenly grown so heavy, that they could scarcely breathe; yet, while they could not find the reason of this feeling of oppression, a voice within told them that this magnetic presence was the real cause of their helplessness. In this moral agony, it flashed across the General that he must make every effort to overcome this influence on his daughter’s reeling brain; he caught her by the waist and drew her into the embrasure of a window, as far as possible from the murderer.
“Darling,” he murmured, “if some wild love has been suddenly born in your heart, I cannot believe that you have not the strength of soul to quell189 the mad impulse; your innocent life, your pure and dutiful soul, has given me too many proofs of your character. There must be something behind all this. Well, this heart of mine is full of indulgence, you can tell everything to me; even if it breaks, dear child, I can be silent about my grief, and keep your confession219 a secret. What is it? Are you jealous of our love for your brothers or your little sister? Is it some love trouble? Are you unhappy here at home? Tell me about it, tell me the reasons that urge you to leave your home, to rob it of its greatest charm, to leave your mother and brothers and your little sister?”
“I am in love with no one, father, and jealous of no one, not even of your friend the diplomatist, M. de Vandenesse.”
The Marquise turned pale; her daughter saw this, and stopped short.
“Sooner or later I must live under some man’s protection, must I not?”
“That is true.”
“Do we ever know,” she went on, “the human being to whom we link our destinies? Now, I believe in this man.”
“Oh, child,” said the General, raising his voice, “you have no idea of all the misery that lies in store for you.”
“I am thinking of his.”
“What a life!” groaned221 the father.
“A woman’s life,” the girl murmured.
“You have a great knowledge of life!” exclaimed the Marquise, finding speech at last.
“Madame, my answers are shaped by the questions; but if you desire it, I will speak more clearly.”
“Speak out, my child . . . I am a mother.”
Mother and daughter looked each other in the face, and the Marquise said no more. At last she said:
“Helene, if you have any reproaches to make, I would rather bear them than see you go away with a man from whom the whole world shrinks in horror.”
“Then you see yourself, madame, that but for me he would be quite alone.”
“That will do, madame,” the General cried; “we have but one daughter left to us now,” and he looked at Moina, who slept on. “As for you,” he added, turning to Helene, “I will put you in a convent.”
“So be it, father,” she said, in calm despair, “I shall die there. You are answerable to God alone for my life and for his soul.”
A deep sullen222 silence fell after these words. The on-lookers during this strange scene, so utterly223 at variance224 with all the sentiments of ordinary life, shunned225 each other’s eyes.
Suddenly the Marquis happened to glance at his pistols. He caught up one of them, cocked the weapon, and pointed226 it at the intruder. At the click of firearms the other turned his piercing gaze full upon the General; the soldier’s arm slackened indescribably and fell heavily to his side. The pistol dropped to the floor.
“Girl, you are free,” said he, exhausted227 by this ghastly struggle. “Kiss your mother, if she will let you kiss her. For my own part, I wish never to see nor to hear of you again.”
“Helene,” the mother began, “only think of the wretched life before you.”
A sort of rattling228 sound came from the intruder’s deep chest, all eyes were turned to him. Disdain229 was plainly visible in his face.
The General rose to his feet. “My hospitality has cost me dear,” he cried. “Before you came you had taken an old man’s life; now your are dealing230 a deadly blow at a whole family. Whatever happens, there must be unhappiness in this house.”
“And if your daughter is happy?” asked the other, gazing steadily231 at the General.
The father made a superhuman effort for self-control. “If she is happy with you,” he said, “she is not worth regretting.”
Helene knelt timidly before her father.
“Father, I love and revere232 you,” she said, “whether you lavish233 all the treasures of your kindness upon me, or make me feel to the full the rigor234 of disgrace. . . . But I entreat112 that your last words of farewell shall not be words of anger.”
The General could not trust himself to look at her. The stranger came nearer; there was something half-diabolical, half-divine in the smile that he gave Helene.
“Angel of pity, you that do not shrink in horror from a murderer, come, since you persist in your resolution of intrusting your life to me.”
“Inconceivable!” cried her father.
The Marquise then looked strangely at her daughter, opened her arms, and Helene fled to her in tears.
“Farewell,” she said, “farewell, mother!” The stranger trembled as Helene, undaunted, made sign to him that she was ready. She kissed her father’s hand; and, as if performing a duty, gave a hasty kiss to Moina and little Abel, then she vanished with the murderer.
“Which way are they going?” exclaimed the General, listening to the footsteps of the two fugitives235. —“Madame,” he turned to his wife, “I think I must be dreaming; there is some mystery behind all this, I do not understand it; you must know what it means.”
The Marquise shivered.
“For some time past your daughter has grown extraordinarily236 romantic and strangely high-flown in her ideas. In spite of the pains I have taken to combat these tendencies in her character —”
“This will not do ——” began the General, but fancying that he heard footsteps in the garden, he broke off to fling open the window.
“Helene!” he shouted.
His voice was lost in the darkness like a vain prophecy. The utterance237 of that name, to which there should never be answer any more, acted like a counterspell; it broke the charm and set him free from the evil enchantment238 which lay upon him. It was as if some spirit passed over his face. He now saw clearly what had taken place, and cursed his incomprehensible weakness. A shiver of heat rushed from his heart to his head and feet; he became himself once more, terrible, thirsting for revenge. He raised a dreadful cry.
“Help!” he thundered, “help!”
He rushed to the bell-pull, pulled till the bells rang with a strange clamor of din1, pulled till the cord gave way. The whole house was roused with a start. Still shouting, he flung open the windows that looked upon the street, called for the police, caught up his pistols, and fired them off to hurry the mounted patrols, the newly-aroused servants, and the neighbors. The dogs barked at the sound of their master’s voice; the horses neighed and stamped in their stalls. The quiet night was suddenly filled with hideous239 uproar240. The General on the staircase, in pursuit of his daughter, saw the scared faces of the servants flocking from all parts of the house.
“My daughter!” he shouted. “Helene has been carried off. Search the garden. Keep a lookout241 on the road! Open the gates for the gendarmerie! — Murder! Help!”
With the strength of fury he snapped the chain and let loose the great house-dog.
“Helene!” he cried, “Helene!”
The dog sprang out like a lion, barking furiously, and dashed into the garden, leaving the General far behind. A troop of horses came along the road at a gallop148, and he flew to open the gates himself.
“Corporal!” he shouted, “cut off the retreat of M. de Mauny’s murderer. They have gone through my garden. Quick! Put a cordon242 of men to watch the ways by the Butte de Picardie. — I will beat up the grounds, parks, and houses. — The rest of you keep a lookout along the road,” he ordered the servants, “form a chain between the barrier and Versailles. Forward, every man of you!”
He caught up the rifle which his man had brought out, and dashed into the garden.
“Find them!” he called to the dog.
An ominous baying came in answer from the distance, and he plunged243 in the direction from which the growl244 seemed to come.
It was seven o’clock in the morning; all the search made by gendarmes, servants, and neighbors had been fruitless, and the dog had not come back. The General entered the salon, empty now for him though the other three children were there; he was worn out with fatigue245, and looked old already with that night’s work.
“You have been very cold to your daughter,” he said, turning his eyes on his wife. —“And now this is all that is left to us of her,” he added, indicating the embroidery246 frame, and the flower just begun. “Only just now she was there, and now she is lost . . . lost!”
Tears followed; he hid his face in his hands, and for a few minutes he said no more; he could not bear the sight of the room, which so short a time ago had made a setting to a picture of the sweetest family happiness. The winter dawn was struggling with the dying lamplight; the tapers247 burned down to their paper-wreaths and flared248 out; everything was all in keeping with the father’s despair.
“This must be destroyed,” he said after a pause, pointing to the tambour-frame. “I shall never bear to see anything again that reminds us of her!”
The terrible Christmas night when the Marquis and his wife lost their oldest daughter, powerless to oppose the mysterious influence exercised by the man who involuntarily, as it were, stole Helene from them, was like a warning sent by Fate. The Marquis was ruined by the failure of his stock-broker; he borrowed money on his wife’s property, and lost it in the endeavor to retrieve249 his fortunes. Driven to desperate expedients250, he left France. Six years went by. His family seldom had news of him; but a few days before Spain recognized the independence of the American Republics, he wrote that he was coming home.
So, one fine morning, it happened that several French merchants were on board a Spanish brig that lay a few leagues out from Bordeaux, impatient to reach their native land again, with wealth acquired by long years of toil and perilous252 adventures in Venezuela and Mexico.
One of the passengers, a man who looked aged92 by trouble rather than by years, was leaning against the bulwark253 netting, apparently quite unaffected by the sight to be seen from the upper deck. The bright day, the sense that the voyage was safely over, had brought all the passengers above to greet their land. The larger number of them insisted that they could see, far off in the distance, the houses and lighthouses on the coast of Gascony and the Tower of Cardouan, melting into the fantastic erections of white cloud along the horizon. But for the silver fringe that played about their bows, and the long furrow254 swiftly effaced255 in their wake, they might have been perfectly still in mid-ocean, so calm was the sea. The sky was magically clear, the dark blue of the vault256 above paled by imperceptible gradations, until it blended with the bluish water, a gleaming line that sparkled like stars marking the dividing line of sea. The sunlight caught myriads257 of facets258 over the wide surface of the ocean, in such a sort that the vast plains of salt water looked perhaps more full of light than the fields of sky.
The brig had set all her canvas. The snowy sails, swelled259 by the strangely soft wind, the labyrinth260 of cordage, and the yellow flags flying at the masthead, all stood out sharp and uncompromisingly clear against the vivid background of space, sky, and sea; there was nothing to alter the color but the shadow cast by the great cloudlike sails.
A glorious day, a fair wind, and the fatherland in sight, a sea like a mill-pond, the melancholy sound of the ripples261, a fair, solitary vessel262, gliding263 across the surface of the water like a woman stealing out to a tryst264 — it was a picture full of harmony. That mere150 speck265 full of movement was a starting-point whence the soul of man could descry266 the immutable267 vast of space. Solitude and bustling268 life, silence and sound, were all brought together in strange abrupt269 contrast; you could not tell where life, or sound, or silence, and nothingness lay, and no human voice broke the divine spell.
The Spanish captain, the crew, and the French passengers sat or stood, in a mood of devout270 ecstasy271, in which many memories blended. There was idleness in the air. The beaming faces told of complete forgetfulness of past hardships, the men were rocked on the fair vessel as in a golden dream. Yet, from time to time the elderly passenger, leaning over the bulwark nettings, looked with something like uneasiness at the horizon. Distrust of the ways of Fate could be read in his whole face; he seemed to fear that he should not reach the coast of France in time. This was the Marquis. Fortune had not been deaf to his despairing cry and struggles. After five years of endeavor and painful toil, he was a wealthy man once more. In his impatience272 to reach his home again and to bring the good news to his family, he had followed the example set by some French merchants in Havana, and embarked273 with them on a Spanish vessel with a cargo274 for Bordeaux. And now, grown tired of evil forebodings, his fancy was tracing out for him the most delicious pictures of past happiness. In that far-off brown line of land he seemed to see his wife and children. He sat in his place by the fireside; they were crowding about him; he felt their caresses. Moina had grown to be a young girl; she was beautiful, and tall, and striking. The fancied picture had grown almost real, when the tears filled his eyes, and, to hide his emotion, he turned his face towards the sea-line, opposite the hazy275 streak276 that meant land.
“There she is again. . . . She is following us!” he said.
“What?” cried the Spanish captain.
“There is a vessel,” muttered the General.
“I saw her yesterday,” answered Captain Gomez. He looked at his interlocutor as if to ask what he thought; then he added in the General’s ear, “She has been chasing us all along.”
“Then why she has not come up with us, I do not know,” said the General, “for she is a faster sailor than your damned Saint–Ferdinand.”
“She will have damaged herself, sprung a leak —”
“She is gaining on us!” the General broke in.
“She is a Columbian privateer,” the captain said in his ear, “and we are still six leagues from land, and the wind is dropping.”
“She is not going ahead, she is flying, as if she knew that in two hours’ time her prey would escape her. What audacity277!”
“Audacity!” cried the captain. “Oh! she is not called the Othello for nothing. Not so long back she sank a Spanish frigate278 that carried thirty guns! This is the one thing I was afraid of, for I had a notion that she was cruising about somewhere off the Antilles. — Aha!” he added after a pause, as he watched the sails of his own vessel, “the wind is rising; we are making way. Get through we must, for ‘the Parisian’ will show us no mercy.”
“She is making way too!” returned the General.
The Othello was scarce three leagues away by this time; and although the conversation between the Marquis and Captain Gomez had taken place apart, passengers and crew, attracted by the sudden appearance of a sail, came to that side of the vessel. With scarcely an exception, however, they took the privateer for a merchantman, and watched her course with interest, till all at once a sailor shouted with some energy of language:
“By Saint–James, it is all up with us! Yonder is the Parisian captain!”
At that terrible name dismay, and a panic impossible to describe, spread through the brig. The Spanish captain’s orders put energy into the crew for a while; and in his resolute determination to make land at all costs, he set all the studding sails, and crowded on every stitch of canvas on board. But all this was not the work of a moment; and naturally the men did not work together with that wonderful unanimity279 so fascinating to watch on board a man-of-war. The Othello meanwhile, thanks to the trimming of her sails, flew over the water like a swallow; but she was making, to all appearance, so little headway, that the unlucky Frenchmen began to entertain sweet delusive280 hopes. At last, after unheard-of efforts, the Saint–Ferdinand sprang forward, Gomez himself directing the shifting of the sheets with voice and gesture, when all at once the man at the tiller, steering281 at random282 (purposely, no doubt), swung the vessel round. The wind striking athwart the beam, the sails shivered so unexpectedly that the brig heeled to one side, the booms were carried away, and the vessel was completely out of hand. The captain’s face grew whiter than his sails with unutterable rage. He sprang upon the man at the tiller, drove his dagger283 at him in such blind fury, that he missed him, and hurled284 the weapon overboard. Gomez took the helm himself, and strove to right the gallant285 vessel. Tears of despair rose to his eyes, for it is harder to lose the result of our carefully-laid plans through treachery than to face imminent286 death. But the more the captain swore, the less the men worked, and it was he himself who fired the alarm-gun, hoping to be heard on shore. The privateer, now gaining hopelessly upon them, replied with a cannon-shot, which struck the water ten fathoms287 away from the Saint–Ferdinand.
“Thunder of heaven!” cried the General, “that was a close shave! They must have guns made on purpose.”
“Oh! when that one yonder speaks, look you, you have to hold your tongue,” said a sailor. “The Parisian would not be afraid to meet an English man-of-war.”
“It is all over with us,” the captain cried in desperation; he had pointed his telescope landwards, and saw not a sign from the shore. “We are further from the coast than I thought.”
“Why do you despair?” asked the General. “All your passengers are Frenchmen; they have chartered your vessel. The privateer is a Parisian, you say? Well and good, run up the white flag, and —”
“And he would run us down,” retorted the captain. “He can be anything he likes when he has a mind to seize on a rich booty!”
“Oh! if he is a pirate —”
“Pirate!” said the ferocious288 looking sailor. “Oh! he always has the law on his side, or he knows how to be on the same side as the law.”
“Very well,” said the General, raising his eyes, “let us make up our minds to it,” and his remaining fortitude289 was still sufficient to keep back the tears.
The words were hardly out of his mouth before a second cannon-shot, better aimed, came crashing through the hull290 of the Saint–Ferdinand.
“Heave to!” cried the captain gloomily.
The sailor who had commended the Parisian’s law-abiding proclivities291 showed himself a clever hand at working a ship after this desperate order was given. The crew waited for half an hour in an agony of suspense292 and the deepest dismay. The Saint–Ferdinand had four millions of piastres on board, the whole fortunes of the five passengers, and the General’s eleven hundred thousand francs. At length the Othello lay not ten gunshots away, so that those on the Saint–Ferdinand could look into the muzzles293 of her loaded guns. The vessel seemed to be borne along by a breeze sent by the Devil himself, but the eyes of an expert would have discovered the secret of her speed at once. You had but to look for a moment at the rake of her stern, her long, narrow keel, her tall masts, to see the cut of her sails, the wonderful lightness of her rigging, and the ease and perfect seamanship with which her crew trimmed her sails to the wind. Everything about her gave the impression of the security of power in this delicately curved inanimate creature, swift and intelligent as a greyhound or some bird of prey. The privateer crew stood silent, ready in case of resistance to shatter the wretched merchantman, which, luckily for her, remained motionless, like a schoolboy caught in flagrant delict by a master.
“We have guns on board!” cried the General, clutching the Spanish captain’s hand. But the courage in Gomez’s eyes was the courage of despair.
“Have we men?” he said.
The Marquis looked round at the crew of the Saint–Ferdinand, and a cold chill ran through him. There stood the four merchants, pale and quaking for fear, while the crew gathered about some of their own number who appeared to be arranging to go over in a body to the enemy. They watched the Othello with greed and curiosity in their faces. The captain, the Marquis, and the mate exchanged glances; they were the only three who had a thought for any but themselves.
“Ah! Captain Gomez, when I left my home and country, my heart was half dead with the bitterness of parting, and now must I bid it good-bye once more when I am bringing back happiness and ease for my children?”
The General turned his head away towards the sea, with tears of rage in his eyes — and saw the steersman swimming out to the privateer.
“This time it will be good-bye for good,” said the captain by way of answer, and the dazed look in the Frenchman’s eyes startled the Spaniard.
By this time the two vessels294 were almost alongside, and at the first sight of the enemy’s crew the General saw that Gomez’s gloomy prophecy was only too true. The three men at each gun might have been bronze statues, standing like athletes, with their rugged features, their bare sinewy295 arms, men whom Death himself had scarcely thrown off their feet.
The rest of the crew, well armed, active, light, and vigorous, also stood motionless. Toil had hardened, and the sun had deeply tanned, those energetic faces; their eyes glittered like sparks of fire with infernal glee and clear-sighted courage. Perfect silence on the upper deck, now black with men, bore abundant testimony296 to the rigorous discipline and strong will which held these fiends incarnate297 in check.
The captain of the Othello stood with folded arms at the foot of the main mast; he carried no weapons, but an axe lay on the deck beside him. His face was hidden by the shadow of a broad felt hat. The men looked like dogs crouching298 before their master. Gunners, soldiers, and ship’s crew turned their eyes first on his face, and then on the merchant vessel.
The two brigs came up alongside, and the shock of contact roused the privateer captain from his musings; he spoke a word in the ear of the lieutenant299 who stood beside him.
“Grappling-irons!” shouted the latter, and the Othello grappled the Saint–Ferdinand with miraculous300 quickness. The captain of the privateer gave his orders in a low voice to the lieutenant, who repeated them; the men, told off in succession for each duty, went on the upper deck of the Saint–Ferdinand, like seminarists going to mass. They bound crew and passengers hand and foot and seized the booty. In the twinkling of an eye, provisions and barrels full of piastres were transferred to the Othello; the General thought that he must be dreaming when he himself, likewise bound, was flung down on a bale of goods as if he had been part of the cargo.
A brief conference took place between the captain of the privateer and his lieutenant and a sailor, who seemed to be the mate of the vessel; then the mate gave a whistle, and the men jumped on board the Saint–Ferdinand, and completely dismantled301 her with the nimble dexterity302 of a soldier who strips a dead comrade of a coveted303 overcoat and shoes.
“It is all over with us,” said the Spanish captain coolly. He had eyed the three chiefs during their confabulation, and saw that the sailors were proceeding304 to pull his vessel to pieces.
“Why so?” asked the General.
“What would you have them do with us?” returned the Spaniard. “They have just come to the conclusion that they will scarcely sell the Saint–Ferdinand in any French or Spanish port, so they are going to sink her to be rid of her. As for us, do you suppose that they will put themselves to the expense of feeding us, when they don’t know what port they are to put into?”
The words were scarcely out of the captain’s mouth before a hideous outcry went up, followed by a dull splashing sound, as several bodies were thrown overboard. He turned, the four merchants were no longer to be seen, but eight ferocious-looking gunners were still standing with their arms raised above their heads. He shuddered305.
“What did I tell you?” the Spanish captain asked coolly.
The Marquis rose to his feet with a spring. The surface of the sea was quite smooth again; he could not so much as see the place where his unhappy fellow-passengers had disappeared. By this time they were sinking down, bound hand and foot, below the waves, if, indeed, the fish had not devoured306 them already.
Only a few paces away, the treacherous307 steersman and the sailor who had boasted of the Parisian’s power were fraternizing with the crew of the Othello, and pointing out those among their own number, who, in their opinion, were worthy to join the crew of the privateer. Then the boys tied the rest together by the feet in spite of frightful308 oaths. It was soon over; the eight gunners seized the doomed309 men and flung them overboard without more ado, watching the different ways in which the drowning victims met their death, their contortions310, their last agony, with a sort of malignant311 curiosity, but with no sign of amusement, surprise, or pity. For them it was an ordinary event to which seemingly they were quite accustomed. The older men looked instead with grim, set smiles at the casks of piastres about the main mast.
The General and Captain Gomez, left seated on a bale of goods, consulted each other with well-nigh hopeless looks; they were, in a sense, the sole survivors312 of the Saint–Ferdinand, for the seven men pointed out by the spies were transformed amid rejoicings into Peruvians.
“What atrocious villains313!” the General cried. Loyal and generous indignation silenced prudence314 and pain on his own account.
“They do it because they must,” Gomez answered coolly. “If you came across one of those fellows, you would run him through the body, would you not?”
The lieutenant now came up to the Spaniard.
“Captain,” said he, “the Parisian has heard of you. He says that you are the only man who really knows the passages of the Antilles and the Brazilian coast. Will you —”
The captain cut him short with a scornful exclamation.
“I shall die like a sailor,” he said, “and a loyal Spaniard and a Christian315. Do you hear?”
“Heave him overboard!” shouted the lieutenant, and a couple of gunners seized on Gomez.
“You cowards!” roared the General, seizing hold of the men.
“Don’t get too excited, old boy,” said the lieutenant. “If your red ribbon has made some impression upon our captain, I myself do not care a rap for it. — You and I will have our little bit of talk together directly.”
A smothered sound, with no accompanying cry, told the General that the gallant captain had died “like a sailor,” as he had said.
“My money or death!” cried the Marquis, in a fit of rage terrible to see.
“Ah! now you talk sensibly!” sneered316 the lieutenant. “That is the way to get something out of us ——”
Two of the men came up at a sign and hastened to bind317 the Frenchmen’s feet, but with unlooked-for boldness he snatched the lieutenant’s cutlass and laid about him like a cavalry318 officer who knows his business.
“Brigands that you are! You shall not chuck one of Napoleon’s troopers over a ship’s side like an oyster319!”
At the sound of pistol shots fired point blank at the Frenchman, “the Parisian” looked round from his occupation of superintending the transfer of the rigging from the Saint–Ferdinand. He came up behind the brave General, seized him, dragged him to the side, and was about to fling him over with no more concern than if the man had been a broken spar. They were at the very edge when the General looked into the tawny320 eyes of the man who had stolen his daughter. The recognition was mutual.
The captain of the privateer, his arm still upraised, suddenly swung it in the contrary direction as if his victim was but a feather weight, and set him down at the foot of the main mast. A murmur218 rose on the upper deck, but the captain glanced round, and there was a sudden silence.
“This is Helene’s father,” said the captain in a clear, firm voice. “Woe to any one who meddles321 with him!”
A hurrah322 of joy went up at the words, a shout rising to the sky like a prayer of the church; a cry like the first high notes of the Te Deum. The lads swung aloft in the rigging, the men below flung up their caps, the gunners pounded away on the deck, there was a general thrill of excitement, an outburst of oaths, yells, and shrill323 cries in voluble chorus. The men cheered like fanatics324, the General’s misgivings325 deepened, and he grew uneasy; it seemed to him that there was some horrible mystery in such wild transports.
“My daughter!” he cried, as soon as he could speak. “Where is my daughter?”
For all answer, the captain of the privateer gave him a searching glance, one of those glances which throw the bravest man into a confusion which no theory can explain. The General was mute, not a little to the satisfaction of the crew; it pleased them to see their leader exercise the strange power which he possessed over all with whom he came in contact. Then the captain led the way down a staircase and flung open the door of a cabin.
“There she is,” he said, and disappeared, leaving the General in a stupor326 of bewilderment at the scene before his eyes.
Helene cried out at the sight of him, and sprang up from the sofa on which she was lying when the door flew open. So changed was she that none but a father’s eyes could have recognized her. The sun of the tropics had brought warmer tones into the once pale face, and something of Oriental charm with that wonderful coloring; there was a certain grandeur about her, a majestic327 firmness, a profound sentiment which impresses itself upon the coarsest nature. Her long, thick hair, falling in large curls about her queenly throat, gave an added idea of power to the proud face. The consciousness of that power shone out from every movement, every line of Helene’s form. The rose-tinted nostrils328 were dilated329 slightly with the joy of triumph; the serene330 happiness of her life had left its plain tokens in the full development of her beauty. A certain indefinable virginal grace met in her with the pride of a woman who is loved. This was a slave and a queen, a queen who would fain obey that she might reign331.
Her dress was magnificent and elegant in its richness; India muslin was the sole material, but her sofa and cushions were of cashmere. A Persian carpet covered the floor in the large cabin, and her four children playing at her feet were building castles of gems332 and pearl necklaces and jewels of price. The air was full of the scent333 of rare flowers in Sevres porcelain334 vases painted by Madame Jacotot; tiny South American birds, like living rubies335, sapphires336, and gold, hovered337 among the Mexican jessamines and camellias. A pianoforte had been fitted into the room, and here and there on the paneled walls, covered with red silk, hung small pictures by great painters — a Sunset by Hippolyte Schinner beside a Terburg, one of Raphael’s Madonnas scarcely yielded in charm to a sketch338 by Gericault, while a Gerard Dow eclipsed the painters of the Empire. On a lacquered table stood a golden plate full of delicious fruit. Indeed, Helene might have been the sovereign lady of some great country, and this cabin of hers a boudoir in which her crowned lover had brought together all earth’s treasure to please his consort339. The children gazed with bright, keen eyes at their grandfather. Accustomed as they were to a life of battle, storm, and tumult340, they recalled the Roman children in David’s Brutus, watching the fighting and bloodshed with curious interest.
“What! is it possible?” cried Helene, catching341 her father’s arm as if to assure herself that this was no vision.
“Helene!”
“Father!”
They fell into each other’s arms, and the old man’s embrace was not so close and warm as Helene’s.
“Were you on board that vessel?”
“Yes,” he answered sadly, and looking at the little ones, who gathered about him and gazed with wide open eyes.
“I was about to perish, but —”
“But for my husband,” she broke in. “I see how it was.”
“Ah!” cried the General, “why must I find you again like this, Helene? After all the many tears that I have shed, must I still groan220 for your fate?”
“And why?” she asked, smiling. “Why should you be sorry to learn that I am the happiest woman under the sun?”
“Happy?” he cried with a start of surprise.
“Yes, happy, my kind father,” and she caught his hands in hers and covered them with kisses, and pressed them to her throbbing342 heart. Her caresses, and a something in the carriage of her head, were interpreted yet more plainly by the joy sparkling in her eyes.
“And how is this?” he asked, wondering at his daughter’s life, forgetful now of everything but the bright glowing face before him.
“Listen, father; I have for lover, husband, servant, and master one whose soul is as great as the boundless343 sea, as infinite in his kindness as heaven, a god on earth! Never during these seven years has a chance look, or word, or gesture jarred in the divine harmony of his talk, his love, his caresses. His eyes have never met mine without a gleam of happiness in them; there has always been a bright smile on his lips for me. On deck, his voice rises above the thunder of storms and the tumult of battle; but here below it is soft and melodious344 as Rossini’s music — for he has Rossini’s music sent for me. I have everything that woman’s caprice can imagine. My wishes are more than fulfilled. In short, I am a queen on the seas; I am obeyed here as perhaps a queen may be obeyed. — Ah!” she cried, interrupting herself, “happy did I say? Happiness is no word to express such bliss345 as mine. All the happiness that should have fallen to all the women in the world has been my share. Knowing one’s own great love and self-devotion, to find in his heart an infinite love in which a woman’s soul is lost, and lost for ever — tell me, is this happiness? I have lived through a thousand lives even now. Here, I am alone; here, I command. No other woman has set foot on this noble vessel, and Victor is never more than a few paces distant from me — he cannot wander further from me than from stern to prow,” she added, with a shade of mischief346 in her manner. “Seven years! A love that outlasts347 seven years of continual joy, that endures all the tests brought by all the moments that make up seven years — is this love? Oh, no, no! it is something better than all that I know of life . . . human language fails to express the bliss of heaven.”
A sudden torrent of tears fell from her burning eyes. The four little ones raised a piteous cry at this, and flocked like chickens about their mother. The oldest boy struck the General with a threatening look.
“Abel, darling,” said Helene, “I am crying for joy.”
Helene took him on her knee, and the child fondled her, putting his arms about her queenly neck, as a lion’s whelp might play with the lioness.
“Do you never weary of your life?” asked the General, bewildered by his daughter’s enthusiastic language.
“Yes,” she said, “sometimes, when we are on land, yet even then I have never parted from my husband.”
“But you need to be fond of music and balls and fetes.”
“His voice is music for me; and for fetes, I devise new toilettes for him to see. When he likes my dress, it is as if all the world admired me. Simply for that reason I keep the diamonds and jewels, the precious things, the flowers and masterpieces of art that he heaps upon me, saying, ‘Helene, as you live out of the world, I will have the world come to you.’ But for that I would fling them all overboard.”
“But there are others on board, wild, reckless men whose passions —”
“I understand, father,” she said smiling. “Do not fear for me. Never was empress encompassed348 with more observance than I. The men are very superstitious349; they look upon me as a sort of tutelary350 genius, the luck of the vessel. But he is their god; they worship him. Once, and once only, one of the crew showed disrespect, mere words,” she added, laughing; “but before Victor knew of it, the others flung the offender351 overboard, although I forgave him. They love me as their good angel; I nurse them when they are ill; several times I have been so fortunate as to save a life, by constant care such as a woman can give. Poor fellows, they are giants, but they are children at the same time.”
“And when there is fighting overhead?”
“I am used to it now; I quaked for fear during the first engagement, but never since. — I am used to such peril251, and — I am your daughter,” she said; “I love it.”
“But how if he should fall?”
“I should die with him.”
“And your children?”
“They are children of the sea and of danger; they share the life of their parents. We have but one life, and we do not flinch352 from it. We have but one life, our names are written on the same page of the book of Fate, one skiff bears us and our fortunes, and we know it.”
“Do you so love him that he is more to you than all beside?”
“All beside?” echoed she. “Let us leave that mystery alone. Yet stay! there is this dear little one — well, this too is he,” and straining Abel to her in a tight clasp, she set eager kisses on his cheeks and hair.
“But I can never forget that he has just drowned nine men!” exclaimed the General.
“There was no help for it, doubtless,” she said, “for he is generous and humane353. He sheds as little blood as may be, and only in the interests of the little world which he defends, and the sacred cause for which he is fighting. Talk to him about anything that seems to you to be wrong, and he will convince you, you will see.”
“There was that crime of his,” muttered the General to himself.
“But how if that crime was a virtue354?” she asked, with cold dignity. “How if man’s justice had failed to avenge355 a great wrong?”
“But a private revenge!” exclaimed her father.
“But what is hell,” she cried, “but a revenge through all eternity356 for the wrong done in a little day?”
“Ah! you are lost! He has bewitched and perverted357 you. You are talking wildly.”
“Stay with us one day, father, and if you will but listen to him, and see him, you will love him.”
“Helene, France lies only a few leagues away,” he said gravely.
Helene trembled; then she went to the porthole and pointed to the savannas358 of green water spreading far and wide.
“There lies my country,” she said, tapping the carpet with her foot.
“But are you not coming with me to see your mother and your sister and brothers?”
“Oh! yes,” she cried, with tears in her voice, “if he is willing, if he will come with me.”
“So,” the General said sternly, “you have neither country nor kin18 now, Helene?”
“I am his wife,” she answered proudly, and there was something very noble in her tone. “This is the first happiness in seven years that has not come to me through him,” she said — then, as she caught her father’s hand and kissed it —“and this is the first word of reproach that I have heard.”
“And your conscience?”
“My conscience; he is my conscience!” she cried, trembling from head to foot. “Here he is! Even in the thick of a fight I can tell his footstep among all the others on deck,” she cried.
A sudden crimson359 flushed her cheeks and glowed in her features, her eyes lighted up, her complexion360 changed to velvet361 whiteness, there was joy and love in every fibre, in the blue veins362, in the unconscious trembling of her whole frame. That quiver of the sensitive plant softened the General.
It was as she had said. The captain came in, sat down in an easy-chair, took up his oldest boy, and began to play with him. There was a moment’s silence, for the General’s deep musing194 had grown vague and dreamy, and the daintily furnished cabin and the playing children seemed like a nest of halcyons363, floating on the waves, between sky and sea, safe in the protection of this man who steered364 his way amid the perils365 of war and tempest, as other heads of household guide those in their care among the hazards of common life. He gazed admiringly at Helene — a dreamlike vision of some sea goddess, gracious in her loveliness, rich in happiness; all the treasures about her grown poor in comparison with the wealth of her nature, paling before the brightness of her eyes, the indefinable romance expressed in her and her surroundings.
The strangeness of the situation took the General by surprise; the ideas of ordinary life were thrown into confusion by this lofty passion and reasoning. Chill and narrow social conventions faded away before this picture. All these things the old soldier felt, and saw no less how impossible it was that his daughter should give up so wide a life, a life so variously rich, filled to the full with such passionate366 love. And Helene had tasted danger without shrinking; how could she return to the pretty stage, the superficial circumscribed367 life of society?
It was the captain who broke the silence at last.
“Am I in the way?” he asked, looking at his wife.
“No,” said the General, answering for her. “Helene has told me all. I see that she is lost to us —”
“No,” the captain put in quickly; “in a few years’ time the statute368 of limitations will allow me to go back to France. When the conscience is clear, and a man has broken the law in obedience to ——” he stopped short, as if scorning to justify369 himself.
“How can you commit new murders, such as I have seen with my own eyes, without remorse?”
“We had no provisions,” the privateer captain retorted calmly.
“But if you had set the men ashore370 —”
“They would have given the alarm and sent a man-of-war after us, and we should never have seen Chili371 again.”
“Before France would have given warning to the Spanish admiralty —” began the General.
“But France might take it amiss that a man, with a warrant still out against him, should seize a brig chartered by Bordeaux merchants. And for that matter, have you never fired a shot or so too many in battle?”
The General shrank under the other’s eyes. He said no more, and his daughter looked at him half sadly, half triumphant372.
“General,” the privateer continued, in a deep voice, “I have made it a rule to abstract nothing from booty. But even so, my share will be beyond a doubt far larger than your fortune. Permit me to return it to you in another form —”
He drew a pile of banknotes from the piano, and without counting the packets handed a million of francs to the Marquis.
“You can understand,” he said, “that I cannot spend my time in watching vessels pass by to Bordeaux. So unless the dangers of this Bohemian life of ours have some attraction for you, unless you care to see South America and the nights of the tropics, and a bit of fighting now and again for the pleasure of helping373 to win a triumph for a young nation, or for the name of Simon Bolivar, we must part. The long boat manned with a trustworthy crew is ready for you. And now let us hope that our third meeting will be completely happy.”
“Victor,” said Helene in a dissatisfied tone, “I should like to see a little more of my father.”
“Ten minutes more or less may bring up a French frigate. However, so be it, we shall have a little fun. The men find things dull.”
“Oh, father, go!” cried Helene, “and take these keepsakes from me to my sister and brothers and — mother,” she added. She caught up a handful of jewels and precious stones, folded them in an Indian shawl, and timidly held it out.
“But what shall I say to them from you?” asked he. Her hesitation374 on the word “mother” seemed to have struck him.
“Oh! can you doubt me? I pray for their happiness every day.”
“Helene,” he began, as he watched her closely, “how if we should not meet again? Shall I never know why you left us?”
“That secret is not mine,” she answered gravely. “Even if I had the right to tell it, perhaps I should not. For ten years I was more miserable375 than words can say —”
She broke off, and gave her father the presents for her family. The General had acquired tolerably easy views as to booty in the course of a soldier’s career, so he took Helene’s gifts and comforted himself with the reflection that the Parisian captain was sure to wage war against the Spaniards as an honorable man, under the influence of Helene’s pure and high-minded nature. His passion for courage carried all before it. It was ridiculous, he thought, to be squeamish in the matter; so he shook hands cordially with his captor, and kissed Helene, his only daughter, with a soldier’s expansiveness; letting fall a tear on the face with the proud, strong look that once he had loved to see. “The Parisian,” deeply moved, brought the children for his blessing376. The parting was over, the last good-bye was a long farewell look, with something of tender regret on either side.
A strange sight to seaward met the General’s eyes. The Saint–Ferdinand was blazing like a huge bonfire. The men told off to sink the Spanish brig had found a cargo of rum on board; and as the Othello was already amply supplied, had lighted a floating bowl of punch on the high seas, by way of a joke; a pleasantry pardonable enough in sailors, who hail any chance excitement as a relief from the apparent monotony of life at sea. As the General went over the side into the long-boat of the Saint–Ferdinand, manned by six vigorous rowers, he could not help looking at the burning vessel, as well as at the daughter who stood by her husband’s side on the stern of the Othello. He saw Helene’s white dress flutter like one more sail in the breeze; he saw the tall, noble figure against a background of sea, queenly still even in the presence of Ocean; and so many memories crowded up in his mind, that, with a soldier’s recklessness of life, he forgot that he was being borne over the grave of the brave Gomez.
A vast column of smoke rising spread like a brown cloud, pierced here and there by fantastic shafts377 of sunlight. It was a second sky, a murky378 dome379 reflecting the glow of the fire as if the under surface had been burnished380; but above it soared the unchanging blue of the firmament381, a thousand times fairer for the short-lived contrast. The strange hues382 of the smoke cloud, black and red, tawny and pale by turns, blurred383 and blending into each other, shrouded384 the burning vessel as it flared, crackled and groaned; the hissing385 tongues of flame licked up the rigging, and flashed across the hull, like a rumor386 of riot flashing along the streets of a city. The burning rum sent up blue flitting lights. Some sea god might have been stirring the furious liquor as a student stirs the joyous387 flames of punch in an orgy. But in the overpowering sunlight, jealous of the insolent388 blaze, the colors were scarcely visible, and the smoke was but a film fluttering like a thin scarf in the noonday torrent of light and heat.
The Othello made the most of the little wind she could gain to fly on her new course. Swaying first to one side, then to the other, like a stag beetle389 on the wing, the fair vessel beat to windward on her zigzag390 flight to the south. Sometimes she was hidden from sight by the straight column of smoke that flung fantastic shadows across the water, then gracefully392 she shot out clear of it, and Helene, catching sight of her father, waved her handkerchief for yet one more farewell greeting.
A few more minutes, and the Saint–Ferdinand went down with a bubbling turmoil393, at once effaced by the ocean. Nothing of all that had been was left but a smoke cloud hanging in the breeze. The Othello was far away, the long-boat had almost reached land, the cloud came between the frail394 skiff and the brig, and it was through a break in the swaying smoke that the General caught the last glimpse of Helene. A prophetic vision! Her dress and her white handkerchief stood out against the murky background. Then the brig was not even visible between the green water and the blue sky, and Helene was nothing but an imperceptible speck, a faint graceful391 line, an angel in heaven, a mental image, a memory.
The Marquis had retrieved395 his fortunes, when he died, worn out with toil. A few months after his death, in 1833, the Marquise was obliged to take Moina to a watering-place in the Pyrenees, for the capricious child had a wish to see the beautiful mountain scenery. They left the baths, and the following tragical396 incident occurred on their way home.
“Dear me, mother,” said Moina, “it was very foolish of us not to stay among the mountains a few days longer. It was much nicer there. Did you hear that horrid397 child moaning all night, and that wretched woman, gabbling away in patois398 no doubt, for I could not understand a single word she said. What kind of people can they have put in the next room to ours? This is one of the horridest nights I have ever spent in my life.”
“I heard nothing,” said the Marquise, “but I will see the landlady399, darling, and engage the next room, and then we shall have the whole suite400 of rooms to ourselves, and there will be no more noise. How do you feel this morning? Are you tired?”
As she spoke, the Marquise rose and went to Moina’s bedside.
“Let us see,” she said, feeling for the girl’s hand.
“Oh! let me alone, mother,” said Moina; “your fingers are cold.”
She turned her head round on the pillow as she spoke, pettishly401, but with such engaging grace, that a mother could scarcely have taken it amiss. Just then a wailing cry echoed through the next room, a faint prolonged cry, that must surely have gone to the heart of any woman who heard it.
“Why, if you heard that all night long, why did you not wake me? We should have —”
A deeper moan than any that had gone before it interrupted the Marquise.
“Some one is dying there,” she cried, and hurried out of the room.
“Send Pauline to me!” called Moina. “I shall get up and dress.”
The Marquise hastened downstairs, and found the landlady in the courtyard with a little group about her, apparently much interested in something that she was telling them.
“Madame, you have put some one in the next room who seems to be very ill indeed —”
“Oh! don’t talk to me about it!” cried the mistress of the house. “I have just sent some one for the mayor. Just imagine it; it is a woman, a poor unfortunate creature that came here last night on foot. She comes from Spain; she has no passport and no money; she was carrying her baby on her back, and the child was dying. I could not refuse to take her in. I went up to see her this morning myself; for when she turned up yesterday, it made me feel dreadfully bad to look at her. Poor soul! she and the child were lying in bed, and both of them at death’s door. ‘Madame,’ says she, pulling a gold ring off her finger, ‘this is all that I have left; take it in payment, it will be enough; I shall not stay here long. Poor little one! we shall die together soon!’ she said, looking at the child. I took her ring, and I asked her who she was, but she never would tell me her name. . . . I have just sent for the doctor and M. le Maire.”
“Why, you must do all that can be done for her,” cried the Marquise. “Good heavens! perhaps it is not too late! I will pay for everything that is necessary ——”
“Ah! my lady, she looks to me uncommonly402 proud, and I don’t know that she would allow it.”
“I will go to see her at once.”
The Marquise went up forthwith to the stranger’s room, without thinking of the shock that the sight of her widow’s weeds might give to a woman who was said to be dying. At the sight of that dying woman the Marquise turned pale. In spite of the changes wrought403 by fearful suffering in Helene’s beautiful face, she recognized her eldest404 daughter.
But Helene, when she saw a woman dressed in black, sat upright in bed with a shriek405 of horror. Then she sank back; she knew her mother.
“My daughter,” said Mme. d’Aiglemont, “what is to be done? Pauline! . . . Moina! . . . ”
“Nothing now for me,” said Helene faintly. “I had hoped to see my father once more, but your mourning —” she broke off, clutched her child to her heart as if to give it warmth, and kissed its forehead. Then she turned her eyes on her mother, and the Marquise met the old reproach in them, tempered with forgiveness, it is true, but still reproach. She saw it, and would not see it. She forgot that Helene was the child conceived amid tears and despair, the child of duty, the cause of one of the greatest sorrows in her life. She stole to her eldest daughter’s side, remembering nothing but that Helene was her firstborn, the child who had taught her to know the joys of motherhood. The mother’s eyes were full of tears. “Helene, my child! . . . ” she cried, with her arms about her daughter.
Helene was silent. Her own babe had just drawn its last breath on her breast.
Moina came into the room with Pauline, her maid, and the landlady and the doctor. The Marquise was holding her daughter’s ice-cold hand in both of hers, and gazing at her in despair; but the widowed woman, who had escaped shipwreck406 with but one of all her fair band of children, spoke in a voice that was dreadful to hear. “All this is your work,” she said. “If you had but been for me all that —”
“Moina, go! Go out of the room, all of you!” cried Mme. d’Aiglemont, her shrill tones drowning Helene’s voice. —“For pity’s sake,” she continued, “let us not begin these miserable quarrels again now ——”
“I will be silent,” Helene answered with a preternatural effort. “I am a mother; I know that Moina ought not . . . Where is my child?”
Moina came back, impelled407 by curiosity.
“Sister,” said the spoiled child, “the doctor —”
“It is all of no use,” said Helene. “Oh! why did I not die as a girl of sixteen when I meant to take my own life? There is no happiness outside the laws. Moina . . . you . . . ”
Her head sank till her face lay against the face of the little one; in her agony she strained her babe to her breast, and died.
“Your sister, Moina,” said Mme. d’Aiglemont, bursting into tears when she reached her room, “your sister meant no doubt to tell you that a girl will never find happiness in a romantic life, in living as nobody else does, and, above all things, far away from her mother.”
点击收听单词发音
1 din | |
n.喧闹声,嘈杂声 | |
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2 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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3 villa | |
n.别墅,城郊小屋 | |
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4 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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5 license | |
n.执照,许可证,特许;v.许可,特许 | |
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6 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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7 makers | |
n.制造者,制造商(maker的复数形式) | |
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8 scruple | |
n./v.顾忌,迟疑 | |
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9 wailing | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的现在分词 );沱 | |
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10 gusts | |
一阵强风( gust的名词复数 ); (怒、笑等的)爆发; (感情的)迸发; 发作 | |
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11 gust | |
n.阵风,突然一阵(雨、烟等),(感情的)迸发 | |
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12 metallic | |
adj.金属的;金属制的;含金属的;产金属的;像金属的 | |
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13 eddying | |
涡流,涡流的形成 | |
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14 wring | |
n.扭绞;v.拧,绞出,扭 | |
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15 wayfarers | |
n.旅人,(尤指)徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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16 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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17 salon | |
n.[法]沙龙;客厅;营业性的高级服务室 | |
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18 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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19 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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20 scorching | |
adj. 灼热的 | |
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21 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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22 droop | |
v.低垂,下垂;凋萎,萎靡 | |
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23 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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24 stoutly | |
adv.牢固地,粗壮的 | |
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25 embroidered | |
adj.绣花的 | |
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26 romps | |
n.无忧无虑,快活( romp的名词复数 )v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的第三人称单数 );(尤指在赛跑或竞选等中)轻易获胜 | |
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27 mischievous | |
adj.调皮的,恶作剧的,有害的,伤人的 | |
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28 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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29 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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30 cherubs | |
小天使,胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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31 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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32 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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33 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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34 axe | |
n.斧子;v.用斧头砍,削减 | |
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35 engraved | |
v.在(硬物)上雕刻(字,画等)( engrave的过去式和过去分词 );将某事物深深印在(记忆或头脑中) | |
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36 wan | |
(wide area network)广域网 | |
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37 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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38 flaunting | |
adj.招摇的,扬扬得意的,夸耀的v.炫耀,夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 );有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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39 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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40 kindliness | |
n.厚道,亲切,友好的行为 | |
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41 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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42 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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43 meditative | |
adj.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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44 propping | |
支撑 | |
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45 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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46 tapestry | |
n.挂毯,丰富多采的画面 | |
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47 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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48 distinctive | |
adj.特别的,有特色的,与众不同的 | |
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49 refinement | |
n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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50 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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51 recalcitrant | |
adj.倔强的 | |
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52 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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53 nostril | |
n.鼻孔 | |
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54 enchanting | |
a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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55 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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56 carnations | |
n.麝香石竹,康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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57 voluptuous | |
adj.肉欲的,骄奢淫逸的 | |
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58 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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59 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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60 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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61 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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62 penetration | |
n.穿透,穿人,渗透 | |
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63 realization | |
n.实现;认识到,深刻了解 | |
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64 embodied | |
v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 );象征;包括;包含 | |
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65 illustrating | |
给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 ); 说明; 表明; (用示例、图画等)说明 | |
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66 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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67 sculptor | |
n.雕刻家,雕刻家 | |
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68 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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69 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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70 implicit | |
a.暗示的,含蓄的,不明晰的,绝对的 | |
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71 sublimity | |
崇高,庄严,气质高尚 | |
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72 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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73 contriving | |
(不顾困难地)促成某事( contrive的现在分词 ); 巧妙地策划,精巧地制造(如机器); 设法做到 | |
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74 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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75 solace | |
n.安慰;v.使快乐;vt.安慰(物),缓和 | |
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76 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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77 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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78 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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79 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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80 pervaded | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81 lashes | |
n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 );鞭子;突然猛烈的一击;急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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82 tinting | |
着色,染色(的阶段或过程) | |
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83 diaphanous | |
adj.(布)精致的,半透明的 | |
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84 plied | |
v.使用(工具)( ply的过去式和过去分词 );经常供应(食物、饮料);固定往来;经营生意 | |
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85 clairvoyant | |
adj.有预见的;n.有预见的人 | |
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86 judgments | |
判断( judgment的名词复数 ); 鉴定; 评价; 审判 | |
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87 transgression | |
n.违背;犯规;罪过 | |
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88 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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89 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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90 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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91 demeanor | |
n.行为;风度 | |
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92 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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93 tyrant | |
n.暴君,专制的君主,残暴的人 | |
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94 parricide | |
n.杀父母;杀亲罪 | |
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95 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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96 caresses | |
爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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97 conjectures | |
推测,猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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98 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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99 vent | |
n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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100 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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101 rascals | |
流氓( rascal的名词复数 ); 无赖; (开玩笑说法)淘气的人(尤指小孩); 恶作剧的人 | |
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102 orators | |
n.演说者,演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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103 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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104 scrupulous | |
adj.审慎的,小心翼翼的,完全的,纯粹的 | |
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105 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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106 amends | |
n. 赔偿 | |
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107 efface | |
v.擦掉,抹去 | |
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108 breach | |
n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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109 reverberating | |
回响,回荡( reverberate的现在分词 ); 使反响,使回荡,使反射 | |
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110 strings | |
n.弦 | |
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111 entreating | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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112 entreat | |
v.恳求,恳请 | |
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113 resolutely | |
adj.坚决地,果断地 | |
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114 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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115 beheld | |
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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116 suppliant | |
adj.哀恳的;n.恳求者,哀求者 | |
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117 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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118 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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119 diabolical | |
adj.恶魔似的,凶暴的 | |
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120 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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121 dexterously | |
adv.巧妙地,敏捷地 | |
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122 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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123 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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124 expedient | |
adj.有用的,有利的;n.紧急的办法,权宜之计 | |
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125 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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126 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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127 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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128 scrutiny | |
n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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129 haughtily | |
adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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130 rogue | |
n.流氓;v.游手好闲 | |
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131 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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132 presentiments | |
n.(对不祥事物的)预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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133 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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134 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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135 pier | |
n.码头;桥墩,桥柱;[建]窗间壁,支柱 | |
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136 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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137 spoke | |
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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138 acquiescence | |
n.默许;顺从 | |
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139 carafe | |
n.玻璃水瓶 | |
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140 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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141 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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142 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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143 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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144 draught | |
n.拉,牵引,拖;一网(饮,吸,阵);顿服药量,通风;v.起草,设计 | |
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145 scrutinized | |
v.仔细检查,详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146 duel | |
n./v.决斗;(双方的)斗争 | |
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147 queried | |
v.质疑,对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 );询问 | |
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148 gallop | |
v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔;飞速发展 | |
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149 galloping | |
adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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150 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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151 reassure | |
v.使放心,使消除疑虑 | |
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152 hoof | |
n.(马,牛等的)蹄 | |
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153 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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154 gendarmes | |
n.宪兵,警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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155 rims | |
n.(圆形物体的)边( rim的名词复数 );缘;轮辋;轮圈 | |
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156 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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157 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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158 baron | |
n.男爵;(商业界等)巨头,大王 | |
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159 surmise | |
v./n.猜想,推测 | |
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160 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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161 galloped | |
(使马)飞奔,奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 ); 快速做[说]某事 | |
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162 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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163 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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164 sarcastic | |
adj.讥讽的,讽刺的,嘲弄的 | |
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165 ferment | |
vt.使发酵;n./vt.(使)激动,(使)动乱 | |
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166 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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167 throbs | |
体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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168 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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169 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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170 niche | |
n.壁龛;合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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171 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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172 trickled | |
v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 );淌;使)慢慢走;缓慢移动 | |
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173 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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174 speculative | |
adj.思索性的,暝想性的,推理的 | |
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175 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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176 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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177 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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178 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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179 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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180 penetrated | |
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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181 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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182 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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183 absolve | |
v.赦免,解除(责任等) | |
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184 condemn | |
vt.谴责,指责;宣判(罪犯),判刑 | |
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185 requite | |
v.报酬,报答 | |
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186 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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187 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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188 dormant | |
adj.暂停活动的;休眠的;潜伏的 | |
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189 quell | |
v.压制,平息,减轻 | |
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190 quelled | |
v.(用武力)制止,结束,镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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192 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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193 smothered | |
(使)窒息, (使)透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 ); 覆盖; 忍住; 抑制 | |
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194 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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195 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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196 blot | |
vt.弄脏(用吸墨纸)吸干;n.污点,污渍 | |
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197 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
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198 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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199 allay | |
v.消除,减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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200 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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201 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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202 purveyor | |
n.承办商,伙食承办商 | |
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203 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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204 deigned | |
v.屈尊,俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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205 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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206 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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207 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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208 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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209 constrained | |
adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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210 seducer | |
n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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211 reptile | |
n.爬行动物;两栖动物 | |
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212 sonorous | |
adj.响亮的,回响的;adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;n.感人,堂皇 | |
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213 maidenly | |
adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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214 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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215 presumption | |
n.推测,可能性,冒昧,放肆,[法律]推定 | |
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216 torpor | |
n.迟钝;麻木;(动物的)冬眠 | |
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217 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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218 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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219 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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220 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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221 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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222 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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223 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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224 variance | |
n.矛盾,不同 | |
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225 shunned | |
v.避开,回避,避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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226 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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227 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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228 rattling | |
adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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229 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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230 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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231 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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232 revere | |
vt.尊崇,崇敬,敬畏 | |
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233 lavish | |
adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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234 rigor | |
n.严酷,严格,严厉 | |
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235 fugitives | |
n.亡命者,逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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236 extraordinarily | |
adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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237 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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238 enchantment | |
n.迷惑,妖术,魅力 | |
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239 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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240 uproar | |
n.骚动,喧嚣,鼎沸 | |
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241 lookout | |
n.注意,前途,瞭望台 | |
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242 cordon | |
n.警戒线,哨兵线 | |
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243 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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244 growl | |
v.(狗等)嗥叫,(炮等)轰鸣;n.嗥叫,轰鸣 | |
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245 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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246 embroidery | |
n.绣花,刺绣;绣制品 | |
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247 tapers | |
(长形物体的)逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 ); 微弱的光; 极细的蜡烛 | |
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248 Flared | |
adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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249 retrieve | |
vt.重新得到,收回;挽回,补救;检索 | |
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250 expedients | |
n.应急有效的,权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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251 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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252 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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253 bulwark | |
n.堡垒,保障,防御 | |
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254 furrow | |
n.沟;垄沟;轨迹;车辙;皱纹 | |
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255 effaced | |
v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;超越;使黯然失色 | |
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256 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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257 myriads | |
n.无数,极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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258 facets | |
n.(宝石或首饰的)小平面( facet的名词复数 );(事物的)面;方面 | |
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259 swelled | |
增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 ); 肿胀; (使)凸出; 充满(激情) | |
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260 labyrinth | |
n.迷宫;难解的事物;迷路 | |
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261 ripples | |
逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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262 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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263 gliding | |
v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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264 tryst | |
n.约会;v.与…幽会 | |
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265 speck | |
n.微粒,小污点,小斑点 | |
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266 descry | |
v.远远看到;发现;责备 | |
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267 immutable | |
adj.不可改变的,永恒的 | |
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268 bustling | |
adj.喧闹的 | |
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269 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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270 devout | |
adj.虔诚的,虔敬的,衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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271 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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272 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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273 embarked | |
乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 ); 装载; 从事 | |
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274 cargo | |
n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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275 hazy | |
adj.有薄雾的,朦胧的;不肯定的,模糊的 | |
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276 streak | |
n.条理,斑纹,倾向,少许,痕迹;v.加条纹,变成条纹,奔驰,快速移动 | |
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277 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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278 frigate | |
n.护航舰,大型驱逐舰 | |
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279 unanimity | |
n.全体一致,一致同意 | |
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280 delusive | |
adj.欺骗的,妄想的 | |
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281 steering | |
n.操舵装置 | |
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282 random | |
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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283 dagger | |
n.匕首,短剑,剑号 | |
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284 hurled | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 );大声叫骂 | |
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285 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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286 imminent | |
adj.即将发生的,临近的,逼近的 | |
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287 fathoms | |
英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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288 ferocious | |
adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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289 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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290 hull | |
n.船身;(果、实等的)外壳;vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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291 proclivities | |
n.倾向,癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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292 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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293 muzzles | |
枪口( muzzle的名词复数 ); (防止动物咬人的)口套; (四足动物的)鼻口部; (狗)等凸出的鼻子和口 | |
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294 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
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295 sinewy | |
adj.多腱的,强壮有力的 | |
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296 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
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297 incarnate | |
adj.化身的,人体化的,肉色的 | |
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298 crouching | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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299 lieutenant | |
n.陆军中尉,海军上尉;代理官员,副职官员 | |
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300 miraculous | |
adj.像奇迹一样的,不可思议的 | |
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301 dismantled | |
拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 ); 拆卸; 废除; 取消 | |
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302 dexterity | |
n.(手的)灵巧,灵活 | |
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303 coveted | |
adj.令人垂涎的;垂涎的,梦寐以求的v.贪求,觊觎(covet的过去分词);垂涎;贪图 | |
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304 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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305 shuddered | |
v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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306 devoured | |
吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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307 treacherous | |
adj.不可靠的,有暗藏的危险的;adj.背叛的,背信弃义的 | |
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308 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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309 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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310 contortions | |
n.扭歪,弯曲;扭曲,弄歪,歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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311 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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312 survivors | |
幸存者,残存者,生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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313 villains | |
n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 );罪犯;(小说、戏剧等中的)反面人物;淘气鬼 | |
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314 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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315 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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316 sneered | |
讥笑,冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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317 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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318 cavalry | |
n.骑兵;轻装甲部队 | |
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319 oyster | |
n.牡蛎;沉默寡言的人 | |
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320 tawny | |
adj.茶色的,黄褐色的;n.黄褐色 | |
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321 meddles | |
v.干涉,干预(他人事务)( meddle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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322 hurrah | |
int.好哇,万岁,乌拉 | |
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323 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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324 fanatics | |
狂热者,入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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325 misgivings | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕;疑虑,担心,恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 );疑惧 | |
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326 stupor | |
v.昏迷;不省人事 | |
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327 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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328 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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329 dilated | |
adj.加宽的,扩大的v.(使某物)扩大,膨胀,张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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330 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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331 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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332 gems | |
growth; economy; management; and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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333 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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334 porcelain | |
n.瓷;adj.瓷的,瓷制的 | |
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335 rubies | |
红宝石( ruby的名词复数 ); 红宝石色,深红色 | |
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336 sapphires | |
n.蓝宝石,钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 );蔚蓝色 | |
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337 hovered | |
鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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338 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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339 consort | |
v.相伴;结交 | |
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340 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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341 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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342 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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343 boundless | |
adj.无限的;无边无际的;巨大的 | |
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344 melodious | |
adj.旋律美妙的,调子优美的,音乐性的 | |
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345 bliss | |
n.狂喜,福佑,天赐的福 | |
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346 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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347 outlasts | |
v.比…长久,比…活得长( outlast的第三人称单数 ) | |
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348 encompassed | |
v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 );包围;包含;包括 | |
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349 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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350 tutelary | |
adj.保护的;守护的 | |
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351 offender | |
n.冒犯者,违反者,犯罪者 | |
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352 flinch | |
v.畏缩,退缩 | |
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353 humane | |
adj.人道的,富有同情心的 | |
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354 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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355 avenge | |
v.为...复仇,为...报仇 | |
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356 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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357 perverted | |
adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 );腐蚀;败坏;使堕落 | |
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358 savannas | |
n.(美国东南部的)无树平原( savanna的名词复数 );(亚)热带的稀树大草原 | |
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359 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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360 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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361 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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362 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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363 halcyons | |
n.翡翠鸟(halcyon的复数形式) | |
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364 steered | |
v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 );操纵;控制;引导 | |
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365 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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366 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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367 circumscribed | |
adj.[医]局限的:受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 );划定…范围;限制;限定 | |
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368 statute | |
n.成文法,法令,法规;章程,规则,条例 | |
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369 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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370 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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371 chili | |
n.辣椒 | |
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372 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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373 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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374 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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375 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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376 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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377 shafts | |
n.轴( shaft的名词复数 );(箭、高尔夫球棒等的)杆;通风井;一阵(疼痛、害怕等) | |
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378 murky | |
adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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379 dome | |
n.圆屋顶,拱顶 | |
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380 burnished | |
adj.抛光的,光亮的v.擦亮(金属等),磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 );被擦亮,磨光 | |
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381 firmament | |
n.苍穹;最高层 | |
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382 hues | |
色彩( hue的名词复数 ); 色调; 信仰; 观点 | |
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383 blurred | |
v.(使)变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 );(使)难以区分;模模糊糊;迷离 | |
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384 shrouded | |
v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 );保密 | |
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385 hissing | |
n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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386 rumor | |
n.谣言,谣传,传说 | |
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387 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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388 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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389 beetle | |
n.甲虫,近视眼的人 | |
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390 zigzag | |
n.曲折,之字形;adj.曲折的,锯齿形的;adv.曲折地,成锯齿形地;vt.使曲折;vi.曲折前行 | |
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391 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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392 gracefully | |
ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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393 turmoil | |
n.骚乱,混乱,动乱 | |
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394 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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395 retrieved | |
v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 );恢复;寻回;检索(储存的信息) | |
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396 tragical | |
adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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397 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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398 patois | |
n.方言;混合语 | |
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399 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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400 suite | |
n.一套(家具);套房;随从人员 | |
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401 pettishly | |
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402 uncommonly | |
adv. 稀罕(极,非常) | |
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403 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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404 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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405 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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406 shipwreck | |
n.船舶失事,海难 | |
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407 impelled | |
v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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