In this way Don Ruy learned of the journey of the Lord of Lara, and thus the whole city learned it too. It was a great satisfaction to Donna Leonor, who was fond of Cabril, with its rich orchards53 and gardens, on to which the balconied windows of her light apartments opened without a grating; there, at least, she had ample air, full sunlight, boxes of flowers to water, an aviary54, and such long walks of laurel and yew55 that they were almost liberty. And she hoped that afterwards the country would lighten those cares that had lately made her lord and husband so wrinkled and taci{22}turn. But this hope was not realised, for at the end of a week the face of Don Alonso had not yet lost its cloud, and it was evident that neither fresh greenery, murmurs56 of running waters, nor scents57 scattered59 in the flowering rosaries could calm so bitter and deep an agitation60. As in Segovia, he restlessly paced up and down the resounding61 and vaulted gallery buried in his sheepskin coat, with the point of his beard thrust out in front, and his thick tangled hair bristling backwards; and he had a habit of showing his teeth in a quiet snarl62, as if he were meditating63 evil deeds, and savouring their bitterness in advance. And the whole interest of his life had become concentrated on a retainer who was constantly galloping65 between Segovia and{23} Cabril, and he sometimes awaited him at the commencement of the village near the large Cross, and stayed listening to the man, who dismounted, out of breath, and straightway gave him his hurried news.
One night when Donna Leonor was telling her beads66 in her room with her attendants by the light of a waxen torch, the Lord of Lara entered very slowly, bearing in his hand a sheet of parchment, and a pen dipped in his bone inkstand. With a rough sign he dismissed the attendants, who feared him as though he were a wolf, and pushing a footstool near the table, he turned his face towards Donna Leonor, which he had composed into a calm and pleasant expression, as if he were only coming to ask for something natural and easily done, and said:{24} 'Lady, I want you to write me here a letter that is very necessary to write.’ ... She was so accustomed to submission67 that without more reflection or curiosity, and only going to hang the beads which she had been telling at the head of the bed, she arranged herself on the footstool; and with much application, in order that the writing might be neat and clear, her elegant fingers traced the first short line which the Lord of Lara dictated68, and it was: 'My knight....’ But when he dictated the next, and longer one, in a cutting manner, Donna Leonor threw down the pen as if it burnt her, and recoiling69 from the table, cried out in her affliction: 'Why must I write such things, and so false?’ In a burst of fury the Lord of Lara tore{25} a dagger70 from his girdle, and shook it close to her face, with a dull roar: 'Either you write what I order you, and what is needful for me, or, by God, I will pierce your heart!’ Whiter than the waxen torch that lighted them, her flesh creeping at that glittering blade, and in a supreme71 fear that accepted everything, Donna Leonor murmured: 'By the Virgin Mary, do not harm me! Do not be angry, for I live to obey and serve you. Now order, and I will write.’ Then, clenching72 his fists on the ends of the table where he had placed the dagger, the Lord of Lara crushed the fragile, unhappy woman under his hard, wounding gaze, and dictated, nay73, flung at her hoarsely74, piece by piece, dragged out, a letter that, when{26} finished, and traced in a very hesitating and trembling hand, read: 'My knight, you have very ill understood, or very ill repay, my love for you, which I could never discover to you openly in Segovia. Now I am here at Cabril burning to see you, and if your desire corresponds to mine, you can very easily realise it, because my husband is absent at another property of his, and this of Cabril is quite easy and open. Come to-night, enter by the garden door beside the lane, pass the fish-pond, until you reach the terrace; there you will espy75 a ladder resting against one of the windows of the house, which is the window of my room, where you will be very sweetly welcomed by her who anxiously awaits you.’ 'Now, lady, sign your name below, for that is necessary above all!’ As red as if she were being{27} stripped before a crowd, Donna Leonor slowly traced her name. 'And now'—ordered her husband more quietly through his clenched teeth—‘address it to Don Ruy de Cardenas!’ She dared to raise her eyes, surprised at that unknown name. 'Go on! “To Don Ruy de Cardenas,”’ shouted the churlish man, and she directed her immodest letter to Don Ruy de Cardenas. Don Alonso put the parchment in his girdle next to the dagger which he had sheathed76, and went out in silence, his beard pointing forward, hushing the noise of his steps on the flags of the corridor. She remained on the footstool in a state of immeasurable fright, her wearied hands fallen in her lap and her gaze lost in the darkness of the still night. Death appeared to her less dark than this dark adventure in which she felt herself{28} involved and borne along. Who was this Don Ruy de Cardenas of whom she had never heard, who had never passed across her quiet life, peopled by so few memories and men? And he certainly knew her, had met her and had followed her, at least with his eyes, since it was a natural and consequent thing that he should receive from her a letter of such passion and promises.... Thus did a man, a young man, evidently well-born, perhaps handsome, penetrate78 rudely into her destiny, brought there by the hand of her husband. So intimately, even, had this man become a part of her life without preparation on her side, that her garden gate was already open for him at night, and a ladder propped79 against her window at night for him to mount. And it was her husband who, with the greatest{29} secrecy80, set wide the door and raised the ladder.... Why? Then, in a flash, Donna Leonor understood the truth, the shameful81 truth, and it drew from her an anguished83 and half-stifled cry. It was an ambush84! The Lord of Lara was attracting this Don Ruy to Cabril with a splendid promise, to get him in his power, and certainly to kill him, defenceless and alone! And herself, her love, her body were the shining promises set before the beguiled85 eyes of the luckless youth. So her husband was using her beauty and her bed as a golden net into which that rash prize was to fall. What greater wrong could there be? And what imprudence too? Don Ruy de Cardenas might very well distrust and not accept such an openly amorous30 invitation, and afterwards, in laughing triumph, show all over Segovia{30} that letter in which the wife of Alonso de Lara offered him her bed and body. But no! the poor fellow would hasten to Cabril and die, die miserably86 in the black silence of the night, without either priest or sacraments, his soul sunk in the sin of love! Die without doubt, for the Lord of Lara would never permit the man who had received such a letter to live. So that youth would die for love of her, for a love that, while it had never brought him a single pleasure, now brought him death. Clearly for love of her, since such hatred as that of the Lord of Lara, a hatred that sated itself with such disloyalty and villainy, could only spring from jealousy which obscured in his mind all the duties of a knight and a Christian89. He must have surprised glances, movements, and designs of this Don Ruy, who had not{31} been sufficiently90 on the alert, because he was very much in love. But how? when? Dimly she remembered a youth who had crossed her one Sunday in the square and awaited her at the church porch with a bundle of carnations91 in his hands.... Was it he? He had a noble bearing, and was very pale, with big, black, passionate92 eyes. She had passed by, indifferent.... The carnations he carried were red and yellow.... To whom was he taking them? Ah! if she could warn him very soon, at daybreak. But how, if there was no retainer or man-servant in Cabril in whom she could confide93? But to allow a brutal94 sword traitorously95 to pierce that heart which was full of her, beating for her, all in hopes of her ...!
Oh, the mad and ardent96 rush of Don{32} Ruy from Segovia to Cabril, with the promise of the enchanting97 garden open to him, the ladder placed against the window, under the silence and protection of the night! Would the Lord of Lara really order a ladder to be set against the window? Yes, for a certainty, in order the more easily to kill him, the poor, sweet, innocent youth, as he was mounting, ill secure on an uncertain step, his hands employed and his sword sleeping in the scabbard.... And so, in the coming night, facing her bed, her window would be open and a ladder would be raised against her window waiting for a man. Ambushed98 in the shade of the room, her husband would certainly kill that man....
But supposing the Lord of Lara were to wait for this Don Ruy de Cardenas{33} outside the walls of the quinta, and assail99 him brutally100 in some bypath, and, either because he was less dexterous101 or strong in a clash of arms, were himself to be pierced through and fall without the other knowing whom he had killed? And she there, in her room, unknowing, and all the gates open and the ladder raised, and that man appearing at the window in the soft shade of the warm night while the husband who ought to defend her lay dead in an obscure path.... What would she do, Virgin Mother? Surely she would haughtily102 repel103 the bold youth. But his surprise and anger at his baffled desire! 'I have come at your call, lady.’ And he would carry there on his heart her letter, with her name, which her hand had traced. How could she tell him of the ambush and the deceit? It was such a{34} long tale to tell in the silence and solitude104 of the night whilst his moist black eyes were beseeching105 and piercing her.... Miserable106 she, if the Lord of Lara were to die and leave her, solitary107 and defenceless, in that great open house. But how miserable also, if that youth, who was summoned by her and who loved her and who was hurrying to her, dazzled by his love, were to meet with death in the place of his hope which was the place of his sin, and dying in the midst of sin, were to roll down whither all hope is at an end.... Only twenty-five years old too—if he was the man she remembered, pallid108 and so good-looking, with a jerkin of purple velvet109 and a bunch of carnations in his hand at the church door in Segovia.... Two tears fell from the tired eyes of Donna Leonor, and bending her knees{35} and lifting her whole soul to the heavens where the moon was beginning to rise, she murmured, in her boundless110 grief and faith, 'O Holy Virgin of the Pillar, Lady mine, watch over us both, watch over us all....’
Don Ruy was entering the fresh patio9 of his house in the hot hour, when a young peasant got up from a stone seat in the shade and taking from his scrip a letter, handed it to him murmuring, 'Haste and read it, sir, for I have to return to Cabril to the person who sent me.’... Don Ruy opened the parchment and, dazzled by what he saw, beat it against his breast as though to bury it in his heart.... The young peasant anxiously insisted: 'Make haste, sir, make haste! You need not reply. Only give me a sign that you have received the message.’ Don Ruy,{36} very pallid, pulled off one of his gloves embroidered111 with twisted silk, and the youth rolled it up and hid it in his scrip, and was already making off on the points of his sandals when Don Ruy detained him with a sign: 'Listen, what road are you taking to Cabril.’ 'The shortest and loneliest for bold men, which leads past Gallows112 Hill.’ 'Good.’ Don Ruy climbed the stone stairs and, once in his apartment, without even removing his hat, again read by the lattice window that blessed parchment in which Donna Leonor summoned him at night to her room and the entire possession of her being. And he was not astonished by this offer after so constant and steady an indifference on her part. Rather he at once saw in it a love which was very astute113, because very strong; a love that,{37} with great patience, hides itself in the face of obstacles and perils114, and silently prepares its hour of satisfaction, all the better and more delicious because so prepared. She had always loved him, then, since the blessed morning when their eyes had crossed in Our Lady’s porch! And whilst he was circling those garden walls and complaining of her coldness, which seemed to him colder than the cold walls themselves, she had already given him her soul; and, full of constancy, with loving sagacity, suppressing the least sigh, lulling115 suspicion to sleep, she was preparing the radiant night in which she would also give him her body. Such firmness and such shrewd understanding in the affairs of love made her, in his eyes, all the more beautiful and the more to be desired! How im{38}patiently he looked then at the sun, that lingered so that afternoon in its descent towards the mountains! In his room, with the lattice-blinds drawn116, to concentrate his happiness the better, without resting, he lovingly made ready everything for his triumphal journey—fine clothing, dainty laces, a jerkin of black velvet and perfumed essences. Twice he went down to the stable to make certain that his horse was well shod and well groomed117, and he bent118 and re-bent on the floor the sword-blade he was to wear at his girdle to test it.... But his chief care was the road to Cabril, though he knew it well, and the village clustering round the Franciscan Monastery119, and the old Roman bridge with its Calvary, and the deep lane that led to the heritage of the Lord of Lara. In that very winter{39} he had passed by there as he was going out to hunt on the mountains with two friends from Astorga, and had caught sight of the tower of the Laras, and thought: 'There is the tower of my ungrateful one.’ How he had deceived himself! The nights were now moonlight, and he would leave Segovia quietly by the gate of St. Mauros. A short gallop64 and he would be at Gallows Hill. He knew it well also, that place of sadness and terror, with its four stone pillars where criminals were hanged, and where their bodies remained, swayed to and fro by the winds and parched120 by the sun, until the cords grew rotten and the skeletons fell down, white, and cleaned of their flesh by the ravens’ beaks121. Behind the hill lay the Ladies’ Lagoon122. The last time he had been by there was{40} on the day of the Apostle St. Matthias, when the Corregedor and the Confraternities of Charity and Peace went in procession to give holy burial to the skeletons which had fallen on the black earth, picked of their flesh by the birds. From there the road ran smooth and straight to Cabril.
Thus did Don Ruy meditate123 his venturesome journey whilst the afternoon was waning124. But when it grew dark, and the bats began to circle about the church towers, and the niches125 of the Holy Souls were lighted up in the corners of the square, the brave youth felt a strange fear, the fear of that happiness which was drawing near to him, and which seemed to him supernatural. Was it true then that this woman, famous throughout Castile for her divine beauty, and more inaccessible{41} than a constellation126, would in a short space be his—all his, in the silence and security of an alcove127, when these devotional lights before the pictures of the Holy Souls had not yet been extinguished? And what had he done to enjoy so great a good? He had trod the flags of a square, he had waited in the porch of a church, and sought with his eyes two other eyes which, either through indifference or want of attention, remained lowered. Then, without grief, he had abandoned his hope.... And lo! suddenly those absent eyes seek him, and those closed arms open to him, wide and bare, and with her body and soul that woman cries out to him: 'O foolish man, that you did not understand me! Come! She who discouraged you now belongs to you!’ Was there ever such{42} fortune as this? So great, so rare was it, that, unless human experience errs128, ill-fortune must already be in pursuit! It was so of a truth already, since how great an ill-fortune lay in the knowledge that after such good fortune, when, early in the morning, he left her divine embrace and retired129 to Segovia, his Leonor, the supreme good of his life, and so unexpectedly acquired for a moment, would straightway fall again under the power of another master! What did it matter? Let troubles and jealousies130 come afterwards! That night was magnificently his, the whole world an empty vision, and the one reality that dimly-lighted room at Cabril, where she would await him with unbound hair! Eagerly he descended131 the stairs and threw himself on his horse; then, for prudence’ sake, he{43} crossed the square very slowly, with his sombrero worn clear of his face, as though he were making an ordinary promenade133 in search of the freshness of night outside the walls. No meeting disturbed him until he got to the gate of St. Mauros. There, a beggar, who was squatted134 in the darkness of an arch monotonously135 playing his sanfona, begged with a whine136 the Virgin and all the Saints to have that gentle knight in their sweet and holy guard. Don Ruy had stopped to throw him an alms, when he remembered that he had not been that evening to the church at the hour of vespers to pray and beg a blessing137 of his divine Godmother. He immediately leapt down from his horse, for, just close to the old arch, a lamp flickered138, lighting139 a picture. It was an image of the Virgin, with her breast{44} transfixed by seven swords. Don Ruy knelt, rested his hat on the flags, and with raised hands said a Salve Regina with passionate ardour. The yellow reflection of the light enveloped140 the face of Our Lady, who, either not feeling the pain of the seven points, or as if they only gave her ineffable141 joys, smiled with bright red lips. Whilst he was praying, the small bell in the convent of St. Dominic, on one side, began to sound the Agony. In the black shadow of the arch the sanfona ceased, and the beggar murmured, 'There lies a friar dying!’ Don Ruy said an Ave Maria for the friar who was dying. The Virgin of the seven swords smiled sweetly—the passing bell, then, was not a bad omen42! Don Ruy mounted his horse gaily142 and set off. Beyond the gate of St. Mauros,{45} after passing some potters’ hovels, the road followed a narrow, black course between lofty aloes. Behind the low hills, at the bottom of the dark plain, rose the first reflection, yellow and languid, of the full moon, which was still hidden. Don Ruy rode slowly, fearing to reach Cabril very early, before the maidservants and the men had finished their evening work and the rosary. Why had not Donna Leonor appointed him an hour in her clear and deliberate letter?... Then his imagination ran on ahead, broke into the garden at Cabril, and flew up the promised ladder, and he, too, let himself go after it in an eager race that tore up the stones of the ill-laid road. Then he drew in his panting horse. It was early! It was early! And he resumed his weary pace, feeling his heart beat{46} against his breast like an imprisoned143 bird against the bars.
So he reached the Calvary, where the road split into two roads, more closely joined than the prongs of a fork, both cutting through the pine wood. Baring his head before the image of the Crucified, Don Ruy had a moment of anguish82, because he did not remember which of them led to Gallows Hill. He had already plunged145 into the gloomier of the two, when, from between the silent pines a light appeared dancing in the darkness. It was an old woman in rags with long flowing tresses bent over a staff, and carrying a lamp. 'Where does this road lead to?’ shouted Ruy. The old woman swung her lamp higher up to observe the knight—‘To Xarama.’ The light{47} and the old woman immediately disappeared, melting away into the shade as if they had risen up there only to warn the knight of his mistaken road. He had already turned back with a dash, and rounding the Calvary, he galloped146 along the other and wider road, until, over the brightness of the sky, he caught sight of the black pillars and black beams of Gallows Hill. Then he stayed motionless, erect147 in his stirrups. On a tall, bare hill without either grass or heather, connected by a low wall, full of breaches148, the four pillars of granite149 rose up black and enormous in the yellow moonlight, looking like the four corners of a ruined house. Upon the pillars rested four stout beams. From the beams were suspended four hanged men, black and{48} rigid150, in the still, dumb air. All around seemed dead as they. Fat birds of prey151 slept perched upon the beams. Beyond, the dead water of the Ladies’ Lagoon shone livid, and in the heavens the moon was growing large and full. Don Ruy murmured the Paternoster due from every Christian to those guilty souls. Then he urged on his horse, and passed by—when, in the immense silence and the immense solitude, a voice rose and resounded152, a voice that called him, supplicating153 and slow: 'Knight, stay you, come hither!’ Don Ruy drew rein154 sharply, and standing in his stirrups cast his astonished eyes over all that ominous155 wilderness156. All he saw was the rough hill, the still, shining water, the beams, the dead men. He thought it must have been{49} an illusion of the night, or the daring of some wandering demon157, and calmly spurred his horse, without alarm or haste, as if he were in a street in Segovia. But, behind him, the voice came again and more urgently called him, with anxiety, almost with affliction: 'Wait, knight; do not go on; return; come here!’... Don Ruy pulled up again, and turning in his saddle, boldly gazed at the four bodies suspended from the beams. The voice sounded from their direction, and being human could only issue from a human form! One of these hanged men, then, had called him with all that haste and anxiety. Did there remain in any, by God’s wonderful mercy, breath and life? Or was it that—a still greater marvel—one of those half-putrified carcasses{50} detained him to transmit him warnings from beyond the grave?... But whether the voice proceeded from a living breast or a dead breast, it would be great cowardice158 to go off as if in a fright without attending to it and listening. He immediately drove his trembling horse into the middle of the hill, and stopping, erect and calm, with his hand at his side, cried, after steadfastly159 gazing at the four suspended bodies, one by one: 'Which of you hanged men dared to call for Don Ruy de Cardenas?’
Then the one who had his back to the full moon replied from the top of the cord, very quietly and naturally, like a man talking from his window to the street: 'It was I, sir.’
Don Ruy drove his horse forward.{51} He could not distinguish the man’s face, which was buried in his breast, and hidden by his long, black, falling tresses. All he saw was that his hands were free and unbound, and also his bare feet, which were already withered160 and the colour of bitumen161.
'What do you want of me?’ The hanged man sighed and murmured: 'Do me the great favour, sir, to cut the cord by which I am suspended.’ Don Ruy snatched his sword, and with a sure blow cut the half-rotten cord. With a sinister162 sound of clashing bones the body fell on the ground, and lay stretched out there for a moment, but immediately righted itself on its ill-secure and still sleeping feet, and raised towards Don Ruy a dead face, which was a skull163 with the skin tightly glued{52} to it, and more yellow than the moon that beat upon it. The eyes showed neither movement nor light. The two lips grinned in a stony164 smile. From the whitest of teeth issued the point of a very black tongue. Don Ruy displayed neither terror nor loathing165, but calmly sheathing166 his sword, asked: 'Art thou alive or dead?’ The man slowly contracted his shoulders: 'Sir, I know not. Who knows what is life? Who knows what is death?’ ... 'But, what do you want of me?’ With his long, fleshless fingers the hanged man enlarged the knot of the cord that still encircled his neck, and said very calmly and firmly: 'Sir, I must go with you to Cabril, whither you are going.’
The knight started so sharply in his astonishment167, pulling back the reins168,{53} that his good horse reared up as if struck by the same fright. 'With me to Cabril?’ The man bent his spine169, displaying all the bones sharper than the teeth of a saw through a long rent in his tammy shirt. 'Sir,’ he prayed, 'deny me not, for I shall receive a great reward if I do you a great service.’ Then it suddenly occurred to Don Ruy that that might well be some dreadful trick of the Demon, and fixing his piercing eyes on the dead face which was upraised to him, anxiously awaiting his consent, he slowly made a large Sign of the Cross. The hanged man bent his knees with startled reverence170. 'Why do you try me with that Sign, sir? By it alone we obtain remission, and from it alone I hope for mercy.’ Then Don Ruy thought that{54} if that man was not sent by the Demon, he might well be sent by God, and so, straightway, devoutly171, with a gesture of submission in which he abandoned all to Heaven, he consented and accepted his awful companion.
'Come with me, then, to Cabril, if God sends you, but I shall ask you no questions, and you must ask none of me!’
He took his horse down the road all lighted up by the moon. The hanged man followed at his side with such airy steps that, even when Don Ruy galloped, he kept touching172 his stirrup, as if he were borne along by a silent wind. Now and then, to breathe freely, he pulled back the knot of the cord that was twisted round his neck, and as they were passing between hedges{55} where the scent58 of wild-flowers was wafted173 about, the man murmured with extraordinary relief and delight, 'How good it is to run!’ Don Ruy was filled with amazement174 and a torment of care. He understood clearly now that that was a corpse175 revived by God for a strange and hidden service. But why did God give him such a terrible companion? To protect him? To prevent Donna Leonor, beloved of Heaven for her piety176, from falling into mortal sin? But had the Lord no Angels left in heaven that He must needs employ a man who had paid the death penalty on so divine a mission of such high favour?... Ah, how gladly would he turn his horse towards Segovia were it not for a knight’s gallant loyalty87, his pride in never turn{56}ing back, and his submission to the orders of God which he felt weigh upon him....
From a high part of the road they suddenly caught sight of Cabril, and the towers of the Franciscan Convent showing white in the moonlight, and the farmhouses177 sleeping among the gardens. Very silently, with never a dog barking behind the gates or from the top of the walls, they descended to the old Roman bridge. In front of the Calvary the hanged man fell on his knees on the flags, lifted up the livid bones of his hands, and remained a long time in prayer, now and again heaving a deep sigh. Afterwards, as they entered the narrow lane, he drank much and took comfort from a spring that ran and sang under the branches of a willow-tree. As{57} the path was very narrow, he walked in front of the knight, his whole body bent, and his arms firmly crossed over his breast, and made not a sound. The moon was mounting high in the heavens, and Don Ruy gazed with bitterness on that full and lustrous178 disc which shed such indiscreet brightness all around on his secret. Ah! how the night that should have been a divine one was being spoiled! An immense moon was coming out from between the mountains to lighten up everything. A hanged man descended from the gibbet to follow him, and know all. God had so ordained179 it; but how sad for him to reach the sweet door, sweetly promised, with such an intruder by his side under that brilliantly clear sky!{58}
The hanged man pulled up sharply and raised his arm, from which his sleeve hung in tatters. It was the end of the lane which opened out into a wider and more beaten road: and in front of them the lengthy180 wall of the Lord of Lara’s quinta showed white, with its belvedere and little stone balconies, the whole covered with ivy181. 'Sir,’ murmured the hanged man, respectfully holding Don Ruy’s stirrup, 'the gate by which you must enter the garden is only a few paces from this belvedere. It is best you should leave your horse here, tied to a tree, if you think you can safely trust it, for in the business we are undertaking182 the mere183 sound of our footsteps is too much!’ Don Ruy dismounted silently and fastened his horse, which he knew{59} to be faithful and sure, to the trunk of a poplar tree, and, so submissive had he become to that companion imposed by God, that, without further consideration, he followed him touching the wall beaten by the moonlight. The hanged man advanced now with leisurely184 caution, on bare tiptoe, watching the top of the wall, scrutinising the blackness of the hedge, and stopping to listen for noises which only he perceived—for Don Ruy had never known a night more deeply asleep and dumb. And this fear in one who should have been indifferent to human perils slowly filled the brave knight also with so deep a distrust that he took his dagger from its sheath, folded his cloak round his arm, and walked on guard, with his eyes flashing, as if{60} he were in a place of ambushes185 and strife186. In this manner they arrived at a low door, which the hanged man pushed, and which opened without a creak of the hinges. They penetrated187 into a walk, on either side of which were thick yews188, up to a tank full of water, where leaves of water-lilies floated, which was surrounded by rude stone seats covered by boughs189 of flowering shrubs190. 'That way!’ murmured the hanged man, extending his withered arm. It was an avenue, beyond the tank, vaulted over and darkened by dense191 and ancient trees. They went down it like shadows in the shade, the hanged man in front, Don Ruy following, very cleverly, without brushing a branch, and scarcely touching the sand with his feet. A slight thread{61} of water purled among the lawns, and climbing roses grew up the tree-trunks and gave a sweet smell. Don Ruy’s heart began again to beat with loving hope. 'Hush77!’ uttered the hanged man. Don Ruy almost stumbled over the sinister creature, who stopped short with arms outstretched like the bars of a gate. In front of them, four stone steps mounted to a terrace, where the light was full without a shadow. Crouching192 down they clambered up the steps, and at the end of a treeless garden full of well-fashioned flower-beds, edged by short box, they espied193 one side of the house beaten by the full moon. In the middle, between the breast-high windows, which were closed, a stone balcony, with pots of basil at the corners, had its glass windows{62} opened wide. The room inside was blotted194 out, and made a dark gap in the bright fa?ade bathed by the moonlight; and leaning against the balcony was a ladder with rungs of cord. Then the hanged man sharply pushed Don Ruy away from the steps into the darkness of the avenue, and there, in a pressing manner, dominating the knight, exclaimed: 'Sir! it is best that you should give me your hat and cloak now! Stay you, very still, here in the darkness of these trees, and I will go and mount that ladder and peep at that room, and, if it be as you desire, I will return here, and God make you happy.’ Don Ruy recoiled195 in horror at the idea of such a creature mounting to that window. He stamped his foot and cried quietly:{63} 'No, by God.’ But the hand of the hanged man, livid in the darkness, roughly tore his hat from his head, and pulled his cloak from his arm, and now he covered himself, now he wrapped himself up, murmuring in anxious supplication196: 'Don’t deny it me, sir, for if I do you a great service, I shall gain a great reward.’ And he climbed the steps—he was on the broad, illuminated197 terrace. Don Ruy, dazed, went up and watched, and—oh, wonderful!—that man was himself, Don Ruy, all himself, in figure and gait, as he advanced between the flower-beds and the short box, lightly and gracefully198 with his hand on his girdle, his face lifted smilingly towards the window, and the long scarlet199 plume200 of his hat swaying in triumph. The{64} man went forward through the splendid moonlight. The chamber201 of love was there waiting, open and dark. Don Ruy gazed with flashing eyes, and trembled with amazement and anger. The man had reached the ladder; he unwound his cloak, and set his foot on the cord rung. 'Oh! there he is going up, the villain88!’ roared Don Ruy. The hanged man went up, and now the tall figure which was his, Don Ruy’s, was half way up the ladder, and made a black patch against the white wall. He stopped!—no! he had not stopped; he mounted—he reached the top—now he had carefully rested his knee on the rounded edge of the balcony. Don Ruy gazed despairingly, with his eyes, his soul, and all his being. And lo!{65} suddenly a black figure rises out of the dark room, a furious voice shouts, 'Villain, villain!’ and the blade of a dagger rises and falls, and again rises, shines again and comes down, and once more shines, and once more is driven in! Like a bundle the hanged man falls heavily from the top of the ladder onto the soft earth. The glass windows and doors of the balcony are immediately shut to with a crash, and there is nothing more but the silence, the gentle calm, and the moon high up and round in the summer sky. In a flash Don Ruy had comprehended the treason, drawn his sword and retreated to the darkness of the avenue, when—oh, wonder! the hanged man appears running across the terrace, seizes his sleeve, and cries to him: 'To horse,{66} sir, and let us be off, for the meeting was not one of love but of death!’ They both descend132 the avenue at full speed, hug the tank, under the protection of the flowering shrubs, plunge144 into the narrow walk edged with yews, pierce the gate, and stop for a moment out of breath in the road, where the moon, now fuller and more refulgent202, turned night into day. And then, only then, did Don Ruy discover that the hanged man still had the dagger nailed in his breast up to the guard, while the point, shining smooth and clean, issued from his back!... But immediately the terrible man pushed and hurried him: 'To horse, sir, and let us be off, for treason is still upon us!’ Terror-struck, and burning to close that adventure full of miracles and horrors, Don Ruy plucked up the reins and rode off full tilt203, and{67} straightway, in great haste, the hanged man leapt also onto the crupper of the faithful horse. The good knight shivered all over at feeling the contact with his back of that dead body which had been hanged from a gibbet and pierced through by a dagger. With what despair he galloped then along the endless road! But violent as was his career, the hanged man neither moved to one side or the other, but sat rigid on the crupper like a statue on a pedestal, and Don Ruy felt each moment a more freezing cold congealing204 his shoulders as if he bore on them a sack full of ice. As he passed the Calvary, he murmured: 'Lord aid me!’ Past the Calvary he gave a sudden tremble, in the fancied fear that his funereal205 companion would remain with him for ever, and that he was destined206 to gallop over the world{68} in an eternal night bearing a dead man on his crupper.... And he could not contain himself, but shouted behind him, in the wind that struck them like a switch in their career: 'Whither do you wish me to take you?’ The hanged man, leaning his body so much against Don Ruy that he hurt him with the hilt of the dagger, whispered: 'Sir, it is expedient207 you should leave me on the hill.’ It was a sweet and immeasurable relief for the good knight, for the Hill was near, and its pillars and black beams could already be discerned in the pale light. Soon the trembling horse came to a stand, white with foam208, and immediately the hanged man noiselessly slid down from the crupper, and bearing up Don Ruy’s stirrup like a good attendant, his skull uplifted, and his black tongue put further out from between his white{69} teeth, he murmured in respectful supplication: 'Sir, do me now the great favour to hang me once again from my beam.’ Don Ruy trembled with horror. 'For God’s sake! I hang you?’ The man sighed, opening his long arms. 'Sir, it is God’s will, and Hers who is dearest to God!’ Thereupon, in resignation and submission to the commands of the Most High, Don Ruy dismounted and began to follow the man as he mounted pensively209 towards the hill, bending his back, from which the shining point of the dagger came sticking out. They both stopped under the empty beam. Round about the other beams hung the other carcasses. The silence was sadder and more deep than other earthly silences. The water in the lagoon had grown black. The moon was descending210 and waning. Don{70} Ruy contemplated211 the beam where the piece of cord he had cut with his sword was left short in the air. 'How am I to hang you?’ he exclaimed. 'I cannot reach that piece of cord with my hand; nor can I hoist212 you up there by myself.’ 'Sir,’ replied the man, 'here, in a corner, there ought to be a long roll of cord. You will tie one end of it to this knot I have on my neck; the other end you will throw over the beam, and then, if you pull, you will, with your strength, easily be able to hang me again.’ Both men bending down and walking slowly looked for the roll of cord, and it was the hanged man who found and unrolled it.... Then Don Ruy took off his gloves, and, taught by the man who had learned his lesson well from the executioner, he tied one end of the cord to the noose213 the{71} man had on his neck, and vigorously threw the other end, which undulated in the air, passed over the beam, and remained suspended close to the ground. Driving in his feet and tightening214 his arms, the bold knight pulled and hoisted215 the man until he was there suspended and black in the air like a natural hanged man among the others. 'Are you right as you are?’ Slow and sinking came the voice of the dead man. 'Sir, I am as I ought to be.’ Then to make him fast Don Ruy twisted the cord in stout knots to the stone pillar, and removing his hat and wiping with the back of his hand the sweat that covered him, he contemplated his sinister and miraculous216 companion. The latter was already rigid as before, with his face hanging down under his falling tresses and his feet stiffened217, and the whole of{72} him was smooth and worm-eaten like an ancient carcass. The dagger was still nailed in his breast, and above, two crows slept quietly. 'Now, what more do you want?’ asked Don Ruy, beginning to put on his gloves. From above, the hanged man murmured in a low voice, 'Sir, I earnestly beg you now that, when you reach Segovia, you tell everything faithfully to Our Lady of the Pillar, your Godmother, for I expect a great favour from her for my soul in exchange for this service that at her command has been done you by my body!’ Then Don Ruy de Cardenas understood all, and, devoutly kneeling on the ground of sorrow and death, said a long prayer for that good hanged man. Afterwards he galloped towards Segovia. The morning was growing light when he{73} passed through the gate of St. Mauros, and the clear bells were ringing for matins in the pure air. Entering into the Church of Our Lady of the Pillar, still in disarray218 after his terrible journey, Don Ruy, prostrate219 before the altar, told his divine Godmother of the wicked design that had taken him to Cabril, and the help he had received from Heaven, and with warm tears of repentance220 and gratitude221, swore to her that he would never more set his desire in the way of sin, nor open his heart to thoughts that came from the world and from evil.
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1
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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2
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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6
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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7
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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12
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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13
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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14
musing
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| 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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15
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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16
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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18
blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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20
coveted
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| 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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21
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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22
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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23
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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24
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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25
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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29
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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30
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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31
amorously
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| adv.好色地，妖艳地；脉；脉脉；眽眽 | |
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32
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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33
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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cloves
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| n.丁香（热带树木的干花，形似小钉子，用作调味品，尤用作甜食的香料）( clove的名词复数 )；蒜瓣(a garlic ~|a ~of garlic) | |
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42
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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43
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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44
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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45
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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46
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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47
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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48
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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49
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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50
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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51
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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52
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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53
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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54
aviary
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| n.大鸟笼，鸟舍 | |
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55
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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56
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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57
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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58
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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59
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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60
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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61
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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62
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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64
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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65
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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66
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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67
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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68
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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69
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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70
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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71
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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72
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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73
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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75
espy
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| v.（从远处等）突然看到 | |
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76
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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77
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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78
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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79
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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81
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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82
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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83
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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84
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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85
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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86
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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87
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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88
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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89
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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90
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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91
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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92
passionate
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| 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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93
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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94
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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95
traitorously
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| 叛逆地，不忠地 | |
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96
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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97
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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98
ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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99
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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100
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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101
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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102
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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103
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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104
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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105
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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106
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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107
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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108
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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109
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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110
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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111
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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112
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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113
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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114
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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115
lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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116
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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117
groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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118
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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119
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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120
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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121
beaks
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| n.鸟嘴( beak的名词复数 )；鹰钩嘴；尖鼻子；掌权者 | |
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122
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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123
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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124
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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125
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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126
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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127
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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128
errs
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的第三人称单数 ) | |
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129
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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130
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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131
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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132
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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133
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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134
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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135
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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136
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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137
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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138
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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140
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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142
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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143
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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145
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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146
galloped
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| （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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147
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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148
breaches
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| 破坏( breach的名词复数 )； 破裂； 缺口； 违背 | |
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149
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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150
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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151
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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152
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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153
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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154
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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155
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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156
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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157
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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158
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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159
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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160
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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161
bitumen
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| n.沥青 | |
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162
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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163
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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164
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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165
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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166
sheathing
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| n.覆盖物，罩子v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的现在分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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167
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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168
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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169
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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170
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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171
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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172
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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173
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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175
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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176
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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177
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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178
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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179
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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180
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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181
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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182
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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183
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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184
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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185
ambushes
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| n.埋伏( ambush的名词复数 )；伏击；埋伏着的人；设埋伏点v.埋伏( ambush的第三人称单数 )；埋伏着 | |
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186
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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187
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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188
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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189
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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190
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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191
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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192
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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193
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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194
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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195
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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196
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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197
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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198
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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199
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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200
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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201
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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202
refulgent
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| adj.辉煌的，灿烂的 | |
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203
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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204
congealing
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的现在分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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205
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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206
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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207
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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208
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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209
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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210
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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211
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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212
hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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213
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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214
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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215
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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216
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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217
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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218
disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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219
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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220
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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221
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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