His writing had by this time undergone a complete change. The notes for his great Song of the West, the epic8 poem he once had hoped to write he had flung aside, together with all the abortive9 attempts at its beginning. Also he had torn up a great quantity of “fugitive” verses, preserving only a certain half-finished poem, that he called “The Toilers.” This poem was a comment upon the social fabric10, and had been inspired by the sight of a painting he had seen in Cedarquist's art gallery. He had written all but the last verse.
On the day that he had overheard the conversation between Dyke11 and Caraher, in the latter's saloon, which had acquainted him with the monstrous12 injustice13 of the increased tariff14, Presley had returned to Los Muertos, white and trembling, roused to a pitch of exaltation, the like of which he had never known in all his life. His wrath15 was little short of even Caraher's. He too “saw red”; a mighty16 spirit of revolt heaved tumultuous within him. It did not seem possible that this outrage17 could go on much longer. The oppression was incredible; the plain story of it set down in truthful18 statement of fact would not be believed by the outside world.
He went up to his little room and paced the floor with clenched19 fists and burning face, till at last, the repression20 of his contending thoughts all but suffocated21 him, and he flung himself before his table and began to write. For a time, his pen seemed to travel of itself; words came to him without searching, shaping themselves into phrases,—the phrases building themselves up to great, forcible sentences, full of eloquence22, of fire, of passion. As his prose grew more exalted23, it passed easily into the domain24 of poetry. Soon the cadence25 of his paragraphs settled to an ordered beat and rhythm, and in the end Presley had thrust aside his journal and was once more writing verse.
He picked up his incomplete poem of “The Toilers,” read it hastily a couple of times to catch its swing, then the Idea of the last verse—the Idea for which he so long had sought in vain—abruptly26 springing to his brain, wrote it off without so much as replenishing his pen with ink. He added still another verse, bringing the poem to a definite close, resuming its entire conception, and ending with a single majestic27 thought, simple, noble, dignified28, absolutely convincing.
Presley laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair, with the certainty that for one moment he had touched untrod heights. His hands were cold, his head on fire, his heart leaping tumultuous in his breast.
Now at last, he had achieved. He saw why he had never grasped the inspiration for his vast, vague, IMPERSONAL29 Song of the West. At the time when he sought for it, his convictions had not been aroused; he had not then cared for the People. His sympathies had not been touched. Small wonder that he had missed it. Now he was of the People; he had been stirred to his lowest depths. His earnestness was almost a frenzy30. He BELIEVED, and so to him all things were possible at once.
Then the artist in him reasserted itself. He became more interested in his poem, as such, than in the cause that had inspired it. He went over it again, retouching it carefully, changing a word here and there, and improving its rhythm. For the moment, he forgot the People, forgot his rage, his agitation31 of the previous hour, he remembered only that he had written a great poem.
Then doubt intruded32. After all, was it so great? Did not its sublimity33 overpass34 a little the bounds of the ridiculous? Had he seen true? Had he failed again? He re-read the poem carefully; and it seemed all at once to lose force.
By now, Presley could not tell whether what he had written was true poetry or doggerel35. He distrusted profoundly his own judgment36. He must have the opinion of some one else, some one competent to judge. He could not wait; to-morrow would not do. He must know to a certainty before he could rest that night.
He made a careful copy of what he had written, and putting on his hat and laced boots, went down stairs and out upon the lawn, crossing over to the stables. He found Phelps there, washing down the buckboard.
“Do you know where Vanamee is to-day?” he asked the latter. Phelps put his chin in the air.
“Ask me something easy,” he responded. “He might be at Guadalajara, or he might be up at Osterman's, or he might be a hundred miles away from either place. I know where he ought to be, Mr. Presley, but that ain't saying where the crazy gesabe is. He OUGHT to be range-riding over east of Four, at the head waters of Mission Creek37.”
“I'll try for him there, at all events,” answered Presley. “If you see Harran when he comes in, tell him I may not be back in time for supper.”
Presley found the pony38 in the corral, cinched the saddle upon him, and went off over the Lower Road, going eastward39 at a brisk canter.
At Hooven's he called a “How do you do” to Minna, whom he saw lying in a slat hammock under the mammoth40 live oak, her foot in bandages; and then galloped41 on over the bridge across the irrigating42 ditch, wondering vaguely43 what would become of such a pretty girl as Minna, and if in the end she would marry the Portuguese44 foreman in charge of the ditching-gang. He told himself that he hoped she would, and that speedily. There was no lack of comment as to Minna Hooven about the ranches45. Certainly she was a good girl, but she was seen at all hours here and there about Bonneville and Guadalajara, skylarking with the Portuguese farm hands of Quien Sabe and Los Muertos. She was very pretty; the men made fools of themselves over her. Presley hoped they would not end by making a fool of her.
Just beyond the irrigating ditch, Presley left the Lower Road, and following a trail that branched off southeasterly from this point, held on across the Fourth Division of the ranch, keeping the Mission Creek on his left. A few miles farther on, he went through a gate in a barbed wire fence, and at once engaged himself in a system of little arroyos46 and low rolling hills, that steadily47 lifted and increased in size as he proceeded. This higher ground was the advance guard of the Sierra foothills, and served as the stock range for Los Muertos. The hills were huge rolling hummocks48 of bare ground, covered only by wild oats. At long intervals49, were isolated50 live oaks. In the canyons51 and arroyos, the chaparral and manzanita grew in dark olive-green thickets52. The ground was honey-combed with gopher-holes, and the gophers themselves were everywhere. Occasionally a jack53 rabbit bounded across the open, from one growth of chaparral to another, taking long leaps, his ears erect54. High overhead, a hawk55 or two swung at anchor, and once, with a startling rush of wings, a covey of quail56 flushed from the brush at the side of the trail.
On the hillsides, in thinly scattered57 groups were the cattle, grazing deliberately58, working slowly toward the water-holes for their evening drink, the horses keeping to themselves, the colts nuzzling at their mothers' bellies59, whisking their tails, stamping their unshod feet. But once in a remoter field, solitary60, magnificent, enormous, the short hair curling tight upon his forehead, his small red eyes twinkling, his vast neck heavy with muscles, Presley came upon the monarch61, the king, the great Durham bull, maintaining his lonely state, unapproachable, austere62.
Presley found the one-time shepherd by a water-hole, in a far distant corner of the range. He had made his simple camp for the night. His blue-grey army blanket lay spread under a live oak, his horse grazed near at hand. He himself sat on his heels before a little fire of dead manzanita roots, cooking his coffee and bacon. Never had Presley conceived so keen an impression of loneliness as his crouching63 figure presented. The bald, bare landscape widened about him to infinity64. Vanamee was a spot in it all, a tiny dot, a single atom of human organisation65, floating endlessly on the ocean of an illimitable nature.
The two friends ate together, and Vanamee, having snared66 a brace67 of quails68, dressed and then roasted them on a sharpened stick. After eating, they drank great refreshing69 draughts70 from the water-hole. Then, at length, Presley having lit his cigarette, and Vanamee his pipe, the former said:
“Vanamee, I have been writing again.”
Vanamee turned his lean ascetic71 face toward him, his black eyes fixed72 attentively73.
“I know,” he said, “your journal.”
“No, this is a poem. You remember, I told you about it once. 'The Toilers,' I called it.”
“Oh, verse! Well, I am glad you have gone back to it. It is your natural vehicle.”
“You remember the poem?” asked Presley. “It was unfinished.”
“Yes, I remember it. There was better promise in it than anything you ever wrote. Now, I suppose, you have finished it.”
Without reply, Presley brought it from out the breast pocket of his shooting coat. The moment seemed propitious74. The stillness of the vast, bare hills was profound. The sun was setting in a cloudless brazier of red light; a golden dust pervaded75 all the landscape. Presley read his poem aloud. When he had finished, his friend looked at him.
“What have you been doing lately?” he demanded. Presley, wondering, told of his various comings and goings.
“I don't mean that,” returned the other. “Something has happened to you, something has aroused you. I am right, am I not? Yes, I thought so. In this poem of yours, you have not been trying to make a sounding piece of literature. You wrote it under tremendous stress. Its very imperfections show that. It is better than a mere76 rhyme. It is an Utterance—a Message. It is Truth. You have come back to the primal77 heart of things, and you have seen clearly. Yes, it is a great poem.”
“Thank you,” exclaimed Presley fervidly78. “I had begun to mistrust myself.”
“Now,” observed Vanamee, “I presume you will rush it into print. To have formulated79 a great thought, simply to have accomplished80, is not enough.”
“I think I am sincere,” objected Presley. “If it is good it will do good to others. You said yourself it was a Message. If it has any value, I do not think it would be right to keep it back from even a very small and most indifferent public.”
“Don't publish it in the magazines at all events,” Vanamee answered. “Your inspiration has come FROM the People. Then let it go straight TO the People—not the literary readers of the monthly periodicals, the rich, who would only be indirectly81 interested. If you must publish it, let it be in the daily press. Don't interrupt. I know what you will say. It will be that the daily press is common, is vulgar, is undignified; and I tell you that such a poem as this of yours, called as it is, 'The Toilers,' must be read BY the Toilers. It MUST BE common; it must be vulgarised. You must not stand upon your dignity with the People, if you are to reach them.”
“That is true, I suppose,” Presley admitted, “but I can't get rid of the idea that it would be throwing my poem away. The great magazine gives me such—a—background; gives me such weight.”
“Gives YOU such weight, gives you such background. Is it YOURSELF you think of? You helper of the helpless. Is that your sincerity82? You must sink yourself; must forget yourself and your own desire of fame, of admitted success. It is your POEM, your MESSAGE, that must prevail,—not YOU, who wrote it. You preach a doctrine83 of abnegation, of self-obliteration, and you sign your name to your words as high on the tablets as you can reach, so that all the world may see, not the poem, but the poet. Presley, there are many like you. The social reformer writes a book on the iniquity84 of the possession of land, and out of the proceeds, buys a corner lot. The economist85 who laments86 the hardships of the poor, allows himself to grow rich upon the sale of his book.”
But Presley would hear no further.
“No,” he cried, “I know I am sincere, and to prove it to you, I will publish my poem, as you say, in the daily press, and I will accept no money for it.”
They talked on for about an hour, while the evening wore away. Presley very soon noticed that Vanamee was again preoccupied87. More than ever of late, his silence, his brooding had increased. By and by he rose abruptly, turning his head to the north, in the direction of the Mission church of San Juan. “I think,” he said to Presley, “that I must be going.”
“Going? Where to at this time of night?”
“Off there.” Vanamee made an uncertain gesture toward the north. “Good-bye,” and without another word he disappeared in the grey of the twilight88. Presley was left alone wondering. He found his horse, and, tightening89 the girths, mounted and rode home under the sheen of the stars, thoughtful, his head bowed. Before he went to bed that night he sent “The Toilers” to the Sunday Editor of a daily newspaper in San Francisco.
Upon leaving Presley, Vanamee, his thumbs hooked into his empty cartridge90 belt, strode swiftly down from the hills of the Los Muertos stock-range and on through the silent town of Guadalajara. His lean, swarthy face, with its hollow cheeks, fine, black, pointed91 beard, and sad eyes, was set to the northward92. As was his custom, he was bareheaded, and the rapidity of his stride made a breeze in his long, black hair. He knew where he was going. He knew what he must live through that night.
Again, the deathless grief that never slept leaped out of the shadows, and fastened upon his shoulders. It was scourging93 him back to that scene of a vanished happiness, a dead romance, a perished idyl,—the Mission garden in the shade of the venerable pear trees.
But, besides this, other influences tugged94 at his heart. There was a mystery in the garden. In that spot the night was not always empty, the darkness not always silent. Something far off stirred and listened to his cry, at times drawing nearer to him. At first this presence had been a matter for terror; but of late, as he felt it gradually drawing nearer, the terror had at long intervals given place to a feeling of an almost ineffable95 sweetness. But distrusting his own senses, unwilling96 to submit himself to such torturing, uncertain happiness, averse97 to the terrible confusion of spirit that followed upon a night spent in the garden, Vanamee had tried to keep away from the place. However, when the sorrow of his life reassailed him, and the thoughts and recollections of Angele brought the ache into his heart, and the tears to his eyes, the temptation to return to the garden invariably gripped him close. There were times when he could not resist. Of themselves, his footsteps turned in that direction. It was almost as if he himself had been called.
Guadalajara was silent, dark. Not even in Solotari's was there a light. The town was asleep. Only the inevitable98 guitar hummed from an unseen 'dobe. Vanamee pushed on. The smell of the fields and open country, and a distant scent99 of flowers that he knew well, came to his nostrils100, as he emerged from the town by way of the road that led on towards the Mission through Quien Sabe. On either side of him lay the brown earth, silently nurturing101 the implanted seed. Two days before it had rained copiously102, and the soil, still moist, disengaged a pungent103 aroma104 of fecundity105.
Vanamee, following the road, passed through the collection of buildings of Annixter's home ranch. Everything slept. At intervals, the aer-motor on the artesian well creaked audibly, as it turned in a languid breeze from the northeast. A cat, hunting field-mice, crept from the shadow of the gigantic barn and paused uncertainly in the open, the tip of her tail twitching106. From within the barn itself came the sound of the friction107 of a heavy body and a stir of hoofs108, as one of the dozing109 cows lay down with a long breath.
Vanamee left the ranch house behind him and proceeded on his way. Beyond him, to the right of the road, he could make out the higher ground in the Mission enclosure, and the watching tower of the Mission itself. The minutes passed. He went steadily forward. Then abruptly he paused, his head in the air, eye and ear alert. To that strange sixth sense of his, responsive as the leaves of the sensitive plant, had suddenly come the impression of a human being near at hand. He had neither seen nor heard, but for all that he stopped an instant in his tracks; then, the sensation confirmed, went on again with slow steps, advancing warily110.
At last, his swiftly roving eyes lighted upon an object, just darker than the grey-brown of the night-ridden land. It was at some distance from the roadside. Vanamee approached it cautiously, leaving the road, treading carefully upon the moist clods of earth underfoot. Twenty paces distant, he halted.
Annixter was there, seated upon a round, white rock, his back towards him. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He did not move. Silent, motionless, he gazed out upon the flat, sombre land.
It was the night wherein the master of Quien Sabe wrought111 out his salvation112, struggling with Self from dusk to dawn. At the moment when Vanamee came upon him, the turmoil113 within him had only begun. The heart of the man had not yet wakened. The night was young, the dawn far distant, and all around him the fields of upturned clods lay bare and brown, empty of all life, unbroken by a single green shoot.
For a moment, the life-circles of these two men, of so widely differing characters, touched each other, there in the silence of the night under the stars. Then silently Vanamee withdrew, going on his way, wondering at the trouble that, like himself, drove this hardheaded man of affairs, untroubled by dreams, out into the night to brood over an empty land.
Then speedily he forgot all else. The material world drew off from him. Reality dwindled114 to a point and vanished like the vanishing of a star at moonrise. Earthly things dissolved and disappeared, as a strange, unnamed essence flowed in upon him. A new atmosphere for him pervaded his surroundings. He entered the world of the Vision, of the Legend, of the Miracle, where all things were possible. He stood at the gate of the Mission garden.
Above him rose the ancient tower of the Mission church. Through the arches at its summit, where swung the Spanish queen's bells, he saw the slow-burning stars. The silent bats, with flickering115 wings, threw their dancing shadows on the pallid116 surface of the venerable facade117.
Not the faintest chirring of a cricket broke the silence. The bees were asleep. In the grasses, in the trees, deep in the calix of punka flower and magnolia bloom, the gnats118, the caterpillars119, the beetles120, all the microscopic121, multitudinous life of the daytime drowsed and dozed122. Not even the minute scuffling of a lizard123 over the warm, worn pavement of the colonnade124 disturbed the infinite repose125, the profound stillness. Only within the garden, the intermittent126 trickling127 of the fountain made itself heard, flowing steadily, marking off the lapse128 of seconds, the progress of hours, the cycle of years, the inevitable march of centuries. At one time, the doorway129 before which Vanamee now stood had been hermetically closed. But he, himself, had long since changed that. He stood before it for a moment, steeping himself in the mystery and romance of the place, then raising he latch130, pushed open the gate, entered, and closed it softly behind him. He was in the cloister131 garden.
The stars were out, strewn thick and close in the deep blue of the sky, the milky132 way glowing like a silver veil. Ursa Major wheeled gigantic in the north. The great nebula133 in Orion was a whorl of shimmering134 star dust. Venus flamed a lambent disk of pale saffron, low over the horizon. From edge to edge of the world marched the constellations135, like the progress of emperors, and from the innumerable glory of their courses a mysterious sheen of diaphanous136 light disengaged itself, expanding over all the earth, serene137, infinite, majestic.
The little garden revealed itself but dimly beneath the brooding light, only half emerging from the shadow. The polished surfaces of the leaves of the pear trees winked138 faintly back the reflected light as the trees just stirred in the uncertain breeze. A blurred139 shield of silver marked the ripples141 of the fountain. Under the flood of dull blue lustre143, the gravelled walks lay vague amid the grasses, like webs of white satin on the bed of a lake. Against the eastern wall the headstones of the graves, an indistinct procession of grey cowls ranged themselves.
Vanamee crossed the garden, pausing to kiss the turf upon Angele's grave. Then he approached the line of pear trees, and laid himself down in their shadow, his chin propped144 upon his hands, his eyes wandering over the expanse of the little valley that stretched away from the foot of the hill upon which the Mission was built.
Once again he summoned the Vision. Once again he conjured145 up the Illusion. Once again, tortured with doubt, racked with a deathless grief, he craved146 an Answer of the night. Once again, mystic that he was, he sent his mind out from him across the enchanted147 sea of the Supernatural. Hope, of what he did not know, roused up within him. Surely, on such a night as this, the hallucination must define itself. Surely, the Manifestation148 must be vouchsafed149.
His eyes closed, his will girding itself to a supreme150 effort, his senses exalted to a state of pleasing numbness151, he called upon Angele to come to him, his voiceless cry penetrating152 far out into that sea of faint, ephemeral light that floated tideless over the little valley beneath him. Then motionless, prone153 upon the ground, he waited.
Months had passed since that first night when, at length, an Answer had come to Vanamee. At first, startled out of all composure, troubled and stirred to his lowest depths, because of the very thing for which he sought, he resolved never again to put his strange powers to the test. But for all that, he had come a second night to the garden, and a third, and a fourth. At last, his visits were habitual154. Night after night he was there, surrendering himself to the influences of the place, gradually convinced that something did actually answer when he called. His faith increased as the winter grew into spring. As the spring advanced and the nights became shorter, it crystallised into certainty. Would he have her again, his love, long dead? Would she come to him once more out of the grave, out of the night? He could not tell; he could only hope. All that he knew was that his cry found an answer, that his outstretched hands, groping in the darkness, met the touch of other fingers. Patiently he waited. The nights became warmer as the spring drew on. The stars shone clearer. The nights seemed brighter. For nearly a month after the occasion of his first answer nothing new occurred. Some nights it failed him entirely155; upon others it was faint, illusive156.
Then, at last, the most subtle, the barest of perceptible changes began. His groping mind far-off there, wandering like a lost bird over the valley, touched upon some thing again, touched and held it and this time drew it a single step closer to him. His heart beating, the blood surging in his temples, he watched with the eyes of his imagination, this gradual approach. What was coming to him? Who was coming to him? Shrouded157 in the obscurity of the night, whose was the face now turned towards his? Whose the footsteps that with such infinite slowness drew nearer to where he waited? He did not dare to say.
His mind went back many years to that time before the tragedy of Angele's death, before the mystery of the Other. He waited then as he waited now. But then he had not waited in vain. Then, as now, he had seemed to feel her approach, seemed to feel her drawing nearer and nearer to their rendezvous158. Now, what would happen? He did not know. He waited. He waited, hoping all things. He waited, believing all things. He waited, enduring all things. He trusted in the Vision.
Meanwhile, as spring advanced, the flowers in the Seed ranch began to come to life. Over the five hundred acres whereon the flowers were planted, the widening growth of vines and bushes spread like the waves of a green sea. Then, timidly, colours of the faintest tints159 began to appear. Under the moonlight, Vanamee saw them expanding, delicate pink, faint blue, tenderest variations of lavender and yellow, white shimmering with reflections of gold, all subdued160 and pallid in the moonlight.
By degrees, the night became impregnated with the perfume of the flowers. Illusive at first, evanescent as filaments161 of gossamer162; then as the buds opened, emphasising itself, breathing deeper, stronger. An exquisite163 mingling164 of many odours passed continually over the Mission, from the garden of the Seed ranch, meeting and blending with the aroma of its magnolia buds and punka blossoms.
As the colours of the flowers of the Seed ranch deepened, and as their odours penetrated165 deeper and more distinctly, as the starlight of each succeeding night grew brighter and the air became warmer, the illusion defined itself. By imperceptible degrees, as Vanamee waited under the shadows of the pear trees, the Answer grew nearer and nearer. He saw nothing but the distant glimmer166 of the flowers. He heard nothing but the drip of the fountain. Nothing moved about him but the invisible, slow-passing breaths of perfume; yet he felt the approach of the Vision.
It came first to about the middle of the Seed ranch itself, some half a mile away, where the violets grew; shrinking, timid flowers, hiding close to the ground. Then it passed forward beyond the violets, and drew nearer and stood amid the mignonette, hardier167 blooms that dared look heavenward from out the leaves. A few nights later it left the mignonette behind, and advanced into the beds of white iris168 that pushed more boldly forth169 from the earth, their waxen petals170 claiming the attention. It advanced then a long step into the proud, challenging beauty of the carnations171 and roses; and at last, after many nights, Vanamee felt that it paused, as if trembling at its hardihood, full in the superb glory of the royal lilies themselves, that grew on the extreme border of the Seed ranch nearest to him. After this, there was a certain long wait. Then, upon a dark midnight, it advanced again. Vanamee could scarcely repress a cry. Now, the illusion emerged from the flowers. It stood, not distant, but unseen, almost at the base of the hill upon whose crest172 he waited, in a depression of the ground where the shadows lay thickest. It was nearly within earshot.
The nights passed. The spring grew warmer. In the daytime intermittent rains freshened all the earth. The flowers of the Seed ranch grew rapidly. Bud after bud burst forth, while those already opened expanded to full maturity173. The colour of the Seed ranch deepened.
One night, after hours of waiting, Vanamee felt upon his cheek the touch of a prolonged puff174 of warm wind, breathing across the little valley from out the east. It reached the Mission garden and stirred the branches of the pear trees. It seemed veritably to be compounded of the very essence of the flowers. Never had the aroma been so sweet, so pervasive175. It passed and faded, leaving in its wake an absolute silence. Then, at length, the silence of the night, that silence to which Vanamee had so long appealed, was broken by a tiny sound. Alert, half-risen from the ground, he listened; for now, at length, he heard something. The sound repeated itself. It came from near at hand, from the thick shadow at the foot of the hill. What it was, he could not tell, but it did not belong to a single one of the infinite similar noises of the place with which he was so familiar. It was neither the rustle176 of a leaf, the snap of a parted twig177, the drone of an insect, the dropping of a magnolia blossom. It was a vibration178 merely, faint, elusive179, impossible of definition; a minute notch180 in the fine, keen edge of stillness.
Again the nights passed. The summer stars became brighter. The warmth increased. The flowers of the Seed ranch grew still more. The five hundred acres of the ranch were carpeted with them.
At length, upon a certain midnight, a new light began to spread in the sky. The thin scimitar of the moon rose, veiled and dim behind the earth-mists. The light increased. Distant objects, until now hidden, came into view, and as the radiance brightened, Vanamee, looking down upon the little valley, saw a spectacle of incomparable beauty. All the buds of the Seed ranch had opened. The faint tints of the flowers had deepened, had asserted themselves. They challenged the eye. Pink became a royal red. Blue rose into purple. Yellow flamed into orange. Orange glowed golden and brilliant. The earth disappeared under great bands and fields of resplendent colour. Then, at length, the moon abruptly soared zenithward from out the veiling mist, passing from one filmy haze181 to another. For a moment there was a gleam of a golden light, and Vanamee, his eyes searching the shade at the foot of the hill, felt his heart suddenly leap, and then hang poised182, refusing to beat. In that instant of passing light, something had caught his eye. Something that moved, down there, half in and half out of the shadow, at the hill's foot. It had come and gone in an instant. The haze once more screened the moonlight. The shade again engulfed183 the vision. What was it he had seen? He did not know. So brief had been that movement, the drowsy184 brain had not been quick enough to interpret the cipher185 message of the eye. Now it was gone. But something had been there. He had seen it. Was it the lifting of a strand186 of hair, the wave of a white hand, the flutter of a garment's edge? He could not tell, but it did not belong to any of those sights which he had seen so often in that place. It was neither the glancing of a moth's wing, the nodding of a wind-touched blossom, nor the noiseless flitting of a bat. It was a gleam merely, faint, elusive, impossible of definition, an intangible agitation, in the vast, dim blur140 of the darkness.
And that was all. Until now no single real thing had occurred, nothing that Vanamee could reduce to terms of actuality, nothing he could put into words. The manifestation, when not recognisable to that strange sixth sense of his, appealed only to the most refined, the most delicate perception of eye and ear. It was all ephemeral, filmy, dreamy, the mystic forming of the Vision—the invisible developing a concrete nucleus188, the starlight coagulating, the radiance of the flowers thickening to something actual; perfume, the most delicious fragrance189, becoming a tangible187 presence.
But into that garden the serpent intruded. Though cradled in the slow rhythm of the dream, lulled190 by this beauty of a summer's night, heavy with the scent of flowers, the silence broken only by a rippling191 fountain, the darkness illuminated192 by a world of radiant blossoms, Vanamee could not forget the tragedy of the Other; that terror of many years ago,—that prowler of the night, that strange, fearful figure with the unseen face, swooping193 in there from out the darkness, gone in an instant, yet leaving behind the trail and trace of death and of pollution.
Never had Vanamee seen this more clearly than when leaving Presley on the stock range of Los Muertos, he had come across to the Mission garden by way of the Quien Sabe ranch.
It was the same night in which Annixter out-watched the stars, coming, at last, to himself.
As the hours passed, the two men, far apart, ignoring each other, waited for the Manifestation,—Annixter on the ranch, Vanamee in the garden.
Prone upon his face, under the pear trees, his forehead buried in the hollow of his arm, Vanamee lay motionless. For the last time, raising his head, he sent his voiceless cry out into the night across the multi-coloured levels of the little valley, calling upon the miracle, summoning the darkness to give Angele back to him, resigning himself to the hallucination. He bowed his head upon his arm again and waited. The minutes passed. The fountain dripped steadily. Over the hills a haze of saffron light foretold194 the rising of the full moon. Nothing stirred. The silence was profound.
Then, abruptly, Vanamee's right hand shut tight upon his wrist. There—there it was. It began again, his invocation was answered. Far off there, the ripple142 formed again upon the still, black pool of the night. No sound, no sight; vibration merely, appreciable195 by some sublimated196 faculty197 of the mind as yet unnamed. Rigid198, his nerves taut199, motionless, prone on the ground, he waited.
It advanced with infinite slowness. Now it passed through the beds of violets, now through the mignonette. A moment later, and he knew it stood among the white iris. Then it left those behind. It was in the splendour of the red roses and carnations. It passed like a moving star into the superb abundance, the imperial opulence200 of the royal lilies. It was advancing slowly, but there was no pause. He held his breath, not daring to raise his head. It passed beyond the limits of the Seed ranch, and entered the shade at the foot of the hill below him. Would it come farther than this? Here it had always stopped hitherto, stopped for a moment, and then, in spite of his efforts, had slipped from his grasp and faded back into the night. But now he wondered if he had been willing to put forth his utmost strength, after all. Had there not always been an element of dread201 in the thought of beholding202 the mystery face to face? Had he not even allowed the Vision to dissolve, the Answer to recede203 into the obscurity whence it came?
But never a night had been so beautiful as this. It was the full period of the spring. The air was a veritable caress204. The infinite repose of the little garden, sleeping under the night, was delicious beyond expression. It was a tiny corner of the world, shut off, discreet205, distilling206 romance, a garden of dreams, of enchantments207.
Below, in the little valley, the resplendent colourations of the million flowers, roses, lilies, hyacinths, carnations, violets, glowed like incandescence208 in the golden light of the rising moon. The air was thick with the perfume, heavy with it, clogged209 with it. The sweetness filled the very mouth. The throat choked with it. Overhead wheeled the illimitable procession of the constellations. Underfoot, the earth was asleep. The very flowers were dreaming. A cathedral hush210 overlay all the land, and a sense of benediction211 brooded low,—a divine kindliness212 manifesting itself in beauty, in peace, in absolute repose.
It was a time for visions. It was the hour when dreams come true, and lying deep in the grasses beneath the pear trees, Vanamee, dizzied with mysticism, reaching up and out toward the supernatural, felt, as it were, his mind begin to rise upward from out his body. He passed into a state of being the like of which he had not known before. He felt that his imagination was reshaping itself, preparing to receive an impression never experienced until now. His body felt light to him, then it dwindled, vanished. He saw with new eyes, heard with new ears, felt with a new heart.
“Come to me,” he murmured.
Then slowly he felt the advance of the Vision. It was approaching. Every instant it drew gradually nearer. At last, he was to see. It had left the shadow at the base of the hill; it was on the hill itself. Slowly, steadily, it ascended213 the slope; just below him there, he heard a faint stirring. The grasses rustled214 under the touch of a foot. The leaves of the bushes murmured, as a hand brushed against them; a slender twig creaked. The sounds of approach were more distinct. They came nearer. They reached the top of the hill. They were within whispering distance.
Vanamee, trembling, kept his head buried in his arm. The sounds, at length, paused definitely. The Vision could come no nearer. He raised his head and looked. The moon had risen. Its great shield of gold stood over the eastern horizon. Within six feet of Vanamee, clear and distinct, against the disk of the moon, stood the figure of a young girl. She was dressed in a gown of scarlet215 silk, with flowing sleeves, such as Japanese wear, embroidered216 with flowers and figures of birds worked in gold threads. On either side of her face, making three-cornered her round, white forehead, hung the soft masses of her hair of gold. Her hands hung limply at her sides. But from between her parted lips—lips of almost an Egyptian fulness—her breath came slow and regular, and her eyes, heavy lidded, slanting217 upwards218 toward the temples, perplexing, oriental, were closed. She was asleep.
From out this life of flowers, this world of colour, this atmosphere oppressive with perfume, this darkness clogged and cloyed219, and thickened with sweet odours, she came to him. She came to him from out of the flowers, the smell of the roses in her hair of gold, the aroma and the imperial red of the carnations in her lips, the whiteness of the lilies, the perfume of the lilies, and the lilies' slender, balancing grace in her neck. Her hands disengaged the scent of the heliotrope220. The folds of her scarlet gown gave off the enervating221 smell of poppies. Her feet were redolent of hyacinth. She stood before him, a Vision realised—a dream come true. She emerged from out the invisible. He beheld222 her, a figure of gold and pale vermilion, redolent of perfume, poised motionless in the faint saffron sheen of the new-risen moon. She, a creation of sleep, was herself asleep. She, a dream, was herself dreaming.
Called forth from out the darkness, from the grip of the earth, the embrace of the grave, from out the memory of corruption223, she rose into light and life, divinely pure. Across that white forehead was no smudge, no trace of an earthly pollution—no mark of a terrestrial dishonour224. He saw in her the same beauty of untainted innocence225 he had known in his youth. Years had made no difference with her. She was still young. It was the old purity that returned, the deathless beauty, the ever-renascent life, the eternal consecrated226 and immortal227 youth. For a few seconds, she stood there before him, and he, upon the ground at her feet, looked up at her, spellbound. Then, slowly she withdrew. Still asleep, her eyelids228 closed, she turned from him, descending229 the slope. She was gone.
Vanamee started up, coming, as it were, to himself, looking wildly about him. Sarria was there.
“I saw her,” said the priest. “It was Angele, the little girl, your Angele's daughter. She is like her mother.”
But Vanamee scarcely heard. He walked as if in a trance, pushing by Sarria, going forth from the garden. Angele or Angele's daughter, it was all one with him. It was She. Death was overcome. The grave vanquished230. Life, ever-renewed, alone existed. Time was naught231; change was naught; all things were immortal but evil; all things eternal but grief.
Suddenly, the dawn came; the east burned roseate toward the zenith. Vanamee walked on, he knew not where. The dawn grew brighter. At length, he paused upon the crest of a hill overlooking the ranchos, and cast his eye below him to the southward. Then, suddenly flinging up his arms, he uttered a great cry.
There it was. The Wheat! The Wheat! In the night it had come up. It was there, everywhere, from margin232 to margin of the horizon. The earth, long empty, teemed233 with green life. Once more the pendulum234 of the seasons swung in its mighty arc, from death back to life. Life out of death, eternity235 rising from out dissolution. There was the lesson. Angele was not the symbol, but the PROOF of immortality236. The seed dying, rotting and corrupting237 in the earth; rising again in life unconquerable, and in immaculate purity,—Angele dying as she gave birth to her little daughter, life springing from her death,—the pure, unconquerable, coming forth from the defiled238. Why had he not had the knowledge of God? Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die. So the seed had died. So died Angele. And that which thou sowest, thou sowest not that body that shall be, but bare grain. It may chance of wheat, or of some other grain. The wheat called forth from out the darkness, from out the grip of the earth, of the grave, from out corruption, rose triumphant239 into light and life. So Angele, so life, so also the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption. It is raised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonour. It is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness. It is raised in power. Death was swallowed up in Victory.
The sun rose. The night was over. The glory of the terrestrial was one, and the glory of the celestial240 was another. Then, as the glory of sun banished241 the lesser242 glory of moon and stars, Vanamee, from his mountain top, beholding the eternal green life of the growing Wheat, bursting its bonds, and in his heart exulting243 in his triumph over the grave, flung out his arms with a mighty shout:
“Oh, Death, where is thy sting? Oh, Grave, where is thy victory?”
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1
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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2
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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3
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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4
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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5
cluttered
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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8
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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10
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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11
dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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12
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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13
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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14
tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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15
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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16
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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17
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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18
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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19
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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repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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21
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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22
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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23
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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24
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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25
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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26
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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27
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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28
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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30
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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32
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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33
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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34
overpass
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| n.天桥，立交桥 | |
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35
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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38
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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39
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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40
mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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41
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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42
irrigating
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| 灌溉( irrigate的现在分词 )； 冲洗（伤口） | |
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43
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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44
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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45
ranches
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| 大农场， （兼种果树，养鸡等的）大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
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46
arroyos
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| n.（美洲沙漠中的）旱谷，干涸沟壑( arroyo的名词复数 )；干谷 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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48
hummocks
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| n.小丘，岗( hummock的名词复数 ) | |
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49
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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50
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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51
canyons
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| n.峡谷( canyon的名词复数 ) | |
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52
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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53
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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54
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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55
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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56
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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57
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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58
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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59
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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60
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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61
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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62
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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63
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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66
snared
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| v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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68
quails
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| 鹌鹑( quail的名词复数 )； 鹌鹑肉 | |
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69
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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70
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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71
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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72
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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73
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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74
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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75
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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78
fervidly
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| adv.热情地，激情地 | |
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79
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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80
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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81
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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82
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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83
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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84
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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85
economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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86
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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88
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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89
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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91
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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92
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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93
scourging
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| 鞭打( scourge的现在分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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94
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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96
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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97
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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98
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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99
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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100
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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101
nurturing
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| 养育( nurture的现在分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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102
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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103
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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104
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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105
fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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106
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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107
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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108
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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110
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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111
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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112
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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113
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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114
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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116
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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117
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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118
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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119
caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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120
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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121
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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122
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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124
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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125
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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126
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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127
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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128
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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129
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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130
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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131
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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132
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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133
nebula
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| n.星云，喷雾剂 | |
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134
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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135
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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136
diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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137
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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138
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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139
blurred
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| 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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140
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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141
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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142
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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143
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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144
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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145
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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146
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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147
enchanted
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| 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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148
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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149
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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150
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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151
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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152
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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153
prone
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|
| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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154
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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155
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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156
illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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157
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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158
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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159
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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160
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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161
filaments
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| n.（电灯泡的）灯丝( filament的名词复数 )；丝极；细丝；丝状物 | |
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162
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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163
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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164
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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165
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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166
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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167
hardier
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的比较级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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168
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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169
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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170
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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171
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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172
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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173
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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174
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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175
pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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176
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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177
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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178
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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179
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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180
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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181
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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182
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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183
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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185
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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186
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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187
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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188
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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189
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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190
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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191
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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192
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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193
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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194
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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196
sublimated
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| v.（使某物质）升华( sublimate的过去式和过去分词 )；使净化；纯化 | |
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197
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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198
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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199
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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200
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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201
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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202
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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203
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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204
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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205
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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206
distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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207
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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208
incandescence
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| n.白热，炽热；白炽 | |
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209
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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210
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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211
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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212
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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213
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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214
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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216
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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217
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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218
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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219
cloyed
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| v.发腻，倒胃口( cloy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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223
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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226
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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233
teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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234
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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235
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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236
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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237
corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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238
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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239
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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241
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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242
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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