In the earlier part of his life, this laird of Tullochcarron lost a younger brother, who was killed while fighting bravely by his side in a feudal4 skirmish with a former laird of Ballindalloch. Tullochcarron had a strong affection for this brother, and would have been inconsolable for his death, had he not left an only son behind him, called Lachlan Dhu. Tullochcarron was then unmarried, and he therefore instantly transferred all that which had been his fraternal affection to his orphan5 nephew. Accordingly, he set himself to nurture6 the boy with all the care and solicitude7 he could bestow8, and with the full intention of making him his heir. But you are well enough aware, gentlemen, that yeddication in those days must have been a mere9 farce10. Indeed, judging from the worthy11 Dame12 Julian Berner’s Boke of St. Alban’s, the which, I take it for granted, was the gentleman’s vade mecum in its day, it was worse than a farce, nothing being taught there but hawking13 and hunting, and the mysteries thereof; as, for example, how to physic a sick falcon14, and such like follies15, with all the foolish vanities of coat armour16, and the frivolities of fishing. Eh! I beg your pardon, Mr. Clifford! I see you are not just altogether pleased with that observe of mine. But I meant no offence,—as sure as death I did not. Where was I? Well, as the lad, Lachlan Dhu, grew up, [230]certain indications of ane evil disposition17 began to manifest themselves, and these unpromising buds did so bourgeon through time, that after trying to prune18 away the wicked shoots that sprang from them, and finding, as is often the case, that they only sprouted19 forth20 the thicker and the stronger for the lopping, like the poisonous heads of the hydra21, the good Tullochcarron found himself compelled to abandon his kind intentions towards the young man, so far as regarded the heirship22. But he still continued to make his house his home, and likewise to show him all such kindness as an uncle might be expected to use towards a nephew.
Being thus disappointed in his views of a successor, the worthy man set himself to the serious consideration of another plan, and having cast his eyes about him, they fell upon a fair leddy, whom he resolved, with her consent, to make his wife, and accordingly, after a reasonable courtship, they were married. No couple could have been happier than they were, and his joy was, in due time, rendered complete by the birth of a son and heir, who was called Duncan. But, alas24! what is yearthly felicity? Fleeting25 as the wintry sunbeam on a wall. His beloved wife died soon after the birth of her infant boy, whom she left as the only remaining hope of his family.
Lachlan Dhu had nearly reached manhood before his uncle’s marriage, but Tullochcarron had taken especial care, from the very first, never to allow his nephew to know that he ever had any intention of leaving him the succession of his estate. There was therefore no ostensible26 cause for disappointment or jealousy27 in Lachlan. But the youth was sharp enough to have seen the position in which he had so long stood, and to have drawn his own conclusions; and certain it was, that jealousy and disappointment did follow his uncle’s marriage and the birth of his cousin Duncan. But young though he might be, he was already so profound a master of the art of dissimulation28, that he not only most perfectly29 concealed30 them, but he actually contrived32 to produce so great a seeming change for the better in his own character, that he gradually succeeded in vurra much effacing33 the recollection of his former errors and iniquities34 from the memory of his kind and forgiving uncle.
Duncan Bane, as the young Tullochcarron was called [231]from his fair complexion35, was, in every respect, a contrast to Lachlan Dhu, or Black Lachlan. Tullochcarron had committed his infant boy to be nursed and fostered by a respectable lady, a distant relation of the family, who, though low in circumstances, was high in piety36 and virtue37. To this lady the infant Duncan opportunely38 came to supply the place of a child she had just then lost, and as the little fellow drew his nourishment39 from her bosom40, all the strength of a mother’s attachment41 fell in tender sorrow upon him; and he who never knew any other mother, repaid it with corresponding affection. Tullochcarron was too conscious of the failure in his attempt at yeddication, in the instance of his nephew, to risk a repetition of it in the still more interesting case of his son. He therefore gladly left the tutoring of the boy to the care of his excellent nurse, who appears to have been as intellectually gifted as any woman of those barbarous times could have been. It is true that she must, in all probability, have been tinctured with some portion of the learning of Dame Julian. For, although nothing remains42 to establish that the young man had studied hawking and hunting, the legend certainly informs us, that he had a complete knowledge of, and an ardent43 love for,—hum—ha—I would say for that art of which it would ill become me to speak dispraisingly, seeing that we have had this evening so much reason to thank Mr. Clifford for having so ably and successfully exerceesed it. But—what was much better—under her godly care the boy’s heart was filled with all the best feelings of religion and humanity. He was amiable45, generous, and kind-hearted, and ever ready on all occasions to sacrifice his own little interests to those of others; and he was so utterly46 devoid47 of guile48 himself, that he felt it almost impossible to imagine its existence in others. It was not wonderful, therefore, that he grew up with the warmest attachment to his cousin, Lachlan Dhu, who was the very prince of deceivers, and who well knew how to put on the mask of kindness. He allowed no opportunity of gaining his young cousin’s affections to pass unprofitably, and so unremitting was his attention to the young Duncan, that he even succeeded in throwing sand into the eyes of old Tullochcarron himself, who began to thank Heaven for the happy change that had taken place on his nephew, and to trust that he might yet look to [232]him as the future protector of his son’s youth and inexperience, in the very probable event of his being called from this world before his boy had grown to the years of manhood.
But the old man was still a hale and hearty49 carle when his boy’s seventeenth birthday came round. He had indeed been a marvellously stout50 and healthy man all his life. The only disease, indeed, with which he had ever been afflicted51 was an almost insatiable appetite for food, which no endeavours of his own could restrain. It was a never-ending ravenous52 hunger, for which the poor man was by no means morally responsible, and from the gnawing53 effects of which he must have died, if it had not been frequently and largely administered to. Nor did he ask for dainties, although there certainly was one species of food which he preferred to all others when he could get it in its season, and that was—salmon54. Tullochcarron’s complaint, as you may very naturally conceive, grew with his growth, which was immense, and increased with every additional year that he lived. But, old as he was, and enormous as he became in bulk, his great strength remained unimpaired, and he was still able to move about with wonderful activity in the superintendence of his concerns.
I have already told you, that although he and Ballindalloch were not at absolute war, yet there did exist between them that ancient grudge55 and jealousy, left by the ill-salved, though apparently56 bandaged up wounds of a peace, patched together when both parties had suffered too much to continue the war. And although the then existing Ballindalloch was not the man in whose reign57 and under whose attack Tullochcarron’s much-loved brother had fallen, yet those were times in which the son was made answerable for his father’s sins. The then laird of Ballindalloch, therefore, succeeded to all that secret animosity which his father had so industriously58 laboured to earn. Thus, as one might say, the military precaution, as well as the civil management of Tullochcarron’s little kingdom, required ane active superintendence and administration. But although he now scrupled59 not to employ his nephew in all duties where he thought his services might be useful to him, and although he had even begun of late to give occasional occupation to his son, yet, as they used to say [233]in those days, he was aye upon the head of his own affairs himself, watched everything with his own eye, and gave every order of importance from his own mouth.
Lachlan Dhu, then, having but little else in which to employ himself, spent most of his time in the chase, and the venison which he slew60 was always sure to procure61 him a blessing62 from his hungry uncle. As for Duncan Bane, his whole attention was directed to fishing, and the salmon which he caught were always sure to be more highly prized than the best buck63 that his cousin ever brought from the forest. In strict attention to the fack, as well as in justice to the character of the youth himself, I must tell you, that the desire of procuring64 savoury dishes for his father, to whom his devoted65 attachment was excessive, was one great reason, as well as in some measure an apology,—that is, I mean, a-a to say, Mr. Clifford, if fishing ever required any apology at all, which I must confess your excellent salmon of this day hath led me vurra much to doot; I say it was a good reason for his following out that quieter sort of sport, instead of that of the chase, which some of your wild Nimrods would look upon as by much the more active and manly66. But I must likewise inform you, that there was also a secondary cause that contributed to make him prefer this occupation to all others. This cause, you will doubtless consider of inferior strength to the other; but still it is a cause which is in itself supposed by many to be very powerful in some of its effecks; the cause I mean was—love.
Anna Gordon was the eldest67 of three orphans68 who were left to the care of their aunt, who was the vurra lady whom I have already introduced to you as the nurse and female preceptor of the youth Duncan Bane. Anna was but a year younger than the young laird of Tullochcarron. They had grown up together, and had loved one another like companions, until their attachment insensibly assumed a warmer character. The penury69 to which the Gordons and their aunt had been reduced by circumstances, had hitherto induced Duncan to keep the mutual70 passion that subsisted71 between him and Anna a secret from his father, who never ceased to talk of some splendid alliance for his son as one of his most favourite schemes. But as this love of the young man for the lady waxed stronger, his fondness for fishing was most strangely and marvellously augmented72 [234]in a similar proportion. Were I to attempt to guess at the cause of this whimsical combination of two predilections73 apparently so inconsistent with one another, I should say, that he began daily more and more to take to fishing, because it furnished him with an apology for more frequently visiting his nurse’s cottage, that was situated74 on a beautifully wooded knoll75 rising on the north bank of the river Aven. It was, moreover, an amusement which he could pursue without losing the society of her he loved. For as he loitered along the river’s bank with his angle-rod in his hand, Anna Gordon was ever at his side; and I am doubting much that they wasted many a good hour in idle talk rather than in fishing. But I am no more than the simple historian of their tale, therefore it is no business of mine to defend either him or her from the charge which you will of necessity bring against both of them for such a mis-spending of their precious time. However, I’m thinking, gentlemen, that they must have had some peculiar76 pleasure in one another’s conversation, or they never would have stolen secretly away thus by them two selves, as they were continually wont77 to do, even escaping from Anna’s little sister and brother. The boy, poor little fellow, had been born deaf and dumb, and could have understood no other language but that of the eyes; and let me tell you, gentlemen, that learned as I am in tongues, both ancient and modern, that is one of which I must confess myself to have no knowledge, though they do say that there is much eloquence78 in it when it is rightly comprehended. It was not always an easy matter to jink these two children, for Duncan Bane had been so kind to both of them, especially to the poor dumb boy, that wherever he went, they ran after him like two penny doggies; and as he had too much good feeling in his composition to allow him to treat them harshly, he was often obliged to steal their sister Anna away from them when he wished to have a private saunter with her.
The lovers had one day escaped from them and all the world in this manner, for Duncan was anxiously desirous to be alone with Anna, that he might learn from her why it was that her fair brow wore an unwonted cloud upon it, and why her large blue eyes seemed to have been dimmed by recent tears. He was impatient till they reached a grove79 by the river’s side, which was their ordinary place [235]of retreat when they wished to be free from all vulgar or prying80 eyes.
“Anna,” said the youth, the moment they had got within its shade, “something unpleasant has befallen thee; though thy face cannot be robbed of its loveliness, yet it wants to-day that smile which is wont to be the sunshine of my heart.”
“I must try to call it up, then,” said she, with an effort to be playful that could not be mistaken. “I would not have thy heart chill if I can help it.”
“Nay, but I entreat81 thee to tell me what has vexed82 thee, my love!” said he tenderly. “If I cannot relieve thy distress83, let me at least share it with thee!”
“I would fain tell thee, Duncan,” replied she, “for I would fain shut up no secrets from thee in that heart which is so entirely84 thine; but”——
“But what, my dearest?” cried Duncan impatiently; “do not keep me longer in suspense85. There ought, indeed, to be no secrets with either of us that are not shared between us.”
“There never shall be any on my part,” said Anna, throwing down her eyes. “And yet—and yet I have much difficulty in uttering what I would now tell thee.”
“I will take courage to tell thee, then,” said she, “but thou must first give me a solemn promise.”
“What! of secrecy87?” said Duncan. “Methinks thou mayest safely enough trust to me in that respect.”
“The promise I would exact of thee goes somewhat beyond that of mere secrecy,” said she gravely. “Thou must promise me that thou wilt88 not act upon what I have to tell thee, but in such manner as prudence89 may permit me to sanction.”
“And dost thou think, my Anna,” replied Duncan, “that I could ever do, or desire to do, anything that thou couldst wish me not to do?”
“But promise me, solemnly promise me!” said Anna, persevering90 with unwonted eagerness in her demand; “do promise me, I entreat thee!”
“Well, well, I do promise thee,—thus solemnly promise thee,” replied Duncan, kissing the hand which he held. “And now, come! relieve my anxiety, what is this gloomy [236]secret? This is the first time I have seen traces of tears in thine eyes since the death of the poor thrush I gave thee.”
“The present matter is somewhat more serious,” said Anna, with a gravity and dignity of manner which he had never seen her assume before. “Your cousin, Lachlan Dhu, dared this morning to address me in odious92 terms, which he called love. I answered him with a scorn and a reproof93 which I had hardly believed my young, weak, and untaught tongue could have used to one of his manhood. But the Blessed Virgin94 lent me language; and he stood so abashed95 before me, that I trust I have reason to hope that he will not again dare to repeat his offence.”
“My cousin Lachlan!” exclaimed Duncan, overwhelmed with astonishment96. “My cousin Lachlan, didst thou say? Did my ears hear thee aright? Impossible!”
“I grieve to say it is too true,” said Anna Gordon.
“O villain97, villain!” cried Duncan. “Most deep and consummate98 villain! Can so much apparent goodness be but the mask of deceit and villainy? But—I must straightway question him! I will drag him from the disguise which he wears, and—and then!”
“Remember that solemn promise which you have this moment made to me,” said Anna, calmly taking his hand. “You see how wise it was in me to secure it. To be the innocent cause of awakening100 feud3 between kinsmen101 of blood so near, would indeed be a heavy affliction to me; and were any of that blood to be spilled—were thy blood to flow—but thou must keep thy solemn engagement to me; and thou must now pledge me thy word, that never till I give thee leave to do so wilt thou, even by a look, discover to anyone what I have now told thee.”
“Anna,” said Duncan, after some little hesitation102, “I will promise you what you desire; but my promise is given on the faith of a counter-pledge, which I now expect to have from thee. Promise me, on thy part, that no such cause of offence shall be again offered to thee that thou dost not instantly tell me of it.”
“My present frankness should be my best pledge that I will do as thou wouldst have me,” said Anna. “But the promise thou hast given me must then be held as consequently renewed.”
“I am content,” said Duncan. “I am content to trust that you will not tie me down too rigidly103.” [237]
Guileless as Duncan Bane naturally was, he felt it no easy task to commence and to carry on a train of dissimulation with one with whom he had been on terms of open and unreserved intercourse104 of mind from his childhood, as I may say, save on the one subject of his love alone. Duncan dreaded105 that the very next meeting he should have with his cousin would throw him off his guard. He, therefore, proceeded forthwith to school himself as to the face and manner he should wear, and the words he should utter? and so successfully did he do so in his own judgment107, that, after the first interview with his cousin was over, he congratulated himself that the deep dissatisfaction which he secretly felt had been entirely shrouded108 from him who had excited it. And certainly, whether it was so or not, the crafty110 Lachlan Dhu gave him no reason to believe that it was discovered.
It was on the vurra night after this, however, that the Laird of Ballindalloch was seated in the cap-house of the great round tower of the castle he had so lately built, engaged in some confidential111 talk with his faithful henchman, Ian Grant, when his favourite old sleuth-hound, that lay beside his chair, raised up his long heavy ears and growled112; and soon afterwards a step was heard ascending113 the narrow screw stair leading to the small apartment where they were.
“See who is there, Ian,” said the laird, in answer to a gentle tap at the door.
Ian obeyed, and on opening it one of the domestics appeared to announce that a stranger, who refused to tell his name, had been brought, at his own request, to the castle guard-room, having expressed a wish to be admitted to a private conference with the laird.
“A stranger demands to have an interview with me after the watch is set, and yet refuses to tell who or what he is!” cried Ballindalloch. “By Saint Peter, but this smells of treachery, methinks! Yet let him appear, we fear him not; let him appear, I say,” repeated he, waving off the attendant. “Ian,” continued he after the man was gone, “look that your dirk be on your thigh114.”
“My dirk is here, sir, and sharp,” readily replied the henchman, as he moved towards the door, and planted himself beside it, to be prepared to strike, if any sudden emergency should require him to do so. [238]
Again steps were heard ascending the stair, the door opened, and the doorway115 was filled by the bulky figure of a man, whose dark features were almost entirely hid by a blue Kelso bonnet116 of more than ordinary breadth, and the ample web of a large hill plaid, of the red Grant tartan, put on as Highlanders know how to do when they would fain conceal31 themselves, completely enveloped117 the whole of his figure, as well as the lower part of his face, leaving little more visible than the tip of his nose and his dark moustachios. For some moments he stood silent before Ballindalloch.
“Speak!” said the laird at length. “Thy name and thine errand at this untimeous hour!”
“Ballindalloch,” replied the stranger, looking around him, and glancing at Ian, “thou shalt have both incontinently, but it must be in thine own particular ear alone.”
“Leave us then, Ian,” said Ballindalloch, waving him away, whilst at the same time he stretched forth his hand to lift his claymore within easier reach of the place where he sat. “Leave us, I say, Ian! I would be private with this stranger.”
“Uve! uve!” said Ian under his breath; then he moved, hesitated, shrugged118 his shoulders, looked at the stranger as if he would have penetrated119 him, plaid and all, to the very soul; then he shifted his position—yet still he did not quit the chamber120, but stood and threw an imploring121 look of remonstrance122 towards the laird.
“Begone, Ian!” said Ballindalloch in a voice of impatience123; and Ian at last vanished at the word.
“Sir stranger!” said Ballindalloch, “I hope I may now ask thee to rid me of all this mystery.”
“I am most ready to do so, Ballindalloch,” said the other, laying aside his bonnet and plaid, and showing himself, to all appearance, entirely unarmed.
“Lachlan Dhu Grant of Tullochcarron?” exclaimed the laird with astonishment; “what stirring errand has moved thee hither at such an hour?”
“I come to thee but on peaceful private conference,” replied Lachlan Dhu, with a respectful obeisance124: “and I use this secrecy because it is for the interest of both of us, that what I have to treat of should reach no other ears but our own.” [239]
“Proceed,” said Ballindalloch, “thou mayest speak safely here, for in this place we are beyond all earshot.”
“I need not tell thee, Ballindalloch,” continued Lachlan Dhu, “I need not tell thee, I say, that which is sufficiently125 notour to all, that mine uncle, old Tullochcarron’s patrimony126, would have been mine as a fair succession, had he not married on purpose to disappoint me.”
“I know this much,” said Ballindalloch, not altogether dissatisfied to see something like discontent in what he naturally held to be the enemy’s camp. “Perhaps thou hast had but scrimp justice in this matter.”
“Justice!” exclaimed Lachlan Dhu, catching127 eagerly at his words. “Justice! I have been deeply wronged. Bred up and cockered by the old man for a time as his successor, as if it had been with the very intent of throwing me the more cruelly off, and rendering128 the blasting of my hopes the more bitter, from the very fairness of those blossoms which his pretended warmth of affection had fostered!”
“’Twas not well done in the old man,” said Ballindalloch; “but now, methinks, ’tis past all cure.”
“Nay,” said Lachlan Dhu sternly, “I hope there is yet ample room for remede.”
“As how, I pr’ythee?” said Ballindalloch.
“Mark me, and thou shalt quickly learn,” said Lachlan Dhu. “But first of all I must tell thee, that I now come to offer myself to thee as thy vassal129 on this simple condition, that thou wilt give me thine aid and countenance130 against all questioners to help me to keep what shall be mine own after I shall have fairly won it.”
“And how dost thou propose to win it?” demanded Ballindalloch, with a grave and serious air that seemed to argue a most attentive131 consideration of a proposal in itself so inviting132 to him.
“By secretly ridding myself of mine uncle’s sickly stripling boy, whenever favouring fortune may yield me fitting opportunity,” replied Lachlan Dhu, approaching his head nearer to Ballindalloch, and sinking his voice to a low sepulchral133 tone, and with a coolness that might have befitted a practised murderer.
“What!” exclaimed Ballindalloch, with an air of surprise. “What hath the youth done to deserve so much of thy hatred134?”
“Twice hath he crossed my path,” continued Lachlan [240]Dhu, his features blackening, and his dark eyeballs rolling as he spoke135. “He hath twice crossed my path; first when he came into this world, and now a second time by thwarting136 me in my love.”
“And what have I to do with all this?” demanded Ballindalloch.
“Much,” replied Lachlan Dhu earnestly. “I am now thy sworn vassal. The feudal superiority of Tullochcarron will henceforth insure to thee friendship and strength, where thou hast long had to deal with open or secret foes137, and”——
“Thou speakest as if thou wert already Laird of Tullochcarron,” said Ballindalloch, interrupting him.
“That young foulmart once disposed of, I soon shall be,” said Lachlan Dhu, with fiend-like expression. “Mine uncle’s time cannot now be long, even were nature left to take its course; or,—it may be shortened. Sudden death to a man of his gross form and purfled habit could never seem strange; and then”——
“True,” said Ballindalloch calmly; “but how can I aid thee in thy scheme?”
“I lack no present aid while I have this arm,” replied Lachlan Dhu; “it is the support and defence of thy faithful vassal, Lachlan Dhu Grant, Laird of Tullochcarron, that I require of thee, if unhappily some unlucky circumstance should awaken99 idle suspicions against him.”
“Then am I safe,” said Lachlan Dhu; “but in the meanwhile secrecy is essential to our purpose.”
“I hope I have prudence enough to know how to conduct myself in all cases of delicacy,” replied Ballindalloch.
“’Tis well,” said Lachlan Dhu, again folding his plaid around him, and putting on his bonnet. “Now I must begone; for time presses. Farewell! I shall trust to thee, and thou mayest trust to me.”
“I shall not forget what is due to thee, when thou art my vassal,” said the laird, “nor shall I ever forget what ought at all times to be expected from Ballindalloch. Here, Ian Dhu, see this stranger safe beyond the walls and outposts.”
The night I speak of seemed to be quite pregnant with [241]strange visitations; for, at a still later hour, after old Tullochcarron had himself seen that the guard at the barbican of his small place of strength was on the alert, and had secured the iron doors of the entrance of the peel-tower, and had finally retired140 to his apartment to go to rest, he was surprised to see a packet lying on his table, of which no one of his attendants could give him any account. It was tied with a morsel141 of ribbon, the ends of which were secured with wax, but without any impression. It was simply addressed:—
“To Tullochcarron.”
And on cutting it open, he found that it contained the following letter, with a broad seal at the end of it.
“Tullochcarron,—I write this private communication, to tell thee that thou hast a traitor142 in thy house, that thou dost nourish a viper143 in thy bosom that would sting thee. The life of thine only son is certain to be taken, if thou dost not secure it by the instant seizure144 of thy nephew, Lachlan Dhu. Thine own murder will speedily follow. The cold-blooded villain came to me secretly under the cloud of this night, and did unfold his devilish plans, offering to me the feudal superiority of thy lands of Tullochcarron, provided I should protect him as my vassal against all after question. I seemed to listen, and yet I evited direct promise; and I now hasten to certiorate thee of these facts through ane trusty messenger, who engages, by certain means best known to himself, to have these placed upon thine own private table before thou sleepest. This traitorie is as yet alone known to thee, to me, to the foul138 faitour who planned, and to the devil who prompted it. And that thou mayest have no doubt left in thee of the truth of what I have here written, I do hereto affix145 my sign-manual, as well as the seal, the which is attached to the last instrument of pacification146 that passed between our houses.—Ballindalloch.”
You may conceive, gentlemen, that this letter, read alone, at midnight in his chamber, dreadfully alarmed old Tullochcarron. He started from the large oaken chair in which he had seated himself to peruse147 it, and snatching his lamp, he rushed to his son’s apartment, where he held up the light, and gazed with fear and trembling on his son’s couch, almost expecting to see his boy foully148 murdered, and weltering in his blood. Stretched on his bed, he did [242]indeed find him; but his eyes were closed in the sweet slumbers150 that attend the pillow of pure and spotless youth. He gazed on him in silent anxiety for some time, till he was really certain that he breathed; and then the old man’s lip quivered, and his eyes were dimmed by the big drops that rapidly distilled151 over his eyelids153. Stooping gently down, he kissed Duncan’s cheek, and then quitting the room upon tiptoe, he called up an old and tried domestic.
“Thou didst sup somewhat of the heaviest, Tullochcarron,” replied Hamish. “After so many pounds’ weight of salmon, ’tis but little wonder if the foul hag on her nightmare should have been riding over and over thee.”
“Psha!” said Tullochcarron in a vexed tone and manner that showed he was too seriously affected155 to be trifled with. “My dream touched the safety of thy young master. Hark ye! I bid thee watch his couch, and let no one approach it with impunity156.”
“My young master!” said Hamish with energy. “These grey hairs shall be trodden under foot ere the latch157 of his door shall be touched.”
“I know thy fidelity,” said Tullochcarron. “Be sure thou givest me the alarm if aught extraordinary should occur.”
Having taken this hasty precaution, the old Laird of Tullochcarron again seated himself in his arm-chair to read over for the second time the alarming communication he had received. Ballindalloch’s name and seal were the first things his eyes rested on after opening it. Doubts and suspicions instantly flashed across his mind.
“What a silly fool am I after all,” said he, “to let any information from such a quarter so agitate158 me! What truth is to be expected from a house so full of hereditary159 enmity against mine of Tullochcarron! And is not Lachlan Dhu the son of that very brother of mine who worked so much sore evil to the house of Ballindalloch? And is he not at this moment the best, the stoutest160, and the sharpest arrow I have in my quiver? And are not these reasons enough to prompt such a secret enemy to urge me to whet109 my knife against him? Dull old idiot that I was! but now I see it all! I see it all! What a trap [243]was I about to run my head into! But stay, let me think what is best to be done. Prudent161 precautions with regard to my son can do no harm. I shall put him well on his guard; and that secured, the best thing I can do is to bury the contents of this paper in mine own bosom.”
With such determinations as these, Tullochcarron retired to rest; but his repose162 was disturbed and put to flight by visions which were not altogether to be laid to the account of the heavy meal he had taken ere he retired to rest. He was early visited by his son Duncan.
“Father,” said the young man, “how was it that old Hamish took post in my chamber last night? I found him sitting by my bedside at daybreak this morning, and all the explanation I could extract from him was that he had the laird’s orders for being there.”
“He had my orders my dear boy,” said Tullochcarron, pressing his son to his bosom, and kissing his forehead. “A strange dream had come over me, that alarmed my foolish old heart about thy safety.”
“I dreamed that thy life was threatened, boy,” said his father; “and therefore it was that I made Hamish watch thee.”
“My life in danger, father!” exclaimed Duncan, “and from whose hand?”
“From the hand of thy cousin Lachlan Dhu,” replied his father. “Hast thou any cause to dread that my dream might have aught of reality in it?”
“My cousin Lachlan Dhu!” exclaimed Duncan, with unfeigned surprise. “Nay,” continued he, after some little hesitation, during which he remembered the promise he had given to Anna Gordon; “why should I think that Lachlan should wish to injure me?”
“Why should we think it, indeed?” exclaimed the old man, with considerable emotion. “Both I and mine should look for anything but hostility164 from Lachlan Dhu, if there be any faith or gratitude165 left in man. Let us then think no more about it.”
“Trust me, I shall think no more of it,” said Duncan.
“Aye!” said the old man again; “but yet I’d have thee to be cautious. I would entreat thee to guard thyself as if there were danger. Thou hast a dirk and a hand to use [244]it, boy! Thou hast a claymore and an arm that can wield166 it; and though thou art as yet but a stripling, still thou art the son of old Tullochcarron! But let faithful Hamish be thy constant henchman, and then my heart will be at ease.”
“I will defend mine own head as a true Tullochcarron should do, if dirk or steel can do it,” said the youth energetically, and by no means relishing167 the idea of his motions being watched, and his person eternally haunted by an attendant. “But I have nothing to fear, and Hamish might be better employed than in following me in all my idle wanderings.”
Duncan thought with himself that he had perhaps better grounds for entertaining some suspicion of evil intentions against him on the part of his kinsman169, than any which a dream could have afforded to his father; and yet we must not wonder, gentlemen, that, in such superstitious170 times, old Tullochcarron’s alleged171 vision had also its own effect upon the young man, when taken in combination with that strange new light that had recently opened on his cousin’s character. The gallant172 youth was above all fear, however; but he had prudence enough to resolve to expose himself to no unnecessary danger. As to old Hamish, Duncan thought it better to gratify his father by allowing that faithful servant to be his companion at all times, save and except only when he went to meet her, of his attachment to whom he still thought it wise to keep Tullochcarron ignorant. Then, indeed, the god of love inspired him with so much ingenuity173 in escaping from his attendant, that he baffled every attempt at discovery.
It was upon one of these occasions, when he had an especial wish to have an hour or two of private talk with Anna Gordon, that he, in the first place, contrived to escape from old Hamish, and afterwards to steal her from her dumb brother and little sister. Away tripped the pair together laughing, and rejoicing in their own cleverness. Duncan had his angle-rod in his hand, but he wandered with Anna through the groves174, by the margin175 of the Aven, without ever thinking of casting a line into its waters. The subject of their conversation was one of peculiar interest to both of them, for Duncan had sought this interview for the purpose of informing her that, from certain circumstances which had recently occurred, he was led to believe that their secret attachment might now be [245]safely divulged176 to the old laird his father, in the hope that he might be brought to consent to the speedy solemnisation of their marriage. The time they spent together was by no means short, though to them it appeared as trifling177. At length they found out that it was time to part, and a more than usually lingering parting took place between them on the top of that vurra high and precipitous crag, where now rests the northern extremity178 of the noble bridge that spans the river Aven above Ballindalloch. When they did at last sever91 from each other, Anna took her way homeward by a footpath179 leading up the river through the thick oak copsewood that covered the ground behind it, and clustered to the very brink180 of the precipice181 where she left Duncan.
The young man stood entranced with his own happy thoughts for a moment after Anna had disappeared, and then bethinking him that he must hasten to make the best use of the time that now remained, if he would not return empty-handed to his father, he stood on the verge182 of the cliff, eyeing the stream below, and thoroughly183 occupied in preparing his tackle with all manner of expedition, previous to descending184 by a circuitous185 way to the water’s edge to commence his sport. He was alone, as you may think, gentlemen; but there was an evil eye that watched him with the tiger’s lurid186 and unvarying gaze, aye, with such a gaze as the tiger’s fiery187 orbs188 assume when he has slowly and silently tracked his unconscious prey189 through all the mazes190 of the jungle, till he at last beholds192 it within his reach. As the head of the traitor Lachlan Dhu appeared from the thicket193 within three paces of the spot where young Tullochcarron stood, a fiendish smile of eager triumph gave a hellish expression to its features. It was but one desperate spring. One piercing shriek194 was uttered by the unhappy Duncan Bane, and in one instant his lifeless corse was floating, shattered and bleeding, on the crystal stream of the Aven.
That scream was heard by Anna Gordon, and from the moment it entered into her ears, it never left her mind. As it reached her, she happened to be passing round a turn of the river some little way above, whence the fatal crag was still visible.
“Merciful saints!” she cried, as she turned quickly round, “that was my Duncan’s voice!” [246]
She caught one instantaneous glimpse of the figure of Lachlan Dhu, as he fled from the summit of the crag. A dreadful suspicion shot across her mind. Winged by her agonising terrors, she flew back to the spot where she had parted with Duncan. There she met the poor dumb boy, her brother, pulling his little sister along by the arm. No sooner did he behold191 Anna, than with a wild animation195 of countenance, and with gesture so expressive196, that no one but a creature deprived of the power of language could have employed, he imitated the action of one person pushing another over the face of the cliff, and then he ran down the path that followed the course of the stream. Anna rushed franticly after him; and when she had reached the margin of the Aven, her eyes rested on the lifeless corse of her beloved, which had been carried by the eddying198 current into a little quiet nook, where it lay half-stranded on a grassy199 bank.
It happened that old Hamish, who as usual had been anxiously seeking his young master, came a few moments afterwards accidentally to the same spot; and what a spectacle did he behold! Seated on the bank by the water’s edge was the wretched Anna Gordon, with her lover’s mangled200 and bleeding head upon her knee. Her eyes were fixed201 upon its livid and gory202 features, as if they had been gazing on vacancy203. Not a tear flowed, not a groan204 nor a sigh was uttered. A monumental group could not have been more motionless or silent. Hamish was distracted. He tried to make her speak; for altogether ignorant of the powerful cause of interest which operated upon her, he viewed her but as an idle spectator, an indifferent person, from whom he anxiously desired to extract something that might enable him to guess as to how this dreadful calamity205 had occurred. His questions were rapid, urgent, and incessant206; but still she minded him not, until he bent207 forward as if to attempt to lift the body from her knee. Then it was, that turning round with all the frenzied208 dignity of fixed insanity209, she fastened the severe gaze of her unsettled eyes upon him, and spoke in a tone that froze his very heart.
“Begone, old man!” said she, “begone. What! wouldst thou rob me of my love on our bridal day? He is mine! he is mine! But hush210,” said she, suddenly lowering her voice and changing her expression, “hush! he sleeps! [247]He slumbers sweetly now. But he will awake anon with smiles, and then our bridal revels211 will begin. Go, go, old man! go, bid the guests! Bid all!—bid all, I tell thee!—bid all, but—but—the murderer!” A shrill212 shriek, graduating into a violent hysterical213 laugh, followed these wild wandering words; and a convulsion shook her delicate frame till she fainted away, as if life itself had fled from her.
I must leave this heart-rending scene, gentlemen, to tell you what soon afterwards took place in the old peel-tower of Tullochcarron.
“What!” exclaimed the laird, as he was in the act of sitting down to one of those many meals which the craving214 of his naturally enormous appetite rendered so essentially215 necessary for him. “What!” said he, “still no salmon? Hath Duncan not yet returned, then? Why, methinks the boy must have tyned his luck altogether. But I trow that the fish have lost the way into our waters, they are so rare to be seen. Ha! who comes there with haste so impatient? Is it thou, Lachlan Dhu?”
“Alas, uncle!” cried the murderer, rushing in without his bonnet, and with a frantic197 air, “alas, uncle! alas! alas! Duncan! Duncan!”
“What—what of Duncan?” exclaimed the anxious and alarmed father, starting from the table.
“Duncan,” cried the traitor, “my poor cousin Duncan is no more?”
“What! Duncan? Villain! accursed villain! you lie,” cried the old man half-distracted, and grappling his nephew by the throat with his powerful gripe. “You lie, most accursed villain!”
“Alas! alas! I wish I did!” said Lachlan Dhu, with feigned163 sorrow. “But I grieve to say that what I tell is, alas, too true. I was walking accidentally by the banks of the Aven, about a bowshot above the high craig, when, on looking towards it, I beheld216 him standing217 carelessly on the very brink of the cliff; and whether it was that his foot had tripped upon some of those roots that scramble218 for a sustenance219 over the surface of the rock, or whether some sudden gust220 of wind had caught him, I know not; but I saw him fall headlong thence; and after being dashed horribly against the projecting points below, I could perceive his inanimate body borne off by the stream. [248]Wild with despair, and scarcely knowing what I was doing, I ran directly home hither to tell thee the doleful news; and”——
“Villain!” shouted the old man in a voice like thunder. “Villain! thou art his murderer. Seize him, and drag him hence to the dungeon221. He hath reft me of my boy! my only hope on earth! the solace222 of my old age! O fool! fool! Why did I not take the well-meant warning? Oh! I am now indeed bereft223! But his murderer must die ere the sun goes down. Where is Hamish? He at least should have been at my poor Duncan’s side!”
At that moment Hamish himself entered. He whose hypocritical acting224 I have just described, had taken so long to prepare it for exhibition that this old and faithful attendant had had full time to procure help to carry his young master’s remains, and had now come on before the body, with the well-meant intention of breaking the afflicting225 intelligence as easily as he could to the bereaved226 father. He had been relieved of the task, as I have already told you; and the sad news had spread so, that all the vassals and dependants227 within reach had crowded to meet the body of their beloved Duncan Bane. The woeful wail228 of the pipes was heard at a distance. The old laird became dreadfully agitated229. The sound drew nearer. Tullochcarron bit his nether230 lip, clenched231 his hands, and wound himself up to go through with the trying scene as he felt that Tullochcarron should do. He put on his bonnet with energy, wrapped his plaid tight around him, and descended232 with a resolute233 step into the court-yard. The clang of the pipes became louder; and yet a louder crash of their rude music burst forth, as they passed inwards from beneath the arched gateway234. The old man strode two or three steps forcibly forwards, with his eyes fixed upon the spot where the rush of human figures came squeezing in. At length his sight fell on the bloody235 corse of his murdered son, his only earthly hope; and he became rooted to the ground he stood on.
And now a light airy figure appeared tripping fantastically beside the bier with her hair fancifully wreathed up with worthless weeds. She came dancing towards the old laird with gay smiles upon her face, and threw herself upon her knee before him.
“Thy blessing, father! thy blessing!” said she, “we [249]come to crave236 thy blessing, father! and now,” continued she, starting up, “let the feast be prepared!—and the dance!—for Duncan, thine own dear Duncan, has made me his bride, and I am the happiest maiden237 in all Scotland! See, see! look here, how gaily238 my head is garlanded! Indeed, indeed, as all the neighbours were wont to say, we were made for each other. And now I am Duncan’s bride! Aye, gentlefolks!” added she, curtseying gracefully239 around, and then hiding her blushing face in her hands for a moment, “and I shall soon be my Duncan’s lady! So, as the fair maid sings in the old ballad,—
‘Oh! I shall henceforth be, my love,
As happy as a queen,
For such a youth as thee, my love,
Was never, never seen—never! no, never!’
Father! father! thou art my father now as well as Duncan’s—hath not Duncan told thee all, father? Methinks it was but to-day that we agreed to break the secret of our love to thee; and Duncan, thine own Duncan Bane, was to tell thee all! and thou wert to give us thy blessing; and we were to be wedded240—aye, wedded as man and wife, never again to sunder—but my brain so burns with joy, and my foolish heart beats so, that—but no matter—ha!—I forget—I must go bid the guests!—I must away—I must go bid the bridal guests, they will take it all the kinder that I bid them myself. Hush, then!” added she, sinking her voice, and approaching the bier upon tiptoe, and gently stooping to kiss the cold lips of the corse. “Hush, then, Duncan, my love, rest thee in sweet slumber149 till I return. All good be with ye, good gentlefolks. Mark me, I bid ye all to our bridal; but I have other guests to bid—I must away!—I have many guests to bid—away, away!” and so she hurried forth from the gateway, singing as she went,—
“And when that we shall wedded be,
All by the holy priest,
Shall grace our bridal feast.”
The true interpretation242 of the cause of Anna’s frenzy243 came palpably to the mind of the old laird of Tullochcarron. Whatever he might have thought of the attachment [250]of the lovers under other circumstances, he now felt that the discovery of it had only come like a gleam of sunshine to enhance the brightness of those earthly prospects244 which were henceforth darkened for ever. Yet still with iron nerve he strung himself firmly up to bear it all. He gave one piteous glance of despair towards the bier where lay the dead body of his son, his only child, and then he suffered himself to be led passively up into the hall of the peel-tower, whither the corpse245 was immediately carried and laid out. Then it was that human courage could no longer support him,—it yielded, and he gave way to all a father’s grief. For a time he indulged fully44 in this; and then, drying up his tears, he summoned his vassals, ordered in the prisoner Lachlan Dhu, and instantly proceeded to hold a court upon him.
The murderer would have fain denied his guilt246, but little evidence was necessary to convict in those days. In this case there was enough to convince all present. An assize was set upon him—Ballindalloch’s letter was produced and read: at once his bold and resolute air of innocence247 was shaken. The prisoner’s own statement as to the point where he stood when he had witnessed the alleged accident, was proved to be false by old Hamish, who chanced to see him whilst running along a path which led, not from that point, but directly from the brow of the cliff whence Duncan Bane had met his death. The dumb boy described and pointed23 out, with most intelligent action, how and by whom the murder was perpetrated; and his little sister distinctly told, that she and her brother had seen Lachlan Dhu push Duncan Bane over the crag. Finally, the sheet was removed from the body of Duncan, and then, they say, the wounds began to well forth afresh; and the agitation248 of the murderer was so great, that he called for a priest, confessed all, was shortly shriven; and as the sun of that day which had witnessed his crime was preparing to disappear behind the western mountains, its slanting249 rays were throwing a horrible splendour over his powerful but now exanimate frame, as it swung to and fro in the evening breeze from the fatal tree on the gallow hill.
The afflicted Anna Gordon wandered wildly about with maniac250 energy during all that day, no one knew where. At last, her friends, who went in search of her, found her [251]on the mountain, and led her gently homewards. It happened that the path they took passed by the gallow hill. At some distance off she descried251 the figure of him who had so recently paid the penalty of his crime.
“Yonder is a guest! I will bid yonder guest!” cried poor Anna, with a frantic laugh, as she broke from her friends, and hurried towards the spot where it hung, ere anyone could arrest her. She stood for some moments with her eyes steadily252 fixed upon the ghastly visage, and then bursting out in a sudden fit of frenzy, “I heard my Duncan’s cry!” she shrieked253 aloud, in a voice that pierced the ears and the hearts of all who heard her. “’Twas his last joyous254 cry to call me to our bridal! quick! quick!—let us away!—hark!—hark!—again!—again!—again!”
She rushed rapidly forwards a few steps, as if she had been flying to meet her lover. She tottered255, and fell in a swoon, was borne home by her friends in a state of stupor256, and placed in bed. But it would seem that some internal and vital failure had taken place, for the poor thing ceased to breathe; and the gentle spirit of Anna Gordon fled to unite itself with that of him she loved. Nor were their earthly remains sundered257, for the father of Duncan Bane saw them consigned258 together to the same grave, and he wept over them both.
The old laird of Tullochcarron was but little seen beyond the court-yard of his peel-tower for many weeks after his son’s murder; then, indeed, he did come abroad, as if to superintend his affairs as he was wont to do, but it was more because he thought that it was right for him so to do, than from any relish168 he had in the employment. It was this conviction of what was expected of him, that likewise made him force a false smile of cheerfulness over his good-humoured countenance, which, alas! was with him but as the sunshine that gilded259 the sepulchre of inextinguishable mourning within. One of the first visits that he paid was to the castle of his ancient feudal enemy, Ballindalloch. He was kindly260 received, for his severe recent affliction was sincerely pitied by his generous neighbour.
“Ballindalloch,” said he, “I am come to thank thee for the friendly caution which thou gavest to a foolish old man, who, if he had taken it as it was meant, would have had his roof-tree still fresh and firm. But let that pass,” continued he, with a sigh, and with the full tear rising [252]over his eyelid152. “The obligation I owe to thee is not the less, that I, blinded man, refused to give more heed261 to thy caution.”
“Talk not of this, sir,” said Ballindalloch. “I must e’en confess to thee, Tullochcarron, that the advice came from so questionable262 a quarter, that had I been in thy case I might have spurned263 it myself. But say, sir, wilt thou not eat and drink with me?”
“Willingly,” replied Tullochcarron.
“Wilt thou name aught that might, perchance, be most pleasing to thy taste?” said Ballindalloch.
“I know I need not ask for salmon,” said Tullochcarron, “for such food is hardly now to be had.”
“Though the fish have been somewhat rare with us of late,” said Ballindalloch, “I think I can promise thee that thou shalt have as much of thy favourite dish as shall satisfy thee.”
“Alas!” said Tullochcarron with a faltering264 voice, and with a tear rolling down his cheek, “salmon have, indeed, been rare with me since—since—but,” added he, making a strong effort to overcome the feelings excited by the recollection of his son, and perhaps with the hope of hiding his agitation under a good-humoured jest, “I hear that the salmon are so bewitched, that they hardly ever come farther inland now than the Bog265 of Gight. In so great a scarcity266, then, I much doubt whether the stock of fresh fish within the Castle of Ballindalloch will stand against my well-known voracity267.”
“Be assured that there is as much in the house, of mine own catching, too, as will extinguish thine appetite, and leave something to spare,” said Ballindalloch.
“I have heard much of thy powers,” said Ballindalloch.
“And I am as sharp set at this moment as ever I was in my life,” said Tullochcarron.
“All that may be; yet I fear thee not,” said Ballindalloch laughing.
“I am so bold,” said Ballindalloch.
“Well, then,” said Tullochcarron, “I will wager thee the [253]succession and heirship of my lands against thy grey gelding, that I shall not leave thee a morsel to spare.”
“Thou dost give me brave odds270, indeed,” said Ballindalloch; “thou hadst best bethink thee again ere we strike thumbs on it.”
“Nay, I require no more thought,” said Tullochcarron; “and, moreover, I grow hungrier every moment. Besides,” said the old man with a sigh, that showed that all this jocularity was only assumed to cover a broken heart; “I am putting in peril271 that in which I can have no interest, whilst, if I win thy gallant grey, I shall be sure of being well mounted for the rest of my life. Art thou afraid of losing thy steed? or wilt thou say done to the wager?”
“I do say done, then, since thou wilt have it so,” said Ballindalloch, and he accordingly gave the necessary orders for having the matter put to the proof.
After a little time, a serving man entered with a covered trencher, in which lay, smoking hot, one half of a small salmon. When Tullochcarron lifted the cover, he eyed it with something like contempt, and impelled272 as he was by his irresistible273 disease, he fell upon it, and devoured274 it with an alacrity275 that astonished every beholder276. A whole salmon, but of moderate size, was then brought in, and was instantly attacked by Tullochcarron with as much avidity as if he had not eaten a morsel. Wonderfully and fearfully did he go on to clear his way through it; but as he approached the conclusion of it, his jaws277 began to go rather more languidly than before. Ballindalloch observed this.
“Ho there! bring more salmon!” cried he aloud.
“No,” said Tullochcarron, shoving the trencher from him, and wiping his knife and fork in his napkin, and sticking them into his dirk sheath. “No, no; I have enough. Ballindalloch, my lands shall be yours the moment the breath is out of my body.”
“Nay, then,” said Ballindalloch, “I must in truth and honesty confess that I called for more salmon but as a bravado278; for thou hast indeed finished all the salmon that was in the house, and it is my grey gelding that is thine, not thy lands that are mine.”
“It matters not, Ballindalloch,” replied the other. “The lands of Tullochcarron are thine notwithstanding. See, there are the writings which I had made out the week [254]after my poor Duncan was so foully murdered. Thou wilt find that thy name was then inserted therein. I but seized on this of the wager as a whimsical means of breaking the matter to thee; and now thou mayest make of Tullochcarron what it may please thee. I shall not stand long in the way, poor decayed sproutless stock as I am! and I have now known enough of thee to be convinced that thou wilt not see me kicked over before my time; but that thou wilt take care of me during the brief space that I may yet cumber279 this earth, and see me laid decently beside Duncan when I die.”
Such then, gentlemen, was the way in which the lands of Tullochcarron came to be united to those of Ballindalloch,—ane union, the which I am told, did vurra much impruv the value of both, and which still subsists280 to the present day.
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1
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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10
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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13
hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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prune
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| n.酶干；vt.修剪，砍掉，削减；vi.删除 | |
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sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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hydra
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| n.水螅；难于根除的祸患 | |
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heirship
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| n.继承权 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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effacing
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| 谦逊的 | |
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iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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40
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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41
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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42
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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43
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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44
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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45
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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46
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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47
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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48
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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49
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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51
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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53
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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54
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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55
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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56
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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57
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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58
industriously
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59
scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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61
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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62
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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63
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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64
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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65
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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66
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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67
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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68
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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69
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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70
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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71
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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73
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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74
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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75
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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76
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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77
wont
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|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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78
eloquence
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|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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79
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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80
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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81
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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82
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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83
distress
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|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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84
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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85
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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86
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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87
secrecy
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|
| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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88
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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89
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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90
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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91
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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92
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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93
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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94
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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95
abashed
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|
| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
astonishment
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|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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97
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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98
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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99
awaken
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|
| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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100
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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101
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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102
hesitation
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|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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103
rigidly
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|
| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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104
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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105
dreaded
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|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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106
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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107
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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108
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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109
whet
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| v.磨快，刺激 | |
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110
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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111
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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112
growled
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|
| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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113
ascending
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|
| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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114
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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115
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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116
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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117
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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118
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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119
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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120
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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121
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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122
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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123
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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124
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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125
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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126
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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127
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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128
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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129
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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130
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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131
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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132
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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133
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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134
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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135
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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136
thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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137
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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138
foul
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|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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139
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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140
retired
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|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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141
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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142
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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143
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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144
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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145
affix
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| n.附件，附录 vt.附贴，盖(章)，签署 | |
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146
pacification
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| n. 讲和，绥靖，平定 | |
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147
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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148
foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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149
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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150
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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151
distilled
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|
| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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152
eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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153
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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154
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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155
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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156
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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157
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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158
agitate
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|
| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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159
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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160
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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161
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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162
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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163
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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164
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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165
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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166
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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167
relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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168
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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169
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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170
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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171
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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172
gallant
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|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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173
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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174
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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175
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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176
divulged
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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178
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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179
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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180
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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181
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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182
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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183
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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184
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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185
circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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186
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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187
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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188
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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189
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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190
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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191
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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192
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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193
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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194
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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195
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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196
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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197
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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198
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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199
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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200
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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201
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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202
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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203
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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204
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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205
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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206
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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207
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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208
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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209
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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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
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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212
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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213
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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214
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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215
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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216
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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217
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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218
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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219
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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220
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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221
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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222
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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223
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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224
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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225
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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226
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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227
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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228
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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229
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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230
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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231
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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232
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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233
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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234
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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235
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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236
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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237
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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238
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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239
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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240
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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241
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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242
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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243
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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244
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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245
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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246
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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247
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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248
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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249
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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250
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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251
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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252
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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253
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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254
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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255
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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256
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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257
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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258
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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259
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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260
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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261
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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262
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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263
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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264
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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265
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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266
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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267
voracity
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| n.贪食，贪婪 | |
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268
cormorant
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| n.鸬鹚，贪婪的人 | |
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269
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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270
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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271
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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272
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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274
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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275
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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276
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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277
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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278
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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279
cumber
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| v.拖累，妨碍；n.妨害；拖累 | |
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280
subsists
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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