“I fancy,” remarked Miriam, “that every person takes a peep into it in moments of gloom and despondency; that is to say, in his moments of deepest insight.”
“Where is it, then?” asked Hilda. “I never peeped into it.”
“Wait, and it will open for you,” replied her friend. “The chasm was merely one of the orifices of that pit of blackness that lies beneath us, everywhere. The firmest substance of human happiness is but a thin crust spread over it, with just reality enough to bear up the illusive9 stage scenery amid which we tread. It needs no earthquake to open the chasm. A footstep, a little heavier than ordinary, will serve; and we must step very daintily, not to break through the crust at any moment. By and by, we inevitably10 sink! It was a foolish piece of heroism11 in Curtius to precipitate3 himself there, in advance; for all Rome, you see, has been swallowed up in that gulf, in spite of him. The Palace of the Caesars has gone down thither12, with a hollow, rumbling13 sound of its fragments! All the temples have tumbled into it; and thousands of statues have been thrown after! All the armies and the triumphs have marched into the great chasm, with their martial14 music playing, as they stepped over the brink15. All the heroes, the statesmen, and the poets! All piled upon poor Curtius, who thought to have saved them all! I am loath16 to smile at the self-conceit of that gallant17 horseman, but cannot well avoid it.”
“It grieves me to hear you speak thus, Miriam,” said Hilda, whose natural and cheerful piety18 was shocked by her friend’s gloomy view of human destinies. “It seems to me that there is no chasm, nor any hideous emptiness under our feet, except what the evil within us digs. If there be such a chasm, let us bridge it over with good thoughts and deeds, and we shall tread safely to the other side. It was the guilt19 of Rome, no doubt, that caused this gulf to open; and Curtius filled it up with his heroic self-sacrifice and patriotism20, which was the best virtue21 that the old Romans knew. Every wrong thing makes the gulf deeper; every right one helps to fill it up. As the evil of Rome was far more than its good, the whole commonwealth22 finally sank into it, indeed, but of no original necessity.”
“Well, Hilda, it came to the same thing at last,” answered Miriam despondingly.
“Doubtless, too,” resumed the sculptor23 (for his imagination was greatly excited by the idea of this wondrous24 chasm), “all the blood that the Romans shed, whether on battlefields, or in the Coliseum, or on the cross,—in whatever public or private murder,—ran into this fatal gulf, and formed a mighty25 subterranean26 lake of gore27, right beneath our feet. The blood from the thirty wounds in Caesar’s breast flowed hitherward, and that pure little rivulet28 from Virginia’s bosom29, too! Virginia, beyond all question, was stabbed by her father, precisely where we are standing30.”
“Then the spot is hallowed forever!” said Hilda.
“Is there such blessed potency31 in bloodshed?” asked Miriam. “Nay, Hilda, do not protest! I take your meaning rightly.”
They again moved forward. And still, from the Forum32 and the Via Sacra, from beneath the arches of the Temple of Peace on one side, and the acclivity of the Palace of the Caesars on the other, there arose singing voices of parties that were strolling through the moonlight. Thus, the air was full of kindred melodies that encountered one another, and twined themselves into a broad, vague music, out of which no single strain could be disentangled. These good examples, as well as the harmonious33 influences of the hour, incited34 our artist friends to make proof of their own vocal35 powers. With what skill and breath they had, they set up a choral strain,—“Hail, Columbia!” we believe, which those old Roman echoes must have found it exceeding difficult to repeat aright. Even Hilda poured the slender sweetness of her note into her country’s song. Miriam was at first silent, being perhaps unfamiliar36 with the air and burden. But suddenly she threw out such a swell37 and gush38 of sound, that it seemed to pervade39 the whole choir40 of other voices, and then to rise above them all, and become audible in what would else have been thee silence of an upper region. That volume of melodious41 voice was one of the tokens of a great trouble. There had long been an impulse upon her—amounting, at last, to a necessity to shriek42 aloud; but she had struggled against it, till the thunderous anthem43 gave her an opportunity to relieve her heart by a great cry.
They passed the solitary44 Column of Phocas, and looked down into the excavated45 space, where a confusion of pillars, arches, pavements, and shattered blocks and shafts—the crumbs46 of various ruin dropped from the devouring47 maw of Time stand, or lie, at the base of the Capitoline Hill. That renowned48 hillock (for it is little more) now arose abruptly49 above them. The ponderous50 masonry51, with which the hillside is built up, is as old as Rome itself, and looks likely to endure while the world retains any substance or permanence. It once sustained the Capitol, and now bears up the great pile which the mediaeval builders raised on the antique foundation, and that still loftier tower, which looks abroad upon a larger page of deeper historic interest than any other scene can show. On the same pedestal of Roman masonry, other structures will doubtless rise, and vanish like ephemeral things.
To a spectator on the spot, it is remarkable52 that the events of Roman history, and Roman life itself, appear not so distant as the Gothic ages which succeeded them. We stand in the Forum, or on the height of the Capitol, and seem to see the Roman epoch53 close at hand. We forget that a chasm extends between it and ourselves, in which lie all those dark, rude, unlettered centuries, around the birth-time of Christianity, as well as the age of chivalry54 and romance, the feudal55 system, and the infancy56 of a better civilization than that of Rome. Or, if we remember these mediaeval times, they look further off than the Augustan age. The reason may be, that the old Roman literature survives, and creates for us an intimacy57 with the classic ages, which we have no means of forming with the subsequent ones.
The Italian climate, moreover, robs age of its reverence58 and makes it look newer than it is. Not the Coliseum, nor the tombs of the Appian Way, nor the oldest pillar in the Forum, nor any other Roman ruin, be it as dilapidated as it may, ever give the impression of venerable antiquity59 which we gather, along with the ivy60, from the gray walls of an English abbey or castle. And yet every brick or stone, which we pick up among the former, had fallen ages before the foundation of the latter was begun. This is owing to the kindliness61 with which Natures takes an English ruin to her heart, covering it with ivy, as tenderly as Robin62 Redbreast covered the dead babes with forest leaves. She strives to make it a part of herself, gradually obliterating63 the handiwork of man, and supplanting64 it with her own mosses65 and trailing verdure, till she has won the whole structure back. But, in Italy, whenever man has once hewn a stone, Nature forthwith relinquishes67 her right to it, and never lays her finger on it again. Age after age finds it bare and naked, in the barren sunshine, and leaves it so. Besides this natural disadvantage, too, each succeeding century, in Rome, has done its best to ruin the very ruins, so far as their picturesque68 effect is concerned, by stealing away the marble and hewn stone, and leaving only yellow bricks, which never can look venerable.
The party ascended69 the winding70 way that leads from the Forum to the Piazza71 of the Campidoglio on the summit of the Capitoline Hill. They stood awhile to contemplate72 the bronze equestrian73 statue of Marcus Aurelius. The moonlight glistened74 upon traces of the gilding75 which had once covered both rider and steed; these were almost gone, but the aspect of dignity was still perfect, clothing the figure as it were with an imperial robe of light. It is the most majestic76 representation of the kingly character that ever the world has seen. A sight of the old heathen emperor is enough to create an evanescent sentiment of loyalty77 even in a democratic bosom, so august does he look, so fit to rule, so worthy78 of man’s profoundest homage79 and obedience80, so inevitably attractive of his love. He stretches forth66 his hand with an air of grand beneficence and unlimited81 authority, as if uttering a decree from which no appeal was permissible82, but in which the obedient subject would find his highest interests consulted; a command that was in itself a benediction83.
“The sculptor of this statue knew what a king should be,” observed Kenyon, “and knew, likewise, the heart of mankind, and how it craves84 a true ruler, under whatever title, as a child its father.”
“O, if there were but one such man as this?” exclaimed Miriam. “One such man in an age, and one in all the world; then how speedily would the strife85, wickedness, and sorrow of us poor creatures be relieved. We would come to him with our griefs, whatever they might be,—even a poor, frail86 woman burdened with her heavy heart,—and lay them at his feet, and never need to take them up again. The rightful king would see to all.”
“What an idea of the regal office and duty!” said Kenyon, with a smile. “It is a woman’s idea of the whole matter to perfection. It is Hilda’s, too, no doubt?”
“No,” answered the quiet Hilda; “I should never look for such assistance from an earthly king.”
“Hilda, my religious Hilda,” whispered Miriam, suddenly drawing the girl close to her, “do you know how it is with me? I would give all I have or hope—my life, O how freely—for one instant of your trust in God! You little guess my need of it. You really think, then, that He sees and cares for us?”
“Miriam, you frighten me.”
“Hush87, hush? do not let them hear yet!” whispered Miriam. “I frighten you, you say; for Heaven’s sake, how? Am I strange? Is there anything wild in my behavior?”
“Only for that moment,” replied Hilda, “because you seemed to doubt God’s providence88.”
“We will talk of that another time,” said her friend. “Just now it is very dark to me.”
On the left of the Piazza of the Campidoglio, as you face cityward, and at the head of the long and stately flight of steps descending89 from the Capitoline Hill to the level of lower Rome, there is a narrow lane or passage. Into this the party of our friends now turned. The path ascended a little, and ran along under the walls of a palace, but soon passed through a gateway90, and terminated in a small paved courtyard. It was bordered by a low parapet.
The spot, for some reason or other, impressed them as exceedingly lonely. On one side was the great height of the palace, with the moonshine falling over it, and showing all the windows barred and shuttered. Not a human eye could look down into the little courtyard, even if the seemingly deserted91 palace had a tenant92. On all other sides of its narrow compass there was nothing but the parapet, which as it now appeared was built right on the edge of a steep precipice93. Gazing from its imminent94 brow, the party beheld95 a crowded confusion of roofs spreading over the whole space between them and the line of hills that lay beyond the Tiber. A long, misty96 wreath, just dense97 enough to catch a little of the moonshine, floated above the houses, midway towards the hilly line, and showed the course of the unseen river. Far away on the right, the moon gleamed on the dome98 of St. Peter’s as well as on many lesser99 and nearer domes100.
“What a beautiful view of the city!” exclaimed Hilda; “and I never saw Rome from this point before.”
“It ought to afford a good prospect,” said the sculptor; “for it was from this point—at least we are at liberty to think so, if we choose—that many a famous Roman caught his last glimpse of his native city, and of all other earthly things. This is one of the sides of the Tarpeian Rock. Look over the parapet, and see what a sheer tumble there might still be for a traitor101, in spite of the thirty feet of soil that have accumulated at the foot of the precipice.”
They all bent102 over, and saw that the cliff fell perpendicularly103 downward to about the depth, or rather more, at which the tall palace rose in height above their heads. Not that it was still the natural, shaggy front of the original precipice; for it appeared to be cased in ancient stonework, through which the primeval rock showed its face here and there grimly and doubtfully. Mosses grew on the slight projections104, and little shrubs105 sprouted106 out of the crevices107, but could not much soften108 the stern aspect of the cliff. Brightly as the Italian moonlight fell adown the height, it scarcely showed what portion of it was man’s work and what was nature’s, but left it all in very much the same kind of ambiguity109 and half-knowledge in which antiquarians generally leave the identity of Roman remains110.
The roofs of some poor-looking houses, which had been built against the base and sides of the cliff, rose nearly midway to the top; but from an angle of the parapet there was a precipitous plunge111 straight downward into a stonepaved court.
“I prefer this to any other site as having been veritably the Traitor’s Leap,” said Kenyon, “because it was so convenient to the Capitol. It was an admirable idea of those stern old fellows to fling their political criminals down from the very summit on which stood the Senate House and Jove’s Temple, emblems112 of the institutions which they sought to violate. It symbolizes113 how sudden was the fall in those days from the utmost height of ambition to its profoundest ruin.”
“Come, come; it is midnight,” cried another artist, “too late to be moralizing here. We are literally114 dreaming on the edge of a precipice. Let us go home.”
“It is time, indeed,” said Hilda.
The sculptor was not without hopes that he might be favored with the sweet charge of escorting Hilda to the foot of her tower. Accordingly, when the party prepared to turn back, he offered her his arm. Hilda at first accepted it; but when they had partly threaded the passage between the little courtyard and the Piazza del Campidoglio, she discovered that Miriam had remained behind.
“I must go back,” said she, withdrawing her arm from Kenyon’s; “but pray do not come with me. Several times this evening I have had a fancy that Miriam had something on her mind, some sorrow or perplexity, which, perhaps, it would relieve her to tell me about. No, no; do not turn back! Donatello will be a sufficient guardian115 for Miriam and me.”
The sculptor was a good deal mortified116, and perhaps a little angry: but he knew Hilda’s mood of gentle decision and independence too well not to obey her. He therefore suffered the fearless maiden117 to return alone.
Meanwhile Miriam had not noticed the departure of the rest of the company; she remained on the edge of the precipice and Donatello along with her.
“It would be a fatal fall, still,” she said to herself, looking over the parapet, and shuddering118 as her eye measured the depth. “Yes; surely yes! Even without the weight of an overburdened heart, a human body would fall heavily enough upon those stones to shake all its joints119 asunder120. How soon it would be over!”
Donatello, of whose presence she was possibly not aware, now pressed closer to her side; and he, too, like Miriam, bent over the low parapet and trembled violently. Yet he seemed to feel that perilous121 fascination122 which haunts the brow of precipices123, tempting124 the unwary one to fling himself over for the very horror of the thing; for, after drawing hastily back, he again looked down, thrusting himself out farther than before. He then stood silent a brief space, struggling, perhaps, to make himself conscious of the historic associations of the scene.
“What are you thinking of, Donatello?” asked Miriam.
“Who are they,” said he, looking earnestly in her face, “who have been flung over here in days gone by?”
“Men that cumbered the world,” she replied. “Men whose lives were the bane of their fellow creatures. Men who poisoned the air, which is the common breath of all, for their own selfish purposes. There was short work with such men in old Roman times. Just in the moment of their triumph, a hand, as of an avenging125 giant, clutched them, and dashed the wretches126 down this precipice.”
“Was it well done?” asked the young man.
“It was well done,” answered Miriam; “innocent persons were saved by the destruction of a guilty one, who deserved his doom127.”
While this brief conversation passed, Donatello had once or twice glanced aside with a watchful128 air, just as a hound may often be seen to take sidelong note of some suspicious object, while he gives his more direct attention to something nearer at, hand. Miriam seemed now first to become aware of the silence that had followed upon the cheerful talk and laughter of a few moments before.
Looking round, she perceived that all her company of merry friends had retired129, and Hilda, too, in whose soft and quiet presence she had always an indescribable feeling of security. All gone; and only herself and Donatello left hanging over the brow of the ominous130 precipice.
Not so, however; not entirely131 alone! In the basement wall of the palace, shaded from the moon, there was a deep, empty niche132, that had probably once contained a statue; not empty, either; for a figure now came forth from it and approached Miriam. She must have had cause to dread133 some unspeakable evil from this strange persecutor134, and to know that this was the very crisis of her calamity135; for as he drew near, such a cold, sick despair crept over her that it impeded136 her breath, and benumbed her natural promptitude of thought. Miriam seemed dreamily to remember falling on her knees; but, in her whole recollection of that wild moment, she beheld herself as in a dim show, and could not well distinguish what was done and suffered; no, not even whether she were really an actor and sufferer in the scene.
Hilda, meanwhile, had separated herself from the sculptor, and turned back to rejoin her friend. At a distance, she still heard the mirth of her late companions, who were going down the cityward descent of the Capitoline Hill; they had set up a new stave of melody, in which her own soft voice, as well as the powerful sweetness of Miriam’s, was sadly missed.
The door of the little courtyard had swung upon its hinges, and partly closed itself. Hilda (whose native gentleness pervaded137 all her movements) was quietly opening it, when she was startled, midway, by the noise of a struggle within, beginning and ending all in one breathless instant. Along with it, or closely succeeding it, was a loud, fearful cry, which quivered upward through the air, and sank quivering downward to the earth. Then, a silence! Poor Hilda had looked into the court-yard, and saw the whole quick passage of a deed, which took but that little time to grave itself in the eternal adamant138.
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1
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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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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commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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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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potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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excavated
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| v.挖掘( excavate的过去式和过去分词 )；开凿；挖出；发掘 | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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47
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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51
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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54
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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56
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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57
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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58
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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59
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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60
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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61
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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62
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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63
obliterating
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| v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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64
supplanting
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的现在分词 ) | |
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65
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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66
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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67
relinquishes
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的第三人称单数 )； 放弃 | |
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68
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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69
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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71
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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72
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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73
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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74
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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76
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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77
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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78
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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79
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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80
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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81
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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82
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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83
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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84
craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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85
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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86
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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87
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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88
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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89
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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90
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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91
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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93
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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94
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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95
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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96
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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97
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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100
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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101
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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102
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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103
perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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104
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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105
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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106
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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107
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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108
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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109
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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110
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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111
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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112
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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113
symbolizes
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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115
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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116
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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117
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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118
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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119
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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120
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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121
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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122
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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123
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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124
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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125
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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126
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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127
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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128
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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129
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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130
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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131
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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132
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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133
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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134
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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135
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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136
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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