O, haven1 where she had thought these last dreadful days never to rest again! But no, how could God take it from her again so soon? He was too good! Just to be there once more, to feel Gaston’s lips on hers, to hold him—the agony of suspense2 drugged, if not dead—nothing else mattered, not even that he was a prisoner.
“Beloved, your cheek is cold,” he murmured. “Is it so cold in here?—and if I hold you all the time will you be warm enough?”
“I am not cold,” she answered in a whisper, “but hold me . . . hold me . . .” And consciousness of everything but that hold drifted away.
. . . Cold? Perhaps he was cold—neglected? What was this place like? To see it, in its relation to him, she lifted her head from his breast, and was conscious for the first time of the small, high room in which she stood, of the window ten feet up in the wall, so that no view was possible, and the light came down from it very cheerlessly. On the ancient walls, blackened in places by the smoke of many a bygone torch, names were scrawled3. She saw a pallet, a table and chair—and a stove, which was burning.
Then she scrutinised him, with such eyes of anxiety for what she might discover in his appearance that Gaston smiled at it.
“Do you expect to find, my darling, that ten days of captivity4 can have changed me?” he asked. “I have everything I want—everything I can pay for, that is—except liberty for correspondence . . . and my personal liberty, bien entendu.”
Indeed he looked younger, less worn, than at her last sight of him. And his tone, assumed or natural, was so calm. But somehow that very fact made her a little uneasy.
He took her hands again. “Sit down, my heart. No, not on my solitary5 chair; I cannot recommend it. The bed is better; I can sit there too.”
She obeyed him. She did not like to think he slept on that!
“Dearest, after La Force and your other prison! It seems to me, now that you are here, like a palace! And you, what roof in Paris has the happiness of sheltering you?”
She told him. And then, holding his hand as he sat by her on the little bed, and turning round and round on his finger, for which it was now too loose, his emerald ring, she approached the subject so near her lips.
“Gaston, you spoke7 just now—not seriously, I know—of paying for your liberty. Suppose this plan for your rescue fails, which God forbid, but suppose it fails . . . could your liberty be bought?”
He looked at her so hard, so questioningly, that her hopes for the scheme sank lower still.
“I fear not,” he said very gravely. And then, after another pause, “What did you imagine could buy it, my wife?”
And by his very intonation8 she knew that she would never, with his consent, kneel to Joséphine Bonaparte. Yet she would not give up.
“Valentine, you cannot really be proposing that I should stoop to beg my life of Bonaparte!”
She winced10, for the tone was almost hard, and hurt. “No, no,” she interposed hastily, “not that you should! But I, your wife, approaching Mme Bonaparte, a wife herself, that is a very different thing. For me to do so is a most natural step, and when I point out to her what surely her husband cannot realise, the infamy11 of the means by which he took you, the violation12 of your safe-conduct——”
He had been staring at the floor, his mouth set. But again he broke in. “The First Consul13 has had plenty of time to reflect on that, Valentine. Believe me, he knows what he is doing.”
O, the place was cold, after all, deadly cold! And Gaston so inexorable——
“And you will not let me——” she began once more unsteadily.
“A thousand times no! I forbid it absolutely.”
Very low, Valentine said, “And what of me? Am I too to be sacrificed to the pride of your race? Can I not plead for myself, Gaston,—not with Bonaparte indeed, but with you, with you!”
He turned, he caught her quickly in his arms. “My darling, my very dear, don’t say that!” he exclaimed in a moved voice. “Don’t say that! It is not I indeed, nor pride——”
But she retorted, half sobbing15, “Gaston, I almost think that if you were to be told you could have your life for the asking, you would not ask for it!”
Mercifully she could not guess that the sudden closer tension of his arms about her told how her shot had gone home, nor that her head almost rested at that moment on Hyde de Neuville’s letter. As for Gaston himself, who knew how truly, indeed, she had unwittingly spoken, he dared not take up her challenge. So he said, as calmly as he could, “My dearest, you are overwrought. And, Valentine, can you think that I should allow you to put yourself to a useless humiliation17, you whom I love more than my life? For I do not think Mme Bonaparte would have any influence in the matter, and if she had, I dislike the idea of bribing18 her to use it, as much as you do, I am sure, in your heart. No, we will trust to that clever and audacious young man, Hyde de Neuville, with all the means he has at his disposal. To come and demand a prisoner with a forged order and a fictitious19 escort will be child’s play to him. And some day I will tell you the very good reason I have for not wishing my life to be begged by anyone. On the faith of a gentleman it is not merely pride. But for the present you must trust me.”
The present. He could speak of it like that! Then he really thought that there might be a future in which he would be a free man? Did he, did he? She looked hard at him, and suddenly out of the past shot the remembrance of that very different struggle which had ended their life at Mirabel. Then she had pleaded with him to do something worthy20 of himself; now . . . was it possible that she was urging him to consent to something unworthy? If that were so, thank God that he was, as before, unmoved. And as she studied the fine, rather worn profile she realised, too, how much less stern were the lines of his mouth. He had asked a little while ago, in jest, if she thought his brief captivity had changed him. But it was true; there was a deep change in him. The profound depression of those last days at La Vergne was gone. Why?
“Gaston,” she said on an impulse, “you are happier than when we parted.”
He turned his head, looked down into her eyes, and smiled. “You can guess why, my soul—you who know what was spared me. God was kind to me. The wine was poured, but I did not drink it. I never had to give up my sword; I never did consent to disarmament. And Finistère is saved all the same. Have I not reason to be happier?”
“And yet—O Gaston, Gaston, I must say it—if only you had listened to M. de Brencourt’s warning!”
He got up from the bed. “M. de Brencourt, I trust, has received the message I sent by M. Camain?”
“Yes,” said Valentine. “He sent one back by me to-day; that he accepted your apology. But he said—and it distressed21 me, Gaston—that he ought never to have brought the message himself. Your disbelief, he seemed to think, was his Nemesis22.”
“That is true,” said her husband a little coldly. “To this hour I do not see how I could have believed in his good faith. But—I have been wanting to say this to you, my dearest—nothing could have made any difference. You think that if I had listened to his warning I should not be here to-day, nor those poor boys lying at Hennebont. But as far as I am concerned it would have been just the same. I must have gone to Vannes to give up my sword, even were I sure that I was walking into a snare23. For if, scenting24 a trap, I had not gone, what would have happened? Brune would have stoutly25 denied the intended treachery, I should have been branded as failing to redeem26 my pledge, and Finistère would have been invaded after all. Do you not see that even if I had believed de Brencourt I could have done no differently?”
She looked up at him a moment, standing27 there with a prison wall for background. No, he could have done no differently, whatever a man with less strict a sense of honour might have done.
“You are you!” she said proudly. “But I will point out that aspect to the Comte—for he has suffered, Gaston. . . . But, my darling, there is something else I want to ask you.” She paused a moment. “If you will not let me beg your life, and I”—she faltered28 a little—“I accept your wishes . . . what is to happen if the plan for to-morrow fails? Will Bonaparte keep you in prison for years, perhaps?”
And the human spirit has such strange recesses29 that it really seemed to her that by throwing out this suggestion in words she could make it real, avoid a worse. For at Vannes they had told her——
Gaston de Trélan went suddenly over to the stove, and held out his hands for a moment to its warmth. His back was towards her. Then, sitting down beside her on the bed again, he said lightly, “He is not likely to have the chance of doing that—unless he captures me a second time.”
She saw that he was evading30 her. “Yes,” she broke in, seizing his arm, “I know; we have spoken about that. But the best plans sometimes fail. What then? Gaston, as you love me . . . Gaston, answer me!”
He looked down at the little hand gripping his arm, and after a moment put his other hand over it. “My wife, can you not see that the First Consul, a soldier himself, would not incur31 the odium of an almost unparalleled piece of military treachery unless it were worth his while? . . . My dear, there is no braver woman than you. I do you the honour, therefore, of telling you the truth. No, he will not keep me in prison. If I am not rescued I shall undoubtedly32 be shot . . . as an—example.”
She was answered. Her hand relaxed upon his arm, and he hastily slipped the arm itself about her as she fell away from him. But Valentine pulled herself still further away.
“Then I am going to disregard your wishes, Gaston! You do not know what you are saying. I give you fair warning. I am going to Mme Bonaparte—to the First Consul himself! You expect me to stand by and see you murdered when I might save you! What is your pride—which you cannot deny—against your life . . . and Gaston, Gaston, against my love for you, which you treat so lightly!”
He slipped to his knees and caught her hands to his breast. “O, my more than dear, do not say that!” he implored33. “Is not your love for me all the light I have in the world? But at this hour there is something that calls more insistently34 even than love—something that, if it has to do with pride, is not linked with personal pride. I mean—honour. And you could not gain me my life if you asked—I am sure of it—yet if you were to make the attempt——”
But Valentine broke in with desperate logic35. “You cannot know that I should fail! How could you? You cannot be sure till it has been tried. And I shall try! Then you can talk of failure!”
Gaston knelt there as pale as she. Surely, surely, he could find some way to stay her without revealing the cruel knowledge he had—that only he himself could ever be successful in an entreaty36 which even she could not move him to make.
“Valentine, sooner than think of you on your knees to that man I would go on my own—if that were conceivable. But it is not conceivable—not if he had a pardon ready sealed in his hand, not if he held it out to me! Think a moment, heart of my heart, and face it! When did any captured Breton or Vendean, even the humblest peasant, ever ask for mercy? Thousands of them have laid down their lives readily in the cause they fought for, and hundreds of gentlemen, too. And would you have me—through your mouth or my own it matters little—would you have me, a leader, be the first in either of those lists to play the recreant37? Was it for that you wrought16 and gave me that scarf there—that when the crucial moment came I should deal the cause it represents such a stab in the back as my humiliation would be? Think of our enemies saying, ‘At the last moment the Duc de Trélan’s heart failed him, and he humbly38 besought39 the First Consul for his life.’ How would that sound in the streets of Paris next week . . . and when the King comes back?”
“But, Gaston,” she said, those lips quivering, “for the cause you have done more than enough. You have done everything that mortal man could do, you, the last in arms—more than Cadoudal, who was so strong—more than all the rest!”
“And all in vain,” he finished sadly.
“No devotion is in vain!”
He smiled suddenly, the smile, somehow, of a young man. “My darling, that is what I have been trying to say. There are two sides to being made an ‘example’ of.”
But at that she gave a sharp exclamation41 and put her hands over her eyes.
Her husband’s face became still more drawn42. “Valentine,” he said tenderly, but very gravely, “have you forgotten the night I came, when the tide of fortune was ebbing43, to La Vergne. It was your name day; not three weeks have passed since then. That night, my very dear, my heart of hearts, my fleur-de-lys, you understood—wonderfully—and you gave me leave to die!”
“But not like this—not like this!” she cried distractedly. “O blessed saints, help me! Why did I ever say that! I meant—in the fighting . . . and I thought the need for it was past with the surrender. O Gaston, Gaston, you are killing44 me!”
Indeed it seemed like it. Her head went down to her very knees, and the wrenching45 sobs46 shook her from head to foot. The price was more than she could pay! He was now, through and through, what once she would almost have given her soul to see him. But the cost, the cost of it! . . . She saw, dimly, horribly, what he meant—the damage his death would do to Bonaparte’s reputation. It broke her, strong as she was. And, no longer rebellious47 but purely48 suppliant49, she threw herself on his neck as he knelt there beside the little prison bed, pleaded with him, besought him, implored him—and all in vain.
It almost broke Gaston too, since for him there was also the strain of keeping from her any suspicion of what he knew about Bonaparte’s real desire, but his man’s, his soldier’s will held firm against the lover’s. Extravagant50 perhaps, even fanatical, but none could say ignoble51, his intention was fixed52. If the attempt at rescue failed, if the First Consul meant to consummate53 his treachery, he must do it. There was no more to say.
In the end Valentine was, if not acquiescent54, at least vanquished55. No, she would not go to Mme Bonaparte; she gave him her word. No, she would not even lend the countenance56 of her name to any of the protests now being made in certain quarters. Yes, she would even acknowledge that, theoretically, he was right. . . . Beaten and shivering, she half lay in his arms, and composure, the composure of exhaustion57, began to come back to them both after the combat, and for a little while they were able to talk of other things, far away and dear. . . .
A warning knock came at the door.
“Good God!” exclaimed Gaston, “is the time nearly up, then? And we have spent so much of it in . . . conflict!”
He looked at her with eyes full of love and a very white smile on his lips. And all Valentine’s soul was in the gaze with which she met his in her answer:
“Forgive me for my foolishness! It is over now. I would not have you otherwise than victor—for now I see you at your full stature58. And I . . . who once presumed to criticise59 you—I am at your feet . . . in worship.”
Her voice died out of existence under his sudden passionate60 kisses. His own was shaking as he said between them, almost fiercely, “You must not say that, Valentine, you must not say that! O my dear, my dear, how can we part, how can I——”
The knock came once more. He stopped abruptly61, set his teeth, loosed the tension of his hold, and after a second or two stood up, quite steady and composed again, drawing her gently with him.
“Who brought you here, my darling?”
“Roland,” she answered. “He is waiting out there all this while, poor boy. And, Gaston, he is heartbroken. He thinks they ought all to have been killed before they let you be taken. Not even the message you sent him at Vannes seems to comfort him.”
Gaston sighed. “Poor Roland! And he is just outside? Cannot he come in for a moment? Surely, Valentine, I am absolved62 now from my promise to de Carné. I should like to tell him.”
“My heart, he knows, these seven days. I told him at Vannes. I had made no promise.”
“God bless you!” said her husband, raising her hand to his lips.
“Gaston, ask to see him,” she suggested. “The pass was for one or more members of the family. Tell the gaoler that he is your son.”
“You would allow that?”
“I should wish it. It is the only way to see him.”
“My saint!” He kissed her hand again. “Very well. Old Bernard is an excellent soul; he will not be particular to a minute or two. But do not go, my darling! I want yours to be the last presence in this room to-day.”
But Valentine shook her head with a little smile. “These are his moments. I will come back afterwards.”
One long embrace and they separated as the door swung open. Outside could be heard the click of steel as the sentries63 crossed their bayonets over the aperture64. But, before Valentine going out, they uncrossed for a second.
“I should like to see the Vicomte de Céligny for a minute or two,” said Gaston to the gaoler.
“Only members of the family, Monseigneur,” returned the precise old man, shaking his head. “I have very strict orders.”
“But since he is my son!” retorted M. de Trélan, in the most natural tone possible. “Come,” he went on, as the old man looked incredulous, “you are sufficiently65 old-fashioned to call me Monseigneur, and yet you affect not to know that the son of a duke rarely bears the same title as his father. Besides, if you doubt me, go and look at him!”
“Well, well,” said old Bernard, “if he is your son the order covers him, though his name is not on it. You swear that he is your son, Monsieur le Duc?”
“Yes, I swear it,” answered Gaston.
What a strange person and place to receive the first public avowal66 of his relationship to Roland! He leant against the table and put his hand over his eyes, for indeed the victory he had won in the last hour was only less prostrating67 than a defeat. When he removed it, Roland was through the door, was on one knee before him, trying to seize his hand and kiss it, and half sobbing out the old appellation68, “Monsieur le Marquis! Monsieur le Marquis!”
Gaston stooped and raised him. “Am I only that to you, Roland, my son, my son!”
And, actually in his father’s arms, the warring tides of emotion in the boy’s breast were stilled. He hid his face there, trembling a little. But Gaston said never a word till he took his son’s head between his hands and lifted it. “You are like your mother,” he said in a low voice, looking into his eyes. “You may think of me as you like, Roland, but of her you must think as you have always done. The blame was mine, and mine alone.” And he kissed him.
With his hero’s kiss on his forehead, Roland was in no state to apportion69 blame between that hero in his mortal peril70, and the mother whom he did not remember. He drew a long breath and said, “If only I can be what your son ought to be, sir!”
Gaston smiled rather sadly. “Take a better example, my child. But there is one way in which you can—no, I think I have really no need to point it out to you. If I am shot, Mme de Trélan——”
Roland clutched his arm. “Don’t use that word, sir—I cannot bear it! For it is our fault, all this—we failed you! And we had hoped to die with you!”
“But, my dear boy, that was just what I did not want—and you must allow your general some say in the matter. That was why I hoped the business would be quickly over, and why I was so much distressed to hear from M. Camain what happened after I was gone. You have no further news of the others yet, I suppose?”
Roland shook his head. “But it was thought, when we passed through Hennebont, that Artamène would eventually recover, though he was too ill to know us. . . . Monsieur le Duc, I have never understood why it happened just at that moment—your arrest?”
“Because, directly after you left the room, Roland, I was recognised by a woman whom I had once known slightly. The comedy was that I failed to recognise her at the time—though I have realised since who she was—and that she had no idea, poor soul, of what she was bringing on me. But it made no difference; they would have taken me at Auray, if not at Hennebont; even if I had reached Vannes a free man I should not long have remained so. That came out very clearly at my—trial. So you see there is nothing to be distressed about.”
But Roland thought otherwise. Had the arrest been attempted on the highroad there would have been a chance which there never had been in that trap of a room. He had a vision of a great fight in the open, in which they three should have laid down their lives indeed, and their leader spurred away, free. He sighed disconsolately71.
“Mme de Trélan spoke of going to Mme Bonaparte,” he remarked.
“I would not sanction it,” said his father quietly. “Besides, it would be useless.”
“You mean,” said Roland, biting his lips to keep back certain unmanly evidences of emotion, “that you are sure the First Consul is absolutely determined72 to . . .”
Gaston did not answer for a moment. Then he took a letter out of his coat. “No,” he said quietly, “as it happens that is just what I do not mean. On the contrary. For a person of his extreme decision he appears to be uncomfortable. Read that, Roland; but first give me your word that you will not tell the Duchesse.”
“I give you my word, sir—as your son,” said Roland, throwing back his head.
But as he read it some colour came back to his face.
“My God! Then, Mon——”
“Mon père, I hope you were going to say,” interposed M. de Trélan smiling, as he took the letter from his suddenly shaking hand and tore it across. “No, my son, there are some things that one does not do, and one is, to play, in a situation such as mine, the enemy’s game. You see from that letter what—as far as any mortal can penetrate73 into his heart—the First Consul would like to happen—and therefore, quite plainly, it is just what shall not happen. Either he must release me of his own act, unconditionally—a step which is extremely improbable—or he must go on to the end. That end he will regret . . . for his own sake.” He opened the door of the stove, and threw in the paper. “I have shown you that letter, Roland,” he went on, turning to him again, “because you are a man now, but I have particularly kept the knowledge of what it says from the Duchesse; still more must it be kept from her if I die. It would make it too hard for her . . . you understand? I fear I have made it hard enough as it is . . . You can tell her, if you like, some day—years hence. And I want you to warn the Comte de Brencourt and M. Hyde de Neuville not to let her know on any account—if I die, that is. If I escape, it is of no consequence.”
“If you escape!” cried Roland feverishly74, “but you shall escape! That plan—if only I might take part in it! But Mon—mon père, I have been thinking out there . . . I am not so tall as you, but since I am like you a little (though I never knew it), if you would but get into my clothes now and go away with Mme de Trélan while I——”
“My dearest boy,” said Gaston, touched and laughing too, as he put his arm round his shoulders, “that thousand-year-old device! As if I could pass for a young man of twenty! Alas75, never again! But I have every confidence in . . . the official scheme for to-morrow evening. Yet in case——” He slipped the emerald ring with the phoenix76 off his finger and put it on Roland’s.
A quiver ran through the boy. He clasped the hand thus decorated to his breast as though it were wounded. “Then you have not every confidence . . . O mon père, take it back!”
“I will take it back when I am free,” replied his father, smiling. “A loan, you see.—Here is my patient Bernard.” He took him in his arms and kissed him on either cheek. “Be happy with Marthe—she shall wear the rubies77 after all. And try to get your grandfather, some day, to think less hardly of me.”
Roland, shaking with the sobs he was striving so hard to suppress, said almost inaudibly, “But he does. I have had a letter. He is greatly distressed.”
“Then I have gained something by being sentenced to death,” thought Gaston to himself, with a rather grim amusement. “You must go, my boy,” he said aloud. “And God go with you, always!”
He watched his son walk, blind with tears, to the door, and then made a sign to the gaoler. “Give us one last moment, Bernard, for pity’s sake!” For, before the bayonets could cross themselves again, Valentine had slipped in, and come straight into his arms where he stood under that heartbreaking window. And Bernard compassionately78 went out again and closed the door.
“If the plan fails, Gaston, is this the last time?” (How could anyone who was so white speak so steadily14?)
“No, no—they will certainly let me see you again.” His own voice was not quite steady.
“You are sure? I—a woman does not know about these things.”
“Yes, I am sure of it. If it comes to that, I shall have you in my arms once again, my dearest, dearest heart!” Yet he held her now as if that time had come. “Moreover, I do not believe the plan will fail. But, my darling, I have not been torturing you unnecessarily, in speaking of . . . the other alternative. It is only because, as God has given us at the end of summer to be one in life, I want you to understand that to die now would be to me no defeat or loss—to understand so that we might still be one . . . even if we had to part. . . .”
“Death could never take you from me,” she answered.
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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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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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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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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intonation
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ruby
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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infamy
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violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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steadily
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sobbing
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wrought
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humiliation
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bribing
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fictitious
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worthy
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distressed
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nemesis
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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scenting
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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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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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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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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ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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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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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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prostrating
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的现在分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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apportion
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| vt.（按比例或计划）分配 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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75
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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76
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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