“Selh que m blasma vostr’ amor ni m defen
Non podon far en re mon cor mellor,
Ni’l dous dezir qu’ieu ai de vos major,
Ni l’enveya’ ni’l dezir, ni’l talen.”
THE FIFTH NOVEL.—PHILIPPA OF HAINAULT DARES TO LOVE UNTHRIFTILY, AND WITH THE PRODIGALITY1 OF HER AFFECTION SHAMES TREACHERY, AND COMMON-SENSE, AND HIGH ROMANCE, QUITE STOLIDLY3; BUT, AS LOVING GOES, IS OVERTOPPED BY HER MORE STOLID2 SQUIRE4.
The Story of the Housewife
In the year of grace 1326, upon Walburga’s Eve, some three hours after sunset (thus Nicolas begins), had you visited a certain garden on the outskirts5 of Valenciennes, you might there have stumbled upon a big, handsome boy, prone6 on the turf, where by turns he groaned7 and vented8 himself in sullen9 curses. His profanity had its palliation. Heir to England though he was, you must know that this boy’s father in the flesh had hounded him from England, as more recently had the lad’s uncle Charles the Handsome driven him from France. Now had this boy and his mother (the same Queen Ysabeau about whom I have told you in the preceding tale) come as suppliants10 to the court of that stalwart nobleman Sire William (Count of Hainault, Holland, and Zealand, and Lord of Friesland), where their arrival had evoked11 the suggestion that they depart at their earliest convenience. To-morrow, then, these footsore royalties12, the Queen of England and the Prince of Wales, would be thrust out-of-doors to resume the weary beggarship, to knock again upon the obdurate14 gates of this unsympathizing king or that deaf emperor.
Accordingly the boy aspersed15 his destiny. At hand a nightingale carolled as though an exiled prince were the blithest spectacle the moon knew.
There came through the garden a tall girl, running, stumbling in her haste. “Hail, King of England!” she said.
“Do not mock me, Philippa!” the boy half-sobbed. Sulkily he rose to his feet.
“No mockery here, my fair sweet friend. No, I have told my father all which happened yesterday. I pleaded for you. He questioned me very closely. And when I had ended, he stroked his beard, and presently struck one hand upon the table. ‘Out of the mouth of babes!’ he said. Then he said: ‘My dear, I believe for certain that this lady and her son have been driven from their kingdom wrongfully. If it be for the good of God to comfort the afflicted16, how much more is it commendable17 to help and succor18 one who is the daughter of a king, descended19 from royal lineage, and to whose blood we ourselves are related!’ And accordingly he and your mother have their heads together yonder, planning an invasion of England, no less, and the dethronement of your wicked father, my Edward. And accordingly—hail, King of England!” The girl clapped her hands gleefully. The nightingale sang.
But the boy kept momentary20 silence. Not even in youth were the men of his race handicapped by excessively tender hearts; yesterday in the shrubbery the boy had kissed this daughter of Count William, in part because she was a healthy and handsome person, and partly because great benefit might come of an alliance with her father. Well! the Prince had found chance-taking not unfortunate. With the episode as foundation, Count William had already builded up the future queenship of England. The strong Count could do—and, as it seemed, was now in train to do—indomitable deeds to serve his son-in-law; and now the beggar of five minutes since foresaw himself, with this girl’s love as ladder, mounting to the high habitations of the King of England, the Lord of Ireland, and the Duke of Aquitaine. Thus they would herald21 him.
So he embraced the girl. “Hail, Queen of England!” said the Prince; and then, “If I forget—” His voice broke awkwardly. “My dear, if ever I forget—!” Their lips met now. The nightingale discoursed23 as if on a wager24.
Presently was mingled25 with the bird’s descant26 another kind of singing. Beyond the yew-hedge as these two stood silent, breast to breast, passed young Jehan Kuypelant, one of the pages, fitting to the accompaniment of a lute27 his paraphrase28 of the song which Archilochus of Sicyon very anciently made in honor of Venus Melaenis, the tender Venus of the Dark.
At a gap in the hedge the young Brabanter paused. His singing ended, gulped29. These two, who stood heart hammering against heart, saw for an instant Jehan Kuypelant’s lean face silvered by the moonlight, his mouth a tiny abyss. Followed the beat of lessening30 footfalls, while the nightingale improvised31 an envoi.
Sang Jehan Kuypelant:
For all that the litany ceased
And set astir in the temple
Yet hearken, (the issue is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!
“For I have followed, nor faltered—
Adrift in a land of dreams
Where laughter and pity and terror
I have seen and adored the Sidonian,
Implacable, fair and divine—
To hearken, (the issue is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!”
It is time, however, that we quit this subject and speak of other matters. Just twenty years later, on one August day in the year of grace 1346, Master John Copeland—as men now called Jehan Kuypelant, now secretary to the Queen of England,—brought his mistress the unhandsome tidings that David Bruce had invaded her realm with forty thousand Scots to back him. The Brabanter found plump Queen Philippa with the kingdom’s arbitress—Dame41 Catherine de Salisbury, whom King Edward, third of that name to reign42 in Britain, and now warring in France, very notoriously adored and obeyed.
This king, indeed, had been despatched into France chiefly, they narrate43, to release the Countess’ husband, William de Montacute, from the French prison of the Châtelet. You may appraise44 her dominion45 by this fact: chaste46 and shrewd, she had denied all to King Edward, and in consequence he could deny her nothing; so she sent him to fetch back her husband, whom she almost loved. That armament had sailed from Southampton on Saint George’s day.
These two women, then, shared the Brabanter’s execrable news. Already Northumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham were the broken meats of King David.
The Countess presently exclaimed: “Let them weep for this that must! My place is not here.”
“Madame and Queen,” the Countess answered, “in this world every man must scratch his own back. My lord has entrusted49 to me his castle of Wark, his fiefs in Northumberland. These, I hear, are being laid waste. Were there a thousand men-at-arms left in England I would say fight. As it is, our men are yonder in France and the island is defenceless. Accordingly I ride for the north to make what terms I may with the King of Scots.”
Now you might have seen the Queen’s eye brighten. “Undoubtedly,” said she, “in her lord’s absence it is the wife’s part to defend his belongings50. And my lord’s fief is England. I bid you God-speed, Catherine.” And when the Countess was gone, Philippa turned, her round face somewhat dazed and flushed. “She betrays him! she compounds with the Scot! Mother of Christ, let me not fail!”
“A ship must be despatched to bid Sire Edward return,” said the secretary. “Otherwise all England is lost.”
“Not so, John Copeland! We must let Sire Edward complete his overrunning of France, if such be the Trinity’s will. You know perfectly51 well that he has always had a fancy to conquer France; and if I bade him return now he would be vexed52.”
“The disappointment of the King,” John Copeland considered, “is a smaller evil than allowing all of us to be butchered.”
“Not to me, John Copeland,” the Queen said.
Now came many lords into the chamber53, seeking Madame Philippa. “We must make peace with the Scottish rascal54!—England is lost!—A ship must be sent entreating56 succor of Sire Edward!” So they shouted.
“Messieurs,” said Queen Philippa, “who commands here? Am I, then, some woman of the town?”
Ensued a sudden silence. John Copeland, standing57 by the seaward window, had picked up a lute and was fingering the instrument half-idly. Now the Marquess of Hastings stepped from the throng58. “Pardon, Highness. But the occasion is urgent.”
Sang John Copeland:
“There are taller lads than Atys,
And many are wiser than he,—
How should I heed them?—whose fate is
Ever to serve and to be
Ever the lover of Atys,
And die that Atys may dine,
Live if he need me—Then heed me,
And speed me, (the moment is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!
“Fair is the form unbeholden,
And golden the glory of thee
Whose voice is the voice of a vision
And the fall of whose feet is the flutter
Of breezes in birches and pine,
When thou drawest near me, to hear me,
And cheer me, (the moment is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!”
I must tell you that the Queen shivered, as if with extreme cold. She gazed toward John Copeland wonderingly. The secretary was fretting63 at his lutestrings, with his head downcast. Then in a while the Queen turned to Hastings.
“The occasion is very urgent, my lord,” the Queen assented. “Therefore it is my will that to-morrow one and all your men be mustered65 at Blackheath. We will take the field without delay against the King of Scots.”
The riot began anew. “Madness!” they shouted; “lunar madness! We can do nothing until our King returns with our army!”
“In his absence,” the Queen said, “I command here.”
“You are not Regent,” the Marquess answered. Then he cried, “This is the Regent’s affair!”
“Let the Regent be fetched,” Dame Philippa said, very quietly. They brought in her son, Messire Lionel, now a boy of eight years, and, in the King’s absence, Regent of England.
Both the Queen and the Marquess held papers. “Highness,” Lord Hastings began, “for reasons of state which I lack time to explain, this document requires your signature. It is an order that a ship be despatched to ask the King’s return. Your Highness may remember the pony66 you admired yesterday?” The Marquess smiled ingratiatingly. “Just here, your Highness—a crossmark.”
“The dappled one?” said the Regent; “and all for making a little mark?” The boy jumped for the pen.
“Lionel,” said the Queen, “you are Regent of England, but you are also my son. If you sign that paper you will beyond doubt get the pony, but you will not, I think, care to ride him. You will not care to sit down at all, Lionel.”
The Regent considered. “Thank you very much, my lord,” he said in the ultimate, “but I do not like ponies67 any more. Do I sign here, Mother?”
Philippa handed the Marquess a subscribed68 order to muster64 the English forces at Blackheath; then another, closing the English ports. “My lords,” the Queen said, “this boy is the King’s vicar. In defying him, you defy the King. Yes, Lionel, you have fairly earned a pot of jam for supper.”
Then Hastings went away without speaking. That night assembled at his lodgings69, by appointment, Viscount Heringaud, Adam Frere, the Marquess of Orme, Lord Stourton, the Earls of Neville and Gage70, and Sir Thomas Rokeby. These seven found a long table there littered with pens and parchment; to the rear of it, with a lackey71 behind him, sat the Marquess of Hastings, meditative72 over a cup of Bordeaux.
Presently Hastings said: “My friends, in creating our womankind the Maker73 of us all was beyond doubt actuated by laudable and cogent74 reasons; so that I can merely lament75 my inability to fathom76 these reasons. I shall obey the Queen faithfully, since if I did otherwise Sire Edward would have my head off within a day of his return. In consequence, I do not consider it convenient to oppose his vicar. To-morrow I shall assemble the tatters of troops which remain to us, and to-morrow we march northward77 to inevitable78 defeat. To-night I am sending a courier into Northumberland. He is an obliging person, and would convey—to cite an instance—eight letters quite as blithely79 as one.”
Each man glanced furtively80 about. England was in a panic by this, and knew itself to lie before the Bruce defenceless. The all-powerful Countess of Salisbury had compounded with King David; now Hastings, too, their generalissimo, compounded. What the devil! loyalty81 was a sonorous82 word, and so was patriotism83, but, after all, one had estates in the north.
The seven wrote in silence. I must tell you that when they had ended, Hastings gathered the letters into a heap, and without glancing at the superscriptures, handed all these letters to the attendant lackey. “For the courier,” he said.
The fellow left the apartment. Presently you heard a departing clatter84 of hoofs85, and Hastings rose. He was a gaunt, terrible old man, gray-bearded, and having high eyebrows86 that twitched87 and jerked.
“We have saved our precious skins,” said he. “Hey, you fidgeters, you ferments88 of sour offal! I commend your common-sense, messieurs, and I request you to withdraw. Even a damned rogue89 such as I has need of a cleaner atmosphere in order to breathe comfortably.” The seven went away without further speech.
They narrate that next day the troops marched for Durham, where the Queen took up her quarters. The Bruce had pillaged90 and burned his way to a place called Beaurepair, within three miles of the city. He sent word to the Queen that if her men were willing to come forth91 from the town he would abide92 and give them battle.
She replied that she accepted his offer, and that the barons94 would gladly risk their lives for the realm of their lord the King. The Bruce grinned and kept silence, since he had in his pocket letters from most of them protesting they would do nothing of the sort.
Here is comedy. On one side you have a horde95 of half-naked savages96, a shrewd master holding them in leash97 till the moment be auspicious98; on the other, a housewife at the head of a tiny force lieutenanted by perjurers, by men already purchased. God knows what dreams she had of miraculous99 victories, while her barons trafficked in secret with the Bruce. It is recorded that, on the Saturday before Michaelmas, when the opposing armies marshalled in the Bishop100’s Park, at Auckland, not a captain on either side believed the day to be pregnant with battle. There would be a decent counterfeit101 of resistance; afterward102 the little English army would vanish pell-mell, and the Bruce would be master of the island. The farce103 was prearranged, the actors therein were letter-perfect.
That morning at daybreak John Copeland came to the Queen’s tent, and informed her quite explicitly104 how matters stood. He had been drinking overnight with Adam Frere and the Earl of Gage, and after the third bottle had found them candid105. “Madame and Queen, we are betrayed. The Marquess of Hastings, our commander, is inexplicably106 smitten107 with a fever. He will not fight to-day. Not one of your lords will fight to-day.” Master Copeland laid bare such part of the scheme as yesterday’s conviviality108 had made familiar. “Therefore I counsel retreat. Let the King be summoned out of France.”
Queen Philippa shook her head, as she cut up squares of toast and dipped them in milk for the Regent’s breakfast. “Sire Edward would be vexed. He has always wanted to conquer France. I shall visit the Marquess as soon as Lionel is fed,—do you know, John Copeland, I am anxious about Lionel; he is irritable109 and coughed five times during the night,—and then I will attend to this affair.”
She found the Marquess in bed, groaning110, the coverlet pulled up to his chin. “Pardon, Highness,” said Lord Hastings, “but I am an ill man. I cannot rise from this couch.”
“I do not question the gravity of your disorder,” the Queen retorted, “since it is well known that the same illness brought about the death of Iscariot. Nevertheless, I bid you get up and lead our troops against the Scot.”
Now the hand of the Marquess veiled his countenance111. “I am an ill man,” he muttered, doggedly112. “I cannot rise from this couch.”
There was a silence.
“My lord,” the Queen presently began, “without is an army prepared—yes, and quite able—to defend our England. The one requirement of this army is a leader. Afford them that, my lord—ah, I know that our peers are sold to the Bruce, yet our yeomen at least are honest. Give them, then, a leader, and they cannot but conquer, since God also is honest and incorruptible. Pardieu! a woman might lead these men, and lead them to victory!”
Hastings answered: “I am ill. I cannot rise from this couch.”
“There is no man left in England,” said the Queen, “since Sire Edward went into France. Praise God, I am his wife!” She went away without flurry.
Through the tent-flap Hastings beheld113 all that which followed. The English force was marshalled in four divisions, each commanded by a bishop and a baron93. You could see the men fidgeting, puzzled by the delay; as a wind goes about a corn-field, vague rumors114 were going about those wavering spears. Toward them rode Philippa, upon a white palfrey, alone and perfectly tranquil115. Her eight lieutenants116 were now gathered about her in voluble protestation, and she heard them out. Afterward she spoke117, without any particular violence, as one might order a strange cur from his room. Then the Queen rode on, as though these eight declaiming persons had ceased to be of interest. She reined118 up before her standard-bearer, and took the standard in her hand. She began again to speak, and immediately the army was in an uproar120; the barons were clustering behind her, in stealthy groups of two or three whisperers each; all were in the greatest amazement121 and knew not what to do; but the army was shouting the Queen’s name.
“Now is England shamed,” said Hastings, “since a woman alone dares to encounter the Scot. She will lead them into battle—and by God! there is no braver person under heaven than yonder Dutch Frau! Friend David, I perceive that your venture is lost, for those men would follow her to storm hell if she desired it.”
A little afterward a gaunt and haggard old man, bareheaded and very hastily dressed, reined his horse by the Queen’s side. “Madame and Queen,” said Hastings, “I rejoice that my recent illness is departed. I shall, by God’s grace, on this day drive the Bruce from England.”
Philippa was not given to verbiage124. Doubtless she had her emotions, but none was visible upon the honest face. She rested one plump hand upon the big-veined hand of Hastings. That was all. “I welcome back the gallant125 gentleman of yesterday. I was about to lead your army, my friend, since there was no one else to do it, but I was hideously126 afraid. At bottom every woman is a coward.”
“You were afraid to do it,” said the Marquess, “but you were going to do it, because there was no one else to do it! Ho, madame! had I an army of such cowards I would drive the Scot not past the Border but beyond the Orkneys.”
The Queen then said, “But you are unarmed.”
“Highness,” he replied, “it is surely apparent that I, who have played the traitor127 to two monarchs129 within the same day, cannot with either decency130 or comfort survive that day.” He turned upon the lords and bishops131 twittering about his horse’s tail. “You merchandise, get back to your stations, and if there was ever an honest woman in any of your families, the which I doubt, contrive132 to get yourselves killed this day, as I mean to do, in the cause of the honestest and bravest woman our time has known.” Immediately the English forces marched toward Merrington.
Philippa returned to her pavilion and inquired for John Copeland. She was informed that he had ridden off, armed, in company with five of her immediate119 retainers. She considered this strange, but made no comment.
You picture her, perhaps, as spending the morning in prayer, in beatings upon her breast, and in lamentations. Philippa did nothing of the sort. She considered her cause to be so clamantly just that to expatiate133 to the Holy Father upon its merits would be an impertinence; it was not conceivable that He would fail her; and in any event, she had in hand a deal of sewing which required immediate attention. Accordingly she settled down to her needlework, while the Regent of England leaned his head against her knee, and his mother told him that ageless tale of Lord Huon, who in a wood near Babylon encountered the King of Faëry, and subsequently bereaved134 an atrocious Emir of his beard and daughter. All this the industrious135 woman narrated136 in a low and pleasant voice, while the wide-eyed Regent attended and at the proper intervals137 gulped his cough-mixture.
You must know that about noon Master John Copeland came into the tent. “We have conquered,” he said. “Now, by the Face!”—thus, scoffingly138, he used her husband’s favorite oath,—“now, by the Face! there was never a victory more complete! The Scottish army is fled, it is as utterly139 dispersed140 from man’s seeing as are the sands which dried the letters King Ahasuerus gave the admirable Esther!”
“I rejoice,” the Queen said, looking up from her sewing, “that we have conquered, though in nature I expected nothing else—Oh, horrible!” She sprang to her feet with a cry of anguish141. Here in little you have the entire woman; the victory of her armament was to her a thing of course, since her cause was just, whereas the loss of two front teeth by John Copeland was a calamity142.
He drew her toward the tent-flap, which he opened. Without was a mounted knight143, in full panoply144, his arms bound behind him, surrounded by the Queen’s five retainers. “In the rout145 I took him,” said John Copeland; “though, as my mouth witnesses, I did not find this David Bruce a tractable146 prisoner.”
“Is that, then, the King of Scots?” Philippa demanded, as she mixed salt and water for a mouthwash. “Sire Edward should be pleased, I think. Will he not love me a little now, John Copeland?”
John Copeland lifted both plump hands toward his lips. “He could not choose,” John Copeland said; “madame, he could no more choose but love you than I could choose.”
Philippa sighed. Afterward she bade John Copeland rinse147 his gums and then take his prisoner to Hastings. He told her the Marquess was dead, slain148 by the Knight of Liddesdale. “That is a pity,” the Queen said. She reflected a while, reached her decision. “There is left alive in England but one man to whom I dare entrust48 the keeping of the King of Scots. My barons are sold to him; if I retain Messire David by me, one or another lord will engineer his escape within the week, and Sire Edward will be vexed. Yet listen, John—” She unfolded her plan.
“I have long known,” he said, when she had done, “that in all the world there was no lady more lovable. Twenty years I have loved you, my Queen, and yet it is only to-day I perceive that in all the world there is no lady more wise than you.”
Philippa touched his cheek, maternally149. “Foolish boy! You tell me the King of Scots has an arrow-wound in his nose? I think a bread poultice would be best.” She told him how to make this poultice, and gave other instructions. Then John Copeland left the tent and presently rode away with his company.
Philippa saw that the Regent had his dinner, and afterward mounted her white palfrey and set out for the battle-field. There the Earl of Neville, as second in command, received her with great courtesy. God had shown to her Majesty150’s servants most singular favor: despite the calculations of reasonable men,—to which, she might remember, he had that morning taken the liberty to assent,—some fifteen thousand Scots were slain. True, her gallant general was no longer extant, though this was scarcely astounding151 when one considered the fact that he had voluntarily entered the mêlée quite unarmed. A touch of age, perhaps; Hastings was always an eccentric man: in any event, as epilogue, this Neville congratulated the Queen that—by blind luck, he was forced to concede,—her worthy152 secretary had made a prisoner of the Scottish King. Doubtless, Master Copeland was an estimable scribe, and yet—Ah, yes, Lord Neville quite followed her Majesty—beyond doubt, the wardage of a king was an honor not lightly to be conferred. Oh, yes, he understood; her Majesty desired that the office should be given some person of rank. And pardie! her Majesty was in the right. Eh? said the Earl of Neville.
Intently gazing into the man’s shallow eyes, Philippa assented. Master Copeland had acted unwarrantably in riding off with his captive. Let him be sought at once. She dictated153 to Neville’s secretary a letter, which informed John Copeland that he had done what was not agreeable in purloining154 her prisoner. Let him without delay deliver the King to her good friend the Earl of Neville.
To Neville this was satisfactory, since he intended that once in his possession David Bruce should escape forthwith. The letter, I repeat, suited this smirking155 gentleman in its tiniest syllable156, and the single difficulty was to convey it to John Copeland, for as to his whereabouts neither Neville nor any one else had the least notion.
This was immaterial, however, for they narrate that next day a letter signed with John Copeland’s name was found pinned to the front of Neville’s tent. I cite a passage therefrom: “I will not give up my royal prisoner to a woman or a child, but only to my own lord, Sire Edward, for to him I have sworn allegiance, and not to any woman. Yet you may tell the Queen she may depend on my taking excellent care of King David. I have poulticed his nose, as she directed.”
Here was a nonplus157, not without its comical side. Two great realms had met in battle, and the king of one of them had vanished like a soap-bubble. Philippa was in a rage,—you could see that both by her demeanor158 and by the indignant letters she dictated; true, none of these letters could be delivered, since they were all addressed to John Copeland. Meanwhile, Scotland was in despair, whereas the traitor English barons were in a frenzy159, because they did not know what had become of their fatal letters to the Bruce, or of him either. The circumstances were unique, and they remained unchanged for three feverish160 weeks.
We will now return to affairs in France, where on the day of the Nativity, as night gathered about Calais, John Copeland came unheralded to the quarters of King Edward, then besieging161 that city. Master Copeland entreated162 audience, and got it readily enough, since there was no man alive whom Sire Edward more cordially desired to lay his fingers upon.
A page brought Master Copeland to the King, that stupendous, blond and incredibly big person. With Sire Edward were that careful Italian, Almerigo di Pavia, who afterward betrayed Sire Edward, and a lean soldier whom Master Copeland recognized as John Chandos. These three were drawing up an account of the recent victory at Créçi, to be forwarded to all mayors and sheriffs in England, with a cogent postscript163 as to the King’s incidental and immediate need of money.
Now King Edward sat leaning far back in his chair, a hand on either hip13, and with his eyes narrowing as he regarded Master Copeland. Had the Brabanter flinched164, the King would probably have hanged him within the next ten minutes; finding his gaze unwavering, the King was pleased. Here was a novelty; most people blinked quite honestly under the scrutiny165 of those fierce big eyes, which were blue and cold and of an astounding lustre166. The lid of the left eye drooped167 a little: this was Count Manuel’s legacy168, they whispered.
The King rose with a jerk and took John Copeland’s hand. “Ha!” he grunted169, “I welcome the squire who by his valor170 has captured the King of Scots. And now, my man, what have you done with Davie?”
John Copeland answered: “Highness, you may find him at your convenience safely locked in Bamborough Castle. Meanwhile, I entreat55 you, sire, do not take it amiss if I did not surrender King David to the orders of my lady Queen, for I hold my lands of you, and not of her, and my oath is to you, and not to her, unless indeed by choice.”
“John,” the King sternly replied, “the loyal service you have done us is considerable, whereas your excuse for kidnapping Davie is a farce. Hey, Almerigo, do you and Chandos avoid the chamber! I have something in private with this fellow.” When they had gone, the King sat down and composedly said, “Now tell me the truth, John Copeland.”
“Sire,” Copeland began, “it is necessary you first understand I bear a letter from Madame Philippa—”
“Then read it,” said the King. “Heart of God! have I an eternity171 to waste on you slow-dealing Brabanters!”
John Copeland read aloud, while the King trifled with a pen, half negligent172, and in part attendant.
Read John Copeland:
“My DEAR LORD,—recommend me to your lordship with soul and body and all my poor might, and with all this I thank you, as my dear lord, dearest and best beloved of all earthly lords I protest to me, and thank you, my dear lord, with all this as I say before. Your comfortable letter came to me on Saint Gregory’s day, and I was never so glad as when I heard by your letter that ye were strong enough in Ponthieu by the grace of God for to keep you from your enemies. Among them I estimate Madame Catherine de Salisbury, who would have betrayed you to the Scot. And, dear lord, if it be pleasing to your high lordship that as soon as ye may that I might hear of your gracious speed, which may God Almighty173 continue and increase, I shall be glad, and also if ye do continue each night to chafe174 your feet with a rag of woollen stuff, as your physician directed. And, my dear lord, if it like you for to know of my fare, John Copeland will acquaint you concerning the Bruce his capture, and the syrup175 he brings for our son Lord Edward’s cough, and the great malice-workers in these shires which would have so despitefully wrought176 to you, and of the manner of taking it after each meal. I am lately informed that Madame Catherine is now at Stirling with Robert Stewart and has lost all her good looks through a fever. God is invariably gracious to His servants. Farewell, my dear lord, and may the Holy Trinity keep you from your adversaries177 and ever send me comfortable tidings of you. Written at York, in the Castle, on Saint Gregory’s day last past, by your own poor
“PHILIPPA.
“To my true lord.”
“H’m!” said the King; “and now give me the entire story.”
John Copeland obeyed. I must tell you that early in the narrative178 King Edward arose and strode toward a window. “Catherine!” he said. He remained motionless while Master Copeland went on without any manifest emotion. When he had ended, King Edward said, “And where is Madame de Salisbury now?”
At this the Brabanter went mad. As a leopard179 springs he leaped upon the King, and grasping him by each shoulder, shook that monarch128 as one punishing a child.
“Now by the splendor180 of God—!” King Edward began, very terrible in his wrath181. He saw that John Copeland held a dagger182 to his breast, and he shrugged. “Well, my man, you perceive I am defenceless.”
“First you will hear me out,” John Copeland said.
“It would appear,” the King retorted, “that I have little choice.”
At this time John Copeland began: “Sire, you are the mightiest183 monarch your race has known. England is yours, France is yours, conquered Scotland lies prostrate184 at your feet. To-day there is no other man in all the world who possesses a tithe185 of your glory; yet twenty years ago Madame Philippa first beheld you and loved you, an outcast, an exiled, empty-pocketed prince. Twenty years ago the love of Madame Philippa, great Count William’s daughter, got for you the armament with which England was regained186. Twenty years ago but for Madame Philippa you had died naked in some ditch.”
“Go on,” the King said presently.
“Afterward you took a fancy to reign in France. You learned then that we Brabanters are a frugal187 people: Madame Philippa was wealthy when she married you, and twenty years had quadrupled her private fortune. She gave you every penny of it that you might fit out this expedition; now her very crown is in pawn188 at Ghent. In fine, the love of Madame Philippa gave you France as lightly as one might bestow189 a toy upon a child who whined190 for it.”
The King fiercely said, “Go on.”
“Eh, sire, I intend to. You left England undefended that you might posture191 a little in the eyes of Europe. And meanwhile a woman preserves England, a woman gives you Scotland as a gift, and in return asks nothing—God have mercy on us!—save that you nightly chafe your feet with a bit of woollen. You hear of it—and inquire, ‘Where is Madame de Salisbury?’ Here beyond doubt is the cock of Aesop’s fable,” snarled192 John Copeland, “who unearthed193 a gem194 and grumbled195 that his diamond was not a grain of corn.”
“I say to you, then,” John Copeland continued, “that to-day you are master of Europe. I say to you that, but for this woman whom for twenty years you have neglected, you would to-day be mouldering197 in some pauper’s grave. Eh, without question, you most magnanimously loved that shrew of Salisbury! because you fancied the color of her eyes, Sire Edward, and admired the angle between her nose and her forehead. Minstrels unborn will sing of this great love of yours. Meantime I say to you”—now the man’s rage was monstrous—“I say to you, go home to your too-tedious wife, the source of all your glory! sit at her feet! and let her teach you what love is!” He flung away the dagger. “There you have the truth. Now summon your attendants, my très beau sire, and have me hanged.”
The King made no movement. “You have been bold—” he said at last.
“But you have been far bolder, sire. For twenty years you have dared to flout35 that love which is God’s noblest heritage to His children.”
King Edward sat in meditation for a long while. The squinting198 of his left eye was now very noticeable. “I consider my wife’s clerk,” he drily said, “to discourse22 of love in somewhat too much the tone of a lover.” And a flush was his reward.
But when this Copeland spoke he was like one transfigured. His voice was grave and very tender, and he said:
“As the fish have their life in the waters, so I have and always shall have mine in love. Love made me choose and dare to emulate199 a lady, long ago, through whom I live contented200, without expecting any other good. Her purity is so inestimable that I cannot say whether I derive201 more pride or sorrow from its preeminence202. She does not love me, and she will never love me. She would condemn203 me to be hewed204 in fragments sooner than permit her husband’s finger to be injured. Yet she surpasses all others so utterly that I would rather hunger in her presence than enjoy from another all which a lover can devise.”
Sire Edward stroked the table through this while, with an inverted205 pen. He cleared his throat. He said, half-fretfully:
“Now, by the Face! it is not given every man to love precisely206 in this troubadourish fashion. Even the most generous person cannot render to love any more than that person happens to possess. I have read in an old tale how the devil sat upon a cathedral spire207 and white doves flew about him. Monks208 came and told him to begone. ‘Do not the spires209 show you, O son of darkness’ they clamored, ‘that the place is holy?’ And Satan (in this old tale) replied that these spires were capable of various interpretations210. I speak of symbols, John. Yet I also have loved, in my own fashion,—and, it would seem, I win the same reward as you.”
The King said more lately: “And so she is at Stirling now? hobnob with my armed enemies, and cajoling that red lecher Robert Stewart?” He laughed, not overpleasantly. “Eh, yes, it needed a bold person to bring all your tidings! But you Brabanters are a very thorough-going people.”
The King rose and flung back his high head. “John, the loyal service you have done us and our esteem211 for your valor are so great that they may well serve you as an excuse. May shame fall on those who bear you any ill-will! You will now return home, and take your prisoner, the King of Scotland, and deliver him to my wife, to do with as she may elect. You will convey to her my entreaty—not my orders, John,—that she come to me here at Calais. As remuneration for this evening’s insolence212, I assign lands as near your house as you can choose them to the value of £500 a year for you and for your heirs.”
But the King raised him. “No, no,” he said, “you are the better man. Were there any equity214 in fate, John Copeland, your lady had loved you, not me. As it is, I must strive to prove not altogether unworthy of my fortune. But I make no large promises,” he added, squinting horribly, “because the most generous person cannot render to love any more than that person happens to possess. So be off with you, John Copeland,—go, my squire, and bring me back my Queen!”
Presently he heard John Copeland singing without. And through that instant, they say, his youth returned to Edward Plantagenet, and all the scents215 and shadows and faint sounds of Valenciennes on that ancient night when a tall girl came to him, running, stumbling in her haste to bring him kingship. “She waddles216 now,” he thought forlornly. “Still, I am blessed.” But Copeland sang, and the Brabanter’s heart was big with joy.
Sang John Copeland:
Daughter of Water and Air—
Charis! Idalia! Hortensis!
Hast thou not heard the prayer,
When the blood stood still with loving,
And the blood in me leapt like wine,
And I cried on thy name, Melaenis?—
That heard me, (the glory is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!
“Falsely they tell of thy dying,
Thou that art older than Death,
And never the Hörselberg hid thee,
When laughter and love combine
That heard me, (the glory is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!”
THE END OF THE FIFTH NOVEL
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1
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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suppliants
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| n.恳求者，哀求者( suppliant的名词复数 ) | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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aspersed
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| v.毁坏（名誉），中伤，诽谤( asperse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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19
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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20
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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descant
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| v.详论，絮说；n.高音部 | |
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27
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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28
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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29
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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30
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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31
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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32
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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33
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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34
pilfered
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的过去式和过去分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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35
flout
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| v./n.嘲弄，愚弄，轻视 | |
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36
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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38
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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39
commingle
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| v.混合 | |
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40
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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41
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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42
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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43
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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44
appraise
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| v.估价，评价，鉴定 | |
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45
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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46
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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47
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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48
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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49
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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51
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
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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53
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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54
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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55
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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56
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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57
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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58
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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59
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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61
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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62
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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63
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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64
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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65
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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66
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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67
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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68
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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69
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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70
gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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71
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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73
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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75
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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76
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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81
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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82
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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83
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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84
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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85
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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87
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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88
ferments
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| n.酵素( ferment的名词复数 )；激动；骚动；动荡v.（使）发酵( ferment的第三人称单数 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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89
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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92
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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93
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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95
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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97
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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98
auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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101
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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103
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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104
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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107
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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108
conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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109
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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110
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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111
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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112
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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113
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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114
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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115
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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116
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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117
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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118
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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119
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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120
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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121
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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122
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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123
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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124
verbiage
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| n.冗词；冗长 | |
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125
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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126
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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127
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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128
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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129
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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130
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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131
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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132
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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133
expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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134
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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135
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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136
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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138
scoffingly
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| 带冷笑地 | |
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139
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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140
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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141
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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142
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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143
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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144
panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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145
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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146
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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147
rinse
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| v.用清水漂洗，用清水冲洗 | |
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148
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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149
maternally
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150
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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151
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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152
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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153
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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154
purloining
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| v.偷窃( purloin的现在分词 ) | |
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155
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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156
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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157
nonplus
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| v.使困窘；使狼狈 | |
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158
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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159
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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160
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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161
besieging
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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162
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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164
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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165
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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166
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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167
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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169
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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170
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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171
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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172
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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173
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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174
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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175
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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176
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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177
adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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178
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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179
leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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180
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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181
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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182
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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183
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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184
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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185
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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186
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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187
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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188
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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189
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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190
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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191
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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192
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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193
unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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194
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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195
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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196
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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197
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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198
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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199
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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200
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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201
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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202
preeminence
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| n.卓越,杰出 | |
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203
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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204
hewed
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的过去式和过去分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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205
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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207
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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208
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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209
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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210
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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211
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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212
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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213
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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214
equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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215
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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216
waddles
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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217
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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218
slanderer
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| 造谣中伤者 | |
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219
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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220
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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