The Government had never been in any danger, though there must have been some anxious moments at Whitehall. It was conceivable that the City might respond to the Earl’s incitement1 and that a violent struggle would be the consequence; but Elizabeth, who was never lacking in personal courage, awaited the event with vigorous composure. When the news came that all was well, and she knew that she could depend upon the loyalty2 of the people, she found herself without a qualm. She gave orders that Essex and his adherents3 should be put upon their trial immediately.
Nearly a hundred persons were in custody5, and the Council proceeded at once with the examination of the ringleaders. Very soon the whole course of the intrigues7 of the last eighteen months, including the correspondence with James and the connivance8 of Mountjoy, had transpired9. The trial of the two Earls, Essex and Southampton, was fixed10 to take place before a special commission of Peers on February 18th. What line was the prosecution11 to take? It was speedily decided12 that no reference whatever should be made to Scotland, and that the facts incriminating Mountjoy, whose services in Ireland could not be dispensed13 with, should be suppressed. There would be ample evidence of treason without entering upon such delicate and embarrassing particulars.
Bacon had been employed in the preliminary examination of some of the less important prisoners, and was now required to act as one of the counsel for the prosecution. He had no hesitations14 or doubts. Other minds might have been confused in such a circumstance; but he could discriminate16 with perfect clarity between the claims of the Earl and the claims of the Law. Private friendship and private benefits were one thing; the public duty of taking the part required of him by the State in bringing to justice a dangerous criminal was another. It was not for him to sit in judgment18: he would merely act as a lawyer — merely put the case for the Crown, to the best of his ability, before the Peers. His own opinions, his own feelings, were irrelevant20. It was true, no doubt, that by joining in the proceedings21 he would reap considerable advantages. From the financial point of view alone the affair would certainly be a godsend, for he was still pressingly in debt; and, besides that, there was the opportunity of still further ingratiating himself with the man who now, undoubtedly22, was the most powerful personage in England — his cousin, Robert Cecil. But was that an argument for declining to serve? It was nonsense to suppose so. Because a lawyer was paid his fee did it follow that his motives23 were disreputable? There was, besides, one further complication. It was clear that it would be particularly useful for the Government to number Francis Bacon among its active supporters. The Earl had been his patron, and was his brother’s intimate friend; and, if he was now ready to appear as one of the Earl’s accusers, the effect upon the public, if not upon the judges, would be certainly great; it would be difficult to resist the conclusion that the case against Essex must be serious indeed since Francis Bacon was taking a share in it. If, on the other hand, he refused, he would undoubtedly incur24 the Queen’s displeasure and run the risk of actual punishment; it might mean the end of his career. What followed? Surely only a simpleton would be puzzled into hesitation15. The responsibility for the Government’s acts lay with the Government; it was not for him to inquire into its purposes. And if, by doing his duty, he avoided disaster — so much the better! Others might be unable to distinguish between incidental benefits and criminal inducements: for him it was all as clear as day.
Never had his intellect functioned with a more satisfactory, a more beautiful, precision. The argument was perfect; there was, in fact, only one mistake about it, and that was that it had ever been made. A simpleton might have done better, for a simpleton might have perceived instinctively25 the essentials of the situation. It was an occasion for the broad grasp of common humanity, not for the razor-blade of a subtle intelligence. Bacon could not see this; he could not see that the long friendship, the incessant26 kindness, the high generosity27, and the touching28 admiration29 of the Earl had made a participation30 in his ruin a deplorable and disgraceful thing. Sir Charles Davers was not a clever man; but his absolute devotion to his benefactor31 still smells sweet amid the withered32 corruptions33 of history. In Bacon’s case such reckless heroism34 was not demanded; mere19 abstention would have been enough. If, braving the Queen’s displeasure, he had withdrawn35 to Cambridge, cut down his extravagances, dismissed Jones, and devoted37 himself to those sciences which he so truly loved . . . but it was an impossibility. It was not in his nature or his destiny. The woolsack awaited him. Inspired with the ingenious grandeur38 of the serpent, he must deploy39 to the full the long luxury of his coils. One watches, fascinated, the glittering allurement40; one desires in vain to turn away one’s face.
A State trial was little more than a dramatic formality. The verdict was determined41 beforehand by the administration, and everyone concerned was well aware that this was so. Such significance as the proceedings had were of a political nature; they enabled those in power to give a public expression of their case against the prisoner — to lay before the world the motives by which they wished it to be supposed that they were actuated. In the present case there was no doubt whatever of the technical guilt42 of the accused. The Court of Peers had consulted the judges, who had pronounced that the conduct of Essex and his followers43 on Sunday the 8th, whatever their intentions may have been, in itself constituted treason, so that sentence might have been passed immediately a formal proof of that conduct had been made. But that a walk through the City should involve such fearful consequences would outrage44 public feeling; and it was the object of the prosecution to show that Essex had been guilty of a dangerous and deliberate conspiracy45. The fact that the most serious feature in the case — the intrigue6 with the King of Scotland — was to be suppressed was a handicap for the Crown lawyers; but their position was an extremely strong one. The accused were allowed no counsel; their right of cross-examination was cut down to a minimum; and the evidence of the most important witnesses was given in the shape of depositions46 read aloud to the Court — depositions which had been extracted in the Tower, and which it was impossible to control or verify. On the whole, it seemed certain that with a little good management the prosecution would be able to blacken the conduct and character of the prisoners in a way which would carry conviction — in every sense of the word.
It so happened, however, that good management was precisely47 what was lacking on the part of the Crown leader, Edward Coke. On this far more serious occasion, the Attorney-General repeated the tactical errors which he had committed at York House. He abused his antagonists49 so roughly as to raise sympathy on their behalf; and he allowed himself to be led away into heated disputations which obscured the true issues of the case. During these wranglings Essex was more than once able to carry the war into the enemy’s camp. He declared fiercely that Raleigh had intended to murder him, and Raleigh was put into the witness-box to deny the irrelevant charge. A little later Essex brought up the story that the succession had been sold to the Spaniards by the Secretary. There followed a remarkable50 and unexpected scene. Cecil, who had been listening to the proceedings from behind a curtain, suddenly stepped forth51, and, falling on his knees, begged to be allowed to clear himself of the slander52. It was agreed that he should be heard, and, after a long altercation53 with Essex, Cecil elicited54 the fact that the informant upon whose report the charge was based was Sir William Knollys, the Earl’s uncle. Knollys in his turn was sent for, and his evidence exculpated55 the Secretary. All that had happened, he said, was that Cecil had once mentioned to him a book in which the Infanta’s title was preferred before any other. Essex’s accusations56 had collapsed57; but the prosecution, after many hours, had come no nearer to a proof of his criminal intentions. It was useless for Coke to shout and hector. “It was your purpose,” he cried, shaking a menacing finger at Essex, “to take not only the Tower of London but the royal palace and the person of the prince — yea, and to take away her life!” Such exaggerations were only damaging to his own cause.
Bacon saw what was happening, and judged that it was time to intervene. The real question at issue — the precise nature of the Earl’s motives — was indeed a complicated and obscure one. The motives of the most ordinary mortal are never easy to disentangle, and Essex was far from ordinary. His mind was made up of extremes, and his temper was devoid58 of balance. He rushed from opposite to opposite; he allowed the strangest contradictories59 to take root together, and grow up side by side, in his heart. He loved and hated — he was a devoted servant and an angry rebel — all at once. For an impartial60 eye, it is impossible to trace in his conduct a determined intention of any kind. He was swept hither and thither61 by the gusts62 of his passions and the accidents of circumstance. He entertained treasonable thoughts, and at last treasonable projects; but fitfully, with intervals64 of romantic fidelity65 and noble remorse66. His behaviour in Ireland was typical of all the rest. After suggesting an invasion of England at the head of his troops, he veered67 completely round and led his army against Tyrone. It finally turned out that he had gone too far to draw back, and, pushed on by his own followers and the animosity of the Queen, he had plunged68 into a desperate action. But, till the last moment, he was uncertain, indefinite and distraught. There was no settled malignancy in his nature. It is possible that he believed in the treachery of Cecil; and, as it happened, there was some justification69 for the belief, for Cecil, with all his loyalty, was actually in receipt of a Spanish pension. Convinced of his own high purposes, the unrealistic creature may well have dreamed in his sanguine70 hours that, after all, he would manage to effect a bloodless revolution; that Cecil and Raleigh could be not too roughly thrust upon one side; and that then the way would be open once more for his true affection, his true admiration, his true ambition — that thenceforward the Queen would be his and he the Queen’s, in glorious happiness, until death parted them.
Such were his inward workings, and Francis Bacon was the last man in the world to have understood them. They were utterly71 remote from the clear, bright ambit of that supremely72 positive intelligence. Wish as he might, the author of the “Essays or Counsels” could never have comprehended a psychology73 that was dominated by emotion instead of reason; but, on this occasion, he did not wish. Sympathy was far from him. What were the actual facts? By facts alone was it possible to judge of conduct, and the Court, led away by recrimination and irrelevancies, was beginning to lose sight of them. It was for him to brush aside, calmly but firmly, the excuses and the subterfuges74 of the prisoner, and to concentrate the attention of the judges — and of the public — on what was really the vital point in the whole business — the meaning of his deeds.
With perfect tact48 Bacon paid homage75 to the education of the Peers by illustrating76 his remarks with an incident from the Classics. All history, he said, made it plain “that there was never any traitor78 heard of, but he always coloured his practices with some plausible79 pretence80.” Essex had “made his colour the severing81 of some great men and counsellors from her Majesty82’s favour, and the fear he stood in of his pretended enemies lest they should murder him in his house. Therefore he saith he was compelled to fly into the City for succour and assistance.” He was “not much unlike Pisistratus, of whom it was so anciently written how he gashed83 and wounded himself, and in that sort ran crying into Athens that his life was sought and like to have been taken away; thinking to have moved the people to have pitied him and taken his part by such counterfeited84 harm and danger: whereas his aim and drift was to take the government of the city into his hands, and alter the form thereof. With like pretences85 of dangers and assaults, the Earl of Essex entered the City of London.” In reality “he had no such enemies, no such dangers.” The facts were plain, “and, my Lord”— he turned to the prisoner —“all whatsoever86 you have or can say in answer hereof are but shadows. And therefore methinks it were best for you to confess, not to justify87.”
Essex could never distinguish very clearly between a personality and an argument. “I call forth Mr. Bacon,” he replied, “against Mr. Bacon”; and then he told the Court how, but a few months previously88, his accuser had written letters in his name, to be shown to the Queen, in which his case had been stated “as orderly for me as I could do myself.”
“These digressions,” said Bacon coldly, “are not fit, neither should be suffered”; the letters were harmless; “and,” he added, “I have spent more time in vain in studying how to make the Earl a good servant to the Queen and State than I have done in anything else.”
Then he sat down, and the case came once more under the guidance of Coke. The confessions90 of the other conspirators91 were read; but there was no order in the proceedings; point after point was taken up and dropped; and at last, when the Attorney-General, after an harangue92 on the irreligion of the accused, offered to produce evidence upon the subject, the Peers declined to hear it. Once more confusion had descended93, and once more Bacon rose to fix attention upon the central issue. “I have never yet seen in any case such favour shown to any prisoner,” he said, “so many digressions, such delivery of evidence by fractions, and so silly a defence of such great and notorious treasons.” He then read aloud the opinion of the judges on the point of law, and continued:
“To take secret counsel, to execute it, to run together in numbers armed with weapons — what can be the excuse? Warned by the Lord Keeper, by a herald94, and yet persist. Will any simple man take this to be less than treason?” Essex interrupted. “If I had purposed anything against others than my private enemies,” he said, “I would not have stirred with so slender a company.” Bacon paused a moment and then replied, addressing himself directly to the Earl. “It was not the company you carried with you, but the assistance which you hoped for in the City, which you trusted unto. The Duke of Guise95 thrust himself into the streets of Paris, on the day of the Barricadoes, in his doublet and hose, attended only with eight gentlemen, and found that help in the city, which, (God be thanked), you failed of here. And what followed? The King was forced to put himself into a pilgrim’s weeds, and in that disguise to steal away to escape their fury. Even such,” he concluded, turning to the Peers, “was my Lord’s confidence too; and his pretence the same — an all-hail and a kiss to the City. But the end was treason, as hath been sufficiently96 proved.”
The thrust was indeed a sharp one; but Bacon’s words were no longer directed merely to the Court and the public. The parallel with Guise, whose rebellion had occurred within living memory, had in it an actuality far more deadly than the learned allusion97 to Pisistratus. There could be only one purpose in drawing it: it was precisely calculated to touch, in the most susceptible98 place, the mind of the Queen. To put Essex before her, with such verisimilitude, in the shape of the man who had raised up Paris against Henry III, was a master-stroke of detraction99. The words, no doubt, would reach Elizabeth; but they were addressed, in reality, to someone else — to the invisible listener, who, after his dramatic appearance, had returned to his place behind the hangings. The Secretary’s kindred intellect appreciated to the full the subtle implications of the speech; his cousin was doing admirably. The Earl was silent. Francis Bacon’s task was over. The double tongue had struck, and struck again.
Both prisoners were inevitably100 found guilty, and the revolting sentence was passed in the usual form. During the ordeal101 of the trial Essex had been bold, dignified102, and self-possessed; but now, back again in the Tower, he was seized by a violent revulsion; anguish103 and horror overpowered his mind. A puritan clergyman, who had been sent to minister to him, took the opportunity to agitate104 his conscience and fill his imagination with the fear of hell. He completely collapsed. Self-reliance — self-respect — were swept away in a flood of bitter lamentations. He wished, he said, to make a confession89 to the Lords of the Council. They came, and he declared to them that he was a miserable105 sinner, grovelling106 heart-broken before judgment-seat of God. He cried out upon his inexcusable guilt; and he did more: he denounced the black thoughts, the fatal counsels, the evil doings of his associates. They, too, were traitors107 and villains108, no less than himself. He raved109 against them all — his step father — Sir Charles Davers — Henry Cuffe — each was worse than the other; they had lured110 him on to these abominable111 practices, and now they were all to sink together under a common doom112. His sister, too! Let her not be forgotten — she had been among the wickedest! Was she not guilty of more sins than one? “She must be looked to,” he cried, “for she hath a proud spirit!”— adding dark words of Mountjoy, and false friendship, and broken vows113 of marriage. Then, while the grave Councillors listened in embarrassed silence, he returned once more to his own enormities. “I know my sins,” he said, “unto her Majesty and to my God. I must confess to you that I am the greatest, the most vilest114 and most unthankful traitor that has ever been in the land.”
While these painful scenes of weakness and humiliation115 were passing in the Tower, Elizabeth had withdrawn into deepest privacy at Whitehall. Every mind was turned towards her — in speculation116, in hope, in terror; the fatal future lay now, spinning and quivering, within her formidable grasp.
It is not difficult to guess the steps by which she reached her final conclusion. The actual danger which she had run must have seemed to her — in spite of Bacon’s reminder117 — the least important element in the case. The rising had been an act of folly118, doomed119 from the first to ignominious120 failure — an act so weak and ineffective that, taken by itself, it could hardly be said to deserve the extreme penalty of the law. If, for other reasons, she was inclined towards mercy, there would be ample justification for taking a lenient121 view of what had happened, and for commuting122 the punishment of death for one, perhaps, of imprisonment123 and sequestration. It is true that the intrigue with James of Scotland wore a more serious complexion124; but this had proved abortive125; it was unknown to all but a few in high places; and it might well be buried in oblivion. Were there, then, other reasons for mercy? Most assuredly there were. But these were not judicial126 reasons; neither were they political; they were purely127 personal; and, of course, in that very fact lay their strength.
To abolish, in a moment, the immediate4 miserable past — to be reconciled once more; to regain128, with a new rapture129, the old happiness — what was there to prevent it? Nothing, surely; she had the power for such an act; she could assert her will — extend her royal pardon; after a short eclipse, he would be with her again; not a voice would be raised against her; Cecil himself, she knew, would accept the situation without a murmur130; and so — would not all be well? It was indeed a heavenly vision, and she allowed herself to float deliciously down the stream of her desires. But not for long. She could not dwell indefinitely among imaginations; her sense of fact crept forward — insidious131 — paramount132; with relentless133 fingers it picked to pieces the rosy134 palaces of unreality. She was standing135 once again on the bleak136 rock. She saw plainly that she could never trust him, that the future would always repeat the past, that, whatever her feelings might be, his would remain divided, dangerous, profoundly intractable, and that, if this catastrophe137 were exorcised, another, even worse, would follow in its place.
And yet, after all, might she not take the risk? She had been a gambler all her life; there was little left of it now; why not live out that little in the old style, with the old hazard — the close-hauled boat tacking138 fiercely against the wind? Let him intrigue with James of Scotland, she could manage that! Let him do his worst — she would be equal to it; she would wrestle139 with him, master him, hold him at her mercy, and pardon him — magnificently, ecstatically, pardon him — again and again! If she failed, well, that would be a new experience, and — how often had she said it!—“per molto variare la natura è bella.” Yes, truly, she and nature were akin17 — variable, beautiful . . . a hideous140 memory struck her; terrible, outrageous141 words re-echoed in her mind. “Crooked”—“carcase”— so that was what he thought of her! While he was pouring out his sugared adorations, he loathed143 her, despised her, recoiled144 from her. Was it possible? Was the whole history of their relations, then, one long infamous145 deception146? Was it all bitterness and blindness? Had he perhaps truly loved her once?— Once! But the past was over, and time was inexorable. Every moment widened the desperate abyss between them. Such dreams were utter folly. She preferred not to look in her looking-glass — why should she? There was no need; she was very well aware without that of what had happened to her. She was a miserable old woman of sixty-seven. She recognised the truth — the whole truth — at last.
Her tremendous vanity — the citadel147 of her repressed romanticism — was shattered, and rage and hatred148 planted their flag upon its ruins. The animosity which for so long had been fluctuating within her now flared149 up in triumph and rushed out upon the author of her agony and her disgrace. He had betrayed her in every possible way — mentally, emotionally, materially — as a Queen and as a woman — before the world and in the sweetest privacies of the heart. And he had actually imagined that he could elude150 the doom that waited on such iniquity151 — had dreamed of standing up against her — had mistaken the hesitations of her strength for the weaknesses of a subservient152 character. He would have a sad awakening153! He would find that she was indeed the daughter of a father who had known how to rule a kingdom and how to punish the perfidy154 of those he had loved the most. Yes, indeed, she felt her father’s spirit within her; and an extraordinary passion moved the obscure profundities155 of her being, as she condemned156 her lover to her mother’s death. In all that had happened there was a dark inevitability157, a ghastly, satisfaction; her father’s destiny, by some intimate dispensation, was repeated in hers; it was supremely fitting that Robert Devereux should follow Anne Boleyn to the block. Her father! . . . but in a still remoter depth there were still stranger stirrings. There was a difference as well as a likeness158; after all, she was no man, but a woman; and was this, perhaps, not a repetition but a revenge? After all the long years of her life-time, and in this appalling159 consummation, was it her murdered mother who had finally emerged? The wheel had come full circle. Manhood — the fascinating, detestable entity160, which had first come upon her concealed161 in yellow magnificence in her father’s lap — manhood was overthrown162 at last, and in the person of that traitor it should be rooted out. Literally163, perhaps . . . she knew well enough the punishment for high treason. But no! She smiled sardonically164. She would not deprive him of the privilege of his rank. It would be enough if he suffered as so many others — the Lord Admiral Seymour among the rest — had suffered before him; it would be enough if she cut off his head.
And so it happened that this was the one occasion in her life on which Elizabeth hardly hesitated. The trial had taken place on February the 19th, and the execution was fixed for the 25th. A little wavering there had indeed to be — she would not have been Elizabeth without it; but it was hardly perceptible. On the 23rd she sent a message that the execution should be postponed165; on the 24th she sent another that it should be proceeded with. She interfered166 with the course of the law no further.
Afterwards a romantic story was told, which made the final catastrophe the consequence of a dramatic mishap167. The tale is well known: how, in happier days, the Queen gave the Earl a ring, with the promise that, whenever he sent it back to her, it would always bring forgiveness; how Essex, leaning from a window of the Tower, entrusted168 the ring to a boy, bidding him take it to Lady Scrope, and beg her to present it to her Majesty; how the boy, in mistake, gave the ring to Lady Scrope’s sister, Lady Nottingham, the wife of the Earl’s enemy; how Lady Nottingham kept it, and said nothing, until, on her deathbed two years later, she confessed all to the Queen, who, with the exclamation169 “God may forgive you, Madam, but I never can!” brought down the curtain on the tragedy. Such a narrative170 is appropriate enough to the place where it was first fully63 elaborated — a sentimental171 novelette;1, but it does not belong to history. The improbability of its details is too glaring, and the testimony172 against it is overpowering. It is implicitly173 denied by Camden, the weightiest of contemporary historians; it is explicitly174 contradicted by Clarendon, who, writing in the succeeding generation, was in a position to know the facts; and it has been rejected by later writers, including the learned and judicious175 Ranke. And assuredly the grim facts stand better by themselves, without the aid of such adventitious176 ornaments177. Essex made no appeal. Of what use would be a cry for mercy? Elizabeth would listen to nothing, if she was deaf to her own heart. The end came in silence: and at last he understood. Like her other victims, he realised too late that he had utterly misjudged her nature, that there had never been the slightest possibility of dominating her, that the enormous apparatus178 of her hesitations and collapses179 was merely an incredibly elaborate fa?ade, and that all within was iron.
One request he made — that he should not be executed in public; and it was willingly granted, for there still seemed a chance of a popular movement on his behalf. He should be beheaded, like all the great state criminals before him, in the courtyard of the Tower.
And there, on the morning of February 25th, 1601, were gathered together all those who were qualified180 to witness the closing ceremony. Among them was Walter Raleigh. As Captain of the Guard, it was his duty to be present; but he had thought, too, that perhaps the condemned man would have some words to say to him, and he took up his station very near the block. There were murmurs181 around him. Was this as it should be? Now that the great Earl was brought so low, were his enemies to come pressing about him in scornful jubilation182? A shameful183 sight! Raleigh heard, and in sombre silence immediately withdrew. He went into the White Tower, ascended184 to the Armoury, and thence, from a window, the ominous185 prophet of imperialism186 surveyed the scene.
It was not a short one. The age demanded that there should be a dignified formality on such occasions, and that the dreadful physical deed should be approached through a long series of ornate and pious187 commonplaces. Essex appeared in a black cloak and hat with three clergymen beside him. Stepping upon the scaffold, he took off his hat, and bowed to the assembled lords. He spoke188 long and earnestly — a studied oration142, half speech, half prayer. He confessed his sins, both general and particular. He was young, he said — he was in his thirty-fourth year — and he “had bestowed189 his youth in wantonness, lust77, and uncleanness.” He had been “puffed up with pride, vanity, and love of this world’s pleasure”; his sins were “more in number than the hairs on his head.”
“For all which,” he went on, “I humbly190 beseech191 my saviour192 Christ to be a mediator193 to the eternal Majesty for my pardon; especially for this my last sin, this great, this bloody194, this crying, this infectious sin, whereby so many for love of me have been drawn36 to offend God, to offend their sovereign, to offend the world. I beseech God to forgive it us, and to forgive it me — most wretched of all.” He prayed for the welfare of the Queen, “whose death I protest I never meant, nor violence to her person.” He was never, he declared, either an atheist195 or a papist, but hoped for salvation196 from God only by the mercy and merits of “my saviour Jesus Christ. This faith I was brought up in; and herein I am ready to die; beseeching197 you all to join your souls with me in prayer.” He paused, and was about to take off his cloak, when one of the clergymen reminded him that he should pray God to forgive his enemies. He did so, and then, removing his cloak and ruff, knelt down by the block in his black doublet. Another of the clergymen encouraged him against the fear of death, whereupon, with ingenuous198 gravity, he confessed that more than once, in battle, he had “felt the weakness of the flesh, and therefore in this great conflict desired God to assist and strengthen him.” After that, gazing upwards199, he prayed, more passionately200, to the Almighty201. He prayed for all the Estates of the Realm, and he repeated the Lord’s Prayer. The executioner, kneeling before him, asked for his forgiveness, which he granted. The clergymen requested him to rehearse the Creed202, and he went through it, repeating it after them clause by clause. He rose and took off his doublet; a scarlet203 waistcoat, with long scarlet sleeves, was underneath204. So — tall, splendid, bare-headed, with his fair hair about his shoulders — he stood before the world for the last time. Then, turning, he bowed low before the block; and, saying that he would be ready when he stretched out his arms, he lay down flat upon the scaffold. “Lord, be merciful to thy prostrate205 servant!” he cried out, and put his head sideways upon the low block. “Lord, into thy hands I recommend my spirit.” There was a pause; and all at once the red arms were seen to be extended. The headsman whirled up the axe206, and crashed it downwards207; the body made no movement; but twice more the violent action was repeated before the head was severed208 and the blood poured forth. The man stooped, and, taking the head by the hair, held it up before the onlookers209, shouting as he did so, “God save the Queen!”
收听单词发音 |
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incitement
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| 激励； 刺激； 煽动； 激励物 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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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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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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16
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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17
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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18
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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19
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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20
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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21
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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22
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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23
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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24
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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25
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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26
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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27
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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28
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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29
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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30
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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31
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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32
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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33
corruptions
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| n.堕落( corruption的名词复数 )；腐化；腐败；贿赂 | |
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34
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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35
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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36
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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37
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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38
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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39
deploy
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| v.（军）散开成战斗队形，布置，展开 | |
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40
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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41
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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42
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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43
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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44
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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45
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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46
depositions
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| 沉积（物）( deposition的名词复数 )； （在法庭上的）宣誓作证； 处置； 罢免 | |
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47
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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48
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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49
antagonists
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| 对立[对抗] 者，对手，敌手( antagonist的名词复数 )； 对抗肌； 对抗药 | |
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50
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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52
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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53
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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54
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
exculpated
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| v.开脱，使无罪( exculpate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
accusations
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|
| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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57
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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58
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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59
contradictories
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| n.矛盾的，抵触的( contradictory的名词复数 ) | |
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60
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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61
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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62
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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63
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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64
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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65
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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66
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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67
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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68
plunged
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|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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69
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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70
sanguine
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|
| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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71
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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72
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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73
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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74
subterfuges
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| n.（用说谎或欺骗以逃脱责备、困难等的）花招，遁词( subterfuge的名词复数 ) | |
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75
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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76
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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77
lust
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|
| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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78
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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79
plausible
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|
| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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80
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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81
severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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82
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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83
gashed
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|
| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
counterfeited
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|
| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的过去分词 ) | |
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85
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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86
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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87
justify
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|
| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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88
previously
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|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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89
confession
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|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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90
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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91
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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92
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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93
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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94
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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95
guise
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|
| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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96
sufficiently
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|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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97
allusion
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|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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98
susceptible
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|
| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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99
detraction
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| n.减损；诽谤 | |
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100
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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101
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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102
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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103
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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104
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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105
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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106
grovelling
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|
| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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107
traitors
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|
| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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108
villains
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|
| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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109
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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110
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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111
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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112
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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113
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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114
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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115
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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116
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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117
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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118
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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119
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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120
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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121
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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122
commuting
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| 交换（的） | |
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123
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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124
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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125
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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126
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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127
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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128
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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129
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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130
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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131
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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132
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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133
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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134
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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135
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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136
bleak
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|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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137
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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138
tacking
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| （帆船）抢风行驶，定位焊[铆]紧钉 | |
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139
wrestle
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|
| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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140
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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141
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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142
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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143
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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144
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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145
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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147
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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148
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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150
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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151
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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152
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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153
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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profundities
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| n.深奥，深刻，深厚( profundity的名词复数 )；堂奥 | |
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156
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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157
inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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158
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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159
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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161
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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162
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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163
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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164
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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165
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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166
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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167
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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168
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust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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170
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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172
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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adventitious
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| adj.偶然的 | |
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177
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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178
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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179
collapses
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| 折叠( collapse的第三人称单数 )； 倒塌； 崩溃； （尤指工作劳累后）坐下 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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181
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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182
jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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183
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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184
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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186
imperialism
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| n.帝国主义，帝国主义政策 | |
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187
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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188
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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189
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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191
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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192
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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193
mediator
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| n.调解人，中介人 | |
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194
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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195
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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196
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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197
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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198
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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199
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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200
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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201
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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202
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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203
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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204
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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205
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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206
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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207
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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208
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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209
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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