For many days the young Kentuckian remains2 unconscious of all that is passing around. Fortunately for him, he has fallen into the right hands; for the old gentleman in spectacles is in reality a medical man—a skilled surgeon as well as a physician, and devotes all his time and skill to restoring his patient to health.
Soon the wound shows signs of healing, and, along with it, the fever begins gradually to abate3. The brain at length relieved, reason resumes its sway.
Hamersley becomes conscious that he still lives, on hearing voices. They are of men. Two are engaged in a dialogue, which appears to be carried on with some difficulty, as one is speaking English, which the other but slightly understands. Neither is the English of the first speaker of a very correct kind, nor is his voice at all euphonious4. For all that, it sounds in Hamersley’s ears sweet as the most seraphic music, since in its tones he recognises the voice of Walt Wilder.
A joyous5 throb6 thrills through his heart on discovering that his comrade has rejoined him. After their parting upon the plain he had his fears they might never come together again.
Walt is not within sight, for the conversation is carried on outside the room. The invalid7 sees that he is in a room, a small one, of which the walls are wood, roughly-hewn slabs8, with furniture fashioned in a style corresponding. He is lying upon a catré, or camp bedstead, rendered soft by a mattress10 of bearskins, while a serapé of bright-coloured pattern is spread over him, serving both for blanket and counterpane. In the apartment is a table of the rudest construction, with two or three chairs, evidently from the hand of the same unskilful workman, their seats being simply hides with the hair on. On the table is a cup with a spoon in it, and two or three small bottles, that have the look of containing medicines.
All these objects come under his eyes at the first dim glance; but as his vision grows clearer, and he feels strength enough to raise his head from the pillow, other articles are disclosed to view, in strange contrast with the chattels11 first observed. Against the wall hang several articles of female apparel—all of a costly12 kind. They are of silk and silk-velvet, richly brocaded; while on a second table, slab9 like the first, he can distinguish bijouterie, with other trifles usually belonging to a lady’s toilet.
These lie in front of a small mirror set in a frame which appears to be silver; while above is suspended a guitar, of the kind known as bandolon.
The sick man sees all these things with a half-bewildered gaze, for his senses are still far from clear. The costly articles of apparel and adornment13 would be appropriate in a lady’s boudoir or bed chamber14. But they appear strange, even grotesque15, in juxtaposition16 with the roughly-hewn timbers of what is evidently a humble17 cottage—a log cabin!
Of course he connects them with her, that singular being who has succoured, and perhaps saved his life. He can have no other conjecture18. He remembers seeing a house as they approached its outside. It must be that he is now in; though, from the last conscious thought, as he felt himself swooning in the saddle, all has been as blank as if he had been lying lifeless in a tomb. Even yet it might appear as a dream but for the voice of Walt Wilder, who, outside, seems labouring hard to make himself intelligible19 to some personage with whom he is conversing20.
Hamersley is about to utter a cry that will summon his comrade to his side, when he perceives that the voices are becoming fainter, as if the two speakers had gone outside the house and were walking away from it. Feeling too weak even for the slightest exertion21, he remains silent, taking it for granted they will soon return.
It is broad daylight, the sun glancing in through an aperture22 in the wall that serves for a window. It has neither frame nor glass, and along with the bright beams there drifts in a cool breeze laden23 with the delicious fragrance24 of flowers, among which he can distinguish the aromatic25 perfume of the wild China tree. There are voices of birds mingling26 their music with the sough of falling water—sounds very different from those of the desert through which he has of late been straying.
He lies thinking of the beautiful being who brought him thither27, shaping conjectures28 in regard to the strangeness of the situation. He has no idea how long he may have been unconscious; nor has the whole time been like death—unless death have its dreams. For he has had dreams, all with a fair form and lovely face flitting and figuring in them. It is the wild huntress.
He has a fancy that the face seemed familiar to him; or, if not familiar, one he has looked upon before. He endeavours to recall all those he had met in Mexico during his sojourn29 there; for if encountered anywhere, it must have been there. His female acquaintances had been but few in that foreign land. He can remember every one of them. She is not of their number. If he has ever seen her before their encounter on the Staked Plain, it must have been while passing along the street of some Mexican city.
And this could scarcely be, in his silent reflection; for such a woman once seen—even but for a moment—could never be forgotten.
He lies pondering on all that has passed—on all he can now recall. Walt had got back, then, to the place where they parted. He must have found food and water, though it matters now no more. Enough that he has got back, and both are in an asylum30 of safety, under friendly protection. This is evident from the surroundings.
Still feeble as a child, the effort of thought very soon fatigues31 him; and this, with the narcotic32 influence of the flower perfume, the songs of the birds, and the soothing33 monotone of the waters, produces a drowsiness34 that terminates in a profound slumber35. This time he sleeps without dreaming.
How long he cannot tell; but once more he is awakened36 by voices. As before, two persons are engaged in conversation. But far different from those already heard. The bird-music still swelling37 in through the window is less sweet than the tones that now salute38 his ear.
As before, the speakers are invisible, outside the room. But he can perceive that they are close to the door, and the first words heard admonish39 him of their design to enter.
“Now, Conchita! Go get the wine, and bring it along with you. The doctor left directions for it to be given him at this hour.”
“I have it here, senorita.”
“Vaya! you have forgotten the glass. You would not have him drink out of the bottle?”
“Ay Dios! and so I have,” responds Conchita, apparently40 gliding41 off to possess herself of the required article, with which she soon returns.
“Ish!” cautions the other voice; “if he be still asleep, we must not wake him. Don Prospero said that. Step lightly, muchacha!”
Hamersley is awake, with eyes wide open, and consciousness quite restored. But at this moment something—an instinct of dissembling—causes him to counterfeit42 sleep; and he lies still, with shut eyelids43. He can hear the door turning upon its hinges of raw hide, then the soft rustle44 of robes, while he is sensible of that inexpressible something that denotes the gentle presence of woman.
“Yes, he is asleep,” says the first speaker, “and for the world we may not disturb him. The doctor was particular about that, and we must do exactly as he said. You know, Conchita, this gentleman has been in great danger. Thanks to the good Virgin45, he’ll get over it. Don Prospero assures us he will.”
“What a pity if he should not! Oh, senorita, isn’t he—”
“Isn’t he what?”
“Handsome—beautiful! He looks like a picture I’ve seen in the church; an angel—only that the angel had wings, and no mustachios.”
“Pif, girl; don’t speak in that silly way, or I shall be angry with you. Vayate! you may take away the wine. We can come again when he awakes. Guardate! Tread lightly.”
Again there is the rustling46 of a dress; but this time as if only one of the two were moving off. The other seems still to linger by the side of the couch.
The invalid queries47 which of the two it is. There is an electricity that tells him; and, for an instant, he thinks of opening his eyes, and proclaiming consciousness of what has been passing.
A thought restrains him—delicacy. The lady will know that he has been awake all the while, and overheard the conversation. It has been in Spanish, but she is aware that he understands this, for he has no doubt that the “señorita” is she who has saved him.
He remains without moving, without unclosing his eyelids. But his ears are open, and he hears a speech pleasanter than any yet spoken.
It is in the shape of a soliloquy—a few words softly murmured. They are, “Ay de mil ’Tis true what Conchita says, and as Valerian told me. He is, indeed, handsome—beautiful!”
More than ever Hamersley endeavours to counterfeit sleep, but he can resist no longer. Involuntarily his eyes fly open, and, with head upraised, he turns towards the speaker.
He sees what he has been expecting, what he beheld48 in fancy throughout his long, delirious49 dream—the fair form and beautiful face that so much interested him, even in that hour when life seemed to be forsaking50 him. It is the angel of the desert, no longer in huntress garb51, but dressed as a lady.
There is a red tinge52 upon her cheek, that appears to have flushed up suddenly, as if suspecting her soliloquy has been heard. The words have but parted from her lips, and the thought is yet thrilling in her heart.
Can he have heard it? He shows no sign.
She approaches the couch with a look of solicitude53, mingled54 with interrogation. A hand is held out to her, and a word or two spoken to say she is recognised. Her eyes sparkle with joy, as she perceives in those of the invalid that reason is once more seated on its throne.
“I am so happy,” she murmurs55, “we are all so happy, to know you are out of danger. Don Prospero says so. You will now get well in a short time. But I forget; we were to give you something as soon as you should awake. It is only some wine. Conchita, come hither!”
A young girl is seen stepping into the chamber. A glance would tell her to be the maid, if the overheard conversation had not already declared it. A little brown-skinned damsel, scarce five feet in height, with raven56 hair hanging in double plait down her back, and black eyes that sparkle like those of a basilisk.
Provident57 Conchila has brought the bottle and glass with her, and a portion of the famed grape juice of El Paso is administered to the invalid.
“How good and kind you’ve all been!” he says, as his head once more settles down upon the pillow. “And you especially, senorita. If I mistake not, I’m indebted to you for the saving of my life.”
“Do not speak of that,” she rejoins; “I’ve shown you no kindness in particular. You would not have one leave a fellow creature to perish?”
“Ah! but for you I should now have been in another world.”
“No, indeed. There you are mistaken. If I had never come near you, you’d have been saved all the same. I have good news for you. Your comrade is safe, and here. He returned to your trysting-place, with both food and drink; so, as you see, I have no merit in having rescued you. But I must not talk longer. Don Prospero has given instructions for you to be kept quiet. I shall bring the doctor at once. Now that you are awake it is necessary he should see you.”
Without waiting for a reply, she glides58 out of the room, Conchita having gone before.
点击收听单词发音
1 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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2 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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3 abate | |
vi.(风势,疼痛等)减弱,减轻,减退 | |
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4 euphonious | |
adj.好听的,悦耳的,和谐的 | |
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5 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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6 throb | |
v.震颤,颤动;(急速强烈地)跳动,搏动 | |
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7 invalid | |
n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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8 slabs | |
n.厚板,平板,厚片( slab的名词复数 );厚胶片 | |
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9 slab | |
n.平板,厚的切片;v.切成厚板,以平板盖上 | |
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10 mattress | |
n.床垫,床褥 | |
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11 chattels | |
n.动产,奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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12 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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13 adornment | |
n.装饰;装饰品 | |
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14 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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15 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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16 juxtaposition | |
n.毗邻,并置,并列 | |
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17 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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18 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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19 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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20 conversing | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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21 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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22 aperture | |
n.孔,隙,窄的缺口 | |
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23 laden | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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24 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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25 aromatic | |
adj.芳香的,有香味的 | |
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26 mingling | |
adj.混合的 | |
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27 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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28 conjectures | |
推测,猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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29 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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30 asylum | |
n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
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31 fatigues | |
n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 );杂役;厌倦;(士兵穿的)工作服 | |
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32 narcotic | |
n.麻醉药,镇静剂;adj.麻醉的,催眠的 | |
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33 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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34 drowsiness | |
n.睡意;嗜睡 | |
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35 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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36 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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37 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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38 salute | |
vi.行礼,致意,问候,放礼炮;vt.向…致意,迎接,赞扬;n.招呼,敬礼,礼炮 | |
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39 admonish | |
v.训戒;警告;劝告 | |
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40 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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41 gliding | |
v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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42 counterfeit | |
vt.伪造,仿造;adj.伪造的,假冒的 | |
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43 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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44 rustle | |
v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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45 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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46 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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47 queries | |
n.问题( query的名词复数 );疑问;询问;问号v.质疑,对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 );询问 | |
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48 beheld | |
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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49 delirious | |
adj.不省人事的,神智昏迷的 | |
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50 forsaking | |
放弃( forsake的现在分词 ); 弃绝; 抛弃; 摒弃 | |
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51 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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52 tinge | |
vt.(较淡)着色于,染色;使带有…气息;n.淡淡色彩,些微的气息 | |
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53 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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54 mingled | |
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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55 murmurs | |
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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56 raven | |
n.渡鸟,乌鸦;adj.乌亮的 | |
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57 provident | |
adj.为将来做准备的,有先见之明的 | |
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58 glides | |
n.滑行( glide的名词复数 );滑音;音渡;过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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