In dreadful secrecy2 they did impart,
And I with them the third night kept the watch.
SHAKESPEARE
‘As they spoke3, a soft knock was heard, such as kindness gives at the door of misfortune, and Everhard started up to answer it. ‘Stay,’ said Walberg, absently, ‘Where are the servants?’ Then recollecting5 himself, he smiled agonizingly, and waved his hand to his son to go. It was the good priest. He entered, and sat down in silence, — no one spoke to him. It might be truly said, as it is sublimely6 said in the original, ‘There was neither speech nor language, but voices were heard among them — ‘and felt too.’ The worthy7 priest piqued8 himself on his orthodoxy of all matters of belief and form enjoined9 by the Catholic church; and, moreover, had acquired a kind of monastic apathy10, of sanctified stoicism, which priests sometimes imagine is the conquest of grace over the rebellion of nature, when it is merely the result of a profession that denies nature its objects and its ties. Yet so it was, that as he sat among this afflicted11 family, after complaining of the keenness of the morning air, and wiping away in vain the moisture, which he said it had brought into his eyes, he at last yielded to his feelings, and ‘lifted up his voice and wept.’ But tears were not all he had to offer. On hearing the plans of Walberg and his family, he promised, with a faultering voice, his ready assistance in promoting them; and, as he rose to depart, observing that he had been entrusted12 by the faithful with a small sum for the relief of the unfortunate, and knew not where it could be better bestowed13, he dropped from the sleeve of his habit a well filled purse on the floor, and hurried away.
‘The family retired15 to rest as the day approached, but rose in a few hours afterwards without having slept; and the remainder of that day, and the whole of the three following, were devoted16 to applications at every door where encouragement might be expected, or employment obtained, the priest in person aiding every application. But there were many circumstances unfavourable to the ill-starred family of Walberg. They were strangers, and, with the exception of their mother, who acted as interpreter, ignorant of the language of the country. This was ‘a sore evil,’ extending almost to the total preclusion18 of their exertions19 as teachers. They were also heretics, — and this alone was a sufficient bar to their success in Seville. In some families the beauty of the daughters, in others that of the son, was gravely debated as an important objection. In others the recollection of their former splendour, suggested a mean and rancorous motive20 to jealous inferiority to insult them by a rejection21, for which no other cause could be assigned. Unwearied and undismayed, they renewed their applications every day, at every house where admission could be obtained, and at many where it was denied; and each day they returned to examine the diminished stock, to divide the scantier22 meal, calculate how far it was possible to reduce the claims of nature to the level of their ebbing23 means, and smile when they talked of the morrow to each other, but weep when they thought of it alone. There is a withering24 monotony in the diary of misery25, — ‘one day telleth another.’ But there came at length a day, when the last coin was expended26, the last meal devoured27, the last resource exhausted28, the last hope annihilated29, and the friendly priest himself told them weeping, he had nothing to give them but his prayers.
‘That evening the family sat in profound and stupified silence together for some hours, till the aged30 mother of Walberg, who had not for some months uttered any thing but indistinct monosyllables, or appeared conscious of any thing that was going on, suddenly, with that ominous31 energy that announces its effort to be the last, — that bright flash of parting life that precedes its total extinction33, exclaimed aloud, apparently34 addressing her husband, ‘There is something wrong here, — why did they bring us from Germany? They might have suffered us to die there, — they have brought us here to mock us, I think. Yesterday, — (her memory evidently confounding the dates of her son’s prosperous and adverse35 fortune), yesterday they clothed me in silk, and I drank wine, and to-day they give me this sorry crust, — (flinging away the piece of bread which had been her share of the miserable36 meal), — there is something wrong here. I will go back to Germany, — I will!’ and she rose from her seat in the sight of the astonished family, who, horror-struck, as they would have been at the sudden resuscitation37 of a corse, ventured not to oppose her by word or movement. ‘I will go back to Germany,’ she repeated; and, rising, she actually took three or four firm and equal steps on the floor, while no one attempted to approach her. Then her force, both physical and mental, seemed to fail, — she tottered39, — her voice sunk into hollow mutterings, as she repeated, ‘I know the way, — I know the way, — if it was not so dark. — I have not far to go, — I am very near — home!‘ As she spoke, she fell across the feet of Walberg. The family collected round her, and raised — a corse. ‘Thank God!’ exclaimed her son, as he gazed on his mother’s corse. — And this reversion of the strongest feeling of nature, — this wish for the death of those for whom, in other circumstances, we would ourselves have died, makes those who have experienced it feel as if there was no evil in life but want, and no object of rational pursuit but the means of avoiding it. Alas40! if it be so, for what purpose were hearts that beat, and minds that burn, bestowed on us? Is all the energy of intellect, and all the enthusiasm of feeling, to be expended in contrivances how to meet or shift off the petty but torturing pangs41 of hourly necessity? Is the fire caught from heaven to be employed in lighting42 a faggot to keep the cold from the numbed43 and wasted fingers of poverty? Pardon this digression, Senhor,’ said the stranger, ‘but I had a painful feeling, that forced me to make it.’ He then proceeded.
‘The family collected around the dead body, — and it might have been a subject worthy the pencil of the first of painters, to witness its interment, as it took place the following night. As the deceased was a heretic, the corse was not allowed to be laid in consecrated44 ground; and the family, solicitous46 to avoid giving offence, or attracting notice on the subject of their religion, were the only attendants on the funeral. In a small inclosure, at the rear of their wretched abode48, her son dug his mother’s grave, and Ines and her daughters placed the body in it. Everhard was absent in search of employment, — as they hoped, — and a light was held by the youngest child, who smiled as he watched the scene, as if it had been a pageant49 got up for his amusement. That light, feeble as it was, showed the strong and varying expression of the countenances51 on which it fell; — in Walberg’s there was a stern and fearful joy, that she whom they were laying to rest had been ‘taken from the evil to come,’ — in that of Ines there was grief, mingled52 with something of horror, at this mute and unhallowed ceremony. — Her daughters, pale with grief and fear, wept silently; but their tears were checked, and the whole course of their feelings changed, when the light fell on another figure who appeared suddenly standing53 among them on the edge of the grave, — it was that of Walberg’s father. Impatient of being left alone, and wholly unconscious of the cause, he had groped and tottered his way till he reached the spot; and now, as he saw his son heap up the earth over the grave, he exclaimed, with a brief and feeble effort of reminiscence, sinking on the ground, ‘Me, too, — lay me there, the same spot will serve for both!’ His children raised and supported him into the house, where the sight of Everhard, with an unexpected supply of provisions, made them forget the horrors of the late scene, and postpone54 once more the fears of want till to-morrow. No inquiry55 how this supply was obtained, could extort56 more from Everhard than that it was the gift of charity. He looked exhausted and dreadfully pale, — and, forbearing to press him with further questions, they partook of this manna-meal, — this food that seemed to have dropped from heaven, and separated for the night.
‘Ines had, during this period of calamity57, unremittingly enforced the application of her daughters to those accomplishments58 from which she still derived59 the hopes of their subsistence. Whatever were the privations and disappointments of the day, their musical and other exercises were strictly60 attended to; and hands enfeebled by want and grief, plied61 their task with as much assiduity as when occupation was only a variation of luxury. This attention to the ornaments62 of life, when its actual necessaries are wanted, — this sound of music in a house where the murmurs63 of domestic anxiety are heard every moment, — this subservience65 of talent to necessity, all its generous enthusiasm lost, and only its possible utility remembered or valued, — is perhaps the bitterest strife66 that ever was fought between the opposing claims of our artificial and our natural existence. But things had now occurred that shook not only the resolution of Ines, but even affected67 her feelings beyond the power of repression68. She had been accustomed to hear, with delight, the eager application of her daughters to their musical studies; — now — when she heard them, the morning after the interment of their grandmother, renewing that application — she felt as if the sounds struck through her heart. She entered the room where they were, and they turned towards her with their usual smiling demand for her approbation69.
‘The mother, with the forced smile of a sickening heart, said she believed there was no occasion for their practising any further that day. The daughters, who understood her too well, relinquished70 their instruments, and, accustomed to see every article of furniture converted into the means of casual subsistence, they thought no worse than that their ghitarras might be disposed of this day, and the next they hoped they would have to teach on those of their pupils. They were mistaken. Other symptoms of failing resolution, — of utter and hopeless abandonment, appeared that day. Walberg had always felt and expressed the strongest feelings of tender respect towards his parents — his father particularly, whose age far exceeded that of his mother. At the division of their meal that day, he shewed a kind of wilfish and greedy jealousy71 that made Ines tremble. He whispered to her — ‘How much my father eats — how heartily72 he feeds while we have scarce a morsel73!’ — ‘And let us want that morsel, before your father wants one!’ said Ines in a whisper — ‘I have scarce tasted any thing myself.’ — ‘Father — father,’ cried Walberg, shouting in the ear of the doting74 old man, ‘you are eating heartily, while Ines and her children are starving!’ And he snatched the food from his father’s hand, who gazed at him vacantly, and resigned the contested morsel without a struggle. A moment afterwards the old man rose from his seat, and with horrid75 unnatural76 force, tore the untasted meat from his grandchildren’s lips, and swallowed it himself, while his rivelled and toothless mouth grinned at them in mockery at once infantine and malicious77.
‘Squabbling about your supper?’ cried Everhard, bursting among them with a wild and feeble laugh, — ‘Why, here’s enough for to-morrow — and to-morrow.’ And he flung indeed ample means for two day’s subsistence on the table, but he looked paler and paler. The hungry family devoured the hoard78, and forgot to ask the cause of his increasing paleness, and obviously diminished strength.
‘They had long been without any domestics, and as Everhard disappeared mysteriously every day, the daughters were sometimes employed on the humble79 errands of the family. The beauty of the elder daughter, Julia, was so conspicuous80, that her mother had often undertaken the most menial errands herself, rather than send her daughter into the streets unprotected. The following evening, however, being intently employed in some domestic occupation, she allowed Julia to go out to purchase their food for to-morrow, and lent her veil for the purpose, directing her daughter to arrange it in the Spanish fashion, with which she was well acquainted, so as to hide her face.
‘Julia, who went with trembling steps on her brief errand, had somehow deranged81 her veil, and a glimpse of her beauty was caught by a cavalier who was passing. The meanness of her dress and occupation suggested hopes to him which he ventured to express. Julia burst from him with the mingled terror and indignation of insulted purity, but her eyes rested with unconscious avidity on the handful of gold which glittered in his hand. — She thought of her famishing parents, — of her own declining strength, and neglected useless talents. The gold still sparkled before her, — she felt — she knew not what, and to escape from some feelings is perhaps the best victory we can obtain over them. But when she arrived at home, she eagerly thrust the small purchase she had made into her mother’s hand, and, though hitherto gentle, submissive, and tractable82, announced, in a tone of decision that seemed to her startled mother (whose thoughts were always limited to the exigencies83 of the hour) like that of sudden insanity84, that she would rather starve than ever again tread the streets of Seville alone.
‘As Ines retired to her bed, she thought she heard a feeble moan from the room where Everhard lay, and where, from their being compelled to sell the necessary furniture of the bed, he had entreated86 his parents to allow Maurice to sleep with him, alleging87 that the warmth of his body would be a substitute for artificial covering to his little brother. Twice those moans were heard, but Ines did not dare to awake Walberg, who had sunk into that profound sleep which is as often the refuge of intolerable misery, as that of saturated88 enjoyment89. A few moments after, when the moans had ceased, and she had half persuaded herself it was only the echo of that wave that seems for ever beating in the ears of the unfortunate, — the curtains of her bed were thrown open, and the figure of a child covered with blood, stained in breast, arms, and legs, appeared before her, and cried, — ‘It is Everhard’s blood — he is bleeding to death, — I am covered with his blood! — Mother — mother — rise and save Everhard’s life!’ The object, the voice, the words, seemed to Ines like the imagery of some terrible dream, such as had lately often visited her sleep, till the tones of Maurice, her youngest, and (in her heart) her favourite child, made her spring from the bed, and hurry after the little blood-spotted figure that paddled before her on its naked feet, till she reached the adjoining room where Everhard lay. Amid all her anguish90 and fear, she trod as lightly as Maurice, lest she should awake Walberg.
‘The moon-light fell strongly through the unshuttered windows on the wretched closet that just contained the bed. Its furniture was sufficiently91 scanty92, and in his spasms93 Everhard had thrown off the sheet. So he lay, as Ines approached his bed, in a kind of corse-like beauty, to which the light of the moon gave an effect that would have rendered the figure worthy the pencil of a Murillo, a Rosa, or any of those painters, who, inspired by the genius of suffering, delight in representing the most exquisite95 of human forms in the extremity96 of human agony. A St Bartholomew flayed97, with his skin hanging about him in graceful98 drapery — a St Laurence, broiled99 on a gridiron, and exhibiting his finely-formed anatomy100 on its bars, while naked slaves are blowing the coals beneath it, — even these were inferior to the form half-veiled, — half-disclosed by the moon-light as it lay. The snow-white limbs of Everhard were extended as if for the inspection101 of a sculptor102, and moveless, as if they were indeed what they resembled, in hue103 and symmetry, those of a marble statue. His arms were tossed above his head, and the blood was trickling104 fast from the opened veins105 of both, — his bright and curled hair was clotted106 with the red stream that flowed from his arms, — his lips were blue, and a faint and fainter moan issued from them as his mother hung over him. This sight banished107 in a moment all other fears and feelings, and Ines shrieked108 aloud to her husband for assistance. Walberg, staggering from his sleep, entered the room, — the object before him was enough. Ines had only strength left to point to it. The wretched father rushed out in quest of medical aid, which he was obliged to solicit45 gratuitously110, and in bad Spanish, while his accents betrayed him at every door he knocked at, — and closed them against him as a foreigner and a heretic. At length a barber-surgeon (for the professions were united in Seville) consented, with many a yawn, to attend him, and came duly armed with lint112 and styptics. The distance was short, and he was soon by the bed of the young sufferer. The parents observed, with consternation113 unspeakable, the languid looks of recognition, the ghastly smile of consciousness, that Everhard viewed him with, as he approached the bed; and when he had succeeded in stopping the h?morrhage, and bound up the arms, a whisper passed between him and the patient, and the latter raised his bloodless hand to his lips, and uttered, ‘Remember our bargain.’ As the man retired, Walberg followed, and demanded to know the meaning of the words he had heard. Walberg was a German, and choleric114 — the surgeon was a Spaniard, and cool. ‘I shall tell you to-morrow, Senhor,’ said he, putting up his instruments, — ‘in the mean time be assured of my gratuitous111 attendance on your son, and of his certain recovery. We deem you heretics in Seville, but that youth is enough to canonize the whole family, and cover a multitude of sins.’ And with these words he departed. The next day he attended Everhard, and so for several, till he was completely recovered, always refusing the slightest remuneration, till the father, whom misery had made suspicious of every thing and nothing, watched at the door, and heard the horrible secret. He did not disclose it to his wife, — but from that hour, it was observed that his gloom became more intense, and the communications he used to hold with his family, on the subject of their distress115, and the modes of evading116 it by hourly expedients117, utterly118 and finally ceased.
‘Everhard, now recovered, but still pale as the widow of Seneca, was at last able to join the family consultation119, and give advice, and suggest resources, with a mental energy that his physical weakness could not overcome. The next day, when they were assembled to debate on the means of procuring120 subsistence for the following one, they for the first time missed their father. At every word that was uttered, they turned to ask for his sanction — but he was not there. At last he entered the room, but without taking a part in their consultation. He leaned gloomily against the wall, and while Everhard and Julia, at every sentence, turned their appealing looks towards him, he sullenly122 averted123 his head. Ines, appearing to pursue some work, while her trembling fingers could scarce direct the needle, made a sign to her children not to observe him. Their voices were instantly depressed124, and their heads bent125 closely towards each other. Mendicity appeared the only resource of this unfortunate family, — and they agreed, that the evening was the best time for trying its effect. The unhappy father remained rocking against the shattered wainscot till the arrival of evening. Ines repaired the clothes of the children, which were now so decayed, that every attempt at repair made a fresh rent, and the very thread she worked with seemed less attenuated126 than the worn-out materials it wrought127 on.
‘The grandfather, still seated in his ample chair by the care of Ines, (for his son had grown very indifferent about him), watched her moving fingers, and exclaimed, with the petulance128 of dotage129, ‘Aye, — you are arraying them in embroidery130, while I am in rags. — In rags!’ he repeated, holding out the slender garments which the beggared family could with difficulty spare him. Ines tried to pacify131 him, and showed her work, to prove that it was the remnants of her children’s former dress she was repairing; but, with horror unutterable, she perceived her husband incensed132 at these expressions of dotage, and venting133 his frantic134 and fearful indignation in language that she tried to bury the sound of, by pressing closer to the old man, and attempting to fix his bewildered attention on herself and her work. This was easily accomplished136, and all was well, till they were about to separate on their wretched precarious137 errands. Then a new and untold138 feeling trembled at the heart of one of the young wanderers. Julia remembered the occurrence of a preceding evening, — she thought of the tempting135 gold, the flattering language, and the tender tone of the young cavalier. She saw her family perishing around her for want, — she felt it consuming her own vitals, — and as she cast her eye round the squalid room, the gold glittered brighter and brighter in her eye. A faint hope, aided perhaps by a still more faint suggestion of venial139 pride, swelled140 in her heart. ‘Perhaps he might love me,’ she whispered to herself, ‘and think me not unworthy of his hand.’ Then despair returned to the charge. ‘I must die of famine,’ she thought, ‘if I return unaided, — and why may I not by my death benefit my family! I will never survive shame, but they may, — for they will not know it!’ — She went out, and took a direction different from that of the family.
‘Night came on, — the wanderers returned slowly one by one, — Julia was the last. Her brothers and sister had each obtained a trifling141 alms, for they had learned Spanish enough to beg in, — and the old man’s face wore a vacant smile, as he saw the store produced, which was, after all, scarce sufficient to afford a meal for the youngest. ‘And have you brought us nothing, Julia?’ said her parents. She stood apart, and in silence. Her father repeated the question in a raised and angry voice. She started at the sound, and, rushing forward, buried her head in her mother’s bosom142. ‘Nothing, — nothing,’ she cried, in a broken and suffocated143 voice; ‘I tried, — my weak and wicked heart submitted to the thought for a moment, — but no, — no, not even to save you from perishing, could I! — I came home to perish first myself!’ Her shuddering145 parents comprehended her, — and amid their agony they blessed her and wept, — but not from grief. The meal was divided, of which Julia at first steadily146 refused to partake, as she had not contributed to it, till her reluctance147 was overcome by the affectionate importunity148 of the rest, and she complied.
‘It was during this division of what all believed to be their last meal, that Walberg gave one of those proofs of sudden and fearful violence of temper, bordering on insanity, which he had betrayed latterly. He seemed to notice, with sullen121 displeasure, that his wife had (as she always did) reserved the largest portion for his father. He eyed it askance at first, muttering angrily to himself. Then he spoke more aloud, though not so as to be heard by the deaf old man, who was sluggishly149 devouring151 his sordid152 meal. Then the sufferings of his children seemed to inspire him with a kind of wild resentment153, and he started up, exclaiming, ‘My son sells his blood to a surgeon, to save us from perishing!1 My daughter trembles on the verge154 of prostitution, to procure155 us a meal!’ Then fiercely addressing his father, ‘And what dost thou do, old dotard? Rise up, — rise up, and beg for us thyself, or thou must starve!’ — and, as he spoke, he raised his arm against the helpless old man. At this horrid sight, Ines shrieked aloud, and the children, rushing forward, interposed. The wretched father, incensed to madness, dealt blows among them, which were borne without a murmur64; and then, the storm being exhausted, he sat down and wept.
1 Fact, — it occurred in a French family not many years ago.
‘At this moment, to the astonishment156 and terror of all except Walberg, the old man, who, since the night of his wife’s interment, had never moved but from his chair to his bed, and that not without assistance, rose suddenly from his seat, and, apparently in obedience157 to his son, walked with a firm and steady pace towards the door. When he had reached it, he paused, looked back on them with a fruitless effort at recollection, and went out slowly; — and such was the terror felt by all at this last ghastly look, which seemed like that of a corse moving on to the place of its interment, that no one attempted to oppose his passage, and several moments elapsed before Everhard had the recollection to pursue him.
‘In the mean time, Ines had dismissed her children, and sitting as near as she dared to the wretched father, attempted to address some soothing158 expressions to him. Her voice, which was exquisitely159 sweet and soft, seemed to produce a mechanical effect on him. He turned towards her at first, — then leaning his head on his arm, he shed a few silent tears, — then flinging it on his wife’s bosom, he wept aloud. Ines seized this moment to impress on his heart the horror she felt from the outrage160 he had committed, and adjured161 him to supplicate162 the mercy of God for a crime, which, in her eyes, appeared scarce short of parricide163. Walberg wildly asked what she alluded164 to; and when, shuddering, she uttered the words, — ‘Your father, — your poor old father!’ — he smiled with an expression of mysterious and supernatural confidence that froze her blood, and, approaching her ear, softly whispered, ‘I have no father! He is dead, — long dead! I buried him the night I dug my mother’s grave! Poor old man,’ he added with a sigh, ‘it was the better for him, — he would have lived only to weep, and perish perhaps with hunger. But I will tell you, Ines, — and let it be a secret, I wondered what made our provisions decrease so, till what was yesterday sufficient for four, is not to-day sufficient for one. I watched, and at last I discovered — it must be a secret — an old goblin, who daily visited this house. It came in the likeness165 of an old man in rags, and with a long white beard, and it devoured every thing on the table, while the children stood hungry by! But I struck at — I cursed it, — I chased it in the name of the All-powerful, and it is gone. Oh it was a fell devouring goblin! — but it will haunt us no more, and we shall have enough. Enough,’ said the wretched man, involuntarily returning to his habitual166 associations, — ‘enough for to-morrow!’
‘Ines, overcome with horror at this obvious proof of insanity, neither interrupted or opposed him; she attempted only to soothe167 him, internally praying against the too probable disturbance168 of her own intellects. Walberg saw her look of distrust, and, with the quick jealousy of partial insanity, said, ‘If you do not credit me in that, still less, I suppose, will you in the account of that fearful visitation with which I have latterly been familiar.’ — ‘Oh, my beloved!’ said Ines, who recognized in these words the source of a fear that had latterly, from some extraordinary circumstances in her husband’s conduct, taken possession of her soul, and made the fear even of famine trifling in comparison, — ‘I dread1 lest I understand you too well. The anguish of want and of famine I could have borne, — aye, and seen you bear, but the horrid words you have lately uttered, the horrid thoughts that escape you in your sleep, — when I think on these, and guess at’ — ‘You need not guess,’ said Walberg, interrupting her, ‘I will tell you all.’ And, as he spoke, his countenance50 changed from its expression of wildness to one of perfect sanity85 and calm confidence, — his features relaxed, his eye became steady, and his tone firm. — ‘Every night since our late distresses169, I have wandered out in search of some relief, and supplicated170 every passing stranger; — latterly, I have met every night the enemy of man, who’ — ‘Oh cease, my love, to indulge these horrible thoughts, — they are the results of your disturbed unhappy state of mind.’ — ‘Ines, listen to me. I see that figure as plainly as I see yours, — I hear his voice as distinctly as you hear mine this moment. Want and misery are not naturally fertile in the production of imagination, — they grasp at realities too closely. No man, who wants a meal, conceives that a banquet is spread before him, and that the tempter invites him to sit down and eat at his ease. No, — no, Ines, the evil one, or some devoted agent of his in human form, besets171 me every night, — and how I shall longer resist the snare172, I know not.’ — ‘And in what form does he appear?’ said Ines, hoping to turn the channel of his gloomy thoughts, while she appeared to follow their direction. ‘In that of a middle-aged173 man, of a serious and staid demeanour, and with nothing remarkable174 in his aspect except the light of two burning eyes, whose lustre175 is almost intolerable. He fixes them on me sometimes, and I feel as if there was fascination176 in their glare. Every night he besets me, and few like me could have resisted his seductions. He has offered, and proved to me, that it is in his power to bestow14 all that human cupidity177 could thirst for, on the condition that — I cannot utter! It is one so full of horror and impiety178, that, even to listen to it, is scarce less a crime than to comply with it!’
‘Ines, still incredulous, yet imagining that to soothe his delirium179 was perhaps the best way to overcome it, demanded what that condition was. Though they were alone, Walberg would communicate it only in a whisper; and Ines, fortified180 as she was by reason hitherto undisturbed, and a cool and steady temper, could not but recollect4 some vague reports she had heard in her early youth, before she quitted Spain, of a being permitted to wander through it, with power to tempt38 men under the pressure of extreme calamity with similar offers, which had been invariably rejected, even in the last extremities181 of despair and dissolution. She was not superstitious182, — but, her memory now taking part with her husband’s representation of what had befallen him, she shuddered183 at the possibility of his being exposed to similar temptation; and she endeavoured to fortify184 his mind and conscience, by arguments equally appropriate whether he was the victim of a disturbed imagination, or the real object of this fearful persecution185. She reminded him, that if, even in Spain, where the abominations of Antichrist prevailed, and the triumph of the mother of witchcrafts and spiritual seduction was complete, the fearful offer he alluded to had been made and rejected with such unmitigated abhorrence187, the renunciation of one who had embraced the pure doctrines188 of the gospel should be expressed with a tenfold energy of feeling and holy defiance189. ‘You,’ said the heroic woman, ‘you first taught me that the doctrines of salvation190 are to be found alone in the holy scriptures191, — I believed you, and wedded192 you in that belief. We are united less in the body than in the soul, for in the body neither of us may probably sojourn193 much longer. You pointed194 out to me, not the legends of fabulous195 saints, but the lives of the primitive196 apostles and martyrs197 of the true church. There I read no tales of ‘voluntary humility,’ of self-inflicted, fruitless sufferings, but I read that the people of God were ‘destitute, afflicted, tormented199.’ And shall we dare to murmur at following the examples of those you have pointed out to me as ensamples of suffering? They bore the spoiling of their goods, — they wandered about in sheep skins and goat skins, — they resisted unto blood, striving against sin. — And shall we lament200 the lot that has fallen to us, when our hearts have so often burned within us, as we read the holy records together? Alas! what avails feeling till it is brought to the test of fact? How we deceived ourselves, in believing that we indeed participated in the feelings of those holy men, while we were so far removed from the test by which they were proved! We read of imprisonments, of tortures, and of flames! — We closed the book, and partook of a comfortable meal, and retired to a peaceful bed, triumphing in the thought, while saturated with all the world’s good, that if their trials had been ours, we could have sustained those trials as they did. Now, our hour has come, — it is an hour sharp and terrible!’ — ‘It is!’ murmured the shuddering husband. ‘But shall we therefore shrink?’ replied his wife. ‘Your ancestors, who were the first in Germany that embraced the reformed religion, have bled and blazed for it, as you have often told me, — can there be a stronger attestation201 to it?’ — ‘I believe there can,’ said Walberg, whose eyes rolled fearfully, — ‘that of starving for it! — Oh Ines,’ he exclaimed, as he grasped her hands convulsively, ‘I have felt, — I still feel, that a death at the stake would be mercy compared to the lingering tortures of protracted202 famine, — to the death that we die daily — and yet do not die! What is this I hold?’ he exclaimed, grasping unconsciously the hand he held in his. ‘It is my hand, my love,’ answered the trembling wife. — ‘Yours! — no — impossible! — Your fingers were soft and cool, but these are dry, — is this a human hand?’ — ‘It is mine,’ said the weeping wife. ‘Then you must have been famishing,’ said Walberg, awakening203 as if from a dream. ‘We have all been so latterly,’ answered Ines, satisfied to restore her husband’s sanity, even at the expense of this horrible confession204, — ‘We have all been so — but I have suffered the least. When a family is famishing, the children think of their meals — but the mother thinks only of her children. I have lived on as little as — I could, — I had indeed no appetite.’ — ‘Hush,’ said Walberg, interrupting her — ‘what sound was that? — was it not like a dying groan205?’ — ‘No — it is the children who moan in their sleep.’ — ‘What do they moan for?’ ‘Hunger I believe,’ said Ines, involuntarily yielding to the dreadful conviction of habitual misery. — ‘And I sit and hear this,’ said Walberg, starting up, — ‘I sit to hear their young sleep broken by dreams of hunger, while for a word’s speaking I could pile this floor with mountains of gold, and all for the risk of — ‘Of what?’ — said Ines, clinging to him, — ‘of what? — Oh! think of that! — what shall a man give in exchange for his soul? — Oh! let us starve, die, rot before your eyes, rather than you should seal your perdition by that horrible’ — ‘Hear me, woman!’ said Walberg, turning on her eyes almost as fierce and lustrous206 as those of Melmoth, and whose light, indeed, seemed borrowed from his; ‘Hear me! — My soul is lost! They who die in the agonies of famine know no God, and want none — if I remain here to famish among my children, I shall as surely blaspheme the Author of my being, as I shall renounce207 him under the fearful conditions proposed to me! — Listen to me, Ines, and tremble not. To see my children die of famine will be to me instant suicide and impenitent208 despair! But if I close with this fearful offer, I may yet repent209, — I may yet escape! — There is hope on one side — on the other there is none — none — none! Your hands cling round me, but their touch is cold! — You are wasted to a shadow with want! Shew me the means of procuring another meal, and I will spit at the tempter, and spurn210 him! — But where is that to be found? — Let me go, then, to meet him! — You will pray for me, Ines, — will you not? — and the children? — No, let them not pray for me! — in my despair I forgot to pray myself, and their prayers would now be a reproach to me. — Ines! — Ines! — What? am I talking to a corse?’ He was indeed, for the wretched wife had sunk at his feet senseless. ‘Thank God!’ he again emphatically exclaimed, as he beheld211 her lie to all appearance lifeless before him. ‘Thank God a word then has killed her, — it was a gentler death than famine! It would have been kind to have strangled her with these hands! Now for the children!’ he exclaimed, while horrid thoughts chased each other over his reeling and unseated mind, and he imagined he heard the roar of a sea in its full strength thundering in his ears, and saw ten thousand waves dashing at his feet, and every wave of blood. ‘Now for the children!’ — and he felt about as if for some implement212 of destruction. In doing so, his left hand crossed his right, and grasping it, he exclaimed as if he felt a sword in his hand, — ‘This will do — they will struggle — they will supplicate, — but I will tell them their mother lies dead at my feet, and then what can they say? How now,’ said the miserable man, sitting calmly down, ‘If they cry to me, what shall I answer? Julia, and Ines her mother’s namesake, — and poor little Maurice, who smiles even amid hunger, and whose smiles are worse than curses! — I will tell them their mother is dead!’ he cried, staggering towards the door of his children’s apartment ‘Dead without a blow! — that shall be their answer and their doom213.’
‘As he spoke, he stumbled over the senseless body of his wife; and the tone of his mind once more strung up to the highest pitch of conscious agony, he cried, ‘Men! — men! — what are your pursuits and your passions? — your hopes and fears? — your struggles and your triumphs? — Look on me! — learn from a human being like yourselves, who preaches his last and fearful sermon over the corse of his wife, and approaching the bodies of his sleeping children, whom he soon hopes to see corses also — corses made so by his own hand! — Let all the world listen to me! — let them resign factitious wants and wishes, and furnish those who hang on them for subsistence with the means of bare subsistence! — There is no care, no thought beyond this! Let our children call on me for instruction, for promotion214, for distinction, and call in vain — I hold myself innocent. They may find those for themselves, or want them if they list — but let them never in vain call on me for bread, as they have done, — as they do now! I hear the moans of their hungry sleep! — World — world, be wise, and let your children curse you to your face for any thing but want of bread! Oh that is the bitterest of curses, — and it is felt most when it is least uttered! I have felt it often, but I shall feel it no longer!’ — And the wretch47 tottered towards the beds of his children.
‘Father! — father!’ cried Julia, ‘are these your hands? Oh let me live, and I will do any thing — any thing but’ — ‘Father! — dear father!’ cried Ines, ‘spare us! — to-morrow may bring another meal!’ Maurice, the young child, sprung from his bed, and cried, clinging round his father, ‘Oh, dear father, forgive me! — but I dreamed a wolf was in the room, and was tearing out our throats; and, father, I cried so long, that I thought you never would come. And now — Oh God! oh God!’ — as he felt the hands of the frantic wretch grasping his throat, — ‘are you the wolf?’
‘Fortunately those hands were powerless from the very convulsion of the agony that prompted their desperate effort. The daughters had swooned from horror, — and their swoon appeared like death. The child had the cunning to counterfeit215 death also, and lay extended and stopping his breath under the fierce but faultering gripe that seized his young throat — then relinquished — then grasped it again — and then relaxed its hold as at the expiration216 of a spasm94.
‘When all was over, as the wretched father thought, he retreated from the chamber217. In doing so, he stumbled over the corse-like form of his wife. — A groan announced that the sufferer was not dead. ‘What does this mean?’ said Walberg, staggering in his delirium, — ‘does the corse reproach me for murder? — or does one surviving breath curse me for the unfinished work?’
‘As he spoke, he placed his foot on his wife’s body. At this moment, a loud knock was heard at the door. ‘They are come!’ said Walberg, whose frenzy218 hurried him rapidly through the scenes of an imaginary murder, and the consequence of a judicial219 process. ‘Well! — come in — knock again, or lift the latch220 — or enter as ye list — here I sit amid the bodies of my wife and children — I have murdered them — I confess it — ye come to drag me to torture, I know — but never — never can your tortures inflict198 on me more than the agony of seeing them perish by hunger before my eyes. Come in — come in — the deed is done! — The corse of my wife is at my foot, and the blood of my children is on my hands — what have I further to fear?’ But while the wretched man spoke thus, he sunk sullenly on his chair, appearing to be employed in wiping from his fingers the traces of blood with which he imagined they were stained. At length the knocking at the door became louder, — the latch was lifted, — and three figures entered the apartment in which Walberg sat. They advanced slowly, — two from age and exhaustion221, — and the third from strong emotion. Walberg heeded222 them not, — his eyes were fixed223, — his hands locked in each other; — nor did he move a limb as they approached.
‘Do you not know us?’ said the foremost, holding up a lantern which he held in his hand. Its light fell on a groupe worthy the pencil of a Rembrandt. The room lay in complete darkness, except where that strong and unbroken light fell. It glared on the rigid224 and moveless obduracy225 of Walberg’s despair, who appeared stiffening226 into stone as he sat. It showed the figure of the friendly priest who had been Guzman’s director, and whose features, pale and haggard with age and austerities, seemed to struggle with the smile that trembled over their wrinkled lines. Behind him stood the aged father of Walberg, with an aspect of perfect apathy, except when, with a momentary227 effort at recollection, he shook his white head, seeming to ask himself why he was there — and wherefore he could not speak. Supporting him stood the young form of Everhard, over whose cheek and eye wandered a glow and lustre too bright to last, and instantly succeeded by paleness and dejection. He trembled, advanced, — then shrinking back, clung to his infirm grandfather, as if needing the support he appeared to give. Walberg was the first to break the silence. ‘I know ye who ye are,’ he said hollowly — ‘ye are come to seize me — ye have heard my confession — why do you delay? Drag me away — I would rise and follow you if I could, but I feel as if I had grown to this seat — you must drag me from it yourselves.
‘As he spoke, his wife, who had remained stretched at his feet, rose slowly but firmly; and, of all that she saw or heard, appearing to comprehend only the meaning of her husband’s words, she clasped her arms round him, as if to oppose his being torn from her, and gazed on the groupe with a look of impotent and ghastly defiance. ‘Another witness,’ cried Walberg, ‘risen from the dead against me? Nay228, then, it is time to be gone,’ — and he attempted to rise. ‘Stay, father,’ said Everhard, rushing forward and detaining him in his seat; ‘stay, — there is good news, and this good priest has come to tell it, — listen to him, father, I cannot speak.’ — ‘You! oh you! Everhard,’ answered the father, with a look of mournful reproach, ‘you a witness against me too, — I never raised my hand against you! — Those whom I murdered are silent, and will you be my accuser?’
‘They all now gathered round him, partly in terror and partly in consolation229, — all anxious to disclose to him the tidings with which their hearts were burdened, yet fearful lest the freight might be too much for the frail230 vessel231 that rocked and reeled before them, as if the next breeze would be like a tempest to it. At last it burst forth232 from the priest, who, by the necessities of his profession, was ignorant of domestic feelings, and of the felicities and agonies which are inseparably twined with the fibres of conjugal233 and parental234 hearts. He knew nothing of what Walberg might feel as a husband or father, — for he could never be either; but he felt that good news must be good news, into whatever ears they were poured, or by whatever lips they might be uttered. ‘We have the will,’ he cried abruptly235, ‘the true will of Guzman. The other was — asking pardon of God and the saints for saying so — no better than a forgery236. The will is found, and you and your family are heirs to all his wealth. I was coming to acquaint you, late as it was, having with difficulty obtained the Superior’s permission to do so, and in my way I met this old man, whom your son was conducting, — how came he out so late?’ At these words Walberg was observed to shudder144 with a brief but strong spasm. ‘The will is found!’ repeated the priest, perceiving how little effect the words seemed to have on Walberg, — and he raised his voice to its utmost pitch. ‘The will of my uncle is found,’ repeated Everhard. ‘Found, — found, — found!’ echoed the aged grandfather, not knowing what he said, but vaguely237 repeating the last words he heard, and then looking round as if asking for an explanation of them. ‘The will is found, love,’ cried Ines, who appeared restored to sudden and perfect consciousness by the sound; ‘Do you not hear, love? We are wealthy, — we are happy! Speak to us, love, and do not stare so vacantly, — speak to us!’ A long pause followed. At length, — ‘Who are those?’ said Walberg in a hollow voice, pointing to the figures before him, whom he viewed with a fixed and ghastly look, as if he was gazing on a band of spectres. ‘Your son, love, — and your father, — and the good friendly priest. Why do you look so doubtfully on us?’ — ‘And what do they come for?’ said Walberg. Again and again the import of their communication was told him, in tones that, trembling with varied238 emotion, scarce could express their meaning. At length he seemed faintly conscious of what was said, and, looking round on them, uttered a long and heavy sigh. They ceased to speak, and watched him in silence. — ‘Wealth! — wealth! — it comes too late. Look there, — look there!’ and he pointed to the room where his children lay.
‘Ines, with a dreadful presentiment239 at her heart, rushed into it, and beheld her daughters lying apparently lifeless. The shriek109 she uttered, as she fell on the bodies, brought the priest and her son to her assistance, and Walberg and the old man were left together alone, viewing each other with looks of complete insensibility; and this apathy of age, and stupefaction of despair, made a singular contrast with the fierce and wild agony of those who still retained their feelings. It was long before the daughters were recovered from their death-like swoon, and still longer before their father could be persuaded that the arms that clasped him, and the tears that fell on his cold cheek, were those of his living children.
‘All that night his wife and family struggled with his despair. At last recollection seemed to burst on him at once. He shed some tears; — then, with a minuteness of reminiscence that was equally singular and affecting, he flung himself before the old man, who, speechless and exhausted, sat passively in his chair, and exclaiming, ‘Father, forgive me!’ buried his head between his father’s knees.
‘Happiness is a powerful restorative, — in a few days the spirits of all appeared to have subsided240 into a calm. They wept sometimes, but their tears were no longer painful; — they resembled those showers in a fine spring morning, which announce the increasing warmth and beauty of the day. The infirmities of Walberg’s father made the son resolve not to leave Spain till his dissolution, which took place in a few months. He died in peace, blessing241 and blessed. His son was his only spiritual attendant, and a brief and partial interval242 of recollection enabled him to understand and express his joy and confidence in the holy texts which were read to him from the scriptures. The wealth of the family had now given them importance; and, by the interest of the friendly priest, the body was permitted to be interred243 in consecrated ground. The family then set out for Germany, where they reside in prosperous felicity; — but to this hour Walberg shudders245 with horror when he recals the fearful temptations of the stranger, whom he met in his nightly wanderings in the hour of his adversity, and the horrors of this visitation appear to oppress his recollection more than even the images of his family perishing with want.
‘There are other narratives,’ continued the stranger, ‘relating to this mysterious being, which I am in possession of, and which I have collected with much difficulty; for the unhappy, who are exposed to his temptations, consider their misfortunes as a crime, and conceal247, with the most anxious secresy, every circumstance of this horrible visitation. Should we again meet, Senhor, I may communicate them to you, and you will find them no less extraordinary than that I have just related. But it is now late, and you need repose248 after the fatigue249 of your journey.’ — So saying, the stranger departed.
‘Don Francisco remained seated in his chair, musing250 on the singular tale he had listened to, till the lateness of the hour, combining with his fatigue, and the profound attention he had paid to the narrative246 of the stranger, plunged251 him insensibly into a deep slumber252. He was awoke in a few minutes by a slight noise in the room, and looking up perceived seated opposite to him another person, whom he never recollected253 to have seen before, but who was indeed the same who had been refused admittance under the roof of that house the preceding day. He appeared seated perfectly254 at his ease, however; and to Don Francisco’s look of surprise and inquiry, replied that he was a traveller, who had been by mistake shown into that apartment, — that finding its occupant asleep and undisturbed by his entrance, he had taken the liberty of remaining there, but was willing to retire if his presence was considered intrusive255.
‘As he spoke, Don Francisco had leisure to observe him. There was something remarkable in his expression, though the observer did not find it easy to define what it was; and his manner, though not courtly or conciliating, had an ease which appeared more the result of independence of thought, than of the acquired habitudes of society.
‘Don Francisco welcomed him gravely and slowly, not without a sensation of awe256 for which he could scarcely account; — and the stranger returned the salutation in a manner that was not likely to diminish that impression. A long silence followed. The stranger (who did not announce his name) was the first to break it, by apologizing for having, while seated in an adjacent apartment, involuntarily overheard an extraordinary tale or narrative related to Don Francisco, in which he confessed he took a profound interest, such as (he added, bowing with an air of grim and reluctant civility) would, he trusted, palliate his impropriety in listening to a communication not addressed to him.
‘To all this Don Francisco could only reply by bows equally rigid, (his body scarce forming an acute angle with his limbs as he sat), and by looks of uneasy and doubtful curiosity directed towards his strange visitor, who, however, kept his seat immoveably, and seemed, after all his apologies, resolved to sit out Don Francisco.
‘Another long pause was broken by the visitor. ‘You were listening, I think,’ he said, ‘to a wild and terrible story of a being who was commissioned on an unutterable errand, — even to tempt spirits in woe257, at their last mortal extremity, to barter258 their hopes of future happiness for a short remission of their temporary sufferings.’ — ‘I heard nothing of that,’ said Don Francisco, whose recollection, none of the clearest naturally, was not much improved by the length of the narrative he had just listened to, and by the sleep into which he had fallen since he heard it. ‘Nothing?’ said the visitor, with something of abruptness259 and asperity260 in his tone that made the hearer start — ‘nothing? — I thought there was mention too of that unhappy being to whom Walberg confessed his severest trials were owing, — in comparison with whose fearful visitations those of even famine were as dust in the balance.’ — ‘Yes, yes,’ answered Don Francisco, startled into sudden recollection, ‘I remember there was a mention of the devil, — or his agent, — or something’ — ‘Senhor,’ said the stranger interrupting him, with an expression of wild and fierce derision, which was lost on Aliaga — ‘Senhor, I beg you will not confound personages who have the honour to be so nearly allied261, and yet so perfectly distinct as the devil and his agent, or agents. You yourself, Senhor, who, of course, as an orthodox and inveterate262 Catholic, must abhor186 the enemy of mankind, have often acted as his agent, and yet would be somewhat offended at being mistaken for him.’ Don Francisco crossed himself repeatedly, and devoutly263 disavowed his ever having been an agent of the enemy of man. ‘Will you dare to say so?’ said his singular visitor, not raising his voice as the insolence264 of the question seemed to require, but depressing it to the lowest whisper as he drew his seat nearer his astonished companion — ‘Will you dare to say so? — Have you never erred244? — Have you never felt one impure265 sensation? — Have you never indulged a transient feeling of hatred266, or malice267, or revenge? — Have you never forgot to do the good you ought to do, — or remembered to do the evil you ought not to have done? — Have you never in trade overreached a dealer268, or banquetted on the spoils of your starving debtor269? — Have you never, as you went to your daily devotions, cursed from your heart the wanderings of your heretical brethren, — and while you dipped your fingers in the holy water, hoped that every drop that touched your pores, would be visited on them in drops of brimstone and sulphur? — Have you never, as you beheld the famished270, illiterate271, degraded populace of your country, exulted272 in the wretched and temporary superiority your wealth has given you, — and felt that the wheels of your carriage would not roll less smoothly273 if the way was paved with the heads of your countrymen? Orthodox Catholic — old Christian274 — as you boast yourself to be, — is not this true? — and dare you say you have not been an agent of Satan? I tell you, whenever you indulge one brutal275 passion, one sordid desire, one impure imagination — whenever you uttered one word that wrung276 the heart, or embittered277 the spirit of your fellow-creature — whenever you made that hour pass in pain to whose flight you might have lent wings of down — whenever you have seen the tear, which your hand might have wiped away, fall uncaught, or forced it from an eye which would have smiled on you in light had you permitted it — whenever you have done this, you have been ten times more an agent of the enemy of man than all the wretches278 whom terror, enfeebled nerves, or visionary credulity, has forced into the confession of an incredible compact with the author of evil, and whose confession has consigned279 them to flames much more substantial than those the imagination of their persecutors pictured them doomed280 to for an eternity281 of suffering! Enemy of mankind!’ the speaker continued, — ‘Alas! how absurdly is that title bestowed on the great angelic chief, — the morning star fallen from its sphere! What enemy has man so deadly as himself? If he would ask on whom he should bestow that title aright, let him smite282 his bosom, and his heart will answer, — Bestow it here!’
‘The emotion with which the stranger spoke, roused and affected even the sluggish150 and incrusted spirit of the listener. His conscience, like a state coach-horse, had hitherto only been brought on solemn and pompous283 occasions, and then paced heavily along a smooth and well-prepared course, under the gorgeous trappings of ceremony; — now it resembled the same animal suddenly bestrid by a fierce and vigorous rider, and urged by lash32 and spur along a new and rugged284 road. And slow and reluctant as he was to own it, he felt the power of the weight that pressed, and the bit that galled285 him. He answered by a hasty and trembling renunciation of all engagements, direct or indirect, with the evil power; but he added, that he must acknowledge he had been too often the victim of his seductions, and trusted for the forgiveness of his wanderings to the power of the holy church, and the intercession of the saints.
‘The stranger (though he smiled somewhat grimly at this declaration) seemed to accept the concession286, and apologized, in his turn, for the warmth with which he had spoken; and which he begged Don Francisco would interpret as a mark of interest in his spiritual concerns. This explanation, though it seemed to commence favourably287, was not followed, however, by any attempt at renewed conversation. The parties appeared to stand aloof288 from each other, till the stranger again alluded to his having overheard the singular conversation and subsequent narrative in Aliaga’s apartment. ‘Senhor,’ he added, in a voice whose solemnity deeply impressed the hearer, wearied as he was, — ‘I am acquainted with circumstances relating to the extraordinary person who was the daily watcher of Walberg’s miseries289, and the nightly tempter of his thoughts, — known but to him and me. Indeed I may add, without the imputation290 of vanity or presumption291, that I am as well acquainted as himself with every event of his extraordinary existence; and that your curiosity, if excited at all about him, could be gratified by none so amply and faithfully as by myself.’ — ‘I thank you, Senhor,’ answered Don Francisco, whose blood seemed congealing292 in his veins at the voice and expression of the stranger, he knew not why — ‘I thank you, but my curiosity has been completely satisfied by the narrative I have already listened to. The night is far spent, and I have to pursue my journey to-morrow; I will therefore defer293 hearing the particulars you offer to gratify me with till our next meeting.’
‘As he spoke, he rose from his seat, hoping that this action would intimate to the intruder, that his presence was no longer desirable. The latter continued, in spite of the intimation, fixed in his seat. At length, starting as if from a trance, he exclaimed, ‘When shall our next meeting be?’
‘Don Francisco, who did not feel particularly anxious to renew the intimacy294, slightly mentioned, that he was on his journey to the neighbourhood of Madrid, where his family, whom he had not seen for many years, resided — that the stages of his journey were uncertain, as he would be obliged to wait for communications from a friend and future relative, — (he alluded to Montilla his intended son-in-law, and as he spoke, the stranger gave a peculiar295 smile), — and also from certain mercantile correspondents, whose letters were of the utmost importance. Finally, he added, in a disturbed tone, (for the awe of the stranger’s presence hung round him like a chilling atmosphere, and seemed to freeze even his words as they issued from his mouth), he could not — easily — tell when he might again have the honour of meeting the stranger. ‘You cannot,’ said the stranger, rising and drawing his mantle296 over one shoulder, while his reverted297 eyes glanced fearfully on the pale auditor298 — ‘You cannot, — but I can. Don Francisco di Aliaga, we shall meet tomorrow night!’
‘As he spoke, he still continued to stand near the door, fixing on Aliaga eyes whose light seemed to burn more intensely amid the dimness of the wretched apartment. Aliaga had risen also, and was gazing on his strange visitor with dim and troubled vision, — when the latter, suddenly retreating from the door, approached him and said, in a stifled299 and mysterious whisper, ‘Would you wish to witness the fate of those whose curiosity or presumption breaks on the secrets of that mysterious being, and dares to touch the folds of the veil in which his destiny has been enshrouded by eternity? If you do, look here!’ And as he spoke, he pointed to a door which Don Francisco well remembered to be that which the person whom he had met at the inn the preceding evening, and who had related to him the tale of Guzman’s family, (or rather relatives), had retired by. Obeying mechanically the waving of the arm, and the beckoning300 of the stranger’s awful eye, rather than the impulse of his own will, Aliaga followed him. They entered the apartment; it was narrow, and dark, and empty. The stranger held a candle aloft, whose dim light fell on a wretched bed, where lay what had been the form of a living man within a few hours. ‘Look there!’ said the stranger; and Aliaga with horror beheld the figure of the being who had been conversing301 with him the preceding part of that very evening, — extended a corse!
‘Advance — look — observe!’ said the stranger, tearing off the sheet which had been the only covering of the sleeper302 who had now sunk into the long and last slumber — ‘There is no mark of violence, no distortion of feature, or convulsion of limb — no hand of man was on him. He sought the possession of a desperate secret — he obtained it, but he paid for it the dreadful price that can be paid but once by mortals. So perish those whose presumption exceeds their power!’
‘Aliaga, as he beheld the body, and heard the words of the stranger, felt himself disposed to summon the inmates303 of the house, and accuse the stranger of murder; but the natural cowardice304 of a mercantile spirit, mingled with other feelings which he could not analyse, and dared not own, withheld305 him, — and he continued to gaze alternately on the corse and the corse-like stranger. The latter, after pointing emphatically to the body, as if intimating the danger of imprudent curiosity, or unavailing disclosure, repeated the words, ‘We meet again to-morrow night!’ and departed.
‘Aliaga, overcome by fatigue and emotion, sunk down by the corse, and remained in that trance-like state till the servants of the inn entered the room. They were shocked to find a dead body in the bed, and scarce less shocked at the death-like state in which they found Aliaga. His known wealth and distinction procured306 for him those attentions which otherwise their terrors or their suspicions might have withheld. A sheet was cast over the body, and Aliaga was conveyed to another apartment, and attended sedulously307 by the domestics.
‘In the mean time, the Alcaide arrived; and having learned that the person who had died suddenly in the inn was one totally unknown, as being only a writer, and a man of no importance in public or private life, and that the person found near his bed in a passive stupor308 was a wealthy merchant, — snatched, with some trepidation309, the pen from the ink-horn which hung at his button-hole, and sketched310 the record of this sapient311 inquest:— ‘That a guest had died in the house, none could deny; but no one could suspect Don Francisco di Aliaga of murder.’
‘As Don Francisco mounted his mule312 the following day, on the strength of this just verdict, a person, who did not apparently belong to the house, was particularly solicitous in adjusting his stirrups, &c.; and while the obsequious313 Alcaide bowed oft and profoundly to the wealthy merchant, (whose liberality he had amply experienced for the favourable17 colour he had given to the strong circumstantial evidence against him), this person whispered, in a voice that reached only the ears of Don Francisco, ‘We meet to-night!’
‘Don Francisco checked his mule as he heard the words. He looked round him — the speaker was gone. Don Francisco rode on with a feeling known to few, and which those who have felt are perhaps the least willing to communicate.
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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sublimely
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| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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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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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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preclusion
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| n.排除，阻止 | |
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19
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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scantier
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| adj.（大小或数量）不足的，勉强够的( scanty的比较级 ) | |
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23
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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25
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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30
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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31
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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32
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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34
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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35
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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36
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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37
resuscitation
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| n.复活 | |
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38
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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39
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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40
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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41
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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42
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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43
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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45
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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46
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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47
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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48
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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49
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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50
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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51
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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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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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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54
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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55
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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56
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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57
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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58
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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59
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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60
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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61
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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62
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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63
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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64
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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65
subservience
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| n.有利，有益；从属（地位），附属性；屈从，恭顺；媚态 | |
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66
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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67
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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68
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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69
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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70
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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71
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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72
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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73
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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74
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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75
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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76
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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77
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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78
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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79
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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80
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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81
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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82
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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83
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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84
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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85
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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86
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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88
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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89
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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90
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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91
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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92
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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93
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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94
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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95
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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96
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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97
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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98
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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99
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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100
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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101
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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102
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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103
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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104
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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105
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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106
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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110
gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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111
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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112
lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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113
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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114
choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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115
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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116
evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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117
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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118
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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119
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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120
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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121
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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122
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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123
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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124
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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125
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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126
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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127
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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128
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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129
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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130
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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131
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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132
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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133
venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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134
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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135
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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136
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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137
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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138
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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139
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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140
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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141
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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142
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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143
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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144
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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145
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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146
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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147
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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148
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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149
sluggishly
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| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
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150
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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151
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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152
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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153
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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154
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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155
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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156
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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157
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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158
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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159
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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160
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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161
adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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162
supplicate
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| v.恳求；adv.祈求地，哀求地，恳求地 | |
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163
parricide
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| n.杀父母；杀亲罪 | |
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164
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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166
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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167
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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168
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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169
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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170
supplicated
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
besets
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| v.困扰( beset的第三人称单数 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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172
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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173
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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174
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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175
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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176
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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177
cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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178
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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179
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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180
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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181
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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182
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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183
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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184
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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185
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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186
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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187
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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188
doctrines
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|
| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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189
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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190
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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191
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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192
wedded
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|
| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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193
sojourn
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|
| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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194
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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195
fabulous
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|
| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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196
primitive
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|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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197
martyrs
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|
| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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198
inflict
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|
| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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199
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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200
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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201
attestation
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| n.证词 | |
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202
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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203
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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204
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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205
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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206
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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207
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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208
impenitent
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| adj.不悔悟的，顽固的 | |
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209
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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210
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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211
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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212
implement
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|
| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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213
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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214
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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215
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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216
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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217
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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218
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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219
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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220
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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221
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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222
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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223
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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224
rigid
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|
| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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225
obduracy
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| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
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226
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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227
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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228
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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229
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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230
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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231
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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232
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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233
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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234
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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235
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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236
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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237
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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238
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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239
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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240
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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241
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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242
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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243
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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244
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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245
shudders
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|
| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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246
narrative
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|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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247
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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248
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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249
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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250
musing
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|
| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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251
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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252
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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253
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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254
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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255
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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256
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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257
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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258
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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259
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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260
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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261
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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262
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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263
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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264
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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270
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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271
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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280
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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291
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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congealing
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的现在分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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296
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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298
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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299
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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308
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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309
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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311
sapient
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| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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312
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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313
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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