That I, with every odds1 of birth and barony
Should be detain’d here for the casual death
Of a wild forester, whose utmost having
Is but the brazen2 buckle3 of the belt
In which he sticks his hedge-knife.
Old play.
While Edward was making preparations for securing and punishing the supposed murderer of his brother, with an intense thirst for vengeance4, which had not hitherto shown itself as part of his character, Sir Piercie Shafton made such communications as it pleased him to the Sub-Prior, who listened with great attention, though the knight6’s narrative7 was none of the clearest, especially as his self-conceit led him to conceal8 or abridge9 the details which were necessary to render it intelligible10.
“You are to know,” he said, “reverend father, that this rustical juvenal having chosen to offer me, in the presence of your venerable Superior, yourself, and other excellent and worthy11 persons, besides the damsel, Mary Avenel, whom I term my Discretion12 in all honour and kindness, a gross insult, rendered yet more intolerable by the time and place, my just resentment13 did so gain the mastery over my discretion, that I resolved to allow him the privileges of an equal, and to indulge him with the combat.”
“But, Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, “you still leave two matters very obscure. First, why the token he presented to you gave you so much offence, as I with others witnessed; and then again, how the youth, whom you then met for the first, or, at least, the second time, knew so much of your history as enabled him so greatly to move you.”
The knight coloured very deeply.
“For your first query,” he said, “most reverend father, we will, if you please, pretermit it as nothing essential to the matter in hand; and for the second — I protest to you that I know as little of his means of knowledge as you do, and that I am well-nigh persuaded he deals with Sathanas, of which more anon. — Well, sir — In the evening, I failed not to veil my purpose with a pleasant brow, as is the custom amongst us martialists, who never display the bloody14 colours of defiance15 in our countenance16 until our hand is armed to fight under them. I amused the fair Discretion with some canzonettes, and other toys, which could not but be ravishing to her inexperienced ears. I arose in the morning, and met my antagonist17, who, to say truth, for an inexperienced villagio, comported18 himself as stoutly19 as I could have desired. — So, coming to the encounter, reverend sir, I did try his mettle20 with some half-a-dozen of downright passes, with any one of which I could have been through his body, only that I was loth to take so fatal an advantage, but rather, mixing mercy with my just indignation, studied to inflict21 upon him some flesh-wound of no very fatal quality. But, sir, in the midst of my clemency22, he, being instigated23, I think, by the devil, did follow up his first offence with some insult of the same nature. Whereupon, being eager to punish him, I made an estramazone, and my foot slipping at the same time — not from any fault of fence on my part, or any advantage of skill on his, but the devil having, as I said, taken up the matter in hand, and the grass being slippery — ere I recovered my position I encountered his sword, which he had advanced, with my undefended person, so that, as I think, I was in some sort run through the body. My juvenal, being beyond measure appalled24 at his own unexpected and unmerited success in this strange encounter, takes the flight and leaves me there, and I fall into a dead swoon for the lack of the blood I had lost so foolishly — and when I awake, as from a sound sleep, I find myself lying, an it like you, wrapt up in my cloak at the foot of one of the birch-trees which stand together in a clump25 near to this place. I feel my limbs, and experience little pain, but much weakness — I put my hand to the wound — it was whole and skinned over as you now see it — I rise and come hither; and in these words you have my whole day’s story.”
“I can only reply to so strange a tale,” answered the monk26, “that it is scarce possible that Sir Piercie Shafton can expect me to credit it. Here is a quarrel, the cause of which you conceal — a wound received in the morning, of which there is no recent appearance at sunset — a grave filled up, in which no body is deposited — the vanquished27 found alive and well — the victor departed no man knows whither. These things, Sir Knight, hang not so well together, that I should receive them as gospel.”
“Reverend father,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton, “I pray you in the first place to observe, that if I offer peaceful and civil justification28 of that which I have already averred29 to be true, I do so only in devout30 deference31 to your dress and to your order, protesting, that to any other opposite, saving a man of religion, a lady or my liege prince, I would not deign32 to support that which I had once attested33, otherwise than with the point of my good sword. And so much being premised, I have to add, that I can but gage34 my honour as a gentleman, and my faith as a Catholic Christian35, that the things which I have described to you have happened to me as I have described them, and not otherwise.”
“It is a deep assertion, Sir Knight,” answered the Sub-Prior; “yet, bethink you, it is only an assertion, and that no reason can be alleged36 why things should be believed which are so contrary to reason. Let me pray you to say whether the grave, which has been seen at your place of combat, was open or closed when your encounter took place?”
“Reverend father,” said the knight, “I will veil from you nothing, but show you each secret of my bosom37; even as the pure fountain revealeth the smallest pebble38 which graces the sand at the bottom of its crystal mirror, and as —”
“Speak in plain terms, for the love of heaven!” said the monk; “these holiday phrases belong not to solemn affairs — Was the grave open when the conflict began?”
“It was,” answered the knight, “I acknowledge it; even as he that acknowledgeth —”
“Nay39, I pray you, fair son, forbear these similitudes, and observe me. On yesterday at even no grave was found in that place, for old Martin chanced, contrary to his wont40, to go thither41 in quest of a strayed sheep. At break of day, by your own confession42, a grave was opened in that spot, and there a combat was fought — only one of the combatants appears, and he is covered with blood, and to all appearance woundless.”— Here the knight made a gesture of impatience43. —“Nay, fair son, hear me but one moment — the grave is closed and covered by the sod — what can we believe, but that it conceals44 the bloody corpse45 of the fallen duellist46?”
“By Heaven, it cannot!” said the knight, “unless the juvenal hath slain48 himself and buried himself, in order to place me in the predicament of his murderer.”
“The grave shall doubtless be explored, and that by tomorrow’s dawn,” said the monk, “I will see it done with mine own eyes”
“But,” said the prisoner, “I protest against all evidence which may arise from its contents, and do insist beforehand, that whatever may be found in that grave shall not prejudice me in my defence. I have been so haunted by diabolical49 deceptions50 in this matter, that what do I know but that the devil may assume the form of this rustical juvenal, in order to procure51 me farther vexation? — I protest to you, holy father, it is my very thought that there is witchcraft52 in all that hath befallen me. Since I entered into this northern land, in which men say that sorceries do abound53, I, who am held in awe54 and regard even by the prime gallants in the court of Feliciana, have been here bearded and taunted56 by a clod-treading clown. I, whom Vincentio Saviola termed his nimblest and most agile57 disciple58, was, to speak briefly59, foiled by a cow-boy, who knew no more of fence than is used at every country wake. I am run, as it seemed to me, through the body, with a very sufficient stoccata, and faint on the spot; and yet, when I recover, I find myself without either wem or wound, and, lacking nothing of my apparel, saving my murrey-coloured doublet, slashed60 with satin, which I will pray may be inquired after, lest the devil, who transported me, should have dropped it in his passage among some of the trees or bushes — it being a choice and most fanciful piece of raiment, which I wore for the first time at the Queen’s pageant61 in Southwark.”
“Sir Knight,” said the monk, “you do again go astray from this matter. I inquire of you respecting that which concerns the life of another man, and it may be, touches your own also, and you answer me with the tale of an old doublet!”
“Old!” exclaimed the knight; “now, by the gods and saints, if there be a gallant55 at the British Court more fancifully considerate, and more considerately fanciful, but quaintly62 curious, and more curiously64 quaint63, in frequent changes of all rich articles of vesture, becoming one who may be accounted point-device a courtier, I will give you leave to term me a slave and a liar65.”
The monk thought, but did not say, that he had already acquired right to doubt the veracity66 of the Euphuist, considering the marvellous tale which he had told. Yet his own strange adventure, and that of Father Philip, rushed on his mind, and forbade his coming to any conclusion. He contented67 himself, therefore, with observing, that these were certainly strange incidents, and requested to know if Sir Piercie Shafton had any other reason for suspecting himself to be in a manner so particularly selected for the sport of sorcery and witchcraft.
“Sir Sub-Prior,” said the Euphuist, “the most extraordinary circumstance remains68 behind, which alone, had I neither been bearded in dispute, nor foiled in combat, nor wounded and cured in the space of a few hours, would nevertheless of itself, and without any other corroborative69, have compelled me to believe myself the subject of some malevolent70 fascination71. Reverend sir, it is not to your ears that men should tell tales of love and gallantry, nor is Sir Piercie Shafton one who, to any ears whatsoever72, is wont to boast of his fair acceptance with the choice and prime beauties of the court; insomuch that a lady, none of the least resplendent constellations73 which revolve74 in that hemisphere of honour, pleasure, and beauty, but whose name I here pretermit, was wont to call me her Taciturnity. Nevertheless truth must be spoken; and I cannot but allow, as the general report of the court, allowed in camps, and echoed back by city and country, that in the alacrity76 of the accost77, the tender delicacy78 of the regard, the facetiousness79 of the address, the adopting and pursuing of the fancy, the solemn close and the graceful80 fall-off, Piercie Shafton was accounted the only gallant of the time, and so well accepted among the choicer beauties of the age, that no silk-hosed reveller81 of the presence-chamber82, or plumed83 jouster84 of the tilt-yard, approached him by a bow’s length in the ladies’ regard, being the mark at which every well-born and generous juvenal aimeth his shaft5. Nevertheless, reverend sir, having found in this rude place something which by blood and birth might be termed a lady, and being desirous to keep my gallant humour in exercise, as well as to show my sworn devotion to the sex in general, I did shoot off some arrows of compliment at this Mary Avenel, terming her my Discretion, with other quaint and well-imagined courtesies, rather bestowed85 out of my bounty86 than warranted by her merit, or perchance like unto the boyish fowler, who, rather than not exercise his bird-piece, will shoot at crows or magpies87 for lack of better game ——”
“Mary Avenel is much obliged by your notice,” answered the monk; “but to what does all this detail of past and present gallantry conduct us?”
“Marry, to this conclusion,” answered the knight; “that either this my Discretion, or I myself, am little less than bewitched; for, instead of receiving my accost with a gratifying bow, answering my regard with a suppressed smile, accompanying my falling off or departure with a slight sigh — honours with which I protest to you the noblest dancers and proudest beauties in Feliciana have graced my poor services — she hath paid me as little and as cold regard as if I had been some hob-nailed clown of these bleak88 mountains! Nay, this very day, while I was in the act of kneeling at her feet to render her the succours of this pungent89 quintessence, of purest spirit distilled90 by the fairest hands of the court of Feliciana, she pushed me from her with looks which savoured of repugnance91, and, as I think, thrust at me with her foot as if to spurn92 me from her presence. These things, reverend father, are strange, portentous93, unnatural94, and befall not in the current of mortal affairs, but are symptomatic of sorcery and fascination. So that, having given to your reverence95 a perfect, simple, and plain account of all that I know concerning this matter, I leave it to your wisdom to solve what may be found soluble96 in the same, it being my purpose tomorrow, with the peep of dawn, to set forward towards Edinburgh.”
“I grieve to be an interruption to your designs, Sir Knight,” said the monk, “but that purpose of thine may hardly be fulfilled.”
“How, reverend father!” said the knight, with an air of the utmost surprise; “if what you say respects my departure, understand that it must be, for I have so resolved it.”
“Sir Knight,” reiterated97 the Sub-Prior, “I must once more repeat, this cannot be, until the Abbot’s pleasure be known in the matter.”
“Reverend sir,” said the knight, drawing himself up with great dignity, “I desire my hearty98 and thankful commendations to the Abbot; but in this matter I have nothing to do with his reverend pleasure, designing only to consult my own.”
“Pardon me,” said the Sub-Prior; “the Lord Abbot hath in this matter a voice potential.”
Sir Piercie Shafton’s colour began to rise —“I marvel,” he said, “to hear your reverence talk thus — What! will you, for the imagined death of a rude, low-born frampler and wrangler99, venture to impinge upon the liberty of the kinsman100 of the house of Piercie?”
“Sir Knight,” returned the Sub-Prior, civilly, “your high lineage and your kindling101 anger will avail you nothing in this matter — You shall not come here to seek a shelter, and then spill our blood as if it were water.”
“I tell you,” said the knight, “once more, as I have told you already, that there was no blood spilled but mine own!”
“That remains to be proved,” replied the Sub-Prior; “we of the community of Saint Mary’s of Kennaquhair, use not to take fairy tales in exchange for the lives of our liege vassals103.”
“We of the house of Piercie,” answered Shafton, “brook neither threats nor restraint — I say I will travel tomorrow, happen what may!”
“And I,” answered the Sub-Prior, in the same tone of determination, “say that I will break your journey, come what may!”
“Who shall gainsay104 me,” said the knight, “if I make my way by force?”
“You will judge wisely to think ere you make such an attempt,” answered the monk, with composure; “there are men enough in the Halidome to vindicate105 its rights over those who dare infringe106 them.”
“My cousin of Northumberland will know how to revenge this usage to a beloved kinsman so near to his blood,” said the Englishman.
“The Lord Abbot will know how to protect the rights of his territory, both with, the temporal and spiritual sword,” said the monk. “Besides, consider, were we to send you to your kinsman at Alnwick or Warkworth tomorrow, he dare do nothing but transmit you in fetters107 to the Queen of England. Bethink, Sir Knight, that you stand on slippery ground, and will act most wisely in reconciling yourself to be a prisoner in this place until the Abbot shall decide the matter. There are armed men enow to countervail all your efforts at escape. Let patience and resignation, therefore, arm you to a necessary submission108.”
So saying, he clapped his hands, and called aloud. Edward entered, accompanied by two young men who had already joined him, and were well armed.
“Edward,” said the Sub-Prior, “you will supply the English Knight here in this spence with suitable food and accommodation for the night, treating him with as much kindness as if nothing had happened between you. But you will place a sufficient guard, and look carefully that he make not his escape. Should he attempt to break forth109, resist him to the death; but in no other case harm a hair of his head, as you shall be answerable.”
Edward Glendinning replied — “That I may obey your commands, reverend sir, I will not again offer myself to this person’s presence; for shame it were to me to break the peace of the Halidome, but not less shame to leave my brother’s death unavenged.”
As he spoke75, his lips grew livid, the blood forsook111 his cheek, and he was about to leave the apartment, when the Sub-Prior recalled him and said in a solemn tone — “Edward, I have known you from infancy112 — I have done what lay within my reach to be of use to you — I say nothing of what you owe to me as the representative of your spiritual Superior — I say nothing of the duty from the vassal102 to the Sub-Prior — But Father Eustace expects from the pupil whom he has nurtured113 — he expects from Edward Glendinning, that he will not by any deed of sudden violence, however justified114 in his own mind by the provocation115, break through the respect due to public justice, or that which he has an especial right to claim from him.”
“Fear nothing, my reverend father, for so in an hundred senses may I well term you,” said the young man; “fear not, I would say, that I will in any thing diminish the respect I owe to the venerable community by whom we have so long been protected, far less that I will do aught which can be personally less than respectful to you. But the blood of my brother must not cry for vengeance in vain — your reverence knows our Border creed116.”
“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will requite117 it,’” answered the monk. “The heathenish custom of deadly feud118 which prevails in this land, through which each man seeks vengeance at his own hand when the death of a friend or kinsman has chanced, hath already deluged119 our vales with the blood of Scottish men, spilled by the hands of countrymen and kindred. It were endless to count up the fatal results. On the Eastern Border, the Homes are at feud with the Swintons and Cockburns; in our Middle Marches, the Scotts and Kerrs have spilled as much brave blood in domestic feud as might have fought a pitched field in England, could they have but forgiven and forgotten a casual rencounter that placed their names in opposition120 to each other. On the west frontier, the Johnstones are at war with the Maxwells, the Jardines with the Bells, drawing with them the flower of the country, which should place their breasts as a bulwark121 against England, into private and bloody warfare122, of which it is the only end to waste and impair123 the forces of the country, already divided in itself. Do not, my dear son Edward, permit this bloody prejudice to master your mind. I cannot ask you to think of the crime supposed as if the blood spilled had been less dear to you — Alas124! I know that is impossible. But I do require you, in proportion to your interest in the supposed sufferer, (for as yet the whole is matter of supposition,) to bear on your mind the evidence on which the guilt125 of the accused person must be tried. He hath spoken with me, and I confess his tale is so extraordinary, that I should have, without a moment’s hesitation126, rejected it as incredible, but that an affair which chanced to myself in this very glen — More of that another time — Suffice it for the present to say, that from what I have myself experienced, I deem it possible, that, extraordinary as Sir Piercie Shafton’s story may seem, I hold it not utterly127 impossible.”
“Father,” said Edward Glendinning, when he saw that his preceptor paused, unwilling128 farther to explain upon what grounds he was inclined to give a certain degree of credit to Sir Piercie Shafton’s story, while he admitted it as improbable —“Father to me you have been in every sense. You know that my hand grasped more readily to the book than to the sword; and that I lacked utterly the ready and bold spirit which distinguished129 ——” Here his voice faltered130, and he paused for a moment, and then went on with resolution and rapidity —“I would say, that I was unequal to Halbert in promptitude of heart and of hand; but Halbert is gone, and I stand his representative, and that of my father — his successor in all his rights,” (while he said this his eyes shot fire,) “and bound to assert and maintain them as he would have done — therefore I am a changed man, increased in courage as in my rights and pretensions131. And, reverend father, respectfully, but plainly and firmly do I say, his blood, if it has been shed by this man, shall be atoned132 — Halbert shall not sleep neglected in his lonely grave, as if with him the spirit of my father had ceased forever. His blood flows in my veins133, and while his has been poured forth unrequited, mine will permit me no rest. My poverty and meanness of rank shall not avail the lordly murderer. My calm nature and peaceful studies shall not be his protection. Even the obligations, holy father, which I acknowledge to you, shall not be his protection. I wait with patience the judgment134 of the Abbot and Chapter, for the slaughter135 of one of their most anciently descended136 vassals. If they do right to my brother’s memory, it is well. But mark me, father, if they shall fail in rendering137 me that justice, I bear a heart and a hand which, though I love not such extremities138, are capable of remedying such an error. He who takes up my brother’s succession must avenge110 his death.”
The monk perceived with surprise, that Edward, with his extreme diffidence, humility139, and obedient assiduity, for such were his general characteristics, had still boiling in his veins the wild principles of those from whom he was descended, and by whom he was surrounded. His eyes sparkled, his frame was agitated140, and the extremity141 of his desire for vengeance seemed to give a vehemence142 to his manner resembling the restlessness of joy.
“May God help us,” said Father Eustace, “for, frail143 wretches144 as we are, we cannot help ourselves under sudden and strong temptation. — Edward, I will rely on your word that you do nothing rashly.”
“That will I not,” said Edward — “that, my better than father, I surely will not. But the blood of my brother — the tears of my mother — and — and — and of Mary Avenel, shall not be shed in vain. I will not deceive you, father — if this Piercie Shafton hath slain my brother, he dies, if the whole blood of the whole house of Piercie were in his veins.”
There was a deep and solemn determination in the utterance145 of Edward Glendinning expressive146 of a rooted resolution. The Sub-Prior sighed deeply, and for the moment yielded to circumstances, and urged the acquiescence147 of his pupil no farther. He commanded lights to be placed in the lower chamber, which for a time he paced in silence.
A thousand ideas, and even differing principles, debated with each other in his bosom. He greatly doubted the English knight’s account of the duel47, and of what had followed it. Yet the extraordinary and supernatural circumstances which had befallen the Sacristan and himself in that very glen, prevented him from being absolutely incredulous on the score of the wonderful wound and recovery of Sir Piercie Shafton, and prevented him from at once condemning148 as impossible that which was altogether improbable. Then he was at a loss how to control the fraternal affections of Edward, with respect to whom he felt something like the keeper of a wild animal, a lion’s whelp or tiger’s cub149, which he has held under his command from infancy, but which, when grown to maturity150, on some sudden provocation displays his fangs151 and talons152, erects153 his crest154, resumes his savage155 nature, and bids defiance at once to his keeper and to all mankind.
How to restrain and mitigate156 an ire which the universal example of the times rendered deadly and inveterate157, was sufficient cause of anxiety to Father Eustace. But he had also to consider the situation of his community, dishonoured158 and degraded by submitting to suffer the slaughter of a vassal to pass unavenged; a circumstance which of itself might in those times have afforded pretext160 for a revolt among their wavering adherents161, or, on the other hand, exposed the community to imminent162 danger, should they proceed against a subject of England of high degree, connected with the house of Northumberland, and other northern families of high rank, who, as they possessed163 the means, could not be supposed to lack inclination164, to wreak165 upon the patrimony166 of Saint Mary of Kennaquhair, any violence which might be offered to their kinsman.
In either case, the Sub-Prior well knew that the ostensible167 cause of feud, insurrection, or incursion, being once afforded, the case would not be ruled either by reason or by evidence, and he groaned168 in spirit when, upon counting up the chances which arose in this ambiguous dilemma169, he found he had only a choice of difficulties. He was a monk, but he felt also as a man, indignant at the supposed slaughter of young Glendinning by one skilful170 in all the practice of arms, in which the vassal of the Monastery171 was most likely to be deficient172; and to aid the resentment which he felt for the loss of a youth whom he had known from infancy, came in full force the sense of dishonour159 arising to his community from passing over so gross an insult unavenged. Then the light in which it might be viewed by those who at present presided in the stormy Court of Scotland, attached as they were to the Reformation, and allied173 by common faith and common interest with Queen Elizabeth, was a formidable subject of apprehension174. The Sub-Prior well knew how they lusted175 after the revenues of the Church, (to express it in the ordinary phrase of the religious of the time,) and how readily they would grasp at such a pretext for encroaching on those of Saint Mary’s, as would be afforded by the suffering to pass unpunished the death of a native Scottishman by a Catholic Englishman, a rebel to Queen Elizabeth.
On the other hand, to deliver up to England, or, which was nearly the same thing, the Scottish administration, an English knight leagued with the Piercie by kindred and political intrigue176, a faithful follower177 of the Catholic Church, who had fled to the Halidome for protection, was, in the estimation of the Sub-Prior, an act most unworthy in itself, and meriting the malediction178 of Heaven, besides being, moreover, fraught179 with great temporal risk. If the government of Scotland was now almost entirely180 in the hands of the Protestant party, the Queen was still a Catholic, and there was no knowing when, amid the sudden changes which agitated that tumultuous country, she might find herself at the head of her own affairs, and able to protect those of her own faith. Then, if the Court of England and its Queen were zealously181 Protestant, the northern counties, whose friendship or enmity were of most consequence in the first instance to the community of Saint Mary’s, contained many Catholics, the heads of whom were able, and must be supposed willing, to avenge any injury suffered by Sir Piercie Shafton.
On either side, the Sub-Prior, thinking, according to his sense of duty, most anxiously for the safety and welfare of his Monastery, saw the greatest risk of damage, blame, inroad, and confiscation182. The only course on which he could determine, was to stand by the helm like a resolute183 pilot, watch every contingence, do his best to weather each reef and shoal, and commit the rest to heaven and his patroness.
As he left the apartment, the knight called after him, beseeching184 he would order his trunk-mails to be sent into his apartment, understanding he was to be guarded there for the night, as he wished to make some alteration185 in his apparel.64
“Ay, ay,” said the monk, muttering as he went up the winding186 stair, “carry him his trumpery187 with all despatch188. Alas! that man, with so many noble objects of pursuit, will amuse himself like a jackanape, with a laced jerkin and a cap and bells! — I must now to the melancholy189 work of consoling that which is well-nigh inconsolable, a mother weeping for her first-born.”
Advancing, after a gentle knock, into the apartment of the women, he found that Mary Avenel had retired190 to bed, extremely indisposed, and that Dame191 Glendinning and Tibb were indulging their sorrows by the side of a decaying fire, and by the light of a small iron lamp, or cruize, as it was termed. Poor Elspeth’s apron192 was thrown over her head, and bitterly did she sob193 and weep for “her beautiful, her brave — the very image of her dear Simon Glendinning, the stay of her widowhood and the support of her old age.”
The faithful Tibb echoed her complaints, and, more violently clamorous194, made deep promises of revenge on Sir Piercie Shafton, “if there were a man left in the south who could draw a whinger, or a woman that could thraw a rape195.” The presence of the Sub-Prior imposed silence on these clamours. He sate196 down by the unfortunate mother, and essayed, by such topics as his religion and reason suggested, to interrupt the current of Dame Glendinning’s feelings; but the attempt was in vain. She listened, indeed, with some little interest, while he pledged his word and his influence with the Abbot, that the family which had lost their eldest-born by means of a guest received at his command, should experience particular protection at the hands of the community; and that the fief which belonged to Simon Glendinning should, with extended bounds and added privileges, be conferred on Edward.
But it was only for a very brief space that the mother’s sobs197 were apparently198 softer, and her grief more mild. She soon blamed herself for casting a moment’s thought upon world’s gear while poor Halbert was lying stretched in his bloody shirt. The Sub-Prior was not more fortunate, when he promised that Halbert’s body “should be removed to hallowed ground, and his soul secured by the prayers of the Church in his behalf.” Grief would have its natural course, and the voice of the comforter was wasted in vain.
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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6
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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abridge
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| v.删减，删节，节略，缩短 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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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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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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15
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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16
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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17
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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18
comported
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| v.表现( comport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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20
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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21
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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22
clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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23
instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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25
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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26
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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27
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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28
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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29
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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30
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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31
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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32
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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33
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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34
gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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35
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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36
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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37
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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38
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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39
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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40
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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41
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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42
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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43
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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44
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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45
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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46
duellist
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| n.决斗者；[体]重剑运动员 | |
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47
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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48
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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49
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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50
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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51
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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52
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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53
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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54
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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55
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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56
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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57
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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58
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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59
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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60
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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61
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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62
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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63
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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64
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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65
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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66
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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67
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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68
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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69
corroborative
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| adj.确证（性）的，确凿的 | |
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70
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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71
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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72
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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73
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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74
revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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75
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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76
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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77
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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78
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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79
facetiousness
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| n.滑稽 | |
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80
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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81
reveller
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| n.摆设酒宴者，饮酒狂欢者 | |
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82
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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83
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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84
jouster
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| 罢免，废黜，革职 | |
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85
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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87
magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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88
bleak
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|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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89
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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90
distilled
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|
| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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91
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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92
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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93
portentous
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|
| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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94
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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95
reverence
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|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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96
soluble
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|
| adj.可溶的；可以解决的 | |
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97
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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99
wrangler
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| n.口角者，争论者；牧马者 | |
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100
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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101
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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102
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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103
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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104
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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105
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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106
infringe
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| v.违反，触犯，侵害 | |
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107
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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109
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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110
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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111
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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112
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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113
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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114
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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115
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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116
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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117
requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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118
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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119
deluged
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| v.使淹没( deluge的过去式和过去分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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120
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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121
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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122
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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123
impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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124
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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125
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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126
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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127
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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128
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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129
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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130
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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131
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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132
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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133
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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134
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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135
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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136
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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137
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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138
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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139
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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140
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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141
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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142
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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143
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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144
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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145
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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146
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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147
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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148
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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149
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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150
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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151
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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152
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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153
erects
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的第三人称单数 )；建立 | |
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154
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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155
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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156
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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157
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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158
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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159
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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161
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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165
wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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166
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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167
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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168
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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169
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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170
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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171
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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172
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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173
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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174
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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lusted
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| 贪求（lust的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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176
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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177
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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178
malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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179
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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180
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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181
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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182
confiscation
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| n. 没收, 充公, 征收 | |
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183
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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184
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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185
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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186
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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187
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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188
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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189
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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190
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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191
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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192
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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193
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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194
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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195
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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196
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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197
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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198
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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