King John
The news of the lost battle, so quickly carried by the fugitives1 to the village and convent, had spread the greatest alarm among the inhabitants. The Sacristan and other monks3 counselled flight; the Treasurer4 recommended that the church plate should be offered as a tribute to bribe5 the English officer; the Abbot alone was unmoved and undaunted.
“My brethren,” he said, “since God has not given our people victory in the combat, it must be because he requires of us, his spiritual soldiers, to fight the good fight of martyrdom, a conflict in which nothing but our own faint-hearted cowardice7 can make us fail of victory. Let us assume, then, the armour8 of faith, and prepare, if it be necessary, to die under the ruin of these shrines10, to the service of which we have devoted11 ourselves. Highly honoured are we all in this distinguished12 summons, from our dear brother Nicholas, whose gray hairs have been preserved until they should be surrounded by the crown of martyrdom, down to my beloved son Edward, who, arriving at the vineyard at the latest hour of the day, is yet permitted to share its toils13 with those who have laboured from the morning. Be of good courage, my children. I dare not, like my sainted predecessors14, promise to you that you shall be preserved by miracle — I and you are alike unworthy of that especial interposition, which, in earlier times, turned the sword of sacrilege against the bosom16 of tyrants17 by whom it was wielded18, daunted6 the hardened hearts of heretics with prodigies19, and called down hosts of angels to defend the shrine9 of God and of the Virgin20. Yet, by heavenly aid, you shall this day see that your Father and Abbot will not disgrace the mitre which sits upon his brow. Go to your cells, my children, and exercise your private devotions. Array yourselves also in alb and cope, as for our most solemn festivals, and be ready, when the tolling22 of the largest bell announces the approach of the enemy, to march forth23 to meet them in solemn procession. Let the church be opened to afford such refuge as may be to those of our vassals24, who, from their exertion25 in this day’s unhappy battle, or the cause, are particularly apprehensive26 of the rage of the enemy. Tell Sir Piercie Shafton, if he has escaped the fight —”
“I am here, most venerable Abbot,” replied Sir Piercie; “and if it so seemeth meet to you, I will presently assemble such of the men as have escaped this escaramouche, and will renew the resistance, even unto the death. Certes, you will learn from all, that I did my part in this unhappy matter. Had it pleased Julian Avenel to have attended to my counsel, specially27 in somewhat withdrawing of his main battle, even as you may have marked the heron eschew28 the stoop of the falcon29, receiving him rather upon his beak30 than upon his wing, affairs, as I do conceive, might have had a different face, and we might then, in a more bellacose manner, have maintained that affray. Nevertheless, I would not be understood to speak any thing in disregard of Julian Avenel, whom I saw fall fighting manfully with his face to his enemy, which hath banished31 from my memory the unseemly term of ‘meddling coxcomb,’ with which it pleased him something rashly to qualify my advice, and for which, had it pleased Heaven and the saints to have prolonged the life of that excellent person, I had it bound upon my soul to have put him to death with my own hand.”
“Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot, at length interrupting him, “our time allows brief leisure to speak what might have been.”
“You are right, most venerable Lord and Father,” replied the incorrigible33 Euphuist; “the preterite, as grammarians have it, concerns frail34 mortality less than the future mood, and indeed our cogitations respect chiefly the present. In a word, I am willing to head all who will follow me, and offer such opposition35 as manhood and mortality may permit, to the advance of the English, though they be my own countrymen; and be assured, Piercie Shafton will measure his length, being five feet ten inches, on the ground as he stands, rather than give two yards in retreat, according to the usual motion in which we retrograde.”
“I thank you, Sir Knight36,” said the Abbot, “and I doubt not that you would make your words good; but it is not the will of Heaven that carnal weapons should rescue us. We are called to endure, not to resist, and may not waste the blood of our innocent commons in vain — Fruitless opposition becomes not men of our profession; they have my commands to resign the sword and the spear — God and Our Lady have not blessed our banner.”
“Bethink you, reverend lord,” said Piercie Shafton, very eagerly, “ere you resign the defence that is in your power — there are many posts near the entry of this village, where brave men might live or die to the advantage; and I have this additional motive38 to make defence — the safety, namely, of a fair friend, who, I hope, hath escaped the hands of the heretics.”
“I understand you, Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot —“you mean the daughter of our Convent’s miller39?”
“Reverend my lord,” said Sir Piercie, not without hesitation40, “the fair Mysinda is, as may be in some sort alleged41, the daughter of one who mechanically prepareth corn to be manipulated into bread, without which we could not exist, and which is therefore an employment in itself honourable42, nay43 necessary. Nevertheless, if the purest sentiments of a generous mind, streaming forth like the rays of the sun reflected by a diamond, may ennoble one, who is in some sort the daughter of a molendinary mechanic ——”
“I have no time for all this, Sir Knight,” said the Abbot; “be it enough to answer, that with our will we war no longer with carnal weapons. We of the spirituality will teach you of the temporality how to die in cold blood, our hands not clenched44 for resistance, but folded for prayer — our minds not filled with jealous hatred45, but with Christian46 meekness47 and forgiveness — our ears not deafened48, nor our senses confused, by the sound of clamorous49 instruments of war; but, on the contrary, our voices composed to Halleluiah, Kyrie-Eleison, and Salve Regina, and our blood temperate50 and cold, as those who think upon reconciling themselves with God, not of avenging51 themselves of their fellow-mortals.”
“Lord Abbot,” said Sir Piercie, “this is nothing to the fate of my Molinara, whom I beseech52 you to observe, I will not abandon, while golden hilt and steel blade bide53 together on my falchion. I commanded her not to follow us to the field, and yet methought I saw her in her page’s attire54 amongst the rear of the combatants.”
“You must seek elsewhere for the person in whose fate you are so deeply interested,” said the Abbot; “and at present I will pray of your knighthood to inquire concerning her at the church, in which all our more defenceless vassals have taken refuge. It is my advice to you, that you also abide55 by the horns of the altar; and, Sir Piercie Shafton,” he added, “be of one thing secure, that if you come to harm, it will involve the whole of this brotherhood56; for never, I trust, will the meanest of us buy safety at the expense of surrendering a friend or a guest. Leave us, my son, and may God be your aid!”
When Sir Piercie Shafton had departed, and the Abbot was about to betake himself to his own cell, he was surprised by an unknown person anxiously requiring a conference, who, being admitted, proved to be no other than Henry Warden58. The Abbot started as he entered, and exclaimed, angrily — “Ha! are the few hours that fate allows him who may last wear the mitre of this house, not to be excused from the intrusion of heresy59? Dost thou come,” he said, “to enjoy the hopes which fete holds out to thy demented and accursed sect60, to see the bosom of destruction sweep away the pride of old religion — to deface our shrines — to mutilate and lay waste the bodies of our benefactors61, as well as their sepulchres — to destroy the pinnacles62 and carved work of God’s house, and Our Lady’s?”
“Peace, William Allan!” said the Protestant preacher, with dignified63 composure; “for none of these purposes do I come. I would have these stately shrines deprived of the idols64 which, no longer simply regarded as the effigies65 of the good and of the wise, have become the objects of foul66 idolatry. I would otherwise have its ornaments67 subsist68, unless as they are, or may be, a snare69 to the souls of men; and especially do I condemn70 those ravages71 which have been made by the heady fury of the people, stung into zeal72 against will-worship by bloody73 persecution74. Against such wanton devastations I lift my testimony75.”
“Idle distinguisher that thou art!” said the Abbot Eustace, interrupting him; “what signifies the pretext76 under which thou dost despoil77 the house of God? and why at this present emergence78 will thou insult the master of it by thy ill-omened presence?”
“Thou art unjust, William Allan,” said Warden; “but I am not the less settled in my resolution. Thou hast protected me some time since at the hazard of thy rank, and what I know thou holdest still dearer, at the risk of thy reputation with thine own sect. Our party is now uppermost, and, believe me, I have come down the valley, in which thou didst quarter me for sequestration’s sake, simply with the wish to keep my engagements to thee.”
“Ay,” answered the Abbot, “and it may be, that my listening to that worldly and infirm compassion79 which pleaded with me for thy life, is now avenged80 by this impending81 judgment82. Heaven hath smitten83, it may be, the erring84 shepherd, and scattered85 the flock.”
“Think better of the Divine judgments,” said Warden. “Not for thy sins, which are those of thy blended education and circumstances; not for thine own sins, William Allan, art thou stricken, but for the accumulated guilt86 which thy mis-named Church hath accumulated on her head, and those of her votaries87, by the errors and corruption88 of ages.”
“Now, by my sure belief in the Rock of Peter,” said the Abbot, “thou dost rekindle89 the last spark of human indignation for which my bosom has fuel — I thought I might not again have felt the impulse of earthly passion, and it is thy voice which once more calls me to the expression of human anger! yes, it is thy voice that comest to insult me in my hour of sorrow, with these blasphemous90 accusations91 of that church which hath kept the light of Christianity alive from the times of the Apostles till now.”
“From the times of the Apostles?” said the preacher, eagerly. “Negatur, Gulielme Allan — the primitive92 church differed as much from that of Rome, as did light from darkness, which, did time permit, I should speedily prove. And worse dost thou judge, in saying, I come to insult thee in thy hour of affliction, being here, God wot, with the Christian wish of fulfilling an engagement I had made to my host, and of rendering57 myself to thy will while it had yet power to exercise aught upon me, and if it might so be, to mitigate93 in thy behalf the rage of the victors whom God hath sent as a scourge94 to thy obstinacy95.”
“I will none of thy intercession,” said the Abbot, sternly; “the dignity to which the church has exalted96 me, never should have swelled98 my bosom more proudly in the time of the highest prosperity, than it doth at this crisis — I ask nothing of thee, but the assurance that my lenity to thee hath been the means of perverting99 no soul to Satan, that I have not given to the wolf any of the stray lambs whom the Great Shepherd of souls had intrusted to my charge.”
“William Allan,” answered the Protestant, “I will be sincere with thee. What I promised I have kept — I have withheld100 my voice from speaking even good things. But it has pleased Heaven to call the maiden102 Mary Avenel to a better sense of faith than thou and all the disciples103 of Rome can teach. Her I have aided with my humble104 power — I have extricated105 her from the machinations of evil spirits to which she and her house were exposed during the blindness of their Romish superstition106, and, praise be to my Master, I have not reason to fear she will again be caught in thy snares107.”
“Wretched man!” said the Abbot, unable to suppress his rising indignation, “is it to the Abbot of St. Mary’s that you boast having misled the soul of a dweller108 in Our Lady’s Halidome into the paths of foul error and damning heresy? — Thou dost urge me, Wellwood, beyond what it becomes me to bear, and movest me to employ the few moments of power I may yet possess, in removing from the face of the earth one whose qualities, given by God, have been so utterly109 perverted110 as thine to the service of Satan.”
“Do thy pleasure,” said the preacher; “thy vain wrath111 shall not prevent my doing my duty to advantage thee, where it may be done without neglecting my higher call. I go to the Earl of Murray.”
Their conference, which was advancing fast into bitter disputation, was here interrupted by the deep and sullen112 toll21 of the largest and heaviest bell of the Convent, a sound famous in the chronicles of the Community, for dispelling113 of tempests, and putting to flight demons114, but which now only announced danger, without affording any means of warding115 against it. Hastily repeating his orders, that all the brethren should attend in the choir116, arrayed for solemn procession, the Abbot ascended117 to the battlements of the lofty Monastery118, by his own private staircase, and there met the Sacristan, who had been in the act of directing the tolling of the huge bell, which fell under his charge.
“It is the last time I shall discharge mine office, most venerable Father and Lord,” said he to the Abbot, “for yonder come the Philistines119; but I would not that the large bell of Saint Mary’s should sound for the last time, otherwise than in true and full tone — I have been a sinful man for one of our holy profession,” added he, looking upward, “yet may I presume to say, not a bell hath sounded out of tune120 from the tower of the house, while Father Philip had the superintendence of the chime and the belfry.”
The Abbot, without reply, cast his eyes towards the path, which, winding121 around the mountain, descends122 upon Kennaquhair, from the south-east. He beheld124 at a distance a cloud of dust, and heard the neighing of many horses, while the occasional sparkle of the long line of spears, as they came downwards125 into the valley, announced that the band came thither126 in arms.
“Shame on my weakness!” said Abbot Eustace, dashing the tears from his eyes; “my sight is too much dimmed to observe their motions — look, my son Edward,” for his favourite novice127 had again joined him, “and tell me what ensigns they bear.”
“They are Scottish men, when all is done!” exclaimed Edward —“I see the white crosses — it may be the Western Borderers, or Fernieherst and his clan128.”
“Look at the banner,” said the Abbot; “tell me, what are the blazonries?”
“The arms of Scotland,” said Edward, “the lion and its tressure, quartered, as I think, with three cushions — Can it be the royal standard?”
“Alas129! no,” said the Abbot, “it is that of the Earl of Murray. He hath assumed with his new conquest the badge of the valiant130 Randolph, and hath dropt from his hereditary131 coat the bend which indicates his own base birth — would to God he may not have blotted133 it also from his memory, and aim as well at possessing the name, as the power, of a king.”
“At least, my father,” said Edward, “he will secure us from the violence of the Southron.”
“Ay, my son, as the shepherd secures a silly lamb from the wolf, which he destines in due time to his own banquet. Oh my son, evil days are on us! A breach134 has been made in the walls of our sanctuary135 — thy brother hath fallen from the faith. Such news brought my last secret intelligence — Murray hath already spoken of rewarding his services with the hand of Mary Avenel.”
“Of Mary Avenel!” said the novice, tottering137 towards and grasping hold of one of the carved pinnacles which adorned138 the proud battlement.
“Ay, of Mary Avenel, my son, who has also abjured139 the faith of her fathers. Weep not, my Edward, weep not, my beloved son! or weep for their apostasy140, and not for their union — Bless God, who hath called thee to himself, out of the tents of wickedness; but for the grace of Our Lady and Saint Benedict, thou also hadst been a castaway.”
“I endeavour, my father,” said Edward, “I endeavour to forget; but what I would now blot132 from my memory has been the thought of all my former life — Murray dare not forward a match so unequal in birth.”
“He dares do what suits his purpose — The Castle of Avenel is strong, and needs a good castellan, devoted to his service; as for the difference of their birth, he will mind it no more than he would mind defacing the natural regularity141 of the ground, were it necessary he should erect142 upon it military lines and intrenchments. But do not droop143 for that — awaken144 thy soul within thee, my son. Think you part with a vain vision, an idle dream, nursed in solitude145 and inaction. — I weep not, yet what am I now like to lose? — Look at these towers, where saints dwelt, and where heroes have been buried — Think that I, so briefly146 called to preside over the pious147 flock, which has dwelt here since the first light of Christianity, may be this day written down the last father of this holy community — Come, let us descend123, and meet our fate. I see them approach near to the village.”
The Abbot descended148, the novice cast a glance around him; yet the sense of the danger impending over the stately structure, with which he was now united, was unable to banish32 the recollection of Mary Ayenel. —“His brother’s bride!” he pulled the cowl over his face, and followed his Superior.
The whole bells of the Abbey now added their peal150 to the death-toll of the largest which had so long sounded. The monks wept and prayed as they got themselves into the order of their procession for the last time, as seemed but too probable.
“It is well our Father Boniface hath retired151 to the inland,” said Father Philip; “he could never have put over this day — it would have broken his heart!”
“God be with the soul of Abbot Ingelram!” said old Father Nicholas, “there were no such doings in his days. — They say we are to be put forth of the cloisters153; and how I am to live any where else than where I have lived for these seventy years, I wot not — the best is, that I have not long to live any where.”
A few moments after this the great gate of the Abbey was flung open, and the procession moved slowly forward from beneath its huge and richly-adorned gateway154. Cross and banner, pix and chalice155, shrines containing relics156, and censers steaming with incense157, preceded and were intermingled with the long and solemn array of the brotherhood, in their long black gowns and cowls, with their white scapularies hanging over them, the various officers of the convent each displaying his proper badge of office. In the centre of the procession came the Abbot, surrounded and supported by his chief assistants. He was dressed in his habit of high solemnity, and appeared as much unconcerned as if he had been taking his usual part in some ordinary ceremony. After him came the inferior persons of the convent; the novices159 in their albs or white dresses, and the lay brethren distinguished by their beards, which were seldom worn by the Fathers. Women and children, mixed with a few men, came in the rear, bewailing the apprehended161 desolation of their ancient sanctuary. They moved, however, in order, and restrained the marks of their sorrow to a low wailing160 sound, which rather mingled158 with than interrupted the measured chant of the monks.
In this order the procession entered the market-place of the village of Kennaquhair, which was then, as now, distinguished by an ancient cross of curious workmanship, the gift of some former monarch162 of Scotland. Close by the cross, of much greater antiquity163, and scarcely less honoured, was an immensely large oak-tree, which perhaps had witnessed the worship of the Druids, ere the stately Monastery to which it adjoined had raised its spires164 in honour of the Christian faith. Like the Bentang-tree of the African villages, or the Plaistow-oak mentioned in White’s Natural History of Selborne, this tree was the rendezvous165 of the villagers, and regarded with peculiar166 veneration167; a feeling common to most nations, and which perhaps may be traced up to the remote period when the patriarch feasted the angels under the oak at Mamre. 71
The monks formed themselves each in their due place around the cross, while under the ruins of the aged168 tree crowded the old and the feeble, with others who felt the common alarm. When they had thus arranged themselves, there was a deep and solemn pause. The monks stilled their chant, the lay populace hushed their lamentations, and all awaited in terror and silence the arrival of those heretical forces, whom they had been so long taught to regard with fear and trembling.
A distant trampling169 was at length heard, and the glance of spears was seen to shine through the trees above the village. The sounds increased, and became more thick, one close continuous rushing sound, in which the tread of hoofs170 was mingled with the ringing of armour. The horsemen soon appeared at the principal entrance which leads into the irregular square or market-place which forms the centre of the village. They entered two by two, slowly, and in the greatest order. The van continued to move on, riding round the open spaoe, until they had attained171 the utmost point, and then turning their horses’ heads to the street, stood fast; their companions followed in the same order, until the whole market-place was closely surrounded with soldiers; and the files who followed, making the same manoeuvre172, formed an inner line within those who had first arrived, until the place was begirt with a quadruple file of horsemen closely drawn173 up. There was now a pause, of which the Abbot availed himself, by commanding the brotherhood to raise the solemn chant De profundis clamavi. He looked around the armed ranks, to see what impression the solemn sounds made on them. All were silent, but the brows of some had an expression of contempt, and almost all the rest bore a look of indifference174; their course had been too long decided175 to permit past feelings of enthusiasm to be anew awakened176 by a procession or by a hymn177.
“Their hearts are hardened,” said the Abbot to himself in dejection, but not in despair; “it remains178 to see whether those of their leaders are equally obdurate179.”
The leaders, in the meanwhile, were advancing slowly, and Murray, with Morton, rode in deep conversation before a chosen band of their most distinguished followers180, amongst whom came Halbert Glendinning. But the preacher Henry Warden, who, upon leaving the Monastery, had instantly joined them, was the only person admitted to their conference.
“You are determined181, then,” said Morton to Murray, “to give the heiress of Avenel, with all her pretensions182, to this nameless and obscure young man?”
“Hath not Warden told you,” said Murray, “that they have been bred together, and are lovers from their youth upward?”
“And that they are both,” said Warden, “by means which may be almost termed miraculous183, rescued from the delusions184 of Rome, and brought within the pale of the true church. My residence at Glendearg hath made me well acquainted with these things. Ill would it beseem my habit and my calling, to thrust myself into match-making and giving in marriage, but worse were it in me to see your lordships do needless wrong to the feelings which are proper to our nature, and which, being indulged honestly and under the restraints of religion, become a pledge of domestic quiet here, and future happiness in a better world. I say, that you will do ill to rend37 those ties asunder185, and to give this maiden to the kinsman186 of Lord Morton, though Lord Morton’s kinsman he be.”
“These are fair reasons, my Lord of Murray,” said Morton, “why you should refuse me so simple a boon187 as to bestow188 this silly damsel upon young Bennygask. Speak out plainly, my lord; say you would rather see the Castle of Avenel in the hands of one who owes his name and existence solely189 to your favour, than in the power of a Douglas, and of my kinsman.”
“My Lord of Morton,” said Murray, “I have done nothing in this matter which should aggrieve190 you. This young man Glendinning has done me good service, and may do me more. My promise was in some degree passed to him, and that while Julian Avenel was alive, when aught beside the maiden’s lily hand would have been hard to come by; whereas, you never thought of such an alliance for your kinsman, till you saw Julian lie dead yonder on the field, and knew his land to be a waif free to the first who could seize it. Come, come, my lord, you do less than justice to your gallant191 kinsman, in wishing him a bride bred up under the milk-pail; for this girl is a peasant wench in all but the accident of birth. I thought you had more deep respect for the honour of the Douglasses.”
“The honour of the Douglasses is safe in my keeping,” answered Morton, haughtily192; “that of other ancient families may suffer as well as the name of Avenel, if rustics193 are to be matched with the blood of our ancient barons195.”
“This is but idle talking,” answered Lord Murray; “in times like these, we must look to men and not to pedigrees. Hay was but a rustic194 before the battle of Loncarty — the bloody yoke196 actually dragged the plough ere it was emblazoned on a crest197 by the herald198. Times of action make princes into peasants, and boors199 into barons. All families have sprung from one mean man; and it is well if they have never degenerated200 from his virtue201 who raised them first from obscurity.”
“My Lord of Murray will please to except the house of Douglas,” said Morton, haughtily; “men have seen it in the tree, but never in the sapling — have seen it in the stream, but never in the fountain.72 In the earliest of our Scottish annals, the Black Douglas was powerful and distinguished as now.”
“I bend to the honours of the house of Douglas,” said Murray, somewhat ironically; “I am conscious we of the Royal House have little right to compete with them in dignity — What though we have worn crowns and carried sceptres for a few generations, if our genealogy202 moves no farther back than to the humble Alanus Dapifer!“73
Morton’s cheek reddened as he was about to reply; but Henry Warden availed himself of the liberty which the Protestant clergy203 long possessed204, and exerted it to interrupt a discussion which was becoming too eager and personal to be friendly.
“My lords,” he said, “I must be bold in discharging the duty of my Master. It is a shame and scandal to hear two nobles, whose hands have been so forward in the work of reformation, fall into discord205 about such vain follies206 as now occupy your thoughts. Bethink you how long you have thought with one mind, seen with one eye, heard with one ear, confirmed by your union the congregation of the Church, appalled207 by your joint208 authority the congregation of Anti-Christ; and will you now fall into discord, about an old decayed castle and a few barren hills, about the loves and likings of an humble spearman, and a damsel bred in the same obscurity, or about the still vainer questions of idle genealogy?”
“The good man hath spoken right, noble Douglas,” said Murray, reaching him his hand, “our union is too essential to the good cause to be broken off upon such idle terms of dissension. I am fixed209 to gratify Glendinning in this matter — my promise is passed. The wars, in which I have had my share, have made many a family miserable210; I will at least try if I may not make one happy. There are maids and manors211 enow in Scotland. — I promise you, my noble ally, that young Bennygask shall be richly wived.”
“My lord,” said Warden, “you speak nobly, and like a Christian. Alas! this is a land of hatred and bloodshed — let us not chase from thence the few traces that remain of gentle and domestic love. — And be not too eager for wealth to thy noble kinsman, my Lord of Morton, seeing contentment in the marriage state no way depends on it.”
“If you allude212 to my family misfortune,” said Morton, whose Countess, wedded213 by him for her estate and honours, was insane in her mind, “the habit you wear, and the liberty, or rather license214, of your profession, protect you from my resentment215.”
“Alas! my lord,” replied Warden, “how quick and sensitive is our self-love! When pressing forward in our high calling, we point out the errors of the Sovereign, who praises our boldness more than the noble Morton? But touch we upon his own sore, which most needs lancing, and he shrinks from the faithful chirurgeon in fear and impatient anger!”
“Enough of this, good and reverend sir,” said Murray; “you transgress216 the prudence217 yourself recommended even now. — We are now close upon the village, and the proud Abbot is come forth at the head of his hive. Thou hast pleaded well for him, Warden, otherwise I had taken this occasion to pull down the nest, and chase away the rooks.”
“Nay, but do not so,” said Warden; “this William Allan, whom they call the Abbot Eustatius, is a man whose misfortunes would more prejudice our cause than his prosperity. You cannot inflict218 more than he will endure; and the more that he is made to bear, the higher will be the influence of his talents and his courage. In his conventual throne he will be but coldly looked on — disliked, it may be, and envied. But turn his crucifix of gold into a crucifix of wood — let him travel through the land, an oppressed and impoverished219 man, and his patience, his eloquence220, and learning, will win more hearts from the good cause, than all the mitred abbots of Scotland have been able to make prey221 of during the last hundred years.”
“Tush! tush! man,” said Morton, “the revenues of the Halidome will bring more men, spears, and horses, into the field in one day, than his preaching in a whole lifetime. These are not the days of Peter the Hermit222, when monks could march armies from England to Jerusalem; but gold and good deeds will still do as much or more than ever. Had Julian Avenel had but a score or two more men this morning, Sir John Foster had not missed a worse welcome. I say, confiscating223 the monk2’s revenues is drawing his fang-teeth.”
“We will surely lay him under contribution,” said Murray; “and, moreover, if he desires to remain in his Abbey, he will do well to produce Piercie Shafton.”
As he thus spoke136, they entered the market-place, distinguished by their complete armour and their lofty plumes224, as well as by the number of followers bearing their colours and badges. Both these powerful nobles, but more especially Murray, so nearly allied225 to the crown, had at that time a retinue226 and household not much inferior to that of Scottish royalty227. As they advanced into the market-place, a pursuivant, pressing forward from their train, addressed the monks in these words:—“The Abbot of Saint Mary’s is commanded to appear before the Earl of Murray.”
“The Abbot of Saint Mary’s,” said Eustace, “is, in the patrimony228 of his Convent, superior to every temporal lord. Let the Earl of Murray, if he seeks him, come himself to his presence.”
On receiving this answer, Murray smiled scornfully, and, dismounting from his lofty saddle, he advanced, accompanied by Morton, and followed by others, to the body of monks assembled around the cross. There was an appearance of shrinking among them at the approach of the heretic lord, so dreaded229 and so powerful. But the Abbot, casting on them a glance of rebuke230 and encouragement, stepped forth from their ranks like a courageous231 leader, when he sees that his personal valour must be displayed to revive the drooping232 courage of his followers. “Lord James Stewart,” he said, “or Earl of Murray, if that be thy title, I, Eustatius, Abbot of Saint Mary’s, demand by what right you have filled our peaceful village, and surrounded our brethren, with these bands of armed men? If hospitality is sought, we have never refused it to courteous233 asking — if violence be meant against peaceful churchmen, let us know at once the pretext and the object?”
“Sir Abbot,” said Murray, “your language would better have become another age, and a presence inferior to ours. We come not here to reply to your interrogations, but to demand of you why you have broken the peace, collecting your vassals in arms, and convocating the Queen’s lieges, whereby many men have been slain234, and much trouble, perchance breach of amity235 with England, is likely to arise?”
“Lupus in fabula,” answered the Abbot, scornfully. “The wolf accused the sheep of muddying the stream when he drank in it above her — but it served as a pretext for devouring236 her. Convocate the Queen’s lieges! I did so to defend the Queen’s land against foreigners. I did but my duty; and I regret I had not the means to do it more effectually.”
“And was it also a part of your duty to receive and harbour the Queen of England’s rebel and traitor237; and to inflame238 a war betwixt England and Scotland?” said Murray.
“In my younger days, my lord,” answered the Abbot, with the same intrepidity239, “a war with England was no such dreaded matter; and not merely a mitred abbot, bound by his rule to show hospitality and afford sanctuary to all, but the poorest Scottish peasant, would have been ashamed to have pleaded fear of England as the reason for shutting his door against a persecuted240 exile. But in those olden days, the English seldom saw the face of a Scottish nobleman, save through the bars of his visor.”
“Monk!” said the Earl of Morton, sternly, “this insolence241 will little avail thee; the days are gone by when Rome’s priests were permitted to brave noblemen with impunity242. Give us up this Piercie Shafton, or by my father’s crest I will set thy Abbey in a bright flame!”
“And if thou dost, Lord of Morton, its ruins will tumble above the tombs of thine own ancestors. Be the issue as God wills, the Abbot of Saint Mary’s gives up no one whom he hath promised to protect.”
“Abbot!” said Murray, “bethink thee ere we are driven to deal roughly — the hands of these men,” he said, pointing to the soldiers, “will make wild work among shrines and cells, if we are compelled to undertake a search for this Englishman.”
“Ye shall not need,” said a voice from the crowd; and, advancing gracefully243 before the Earls, the Euphuist flung from him the mantle244 in which he was muffled245. “Via the cloud that shadowed Shafton!” said he; “behold, my lords, the Knight of Wilverton, who spares you the guilt of violence and sacrilege.”
“I protest before God and man against any infraction246 of the privileges of this house,” said the Abbot, “by an attempt to impose violent hands upon the person of this noble knight. If there be yet spirit in a Scottish Parliament, we will make you hear of this elsewhere, my lords!”
“Spare your threats,” said Murray; “it may be, my purpose with Sir Piercie Shafton is not such as thou dost suppose — Attach him, pursuivant, as our prisoner, rescue or no rescue.”
“I yield myself,” said the Euphuist, “reserving my right to defy my Lord of Murray and my Lord of Morton to single duel247, even as one gentleman may demand satisfaction of another.”
“You shall not want those who will answer your challenge, Sir Knight,” replied Morton, “without aspiring248 to men above thine own degree.”
“And where am I to find these superlative champions,” said the English knight, “whose blood runs more pure than that of Piercie Shafton?”
“Here is a flight for you, my lord!” said Murray.
“As ever was flown by a wild-goose,” said Stawarth Bolton, who had now approached to the front of the party.
“Who dared to say that word?” said the Euphuist, his face crimson249 with rage.
“Tut! man,” said Bolton, “make the best of it, thy mother’s father was but a tailor, old Overstitch of Holderness — Why, what! because thou art a misproud bird, and despiseth thine own natural lineage, and rufflest in unpaid250 silks and velvets, and keepest company with gallants and cutters, must we lose our memory for that? Thy mother, Moll Overstitch, was the prettiest wench in those parts — she was wedded by wild Shafton of Wilverton, who men say, was akin101 to the Piercie on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“Help the knight to some strong waters,” said Morton; “he hath fallen from such a height, that he is stunned251 with the tumble.”
In fact, Sir Piercie Shafton looked like a man stricken by a thunderbolt, while, notwithstanding the seriousness of the scene hitherto, no one of those present, not even the Abbot himself, could refrain from laughing at the rueful and mortified252 expression of his face.
“Laugh on,” he said at length, “laugh on, my masters,” shrugging his shoulders; “it is not for me to be offended — yet would I know full fain from that squire253 who is laughing with the loudest, how he had discovered this unhappy blot in an otherwise spotless lineage, and for what purpose he hath made it known?”
“I make it known?” said Halbert Glendinning, in astonishment254 — for to him this pathetic appeal was made — “I never heard the thing till this moment.”74
“Why, did not that old rude soldier learn it from thee?” said the knight, in increasing amazement255.
“Not I, by Heaven!” said Bolton; “I never saw the youth in my life before.”
“But you have seen him ere now, my worthy15 master,” said Dame256 Glendinning, bursting in her turn from the crowd. “My son, this is Stawarth Bolton, he to whom we owe life, and the means of preserving it — if he be a prisoner, as seems most likely, use thine interest with these noble lords to be kind to the widow’s friend.”
“What, my Dame of the Glen!” said Bolton, “thy brow is more withered258, as well as mine, since we met last, but thy tongue holds the touch better than my arm. This boy of thine gave me the foil sorely this morning. The Brown Varlet has turned as stout259 a trooper as I prophesied260; and where is White Head?”
“Alas!” said the mother, looking down, “Edward has taken orders, and become a monk of this Abbey.”
“A monk and a soldier! — Evil trades both, my good dame. Better have made one a good master fashioner, like old Overstitch, of Holderness. I sighed when I envied you the two bonny children, but I sigh not now to call either the monk or the soldier mine own. The soldier dies in the field, the monk scarce lives in the cloister152.”
“My dearest mother,” said Halbert, “where is Edward — can I not speak with him?”
“He has just left us for the present,” said Father Philip, “upon a message from the Lord Abbot.”
“And Mary, my dearest mother?” said Halbert. — Mary Avenel was not far distant, and the three were soon withdrawn261 from the crowd, to hear and relate their various chances of fortune.
While the subordinate personages thus disposed of themselves, the Abbot held serious discussion with the two Earls, and, partly yielding to their demands, partly defending himself with skill and eloquence, was enabled to make a composition for his Convent, which left it provisionally in no worse situation than before. The Earls were the more reluctant to drive matters to extremity262, since he protested, that if urged beyond what his conscience would comply with, he would throw the whole lands of the Monastery into the Queen of Scotland’s hands, to be disposed of at her pleasure. This would not have answered the views of the Earls, who were contented263, for the time, with a moderate sacrifice of money and lands. Matters being so far settled, the Abbot became anxious for the fate of Sir Piercie Shafton, and implored264 mercy in his behalf.
“He is a coxcomb,” he said, “my lords, but he is a generous, though a vain fool; and it is my firm belief you have this day done him more pain than if you had run a poniard into him.”
“Run a needle into him you mean, Abbot,” said the Earl of Morton; “by mine honour, I thought this grandson of a fashioner of doublets was descended from a crowned head at least!”
“I hold with the Abbot,” said Murray; “there were little honour in surrendering him to Elizabeth, but he shall be sent where he can do her no injury. Our pursuivant and Bolton shall escort him to Dunbar, and ship him off for Flanders. — But soft, here he comes, and leading a female, as I think.”
“Lords and others,” said the English knight with great solemnity, “make way for the Lady of Piercie Shafton — a secret which I listed not to make known, till fate, which hath betrayed what I vainly strove to conceal265, makes me less desirous to hide that which I now announce to you.”
“It is Mysie Happer, the Miller’s daughter, on my life!” said Tibb Tacket. “I thought the pride of these Piercies would have a fa’.”
“It is indeed the lovely Mysinda,” said the knight, “whose merits towards her devoted servant deserved higher rank than he had to bestow.”
“I suspect, though,” said Murray, “that we should not have heard of the Miller’s daughter being made a lady, had not the knight proved to be the grandson of a tailor.”
“My lord,” said Piercie Shafton, “it is poor valour to strike him that cannot smite266 again; and I hope you will consider what is due to a prisoner by the law of arms, and say nothing more on this odious267 subject. When I am once more mine own man, I will find a new road to dignity.”
“Shape one, I presume,” said the Earl of Morton.
“Nay, Douglas, you will drive him mad,”— said Murray; “besides, we have other matter in hand — I must see Warden wed149 Glendinning with Mary Avenel, and put him in possession of his wife’s castle without delay. It will be best done ere our forces leave these parts.”
“And I,” said the Miller, “have the like grist to grind; for I hope some one of the good fathers will wed my wench with her gay bridegroom.”
“It needs not,” said Shafton; “the ceremonial hath been solemnly performed.”
“It will not be the worse of another bolting,” said the Miller; “it is always best to be sure, as I say when I chance to take multure twice from the same meal-sack.”
“Stave the miller off him,” said Murray, “or he will worry him dead. The Abbot, my lord, offers us the hospitality of the Convent; I move we should repair hither, Sir Piercie and all of us. I must learn to know the Maid of Avenel — tomorrow I must act as her father — All Scotland shall see how Murray can reward a faithful servant.”
Mary Avenel and her lover avoided meeting the Abbot, and took up their temporary abode268 in a house of the village, where next day their hands were united by the Protestant preacher in presence of the two Earls. On the same day Piercie Shafton and his bride departed, under an escort which was to conduct him to the sea-side, and see him embark269 for the Low Countries. Early on the following morning the bands of the Earls were under march to the Castle of Avenel, to invest the young bridegroom with the property of his wife, which was surrendered to them without opposition.
But not without those omens270 which seemed to mark every remarkable271 event which befell the fated family, did Mary take possession of the ancient castle of her forefathers272. The same warlike form which had appeared more than once at Glendearg, was seen by Tibb Tacket and Martin, who returned with their young mistress to partake her altered fortunes. It glided273 before the cavalcade274 as they advanced upon the long causeway, paused at each drawbridge, and flourished its hand, as in triumph, as it disappeared under the gloomy archway, which was surmounted275 by the insignia of the house of Avenel. The two trusty servants made their vision only known to Dame Glendinning, who, with much pride of heart, had accompanied her son to see him take his rank among the barons of the land. “Oh, my dear bairn!” she exclaimed, when she heard the tale, “the castle is a grand place to be sure, but I wish ye dinna a’ desire to be back in the quiet braes of Glendearg before the play be played out.” But this natural reflection, springing from maternal276 anxiety, was soon forgotten amid the busy and pleasing task of examining and admiring the new habitation of her son.
While these affairs were passing, Edward had hidden himself and his sorrows in the paternal277 Tower of Glendearg, where every object was full of matter for bitter reflection. The Abbot’s kindness had despatched him thither upon pretence278 of placing some papers belonging to the Abbey in safety and secrecy279; but in reality to prevent his witnessing the triumph of his brother. Through the deserted280 apartments, the scene of so many bitter reflections, the unhappy youth stalked like a discontented ghost, conjuring281 up around him at every step new subjects for sorrow and for self-torment. Impatient, at length, of the state of irritation282 and agonized283 recollection in which he found himself, he rushed out and walked hastily up the glen, as if to shake off the load which hung upon his mind. The sun was setting when he reached the entrance of Corri-nan-shian, and the recollection of what he had seen when he last visited that haunted ravine, burst on his mind. He was in a humour, however, rather to seek out danger than to avoid it.
“I will face this mystic being,” he said; “she foretold284 the fate which has wrapt me in this dress — I will know whether she has aught else to tell me of a life which cannot but be miserable.”
He failed not to see the White Spirit seated by her accustomed haunt, and singing in her usual low and sweet tone. While she sung, she seemed to look with sorrow on her golden zone, which was now diminished to the fineness of a silken thread.
“Fare thee well, thou Holly285 green,
Thou shall seldom now be seen,
With all thy glittering garlands bending,
As to greet my slow descending286,
Startling the bewilder’d hind287.
Who sees thee wave without a wind.
“Farewell, Fountain! now not long
Shalt thou murmur288 to my song,
While thy crystal bubbles glancing,
Keep the time in mystic dancing,
Rise and swell97, are burst and lost,
Like mortal schemes by fortune crost.
“The knot of fate at length is tied,
The Churl289 is Lord, the Maid is bride.
Vainly did my magic sleight290
Send the lover from her sight;
Wither257 bush, and perish well,
Fall’n is lofty Avenel!”
The vision seemed to weep while she sung; and the words impressed on Edward a melancholy291 belief, that the alliance of Mary with his brother might be fatal to them both.
The End
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1
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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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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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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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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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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51
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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53
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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61
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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66
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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67
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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68
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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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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70
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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72
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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73
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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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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75
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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76
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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77
despoil
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| v.夺取，抢夺 | |
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78
emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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79
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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80
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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81
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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82
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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83
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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84
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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85
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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86
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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87
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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88
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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89
rekindle
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| v.使再振作；再点火 | |
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90
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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91
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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92
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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93
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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94
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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95
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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96
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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97
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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98
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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99
perverting
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| v.滥用( pervert的现在分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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100
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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101
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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102
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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103
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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104
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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105
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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107
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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109
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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110
perverted
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|
| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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111
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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112
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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113
dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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114
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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115
warding
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| 监护，守护（ward的现在分词形式） | |
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116
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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117
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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119
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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120
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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121
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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122
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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123
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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124
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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125
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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126
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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127
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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128
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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129
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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130
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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131
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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132
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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133
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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134
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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135
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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136
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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137
tottering
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|
| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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138
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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139
abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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140
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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141
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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142
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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143
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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144
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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145
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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146
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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147
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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148
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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149
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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150
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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151
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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152
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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153
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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154
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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155
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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156
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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157
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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158
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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159
novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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160
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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161
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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162
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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163
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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164
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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165
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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166
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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167
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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168
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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169
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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170
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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171
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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172
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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173
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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174
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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175
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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176
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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177
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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178
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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179
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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180
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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181
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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182
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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183
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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184
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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185
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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186
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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187
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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188
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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189
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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190
aggrieve
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| v.使委屈，使苦恼；侵害 | |
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191
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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192
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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193
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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194
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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195
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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196
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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197
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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198
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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199
boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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200
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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201
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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202
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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203
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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204
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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205
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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206
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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207
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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208
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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209
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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210
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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211
manors
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| n.庄园（manor的复数形式） | |
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212
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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213
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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214
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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215
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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216
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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217
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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218
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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219
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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220
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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221
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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222
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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223
confiscating
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| 没收（confiscate的现在分词形式） | |
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224
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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225
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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226
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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227
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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228
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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229
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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230
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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231
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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232
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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233
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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234
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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235
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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236
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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237
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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238
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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239
intrepidity
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| n.大胆，刚勇；大胆的行为 | |
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240
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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241
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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242
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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243
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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244
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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245
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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246
infraction
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| n.违反；违法 | |
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247
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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248
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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249
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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250
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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251
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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252
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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253
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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254
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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255
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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256
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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257
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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258
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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260
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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262
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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263
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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264
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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265
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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266
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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267
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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268
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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269
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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270
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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271
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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272
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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273
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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274
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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275
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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276
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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277
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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278
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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279
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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280
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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281
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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282
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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283
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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284
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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285
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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286
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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287
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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288
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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289
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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290
sleight
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| n.技巧，花招 | |
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291
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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