Let fall your swords and daggers1!
CRITIC.
When the father and son entered the cabinet of audience, it was easily visible that Sir Geoffrey had obeyed the summons as he would have done the trumpet’s call to horse; and his dishevelled grey locks and half-arranged dress, though they showed zeal2 and haste, such as he would have used when Charles I. called him to attend a council of war, seemed rather indecorous in a pacific drawing-room. He paused at the door of the cabinet, but when the King called on him to advance, came hastily forward, with every feeling of his earlier and later life afloat, and contending in his memory, threw himself on his knees before the King, seized his hand, and, without even an effort to speak, wept aloud. Charles, who generally felt deeply so long as an impressive object was before his eyes, indulged for a moment the old man’s rapture3. —“My good Sir Geoffrey,” he said, “you have had some hard measure; we owe you amends4, and will find time to pay our debt.”
“No suffering — no debt,” said the old man; “I cared not what the rogues6 said of me — I knew they could never get twelve honest fellows to believe a word of their most damnable lies. I did long to beat them when they called me traitor7 to your Majesty8 — that I confess — But to have such an early opportunity of paying my duty to your Majesty, overpays it all. The villains10 would have persuaded me I ought not to come to Court — aha!”
The Duke of Ormond perceived that the King coloured much; for in truth it was from the Court that the private intimation had been given to Sir Geoffrey to go down to the country, without appearing at Whitehall; and he, moreover, suspected that the jolly old Knight11 had not risen from his dinner altogether dry-lipped, after the fatigues12 of a day so agitating13. —“My old friend,” he whispered, “you forget that your son is to be presented — permit me to have that honour.”
“I crave14 your Grace’s pardon humbly,” said Sir Geoffrey, “but it is an honour I design for myself, as I apprehend15 no one can so utterly16 surrender and deliver him up to his Majesty’s service as the father that begot17 him is entitled to do. — Julian, come forward, and kneel. — Here he is, please your Majesty — Julian Peveril — a chip of the old block — as stout18, though scarce so tall a tree, as the old trunk, when at the freshest. Take him to you, sir, for a faithful servant, à pendre, as the French say; if he fears fire or steel, axe19 or gallows20, in your Majesty’s service, I renounce21 him — he is no son of mine — I disown him, and he may go to the Isle22 of Man, the Isle of Dogs, or the Isle of Devils, for what I care.”
Charles winked23 to Ormond, and having, with his wonted courtesy, expressed his thorough conviction that Julian would imitate the loyalty24 of his ancestors, and especially of his father, added, that he believed his Grace of Ormond had something to communicate which was of consequence to his service. Sir Geoffrey made his military reverence25 at this hint, and marched off in the rear of the Duke, who proceeded to inquire of him concerning the events of the day. Charles, in the meanwhile, having in the first place, ascertained26 that the son was not in the same genial27 condition with the father, demanded and received from him a precise account of all the proceedings29 subsequent to the trial.
Julian, with the plainness and precision which such a subject demanded, when treated in such a presence, narrated30 all that happened down to the entrance of Bridgenorth; and his Majesty was so much pleased with his manner, that he congratulated Arlington on their having gained the evidence of at least one man of sense to these dark and mysterious events. But when Bridgenorth was brought upon the scene, Julian hesitated to bestow31 a name upon him; and although he mentioned the chapel32 which he had seen filled with men in arms, and the violent language of the preacher, he added, with earnestness, that notwithstanding all this, the men departed without coming to any extremity33, and had all left the place before his father and he were set at liberty.
“And you retired34 quietly to your dinner in Fleet Street, young man,” said the King severely35, “without giving a magistrate36 notice of the dangerous meeting which was held in the vicinity of our palace, and who did not conceal37 their intention of proceeding28 to extremities38?”
Peveril blushed, and was silent. The King frowned, and stepped aside to communicate with Ormond, who reported that the father seemed to have known nothing of the matter.
“And the son, I am sorry to say,” said the King, “seems more unwilling39 to speak the truth than I should have expected. We have all variety of evidence in this singular investigation40 — a mad witness like the dwarf41, a drunken witness like the father, and now a dumb witness. — Young man,” he continued, addressing Julian, “your behaviour is less frank than I expected from your father’s son. I must know who this person is with whom you held such familiar intercourse42 — you know him, I presume?”
Julian acknowledged that he did, but, kneeling on one knee, entreated43 his Majesty’s forgiveness for concealing44 his name; “he had been freed,” he said, “from his confinement45, on promising46 to that effect.”
“That was a promise made, by your own account, under compulsion,” answered the King, “and I cannot authorise your keeping it; it is your duty to speak the truth — if you are afraid of Buckingham, the Duke shall withdraw.”
“I have no reason to fear the Duke of Buckingham,” said Peveril; “that I had an affair with one of his household, was the man’s own fault and not mine.”
“Oddsfish!” said the King, “the light begins to break in on me — I thought I remembered thy physiognomy. Wert thou not the very fellow whom I met at Chiffinch’s yonder morning? — The matter escaped me since; but now I recollect47 thou saidst then, that thou wert the son of that jolly old three-bottle Baronet yonder.”
“It is true,” said Julian, “that I met your Majesty at Master Chiffinch’s, and I am afraid had the misfortune to displease48 you; but ——”
“No more of that, young man — no more of that — But I recollect you had with you that beautiful dancing siren. — Buckingham, I will hold you gold to silver, that she was the intended tenant49 of that bass-fiddle?”
“Your Majesty has rightly guessed it,” said the Duke; “and I suspect she has put a trick upon me, by substituting the dwarf in her place; for Christian50 thinks ——”
“Damn Christian!” said the King hastily —“I wish they would bring him hither, that universal referee51.”— And as the wish was uttered, Christian’s arrival was announced. “Let him attend,” said the King: “But hark — a thought strikes me. — Here, Master Peveril — yonder dancing maiden52 that introduced you to us by the singular agility53 of her performance, is she not, by your account, a dependent of the Countess of Derby?”
“I have known her such for years,” answered Julian.
“Then will we call the Countess hither,” said the King: “It is fit we should learn who this little fairy really is; and if she be now so absolutely at the beck of Buckingham, and this Master Christian of his — why I think it would be but charity to let her ladyship know so much, since I question if she will wish, in that case, to retain her in her service. Besides,” he continued, speaking apart, “this Julian, to whom suspicion attaches in these matters from his obstinate54 silence, is also of the Countess’s household. We will sift55 this matter to the bottom, and do justice to all.”
The Countess of Derby, hastily summoned, entered the royal closet at one door, just as Christian and Zarah, or Fenella, were ushered56 in by the other. The old Knight of Martindale, who had ere this returned to the presence, was scarce controlled, even by the signs which she made, so much was he desirous of greeting his old friend; but as Ormond laid a kind restraining hand upon his arm, he was prevailed on to sit still.
The Countess, after a deep reverence to the King, acknowledged the rest of the nobility present by a slighter reverence, smiled to Julian Peveril, and looked with surprise at the unexpected apparition57 of Fenella. Buckingham bit his lip, for he saw the introduction of Lady Derby was likely to confuse and embroil58 every preparation which he had arranged for his defence; and he stole a glance at Christian, whose eye, when fixed59 on the Countess, assumed the deadly sharpness which sparkles in the adder’s, while his cheek grew almost black under the influence of strong emotion.
“Is there any one in this presence whom your ladyship recognises,” said the King graciously, “besides your old friends of Ormond and Arlington?”
“I see, my liege, two worthy60 friends of my husband’s house,” replied the Countess; “Sir Geoffrey Peveril and his son — the latter a distinguished61 member of my son’s household.”
“Any one else?” continued the King.
“An unfortunate female of my family, who disappeared from the Island of Man at the same time when Julian Peveril left it upon business of importance. She was thought to have fallen from the cliff into the sea.”
“Had your ladyship any reason to suspect — pardon me,” said the King, “for putting such a question — any improper62 intimacy63 between Master Peveril and this same female attendant?”
“My liege,” said the Countess, colouring indignantly, “my household is of reputation.”
“Nay, my lady, be not angry,” said the King; “I did but ask — such things will befall in the best regulated families.”
“Not in mine, sire,” said the Countess. “Besides that, in common pride and in common honesty, Julian Peveril is incapable64 of intriguing65 with an unhappy creature, removed by her misfortune almost beyond the limits of humanity.”
Zarah looked at her, and compressed her lips, as if to keep in the words that would fain break from them.
“I know how it is,” said the King —“What your ladyship says may be true in the main, yet men’s tastes have strange vagaries66. This girl is lost in Man as soon as the youth leaves it, and is found in Saint Jame’s Park, bouncing and dancing like a fairy, so soon as he appears in London.”
“Impossible!” said the Countess; “she cannot dance.”
“I believe,” said the King, “she can do more feats67 than your ladyship either suspects or would approve of.”
The Countess drew up, and was indignantly silent.
The King proceeded —“No sooner is Peveril in Newgate, than, by the account of the venerable little gentleman, this merry maiden is even there also for company. Now, without inquiring how she got in, I think charitably that she had better taste than to come there on the dwarf’s account. — Ah ha! I think Master Julian is touched in conscience!”
Julian did indeed start as the King spoke68, for it reminded him of the midnight visit in his cell.
The King looked fixedly69 at him, and then proceeded —“Well, gentlemen, Peveril is carried to his trial, and is no sooner at liberty, than we find him in the house where the Duke of Buckingham was arranging what he calls a musical mask. — Egad, I hold it next to certain, that this wench put the change on his Grace, and popt the poor dwarf into the bass-viol, reserving her own more precious hours to be spent with Master Julian Peveril. — Think you not so, Sir Christian, you, the universal referee? Is there any truth in this conjecture70?”
Christian stole a glance at Zarah, and read that in her eye which embarrassed him. “He did not know,” he said; “he had indeed engaged this unrivalled performer to take the proposed part in the mask; and she was to have come forth71 in the midst of a shower of lambent fire, very artificially prepared with perfumes, to overcome the smell of the powder; but he knew not why — excepting that she was wilful72 and capricious, like all great geniuses — she had certainly spoiled the concert by cramming73 in that more bulky dwarf.”
“I should like,” said the King, “to see this little maiden stand forth, and bear witness, in such manner as she can express herself, on this mysterious matter. Can any one here understand her mode of communication?”
Christian said, he knew something of it since he had become acquainted with her in London. The Countess spoke not till the King asked her, and then owned dryly, that she had necessarily some habitual74 means of intercourse with one who had been immediately about her person for so many years.
“I should think,” said Charles, “that this same Master Peveril has the more direct key to her language, after all we have heard.”
The King looked first at Peveril, who blushed like a maiden at the inference which the King’s remark implied, and then suddenly turned his eyes on the supposed mute, on whose cheek a faint colour was dying away. A moment afterwards, at a signal from the Countess, Fenella, or Zarah, stepped forward, and having kissed her lady’s hand, stood with her arms folded on her breast, with a humble75 air, as different from that which she wore in the harem of the Duke of Buckingham, as that of a Magdalene from a Judith. Yet this was the least show of her talent of versatility76, for so well did she play the part of the dumb girl, that Buckingham, sharp as his discernment was, remained undecided whether the creature which stood before him could possibly be the same with her, who had, in a different dress, made such an impression on his imagination, or indeed was the imperfect creature she now represented. She had at once all that could mark the imperfection of hearing, and all that could show the wonderful address by which nature so often makes up of the deficiency. There was the lip that trembles not at any sound — the seeming insensibility to the conversation that passed around; while, on the other hand, was the quick and vivid glance; that seemed anxious to devour77 the meaning of those sounds, which she could gather no otherwise than by the motion of the lips.
Examined after her own fashion, Zarah confirmed the tale of Christian in all its points, and admitted that she had deranged78 the project laid for a mask, by placing the dwarf in her own stead; the cause of her doing so she declined to assign, and the Countess pressed her no farther.
“Everything tells to exculpate79 my Lord of Buckingham,” said Charles, “from so absurd an accusation80: the dwarf’s testimony81 is too fantastic, that of the two Peverils does not in the least affect the Duke; that of the dumb damsel completely contradicts the possibility of his guilt82. Methinks, my lords, we should acquaint him that he stands acquitted83 of a complaint, too ridiculous to have been subjected to a more serious scrutiny84 than we have hastily made upon this occasion.”
Arlington bowed in acquiescence85, but Ormond spoke plainly. —“I should suffer, sire, in the opinion of the Duke of Buckingham, brilliant as his talents are known to be, should I say that I am satisfied in my own mind on this occasion. But I subscribe86 to the spirit of the times; and I agree it would be highly dangerous, on such accusations87 as we have been able to collect, to impeach88 the character of a zealous89 Protestant like his Grace — Had he been a Catholic, under such circumstances of suspicion, the Tower had been too good a prison for him.”
Buckingham bowed to the Duke of Ormond, with a meaning which even his triumph could not disguise. —"Tu me la pagherai!” he muttered, in a tone of deep and abiding90 resentment91; but the stout old Irishman, who had long since braved his utmost wrath92, cared little for this expression of his displeasure.
The King then, signing to the other nobles to pass into the public apartments, stopped Buckingham as he was about to follow them; and when they were alone, asked, with a significant tone, which brought all the blood in the Duke’s veins93 into his countenance94, “When was it, George, that your useful friend Colonel Blood became a musician? — You are silent,” he said; “do not deny the charge, for yonder villain9, once seen, is remembered for ever. Down, down on your knees, George, and acknowledge that you have abused my easy temper. — Seek for no apology — none will serve your turn. I saw the man myself, among your Germans as you call them; and you know what I must needs believe from such a circumstance.”
“Believe that I have been guilty — most guilty, my liege and King,” said the Duke, conscience-stricken, and kneeling down; —“believe that I was misguided — that I was mad — Believe anything but that I was capable of harming, or being accessory to harm, your person.”
“I do not believe it,” said the King; “I think of you, Villiers, as the companion of my dangers and my exile, and am so far from supposing you mean worse than you say, that I am convinced you acknowledge more than ever you meant to attempt.”
“By all that is sacred,” said the Duke, still kneeling, “had I not been involved to the extent of life and fortune with the villain Christian ——”
“Nay, if you bring Christian on the stage again,” said the King, smiling, “it is time for me to withdraw. Come, Villiers, rise — I forgive thee, and only recommend one act of penance95 — the curse you yourself bestowed96 on the dog who bit you — marriage, and retirement97 to your country-seat.”
The Duke rose abashed98, and followed the King into the circle, which Charles entered, leaning on the shoulder of his repentant99 peer; to whom he showed so much countenance, as led the most acute observers present, to doubt the possibility of there existing any real cause for the surmises100 to the Duke’s prejudice.
The Countess of Derby had in the meanwhile consulted with the Duke of Ormond, with the Peverils, and with her other friends; and, by their unanimous advice, though with considerable difficulty, became satisfied, that to have thus shown herself at Court, was sufficient to vindicate101 the honour of her house; and that it was her wisest course, after having done so, to retire to her insular102 dominions103, without farther provoking the resentment of a powerful faction104. She took farewell of the King in form, and demanded his permission to carry back with her the helpless creature who had so strangely escaped from her protection, into a world where her condition rendered her so subject to every species of misfortune.
“Will your ladyship forgive me?” said Charles. “I have studied your sex long — I am mistaken if your little maiden is not as capable of caring for herself as any of us.”
“Impossible!” said the Countess.
“Possible, and most true,” whispered the King. “I will instantly convince you of the fact, though the experiment is too delicate to be made by any but your ladyship. Yonder she stands, looking as if she heard no more than the marble pillar against which she leans. Now, if Lady Derby will contrive105 either to place her hand near the region of the damsel’s heart, or at least on her arm, so that she can feel the sensation of the blood when the pulse increases, then do you, my Lord of Ormond, beckon106 Julian Peveril out of sight — I will show you in a moment that it can stir at sounds spoken.”
The Countess, much surprised, afraid of some embarrassing pleasantry on the part of Charles, yet unable to repress her curiosity, placed herself near Fenella, as she called her little mute; and, while making signs to her, contrived107 to place her hand on her wrist.
At this moment the King, passing near them, said, “This is a horrid108 deed — the villain Christian has stabbed young Peveril!”
The mute evidence of the pulse, which bounded as if a cannon109 had been discharged close by the poor girl’s ear, was accompanied by such a loud scream of agony, as distressed110, while it startled, the good-natured monarch111 himself. “I did but jest,” he said; “Julian is well, my pretty maiden. I only used the wand of a certain blind deity112, called Cupid, to bring a deaf and dumb vassal113 of his to the exercise of her faculties114.”
“I am betrayed!” she said, with her eyes fixed on the ground —“I am betrayed! — and it is fit that she, whose life has been spent in practising treason on others, should be caught in her own snare115. But where is my tutor in iniquity116? — where is Christian, who taught me to play the part of spy on this unsuspicious lady, until I had well-nigh delivered her into his bloody117 hands?”
“This,” said the King, “craves more secret examination. Let all leave the apartment who are not immediately connected with these proceedings, and let this Christian be again brought before us. — Wretched man,” he continued, addressing Christian, “what wiles118 are these you have practised, and by what extraordinary means?”
“She has betrayed me, then!” said Christian —“Betrayed me to bonds and death, merely for an idle passion, which can never be successful! — But know, Zarah,” he added, addressing her sternly, “when my life is forfeited119 through thy evidence, the daughter has murdered the father!”
The unfortunate girl stared on him in astonishment120. “You said,” at length she stammered121 forth, “that I was the daughter of your slaughtered122 brother?”
“That was partly to reconcile thee to the part thou wert to play in my destined123 drama of vengeance124 — partly to hide what men call the infamy125 of thy birth. But my daughter thou art! and from the eastern clime, in which thy mother was born, you derive126 that fierce torrent127 of passion which I laboured to train to my purposes, but which, turned into another channel, has become the cause of your father’s destruction. — My destiny is the Tower, I suppose?”
He spoke these words with great composure, and scarce seemed to regard the agonies of his daughter, who, throwing herself at his feet, sobbed128 and wept most bitterly.
“This must not be,” said the King, moved with compassion129 at this scene of misery130. “If you consent, Christian, to leave this country, there is a vessel131 in the river bound for New England — Go, carry your dark intrigues132 to other lands.”
“I might dispute the sentence,” said Christian boldly; “and if I submit to it, it is a matter of my own choice. — One half-hour had made me even with that proud woman, but fortune hath cast the balance against me. — Rise, Zarah, Fenella no more! Tell the Lady of Derby, that, if the daughter of Edward Christian, the niece of her murdered victim, served her as a menial, it was but for the purpose of vengeance — miserably133, miserably frustrated134! — Thou seest thy folly135 now — thou wouldst follow yonder ungrateful stripling — thou wouldst forsake136 all other thoughts to gain his slightest notice; and now thou art a forlorn outcast, ridiculed137 and insulted by those on whose necks you might have trod, had you governed yourself with more wisdom! — But come, thou art still my daughter — there are other skies than that which canopies138 Britain.”
“Stop him,” said the King; “we must know by what means this maiden found access to those confined in our prisons.”
“I refer your Majesty to your most Protestant jailer, and to the most Protestant Peers, who, in order to obtain perfect knowledge of the depth of the Popish Plot, have contrived these ingenious apertures139 for visiting them in their cells by night or day. His Grace of Buckingham can assist your Majesty, if you are inclined to make the inquiry140.”*
* It was said that very unfair means were used to compel the prisoners, committed on account of the Popish Plot, to make disclosures, and that several of them were privately141 put to the torture.
“Christian,” said the Duke, “thou art the most barefaced142 villain who ever breathed.”
“Of a commoner, I may,” answered Christian, and led his daughter out of the presence.
“See after him, Selby,” said the King; “lose not sight of him till the ship sail; if he dare return to Britain, it shall be at his peril143. Would to God we had as good riddance of others as dangerous! And I would also,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “that all our political intrigues and feverish144 alarms could terminate as harmlessly as now. Here is a plot without a drop of blood; and all the elements of a romance, without its conclusion. Here we have a wandering island princess (I pray my Lady of Derby’s pardon), a dwarf, a Moorish145 sorceress, an impenitent146 rogue5, and a repentant man of rank, and yet all ends without either hanging or marriage.”
“Not altogether without the latter,” said the Countess, who had an opportunity, during the evening, of much private conversation with Julian Peveril. “There is a certain Major Bridgenorth, who, since your Majesty relinquishes147 farther inquiry into these proceedings, which he had otherwise intended to abide148, designs, as we are informed, to leave England for ever. Now, this Bridgenorth, by dint149 of law, hath acquired strong possession over the domains150 of Peveril, which he is desirous to restore to the ancient owners, with much fair land besides, conditionally151, that our young Julian will receive them as the dowry of his only child and heir.”
“By my faith,” said the King, “she must be a foul-favoured wench, indeed, if Julian requires to be pressed to accept her on such fair conditions.”
“They love each other like lovers of the last age,” said the Countess; “but the stout old Knight likes not the round-headed alliance.”
“Our royal recommendation shall put that to rights,” said the King; “Sir Geoffrey Peveril has not suffered hardship so often at our command, that he will refuse our recommendation when it comes to make him amends for all his losses.”
It may be supposed the King did not speak without being fully152 aware of the unlimited153 ascendancy154 which he possessed155 over the old Tory; for within four weeks afterwards, the bells of Martindale-Moultrassie were ringing for the union of the families, from whose estates it takes its compound name, and the beacon-light of the Castle blazed high over hill and dale, and summoned all to rejoice who were within twenty miles of its gleam.
The End
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1 daggers | |
匕首,短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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2 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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3 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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4 amends | |
n. 赔偿 | |
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5 rogue | |
n.流氓;v.游手好闲 | |
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6 rogues | |
n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 );无赖;调皮捣蛋的人;离群的野兽 | |
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7 traitor | |
n.叛徒,卖国贼 | |
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8 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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9 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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10 villains | |
n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 );罪犯;(小说、戏剧等中的)反面人物;淘气鬼 | |
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11 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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12 fatigues | |
n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 );杂役;厌倦;(士兵穿的)工作服 | |
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13 agitating | |
搅动( agitate的现在分词 ); 激怒; 使焦虑不安; (尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而)激烈争论 | |
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14 crave | |
vt.渴望得到,迫切需要,恳求,请求 | |
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15 apprehend | |
vt.理解,领悟,逮捕,拘捕,忧虑 | |
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16 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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17 begot | |
v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 );产生,引起 | |
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19 axe | |
n.斧子;v.用斧头砍,削减 | |
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20 gallows | |
n.绞刑架,绞台 | |
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21 renounce | |
v.放弃;拒绝承认,宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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22 isle | |
n.小岛,岛 | |
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23 winked | |
v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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24 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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25 reverence | |
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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26 ascertained | |
v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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28 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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29 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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30 narrated | |
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31 bestow | |
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32 chapel | |
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33 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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34 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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35 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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36 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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37 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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38 extremities | |
n.端点( extremity的名词复数 );尽头;手和足;极窘迫的境地 | |
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39 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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40 investigation | |
n.调查,调查研究 | |
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41 dwarf | |
n.矮子,侏儒,矮小的动植物;vt.使…矮小 | |
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42 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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43 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44 concealing | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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45 confinement | |
n.幽禁,拘留,监禁;分娩;限制,局限 | |
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46 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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47 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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48 displease | |
vt.使不高兴,惹怒;n.不悦,不满,生气 | |
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49 tenant | |
n.承租人;房客;佃户;v.租借,租用 | |
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50 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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51 referee | |
n.裁判员.仲裁人,代表人,鉴定人 | |
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52 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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53 agility | |
n.敏捷,活泼 | |
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54 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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55 sift | |
v.筛撒,纷落,详察 | |
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56 ushered | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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58 embroil | |
vt.拖累;牵连;使复杂 | |
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59 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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60 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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61 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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62 improper | |
adj.不适当的,不合适的,不正确的,不合礼仪的 | |
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63 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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64 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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65 intriguing | |
adj.有趣的;迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词);激起…的好奇心 | |
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66 vagaries | |
n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 );异想天开;异常行为;难以预测的情况 | |
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67 feats | |
功绩,伟业,技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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68 spoke | |
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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69 fixedly | |
adv.固定地;不屈地,坚定不移地 | |
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70 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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71 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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72 wilful | |
adj.任性的,故意的 | |
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73 cramming | |
n.塞满,填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 );填塞;塞满;(为考试而)死记硬背功课 | |
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74 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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75 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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76 versatility | |
n.多才多艺,多样性,多功能 | |
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77 devour | |
v.吞没;贪婪地注视或谛听,贪读;使着迷 | |
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78 deranged | |
adj.疯狂的 | |
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79 exculpate | |
v.开脱,使无罪 | |
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80 accusation | |
n.控告,指责,谴责 | |
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81 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
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82 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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83 acquitted | |
宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 ); 使(自己)作出某种表现 | |
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84 scrutiny | |
n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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85 acquiescence | |
n.默许;顺从 | |
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86 subscribe | |
vi.(to)订阅,订购;同意;vt.捐助,赞助 | |
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87 accusations | |
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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88 impeach | |
v.弹劾;检举 | |
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89 zealous | |
adj.狂热的,热心的 | |
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90 abiding | |
adj.永久的,持久的,不变的 | |
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91 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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92 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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93 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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94 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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95 penance | |
n.(赎罪的)惩罪 | |
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96 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97 retirement | |
n.退休,退职 | |
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98 abashed | |
adj.窘迫的,尴尬的v.使羞愧,使局促,使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99 repentant | |
adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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100 surmises | |
v.臆测,推断( surmise的第三人称单数 );揣测;猜想 | |
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101 vindicate | |
v.为…辩护或辩解,辩明;证明…正确 | |
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102 insular | |
adj.岛屿的,心胸狭窄的 | |
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103 dominions | |
统治权( dominion的名词复数 ); 领土; 疆土; 版图 | |
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104 faction | |
n.宗派,小集团;派别;派系斗争 | |
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105 contrive | |
vt.谋划,策划;设法做到;设计,想出 | |
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106 beckon | |
v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意,召唤 | |
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107 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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108 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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109 cannon | |
n.大炮,火炮;飞机上的机关炮 | |
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110 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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111 monarch | |
n.帝王,君主,最高统治者 | |
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112 deity | |
n.神,神性;被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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113 vassal | |
n.附庸的;属下;adj.奴仆的 | |
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114 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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115 snare | |
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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116 iniquity | |
n.邪恶;不公正 | |
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117 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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118 wiles | |
n.(旨在欺骗或吸引人的)诡计,花招;欺骗,欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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119 forfeited | |
(因违反协议、犯规、受罚等)丧失,失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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121 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122 slaughtered | |
v.屠杀,杀戮,屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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124 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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125 infamy | |
n.声名狼藉,出丑,恶行 | |
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126 derive | |
v.取得;导出;引申;来自;源自;出自 | |
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127 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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128 sobbed | |
哭泣,啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 ); 哭诉,呜咽地说 | |
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129 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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130 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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131 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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132 intrigues | |
n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 );神秘气氛;引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 );激起…的好奇心 | |
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133 miserably | |
adv.痛苦地;悲惨地;糟糕地;极度地 | |
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134 frustrated | |
adj.挫败的,失意的,泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 );挫败;使受挫折;令人沮丧 | |
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135 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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136 forsake | |
vt.遗弃,抛弃;舍弃,放弃 | |
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137 ridiculed | |
v.嘲笑,嘲弄,奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138 canopies | |
(宝座或床等上面的)华盖( canopy的名词复数 ); (飞行器上的)座舱罩; 任何悬于上空的覆盖物; 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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139 apertures | |
n.孔( aperture的名词复数 );隙缝;(照相机的)光圈;孔径 | |
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140 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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141 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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142 barefaced | |
adj.厚颜无耻的,公然的 | |
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143 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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144 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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145 moorish | |
adj.沼地的,荒野的,生[住]在沼地的 | |
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146 impenitent | |
adj.不悔悟的,顽固的 | |
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147 relinquishes | |
交出,让给( relinquish的第三人称单数 ); 放弃 | |
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148 abide | |
vi.遵守;坚持;vt.忍受 | |
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149 dint | |
n.由于,靠;凹坑 | |
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150 domains | |
n.范围( domain的名词复数 );领域;版图;地产 | |
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151 conditionally | |
adv. 有条件地 | |
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152 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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153 unlimited | |
adj.无限的,不受控制的,无条件的 | |
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154 ascendancy | |
n.统治权,支配力量 | |
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155 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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