Sped by these dire7 sounds and voices, the Princess scaled the long garden, skimming like a bird the starlit stairways; crossed the Park, which was in that place narrow; and plunged9 upon the farther side into the rude shelter of the forest. So, at a bound, she left the discretion10 and the cheerful lamps of Palace evenings; ceased utterly11 to be a sovereign lady; and, falling from the whole height of civilisation12, ran forth13 into the woods, a ragged14 Cinderella.
She went direct before her through an open tract15 of the forest, full of brush and birches, and where the starlight guided her; and, beyond that again, must thread the columned blackness of a pine grove16 joining overhead the thatch17 of its long branches. At that hour the place was breathless; a horror of night like a presence occupied that dungeon18 of the wood; and she went groping, knocking against the boles — her ear, betweenwhiles, strained to aching and yet unrewarded.
But the slope of the ground was upward, and encouraged her; and presently she issued on a rocky hill that stood forth above the sea of forest. All around were other hill-tops, big and little; sable19 vales of forest between; overhead the open heaven and the brilliancy of countless20 stars; and along the western sky the dim forms of mountains. The glory of the great night laid hold upon her; her eyes shone with stars; she dipped her sight into the coolness and brightness of the sky, as she might have dipped her wrist into a spring; and her heart, at that ethereal shock, began to move more soberly. The sun that sails overhead, ploughing into gold the fields of daylight azure21 and uttering the signal to man’s myriads22, has no word apart for man the individual; and the moon, like a violin, only praises and laments23 our private destiny. The stars alone, cheerful whisperers, confer quietly with each of us like friends; they give ear to our sorrows smilingly, like wise old men, rich in tolerance24; and by their double scale, so small to the eye, so vast to the imagination, they keep before the mind the double character of man’s nature and fate.
There sat the Princess, beautifully looking upon beauty, in council with these glad advisers25. Bright like pictures, clear like a voice in the porches of her ear, memory re-enacted the tumult26 of the evening: the Countess and the dancing fan, the big Baron27 on his knees, the blood on the polished floor, the knocking, the swing of the litter down the avenue of lamps, the messenger, the cries of the charging mob; and yet all were far away and phantasmal, and she was still healingly conscious of the peace and glory of the night. She looked towards Mittwalden; and above the hill-top, which already hid it from her view, a throbbing28 redness hinted of fire. Better so: better so, that she should fall with tragic29 greatness, lit by a blazing palace! She felt not a trace of pity for Gondremark or of concern for Grunewald: that period of her life was closed for ever, a wrench30 of wounded vanity alone surviving. She had but one clear idea: to flee; — and another, obscure and half-rejected, although still obeyed: to flee in the direction of the Felsenburg. She had a duty to perform, she must free Otto — so her mind said, very coldly; but her heart embraced the notion of that duty even with ardour, and her hands began to yearn31 for the grasp of kindness.
She rose, with a start of recollection, and plunged down the slope into the covert32. The woods received and closed upon her. Once more, she wandered and hasted in a blot33, uncheered, unpiloted. Here and there, indeed, through rents in the wood-roof, a glimmer34 attracted her; here and there a tree stood out among its neighbours by some force of outline; here and there a brushing among the leaves, a notable blackness, a dim shine, relieved, only to exaggerate, the solid oppression of the night and silence. And betweenwhiles, the unfeatured darkness would redouble and the whole ear of night appear to be gloating on her steps. Now she would stand still, and the silence, would grow and grow, till it weighed upon her breathing; and then she would address herself again to run, stumbling, falling, and still hurrying the more. And presently the whole wood rocked and began to run along with her. The noise of her own mad passage through the silence spread and echoed, and filled the night with terror. Panic hunted her: Panic from the trees reached forth with clutching branches; the darkness was lit up and peopled with strange forms and faces. She strangled and fled before her fears. And yet in the last fortress35, reason, blown upon by these gusts36 of terror, still shone with a troubled light. She knew, yet could not act upon her knowledge; she knew that she must stop, and yet she still ran.
She was already near madness, when she broke suddenly into a narrow clearing. At the same time the din37 grew louder, and she became conscious of vague forms and fields of whiteness. And with that the earth gave way; she fell and found her feet again with an incredible shock to her senses, and her mind was swallowed up.
When she came again to herself, she was standing38 to the mid-leg in an icy eddy39 of a brook40, and leaning with one hand on the rock from which it poured. The spray had wet her hair. She saw the white cascade41, the stars wavering in the shaken pool, foam42 flitting, and high overhead the tall pines on either hand serenely43 drinking starshine; and in the sudden quiet of her spirit she heard with joy the firm plunge8 of the cataract45 in the pool. She scrambled46 forth dripping. In the face of her proved weakness, to adventure again upon the horror of blackness in the groves47 were a suicide of life or reason. But here, in the alley48 of the brook, with the kind stars above her, and the moon presently swimming into sight, she could await the coming of day without alarm.
This lane of pine-trees ran very rapidly down-hill and wound among the woods; but it was a wider thoroughfare than the brook needed, and here and there were little dimpling lawns and coves49 of the forest, where the starshine slumbered50. Such a lawn she paced, taking patience bravely; and now she looked up the hill and saw the brook coming down to her in a series of cascades52; and now approached the margin53, where it welled among the rushes silently; and now gazed at the great company of heaven with an enduring wonder. The early evening had fallen chill, but the night was now temperate54; out of the recesses55 of the wood there came mild airs as from a deep and peaceful breathing; and the dew was heavy on the grass and the tight-shut daisies. This was the girl’s first night under the naked heaven; and now that her fears were overpast, she was touched to the soul by its serene44 amenity56 and peace. Kindly57 the host of heaven blinked down upon that wandering Princess; and the honest brook had no words but to encourage her.
At last she began to be aware of a wonderful revolution, compared to which the fire of Mittwalden Palace was but the crack and flash of a percussion-cap. The countenance58 with which the pines regarded her began insensibly to change; the grass too, short as it was, and the whole winding59 staircase of the brook’s course, began to wear a solemn freshness of appearance. And this slow transfiguration reached her heart, and played upon it, and transpierced it with a serious thrill. She looked all about; the whole face of nature looked back, brimful of meaning, finger on lip, leaking its glad secret. She looked up. Heaven was almost emptied of stars. Such as still lingered shone with a changed and waning60 brightness, and began to faint in their stations. And the colour of the sky itself was the most wonderful; for the rich blue of the night had now melted and softened61 and brightened; and there had succeeded in its place a hue62 that has no name, and that is never seen but as the herald63 of morning. ‘O!’ she cried, joy catching64 at her voice, ‘O! it is the dawn!’
In a breath she passed over the brook, and looped up her skirts and fairly ran in the dim alleys65. As she ran, her ears were aware of many pipings, more beautiful than music; in the small dish-shaped houses in the fork of giant arms, where they had lain all night, lover by lover, warmly pressed, the bright-eyed, big-hearted singers began to awaken66 for the day. Her heart melted and flowed forth to them in kindness. And they, from their small and high perches67 in the clerestories of the wood cathedral, peered down sidelong at the ragged Princess as she flitted below them on the carpet of the moss68 and tassel69.
Soon she had struggled to a certain hill-top, and saw far before her the silent inflooding of the day. Out of the East it welled and whitened; the darkness trembled into light; and the stars were extinguished like the street-lamps of a human city. The whiteness brightened into silver, the silver warmed into gold, the gold kindled70 into pure and living fire; and the face of the East was barred with elemental scarlet71. The day drew its first long breath, steady and chill; and for leagues around the woods sighed and shivered. And then, at one bound, the sun had floated up; and her startled eyes received day’s first arrow, and quailed72 under the buffet73. On every side, the shadows leaped from their ambush74 and fell prone75. The day was come, plain and garish76; and up the steep and solitary77 eastern heaven, the sun, victorious78 over his competitors, continued slowly and royally to mount.
Seraphina drooped79 for a little, leaning on a pine, the shrill80 joy of the woodlands mocking her. The shelter of the night, the thrilling and joyous81 changes of the dawn, were over; and now, in the hot eye of the day, she turned uneasily and looked sighingly about her. Some way off among the lower woods, a pillar of smoke was mounting and melting in the gold and blue. There, surely enough, were human folk, the hearth82-surrounders. Man’s fingers had laid the twigs83; it was man’s breath that had quickened and encouraged the baby flames; and now, as the fire caught, it would be playing ruddily on the face of its creator. At the thought, she felt a-cold and little and lost in that great out-of-doors. The electric shock of the young sun-beams and the unhuman beauty of the woods began to irk and daunt84 her. The covert of the house, the decent privacy of rooms, the swept and regulated fire, all that denotes or beautifies the home life of man, began to draw her as with cords. The pillar of smoke was now risen into some stream of moving air; it began to lean out sideways in a pennon; and thereupon, as though the change had been a summons, Seraphina plunged once more into the labyrinth85 of the wood.
She left day upon the high ground. In the lower groves there still lingered the blue early twilight86 and the seizing freshness of the dew. But here and there, above this field of shadow, the head of a great out-spread pine was already glorious with day; and here and there, through the breaches87 of the hills, the sun-beams made a great and luminous88 entry. Here Seraphina hastened along forest paths. She had lost sight of the pilot smoke, which blew another way, and conducted herself in that great wilderness89 by the direction of the sun. But presently fresh signs bespoke90 the neighbourhood of man; felled trunks, white slivers92 from the axe93, bundles of green boughs94, and stacks of firewood. These guided her forward; until she came forth at last upon the clearing whence the smoke arose. A hut stood in the clear shadow, hard by a brook which made a series of inconsiderable falls; and on the threshold the Princess saw a sun-burnt and hard-featured woodman, standing with his hands behind his back and gazing skyward.
She went to him directly: a beautiful, bright-eyed, and haggard vision; splendidly arrayed and pitifully tattered95; the diamond ear-drops still glittering in her ears; and with the movement of her coming, one small breast showing and hiding among the ragged covert of the laces. At that ambiguous hour, and coming as she did from the great silence of the forest, the man drew back from the Princess as from something elfin.
‘I am cold,’ she said, ‘and weary. Let me rest beside your fire.’
The woodman was visibly commoved, but answered nothing.
‘I will pay,’ she said, and then repented96 of the words, catching perhaps a spark of terror from his frightened eyes. But, as usual, her courage rekindled97 brighter for the check. She put him from the door and entered; and he followed her in superstitious98 wonder.
Within, the hut was rough and dark; but on the stone that served as hearth, twigs and a few dry branches burned with the brisk sounds and all the variable beauty of fire. The very sight of it composed her; she crouched99 hard by on the earth floor and shivered in the glow, and looked upon the eating blaze with admiration100. The woodman was still staring at his guest: at the wreck101 of the rich dress, the bare arms, the bedraggled laces and the gems102. He found no word to utter.
‘Give me food,’ said she, — ‘here, by the fire.’
He set down a pitcher103 of coarse wine, bread, a piece of cheese, and a handful of raw onions. The bread was hard and sour, the cheese like leather; even the onion, which ranks with the truffle and the nectarine in the chief place of honour of earth’s fruits, is not perhaps a dish for princesses when raw. But she ate, if not with appetite, with courage; and when she had eaten, did not disdain104 the pitcher. In all her life before, she had not tasted of gross food nor drunk after another; but a brave woman far more readily accepts a change of circumstances than the bravest man. All that while, the woodman continued to observe her furtively105, many low thoughts of fear and greed contending in his eyes. She read them clearly, and she knew she must begone.
Presently she arose and offered him a florin.
‘Will that repay you?’ she asked.
But here the man found his tongue. ‘I must have more than that,’ said he.
‘It is all I have to give you,’ she returned, and passed him by serenely.
Yet her heart trembled, for she saw his hand stretched forth as if to arrest her, and his unsteady eyes wandering to his axe. A beaten path led westward106 from the clearing, and she swiftly followed it. She did not glance behind her. But as soon as the least turning of the path had concealed107 her from the woodman’s eyes, she slipped among the trees and ran till she deemed herself in safety.
By this time the strong sunshine pierced in a thousand places the pine-thatch of the forest, fired the red boles, irradiated the cool aisles108 of shadow, and burned in jewels on the grass. The gum of these trees was dearer to the senses than the gums of Araby; each pine, in the lusty morning sunlight, burned its own wood-incense; and now and then a breeze would rise and toss these rooted censers, and send shade and sun-gem flitting, swift as swallows, thick as bees; and wake a brushing bustle109 of sounds that murmured and went by.
On she passed, and up and down, in sun and shadow; now aloft on the bare ridge110 among the rocks and birches, with the lizards111 and the snakes; and anon in the deep grove among sunless pillars. Now she followed wandering wood-paths, in the maze112 of valleys; and again, from a hill-top, beheld113 the distant mountains and the great birds circling under the sky. She would see afar off a nestling hamlet, and go round to avoid it. Below, she traced the course of the foam of mountain torrents114. Nearer hand, she saw where the tender springs welled up in silence, or oozed115 in green moss; or in the more favoured hollows a whole family of infant rivers would combine, and tinkle116 in the stones, and lie in pools to be a bathing-place for sparrows, or fall from the sheer rock in rods of crystal. Upon all these things, as she still sped along in the bright air, she looked with a rapture117 of surprise and a joyful118 fainting of the heart; they seemed so novel, they touched so strangely home, they were so hued119 and scented120, they were so beset121 and canopied122 by the dome123 of the blue air of heaven.
At length, when she was well weary, she came upon a wide and shallow pool. Stones stood in it, like islands; bulrushes fringed the coast; the floor was paved with the pine needles; and the pines themselves, whose roots made promontories124, looked down silently on their green images. She crept to the margin and beheld herself with wonder, a hollow and bright-eyed phantom125, in the ruins of her palace robe. The breeze now shook her image; now it would be marred126 with flies; and at that she smiled; and from the fading circles, her counterpart smiled back to her and looked kind. She sat long in the warm sun, and pitied her bare arms that were all bruised127 and marred with falling, and marvelled128 to see that she was dirty, and could not grow to believe that she had gone so long in such a strange disorder129.
Then, with a sigh, she addressed herself to make a toilette by that forest mirror, washed herself pure from all the stains of her adventure, took off her jewels and wrapped them in her handkerchief, re-arranged the tatters of her dress, and took down the folds of her hair. She shook it round her face, and the pool repeated her thus veiled. Her hair had smelt130 like violets, she remembered Otto saying; and so now she tried to smell it, and then shook her head, and laughed a little, sadly, to herself.
The laugh was returned upon her in a childish echo.
She looked up; and lo! two children looking on, — a small girl and a yet smaller boy, standing, like playthings, by the pool, below a spreading pine. Seraphina was not fond of children, and now she was startled to the heart.
‘Who are you?’ she cried hoarsely131.
The mites132 huddled133 together and drew back; and Seraphina’s heart reproached her that she should have frightened things so quaint134 and little, and yet alive with senses. She thought upon the birds and looked again at her two visitors; so little larger and so far more innocent. On their clear faces, as in a pool, she saw the reflection of their fears. With gracious purpose she arose.
‘Come,’ she said, ‘do not be afraid of me,’ and took a step towards them.
But alas135! at the first moment, the two poor babes in the wood turned and ran helter-skelter from the Princess.
The most desolate136 pang137 was struck into the girl’s heart. Here she was, twenty-two — soon twenty-three — and not a creature loved her; none but Otto; and would even he forgive? If she began weeping in these woods alone, it would mean death or madness. Hastily she trod the thoughts out like a burning paper; hastily rolled up her locks, and with terror dogging her, and her whole bosom138 sick with grief, resumed her journey.
Past ten in the forenoon, she struck a high-road, marching in that place uphill between two stately groves, a river of sunlight; and here, dead weary, careless of consequences, and taking some courage from the human and civilised neighbourhood of the road, she stretched herself on the green margin in the shadow of a tree. Sleep closed on her, at first with a horror of fainting, but when she ceased to struggle, kindly embracing her. So she was taken home for a little, from all her toils139 and sorrows, to her Father’s arms. And there in the meanwhile her body lay exposed by the highwayside, in tattered finery; and on either hand from the woods the birds came flying by and calling upon others, and debated in their own tongue this strange appearance.
The sun pursued his journey; the shadow flitted from her feet, shrank higher and higher, and was upon the point of leaving her altogether, when the rumble140 of a coach was signalled to and fro by the birds. The road in that part was very steep; the rumble drew near with great deliberation; and ten minutes passed before a gentleman appeared, walking with a sober elderly gait upon the grassy141 margin of the highway, and looking pleasantly around him as he walked. From time to time he paused, took out his note-book and made an entry with a pencil; and any spy who had been near enough would have heard him mumbling142 words as though he were a poet testing verses. The voice of the wheels was still faint, and it was plain the traveller had far outstripped143 his carriage.
He had drawn very near to where the Princess lay asleep, before his eye alighted on her; but when it did he started, pocketed his note-book, and approached. There was a milestone144 close to where she lay; and he sat down on that and coolly studied her. She lay upon one side, all curled and sunken, her brow on one bare arm, the other stretched out, limp and dimpled. Her young body, like a thing thrown down, had scarce a mark of life. Her breathing stirred her not. The deadliest fatigue145 was thus confessed in every language of the sleeping flesh. The traveller smiled grimly. As though he had looked upon a statue, he made a grudging146 inventory147 of her charms: the figure in that touching148 freedom of forgetfulness surprised him; the flush of slumber51 became her like a flower.
‘Upon my word,’ he thought, ‘I did not think the girl could be so pretty. And to think,’ he added, ‘that I am under obligation not to use one word of this!’ He put forth his stick and touched her; and at that she awoke, sat up with a cry, and looked upon him wildly.
‘I trust your Highness has slept well,’ he said, nodding.
But she only uttered sounds.
‘Compose yourself,’ said he, giving her certainly a brave example in his own demeanour. ‘My chaise is close at hand; and I shall have, I trust, the singular entertainment of abducting149 a sovereign Princess.’
‘Sir John!’ she said, at last.
‘At your Highness’s disposal,’ he replied.
She sprang to her feet. ‘O!’ she cried, ‘have you come from Mittwalden?’
‘This morning,’ he returned, ‘I left it; and if there is any one less likely to return to it than yourself, behold150 him!’
‘The Baron —&8217; she began, and paused.
‘Madam,’ he answered, ‘it was well meant, and you are quite a Judith; but after the hours that have elapsed, you will probably be relieved to hear that he is fairly well. I took his news this morning ere I left. Doing fairly well, they said, but suffering acutely. Hey? — acutely. They could hear his groans151 in the next room.’
‘And the Prince,’ she asked, ‘is anything known of him?’
‘It is reported,’ replied Sir John, with the same pleasurable deliberation, ‘that upon that point your Highness is the best authority.’
‘Sir John,’ she said eagerly, ‘you were generous enough to speak about your carriage. Will you, I beseech152 you, will you take me to the Felsenburg? I have business there of an extreme importance.’
‘I can refuse you nothing,’ replied the old gentleman, gravely and seriously enough. ‘Whatever, madam, it is in my power to do for you, that shall be done with pleasure. As soon as my chaise shall overtake us, it is yours to carry you where you will. But,’ added he, reverting153 to his former manner, ‘I observe you ask me nothing of the Palace.’
‘I do not care,’ she said. ‘I thought I saw it burning.’
‘Prodigious!’ said the Baronet. ‘You thought? And can the loss of forty toilettes leave you cold? Well, madam, I admire your fortitude154. And the state, too? As I left, the government was sitting, — the new government, of which at least two members must be known to you by name: Sabra, who had, I believe, the benefit of being formed in your employment — a footman, am I right? — and our old friend the Chancellor155, in something of a subaltern position. But in these convulsions the last shall be first, and the first last.’
‘Sir John,’ she said, with an air of perfect honesty, ‘I am sure you mean most kindly, but these matters have no interest for me.’
The Baronet was so utterly discountenanced that he hailed the appearance of his chaise with welcome, and, by way of saying something, proposed that they should walk back to meet it. So it was done; and he helped her in with courtesy, mounted to her side, and from various receptacles (for the chaise was most completely fitted out) produced fruits and truffled liver, beautiful white bread, and a bottle of delicate wine. With these he served her like a father, coaxing156 and praising her to fresh exertions157; and during all that time, as though silenced by the laws of hospitality, he was not guilty of the shadow of a sneer158. Indeed his kindness seemed so genuine that Seraphina was moved to gratitude159.
‘Sir John,’ she said, ‘you hate me in your heart; why are you so kind to me?’
‘Ah, my good lady,’ said he, with no disclaimer of the accusation160, ‘I have the honour to be much your husband’s friend, and somewhat his admirer.’
‘You!’ she cried. ‘They told me you wrote cruelly of both of us.’
‘Such was the strange path by which we grew acquainted,’ said Sir John. ‘I had written, madam, with particular cruelty (since that shall be the phrase) of your fair self. Your husband set me at liberty, gave me a passport, ordered a carriage, and then, with the most boyish spirit, challenged me to fight. Knowing the nature of his married life, I thought the dash and loyalty161 he showed delightful162. “Do not be afraid,” says he; “if I am killed, there is nobody to miss me.” It appears you subsequently thought of that yourself. But I digress. I explained to him it was impossible that I could fight! “Not if I strike you?” says he. Very droll163; I wish I could have put it in my book. However, I was conquered, took the young gentleman to my high favour, and tore up my bits of scandal on the spot. That is one of the little favours, madam, that you owe your husband.’
Seraphina sat for some while in silence. She could bear to be misjudged without a pang by those whom she contemned164; she had none of Otto’s eagerness to be approved, but went her own way straight and head in air. To Sir John, however, after what he had said, and as her husband’s friend, she was prepared to stoop.
‘What do you think of me?’ she asked abruptly165.
‘I have told you already,’ said Sir John: ‘I think you want another glass of my good wine.’
‘Come,’ she said, ‘this is unlike you. You are not wont166 to be afraid. You say that you admire my husband: in his name, be honest.’
‘I admire your courage,’ said the Baronet. ‘Beyond that, as you have guessed, and indeed said, our natures are not sympathetic.’
‘You spoke91 of scandal,’ pursued Seraphina. ‘Was the scandal great?’
‘It was considerable,’ said Sir John.
‘And you believed it?’ she demanded.
‘O, madam,’ said Sir John, ‘the question!’
‘Thank you for that answer!’ cried Seraphina. ‘And now here, I will tell you, upon my honour, upon my soul, in spite of all the scandal in this world, I am as true a wife as ever stood.’
‘We should probably not agree upon a definition,’ observed Sir John.
‘O!’ she cried, ‘I have abominably167 used him — I know that; it is not that I mean. But if you admire my husband, I insist that you shall understand me: I can look him in the face without a blush.’
‘It may be, madam,’ said Sir John; ‘nor have I presumed to think the contrary.’
‘You will not believe me?’ she cried. ‘You think I am a guilty wife? You think he was my lover?’
‘Madam,’ returned the Baronet, ‘when I tore up my papers, I promised your good husband to concern myself no more with your affairs; and I assure you for the last time that I have no desire to judge you.’
‘But you will not acquit168 me! Ah!’ she cried, ‘HE will — he knows me better!’
Sir John smiled.
‘You smile at my distress169?’ asked Seraphina.
‘At your woman’s coolness,’ said Sir John. ‘A man would scarce have had the courage of that cry, which was, for all that, very natural, and I make no doubt quite true. But remark, madam — since you do me the honour to consult me gravely — I have no pity for what you call your distresses170. You have been completely selfish, and now reap the consequence. Had you once thought of your husband, instead of singly thinking of yourself, you would not now have been alone, a fugitive171, with blood upon your hands, and hearing from a morose172 old Englishman truth more bitter than scandal.’
‘I thank you,’ she said, quivering. ‘This is very true. Will you stop the carriage?’
‘No, child,’ said Sir John, ‘not until I see you mistress of yourself.’
There was a long pause, during which the carriage rolled by rock and woodland.
‘And now,’ she resumed, with perfect steadiness, ‘will you consider me composed? I request you, as a gentleman, to let me out.’
‘I think you do unwisely,’ he replied. ‘Continue, if you please, to use my carriage.’
‘Sir John,’ she said, ‘if death were sitting on that pile of stones, I would alight! I do not blame, I thank you; I now know how I appear to others; but sooner than draw breath beside a man who can so think of me, I would — O!’ she cried, and was silent.
Sir John pulled the string, alighted, and offered her his hand; but she refused the help.
The road had now issued from the valleys in which it had been winding, and come to that part of its course where it runs, like a cornice, along the brow of the steep northward173 face of Grunewald. The place where they had alighted was at a salient angle; a bold rock and some wind-tortured pine-trees overhung it from above; far below the blue plains lay forth and melted into heaven; and before them the road, by a succession of bold zigzags174, was seen mounting to where a tower upon a tall cliff closed the view.
‘There,’ said the Baronet, pointing to the tower, ‘you see the Felsenburg, your goal. I wish you a good journey, and regret I cannot be of more assistance.’
He mounted to his place and gave a signal, and the carriage rolled away.
Seraphina stood by the wayside, gazing before her with blind eyes. Sir John she had dismissed already from her mind: she hated him, that was enough; for whatever Seraphina hated or contemned fell instantly to Lilliputian smallness, and was thenceforward steadily175 ignored in thought. And now she had matter for concern indeed. Her interview with Otto, which she had never yet forgiven him, began to appear before her in a very different light. He had come to her, still thrilling under recent insult, and not yet breathed from fighting her own cause; and how that knowledge changed the value of his words! Yes, he must have loved her! this was a brave feeling — it was no mere176 weakness of the will. And she, was she incapable177 of love? It would appear so; and she swallowed her tears, and yearned178 to see Otto, to explain all, to ask pity upon her knees for her transgressions179, and, if all else were now beyond the reach of reparation, to restore at least the liberty of which she had deprived him.
Swiftly she sped along the highway, and, as the road wound out and in about the bluffs180 and gullies of the mountain, saw and lost by glimpses the tall tower that stood before and above her, purpled by the mountain air.
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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11
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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12
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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13
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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14
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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15
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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16
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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17
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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18
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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19
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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20
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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21
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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22
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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23
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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25
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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26
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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27
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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28
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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29
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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30
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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31
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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32
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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33
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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34
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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35
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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36
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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37
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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38
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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39
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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40
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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41
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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42
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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43
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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44
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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45
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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46
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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47
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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48
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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49
coves
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| n.小海湾( cove的名词复数 )；家伙 | |
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50
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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52
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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53
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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54
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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55
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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56
amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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57
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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58
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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59
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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60
waning
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|
| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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61
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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62
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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63
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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64
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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65
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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66
awaken
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|
| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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67
perches
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| 栖息处( perch的名词复数 )； 栖枝； 高处； 鲈鱼 | |
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68
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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69
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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70
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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71
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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72
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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74
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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75
prone
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|
| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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76
garish
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|
| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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77
solitary
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|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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78
victorious
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|
| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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79
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
shrill
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|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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81
joyous
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|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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82
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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83
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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84
daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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85
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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86
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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87
breaches
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|
| 破坏( breach的名词复数 )； 破裂； 缺口； 违背 | |
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88
luminous
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|
| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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89
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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90
bespoke
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|
| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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91
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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92
slivers
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| （切割或断裂下来的）薄长条，碎片( sliver的名词复数 ) | |
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93
axe
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|
| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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94
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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95
tattered
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|
| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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96
repented
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|
| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
rekindled
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| v.使再燃( rekindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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99
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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101
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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102
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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103
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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104
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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105
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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106
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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107
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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108
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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109
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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110
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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111
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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112
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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113
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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114
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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115
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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116
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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117
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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118
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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119
hued
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| 有某种色调的 | |
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120
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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121
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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122
canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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123
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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124
promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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125
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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126
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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127
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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128
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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130
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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131
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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132
mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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133
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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134
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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135
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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136
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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137
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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138
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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139
toils
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| 网 | |
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140
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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141
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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142
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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143
outstripped
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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145
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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146
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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147
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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148
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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149
abducting
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| 劫持，诱拐( abduct的现在分词 )； 使（肢体等）外展 | |
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150
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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151
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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152
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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153
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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154
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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155
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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156
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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157
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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158
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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159
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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160
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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161
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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162
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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163
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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164
contemned
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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166
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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167
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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168
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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169
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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170
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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171
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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172
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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173
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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174
zigzags
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| n.锯齿形的线条、小径等( zigzag的名词复数 )v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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175
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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176
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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177
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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178
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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180
bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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