From the gate where he stood, up to the temple in the middle, and from that again to the opposite gate, ran a kind of pathway, free from cabins, and every other substantial impediment; and, at a second glance, he observed a great bustle10 of removing carts, and making the way clear; and discovered officers and Capuchins directing this operation, and at the same time dismissing all those who had no business there. Fearing lest he also should be turned out in this manner, he slipped in between the pavilions, on the side to which he had casually11 turned — the right.
He went forward, according as he found room to set his foot down, from cabin to cabin, popping his head into each, casting his eye upon every one who lay outside, gazing upon countenances13 broken down by suffering, contracted by spasm14, or motionless in death, perchance he might happen to find that one which, neverthe-less, he dreaded15 to find. He had already, however, gone some considerable distance, and often and often repeated this melancholy16 inspection17, without having yet seen a single woman; he concluded, therefore, that these must be lodged18 in a separate quarter. So far he guessed; but of the whereabouts he had no indication, nor could he form the least conjecture19. From time to time he met attendants, as different in appearance, dress, an behaviour, as the motive20 was different and opposite which gave to both one and the other strength to live in the exercise of such offices: in the one, the extinction21 of all feelings of compassion22; in the other, compassion more than human. But from neither did he attempt to ask directions, for fear of creating for himself new obstacles; and he resolved to walk on by himself till he succeeded in discovering women. And as he walked along, he failed not to look narrowly around, though from time to time he was compelled to withdraw his eyes, overcome, and, as it were, dazzled by the spectacle of so great miseries23. Yet, whither could he turn them, where suffer them to rest, save upon other miseries as great?
The very air and sky added, if anything could add, to the horror of these sights. The fog had condensed by degrees, and resolved itself into large clouds, which, becoming darker and darker, made it seem like the tempestuous24 closing in of evening; except that towards the zenith of this deep and lowering sky, the sun’s disk was visible as from behind a thick veil, pale, emitting around a very feeble light, which was speedily exhaled25, and pouring down a death-like and oppressive heat. Every now and then, amidst the vast murmur26 that floated around, was heard a deep rumbling27 of thunder, interrupted, as it were, and irresolute28; nor could the listener distinguish from which side it came. He might, indeed, easily have deemed it a distant sound of cars, unexpectedly coming to a stand. In the country round, not a twig29 bent30 under a breath of air, not a bird was seen to a light or fly away; the swallow alone, appearing suddenly from the eaves of the enclosure, skimmed along the ground with extended wing, sweeping31, as it were, the surface of the field; but, alarmed at the surrounding confusion, rapidly mounted again into the air, and flew away. It was one of those days in which, among a party of travellers, not one of them breaks the silence; and the hunter walks pensively32 along, with his eyes bent to the ground; and the peasant, digging in the field, pauses in his song, without being aware of it; one of those days which are the forerunners33 of a tempest, in which nature, as if motionless without, while agitated34 by internal travail35, seems to oppress every living thing, and to add an undefinable weight to every employment, to idleness, to existence itself. But in that abode36 specially37 assigned to suffering and death, men hitherto struggling with their malady38 might be seen sinking under this new pressure; they were to be seen by hundreds rapidly becoming worse; and at the same time, the last struggle was more distressing39, and, in the augmentation of suffering, the groans40 were still more stifled41; nor, perhaps, had there yet been in that place an hour of bitterness equal to this.
The youth had already threaded his way for some time without success through this maze42 of cabins, when, in the variety of lamentations and confused murmurs43, he began to distinguish a singular intermixture of bleatings and infants’ cries. He arrived at length before a cracked and disjointed wooden partition, from within which this extraordinary sound proceeded; and peeping through a large aperture45 between two boards, he beheld46 an enclosure scattered47 throughout with little huts, and in these, as well as in the spaces of the small camp between the cabins, not the usual occupants of an infirmary, but infants, lying upon little beds, pillows, sheets, or cloths spread upon the ground, and nurses and other women busily attending upon them; and, which above everything else attracted and engrossed48 his attention, she-goats mingled49 with these, and acting50 as their coadjutrices: a hospital of innocents, such as the place and times could afford them. It was, I say, a novel sight, to behold51 some of these animals standing52 quietly over this or that infant, giving it suck, and another hastening at the cry of a child, as if endued53 with maternal54 feeling, and stopping by the side of the little claimant, and contriving55 to dispose itself over the infant, and bleating44, and fidgeting, almost as if demanding some one to come to the assistance of both.
Here and there nurses were seated with infants at the breast; some employing such expressions of affection as raised a doubt in the mind of the spectator whether they had been induced to repair thither56 by the promises of reward, or by that voluntary benevolence57 which goes in search of the needy58 and afflicted59. One of these, with deep sorrow depicted60 in her countenance12, drew from her breast a poor weeping little creature, and mournfully went to look for an animal which might be able to supply her place; another regarded with a compassionate61 look the little one asleep on her bosom62, and gently kissing it, went to lay it on a bed in one of the cabins; while a third, surrendering her breast to the stranger suckling, with an air not of negligence63, but of pre-occupation, gazed fixedly65 up to heaven. What was she thinking of, with that gesture, with that look, but of one brought forth66 from her own bowels67, who, perhaps only a short time before, had been nourished at that breast, perchance had expired on that bosom!
Other women, of more experience, supplied different offices. One would run at the cry of a famished68 child, lift it from the ground, and carry it to a goat, feeding upon a heap of fresh herbage; and applying it to the creature’s paps, would chide69, and, at the same time, coax70 the inexperienced animal with her voice, that it might quietly lend itself to its new office; another would spring forward to drive off a goat which was trampling71 under-foot a poor babe, in its eagerness to suckle another; while a third was carrying about her own infant, and rocking it in her arms, now trying to lull72 it to sleep by singing, now to pacify73 it with soothing74 words, and calling it by a name she had herself given it. At this moment a Capuchin, with a very white beard, arrived, bringing two screaming infants, one in each arm, which he had just taken from their dying mothers; and a woman ran to receive them, and went to seek among the crowd, and in the flocks, some one that would immediately supply the place of a mother.
More than once, the youth, urged by his anxiety, had torn himself from the opening to resume his way; and, after all, had again peeped in to watch another moment or two.
Having at length left the place, he went on close along the partition, until a group of huts, which were propped75 against it, compelled him to turn aside. He then went round the cabins, with the intention of regaining76 the partition, turning the corner of the enclosure, and making some fresh discoveries. But while he was looking forward to reconnoitre his way, a sudden, transient, instantaneous apparition77, struck his eye, and put him in great agitation78. He saw, about a hundred yards off, a Capuchin threading his way and quickly becoming lost among the pavilions: a Capuchin, who, even thus passingly, and at a distance, had all the bearing, motions, and figure of Father Cristoforo. With the frantic eagerness the reader can imagine, he sprang forward in that direction, looking here and there, winding79 about, backward, forward, inside and out, by circles, and through narrow passages, until he again saw, with increased joy, the form of the self-same friar; he saw him at a little distance, just leaving a large boiling pot, and going with a porringer in his hands towards a cabin; then he beheld him seat himself in the doorway80, make the sign of the cross on the basin he held before him, and, looking around him, like one constantly on the alert, begin to eat. It was, indeed, Father Cristoforo.
The history of the friar, from the point at which we lost sight of him up to the present meeting, may be told in a few words. He had never removed from Rimini, nor even thought of removing, until the plague, breaking out in Milan, afforded him the opportunity he had long so earnestly desired, of sacrificing his life for his fellow-creatures. He urgently entreated81 that he might be recalled from Rimini to assist and attend upon the infected patients. The Count, Attilio’s uncle, was dead; and besides, the times required tenders of the sick rather than politicians; so that his request was granted without difficulty. He came immediately to Milan, entered the Lazzaretto, and had now been there about three months.
But the consolation82 Renzo felt in thus again seeing his good friar was not for a moment unalloyed; together with the certainty that it was he, he was also made painfully aware of how much he was changed. His stooping, and, as it were, laborious83 carriage, his wan84 and shrivelled face, all betokened85 an exhausted86 nature, a broken and sinking frame, which was assisted and, as it were, upheld from hour to hour only by the energy of his mind.
He kept his eye fixed64 on the youth who was approaching him, and who was seeking by gestures, (not daring to do so with his voice,) to make him distinguish and recognize him. ‘O, Father Cristoforo!’ said he, at last, when he was near enough to be heard without shouting.
‘You here!’ said the friar, setting the porringer on the ground, and rising from his seat.
‘How are you, Father? — how are you?’
‘Better than the many poor creatures you see,’ replied the friar; and his voice was feeble, hollow, and as changed as everything else about him. His eye alone was what it always was, or had something about it even more bright and resplendent; as if Charity, elevated by the approaching end of her labours, and exulting87 in the consciousness of being near her source, restored to it a more ardent88 and purer fire than that which infirmity was every hour extinguishing. ‘But you,’ pursued he, ‘how is it you’re in this place? What makes you come thus to brave the pestilence89?’
‘I’ve had it, thank Heaven! I come . . . to seek for . . . Lucia.’
‘Lucia! Is Lucia here?’
‘She is; at least, I hope in God she may still be here.’
‘Is she your wife?’
‘Oh, my dear father! My wife! no, that she’s not. Don’t you know anything of what has happened?’
‘No, my son; since God removed me to a distance from you, I’ve never heard anything further; but now that he has sent you to me, I’ll tell you the truth, that I wish very much to know. But . . . and the sentence of outlawry90?’
‘You know, then, what things they’ve done to me?’
‘But you, what had you done?’
‘Listen: if I were to say that I was prudent91 that day in Milan, I should tell a lie; but I didn’t do a single wicked action.’
‘I believe you; and I believed it too before.’
‘Now, then, I may tell you all.’
‘Wait,’ said the friar; and, going a few yards out of the hut, he called, ‘Father Vittore!’ In a moment or two, a young Capuchin appeared, to whom Cristoforo said, ‘Do me the kindness, Father Vittore, to take my share, too, of waiting upon patients, while I am absent for a little while; and if any one should ask for me, will you be good enough to call me. That one, particularly; if ever he gives the least sign of returning consciousness, let me be informed of it directly, for charity’s sake.’
The young friar answered that he would do as he requested; and then Cristoforo, turning to Renzo, said, ‘Let us go in here. But . . . ’ added he directly, stopping, ‘you seem to me very tired; you must want something to eat.’
‘So I do,’ said Renzo: ‘now that you’ve reminded me, I remember I’m still fasting.’
‘Stay,’ said the friar; and taking another porringer, he went to fill if from the large boiler92; he then returned, and offered it, with a spoon, to Renzo; made him sit down on a straw mattress3 which served him for a bed; went to a cask that stood in one corner, and drew a glass of wine, which he set on a little table near his guest; and then, taking up his own porringer, seated himself beside him.
‘Oh, Father Cristoforo!’ said Renzo, ‘is it your business to do all this? But you are always the same. I thank you with all my heart.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ said the friar: ‘that belongs to the poor; but you too are a poor man just now. Now, then, tell me what I don’t know; tell me about our poor Lucia, and try to do it in a few words, for time is scarce, and there is plenty to be done, as you see,’
Renzo began, between one spoonful and another, to relate the history of Lucia, how she had been sheltered in the monastery93 at Monza, how she had been forcibly carried off . . .
At the idea of such sufferings and such dangers, and at the thought that it was he who had directed the poor innocent to that place, the good friar became almost breathless with emotion; but he was quickly relieved on hearing how she had been miraculously94 liberated95, restored to her mother, and placed by her with Donna Prassede.
‘Now I will tell you about myself,’ pursued the narrator; and he briefly96 sketched97 the day he spent in Milan, and his flight, and how he had long been absent from home, and now, everything being turned upside down, he had ventured to go thither; how he had not found Agnese there; and how he had learned at Milan that Lucia was at the Lazzaretto. ‘And here I am,’ he concluded; ‘here I am to look for her, to see if she’s still living, and if . . . she’ll still have me . . . because . . . sometimes . . . ’
‘But how were you directed here?’ asked the friar. ‘Have you any information whereabouts she was lodged, or at what time she came?’
‘None, dear Father; none, except that she is here, if, indeed, she be still living, which may God grant!’
‘Oh, you poor fellow! But what search have you yet made here?’
“I’ve wandered and wandered about, but hitherto I’ve scarcely seen anything but men. I thought that the women must be in a separate quarter, but I haven’t yet succeeded in finding it; if it is really so, now you can tell me.’
‘Don’t you know, my son, that men are forbidden to enter that quarter, unless they have some business there?’
‘Well, and what could happen to me?’
‘The regulation is just and good, my dear son; and if the number and weight of sorrows forbid the possibility of its being respected with full rigour, is that a reason why an honest man should transgress98 it?’
‘But, Father Cristoforo,’ said Renzo, ‘Lucia ought to be my wife; you know how we’ve been separated; it’s twenty months that I’ve suffered and borne patiently; I’ve come as far as here, at the risk of so many things, one worse than the other; and now then . . . ’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ resumed the friar, replying rather to his own thoughts than to the words of the young man. ‘You are going with a good intention; and would to God that all who have free access to that place would conduct themselves as I can feel sure you will do! God, who certainly blesses this your perseverance99 of affection, this your faithfulness in wishing and seeking for her whom He has given you, God, who is more rigorous than men, yet more indulgent, will not regard what may be irregular in your mode of seeking for her. Only remember, that for your behaviour in this place we shall both have to render an account, not, probably, to men, but, without fail, at the bar of God. Come this way.’ So saying, he rose: Renzo followed his example; and, without neglecting to listen to his words, had, in the mean time, determined100 in himself not to speak, as he had at first intended, about Lucia’s vow101. — If he hears this, too — thought he — he will certainly raise more difficulties. Either I will find her, and then there will be time enough to discuss it, or . . . and then! what will it matter? —
Leading him to the door of the cabin, which faced towards the north, the friar resumed: ‘Listen to me; Father Felice, the president of the Lazzaretto, will to-day conduct the few who have recovered to perform their quarantine elsewhere. You see that church there in the middle . . . ‘ and raising his thin and tremulous hand, he pointed102 out to the left, through the cloudy atmosphere, the cupola of the little temple rising above the miserable103 tents, and continued: ‘About there they are now assembling, to go out in procession through the gate by which you must have entered.’
‘Ah! it was for this, then, that they were trying to clear the passage.’
‘Just so: and you must also have heard some tollings of the bell.’
‘I heard one.’
‘It was the second: when the third rings, they will all be assembled: Father Felice will address a few words to them; and then they will set off. At this signal, do you go thither; contrive105 to place yourself behind the assembly on the edge of the passage, where, without giving trouble, or being observed, you can watch them pass; and look . . . look . . . look if she is there. If it be not God’s will that she should be there, that quarter . . . ‘ and he again raised his hand, and pointed to the side of the edifice106 which faced them, ‘that quarter of the building, and part of the field before it, are assigned to the women. You will see some paling that divides this from that enclosure, but here and there broken and interrupted, so that you’ll find no difficulty in gaining admittance. Once in, if you do nothing to give offence, no one probably will say anything to you; if, however, they should make any opposition107, say that Father Cristoforo of . . . knows you, and will answer for you. Seek her there; seek her with confidence and . . . with resignation. For you must remember it is a great thing you have come to ask here: a person alive within the Lazzaretto! Do you know how often I have seen my poor people here renewed? how many I have seen carried off! how few go out recovered! . . . Go, prepared to make a sacrifice . . . ’
‘Ay! I understand!’ interrupted Renzo, his eyes rolling wildly, and his face becoming very dark and threatening: ‘I understand! I’ll go: I’ll look in one place for another, from top to bottom of the Lazzaretto . . . and if I don’t find her! . . . ’
‘If you don’t find her?’ said the friar, with an air of grave and serious expectation, and an admonishing108 look.
But Renzo, whose anger had for some time been swelling109 in his bosom, and now clouded his sight, and deprived him of all feelings of respect, repeated and continued: ‘If I don’t find her, I’ll succeed in finding somebody else. Either in Milan, or in his detestable palace, or at the end of the world, or in the abode of the devil, I’ll find that rascal110 who separated us; that villain111, but for whom Lucia would have been mine twenty months ago; and if we had been doomed112 to die, we would at least have died together. If that fellow still lives, I’ll find him . . . ’
‘Renzo!’ said the friar, grasping him by one arm, and gazing on him still more severely113.
‘And if I find him,’ continued he, perfectly114 blinded with rage, ‘if the plague hasn’t already wrought115 justice . . . This is no longer a time when a coward, with his bravoes at his heels, can drive people to desperation, and then mock at them: a time is come when men meet each other face to face . . . I’ll get justice!’
‘Miserable wretch116!’ cried Father Cristoforo, in a voice which had assumed its former full and sonorous117 tone: ‘Miserable wretch!’ And he raised his sunken head, his cheeks became flushed with their original colour, and the fire that flashed from his eyes had something terrible in it. ‘Look about you, miserable man!’ And while with one hand he grasped, and strongly shook, Renzo’s arm, he waved the other before him, pointing, as well as he could, to the mournful scene around them. ‘See who is He that chastises118! Who is He that judges, and is not judged! He that scourges119, and forgives! But you, a worm of the earth, you would get justice! You! do you know what justice is? Away, unhappy man; away with you! I hoped . . . yes, I did hope that, before my death, God would have given me the comfort of hearing that my poor Lucia was alive; perhaps of seeing her, and hearing her promise me that she would send one prayer towards the grave where I shall be laid. Go, you have robbed me of this hope! God has not let her remain upon earth for you; and you, surely, cannot have the hardihood to believe yourself worthy120 that God should think of comforting you. He will have thought of her, for she was one of those souls for whom eternal consolations121 are reserved. Go! I’ve no longer time to listen to you.’
And so saying, he threw from him Renzo’s arm, and moved towards a cabin of sick.
‘Ah, Father!’ said Renzo, following him with a supplicating122 air, ‘will you send me away in this manner?’
‘What!’ rejoined the Capuchin, relaxing nothing of his severity; ‘dare you require that I should steal the time from these poor afflicted ones, who are awaiting for me to speak to them of the pardon of God, to listen to your words of fury, your propositions of revenge? I listened to you when you asked consolation and direction; I neglected one duty of charity for the sake of another; but now you have vengeance123 in your heart: what do you want with me? Begone! I have beheld those die here who have been offended and have forgiven; offenders124 who have mourned that they could not humble125 themselves before the offended: I have wept with both one and the other; but what have I to do with you?’
‘Ah! I forgive him! I forgive him, indeed, and for ever!’ exclaimed the youth.
‘Renzo!’ said the friar, with more tranquil126 sternness: ‘bethink yourself, and just say how often you have forgiven him.’
And having waited a moment without receiving a reply, he suddenly bent his head, and with an appeased127 voice resumed: ‘You know why I bear this habit?’
Renzo hesitated.
‘You know it!’ resumed the old man.
‘I do,’ answered Renzo.
‘I too have hated, and therefore I have rebuked128 you for a thought, for a word; the man whom I hated, whom I cordially hated, whom I had long hated, that man I murdered!’
‘Yes, but a tyrant129! one of those . . . ’
‘Hush!’ interrupted the friar: ‘think you that if there were a good reason for it, I shouldn’t have found it in thirty years? Ah! if I could now instill into your heart the sentiment I have ever since had, and still have, for the man I hated! If I could! I? But God can: may He do so! . . . Listen, Renzo; He wishes you more good than you even wish yourself: you have dared to meditate130 revenge; but He has power and mercy enough to prevent you; He bestows131 upon you a favour of which another was too unworthy. You know, and you have often and often said it, that He can arrest the hand of the oppressor: but, remember, He can also arrest that of the revengeful; and think you that, because you are poor, because you are injured, He cannot defend against your vengeance a man whom He has created in His own image? Did you think that He would suffer you to do all you wished? No! but do you know what He can do? You may hate and be lost for ever; you may, by such a temper of mind as this, deprive yourself of every blessing132. For, however things may go with you, whatever condition you may be placed in, rest assured that all will be punishment until you have forgiven — forgiven in such a way, that you may never again be able to say, I forgive him.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Renzo, with deep shame and emotion: ‘I see now that I have never before really forgiven him; I see that I have spoken like a beast, and not like a Christian134: and now, by the grace of God, I will forgive him; yes, I’ll forgive him from my very heart.’
‘And supposing you were to see him?’
‘I would pray the Lord to give me patience, and to touch his heart.’
‘Would you remember that the Lord has not only commanded us to forgive our enemies, but also to love them? Would you remember that He so loved him as to lay down His life for him?’
‘Yes, by His help, I would.’
‘Well, then; come and see him. You have said, “I’ll find him;” and you shall find him. Come, and you shall see against whom you would nourish hatred135; to whom you could wish evil, and be ready to do it; of what life you would render yourself master!’
And, taking Renzo’s hand, which he grasped as a healthy young man would have done, he moved forward. Renzo followed, without daring to ask anything further.
After a short walk, the friar stopped near the entrance of a cabin, fixed his eyes on Renzo’s face with a mixture of gravity and tenderness, and drew him in.
The first thing he observed on entering, was a sick person, seated on some straw, in the background, who did not, however, seem very ill, but rather recovering from illness. On seeing the Father, he shook his head, as if to say No: the Father bent his with an air of sorrow and resignation. Renzo, mean while, eyeing the surrounding objects with uneasy curiosity, beheld three or four sick persons, and distinguished136 one against the wall, lying upon a bed, and wrapped in a sheet, with a nobleman’s cloak laid upon him as a quilt: he gazed at him, recognized Don Rodrigo, and involuntarily shrank back; but the friar, again making him feel the hand by which he held him, drew him to the foot of the bed, and stretching over it his other hand, pointed to the man who there lay prostrate137. The unhappy being was perfectly motionless; his eyes were open, but he saw nothing; his face was pale and covered with black spots; his lips black and swollen138; it would have been called the face of a corpse139, had not convulsive twitchings revealed a tenacity140 of life. His bosom heaved from time to time with painfully short respiration141; and his right hand, laid outside the cloak, pressed it closely to his heart with a firm grasp of his clenched142 fingers, which were of a livid colour, and black at the extremities143.
‘You see,’ said the friar, in a low and solemn voice. ‘This may be a punishment, or it may be mercy. The disposition144 you now have towards this man, who certainly has offended you, that disposition will God, whom assuredly you have offended, have towards you at the great day. Bless him, and be blessed. For four days has he lain there, as you see him, without giving any signs of consciousness. Perhaps the Lord is ready to grant him an hour of repentance145, but waits for you to ask it; perhaps it is His will that you should pray for it with that innocent creature; perhaps he reserves the mercy for your solitary146 prayer, the prayer of an afflicted and resigned heart. Perhaps the salvation147 of this man and your own depend at this moment upon yourself, upon the disposition of your mind to forgiveness, to compassion . . . to love!’ He ceased; and joining his hands, bent his head over them both, as if in prayer. Renzo did the same.
They had been for a few moments in this position, when they heard the third tolling104 of the bell. Both moved together, as if by agreement, and went out. The one made no inquiries148, the other no protestations: their countenances spoke133.
‘Go now,’ resumed the friar, ‘go prepared to make a sacrifice, and to bless God, whatever be the issue of your researches. And, whatever it be, come and give me an account of it: we will praise Him together.’
Here, without further words, they parted; the one returned to the place he had left, the other set off to the little temple, which was scarcely more than a stone’s throw distant.
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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fluctuation
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| n.(物价的)波动，涨落；周期性变动；脉动 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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19
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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20
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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21
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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22
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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23
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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24
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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25
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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26
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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27
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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28
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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29
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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30
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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31
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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32
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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33
forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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34
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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35
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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36
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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37
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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38
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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39
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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40
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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41
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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42
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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43
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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44
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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45
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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46
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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47
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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48
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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49
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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50
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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51
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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52
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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53
endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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55
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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56
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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57
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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58
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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59
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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61
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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62
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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63
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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64
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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65
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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66
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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67
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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68
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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69
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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70
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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71
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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72
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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73
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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74
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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75
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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77
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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78
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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79
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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80
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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81
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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83
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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84
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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85
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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87
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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88
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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89
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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90
outlawry
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| 宣布非法，非法化，放逐 | |
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91
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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92
boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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93
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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94
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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95
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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96
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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97
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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98
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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99
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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100
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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101
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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102
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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103
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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104
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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105
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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106
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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107
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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108
admonishing
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| v.劝告( admonish的现在分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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109
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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110
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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111
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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112
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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113
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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114
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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115
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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116
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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117
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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118
chastises
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的第三人称单数 ) | |
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119
scourges
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| 带来灾难的人或东西，祸害( scourge的名词复数 )； 鞭子 | |
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120
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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121
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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122
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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123
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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124
offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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125
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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126
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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127
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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128
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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130
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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131
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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132
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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133
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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134
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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135
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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136
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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137
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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138
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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139
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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140
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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141
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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142
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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144
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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145
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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146
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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147
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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148
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
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