The hall for the feast was arrayed with feudal9 grandeur10. The seats at the table, spread for the knights12 of both countries, were covered with highly-wrought stuffs; while the emblazoned banners and other armorial trophies13 of the nobles being hung aloft according to the degree of the owner, each knight11 saw his precedence, and where to take his place. The most costly14 means, with the royally attired15 peacock served up in silver and gold dishes, and wine of the rarest quality, sparkled on the board. During the repast, two choice minstrels were seated in the gallery above, to sing the friendship of King Alfred of England with Gregory the Great of Caledonia. The squires16 and other military attendants of the nobles present, were placed at tables in the lower part of the hall, and served with courteous17 hospitality.
Resentful, alike at his captivity18 and thwarted19 passion, De Valence had hitherto refused to show himself beyond the ramparts of the citadel20; he was therefore surprised, on entering the hall of Snawdoun with De Warenne, to see such regal pomp; and at the command of the woman who had so lately been his prisoner at Dumbarton, and whom (because she resembled an English lady who had rejected him) he had treated with the most rigorous contempt. Forgetting these indignities21, in the pride of displaying her present consequence, Lady Mar came forward to receive her illustrious guests. Her dress corresponded with the magnificence of the banquet, a robe of cloth of Baudkins enriched, while it displayed, the beauties of her person; her wimple blazed with jewels, and a superb carkanet emitted its various rays from her bosom22.35
35 Cloth of Baudkins was one of the richest stuffs worn in the thirteenth century. It is said to have been composed of silk interwoven with gold. The carkanet was a large broad necklace of precious stones of all colors, set in various shapes, and fastened by gold links into each other.
De Warenne followed her with his eyes as she moved from him. With an unconscious sigh, he whispered to De Valence, “What a land is this, where all the women are fair, and the men all brave!”
“I wish that it, and all its men and women, were in perdition!” returned De valence, in a fierce tone. Lady Ruthven, entering with the wives and daughters of the neighboring chieftains, checked the further expression of his wrath24, and his eyes sought amongst them, but in vain, for Helen.
The chieftains of the Scottish army, with the Lords Buchan and March, were assembled around the countess at the moment a shout from the populace without announced the arrival of the regent. His noble figure was now disencumbered of armor; and with no more sumptuous25 garb26 than the simple plaid of his country, he appeared effulgent27 in manly28 beauty and the glory of his recent deeds. De Valence frowned heavily as he looked on him, and thanked his fortunate stars that Helen was absent from sharing the admiration29 which seemed to animate30 every breast. The eyes of Lady Mar at once told the impassioned De Valence, too well read in the like expressions, what were her sentiments toward the young regent; and the blushes and eager civilities of the ladies around displayed how much they were struck with the now fully31 discerned and unequaled graces of his person. Lady mar forgot all in him. And, indeed, so much did he seem the idol32 of every heart, that, from the two venerable lords of Loch-awe and Bothwell to the youngest man in company, all ears hung on his words, all eyes upon his countenance.
The entertainment was conducted with every regard to that chivalric33 courtesy which a noble conqueror34 always pays to the vanquished35. Indeed, from the wit and pleasantry which passed from the opposite sides of the tables, and in which the ever-gay Murray was the leader, it rather appeared a convivial36 meeting of friends than an assemblage of mortal foes37. During the banquet the bards38 sung legends of the Scottish worthies39 who had brought honor to their nation in days of old; and as the board was cleared, they struck at once into a full chorus. Wallace caught the sound of his own name, accompanied with epithets40 of extravagant41 praise; he rose hastily from his chair, and with his hand motioned them to cease. They obeyed; but Lady mar remonstrating42 with him, he smilingly said, it was an ill omen23 to sing a warrior’s actions till he were incapable43 of performing more; and therefore he begged she would excuse him from hearkening to his.
“Then let us change their strains to a dance,” replied the countess.
“A hall! a hall!” cried Murray, springing from his seat, delighted with the proposal.
“I have no objection,” answered Wallace; and putting the hand she presented to him into that of Lord de Warenne, he added, “I am not of a sufficiently44 gay temperament45 to grace the change; but this earl may not have the same reason for declining so fair a challenge!”
Lady Mar colored with mortification46, for she had thought that Wallace would not venture to refuse before so many; but following the impulse of De Warenne’s arm, she proceeded to the other end of the hall, where, by Murray’s quick arrangement, the younger lords of both countries had already singled out ladies, and were marshaled for the dance.
As the hours moved on, the spirits of Wallace subsided47 from their usual cheering tone into a sadness which he thought might be noticed; and wishing to escape observation (for he could not explain to those gay ones why scenes like these ever made him sorrowful), and whispering to Mar that he would go for an hour to visit Montgomery, he withdrew, unnoticed by all but his watchful48 enemy.
De Valence, who hovered49 about his steps, had heard him inquire of Lady Ruthven why Helen was not present! He was within hearing of this whisper also, and, with a Satanic joy, the dagger shook in his hand. He knew that Wallace had many a solitary50 place to pass between Snawdoun and the citadel; and the company being too pleasantly absorbed to mark who entered or disappeared, he took an opportunity, and stole out after him.
But for once the impetuous fury of hatred51 met a temporary disappointment. While De Valence was cowering52 like a thief under the eaves of the houses, and prowling along the lonely paths to the citadel; while he started at every noise, as if it came to apprehend53 him for his meditated deed, or rushed forward at the sight of any solitary passenger, whom his eager vengeance54 almost mistook for Wallace–Wallace himself had taken a different track.
As he walked through the illuminated55 archways, which led from the hall, he perceived a darkened passage. Hoping by that avenue to quit the palace, unobserved, he immediately struck into it; for he was aware, that should he go the usual way, the crowd at the gate would recognize him, and he could not escape their acclamations. He followed the passage for a considerable time, and at last was stopped by a door. It yielded to his hand, and he found himself at the entrance of a large building. He advanced, and passing a high screen of carved oak, by a dim light, which gleamed from waxen tapers56 on the altar, he perceived it to be the chapel57.
“A happy transition,” said he to himself, “from the jubilant scene I have now left; from the grievous scenes I have lately shared! Here, gracious God,” thought he, “may I, unseen by any other eye, pour out my heart to thee. And here, before thy footstool, will I declare thanksgiving for thy mercies; and with my tears wash from my soul the blood I have been compelled to shed!”
While advancing toward the altar, he was startled by a voice proceeding58 from the quarter whither he was going, and with low and gently-breathed fervor59, uttering these words: “Defend him, Heavenly Father! Defend him day and night, from the devices of this wicked man; and, above all, during these hours of revelry and confidence, guard his unshielded breast from treachery and death.” The voice faltered60, and added with greater agitation61, “Ah, unhappy me, that I should pluck peril62 on the head of William Wallace!” A figure, which had been hidden by the rails of the altar, with these words rose, and stretching forth63 her clasped hands, exclaimed, “But Thou, who knowest I had no blame in this, wilt64 not afflict65 me by his danger! Thou wilt deliver him, O God, out of the hand of this cruel foe!”
Wallace was not more astonished at hearing that some one in whom he trusted, was his secret enemy, than at seeing Lady Helen in that place at that hour, and addressing Heaven for him. There was something so celestial66 in the maid, as she stood in her white robes, true emblems67 of her own innocence68, before the divine footstool, that, although her prayers were delivered with a pathos69 which told they sprung from a heart more than commonly interested in their object, yet every word and look breathed so eloquently70 the virgin71 purity of her soul, the hallowed purpose of her petitions, that Wallace, drawn72 by the sympathy with which kindred virtues73 ever attract spirit to spirit, did not hesitate to discover himself. He stepped from the shadow which involved him. The pale light of the tapers shone upon his advancing figure. Helen’s eyes fell upon him as she turned round. She was transfixed and silent. He moved forward. “Lady Helen,” said he, in a respectful and even tender voice. At the sound, a fearful rushing of shame seemed to overwhelm her faculties74; for she knew not how long he might have been in the church, and that he had not heard her beseech75 Heaven to make him less the object of her thoughts. She sunk on her knees beside the altar, and covered her face with her hands.
The action, the confusion might have betrayed her secret to Wallace. But he only thought of her pious76 invocations for his safety; he only remembered that it was she who had given a holy grave to the only woman he could ever love; and, full of gratitude77, as a pilgrim would approach a saint, he drew near to her. “Holiest of earthly maids,” said he, kneeling down beside her, “in this lonely hour, in the sacred presence of Almighty78 Purity, receive my soul’s thanks for the prayers I have this moment heard you breathe for me. They are more precious to me, Lady Helen, than the generous plaudits of my country; they are a greater reward to me than would have been the crown with which Scotland sought to endow me, for do they not give me what all the world cannot-the protection of Heaven?”
“I would pray for it,” softly answered Helen, but not venturing to look up.
“The prayer of meek79 goodness, we know, ‘availeth much.’ Continue, then, to offer up that incense80 for me,” added he, “and I shall march forth to-morrow with redoubled strength; for I shall think, holy maid, that I have yet a Marion to pray for me on earth as well as one in heaven.”
Lady Helen’s heart beat at these words, but it was with no unhallowed emotion. She withdrew her hands from her face and, clasping them, looked up. “Marion will indeed echo all my prayers, and He who reads my heart will, I trust, grant them. They are for your life, Sir William Wallace,” added she, turning to him with agitation, “for it is menaced.”
“I will inquire by whom,” answered he, “when I have first paid my duty at this altar for guarding it so long. And dare I, daughter of goodness, to ask you to unite the voice of your daughter of goodness, to ask you to unite the voice of your gentle spirit with the secret one of mine? I would beseech Heaven for pardon on my own transgressions81; I would ask of its mercy to establish the liberty of Scotland. Pray with me, Lady Helen, and the invocations our souls utter will meet the promise of Him who said: ‘Where two or three are joined together in prayer, there am I in the midst of them.’”
Helen looked on him with a holy smile; and pressing the crucifix which she held to her lips, bowed her head on it in mute assent82. Wallace threw himself prostrate83 on the steps of the altar; and the fervor of his sighs alone breathed to his companion the deep devotion of his soul. How the time passed he knew not, so was he absorbed in the communion which his spirit held in heaven with the most gracious of beings. But the bell of the palace striking the matin hour, reminded him he was yet on earth; and looking up his eyes met those of Helen. His devotional rosary hung on his arm; he kissed it. “Wear this, holy maid,” said he, “in remembrance of this hour!” She bowed her fair neck, and he put the consecrated84 chain over it. “Let it bear witness to a friendship,” added he, clasping her hands in his, “which will be cemented by eternal ties in heaven.”
Helen bent85 her face upon his hands; he felt the sacred tears of so pure a compact upon them; and while he looked up, as if he thought the spirit of his Marion hovered near, to bless a communion so remote from all infringement86 of the sentiment he had dedicated87 forever to her, Helen raised her head-and, with a terrible shriek88, throwing her arms around the body of Wallace, he, that moment, felt an assassin’s steel in his back, and she fell senseless on his breast. He started on his feet; a dagger fell from his wound to the ground, but the hand which had struck the blow he could nowhere see. To search further was then impossible, for Helen lay on his bosom like dead. Not doubting that she had seen his assailant, and fainted from alarm, he was laying her on the steps of the altar, that he might bring some water from the basin of the chapel to recover her, when he saw that her arm was not only stained with his blood, but streaming with her own. The dagger had gashed89 it in reaching him.
“Execrable villain90!” cried he, turning cold at the sight, and instantly comprehending that it was to defend him she had thrown her arms around him, he exclaimed, in a voice of agony, “Are two of the most matchless women the earth ever saw to die for me!” Trembling with alarm, and with renewed grief-for the terrible scene of Ellerslie was now brought in all its horrors before him-he tore off her veil to staunch the blood; but the cut was too wide for his surgery; and, losing every other consideration in fears for her life, he again took her in his arms, and bore her out of the chapel. He hastened through the dark passage, and almost flying along the lighted galleries, entered the hall. The noisy fright of the servants, as he broke through their ranks at the door, alarmed the revelers; and turning round, what was their astonishment91 to behold92 the regent, pale and streaming with blood, bearing in his arms a lady apparently93 lifeless, and covered with the same dreadful hue94!
Mar instantly recognized his daughter, and rushed toward her with a cry of horror. Wallace sunk, with his breathless load, upon the nearest bench; and, while her head rested on his bosom, ordered surgery to be brought. Lady Mar gazed on the spectacle with a benumbed dismay. None present durst ask a question, till a priest drawing near, unwrapped the arm of Helen, and discovered its deep wound.
“Who has done this?” cried her father, to Wallace, with all the anguish95 of a parent in his countenance.
“I know not,” replied he; “but I believe, some villain who aimed at my life.”
“Where is Lord de Valence?” exclaimed Mar, suddenly recollecting96 his menaces against Wallace.
“I am here,” replied he, in a composed voice; “would you have me seek the assassin?”
“No, no,” cried the earl, ashamed of his suspicion; “but here has been some foul97 work-and my daughter is slain98.”
“Oh, not so!” cried Murray, who had hurried toward the dreadful group, and knelt at her side. “She will not die-so much excellence99 cannot die.” A stifled groan100 from Wallace, accompanied by a look, told Murray that he had known the death of similar excellence. With this unanswerable appeal, the young chieftain dropped his head on the other hand of Helen; and, could any one have seen his face buried as it was in her robes, they would have beheld101 tears of agony drawn from that every-gay heart.
The wound was closed by the aid of another surgical102 priest, who had followed the former into the hall, and Helen sighed convulsively. At this intimation of recovery, the priest made all, excepting those who supported her, stand back. But, as Lady Mar lingered near Wallace, she saw the paleness of his countenance turn to a deadly hue, and his eyes closing, he sunk back on the bench. Her shrieks103 now resounded104 through the hall, and, falling into hysterics, she was taken into the gallery; while the more collected Lady Ruthven remained to attend the victims before her.
At the instant Wallace fell, De Valence, losing all self-command, caught hold of De Warenne’s arm, and whispering, “I thought it was sure-long live King Edward!” rushed out of the hall. These words revealed to De Warenne who was the assassin; and though struck to the soul with the turpitude105 of the deed, he thought the honor of England would not allow him to accuse the perpetrator, and he remained silent.
The inanimate form of Wallace was now drawn from under that of Helen; and, in the act, discovered the tapestry-seat clotted106 with blood, and the regent’s back bathed in the same vital stream. Having found his wound, the priests laid him on the ground; and were administering their balsams, when Helen opened her eyes. Her mind was too strongly possessed107 with the horror which had entered it before she became insensible, to lose the consciousness of her fears; and immediately looking around with an aghast countenance, her sight met the outstretched body of Wallace. “Oh! is it so?” cried she, throwing herself into the bosom of her father. He understood what she meant. “He lives, my child! but he is wounded like yourself. Have courage; revive, for his sake and for mine!”
“Helen! Helen! dear Helen!” cried Murray, clinging to her hand; “while you live, what that loves you can die?”
While these acclamations surrounded her couch, Edwin, in speechless apprehension108, supported the insensible head of Wallace; and De Warenne, inwardly execrating109 the perfidy110 of De Valence, knelt down to assist the good friars in their office.
A few minutes longer, and the staunched blood refluxing to the chieftain’s heart, he too opened his eyes; and instantly turning on his arm-“What has happened to me? Where is Lady Helen?” demanded he.
At his voice, which aroused Helen, who, believing that he was indeed dead, was relapsing into her former state; she could only press her father’s hand to her lips, as if he had given the life she so valued, and bursting into a shower of relieving tears, breathed out her rapturous thanks to God. Her low murmurs111 reached the ears of Wallace.
The dimness having left his eyes, and the blood (the extreme loss of which, from his great agitation, had alone caused him to swoon), being stopped by an embalmed112 bandage, he seemed to feel no impediment from his wound; and rising, hastened to the side of Helen. Lord Mar softly whispered his daughter-“Sir William Wallace is at your feet, my dearest child; look on him, and tell him that you live.”
“I am well, my father,” returned she, in a faltering113 voice; “and may it indeed please the Almighty to preserve him!”
“I, too, am alive and well,” answered Wallace; “but thanks to God, and to you, blessed lady, that I am so! Had not that lovely arm received the greater part of the dagger, it must have reached my heart.”
An exclamation114 of horror at what might have been burst from the lips of Edwin. Helen could have re-echoed it, but she now held her feelings under too severe a rein115 to allow them so to speak.
“Thanks to the Protector of the just,” cried she, “for your preservation116! Who raised my eyes to see the assassin! His cloak was held before his face, and I could not discern it; but I saw a dagger aimed at the bank of Sir William Wallace! How I caught it I cannot tell, for I seemed to die on the instant.”
Lady Mar having recovered, re-entered the hall just as Wallace had knelt down beside Helen. Maddened with the sight of the man on whom her soul doted, in such a position before her rival, she advanced hastily; and in a voice, which she vainly attempted to render composed and gentle, sternly addressed her daughter-in-law: “Alarmed as I have been by your apparent danger, I cannot but be uneasy at the attendant circumstances; tell me, therefore, and satisfy this anxious company, how it happened that you should be with the regent, when we supposed you an invalid117 in your room, and were told he was gone to the citadel?”
A crimson118 blush overspread the cheeks of Helen at this question, for it was delivered in a tone which insinuated119 that something more than accident had occasioned their meeting, but as innocence dictated120, she answered, “I was in the chapel at prayers; Sir William Wallace entered with the same design; and at the moment he desired me to mingle121 mine with his, this assassin appeared and (she repeated) I saw his dagger raised against our protector, and I saw no more.”
There was not a heart present that did not give credence122 to this account, but the polluted one of Lady Mar. Jealousy123 almost laid it bare. She smiled incredulously, and turning to the company, “Our noble friends will accept my apology, if in so delicate an investigation124, I should beg that my family alone may be present.”
Wallace perceived the tendency of her words, and not doubting the impression they might make on the minds of men ignorant of the virtues of Lady Helen, he instantly rose. “For once,” cried he, “I must counteract125 a lady’s orders. It is my wish, lords, that you will not leave this place till I explain how I came to disturb the devotions of Lady Helen. Wearied with festivities, in which my alienated126 heart can so little share, I thought to pass an hour with Lord Montgomery in the citadel; and in seeking to avoid the crowded avenues of the palace, I entered the chapel. To my surprise, I found Lady Helen there, I heard her pray for the happiness of Scotland, for the safety of her defenders127; and my mind being in a frame to join in such petitions, I apologized for my unintentional intrusion, and begged permission to mingle my devotions with hers. Nay128, impressed and privileged by the sacredness of the place, I presumed still further, and before the altar of purity poured forth my gratitude for the duties she had paid to the remains129 of my murdered wife. It was at this moment that the assassin appeared. I heard Lady Helen scream, I felt her fall on my breast, and at that instant the dagger entered my back.
“This is the history of our meeting; and the assassin, whomsoever he may be, and how long soever he was in the church, before he sought to perpetrate the deed-were he to speak, and capable of uttering truth, could declare no other.”
“But where is he to be found?” intemperately130 and suspiciously demanded Lady mar.
“If his testimony131 be necessary to validate132 mine,” returned Wallace, with dignity, “I believe the Lady Helen can point to his name.”
“Name him, Helen; name him, my dear cousin,” cried Murray, “that I may have some link with thee. O! let me avenge133 this deed! Tell me his name! and so yield to me all that thou canst now bestow134 on Andrew Murray!”
There was something in the tone of Murray’s voice that penetrated135 to the heart of Helen. “I cannot name him whom I suspect to any but Sir William Wallace; and I would not do it to him,” replied she, “were it not to warn him against future danger. I did not see the assassin’s face, therefore, how dare I set you to take vengeance on one who perchance may be innocent? I forgive him, my blood, since Heaven has spared to Scotland its protector.”
“If he be a Southron,” cried Baron136 Hilton, coming forward, “name him, gracious lady, and I will answer for it, that were he the son of a king, he would meet death from our monarch for this unknightly outrage137.”
“I thank your zeal138, brave chief,” replied she; “but I would not abandon to certain death even a wicked man. May he repent139! I will name him to Sir William Wallace alone; and when he knows his secret enemy, the vigilance of his own honor, I trust, will be his guard. Meanwhile, my father, I would withdraw.” Then whispering to him, she was lifted in his arms and Murray’s and carried from the hall.
As she moved away her eyes met those of Wallace. He arose; but she waved her hand to him, with an expression in her countenance of an adieu so firm, yet so tender, that feeling as if he were parting from a beloved sister, who had just risked her life for him, and whom he might never see again, he uttered not a word to any that were present, but leaning on Edwin, left the hall by an opposite door.
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1
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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2
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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3
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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7
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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8
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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13
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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14
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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15
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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effulgent
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| adj.光辉的；灿烂的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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37
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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38
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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39
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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40
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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41
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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42
remonstrating
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 )；告诫 | |
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43
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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44
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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45
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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46
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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47
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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48
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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49
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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50
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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51
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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52
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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53
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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54
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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55
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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56
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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57
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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58
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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59
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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60
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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61
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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62
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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63
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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64
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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65
afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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66
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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67
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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68
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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69
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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70
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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71
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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72
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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73
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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74
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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75
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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76
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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77
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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78
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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79
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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80
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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81
transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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82
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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83
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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84
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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85
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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86
infringement
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| n.违反；侵权 | |
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87
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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88
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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89
gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
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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91
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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92
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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93
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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94
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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95
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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96
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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97
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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98
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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99
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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100
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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101
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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102
surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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103
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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105
turpitude
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| n.可耻；邪恶 | |
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106
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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108
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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109
execrating
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| v.憎恶( execrate的现在分词 )；厌恶；诅咒；咒骂 | |
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110
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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111
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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112
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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113
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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114
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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115
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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116
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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117
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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118
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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119
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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120
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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121
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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122
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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123
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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124
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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125
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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126
alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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127
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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128
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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129
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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130
intemperately
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| adv.过度地，无节制地，放纵地 | |
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131
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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132
validate
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| vt.（法律）使有效，使生效 | |
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133
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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134
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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135
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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136
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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137
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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138
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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139
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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