The Seraph1 crossed the room, with his hand held out; not for his life in that moment would he have omitted that gesture of friendship. Involuntarily he started and stood still one instant in amaze; the next, he flung thought away and dashed into swift, inconsequent words.
“Cecil, my dear fellow! I’m ashamed to send for you on such a blackguard errand. Never heard of such a swindler’s trick in all my life; couldn’t pitch the fellow into the street because of the look of the thing, and can’t take any other measure without you, you know. I only sent for you to expose the whole abominable2 business, never because I believe —— Hang it! Beauty, I can’t bring myself to say it even! If a sound thrashing would have settled the matter, I wouldn’t have bothered you about it, nor told you a syllable3. Only you are sure, Bertie, aren’t you, that I never listened to this miserable4 outrage5 on us both with a second’s thought there could be truth in it? You know me? you trust me too well not to be certain of that?”
The incoherent address poured out from his lips in a breathless torrent6; he had never been so excited in his life; and he pleaded with as imploring7 an earnestness as though he had been the suspected criminal, not to be accused with having one shadow of shameful8 doubt against his friend. His words would have told nothing except bewilderment to one who should have been a stranger to the subject on which he spoke9; yet Cecil never asked even what he meant. There was no surprise upon his face, no flush of anger, no expression of amaze or indignation; only the look which had paralyzed Rock on his entrance; he stood still and mute.
The Seraph looked at him, a great dread10 seizing him lest he should have seemed himself to cast this foul11 thing on his brother-inarms; and in that dread all the fierce fire of his freshly-loosened passion broke its bounds.
“Damnation! Cecil, can’t you hear me! A hound has brought against you the vilest12 charge that ever swindlers framed: an infamy13 that he deserves to be shot for, as if he were a dog. He makes me stand before you as if I were your accuser; as if I doubted you; as if I lent an ear one second to this loathsome14 lie. I sent for you to confront him, and to give him up to the law. Stand out, you scoundrel, and let us see how you dare look at us now!”
He swung round at the last words, and signed to Baroni to rise from the couch were he sat. The Jew advanced slowly, softly.
“If your lordship will pardon me, you have scarcely made it apparent what the matter is for which the gentleman is wanted. You have scarcely explained to him that it is on a charge of forgery15.”
The Seraph’s eyes flashed on him with a light like a lion’s, and his right hand clinched17 hard.
“By my life! If you say that word again you shall be flung in the street like the cur you are, let me pay what I will for it! Cecil, why don’t you speak?”
Bertie had not moved; not a breath escaped his lips. He stood like a statue, deadly pale in the gaslight; when the figure of Baroni rose up and came before him, a great darkness stole on his face — it was a terrible bitterness, a great horror, a loathing19 disgust; but it was scarcely criminality, and it was not fear. Still he stood perfectly20 silent — a guilty man, any other than his loyal friend would have said: guilty, and confronted with a just accuser. The Seraph saw that look, and a deadly chill passed over him, as it had done at the Jew’s first charge — not doubt; such heresy22 to his creeds23, such shame to his comrade and his corps24 could not be in him; but a vague dread hushed his impetuous vehemence25. The dignity of the old Lyonnesse blood asserted its ascendency.
“M. Baroni, make your statement. Later on Mr. Cecil can avenge26 it.”
Cecil never moved; once his eyes went to Rockingham with a look of yearning27, grateful, unendurable pain; but it was repressed instantly; a perfect passiveness was on him. The Jew smiled.
“My statement is easily made, and will not be so new to this gentleman as it was to your lordship. I simply charge the Honorable Bertie Cecil with having negotiated a bill with my firm for 750 pounds on the 15th of last month, drawn28 in his own favor, and accepted at two months’ date by your lordship. Your signature you, my Lord Marquis, admit to be a forgery — with that forgery I charge your friend!”
“The 15th!”
The echo of those words alone escaped the dry, white lips of Cecil; he showed no amaze, no indignation; once only, as the charge was made, he gave in sudden gesture, with a sudden gleam, so dark, so dangerous, in his eyes, that his comrade thought and hoped that with one moment more the Jew would be dashed down at his feet with the lie branded on his mouth by the fiery29 blow of a slandered30 and outraged31 honor. The action was repressed; the extraordinary quiescence32, more hopeless because more resigned than any sign of pain or of passion, returned either by force of self-control or by the stupor33 of despair.
The Seraph gazed at him with a fixed34, astounded35 horror; he could not believe his senses; he could not realize what he saw. His dearest friend stood mute beneath the charge of lowest villainy — stood powerless before the falsehoods of a Jew extortioner!
“Bertie! Great Heaven!” he cried, well-nigh beside himself, “how can you stand silent there? Do you hear — do you hear aright? Do you know the accursed thing this conspiracy37 has tried to charge you with? Say something, for the love of God! I will have vengeance38 on your slanderer39, if you take none.”
He had looked for the rise of the same passion that rang in his own imperious words, for the fearless wrath40 of an insulted gentleman, the instantaneous outburst of a contemptuous denial, the fire of scorn, the lightning flash of fury — all that he gave himself, all that must be so naturally given by a slandered man under the libel that brands him with disgrace. He had looked for these as surely as he looked for the setting of one sun and the rise of another; he would have staked his life on the course of his friend’s conduct as he would upon his own, and a ghastly terror sent a pang42 to his heart.
Still — Cecil stood silent; there was a strange, set, repressed anguish43 on his face that made it chill as stone; there was an unnatural44 calm upon him; yet he lifted his head with a gesture haughty45 for the moment as any action that his defender46 could have wished.
“I am not guilty,” he said simply.
The Seraph’s hands were on his own in a close, eager grasp almost ere the words were spoken.
“Beauty, Beauty! Never say that to me. Do you think I can ever doubt you?”
For a moment Cecil’s head sank; the dignity with which he had spoken remained on him, but the scorn of his defiance47 and his denial faded.
“No; you cannot; you never will.”
The words were spoken almost mechanically, like a man in a dream. Ezra Baroni, standing48 calmly there with the tranquility that an assured power alone confers, smiled slightly once more.
“You are not guilty, Mr. Cecil? I shall be charmed if we can find it so. Your proofs?”
“Proof? I give you my word.”
Baroni bowed, with a sneer50 at once insolent51 but subdued52.
“We men of business, sir, are — perhaps inconveniently53 for gentlemen — given to a preference in favor of something more substantial. Your word, doubtless, is your bond among your acquaintance; it is a pity for you that your friend’s name should have been added to the bond you placed with us. Business men’s pertinacity54 is a little wearisome, no doubt, to officers and members of the aristocracy like yourself; but all the same I must persist — how can you disprove this charge?”
The Seraph turned on him with a fierceness of a bloodhound.
“You dog! If you use that tone again in my presence, I will double-throng55 you till you cannot breathe!”
Baroni laughed a little; he felt secure now, and could not resist the pleasure of braving and of torturing the “aristocrats.”
“I don’t doubt your will or your strength, my lord; but neither do I doubt the force of the law to make you account for any brutality57 of the prize-ring your lordship may please to exert on me.”
The Seraph ground his heel into the carpet.
“We waste words on that wretch,” he said abruptly58 to Cecil. “Prove his insolence59 the lie it is, and we will deal with him later on.”
“Precisely what I said, my lord,” murmured Baroni. “Let Mr. Cecil prove his innocence60.”
Into Bertie’s eyes came a hunted, driven desperation. He turned them on Rockingham with a look that cut him to the heart; yet the abhorrent61 thought crossed him — was it thus that men guiltless looked?
“Mr. Cecil was with my partner at 7:50 on the evening of the 15th. It was long over business hours, but my partner to oblige him stretched a point,” pursued the soft, bland62, malicious63 voice of the German Jew. “If he was not at our office — where was he? That is simple enough.”
“Answered in a moment!” said the Seraph, with impetuous certainty. “Cecil! — to prove this man what he is, not for an instant to satisfy me — where were you at that time on the 15th?”
“The 15th!”
“Where were you?” pursued his friend. “Were you at mess? At the clubs? Dressing64 for dinner? — where — where? There must be thousands of ways of remembering — thousands of people who’ll prove it for you?”
Cecil stood mute still; his teeth clinched on his under lip. He could not speak — a woman’s reputation lay in his silence.
“Can’t you remember?” implored65 the Seraph. “You will think — you must think!”
There was a feverish66 entreaty67 in his voice. That hunted helplessness with which a question so slight yet so momentous68 was received, was forcing in on him a thought that he flung away like an asp.
Cecil looked both of them full in the eyes — both his accuser and his friend. He was held as speechless as though his tongue were paralyzed; he was bound by his word of honor; he was weighted with a woman’s secret.
“Don’t look at me so, Bertie, for mercy’s sake! Speak! Where were you?”
“I cannot tell you; but I was not there.”
The words were calm; there was a great resolve in them, moreover; but his voice was hoarse69 and his lips shook. He paid a bitter price for the butterfly pleasure of a summer-day love.
“Cannot tell me! — cannot? You mean you have forgotten!”
“I cannot tell you; it is enough.”
There was an almost fierce and sullen70 desperation in the answer; its firmness was not shaken, but the ordeal71 was terrible. A woman’s reputation — a thing so lightly thrown away with an idler’s word, a Lovelace’s smile! — that was all he had to sacrifice to clear himself from the toils72 gathering73 around him. That was all! And his word of honor.
Baroni bent74 his head with an ironic75 mockery of sympathy.
“I feared so, my lord. Mr. Cecil ‘cannot tell.’ As it happens, my partner can tell. Mr. Cecil was with him at the hour and on the day I specify76; and Mr. Cecil transacted77 with him the bill that I have had the honor of showing you —”
“Let me see it.”
The request was peremptory78 to imperiousness, yet Cecil would have faced his death far sooner than he would have looked upon that piece of paper.
Baroni smiled.
“It is not often that we treat gentlemen under misfortune in the manner we treat you, sir; they are usually dealt with more summarily, less mercifully. You must excuse altogether my showing you the document; both you and his lordship are officers skilled, I believe, in the patrician79 science of fist-attack.”
He could not deny himself the pleasure and the rarity of insolence to the men before him, so far above him in social rank, yet at that juncture80 so utterly81 at his mercy.
“You mean that we should fall foul of you and seize it?” thundered Rockingham in the magnificence of his wrath. “Do you judge the world by your own wretched villainies? Let him see the paper; lay it there, or, as there is truth on earth, I will kill you where you stand.”
The Jew quailed82 under the fierce flashing of those leonine eyes. He bowed with that tact83 which never forsook84 him.
“I confide85 it to your honor, my Lord Marquis,” he said, as he spread out the bill on the console. He was an able diplomatist.
Cecil leaned forward and looked at the signatures dashed across the paper; both who saw him saw also the shiver, like a shiver of intense cold, that ran through him as he did so, and saw his teeth clinch18 tight, in the extremity87 of rage, in the excess of pain, or — to hold in all utterance88 that might be on his lips.
“Well?” asked the Seraph, in a breathless anxiety. He knew not what to believe, what to do, whom to accuse of, or how to unravel89 this mystery of villainy and darkness; but he felt, with a sickening reluctance90 which drove him wild, that his friend did not act in this thing as he should have acted; not as men of assured innocence and secure honor act beneath such a charge. Cecil was unlike himself, unlike every deed and word of his life, unlike every thought of the Seraph’s fearless expectance, when he had looked for the coming of the accused as the signal for the sure and instant unmasking, condemnation92, and chastisement93 of the false accuser.
“Do you still persist in denying your criminality in the face of that bill, Mr. Cecil?” asked the bland, sneering94, courteous95 voice of Ezra Baroni.
“I do. I never wrote either of these signatures; I never saw that document until to-night.”
The answer was firmly given, the old blaze of scorn came again in his weary eyes, and his regard met calmly and unflinchingly the looks fastened on him; but the nerves of his lips twitched96, his face was haggard as by a night’s deep gambling97; there was a heavy dew on his forehead — it was not the face of a wholly guiltless, of a wholly unconscious man; often even as innocence may be unwittingly betrayed into what wears the semblance98 of self-condemnation.
“And yet you equally persist in refusing to account for your occupation of the early evening hours of the 15th? Unfortunate!”
“I do; but in your account of them you lie!”
There was a sternness inflexible99 as steel in the brief sentence. Under it for an instant, though not visibly, Baroni flinched100; and a fear of the man he accused smote101 him, more deep, more keen than that with which the sweeping102 might of the Seraph’s fury had moved him. He knew now why Ben Davis had hated with so deadly a hatred103 the latent strength that slept under the Quietist languor104 and nonchalance105 of “the d —— d Guards’ swell106.”
What he felt, however, did not escape him by the slightest sign.
“As a matter of course you deny it!” he said, with a polite wave of his hand. “Quite right; you are not required to criminate yourself. I wish sincerely we were not compelled to criminate you.”
The Seraph’s grand, rolling voice broke in; he had stood chafing107, chained, panting in agonies of passion and of misery108.
“M. Baroni!” he said hotly, the furious vehemence of his anger and his bewilderment obscuring in him all memory of either law or fact, “you have heard his signature and your statements alike denied once for all by Mr. Cecil. Your document is a libel and a conspiracy, like your charge; it is false, and you are swindling; it is an outrage, and you are a scoundrel; you have schemed this infamy for the sake of extortion; not a sovereign will you obtain through it. Were the accusation109 you dare to make true, I am the only one whom it can concern, since it is my name which is involved. Were it true — could it possibly be true — I should forbid any steps to be taken in it; I should desire it ended once and forever. It shall be so now, by God!”
He scarcely knew what he was saying; yet what he did say, utterly as it defied all checks of law or circumstance, had so gallant111 a ring, had so kingly a wrath, that it awed112 and impressed even Baroni in the instant of its utterance.
“They say that those fine gentlemen fight like a thousand lions when they are once roused,” he thought. “I can believe it.”
“My lord,” he said softly, “you have called me by many epithets114, and menaced me with many threats since I have entered this chamber115; it is not a wise thing to do with a man who knows the law. However, I can allow for the heat of your excitement. As regards the rest of your speech, you will permit me to say that its wildness of language is only equaled by the utter irrationality116 of your deductions117 and your absolute ignorance of all legalities. Were you alone concerned and alone the discoverer of this fraud, you could prosecute118 or not as you please; but we are subjects of its imposition, ours is the money that he has obtained by that forgery, and we shall in consequence open the prosecution119.”
“Prosecution?” The echo rang in an absolute agony from his hearer; he had thought of it as, at its worst, only a question between himself and Cecil.
The accused gave no sigh, the rigidity121 and composure he had sustained throughout did not change; but at the Seraph’s accent the hunted and pathetic misery which had once before gleamed in his eyes came there again; he held his comrade in a loyal and exceeding love. He would have let all the world stone him, but he could not have borne that his friend should cast even a look of contempt.
“Prosecution!” replied Baroni. “It is a matter of course, my lord, that Mr. Cecil denies the accusation; it is very wise; the law specially122 cautions the accused to say nothing to criminate themselves. But we waste time in words; and, pardon me, if you have your friend’s interest at heart, you will withdraw this very stormy championship; this utterly useless opposition123 to an inevitable124 line of action. I must attest125 Mr. Cecil; but I am willing — for I know to high families these misfortunes are terribly distressing126 — to conduct everything with the strictest privacy and delicacy127. In a word, if you and he consult his interests, he will accompany me unresistingly; otherwise I must summon legal force. Any opposition will only compel a very unseemly encounter of physical force, and with it the publicity128 I am desirous, for the sake of his relatives and position, to spare him.”
A dead silence followed his words, the silence that follows on an insult that cannot be averted129 or avenged130; on a thing too hideously131 shameful for the thoughts to grasp it as reality.
In the first moment of Baroni’s words Cecil’s eyes had gleamed again with that dark and desperate flash of a passion that would have been worse to face even than his comrade’s wrath; it died, however, well-nigh instantly, repressed by a marvelous strength of control, whatever its motive132. He was simply, as he had been throughout, passive — so passive that even Ezra Baroni, who knew what the Seraph never dreamed, looked at him in wonder, and felt a faint, sickly fear of that singular, unbroken calm. It perplexed133 him — the first thing which had ever done so in his own peculiar134 paths of finesse135 and of intrigue136.
The one placed in ignorance between them, at once as it were the judge and champion of his brother-at-arms, felt wild and blind under this unutterable shame, which seemed to net them both in such close and hopeless meshes137. He, heir to one of the greatest coronets in the world, must see his friend branded as a common felon138, and could do no more to aid or to avenge him than if he were a charcoal-burner toiling139 yonder in the pine woods! His words were hoarse and broken as he spoke:
“Cecil, tell me — what is to be done? This infamous140 outrage cannot pass! cannot go on! I will send for the Duke, for —”
“Send for no one.”
Bertie’s voice was slightly weaker, like that of a man exhausted141 by a long struggle, but it was firm and very quiet. Its composure fell on Rockingham’s tempestuous142 grief and rage with a sickly, silencing awe113, with a terrible sense of some evil here beyond his knowledge and ministering, and of an impotence alike to act and to serve, to defend and to avenge — the deadliest thing his fearless life had ever known.
“Pardon me, my lord,” interposed Baroni, “I can waste time no more. You must be now convinced yourself of your friend’s implication in this very distressing affair.”
“I!” The Seraph’s majesty143 of haughtiest144 amaze and scorn blazed from his azure145 eyes on the man who dared say this thing to him. “I! If you dare hint such a damnable shame to my face again, I will wring146 your neck with as little remorse147 as I would a kite’s. I believe in his guilt21? Forgive me, Cecil, that I can even repeat the word! I believe in it? I would as soon believe in my own disgrace — in my father’s dishonor!”
“How will your lordship account, then, for Mr. Cecil’s total inability to tell us know he spent the hours between six and nine on the 15th?”
“Unable? He is not unable; he declines! Bertie, tell me what you did that one cursed evening. Whatever it was, wherever it was, say it for my sake, and shame this devil.”
Cecil would more willingly have stood a line of leveled rifle-tubes aimed at his heart than that passionate148 entreaty from the man he loved best on earth. He staggered slightly, as if he were about to fall, and a faint white foam149 came on his lips; but he recovered himself almost instantly. It was so natural to him to repress every emotion that it was simply old habit to do so now.
“I have answered,” he said very low, each word a pang —“I cannot.”
Baroni waved his hand again with the same polite, significant gesture.
“In that case, then, there is but one alternative. Will you follow me quietly, sir, or must force be employed?”
“I will go with you.”
The reply was very tranquil49, but in the look that met his own as it was given, Baroni saw that some other motive than that of any fear was its spring; that some cause beyond the mere150 abhorrence151 of “a scene” was at the root of the quiescence.
“It must be so,” said Cecil huskily to his friend. “This man is right, so far as he knows. He is only acting152 on his own convictions. We cannot blame him. The whole is — a mystery, an error. But, as it stands, there is no resistance.”
“Resistance! By God! I would resist if I shot him dead, or shot myself. Stay — wait — one moment! If it be an error in the sense you mean, it must be a forgery of your name as of mine. You think that?”
“I did not say so.”
The Seraph gave him a rapid, shuddering153 glance; for once the suspicion crept in on him — was this guilt? Yet even now the doubt would not be harbored by him.
“Say so — you must mean so! You deny them as yours; what can they be but forgeries155? There is no other explanation. I think the whole matter a conspiracy to extort36 money; but I may be wrong — let that pass. If it be, on the contrary, an imitation of both our signatures that has been palmed off upon these usurers, it is open to other treatment. Compensated156 for their pecuniary157 loss, they can have no need to press the matter further, unless they find out the delinquent158. See here”— he went to a writing-cabinet at the end of the room, flung the lid back, swept out a heap of papers, and wrenching159 a blank check from the book, threw it down before Baroni —“here! fill it up as you like, and I will sign it in exchange for the forged sheet.”
Baroni paused a moment. Money he loved with an adoration160 that excluded every other passion; that blank check, that limitless carte blanche, that vast exchequer161 from which to draw! — it was a sore temptation. He thought wistfully of the welsher’s peremptory forbiddance of all compromise — of the welsher’s inexorable command to “wring the fine-feathered bird,” lose whatever might be lost by it.
Cecil, ere the Hebrew could speak, leaned forward, took the check and tore it in two.
“God bless you, Rock,” he said, so low that it only reached the Seraph’s ear, “but you must not do that.”
“Beauty, you are mad!” cried the Marquis passionately162. “If this villainous thing be a forgery, you are its victim as much as I— tenfold more than I. If this Jew chooses to sell the paper to me, naming his own compensation, whose affair is it except his and mine? They have been losers, we indemnify them. It rests with us to find out the criminal. M. Baroni, there are a hundred more checks in that book; name your price, and you shall have it; or, if you prefer my father’s, I will send to him for it. His Grace will sign one without a question of its errand, if I ask him. Come! your price?”
Baroni had recovered the momentary163 temptation, and was strong in the austerity of virtue164, in the unassailability of social duty.
“You behave most nobly, most generously by your friend, my lord,” he said politely. “I am glad such friendship exists on earth. But you really ask me what is not in my power. In the first place, I am but one of the firm, and have no authority to act alone; in the second, I most certainly, were I alone, should decline totally any pecuniary compromise. A great criminal action is not to be hushed up by any monetary165 arrangement. You, my Lord Marquis, may be ignorant in the Guards of a very coarse term used in law, called ‘compounding a felony.’ That is what you tempt41 me to now.”
The Seraph, with one of those oaths that made the Hebrew’s blood run cold, though he was no coward, opened his lips to speak; Cecil arrested him with that singular impassiveness, that apathy166 of resignation which had characterized his whole conduct throughout, save at a few brief moments.
“Make no opposition. The man is acting but in his own justification167. I will wait for mine. To resist would be to degrade us with a bully’s brawl168; they have the law with them. Let it take its course.”
The Seraph dashed his hand across his eyes; he felt blind — the room seemed to reel with him.
“Oh, God! that you ——”
He could not finish the words. That his comrade, his friend, one of his own corps, of his own world, should be arrested like the blackest thief in Whitechapel or in the Rue110 du Temple!
Cecil glanced at him, and his eyes grew infinitely169 yearning — infinitely gentle; a shudder154 shook him all through his limbs. He hesitated a moment, then he stretched out his hand.
“Will you take it — still?”
Almost before the words were spoken, his hand was held in both of the Seraph’s.
“Take it? Before all the world — always, come what will.”
His eyes were dim as he spoke, and his rich voice rang clear as the ring of silver, though there was the tremor170 of emotion in it. He had forgotten the Hebrew’s presence; he had forgotten all save his friend and his friend’s extremity. Cecil did not answer; if he had done so, all the courage, all the calm, all the control that pride and breeding alike sustained in him, would have been shattered down to weakness; his hand closed fast in his companion’s, his eyes met his once in a look of gratitude171 that pierced the heart of the other like a knife; then he turned to the Jew with a haughty serenity172.
“M. Baroni, I am ready.”
“Wait!” cried Rockingham. “Where you go I come.”
The Hebrew interposed demurely173.
“Forgive me, my lord — not now. You can take what steps you will as regards your friend later on; and you may rest assured he will be treated with all delicacy compatible with the case, but you cannot accompany him now. I rely on his word to go with me quietly; but I now regard him, and you must remember this, as not the son of Viscount Royallieu — not the Honorable Bertie Cecil, of the Life Guards — not the friend of one so distinguished174 as yourself — but as simply an arrested forger16.”
Baroni could not deny himself that last sting of his vengeance; yet, as he saw the faces of the men on whom he flung the insult, he felt for the moment that he might pay for his temerity175 with his life. He put his hand above his eyes with a quick, involuntary movement, like a man who wards176 off a blow.
“Gentlemen,” and his teeth chattered177 as he spoke, “one sign of violence, and I shall summon legal force.”
Cecil caught the Seraph’s lifted arm, and stayed it in its vengeance. His own teeth were clinched tight as a vise, and over the haggard whiteness of his face a deep red blush had come.
“We degrade ourselves by resistance. Let me go — they must do what they will. My reckoning must wait, and my justification. One word only. Take the King and keep him for my sake.”
Another moment, and the door had closed; he was gone out to his fate, and the Seraph, with no eyes on him, bowed down his head upon his arms where he leaned against the marble table, and, for the first time in all his life, felt the hot tears roll down his face like rain, as the passion of a woman mastered and unmanned him — he would sooner a thousand times have laid his friend down in his grave than have seen him live for this.
Cecil went slowly out beside his accuser. The keen, bright eyes of the Jew kept vigilant178 watch and ward86 on him; a single sign of any effort to evade179 him would have been arrested by him in an instant with preconcerted skill. He looked, and saw that no thought of escape was in his prisoner’s mind. Cecil had surrendered himself, and he went to his doom180; he laid no blame on Baroni, and he scarce gave him a remembrance. The Hebrew did not stand to him in the colors he wore to Rockingham, who beheld181 this thing but on its surface. Baroni was to him only the agent of an inevitable shame, of a hapless fate that closed him in, netting him tight with the web of his own past actions; no more than the irresponsible executioner of what was in the Jew’s sight and knowledge a just sentence. He condemned182 his accuser in nothing; no more than the conscience of a guilty man can condemn91 the discoverers and the instruments of his chastisement.
Was he guilty?
Any judge might have said that he knew himself to be so as he passed down the staircase and outward to the entrance with that dead resignation on his face, that brooding, rigid120 look set on his features, and gazing almost in stupefaction out from the dark hazel depths of eyes that women had loved for their luster183, their languor, and the softness of their smile.
They walked out into the evening air unnoticed; he had given his consent to follow the bill-discounter without resistance, and he had no thought to break his word; he had submitted himself to the inevitable course of this fate that had fallen on him, and the whole tone of his temper and his breeding lent him the quiescence, though he had none of the doctrine184 of a supreme185 fatalist. There were carriages standing before the hotel, waiting for those who were going to the ballroom186, to the theater, to an archduke’s dinner, to a princess’ entertainment; he looked at them with a vague, strange sense of unreality — these things of the life from which he was now barred forever. The sparkling tide of existence in Baden was flowing on its way, and he went out an accused felon, branded, and outlawed187, and dishonored from all place in the world that he had led, and been caressed188 by and beguiled189 with for so long.
To-night, at this hour, he should have been among all that was highest and gayest and fairest in Europe at the banquet of a Prince — and he went by his captor’s side, a convicted criminal.
Once out in the air, the Hebrew laid his hand on his arm. He started — it was the first sign that his liberty was gone! He restrained himself from all resistance still, and passed onward190, down where Baroni motioned him out of the noise of the carriages, out of the glare of the light, into the narrow, darkened turning of a side street. He went passively; for this man trusted to his honor.
In the gloom stood three figures, looming191 indistinctly in the shadow of the houses. One was a Huissier of the Staats–Procurator, beside whom stood the Commissary of Police of the district; the third was an English detective. Ere he saw them their hands were on his shoulders, and the cold chill of steel touched his wrists. The Hebrew had betrayed him, and arrested him in the open street. In an instant, as the ring of the rifle rouses the slumbering192 tiger, all the life and the soul that were in him rose in revolt as the icy glide193 of the handcuffs sought their hold on his arms. In an instant, all the wild blood of his race, all the pride of his breeding, all the honor of his service, flashed into fire and leaped into action. Trusted, he would have been true to his accuser; deceived, the chains of his promise were loosened, and all he thought, all he felt, all he knew were the lion impulses, the knightly194 instincts, the resolute195 choice to lose life rather than to lose freedom, of a soldier and a gentleman. All he remembered was that he would fight to the death rather than be taken alive; that they should kill him where he stood, in the starlight, rather than lead him in the sight of men as a felon.
With the strength that lay beneath all the gentle languor of his habits and with the science of the Eton Playing Fields of his boyhood, he wrenched196 his wrists free ere the steel had closed, and with the single straightening of his left arm felled the detective to earth like a bullock, with a crashing blow that sounded through the stillness like some heavy timber stove in; flinging himself like lightning on the Huissier, he twisted out of his grasp the metal weight of the handcuffs, and wrestling with him was woven for a second in that close-knit struggle which is only seen when the wrestlers wrestle197 for life and death. The German was a powerful and firmly built man; but Cecil’s science was the finer and the most masterly. His long, slender delicate limbs seemed to twine198 and writhe199 around the massive form of his antagonist200 like the coils of a cobra; they rocked and swayed to and fro on the stones, while the shrill201, shrieking202 voice of Baroni filled the night with its clamor. The viselike pressure of the stalwart arms of his opponent crushed him in till his ribs203 seemed to bend and break under the breathless oppression, the iron force; but desperation nerved him, the Royallieu blood, that never took defeat, was roused now, for the first time in his careless life; his skill and his nerve were unrivaled, and with a last effort he dashed the Huissier off him, and lifting him up — he never knew how — as he would have lifted a log of wood, hurled204 him down in the white streak205 of moonlight that alone slanted206 through the peaked roofs of the crooked207 by-street.
The cries of Baroni had already been heard; a crowd, drawn by their shrieking appeals, were bearing toward the place in tumult208. The Jew had the quick wit to give them, as call-word, that is was a croupier who had been found cheating and fled; it sufficed to inflame209 the whole mob against the fugitive210. Cecil looked round him once — such a glance as a Royal gives when the gaze-hounds are panting about him and the fangs211 are in his throat; then, with the swiftness of the deer itself, he dashed downward into the gloom of the winding212 passage at the speed which had carried him, in many a foot-race, victor in the old green Eton meadows. There was scarce a man in the Queen’s Service who could rival him for lightness of limb, for power of endurance in every sport of field and fell, of the moor213 and the gymnasium; and the athletic214 pleasures of many a happy hour stood him in good stead now, in the emergence215 of his terrible extremity.
Flight! — for the instant the word thrilled through him with a loathing sense. Flight! — the craven’s refuge, the criminal’s resource. He wished in the moment’s agony that they would send a bullet through his brain as he ran, rather than drive him out to this. Flight! — he felt a coward and a felon as he fled; fled from every fairer thing, from every peaceful hour, from the friendship and good will of men, from the fame of his ancient race, from the smile of the women that loved him, from all that makes life rich and fair, from all that men call honor; fled, to leave his name disgraced in the service he adored; fled, to leave the world to think him a guilty dastard216 who dared not face his trial; fled, to bid his closest friend believe him low sunk in the depths of foulest217 felony, branded forever with a criminal’s shame — by his own act, by his own hand. Flight! — it has bitter pangs218 that make brave men feel cowards when they fly from tyranny and danger and death to a land of peace and promise; but in his flight he left behind him all that made life worth the living, and went out to meet eternal misery; renouncing219 every hope, yielding up all his future.
“It is for her sake — and his,” he thought; and without a moment’s pause, without a backward look he ran, as the stag runs with the bay of the pack behind it, down into the shadows of the night.
The hue220 and cry was after him; the tumult of a crowd’s excitement, raised it knows not why or wherefore, was on his steps, joined with the steadier and keener pursuit of men organized for the hunter’s work, and trained to follow the faintest track, the slightest clew. The moon was out, and they saw him clearly, though the marvelous fleetness of his stride had borne him far ahead in the few moments’ start he had gained. He heard the beat of their many feet on the stones, the dull thud of their running, the loud clamor of the mob, the shrill cries of the Hebrew offering gold with frantic221 lavishness222 to whoever should stop his prey223. All the breathless excitation, all the keen and desperate straining, all the tension of the neck-and-neck struggle that he had known so often over the brown autumn country of the Shires at home, he knew now, intensified224 to horror, made deadly with despair, changed into a race for life and death.
Yet, with it the wild blood in him woke; the recklessness of peril225, the daring and defiant226 courage that lay beneath his levity227 and languor heated his veins228 and spurred his strength; he was ready to die if they chose to slaughter229 him; but for his freedom he strove as men will strive for life; to distance them, to escape them, he would have breathed his last at the goal; they might fire him down, if they would, but he swore in his teeth to die free.
Some Germans in his path, hearing the shouts that thundered after him in the night, drew their mule-cart across the pent-up passage-way down which he turned, and blocked the narrow road. He saw it in time; a second later, and it would have been instant death to him at the pace he went; he saw it, and gathered all the force and nervous impetus230 in his frame to the trial, as he came rushing downward along the slope of the lane, with his elbows back, and his body straight, as prize-runners run. The wagon231, sideways, stretched across — a solid barrier, heaped up with fir boughs232 brought for firing from the forests; the mules233 stood abreast234, yoked235 together. The mob following saw too, and gave a hoot236 and yell of brutal56 triumph; their prey was in their clutches; the cart barred his progress, and he must double like a fox faced with a stone wall.
Scarcely! — they did not know the man with whom they had to deal — the daring and the coolness that the languid surface of indolent fashion had covered. Even in the imminence237 of supreme peril, of breathless jeopardy238, he measured with unerring eye the distance and the need; rose as lightly in the air as Forest King had risen with him over fence and hedge; and with a single, running leap cleared the width of the mules’ backs, and landing safely on the farther side, dashed on; scarcely pausing for breath. The yell that hissed239 in his wake, as the throng saw him escape, by what to their slow Teutonic instincts seemed a devil’s miracle, was on his ear like the bay of the slot-hounds to the deer. They might kill him, if they could; but they should never take him captive.
And the moon was so brightly, so pitilessly clear; shining down in the summer light, as though in love with the beauty of earth! He looked up once; the stars seemed reeling round him in disordered riot; the chill face of the moon looked unpitying as death. All this loveliness was round him; this glory of sailing cloud and shadowy forest and tranquil planet, and there was no help for him.
A gay burst of music broke on the stillness from the distance; he had left the brilliance240 of the town behind him, and was now in its by-streets and outskirts241. The sound seemed to thrill him to the bone; it was like the echo of the lost life he was leaving forever.
He saw, he felt, he heard, he thought; feeling and sense were quickened in him as they had never been before, yet he never slackened his pace save once or twice, when he paused for breath; he ran as swiftly, he ran as keenly, as ever stag or fox had run before him; doubling with their skill, taking the shadow as they took the covert242; noting with their rapid eye the safest track; outracing with their rapid speed the pursuit that thundered in his wake.
The by-lanes he took were deserted243, and he was now well-nigh out of the town, with the open country and forest lying before him. The people whom he met rushed out of his path; happily for him they were few, and were terrified, because they thought him a madman broken loose from his keepers. He never looked back; but he could tell that the pursuit was falling farther and farther behind him, that the speed at which he went was breaking the powers of his hunters; fresh throngs244 added indeed to the first pursuers as they tore down through the starlight night, but none had the science with which he went, the trained, matchless skill of the university foot-race. He left them more and more behind him each second of the breathless chase, that, endless as it seemed, had lasted bare three minutes. If the night were but dark! He felt that pitiless luminance glistening245 bright about him everywhere; shining over all the summer world, and leaving scarce a shadow to fall athwart his way. The silver glory of the radiance was shed on every rood of ground; one hour of a winter night, one hour of the sweeping ink-black rain of an autumn storm, and he could have made for shelter as the stag makes for it across the broad, brown Highland247 water.
Before him stretched indeed the gloom of the masses of pine, the upward slopes of tree-stocked hills, the vastness of the Black Forest; but they were like the mirage248 to a man who dies in a desert; he knew, at the pace he went, he could not live to reach them. The blood was beating in his brain and pumping from his heart; a tightness like an iron band seemed girt about his loins, his lips began to draw his breath in with loud gasping249 spasms250; he knew that in a little space his speed must slacken — he knew it by the roar, like the noise of water, that was rushing on his ear, and the oppression, like a hand’s hard grip, that seemed above his heart.
But he would go till he died; go till they fired on him; go, though the skies felt swirling251 round like a sea of fire, and the hard, hot earth beneath his feet jarred his whole frame as his feet struck it flying.
The angle of an old wood house, with towering roof and high-peaked gables, threw a depth of shadow at last across his road; a shadow black and rayless, darker for the white glisten246 of the moon around. Built more in the Swiss than the German style, a massive balcony of wood ran round it, upon and beneath which in its heavy shade was an impenetrable gloom, while the twisted wooden pillars ran upward to the gallery, loggia-like. With rapid perception and intuition he divined rather than saw these things, and, swinging himself up with noiseless lightness, he threw himself full-length down on the rough flooring of the balcony. If they passed he was safe, for a brief time more at least; if they found him — his teeth clinched like a mastiff’s where he lay — he had the strength in him still to sell his life dearly.
The pursuers came closer and closer, and by the clamors that floated up in indistinct and broken fragments, he knew that they had tracked him. He heard the tramp of their feet as they came under the loggia; he heard the click of the pistols — they were close upon him at last in the blackness of night.
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1
seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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2
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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3
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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4
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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7
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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9
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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10
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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11
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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12
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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13
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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15
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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forger
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| v.伪造；n.（钱、文件等的）伪造者 | |
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17
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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18
clinch
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| v.敲弯，钉牢；确定；扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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19
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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20
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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26
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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30
slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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32
quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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33
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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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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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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slanderer
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| 造谣中伤者 | |
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40
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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41
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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42
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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43
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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44
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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45
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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46
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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48
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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49
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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50
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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51
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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52
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
inconveniently
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| ad.不方便地 | |
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54
pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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55
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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56
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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58
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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59
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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60
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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61
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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62
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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64
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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65
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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67
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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70
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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71
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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72
toils
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| 网 | |
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73
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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74
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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75
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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76
specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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77
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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79
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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80
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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81
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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82
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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84
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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85
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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86
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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87
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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88
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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89
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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90
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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91
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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92
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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93
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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94
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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95
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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96
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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97
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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98
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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99
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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100
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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102
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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103
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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104
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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105
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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106
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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107
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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108
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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109
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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110
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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111
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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112
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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114
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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115
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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116
irrationality
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| n. 不合理，无理性 | |
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117
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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118
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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119
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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120
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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121
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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122
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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123
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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124
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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125
attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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126
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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127
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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128
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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129
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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130
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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131
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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132
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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133
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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134
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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135
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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136
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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137
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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138
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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139
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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140
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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141
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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142
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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143
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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144
haughtiest
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的最高级形式 | |
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145
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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146
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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147
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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148
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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149
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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150
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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151
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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152
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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153
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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154
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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155
forgeries
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| 伪造( forgery的名词复数 )； 伪造的文件、签名等 | |
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156
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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157
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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158
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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159
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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160
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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161
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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162
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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163
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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164
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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165
monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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166
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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167
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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168
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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169
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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170
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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171
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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172
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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173
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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174
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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175
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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176
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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177
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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178
vigilant
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|
| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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179
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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180
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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181
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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182
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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183
luster
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| n.光辉；光泽，光亮；荣誉 | |
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184
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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185
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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186
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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187
outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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188
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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190
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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191
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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192
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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193
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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194
knightly
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|
| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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195
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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196
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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197
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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198
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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199
writhe
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|
| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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200
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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201
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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202
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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203
ribs
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|
| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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204
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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205
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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206
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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207
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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208
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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209
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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210
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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212
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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213
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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214
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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215
emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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216
dastard
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| n.卑怯之人，懦夫；adj.怯懦的，畏缩的 | |
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217
foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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218
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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219
renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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220
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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221
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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222
lavishness
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| n.浪费，过度 | |
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223
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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224
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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225
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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226
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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227
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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228
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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229
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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230
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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231
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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232
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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233
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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234
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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236
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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237
imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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238
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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239
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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240
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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241
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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242
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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243
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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244
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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245
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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246
glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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247
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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248
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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249
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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250
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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251
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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