His eye-balls farther out than when he lived,
Staring full ghastly, like a strangled man;
His hair uprear’d — his nostrils1 stretch’d with struggling,
His hands abroad display’d, as one who grasp’d
And tugg’d for life, and was by strength subdued2.
HENRY VI. PART I.
Had those whose unpleasant visit Sir Henry expected come straight to the Lodge3, instead of staying for three hours at Woodstock, they would have secured their prey4. But the Familist, partly to prevent the King’s escape, partly to render himself of more importance in the affair, had represented the party at the Lodge as being constantly on the alert, and had therefore inculcated upon Cromwell the necessity of his remaining quiet until he (Tomkins) should appear to give him notice that the household were retired5 to rest. On this condition he undertook, not only to discover the apartment in which the unfortunate Charles slept, but, if possible, to find some mode of fastening the door on the outside, so as to render flight impossible. He had also promised to secure the key of a postern, by which the soldiers might be admitted into the house without exciting alarm. Nay6, the matter might, by means of his local knowledge, be managed, as he represented it, with such security, that he would undertake to place his Excellency, or whomsoever he might appoint for the service, by the side of Charles Stewart’s bed, ere he had slept off the last night’s claret. Above all, he had stated, that, from the style of the old house, there were many passages and posterns which must be carefully guarded before the least alarm was caught by those within, otherwise the success of the whole enterprise might be endangered. He had therefore besought9 Cromwell to wait for him at the village, if he found him not there on his arrival; and assured him that the marching and countermarching of soldiers was at present so common, that even if any news were carried to the Lodge that fresh troops had arrived in the borough10, so ordinary a circumstance would not give them the least alarm. He recommended that the soldiers chosen for this service should be such as could be depended upon — no fainters in spirit — none who turn back from Mount Gilead for fear of the Amalekites, but men of war, accustomed to strike with the sword, and to need no second blow. Finally, he represented that it would be wisely done if the General should put Pearson, or any other officer whom he could completely trust, into the command of the detachment, and keep his own person, if he should think it proper to attend, secret even from the soldiers.
All this man’s counsels Cromwell had punctually followed. He had travelled in the van of this detachment of one hundred picked soldiers, whom he had selected for the service, men of dauntless resolution, bred in a thousand dangers, and who were steeled against all feelings of hesitation11 and compassion12, by the deep and gloomy fanaticism13 which was their chief principle of action — men to whom, as their General, and no less as the chief among the Elect, the commands of Oliver were like a commission from the Deity14.
Great and deep was the General’s mortification15 at the unexpected absence of the personage on whose agency he so confidently reckoned, and many conjectures17 he formed as to the cause of such mysterious conduct. Some times he thought Tomkins had been overcome by liquor, a frailty18 to which Cromwell knew him to be addicted19; and when he held this opinion he discharged his wrath20 in maledictions, which, of a different kind from the wild oaths and curses of the cavaliers, had yet in them as much blasphemy21, and more determined22 malevolence23. At other times he thought some unexpected alarm, or perhaps some drunken cavalier revel24, had caused the family of Woodstock Lodge to make later hours than usual. To this conjecture16, which appeared the most probable of any, his mind often recurred25; and it was the hope that Tomkins would still appear at the rendezvous26, which induced him to remain at the borough, anxious to receive communication from his emissary, and afraid of endangering the success of the enterprise by any premature27 exertion28 on his own part.
In the meantime, Cromwell, finding it no longer possible to conceal29 his personal presence, disposed of every thing so as to be ready at a minute’s notice. Half his soldiers he caused to dismount, and had the horses put into quarters; the other half were directed to keep their horses saddled, and themselves ready to mount at a moment’s notice. The men were brought into the house by turns, and had some refreshment30, leaving a sufficient guard on the horses, which was changed from time to time.
Thus Cromwell waited with no little uncertainty31, often casting an anxious eye upon Colonel Everard, who, he suspected, could, if he chose it, well supply the place of his absent confidant. Everard endured this calmly, with unaltered countenance32, and brow neither ruffled33 nor dejected.
Midnight at length tolled34, and it became necessary to take some decisive step. Tomkins might have been treacherous35; or, a suspicion which approached more near to the reality, his intrigue36 might have been discovered, and he himself murdered or kidnapped by the vengeful royalists. In a word, if any use was to be made of the chance which fortune afforded of securing the most formidable claimant of the supreme37 power, which he already aimed at, no farther time was to be lost. He at length gave orders to Pearson to get the men under arms; he directed him concerning the mode of forming them, and that they should march with the utmost possible silence; or as it was given out in the orders, “Even as Gideon marched in silence when he went down against the camp of the Midianites, with only Phurah his servant. Peradventure,” continued this strange document, “we too may learn of what yonder Midianites have dreamed.”
A single patrol, followed by a corporal and five steady, experienced soldiers, formed the advanced guard of the party; then followed the main body. A rear-guard of ten men guarded Everard and the minister. Cromwell required the attendance of the former, as it might be necessary to examine him, or confront him with others; and he carried Master Holdenough with him, because he might escape if left behind, and perhaps raise some tumult38 in the village. The Presbyterians, though they not only concurred39 with, but led the way in the civil war, were at its conclusion highly dissatisfied with the ascendency of the military sectaries, and not to be trusted as cordial agents in anything where their interest was concerned. The infantry40 being disposed of as we have noticed, marched off from the left of their line, Cromwell and Pearson, both on foot, keeping at the head of the centre, or main body of the detachment. They were all armed with petronels, short guns similar to the modern carabine, and, like them, used by horsemen. They marched in the most profound silence and with the utmost regularity41, the whole body moving like one man.
About one hundred yards behind the rearmost of the dismounted party, came the troopers who remained on horseback; and it seemed as if even the irrational42 animals were sensible to Cromwell’s orders, for the horses did not neigh, and even appeared to place their feet on the earth cautiously, and with less noise than usual.
Their leader, full of anxious thoughts, never spoke43, save to enforce by whispers his caution respecting silence, while the men, surprised and delighted to find themselves under the command of their renowned44 General, and destined45, doubtless, for some secret service of high import, used the utmost precaution in attending to his reiterated46 orders.
They marched down the street of the little borough in the order we have mentioned. Few of the townsmen were abroad; and one or two, who had protracted47 the orgies of the evening to that unusual hour, were too happy to escape the notice of a strong party of soldiers, who often acted in the character of police, to inquire about their purpose for being under arms so late, or the route which they were pursuing.
The external gate of the Chase had, ever since the party had arrived at Woodstock, been strictly48 guarded by three file of troopers, to cut off all communication between the Lodge and the town. Spitfire, Wildrake’s emissary, who had often been a-bird-nesting, or on similar mischievous49 excursions in the forest, had evaded50 these men’s vigilance by climbing over a breach51, with which he was well acquainted, in a different part of the wall.
Between this party and the advanced guard of Cromwell’s detachment, a whispered challenge was exchanged, according to the rules of discipline. The infantry entered the Park, and were followed by the cavalry52, who were directed to avoid the hard road, and ride as much as possible upon the turf which bordered on the avenue. Here, too, an additional precaution was used, a file or two of foot soldiers being detached to search the woods on either hand, and make prisoner, or, in the event of resistance, put to death, any whom they might find lurking53 there, under what pretence54 soever.
Meanwhile, the weather began to show itself as propitious55 to Cromwell, as he had found most incidents in the course of his successful career. The grey mist, which had hitherto obscured everything, and rendered marching in the wood embarrassing and difficult, had now given way to the moon, which, after many efforts, at length forced her way through the vapour, and hung her dim dull cresset in the heavens, which she enlightened, as the dying lamp of an anchorite does the cell in which he reposes56. The party were in sight of the front of the palace, when Holdenough whispered to Everard, as they walked near each other —“See ye not, yonder flutters the mysterious light in the turret58 of the incontinent Rosamond? This night will try whether the devil of the Sectaries or the devil of the Malignants shall prove the stronger. O, sing jubilee60, for the kingdom of Satan is divided against itself!”
Here the divine was interrupted by a non-commissioned officer, who came hastily, yet with noiseless steps, to say, in a low stern whisper — “Silence, prisoner in the rear — silence on pain of death.”
A moment afterwards the whole party stopped their march, the word halt being passed from one to another, and instantly obeyed.
The cause of this interruption was the hasty return of one of the flanking party to the main body, bringing news to Cromwell that they had seen a light in the wood at some distance on the left.
“What can it be?” said Cromwell, his low stern voice, even in a whisper, making itself distinctly heard. “Does it move, or is it stationary61?”
“So far as we can judge, it moveth not,” answered the trooper.
“Strange — there is no cottage near the spot where it is seen.”
“So please your Excellency, it may be a device of Sathan,” said Corporal Humgudgeon, snuffing through his nose; “he is mighty62 powerful in these parts of late.”
“So please your idiocy63, thou art an ass,” said Cromwell; but, instantly recollecting64 that the corporal had been one of the adjutators or tribunes of the common soldiers, and was therefore to be treated with suitable respect, he said, “Nevertheless, if it be the device of Satan, please it the Lord we will resist him, and the foul65 slave shall fly from us. — Pearson,” he said, resuming his soldierlike brevity, “take four file, and see what is yonder — No — the knaves67 may shrink from thee. Go thou straight to the Lodge — invest it in the way we agreed, so that a bird shall not escape out of it — form an outward and an inward ring of sentinels, but give no alarm until I come. Should any attempt to escape, KILL them.”— He spoke that command with terrible emphasis. —“Kill them on the spot,” he repeated, “be they who or what they will. Better so than trouble the Commonwealth69 with prisoners.”
Pearson heard, and proceeded to obey his commander’s orders.
Meanwhile, the future Protector disposed the small force which remained with him in such a manner that they should approach from different points at once the light which excited his suspicions, and gave them orders to creep as near to it as they could, taking care not to lose each other’s support, and to be ready to rush in at the same moment, when he should give the sign, which was to be a loud whistle. Anxious to ascertain70 the truth with his own eyes, Cromwell, who had by instinct all the habits of military foresight71, which, in others, are the result of professional education and long experience, advanced upon the object of his curiosity. He skulked73 from tree to tree with the light step and prowling sagacity of an Indian bush-fighter; and before any of his men had approached so near as to descry74 them, he saw, by the lantern which was placed on the ground, two men, who had been engaged in digging what seemed to be an ill-made grave. Near them lay extended something wrapped in a deer’s hide, which greatly resembled the dead body of a man. They spoke together in a low voice, yet so that their dangerous auditor75 could perfectly76 overhear what they said.
“It is done at last,” said one; “the worst and hardest labour I ever did in my life. I believe there is no luck about me left. My very arms feel as if they did not belong to me; and, strange to tell, toil77 as hard as I would, I could not gather warmth in my limbs.”
“I have warmed me enough,” said Rochecliffe, breathing short with fatigue78.
“But the cold lies at my heart,” said Joceline; “I scarce hope ever to be warm again. It is strange, and a charm seems to be on us. Here have we been nigh two hours in doing what Diggon the sexton would have done to better purpose in half a one.”
“We are wretched spadesmen enough,” answered Dr. Rochecliffe. “Every man to his tools — thou to thy bugle-horn, and I to my papers in cipher79. — But do not be discouraged; it is the frost on the ground, and the number of roots, which rendered our task difficult. And now, all due rites80 done to this unhappy man, and having read over him the service of the Church, valeat quantum, let us lay him decently in this place of last repose57; there will be small lack of him above ground. So cheer up thy heart, man, like a soldier as thou art; we have read the service over his body; and should times permit it, we will have him removed to consecrated81 ground, though he is all unworthy of such favour. Here, help me to lay him in the earth; we will drag briers and thorns over the spot, when we have shovelled82 dust upon dust; and do thou think of this chance more manfully; and remember, thy secret is in thine own keeping.”
“I cannot answer for that,” said Joceline. “Methinks the very night winds among the leaves will tell of what we have been doing — methinks the trees themselves will say, ‘there is a dead corpse83 lies among our roots.’ Witnesses are soon found when blood hath been spilled.”
“They are so, and that right early,” exclaimed Cromwell, starting from the thicket84, laying hold on Joceline, and putting a pistol to his head. At any other period of his life, the forester would, even against the odds85 of numbers, have made a desperate resistance; but the horror he had felt at the slaughter86 of an old companion, although in defence of his own life, together with fatigue and surprise, had altogether unmanned him, and he was seized as easily as a sheep is secured by the butcher. Dr. Rochecliffe offered some resistance, but was presently secured by the soldiers who pressed around him.
“Look, some of you,” said Cromwell, “what corpse this is upon whom these lewd87 sons of Belial have done a murder — Corporal Grace-be-here Humgudgeon, see if thou knowest the face.”
“I profess72 I do, even as I should do mine own in a mirror,” snuffled the corporal, after looking on the countenance of the dead man by the help of the lantern. “Of a verity88 it is our trusty brother in the faith, Joseph Tomkins.”
“Tomkins!” exclaimed Cromwell, springing forward and satisfying himself with a glance at the features of the corpse —“Tomkins! — and murdered, as the fracture of the temple intimates! — dogs that ye are, confess the truth — You have murdered him because you have discovered his treachery — I should say his true spirit towards the Commonwealth of England, and his hatred89 of those complots in which you would have engaged his honest simplicity90.”
“Ay,” said Grace-be-here Humgudgeon, “and then to misuse91 his dead body with your papistical doctrines93, as if you had crammed94 cold porridge into its cold mouth. I pray thee, General, let these men’s bonds be made strong.”
“Forbear, corporal,” said Cromwell; “our time presses. — Friend, to you — whom I believe to be Doctor Anthony Rochecliffe by name and surname, I have to give the choice of being hanged at daybreak tomorrow, or making atonement for the murder of one of the Lord’s people, by telling what thou knowest of the secrets which are in yonder house.”
“Truly, sir,” replied Rochecliffe, “you found me but in my duty as a clergyman, interring95 the dead; and respecting answering your questions, I am determined myself, and do advise my fellow-sufferer on this occasion”—
“Remove him,” said Cromwell; “I know his stiffneckedness of old, though I have made him plough in my furrow96, when he thought he was turning up his own swathe — Remove him to the rear, and bring hither the other fellow. — Come thou here — this way — closer — closer. — Corporal Grace-be-here, do thou keep thy hand upon the belt with which he is bound. We must take care of our life for the sake of this distracted country, though, lack-a-day, for its own proper worth we could peril97 it for a pin’s point. — Now, mark me, fellow, choose betwixt buying thy life by a full confession98, or being tucked presently up to one of these old oaks — How likest thou that?”
“Truly, master,” answered the under-keeper, affecting more rusticity99 than was natural to him, (for his frequent intercourse100 with Sir Henry Lee had partly softened101 and polished his manners,) “I think the oak is like to bear a lusty acorn102 — that is all.”
“Dally not with me, friend,” continued Oliver; “I profess to thee in sincerity103 I am no trifler. What guests have you seen at yonder house called the Lodge?”
“Many a brave guest in my day, I’se warrant ye, master,” said Joceline. “Ah, to see how the chimneys used to smoke some twelve years back! Ah, sir, a sniff104 of it would have dined a poor man.”
“Out, rascal105!” said the General, “dost thou jeer106 me? Tell me at once what guests have been of late in the Lodge — and look thee, friend, be assured, that in rendering107 me this satisfaction, thou shalt not only rescue thy neck from the halter, but render also an acceptable service to the State, and one which I will see fittingly rewarded. For, truly, I am not of those who would have the rain fall only on the proud and stately plants, but rather would, so far as my poor wishes and prayers are concerned, that it should also fall upon the lowly and humble108 grass and corn, that the heart of the husbandman may be rejoiced, and that as the cedar109 of Lebanon waxes in its height, in its boughs110, and in its roots, so may the humble and lowly hyssop that groweth upon the walls flourish, and — and, truly — Understand’st thou me, knave66?”
“Not entirely111, if it please your honour,” said Joceline; “but it sounds as if you were preaching a sermon, and has a marvellous twang of doctrine92 with it.”
“Then, in one word — thou knowest there is one Louis Kerneguy, or Carnego, or some such name, in hiding at the Lodge yonder?”
“Nay, sir,” replied the under-keeper, “there have been many coming and going since Worcester-field; and how should I know who they are? — my service is out of doors, I trow.”
“A thousand pounds,” said Cromwell, “do I tell down to thee, if thou canst place that boy in my power.”
“A thousand pounds is a marvellous matter, sir,” said Joceline; “but I have more blood on my hand than I like already. I know not how the price of life may thrive — and, ‘scape or hang, I have no mind to try.”
“Away with him to the rear,” said the General; “and let him not speak with his yoke-fellow yonder — Fool that I am, to waste time in expecting to get milk from mules112. — Move on towards the Lodge.”
They moved with the same silence as formerly113, notwithstanding the difficulties which they encountered from being unacquainted with the road and its various intricacies. At length they were challenged, in a low voice, by one of their own sentinels, two concentric circles of whom had been placed around the Lodge, so close to each other, as to preclude115 the possibility of an individual escaping from within. The outer guard was maintained partly by horse upon the roads and open lawn, and where the ground was broken and bushy, by infantry. The inner circle was guarded by foot soldiers only. The whole were in the highest degree alert, expecting some interesting and important consequences from the unusual expedition on which they were engaged.
“Any news, Pearson?” said the General to his aide-decamp, who came instantly to report to his superior.
He received for answer, “None.”
Cromwell led his officer forward just opposite to the door of the Lodge, and there paused betwixt the circles of guards, so that their conversation could not be overheard.
He then pursued his enquiry, demanding, “Were there any lights — any appearances of stirring — any attempt at sally — any preparation for defence?”
“All as silent as the valley of the shadow of death — Even as the vale of Jehosaphat.”
“Pshaw! tell me not of Jehosaphat, Pearson,” said Cromwell. “These words are good for others, but not for thee. Speak plainly, and like a blunt soldier as thou art. Each man hath his own mode of speech; and bluntness, not sanctity, is thine.”
“Well then, nothing has been stirring,” said Pearson. —“Yet peradventure”—
“Peradventure not me,” said Cromwell, “or thou wilt116 tempt68 me to knock thy teeth out. I ever distrust a man when he speaks after another fashion from his own.”
“Zounds! let me speak to an end,” answered Pearson, “and I will speak in what language your Excellency will.”
“Thy zounds, friend,” said Oliver, “showeth little of grace, but much of sincerity. Go to then — thou knowest I love and trust thee. Hast thou kept close watch? It behoves us to know that, before giving the alarm.”
“On my soul,” said Pearson, “I have watched as closely as a cat at a mouse-hole. It is beyond possibility that any thing could have eluded117 our vigilance, or even stirred within the house, without our being aware of it.”
“’Tis well,” said Cromwell; “thy services shall not be forgotten, Pearson. Thou canst not preach and pray, but thou canst obey thine orders, Gilbert Pearson, and that may make amends118.”
“I thank your Excellency,” replied Pearson; “but I beg leave to chime in with the humours of the times. A poor fellow hath no right to hold himself singular.”
He paused, expecting Cromwell’s orders what next was to be done, and, indeed, not a little surprised that the General’s active and prompt spirit had suffered him during a moment so critical to cast away a thought upon a circumstance so trivial as his officer’s peculiar119 mode of expressing himself. He wondered still more, when, by a brighter gleam of moonshine than he had yet enjoyed, he observed that Cromwell was standing114 motionless, his hands supported upon his sword, which he had taken out of the belt, and his stern brows bent120 on the ground. He waited for some time impatiently, yet afraid to interfere121, lest he should awaken122 this unwonted fit of ill-timed melancholy124 into anger and impatience125. He listened to the muttering sounds which escaped from the half-opening lips of his principal, in which the words, “hard necessity,” which occurred more than once, were all of which the sense could be distinguished126. “My Lord-General,” at length he said, “time flies.”
“Peace, busy fiend, and urge me not!” said Cromwell. “Think’st thou, like other fools, that I have made a paction with the devil for success, and am bound to do my work within an appointed hour, lest the spell should lose its force?”
“I only think, my Lord-General,” said Pearson, “that Fortune has put into your coffer what you have long desired to make prize of, and that you hesitate.”
Cromwell sighed deeply as he answered, “Ah, Pearson, in this troubled world, a man, who is called like me to work great things in Israel, had need to be, as the poets feign128, a thing made of hardened metal, immovable to feelings of human charities, impassible, resistless. Pearson, the world will hereafter, perchance, think of me as being such a one as I have described, ‘an iron man, and made of iron mould.’— Yet they will wrong my memory — my heart is flesh, and my blood is mild as that of others. When I was a sportsman, I have wept for the gallant129 heron that was struck down, by my hawk130, and sorrowed for the hare which lay screaming under the jaws131 of my greyhound; and canst thou think it a light thing to me, that, the blood of this lad’s father lying in some measure upon my head, I should now put in peril that of the son? They are of the kindly132 race of English sovereigns, and, doubtless, are adored like to demigods by those of their own party. I am called Parricide133, Blood-thirsty Usurper134, already, for shedding the blood of one man, that the plague might be stayed — or as Achan was slain135 that Israel might thereafter stand against the face of their enemies. Nevertheless, who has spoke unto me graciously since that high deed? Those who acted in the matter with me are willing that I should be the scape-goat of the atonement — those who looked on and helped not, bear themselves now as if they had been borne down by violence; and while I looked that they should shout applause on me, because of the victory of Worcester, whereof the Lord had made me the poor instrument, they look aside to say, ‘Ha! ha! the King-killer, the Parricide — soon shall his place be made desolate136.’— Truly it is a great thing, Gilbert Pearson, to be lifted above the multitude; but when one feeleth that his exaltation is rather hailed with hate and scorn than with love and reverence137 — in sooth, it is still a hard matter for a mild, tender-conscienced, infirm spirit to bear — and God be my witness, that, rather than do this new deed, I would shed my own best heart’s-blood in a pitched field, twenty against one.” Here he fell into a flood of tears, which he sometimes was wont123 to do. This extremity138 of emotion was of a singular character. It was not actually the result of penitence139, and far less that of absolute hypocrisy140, but arose merely from the temperature of that remarkable141 man, whose deep policy, and ardent142 enthusiasm, were intermingled with a strain of hypochondriacal passion, which often led him to exhibit scenes of this sort, though seldom, as now, when he was called to the execution of great undertakings143.
Pearson, well acquainted as he was with the peculiarities144 of his General, was baffled and confounded by this fit of hesitation and contrition145, by which his enterprising spirit appeared to be so suddenly paralysed. After a moment’s silence, he said, with some dryness of manner, “If this be the case, it is a pity your Excellency came hither. Corporal Humgudgeon and I, the greatest saint and greatest sinner in your army, had done the deed, and divided the guilt146 and the honour betwixt us.”
“Ha!” said Cromwell, as if touched to the quick, “wouldst thou take the prey from the lion?”
“If the lion behaves like a village cur,” said Pearson boldly, “who now barks and seems as if he would tear all to pieces, and now flies from a raised stick or a stone, I know not why I should fear him. If Lambert had been here, there had been less speaking and more action.”
“Lambert! What of Lambert?” said Cromwell, very sharply.
“Only,” said Pearson, “that I long since hesitated whether I should follow your Excellency or him — and I begin to be uncertain whether I have made the best choice, that’s all.”
“Lambert!” exclaimed Cromwell impatiently, yet softening147 his voice lest he should be overheard descanting on the character of his rival — “What is Lambert? — a tulip-fancying fellow, whom nature intended for a Dutch gardener at Delft or Rotterdam. Ungrateful as thou art, what could Lambert have done for thee?”
“He would not,” answered Pearson, “have stood here hesitating before a locked door, when fortune presented the means of securing, by one blow, his own fortune, and that of all who followed him.”
“Thou art right, Gilbert Pearson,” said Cromwell, grasping his officer’s hand, and strongly pressing it. “Be the half of this bold accompt thine, whether the reckoning be on earth or heaven.”
“Be the whole of it mine hereafter,” said Pearson hardily148, “so your Excellency have the advantage of it upon earth. Step back to the rear till I force the door — there may be danger, if despair induce them to make a desperate sally.”
“And if they do sally, is there one of my Ironsides who fears fire or steel less than myself?” said the General. “Let ten of the most determined men follow us, two with halberts, two with petronels, the others with pistols — Let all their arms be loaded, and fire without hesitation, if there is any attempt to resist or to sally forth149 — Let Corporal Humgudgeon be with them, and do thou remain here, and watch against escape, as thou wouldst watch for thy salvation150.”
The General then struck at the door with the hilt of his sword — at first with a single blow or two, then with a reverberation151 of strokes that made the ancient building ring again. This noisy summons was repeated once or twice without producing the least effect.
“What can this mean?” said Cromwell; “they cannot surely have fled, and left the house empty.”
“No,” replied Pearson, “I will ensure you against that; but your Excellency strikes so fiercely, you allow no time for an answer. Hark! I hear the baying of a hound, and the voice of a man who is quieting him — Shall we break in at once, or hold parley152?”
“I will speak to them first,” said Cromwell. —“Hollo! who is within there?”
“Who is it enquires153?” answered Sir Henry Lee from the interior; “or what want you here at this dead hour?”
“We come by warrant of the Commonwealth of England,” said the General.
“I must see your warrant ere I undo154 either bolt or latch,” replied the knight155; “we are enough of us to make good the castle: neither I nor my fellows will deliver it up but upon good quarter and conditions; and we will not treat for these save in fair daylight.”
“Since you will not yield to our right, you must try our might,” replied Cromwell. “Look to yourselves within; the door will be in the midst of you in five minutes.”
“Look to yourselves without,” replied the stout-hearted Sir Henry; “we will pour our shot upon you, if you attempt the least violence.”
But, alas156! while he assumed this bold language, his whole garrison157 consisted of two poor terrified women; for his son, in conformity158 with the plan which they had fixed159 upon, had withdrawn160 from the hall into the secret recesses161 of the palace.
“What can they be doing now, sir?” said Phoebe, hearing a noise as it were of a carpenter turning screw-nails, mixed with a low buzz of men talking.
“They are fixing a petard,” said the knight, with great composure. “I have noted163 thee for a clever wench, Phoebe, and I will explain it to thee: ’Tis a metal pot, shaped much like one of the roguish knaves’ own sugarloaf hats, supposing it had narrower brims — it is charged with some few pounds of fine gunpowder164. Then”—
“Gracious! we shall be all blown up!” exclaimed Phoebe — the word gunpowder being the only one which she understood in the knight’s description.
“Not a bit, foolish girl. Pack old Dame165 Jellicot into the embrasure of yonder window,” said the knight, “on that side of the door, and we will ensconce ourselves on this, and we shall have time to finish my explanation, for they have bungling166 engineers. We had a clever French fellow at Newark would have done the job in the firing of a pistol.”
They had scarce got into the place of security when the knight proceeded with his description. —“The petard being formed, as I tell you, is secured with a thick and strong piece of plank167, termed the madrier, and the whole being suspended, or rather secured against the gate to be forced — But thou mindest me not?”
“How can I, Sir Henry,” she said, “within reach of such a thing as you speak of? — O Lord! I shall go mad with very terror — we shall be crushed — blown up — in a few minutes!”
“We are secure from the explosion,” replied the knight, gravely, “which will operate chiefly in a forward direction into the middle of the chamber168; and from any fragments that may fly laterally169, we are sufficiently170 guarded by this deep embrasure.”
“But they will slay171 us when they enter,” said Phoebe.
“They will give thee fair quarter, wench,” said Sir Henry; “and if I do not bestow172 a brace173 of balls on that rogue174 engineer, it is because I would not incur175 the penalty inflicted176 by martial177 law, which condemns178 to the edge of the sword all persons who attempt to defend an untenable post. Not that I think the rigour of the law could reach Dame Jellicot or thyself, Phoebe, considering that you carry no arms. If Alice had been here she might indeed have done somewhat, for she can use a birding-piece.”
Phoebe might have appealed to her own deeds of that day, as more allied179 to feats180 of mêlée and battle, than any which her young lady ever acted; but she was in an agony of inexpressible terror, expecting, from the knight’s account of the petard, some dreadful catastrophe181, of what nature she did not justly understand, notwithstanding his liberal communication on the subject.
“They are strangely awkward at it,” said Sir Henry; “little Boutirlin would have blown the house up before now. — Ah! he is a fellow would take the earth like a rabbit — if he had been here, never may I stir but he would have countermined them ere now, and
—’’Tis sport to have the engineer
Hoist182 with his own petard.’
as our immortal183 Shakspeare has it.”
“Oh, Lord, the poor mad old gentleman,” thought Phoebe —“Oh, sir, had you not better leave alone playbooks, and think of your end?” uttered she aloud, in sheer terror and vexation of spirit.
“If I had not made up my mind to that many days since,” answered the knight, “I had not now met this hour with a free bosom184 —
‘As gentle and as jocund185 as to rest,
Go I to death — truth hath a quiet breast.’”
As he spoke, a broad glare of light flashed from without, through the windows of the hall, and betwixt the strong iron stanchions with which they were secured — a broad discoloured light it was, which shed a red and dusky illumination on the old armour186 and weapons, as if it had been the reflection of a conflagration187. Phoebe screamed aloud, and, forgetful of reverence in the moment of passion, clung close to the knight’s cloak and arm, while Dame Jellicot, from her solitary188 niche189, having the use of her eyes, though bereft190 of her hearing, yelled like an owl7 when the moon breaks out suddenly.
“Take care, good Phoebe,” said the knight; “you will prevent my using my weapon if you hang upon me thus. — The bungling fools cannot fix their petard without the use of torches! Now let me take the advantage of this interval191. — Remember what I told thee, and how to put off time.”
“Oh, Lord — ay, sir,” said Phoebe, “I will say any thing, Oh, Lord, that it were but over! — Ah! ah!”—(two prolonged screams)—“I hear something hissing192 like a serpent.”
“It is the fusee, as we martialists call it,” replied the knight; “that is, Phoebe, the match which fires the petard, and which is longer or shorter, according to the distance.”
Here the knight’s discourse193 was cut short by a dreadful explosion, which, as he had foretold194, shattered the door, strong as it was, to pieces, and brought down the glass clattering195 from the windows with all the painted heroes and heroines, who had been recorded on that fragile place of memory for centuries. The women shrieked196 incessantly197, and were answered by the bellowing198 of Bevis, though shut up at a distance from the scene of action. The knight, shaking Phoebe from him with difficulty, advanced into the hall to meet those who rushed in, with torches lighted and weapons prepared.
“Death to all who resist — life to those who surrender!” exclaimed Cromwell, stamping with his foot. “Who commands this garrison?”
“Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley,” answered the old knight, stepping forward; “who, having no other garrison than two weak women, is compelled to submit to what he would willingly have resisted.”
“Disarm the inveterate199 and malignant59 rebel,” cried Oliver. “Art thou not ashamed, sir, to detain me before the door of a house which you had no force to defend? Wearest thou so white a beard, and knowest thou not, that to refuse surrendering an indefensible post, by the martial law, deserves hanging?”
“My beard and I,” said Sir Henry, “have settled that matter between us, and agree right cordially. It is better to run the risk of being hanged, like honest men, than to give up our trust like cowards and traitors200.”
“Ha! say’st thou?” said Cromwell; “thou hast powerful motives201, I doubt not, for running thy head into a noose202. But I will speak with thee by and by. — Ho! Pearson, Gilbert Pearson, take this scroll203 — Take the elder woman with thee — Let her guide you to the various places therein mentioned — Search every room therein set down, and arrest, or slay upon the slightest resistance, whomsoever you find there. Then note those places marked as commanding points for cutting off intercourse through the mansion204 — the landing-places of the great staircase, the great gallery, and so forth. Use the woman civilly. The plan annexed205 to the scroll will point out the posts, even if she prove stupid or refractory206. Meanwhile, the corporal, with a party, will bring the old man and the girl there to some apartment — the parlour, I think, called Victor Lee’s, will do as well as another. — We will then be out of this stifling207 smell of gunpowder.”
So saying, and without requiring any farther assistance or guidance, he walked towards the apartment he had named. Sir Henry had his own feelings, when he saw the unhesitating decision with which the General led the way, and which seemed to intimate a more complete acquaintance with the various localities of Woodstock than was consistent with his own present design, to engage the Commonwealth party in a fruitless search through the intricacies of the Lodge.
“I will now ask thee a few questions, old man,” said the General, when they had arrived in the room; “and I warn thee, that hope of pardon for thy many and persevering208 efforts against the Commonwealth, can be no otherwise merited than by the most direct answers to the questions I am about to ask.”
Sir Henry bowed. He would have spoken, but he felt his temper rising high, and became afraid it might be exhausted209 before the part he had settled to play, in order to afford the King time for his escape, should be brought to an end.
“What household have you had here, Sir Henry Lee, within these few days — what guests — what visitors? We know that your means of house-keeping are not so profuse210 as usual, so the catalogue cannot be burdensome to your memory.”
“Far from it,” replied the knight, with unusual command of temper, “my daughter, and latterly my son, have been my guests; and I have had these females, and one Joceline Joliffe, to attend upon us.”
“I do not ask after the regular members of your household, but after those who have been within your gates, either as guests, or as malignant fugitives211 taking shelter.”
“There may have been more of both kinds, sir, than I, if it please your valour, am able to answer for,” replied the knight. “I remember my kinsman212 Everard was here one morning — Also, I bethink me, a follower213 of his, called Wildrake.”
“Did you not also receive a young cavalier, called Louis Garnegey?” said Cromwell.
“I remember no such name, were I to hang for it,” said the knight. “Kerneguy, or some such word,” said the General; “we will not quarrel for a sound.”
“A Scotch214 lad, called Louis Kerneguy, was a guest of mine,” said Sir Henry, “and left me this morning for Dorsetshire.”
“So late!” exclaimed Cromwell, stamping with his foot —“How fate contrives215 to baffle us, even when she seems most favourable216! — What direction did he take, old man?” continued Cromwell —“what horse did he ride — who went with him?”
“My son went with him,” replied the knight; “he brought him here as the son of a Scottish lord. — I pray you, sir, to be finished with these questions; for although I owe thee, as Will Shakspeare says,
Respect for thy great place, and let the devil
Be sometimes honoured for his burning throne —
yet I feel my patience wearing thin.”
Cromwell here whispered to the corporal, who in turn uttered orders to two soldiers, who left the room. “Place the knight aside; we will now examine the servant damsel,” said the General. —“Dost them know,” said he to Phoebe, “of the presence of one Louis Kerneguy, calling himself a Scotch page, who came here a few days since?”
“Surely, sir,” she replied, “I cannot easily forget him; and I warrant no well-looking wench that comes into his way will be like to forget him either.”
“Aha,” said Cromwell, “sayst thou so? truly I believe the woman will prove the truer witness. — When did he leave this house?”
“Nay, I know nothing of his movements, not I,” said Phoebe; “I am only glad to keep out of his way. But if he have actually gone hence, I am sure he was here some two hours since, for he crossed me in the lower passage, between the hall and the kitchen.”
“How did you know it was he?” demanded Cromwell.
“By a rude enough token,” said Phoebe. —“La, sir, you do ask such questions!” she added, hanging down her head.
Humgudgeon here interfered217, taking upon himself the freedom of a co-adjutor. “Verily,” he said, “if what the damsel is called to speak upon hath aught unseemly, I crave218 your Excellency’s permission to withdraw, not desiring that my nightly meditations219 may be disturbed with tales of such a nature.”
“Nay, your honour,” said Phoebe, “I scorn the old man’s words, in the way of seemliness or unseemliness either. Master Louis did but snatch a kiss, that is the truth of it, if it must be told.”
Here Humgudgeon groaned220 deeply, while his Excellency avoided laughing with some difficulty. “Thou hast given excellent tokens, Phoebe,” he said; “and if they be true, as I think they seem to be, thou shalt not lack thy reward. — And here comes our spy from the stables.”
“There are not the least signs,” said the trooper, “that horses have been in the stables for a month — there is no litter in the stalls, no hay in the racks, the corn-bins are empty, and the mangers are full of cobwebs.”
“Ay, ay,” said the old knight, “I have seen when I kept twenty good horses in these stalls, with many a groom221 and stable-boy to attend them.”
“In the meanwhile,” said Cromwell, “their present state tells little for the truth of your own story, that there were horses today, on which this Kerneguy and your son fled from justice.”
“I did not say that the horses were kept there,” said the knight. “I have horses and stables elsewhere.”
“Fie, fie, for shame, for shame!” said the General; “can a white-bearded man, I ask it once more, be a false witness?”
“Faith, sir,” said Sir Henry Lee, “it is a thriving trade, and I wonder not that you who live on it are so severe in prosecuting222 interlopers. But it is the times, and those who rule the times, that make grey-beards deceivers.”
“Thou art facetious223 friend, as well as daring in thy malignity,” said Cromwell; “but credit me, I will cry quittance with you ere I am done. Whereunto lead these doors?”
“To bedrooms,” answered the knight.
“Bedrooms! only to bedrooms?” said the Republican General, in a voice which indicated such was the internal occupation of his thoughts, that he had not fully8 understood the answer.
“Lord, sir,” said the knight, “why should you make it so strange? I say these doors lead to bedrooms — to places where honest men sleep, and rogues224 lie awake.”
“You are running up a farther account, Sir Henry,” said the General; “but we will balance it once and for all.”
During the whole of the scene, Cromwell, whatever might be the internal uncertainty of his mind, maintained the most strict temperance in language and manner, just as if he had no farther interest in what was passing, than as a military man employed in discharging the duty enjoined225 him by his superiors. But the restraint upon his passion was but
“The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash below.”
But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?
The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash, below.
CAMPBELL’S Gertrude of Wyoming.
The course of his resolution was hurried on even more forcibly, because no violence of expression attended or announced its current. He threw himself into a chair, with a countenance that indicated no indecision of mind, but a determination which awaited only the signal for action. Meanwhile the knight, as if resolved in nothing to forego the privileges of his rank and place, sat himself down in turn, and putting on his hat, which lay on a table, regarded the General with a calm look of fearless indifference226. The soldiers stood around, some holding the torches, which illuminated227 the apartment with a lurid228 and sombre glare of light, the others resting upon their weapons. Phoebe, with her hands folded, her eyes turned upwards229 till the pupils were scarce visible, and every shade of colour banished230 from her ruddy cheek, stood like one in immediate231 apprehension232 of the sentence of death being pronounced, and instant execution commanded.
Heavy steps were at last heard, and Pearson and some of the soldiers returned. This seemed to be what Cromwell waited for. He started up, and asked hastily, “Any news, Pearson? any prisoners — any malignants slain in thy defence?”
“None, so please your Excellency,” said the officer.
“And are thy sentinels all carefully placed, as Tomkins’ scroll gave direction, and with fitting orders?”
“With the most deliberate care,” said Pearson.
“Art thou very sure,” said Cromwell, pulling him a little to one side, “that this is all well and duly cared for? Bethink thee, that when we engage ourselves in the private communications, all will be lost should the party we look for have the means of dodging233 us by an escape into the more open rooms, and from thence perhaps into the forest.”
“My Lord-General,” answered Pearson, “if placing the guards on the places pointed127 out in this scroll be sufficient, with the strictest orders to stop, and, if necessary, to stab or shoot, whoever crosses their post, such orders are given to men who will not fail to execute them. If more is necessary, your Excellency has only to speak.”
“No — no — no, Pearson,” said the General, “thou hast done well. — This night over, and let it end but as we hope, thy reward shall not be wanting. — And now to business. — Sir Henry Lee, undo me the secret spring of yonder picture of your ancestor. Nay, spare yourself the trouble and guilt of falsehood or equivocation234, and, I say, undo me that spring presently.”
“When I acknowledge you for my master, and wear your livery, I may obey your commands,” answered the knight; “even then I would need first to understand them.”
“Wench,” said Cromwell, addressing Phoebe, “go thou undo the spring — you could do it fast enough when you aided at the gambols235 of the demons236 of Woodstock, and terrified even Mark Everard, who, I judged, had more sense.”
“Oh Lord, sir, what shall I do?” said Phoebe, looking to the knight; “they know all about it. What shall I do?”
“For thy life, hold out to the last, wench! Every minute is worth a million.”
“Ha! heard you that, Pearson?” said Cromwell to the officer; then, stamping with his foot, he added, “Undo the spring, or I will else use levers and wrenching-irons — Or, ha! another petard were well bestowed237 — Call the engineer.”
“O Lord, sir,” cried Phoebe, “I shall never live another peter — I will open the spring.”
“Do as thou wilt,” said Sir Henry; “it shall profit them but little.”
Whether from real agitation238, or from a desire to gain time, Phoebe was some minutes ere she could get the spring to open; it was indeed secured with art, and the machinery239 on which it acted was concealed240 in the frame of the portrait. The whole, when fastened, appeared quite motionless, and betrayed, as when examined by Colonel Everard, no external mark of its being possible to remove it. It was now withdrawn, however, and showed a narrow recess162, with steps which ascended241 on one side into the thickness of the wall. Cromwell was now like a greyhound slipped from the leash242 with the prey in full view. —“Up,” he cried, “Pearson, thou art swifter than I— Up thou next, corporal.” With more agility243 than could have been expected from his person or years, which were past the meridian244 of life, and exclaiming, “Before, those with the torches!” he followed the party, like an eager huntsman in the rear of his hounds, to encourage at once and direct them, as they penetrated245 into the labyrinth246 described by Dr. Rochecliffe in the “Wonders of Woodstock.”
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1
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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2
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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3
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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4
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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5
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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6
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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8
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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9
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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10
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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11
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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12
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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13
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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14
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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15
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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16
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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17
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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18
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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19
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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20
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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21
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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22
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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23
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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24
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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25
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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26
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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27
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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28
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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29
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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30
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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31
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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32
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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33
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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34
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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35
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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36
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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37
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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39
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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40
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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41
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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42
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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43
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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44
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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45
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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46
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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48
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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49
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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50
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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51
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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52
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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53
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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54
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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55
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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56
reposes
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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57
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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58
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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59
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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60
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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61
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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62
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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63
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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64
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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65
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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66
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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67
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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68
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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69
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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70
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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71
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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72
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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73
skulked
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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75
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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76
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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77
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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78
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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79
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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80
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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81
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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82
shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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83
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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84
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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85
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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86
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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87
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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88
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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89
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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90
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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91
misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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92
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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93
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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94
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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95
interring
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| v.埋，葬( inter的现在分词 ) | |
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96
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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97
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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98
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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99
rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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100
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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101
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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102
acorn
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| n.橡实，橡子 | |
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103
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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104
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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105
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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106
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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107
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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108
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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109
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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110
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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111
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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112
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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113
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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114
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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115
preclude
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| vt.阻止，排除，防止；妨碍 | |
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116
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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117
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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118
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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119
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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120
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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121
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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122
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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123
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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124
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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125
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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126
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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127
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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128
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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129
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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130
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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131
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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132
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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133
parricide
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| n.杀父母；杀亲罪 | |
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134
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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135
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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136
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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137
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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138
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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139
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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140
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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141
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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142
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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143
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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144
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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145
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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146
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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147
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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148
hardily
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| 耐劳地，大胆地，蛮勇地 | |
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149
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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150
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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151
reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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152
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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153
enquires
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| 打听( enquire的第三人称单数 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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154
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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155
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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156
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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157
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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158
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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159
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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160
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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161
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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162
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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163
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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164
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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165
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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166
bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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167
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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168
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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169
laterally
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| ad.横向地；侧面地；旁边地 | |
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170
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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171
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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172
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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173
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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174
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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175
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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176
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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178
condemns
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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179
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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180
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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181
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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182
hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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183
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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184
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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185
jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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186
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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187
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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188
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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189
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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190
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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191
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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192
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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193
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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194
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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196
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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198
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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199
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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200
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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201
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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202
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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203
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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204
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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205
annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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206
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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207
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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208
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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209
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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211
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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212
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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213
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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214
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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215
contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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216
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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218
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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219
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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220
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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221
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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222
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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223
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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224
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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225
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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226
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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228
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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229
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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230
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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231
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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232
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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233
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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234
equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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235
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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236
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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237
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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238
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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239
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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240
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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241
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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242
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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243
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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244
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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245
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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246
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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