When Murat, then called Gioacchino, king of Naples, raised his Italian regiments7, several young nobles, who had before been scarcely more than vine-dressers on the soil, were inspired with a love of arms, and presented themselves as candidates for military honours. Among these was the young Count Eboli. The father of this youthful noble had followed Ferdinand to Sicily; but his estates lay principally near Salerno, and he was naturally desirous of preserving them; while the hopes that the French government held out of glory and prosperity to his country made him often regret that he had followed his legitimate8 but imbecile king to exile. When he died, therefore, he recommended his son to return to Naples, to present himself to his old and tried friend, the Marchese Spina, who held a high office in Murat’s government, and through his means to reconcile himself to the new king. All this was easily achieved. The young and gallant9 Count was permitted to possess his patrimony10; and, as a further pledge of good fortune, he was betrothed11 to the only child of the Marchese Spina. The nuptials13 were deferred14 till the end of the ensuing campaign.
Meanwhile the army was put in motion, and Count Eboli only obtained such short leave of absence as permitted him to visit for a few hours the villa15 of his future father-in-law, there to take leave of him and his affianced bride. The villa was situated16 on one of the Apennines to the north of Salerno, and looked down, over the plain of Calabria, in which P?stum is situated, on to the blue Mediterranean17. A precipice18 on one side, a brawling19 mountain torrent20, and a thick grove21 of ilex, added beauty to the sublimity22 of its site. Count Eboli ascended23 the mountain-path in all the joy of youth and hope. His stay was brief. An exhortation24 and a blessing25 from the Marchese, a tender farewell, graced by gentle tears, from the fair Adalinda, were the recollections he was to bear with him, to inspire him with courage and hope in danger and absence. The sun had just sunk behind the distant isle26 of Istria, when, kissing his lady’s hand, he said a last “Addio,” and with slower steps, and more melancholy27 mien28, rode down the mountain on his road to Naples.
That same night Adalinda retired29 early to her apartment, dismissing her attendants; and then, restless from mingled30 fear and hope, she threw open the glass-door that led to a balcony looking over the edge of the hill upon the torrent, whose loud rushing often lulled31 her to sleep, but whose waters were concealed32 from sight by the ilex trees, which lifted their topmost branches above the guarding parapet of the balcony.
Leaning her cheek upon her hand, she thought of the dangers her lover would encounter, of her loneliness the while, of his letters, and of his return. A rustling33 sound now caught her ear. Was it the breeze among the ilex trees? Her own veil was unwaved by every wind, her tresses even, heavy in their own rich beauty only, were not lifted from her cheek. Again those sounds. Her blood retreated to her heart, and her limbs trembled. What could it mean? Suddenly the upper branches of the nearest tree were disturbed; they opened, and the faint starlight showed a man’s figure among them. He prepared to spring from his hold on to the wall. It was a feat34 of peril35. First the soft voice of her lover bade her “Fear not,” and on the next instant he was at her side, calming her terrors, and recalling her spirits, that almost left her gentle frame, from mingled surprise, dread36, and joy. He encircled her waist with his arm, and pouring forth37 a thousand passionate38 expressions of love, she leant on his shoulder, and wept from agitation39, while he covered her hands with kisses, and gazed on her with ardent40 adoration41.
Then in calmer mood they sat together; triumph and joy lighted up his eyes, and a modest blush glowed on her cheek: for never before had she sat alone with him, nor heard unrestrained his impassioned assurances of affection. It was, indeed, Love’s own hour. The stars trembled on the roof of his eternal temple; the dashing of the torrent, the mild summer atmosphere, and the mysterious aspect of the darkened scenery, were all in unison42 to inspire security and voluptuous43 hope. They talked of how their hearts, through the medium of divine nature, might hold commune during absence; of the joys of reunion, and of their prospect44 of perfect happiness.
The moment at last arrived when he must depart. “One tress of this silken hair,” said he, raising one of the many curls that clustered on her neck. “I will place it on my heart, a shield to protect me against the swords and balls of the enemy.” He drew his keen-edged dagger45 from its sheath. “Ill weapon for so gentle a deed,” he said, severing46 the lock, and at the same moment many drops of blood fell fast on the fair arm of the lady. He answered her fearful inquiries47 by showing a gash48 he had awkwardly inflicted49 on his left hand. First he insisted on securing his prize, and then he permitted her to bind50 his wound, which she did half laughing, half in sorrow, winding51 round his hand a riband loosened from her own arm. “Now, farewell,” he cried; “I must ride twenty miles ere dawn, and the descending52 Bear shows that midnight is past.” His descent was difficult, but he achieved it happily, and the stave of a song—whose soft sounds rose like the smoke of incense53 from an altar—from the dell below, to her impatient ear, assured her of his safety.
As is always the case when an account is gathered from eye-witnesses, I never could ascertain54 the exact date of these events. They occurred, however, while Murat was king of Naples; and when he raised his Italian regiments, Count Eboli, as aforesaid, became a junior officer in them, and served with much distinction, though I cannot name either the country or the battle in which he acted so conspicuous55 a part that he was on the spot promoted to a troop.
Not long after this event, and while he was stationed in the north of Italy, Gioacchino, sending for him to headquarters late one evening, entrusted56 him with a confidential57 mission, across a country occupied by the enemy’s troops, to a town possessed58 by the French. It was necessary to undertake the expedition during the night, and he was expected to return on that succeeding the following day. The king himself gave him his despatches and the word; and the noble youth, with modest firmness, protested that he would succeed, or die, in the fulfilment of his trust.
It was already night, and the crescent moon was low in the west, when Count Ferdinando Eboli, mounting his favourite horse, at a quick gallop60 cleared the streets of the town; and then, following the directions given him, crossed the country among the fields planted with vines, carefully avoiding the main road. It was a beauteous and still night; calm and sleep occupied the earth; war, the blood-hound, slumbered63; the spirit of love alone had life at that silent hour. Exulting64 in the hope of glory, our young hero commenced his journey, and visions of aggrandizement65 and love formed his reveries. A distant sound roused him: he checked his horse and listened; voices approached. When recognising the speech of a German, he turned from the path he was following, to a still straighter way. But again the tone of an enemy was heard, and the trampling66 of horses. Eboli did not hesitate; he dismounted, tied his steed to a tree, and, skirting along the enclosure of the field, trusted to escape thus unobserved. He succeeded after an hour’s painful progress, and arrived on the borders of a stream, which, as the boundary between two states, was the mark of his having finally escaped danger. Descending the steep bank of the river, which, with his horse, he might perhaps have forded, he now prepared to swim. He held his despatch59 in one hand, threw away his cloak, and was about to plunge67 into the water, when from under the dark shade of the argine, which had concealed them, he was suddenly arrested by unseen hands, cast on the ground, bound, gagged, and blinded, and then placed into a little boat, which was sculled with infinite rapidity down the stream.
There seemed so much of premeditation in the act that it baffled conjecture68, yet he must believe himself a prisoner to the Austrian. While, however, he still vainly reflected, the boat was moored69, he was lifted out, and the change of atmosphere made him aware that they entered some house. With extreme care and celerity, yet in the utmost silence, he was stripped of his clothes, and two rings he wore drawn70 from his fingers; other habiliments were thrown over him; and then no departing footstep was audible; but soon he heard the splash of a single oar71, and he felt himself alone. He lay perfectly72 unable to move, the only relief his captor or captors had afforded him being the exchange of the gag for a tightly-bound handkerchief. For hours he thus remained, with a tortured mind, bursting with rage, impatience73, and disappointment; now writhing74 as well as he could in his endeavours to free himself, now still in despair. His despatches were taken away, and the period was swiftly passing when he could by his presence have remedied in some degree this evil. The morning dawned, and, though the full glare of the sun could not visit his eyes, he felt it play upon his limbs. As the day advanced, hunger preyed75 on him, and, though amidst the visitation of mightier76, he at first disdained78 this minor79, evil, towards evening it became, in spite of himself, the predominant sensation. Night approached, and the fear that he should remain, and even starve, in this unvisited solitude80 had more than once thrilled through his frame, when feminine voices and a child’s gay laugh met his ear. He heard persons enter the apartment, and he was asked in his native language, while the ligature was taken from his mouth, the cause of his present situation. He attributed it to banditti. His bonds were quickly cut, and his banded eyes restored to sight. It was long before he recovered himself. Water brought from the stream, however, was some refreshment81, and by degrees he resumed the use of his senses, and saw that he was in a dilapidated shepherd’s cot, with no one near him save the peasant girl and a child, who had liberated82 him. They rubbed his ankles and wrists, and the little fellow offered him some bread and eggs, after which refreshment and an hour’s repose83 Ferdinando felt himself sufficiently84 restored to revolve85 his adventure in his mind, and to determine on the conduct he was to pursue.
He looked at the dress which had been given him in exchange for that which he had worn. It was of the plainest and meanest description. Still no time was to be lost; and he felt assured that the only step he could take was to return with all speed to the headquarters of the Neapolitan army, and inform the king of his disasters and his loss.
It were long to follow his backward steps, and to tell all of indignation and disappointment that swelled86 his heart. He walked painfully but resolutely87 all night, and by three in the morning entered the town where Gioacchino then was. He was challenged by the sentinels; he gave the word confided88 to him by Murat, and was instantly made prisoner by the soldiers. He declared to them his name and rank, and the necessity he was under of immediately seeing the king. He was taken to the guard-house, and the officer on duty there listened with contempt to his representations, telling him that Count Ferdinando Eboli had returned three hours before, ordering him to be confined for further examination as a spy. Eboli loudly insisted that some impostor had taken his name; and while he related the story of his capture, another officer came in, who recognised his person; other individuals acquainted with him joined the party; and as the impostor had been seen by none but the officer of the night, his tale gained ground.
A young Frenchman of superior rank, who had orders to attend the king early in the morning, carried a report of what was going forward to Murat himself. The tale was so strange that the king sent for the young Count; and then, in spite of having seen and believed in his counterfeit89 a few hours before, and having received from him an account of his mission, which had been faithfully executed, the appearance of the youth staggered him, and he commanded the presence of him who, as Count Eboli, had appeared before him a few hours previously90. As Ferdinand stood beside the king, his eye glanced at a large and splendid mirror. His matted hair, his bloodshot eyes, his haggard looks, and torn and mean dress, derogated from the nobility of his appearance; and still less did he appear like the magnificent Count Eboli, when, to his utter confusion and astonishment91, his counterfeit stood beside him.
He was perfect in all the outward signs that denoted high birth; and so like him whom he represented, that it would have been impossible to discern one from the other apart. The same chestnut93 hair clustered on his brow; the sweet and animated94 hazel eyes were the same; the one voice was the echo of the other. The composure and dignity of the pretender gained the suffrages95 of those around. When he was told of the strange appearance of another Count Eboli, he laughed in a frank good-humoured manner, and, turning to Ferdinand, said, “You honour me much in selecting me for your personation; but there are two or three things I like about myself so well, that you must excuse my unwillingness96 to exchange myself for you.” Ferdinand would have answered, but the false Count, with greater haughtiness97, turning to the king, said, “Will your majesty98 decide between us? I cannot bandy words with a fellow of this sort.” Irritated by scorn, Ferdinand demanded leave to challenge the pretender; who said, that if the king and his brother-officers did not think that he should degrade himself and disgrace the army by going out with a common vagabond, he was willing to chastise99 him, even at the peril of his own life. But the king, after a few more questions, feeling assured that the unhappy noble was an impostor, in severe and menacing terms reprehended100 him for his insolence101, telling him that he owed it to his mercy alone that he was not executed as a spy, ordering him instantly to be conducted without the walls of the town, with threats of weighty punishment if he ever dared to subject his impostures to further trial.
It requires a strong imagination, and the experience of much misery103, fully61 to enter into Ferdinand’s feelings. From high rank, glory, hope, and love, he was hurled104 to utter beggary and disgrace. The insulting words of his triumphant105 rival, and the degrading menaces of his so lately gracious sovereign, rang in his ears; every nerve in his frame writhed106 with agony. But, fortunately for the endurance of human life, the worst misery in early youth is often but a painful dream, which we cast off when slumber62 quits our eyes. After a struggle with intolerable anguish107, hope and courage revived in his heart. His resolution was quickly made. He would return to Naples, relate his story to the Marchese Spina, and through his influence obtain at least an impartial108 hearing from the king. It was not, however, in his peculiar109 situation, an easy task to put his determination into effect. He was penniless; his dress bespoke110 poverty; he had neither friend nor kinsman112 near, but such as would behold113 in him the most impudent114 of swindlers. Still his courage did not fail him. The kind Italian soil, in the autumnal season now advanced, furnished him with chestnuts115, arbutus berries, and grapes. He took the most direct road over the hills, avoiding towns, and indeed every habitation; travelling principally in the night, when, except in cities, the officers of government had retired from their stations. How he succeeded in getting from one end of Italy to the other it is difficult to say; but certain it is, that, after the interval116 of a few weeks, he presented himself at the Villa Spina.
With considerable difficulty he obtained admission to the presence of the Marchese, who received him standing117, with an inquiring look, not at all recognising the noble youth. Ferdinand requested a private interview, for there were several visitors present. His voice startled the Marchese, who complied, taking him into another apartment. Here Ferdinand disclosed himself, and, with rapid and agitated118 utterance119, was relating the history of his misfortunes, when the tramp of horses was heard, the great bell rang, and a domestic announced “Count Ferdinando Eboli.” “It is himself,” cried the youth, turning pale. The words were strange, and they appeared still more so when the person announced entered; the perfect semblance120 of the young noble, whose name he assumed, as he had appeared when last at his departure, he trod the pavement of the hall. He inclined his head gracefully121 to the baron122, turning with a glance of some surprise, but more disdain77, towards Ferdinand, exclaiming, “Thou here!”
Ferdinand drew himself up to his full height. In spite of fatigue123, ill-fare, and coarse garments, his manner was full of dignity. The Marchese looked at him fixedly124, and started as he marked his proud mien, and saw in his expressive126 features the very face of Eboli. But again he was perplexed127 when he turned and discerned, as in a mirror, the same countenance128 reflected by the new-comer, who underwent this scrutiny129 somewhat impatiently. In brief and scornful words he told the Marchese that this was a second attempt in the intruder to impose himself as Count Eboli; that the trick had failed before, and would again; adding, laughing, that it was hard to be brought to prove himself to be himself, against the assertion of a briccone, whose likeness130 to him, and matchless impudence131, were his whole stock-in-trade.
“Why, my good fellow,” continued he, sneeringly132, “you put me out of conceit133 with myself, to think that one, apparently134 so like me, should get on no better in the world.”
The blood mounted into Ferdinand’s cheeks on his enemy’s bitter taunts135; with difficulty he restrained himself from closing with his foe136, while the words “traitorous impostor!” burst from his lips. The baron commanded the fierce youth to be silent, and, moved by a look that he remembered to be Ferdinand’s, he said gently, “By your respect for me, I adjure137 you to be patient; fear not but that I will deal impartially138.” Then turning to the pretended Eboli, he added that he could not doubt but that he was the true Count, and asked excuse for his previous indecision. At first the latter appeared angry, but at length he burst into a laugh, and then, apologising for his ill-breeding, continued laughing heartily139 at the perplexity of the Marchese. It is certain his gaiety gained more credit with his auditor140 than the indignant glances of poor Ferdinand. The false Count then said that, after the king’s menaces, he had entertained no expectation that the farce141 was to be played over again. He had obtained leave of absence, of which he profited to visit his future father-in-law, after having spent a few days in his own palazzo at Naples. Until now Ferdinand had listened silently, with a feeling of curiosity, anxious to learn all he could of the actions and motives142 of his rival; but at these last words he could no longer contain himself.
“What!” cried he, “hast thou usurped143 my place in my own father’s house, and dared assume my power in my ancestral halls?”
A gush144 of tears overpowered the youth; he hid his face in his hands. Fierceness and pride lit up the countenance of the pretender.
“By the eternal God and the sacred cross, I swear,” he exclaimed, “that palace is my father’s palace; those halls the halls of my ancestors!”
Ferdinand looked up with surprise: “And the earth opens not,” he said, “to swallow the perjured145 man.”
He then, at the call of the Marchese, related his adventures, while scorn mantled146 on the features of his rival. The Marchese, looking at both, could not free himself from doubt. He turned from one to the other: in spite of the wild and disordered appearance of poor Ferdinand, there was something in him that forbade his friend to condemn147 him as the impostor; but then it was utterly148 impossible to pronounce such the gallant and noble-looking youth, who could only be acknowledged as the real Count by the disbelief of the other’s tale. The Marchese, calling an attendant, sent for his fair daughter.
“This decision,” said he, “shall be made over to the subtle judgment149 of a woman, and the keen penetration150 of one who loves.”
Both the youths now smiled—the same smile; the same expression—that of anticipated triumph. The baron was more perplexed than ever.
Adalinda had heard of the arrival of Count Eboli, and entered, resplendent in youth and happiness. She turned quickly towards him who resembled most the person she expected to see; when a well-known voice pronounced her name, and she gazed aghast on the double appearance of the lover. Her father, taking her hand, briefly151 explained the mystery, and bade her assure herself which was her affianced husband.
“Signorina,” said Ferdinand, “disdain me not because I appear before you thus in disgrace and misery. Your love, your goodness will restore me to prosperity and happiness.”
“I know not by what means,” said the wondering girl, “but surely you are Count Eboli.”
“Adalinda,” said the rival youth, “waste not your words on a villain152. Lovely and deceived one, I trust, trembling I say it, that I can with one word assure you that I am Eboli.”
“Adalinda,” said Ferdinand, “I placed the nuptial12 ring on your finger; before God your vows153 were given to me.”
The false Count approached the lady, and, bending one knee, took from his heart a locket, enclosing hair tied with a green riband, which she recognised to have worn, and pointed154 to a slight scar on his left hand.
Adalinda blushed deeply, and, turning to her father, said, motioning towards the kneeling youth,—
“He is Ferdinand.”
All protestations now from the unhappy Eboli were vain. The Marchese would have cast him into a dungeon155; but at the earnest request of his rival, he was not detained, but thrust ignominiously156 from the villa. The rage of a wild beast newly chained was less than the tempest of indignation that now filled the heart of Ferdinand. Physical suffering, from the fatigue and fasting, was added to his internal anguish; for some hours madness, if that were madness which never forgets its ill, possessed him. In a tumult157 of feelings there was one predominant idea: it was to take possession of his father’s house, and to try, by ameliorating the fortuitous circumstances of his lot, to gain the upper hand of his adversary158. He expended159 his remaining strength in reaching Naples, entered his family palace, and was received and acknowledged by his astonished domestics.
One of his first acts was to take from a cabinet a miniature of his father encircled with jewels, and to invoke160 the aid of the paternal161 spirit. Refreshment and a bath restored him to some of his usual strength; and he looked forward with almost childish delight to one night to be spent in peace under the roof of his father’s house. This was not permitted. Ere midnight the great bell sounded: his rival entered as master, with the Marchese Spina. The result may be divined. The Marchese appeared more indignant than the false Eboli. He insisted that the unfortunate youth should be imprisoned162. The portrait, whose setting was costly163, found on him, proved him guilty of robbery. He was given into the hands of the police, and thrown into a dungeon. I will not dwell on the subsequent scenes. He was tried by the tribunal, condemned165 as guilty, and sentenced to the galleys166 for life.
On the eve of the day when he was to be removed from the Neapolitan prison to work on the roads in Calabria, his rival visited him in his dungeon. For some moments both looked at the other in silence. The impostor gazed on the prisoner with mingled pride and compassion167: there was evidently a struggle in his heart. The answering glance of Ferdinand was calm, free, and dignified168. He was not resigned to his hard fate, but he disdained to make any exhibition of despair to his cruel and successful foe. A spasm169 of pain seemed to wrench170 the bosom171 of the false one; and he turned aside, striving to recover the hardness of heart which had hitherto supported him in the prosecution172 of his guilty enterprise. Ferdinand spoke111 first.
“What would the triumphant criminal with his innocent victim?”
His visitant replied haughtily173, “Do not address such epithets174 to me, or I leave you to your fate: I am that which I say I am.”
“To me this boast!” cried Ferdinand scornfully; “but perhaps these walls have ears.”
“Heaven, at least, is not deaf,” said the deceiver; “favouring Heaven, which knows and admits my claim. But a truce175 to this idle discussion. Compassion—a distaste to see one so very like myself in such ill condition—a foolish whim176, perhaps, on which you may congratulate yourself—has led me hither. The bolts of your dungeon are drawn; here is a purse of gold; fulfil one easy condition, and you are free.”
“And that condition?”
“Sign this paper.”
He gave to Ferdinand a writing, containing a confession177 of his imputed178 crimes. The hand of the guilty youth trembled as he gave it; there was confusion in his mien, and a restless uneasy rolling of his eye. Ferdinand wished in one mighty179 word, potent180 as lightning, loud as thunder, to convey his burning disdain of this proposal: but expression is weak, and calm is more full of power than storm. Without a word, he tore the paper in two pieces and threw them at the feet of his enemy.
With a sudden change of manner, his visitant conjured181 him, in voluble and impetuous terms, to comply. Ferdinand answered only by requesting to be left alone. Now and then a half word broke uncontrollably from his lips; but he curbed182 himself. Yet he could not hide his agitation when, as an argument to make him yield, the false Count assured him that he was already married to Adalinda. Bitter agony thrilled poor Ferdinand’s frame; but he preserved a calm mien, and an unaltered resolution. Having exhausted183 every menace and every persuasion184, his rival left him, the purpose for which he came unaccomplished. On the morrow, with many others, the refuse of mankind, Count Ferdinando Eboli was led in chains to the unwholesome plains of Calabria, to work there at the roads.
I must hurry over some of the subsequent events, for a detailed185 account of them would fill volumes. The assertion of the usurper186 of Ferdinand’s right, that he was already married to Adalinda, was, like all else he said, false. The day was, however, fixed125 for their union, when the illness and the subsequent death of the Marchese Spina delayed its celebration. Adalinda retired during the first months of mourning to a castle belonging to her father not far from Arpino, a town of the kingdom of Naples, in the midst of the Apennines, about 50 miles from the capital. Before she went, the deceiver tried to persuade her to consent to a private marriage. He was probably afraid that, in the long interval that was about to ensue before he could secure her, she would discover his imposture102. Besides, a rumour187 had gone abroad that one of the fellow-prisoners of Ferdinand, a noted92 bandit, had escaped, and that the young count was his companion in flight. Adalinda, however, refused to comply with her lover’s entreaties188, and retired to her seclusion189 with an old aunt, who was blind and deaf, but an excellent duenna. The false Eboli seldom visited his mistress; but he was a master in his art, and subsequent events showed that he must have spent all his time, disguised, in the vicinity of the castle. He contrived190 by various means, unsuspected at the moment, to have all Adalinda’s servants changed for creatures of his own; so that, without her being aware of the restraint, she was, in fact, a prisoner in her own house. It is impossible to say what first awakened191 her suspicions concerning the deception192 put upon her. She was an Italian, with all the habitual193 quiescence194 and lassitude of her countrywomen in the ordinary routine of life, and with all their energy and passion when roused. The moment the doubt darted195 into her mind she resolved to be assured. A few questions relative to scenes that had passed between poor Ferdinand and herself sufficed for this. They were asked so suddenly and pointedly196 that the pretender was thrown off his guard; he looked confused, and stammered197 in his replies. Their eyes met; he felt that he was detected, and she saw that he perceived her now confirmed suspicions. A look such as is peculiar to an impostor—a glance that deformed198 his beauty, and filled his usually noble countenance with the hideous199 lines of cunning and cruel triumph—completed her faith in her own discernment. “How,” she thought, “could I have mistaken this man for my own gentle Eboli?” Again their eyes met. The peculiar expression of his terrified her, and she hastily quitted the apartment.
Her resolution was quickly formed. It was of no use to attempt to explain her situation to her old aunt. She determined200 to depart immediately for Naples, throw herself at the feet of Gioacchino, and to relate and obtain credit for her strange history. But the time was already lost when she could have executed this design. The contrivances of the deceiver were complete—she found herself a prisoner. Excess of fear gave her boldness, if not courage. She sought her jailor. A few minutes before she had been a young and thoughtless girl, docile201 as a child, and as unsuspecting; now she felt as if she had suddenly grown old in wisdom, and that the experience of years had been gained in that of a few seconds.
During their interview she was wary202 and firm, while the instinctive203 power of innocence204 over guilt164 gave majesty to her demeanour. The contriver205 of her ills for a moment cowered206 beneath her eye. At first he would by no means allow that he was not the person he pretended to be, but the energy and eloquence207 of truth bore down his artifice208, so that, at length driven into a corner, he turned—a stag at bay. Then it was her turn to quail209, for the superior energy of a man gave him the mastery. He declared the truth: he was the elder brother of Ferdinand, a natural son of the old Count Eboli. His mother, who had been wronged, never forgave her injurer, and bred her son in deadly hate for his parent, and a belief that the advantages enjoyed by his more fortunate brother were rightfully his own. His education was rude; but he had an Italian’s subtle talents, swiftness of perception, and guileful210 arts.
“It would blanch211 your cheek,” he said to his trembling auditress, “could I describe all that I have suffered to achieve my purpose. I would trust to none—I executed all myself. It was a glorious triumph, but due to my perseverance212 and my fortitude213, when I and my usurping214 brother stood—I, the noble, he, the degraded outcast—before our sovereign.”
Having rapidly detailed his history, he now sought to win the favourable215 ear of Adalinda, who stood with averted216 and angry looks. He tried by the varied217 shows of passion and tenderness to move her heart. Was he not, in truth, the object of her love? Was it not he who scaled her balcony at Villa Spina? He recalled scenes of mutual218 overflow219 of feeling to her mind, thus urging arguments the most potent with a delicate woman. Pure blushes tinged220 her cheek, but horror of the deceiver predominated over every other sentiment. He swore that as soon as they should be united he would free Ferdinand, and bestow221 competency, nay222, if so she willed it, half his possessions on him. She coldly replied, that she would rather share the chains of the innocent, and misery, than link herself with imposture and crime. She demanded her liberty; but the untamed and even ferocious223 nature that had borne the deceiver through his career of crime now broke forth, and he invoked224 fearful imprecations on his head if she ever quitted the castle except as his wife. His look of conscious power and unbridled wickedness terrified her; her flashing eyes spoke abhorrence225. It would have been far easier for her to have died than have yielded the smallest point to a man who had made her feel for one moment his irresistible226 power, arising from her being an unprotected woman, wholly in his hands. She left him, feeling as if she had just escaped from the impending227 sword of an assassin.
One hour’s deliberation suggested to her a method of escape from her terrible situation. In a wardrobe at the castle lay, in their pristine228 gloss229, the habiliments of a page of her mother, who had died suddenly, leaving these unworn relics230 of his station. Dressing231 herself in these, she tied up her dark shining hair, and even, with a somewhat bitter feeling, girded on the slight sword that appertained to the costume. Then, through a private passage leading from her own apartment to the chapel232 of the castle, she glided233 with noiseless steps, long after the Ave Maria, sounded at four o’clock, had, on a November night, given token that half an hour had passed since the setting of the sun. She possessed the key of the chapel door—it opened at her touch; she closed it behind her, and she was free. The pathless hills were around her, the starry234 heavens above, and a cold wintry breeze murmured around the castle walls; but fear of her enemy conquered every other fear, and she tripped lightly on in a kind of ecstasy235 for many a long hour over the stony236 mountain path—she, who had never before walked more than a mile or two from home at any time in her life—till her feet were blistered237, her slight shoes cut through, her way utterly lost. At morning’s dawn she found herself in the midst of the wild ilex-covered Apennines, and neither habitation nor human being apparent.
She was hungry and weary. She had brought gold and jewels with her; but here were no means of exchanging these for food. She remembered stories of banditti, but none could be so ruffian-like and cruel as him from whom she fled. This thought, a little rest, and a draught238 of water from a pure mountain-spring, restored her to some portion of courage, and she continued her journey. Noonday approached; and, in the south of Italy, the noonday sun, when unclouded, even in November, is oppressively warm, especially to an Italian woman, who never exposes herself to its beams. Faintness came over her. There appeared recesses239 in the mountain sides along which she was travelling, grown over with bay and arbutus: she entered one of these, there to repose. It was deep, and led to another that opened into a spacious240 cavern241 lighted from above: there were cates, grapes, and a flagon of wine on a rough-hewn table. She looked fearfully around, but no inhabitant appeared. She placed herself at the table, and, half in dread, ate of the food presented to her; and then sat, her elbow on the table, her head resting on her little snow-white hand, her dark hair shading her brow and clustering round her throat. An appearance of languor242 and fatigue was diffused243 through her attitude, while her soft black eyes filled at intervals244 with large tears as, pitying herself, she recurred245 to the cruel circumstances of her lot. Her fanciful but elegant dress, her feminine form, her beauty and her grace, as she sat pensive246 and alone in the rough unhewn cavern, formed a picture a poet would describe with delight, an artist love to paint.
“She seemed a being of another world; a seraph247, all light and beauty: a Ganymede, escaped from his thrall248 above to his natal249 Ida. It was long before I recognised, looking down on her from the opening hill, my lost Adalinda.” Thus spoke the young Count Eboli, when he related this story; for its end was as romantic as its commencement.
When Ferdinando had arrived, a galley-slave in Calabria, he found himself coupled with a bandit, a brave fellow, who abhorred250 his chains, from love of freedom, as much as his fellow-prisoner did, from all the combination of disgrace and misery they brought upon him. Together they devised a plan of escape, and succeeded in effecting it. On their road, Ferdinand related his story to the outlaw251, who encouraged him to hope for a favourable turn of fate; and meanwhile invited and persuaded the desperate man to share his fortunes as a robber among the wild hills of Calabria.
The cavern where Adalinda had taken refuge was one of their fastnesses, whither they betook themselves at periods of imminent252 danger for safety only, as no booty could be collected in that unpeopled solitude; and there, one afternoon, returning from the chase, they found the wandering, fearful, solitary253, fugitive254 girl; and never was lighthouse more welcome to tempest-tossed sailor than was her own Ferdinand to his lady-love.
Fortune, now tired of persecuting255 the young noble, favoured him still further. The story of the lovers interested the bandit chief, and promise of reward secured him. Ferdinand persuaded Adalinda to remain one night in the cave, and on the following morning they prepared to proceed to Naples; but at the moment of their departure they were surprised by an unexpected visitant: the robbers brought in a prisoner—it was the impostor. Missing on the morrow her who was the pledge of his safety and success, but assured that she could not have wandered far, he despatched emissaries in all directions to seek her; and himself, joining in the pursuit, followed the road she had taken, and was captured by these lawless men, who expected rich ransom256 from one whose appearance denoted rank and wealth. When they discovered who their prisoner was, they generously delivered him up into his brother’s hands.
Ferdinand and Adalinda proceeded to Naples. On their arrival, she presented herself to Queen Caroline; and, through her, Murat heard with astonishment the device that had been practised on him. The young Count was restored to his honours and possessions, and within a few months afterwards was united to his betrothed bride.
The compassionate257 nature of the Count and Countess led them to interest themselves warmly in the fate of Ludovico, whose subsequent career was more honourable258 but less fortunate. At the intercession of his relative, Gioacchino permitted him to enter the army, where he distinguished259 himself, and obtained promotion260. The brothers were at Moscow together, and mutually assisted each other during the horrors of the retreat. At one time overcome by drowsiness261, the mortal symptom resulting from excessive cold, Ferdinand lingered behind his comrades; but Ludovico, refusing to leave him, dragged him on in spite of himself, till, entering a village, food and fire restored him, and his life was saved. On another evening, when wind and sleet262 added to the horror of their situation, Ludovico, after many ineffective struggles, slid from his horse lifeless; Ferdinand was at his side, and, dismounting, endeavoured by every means in his power to bring back pulsation263 to his stagnant264 blood. His comrades went forward, and the young Count was left alone with his dying brother in the white boundless265 waste. Once Ludovico opened his eyes and recognised him; he pressed his hand, and his lips moved to utter a blessing as he died. At that moment the welcome sounds of the enemy’s approach roused Ferdinand from the despair into which his dreadful situation plunged266 him. He was taken prisoner, and his life was thus saved. When Napoleon went to Elba, he, with many others of his countrymen, was liberated, and returned to Naples.
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1
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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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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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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42
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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46
severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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48
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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49
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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50
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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51
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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52
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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53
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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54
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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55
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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58
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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59
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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60
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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aggrandizement
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| n.增大，强化，扩大 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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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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82
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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chastise
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| vt.责骂，严惩 | |
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100
reprehended
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| v.斥责，指摘，责备( reprehend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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102
imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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103
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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104
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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105
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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106
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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108
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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109
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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110
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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111
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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112
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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113
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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114
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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115
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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116
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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117
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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118
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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119
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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120
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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121
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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122
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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123
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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124
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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125
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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126
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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127
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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128
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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129
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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130
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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131
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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132
sneeringly
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| 嘲笑地，轻蔑地 | |
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133
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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134
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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135
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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136
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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137
adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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138
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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139
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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140
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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141
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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142
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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143
usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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144
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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145
perjured
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| adj.伪证的，犯伪证罪的v.发假誓，作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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147
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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148
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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149
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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150
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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151
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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152
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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153
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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154
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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155
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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156
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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157
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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158
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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159
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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160
invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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161
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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162
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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164
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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165
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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166
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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167
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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168
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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169
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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170
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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171
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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172
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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173
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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174
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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175
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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176
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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177
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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178
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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180
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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181
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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182
curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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184
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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185
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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186
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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187
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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188
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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189
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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190
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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191
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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192
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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193
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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194
quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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195
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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196
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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197
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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199
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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200
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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201
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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202
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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203
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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204
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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205
contriver
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| 发明者，创制者，筹划者 | |
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206
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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207
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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208
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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209
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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210
guileful
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| adj.狡诈的，诡计多端的 | |
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211
blanch
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| v.漂白；使变白；使(植物)不见日光而变白 | |
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212
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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213
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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214
usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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215
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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216
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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217
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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218
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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219
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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220
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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221
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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222
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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223
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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224
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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225
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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226
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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227
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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228
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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229
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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230
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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231
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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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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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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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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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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pulsation
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| n.脉搏，悸动，脉动；搏动性 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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