Dice una falsità!”
—Italian Song.
The time of the occurrence of the little legend about to be narrated2, was that of the commencement of the reign3 of Henry IV. of France, whose accession and conversion4, while they brought peace to the kingdom whose throne he ascended5, were inadequate6 to heal the deep wounds mutually inflicted8 by the inimical parties. Private feuds9, and the memory of mortal injuries, existed between those now apparently10 united; and often did the hands that had clasped each other in seeming friendly greeting, involuntarily, as the grasp was released, clasp the dagger’s hilt, as fitter spokesman to their passions than the words of courtesy that had just fallen from their lips. Many of the fiercer Catholics retreated to their distant provinces; and while they concealed12 in solitude13 their rankling14 discontent, not less keenly did they long for the day when they might show it openly.
In a large and fortified15 chateau16 built on a rugged17 steep overlooking the Loire, not far from the town of Nantes, dwelt the last of her race, and the heiress of their fortunes, the young and beautiful Countess de Villeneuve. She had spent the preceding year in complete solitude in her secluded18 abode19; and the mourning she wore for a father and two brothers, the victims of the civil wars, was a graceful20 and good reason why she did not appear at court, and mingle21 with its festivities. But the orphan22 countess inherited a high name and broad lands; and it was soon signified to her that the king, her guardian23, desired that she should bestow24 them, together with her hand, upon some noble whose birth and accomplishments25 should entitle him to the gift. Constance, in reply, expressed her intention of taking vows26, and retiring to a convent. The king earnestly and resolutely27 forbade this act, believing such an idea to be the result of sensibility overwrought by sorrow, and relying on the hope that, after a time, the genial28 spirit of youth would break through this cloud.
A year passed, and still the countess persisted; and at last Henry, unwilling29 to exercise compulsion,—desirous, too, of judging for himself of the motives30 that led one so beautiful, young, and gifted with fortune’s favours, to desire to bury herself in a cloister31,—announced his intention, now that the period of her mourning was expired, of visiting her chateau; and if he brought not with him, the monarch32 said, inducement sufficient to change her design, he would yield his consent to its fulfilment.
Many a sad hour had Constance passed—many a day of tears, and many a night of restless misery33. She had closed her gates against every visitant; and, like the Lady Olivia in “Twelfth Night,” vowed34 herself to loneliness and weeping. Mistress of herself, she easily silenced the entreaties35 and remonstrances36 of underlings, and nursed her grief as it had been the thing she loved. Yet it was too keen, too bitter, too burning, to be a favoured guest. In fact, Constance, young, ardent37, and vivacious38, battled with it, struggled, and longed to cast it off; but all that was joyful39 in itself, or fair in outward show, only served to renew it; and she could best support the burden of her sorrow with patience, when, yielding to it, it oppressed but did not torture her.
Constance had left the castle to wander in the neighbouring grounds. Lofty and extensive as were the apartments of her abode, she felt pent up within their walls, beneath their fretted40 roofs. The spreading uplands and the antique wood, associated to her with every dear recollection of her past life, enticed41 her to spend hours and days beneath their leafy coverts42. The motion and change eternally working, as the wind stirred among the boughs44, or the journeying sun rained its beams through them, soothed45 and called her out of that dull sorrow which clutched her heart with so unrelenting a pang46 beneath her castle roof.
There was one spot on the verge47 of the well-wooded park, one nook of ground, whence she could discern the country extended beyond, yet which was in itself thick set with tall umbrageous48 trees—a spot which she had forsworn, yet whither unconsciously her steps for ever tended, and where now again, for the twentieth time that day, she had unaware49 found herself. She sat upon a grassy50 mound51, and looked wistfully on the flowers she had herself planted to adorn53 the verdurous recess54—to her the temple of memory and love. She held the letter from the king which was the parent to her of so much despair. Dejection sat upon her features, and her gentle heart asked fate why, so young, unprotected, and forsaken55, she should have to struggle with this new form of wretchedness.
“I but ask,” she thought, “to live in my father’s halls—in the spot familiar to my infancy—to water with my frequent tears the graves of those I loved; and here in these woods, where such a mad dream of happiness was mine, to celebrate for ever the obsequies of Hope!”
A rustling56 among the boughs now met her ear—her heart beat quick—all again was still.
“Foolish girl!” she half muttered; “dupe of thine own passionate57 fancy: because here we met; because seated here I have expected, and sounds like these have announced, his dear approach; so now every coney as it stirs, and every bird as it awakens58 silence, speaks of him. O Gaspar!—mine once—never again will this beloved spot be made glad by thee—never more!”
Again the bushes were stirred, and footsteps were heard in the brake. She rose; her heart beat high; it must be that silly Manon, with her impertinent entreaties for her to return. But the steps were firmer and slower than would be those of her waiting-woman; and now emerging from the shade, she too plainly discerned the intruder. Her first impulse was to fly:—but once again to see him—to hear his voice:—once again before she placed eternal vows between them, to stand together, and find the wide chasm59 filled which absence had made, could not injure the dead, and would soften60 the fatal sorrow that made her cheek so pale.
And now he was before her, the same beloved one with whom she had exchanged vows of constancy. He, like her, seemed sad; nor could she resist the imploring61 glance that entreated62 her for one moment to remain.
“I come, lady,” said the young knight64, “without a hope to bend your inflexible65 will. I come but once again to see you, and to bid you farewell before I depart for the Holy Land. I come to beseech66 you not to immure67 yourself in the dark cloister to avoid one as hateful as myself,—one you will never see more. Whether I die or live, France and I are parted for ever!”
“That were fearful, were it true,” said Constance; “but King Henry will never so lose his favourite cavalier. The throne you helped to build, you still will guard. Nay68, as I ever had power over thought of thine, go not to Palestine.”
“One word of yours could detain me—one smile—Constance”—and the youthful lover knelt before her; but her harsher purpose was recalled by the image once so dear and familiar, now so strange and so forbidden.
“Linger no longer here!” she cried. “No smile, no word of mine will ever again be yours. Why are you here—here, where the spirits of the dead wander, and, claiming these shades as their own, curse the false girl who permits their murderer to disturb their sacred repose69?”
“When love was young and you were kind,” replied the knight, “you taught me to thread the intricacies of these woods—you welcomed me to this dear spot, where once you vowed to be my own—even beneath these ancient trees.”
“A wicked sin it was,” said Constance, “to unbar my father’s doors to the son of his enemy, and dearly is it punished!”
The young knight gained courage as she spoke11; yet he dared not move, lest she, who, every instant, appeared ready to take flight, should be startled from her momentary70 tranquillity71; but he slowly replied:—“Those were happy days, Constance, full of terror and deep joy, when evening brought me to your feet; and while hate and vengeance72 were as its atmosphere to yonder frowning castle, this leafy, starlit bower73 was the shrine74 of love.”
“Happy?—miserable days!” echoed Constance; “when I imagined good could arise from failing in my duty, and that disobedience would be rewarded of God. Speak not of love, Gaspar!—a sea of blood divides us for ever! Approach me not! The dead and the beloved stand even now between us: their pale shadows warn me of my fault, and menace me for listening to their murderer.”
“That am not I!” exclaimed the youth. “Behold, Constance, we are each the last of our race. Death has dealt cruelly with us, and we are alone. It was not so when first we loved—when parent, kinsman75, brother, nay, my own mother breathed curses on the house of Villeneuve; and in spite of all I blessed it. I saw thee, my lovely one, and blessed it. The God of peace planted love in our hearts, and with mystery and secrecy76 we met during many a summer night in the moonlit dells; and when daylight was abroad, in this sweet recess we fled to avoid its scrutiny77, and here, even here, where now I kneel in supplication78, we both knelt and made our vows. Shall they be broken?”
Constance wept as her lover recalled the images of happy hours. “Never,” she exclaimed, “O never! Thou knowest, or wilt79 soon know, Gaspar, the faith and resolves of one who dare not be yours. Was it for us to talk of love and happiness, when war, and hate, and blood were raging around? The fleeting80 flowers our young hands strewed81 were trampled82 by the deadly encounter of mortal foes83. By your father’s hand mine died; and little boots it to know whether, as my brother swore, and you deny, your hand did or did not deal the blow that destroyed him. You fought among those by whom he died. Say no more—no other word: it is impiety84 towards the unreposing dead to hear you. Go, Gaspar; forget me. Under the chivalrous85 and gallant86 Henry your career may be glorious; and some fair girl will listen, as once I did, to your vows, and be made happy by them. Farewell! May the Virgin87 bless you! In my cell and cloister-home I will not forget the best Christian88 lesson—to pray for our enemies. Gaspar, farewell!”
She glided89 hastily from the bower: with swift steps she threaded the glade90 and sought the castle. Once within the seclusion91 of her own apartment she gave way to the burst of grief that tore her gentle bosom92 like a tempest; for hers was that worst sorrow which taints93 past joys, making remorse94 wait upon the memory of bliss95, and linking love and fancied guilt96 in such fearful society as that of the tyrant97 when he bound a living body to a corpse98. Suddenly a thought darted99 into her mind. At first she rejected it as puerile100 and superstitious101; but it would not be driven away. She called hastily for her attendant. “Manon,” she said, “didst thou ever sleep on St. Catherine’s couch?”
Manon crossed herself. “Heaven forefend! None ever did, since I was born, but two: one fell into the Loire and was drowned; the other only looked upon the narrow bed, and returned to her own home without a word. It is an awful place; and if the votary102 have not led a pious103 and good life, woe104 betide the hour when she rests her head on the holy stone!”
Constance crossed herself also. “As for our lives, it is only through our Lord and the blessed saints that we can any of us hope for righteousness. I will sleep on that couch to-morrow night!”
“Dear, my lady! and the king arrives to-morrow.”
“The more need that I resolve. It cannot be that misery so intense should dwell in any heart, and no cure be found. I had hoped to be the bringer of peace to our houses; and is the good work to be for me a crown of thorns? Heaven shall direct me. I will rest to-morrow night on St. Catherine’s bed: and if, as I have heard, the saint deigns105 to direct her votaries106 in dreams, I will be guided by her; and, believing that I act according to the dictates107 of Heaven, I shall feel resigned even to the worst.”
The king was on his way to Nantes from Paris, and he slept on this night at a castle but a few miles distant. Before dawn a young cavalier was introduced into his chamber109. The knight had a serious, nay, a sad aspect; and all beautiful as he was in feature and limb, looked wayworn and haggard. He stood silent in Henry’s presence, who, alert and gay, turned his lively blue eyes upon his guest, saying gently, “So thou foundest her obdurate110, Gaspar?”
“I found her resolved on our mutual7 misery. Alas111! my liege, it is not, credit me, the least of my grief, that Constance sacrifices her own happiness when she destroys mine.”
“And thou believest that she will say nay to the gaillard chevalier whom we ourselves present to her?”
“Oh, my liege, think not that thought! it cannot be. My heart deeply, most deeply, thanks you for your generous condescension112. But she whom her lover’s voice in solitude—whose entreaties, when memory and seclusion aided the spell—could not persuade, will resist even your majesty’s commands. She is bent113 upon entering a cloister; and I, so please you, will now take my leave:—I am henceforth a soldier of the cross.”
“Gaspar,” said the monarch, “I know woman better than thou. It is not by submission115 nor tearful plaints she is to be won. The death of her relatives naturally sits heavy at the young countess’s heart; and nourishing in solitude her regret and her repentance116, she fancies that Heaven itself forbids your union. Let the voice of the world reach her—the voice of earthly power and earthly kindness—the one commanding, the other pleading, and both finding response in her own heart—and by my fay and the Holy Cross, she will be yours. Let our plan still hold. And now to horse: the morning wears, and the sun is risen.”
The king arrived at the bishop’s palace, and proceeded forthwith to mass in the cathedral. A sumptuous117 dinner succeeded, and it was afternoon before the monarch proceeded through the town beside the Loire to where, a little above Nantes, the Chateau Villeneuve was situated118. The young countess received him at the gate. Henry looked in vain for the cheek blanched119 by misery, the aspect of downcast despair which he had been taught to expect. Her cheek was flushed, her manner animated120, her voice scarce tremulous. “She loves him not,” thought Henry, “or already her heart has consented.”
A collation121 was prepared for the monarch; and after some little hesitation122, arising even from the cheerfulness of her mien123, he mentioned the name of Gaspar. Constance blushed instead of turning pale, and replied very quickly, “To-morrow, good my liege; I ask for a respite124 but until to-morrow;—all will then be decided;—to-morrow I am vowed to God—or”—
She looked confused, and the king, at once surprised and pleased, said, “Then you hate not young De Vaudemont;—you forgive him for the inimical blood that warms his veins125.”
“We are taught that we should forgive, that we should love our enemies,” the countess replied, with some trepidation126.
“Now, by Saint Denis, that is a right welcome answer for the novice,” said the king, laughing. “What ho! my faithful serving-man, Dan Apollo in disguise! come forward, and thank your lady for her love.”
In such disguise as had concealed him from all, the cavalier had hung behind, and viewed with infinite surprise the demeanour and calm countenance127 of the lady. He could not hear her words: but was this even she whom he had seen trembling and weeping the evening before?—this she whose very heart was torn by conflicting passion?—who saw the pale ghosts of parent and kinsman stand between her and the lover whom more than her life she adored? It was a riddle128 hard to solve. The king’s call was in unison129 with his impatience130, and he sprang forward. He was at her feet; while she, still passion-driven, overwrought by the very calmness she had assumed, uttered one cry as she recognised him, and sank senseless on the floor.
All this was very unintelligible131. Even when her attendants had brought her to life, another fit succeeded, and then passionate floods of tears; while the monarch, waiting in the hall, eyeing the half-eaten collation, and humming some romance in commemoration of woman’s waywardness, knew not how to reply to Vaudemont’s look of bitter disappointment and anxiety. At length the countess’ chief attendant came with an apology: “Her lady was ill, very ill The next day she would throw herself at the king’s feet, at once to solicit132 his excuse, and to disclose her purpose.”
“To-morrow—again to-morrow!—Does to-morrow bear some charm, maiden133?” said the king. “Can you read us the riddle, pretty one? What strange tale belongs to to-morrow, that all rests on its advent134?”
Manon coloured, looked down, and hesitated. But Henry was no tyro135 in the art of enticing136 ladies’ attendants to disclose their ladies’ counsel. Manon was besides frightened by the countess’ scheme, on which she was still obstinately137 bent, so she was the more readily induced to betray it. To sleep in St. Catherine’s bed, to rest on a narrow ledge138 overhanging the deep rapid Loire, and if, as was most probable, the luckless dreamer escaped from falling into it, to take the disturbed visions that such uneasy slumber139 might produce for the dictate108 of Heaven, was a madness of which even Henry himself could scarcely deem any woman capable. But could Constance, her whose beauty was so highly intellectual, and whom he had heard perpetually praised for her strength of mind and talents, could she be so strangely infatuated! And can passion play such freaks with us?—like death, levelling even the aristocracy of the soul, and bringing noble and peasant, the wise and foolish, under one thraldom140? It was strange—yet she must have her way. That she hesitated in her decision was much; and it was to be hoped that St. Catherine would play no ill-natured part. Should it be otherwise, a purpose to be swayed by a dream might be influenced by other waking thoughts. To the more material kind of danger some safeguard should be brought.
There is no feeling more awful than that which invades a weak human heart bent upon gratifying its ungovernable impulses in contradiction to the dictates of conscience. Forbidden pleasures are said to be the most agreeable;—it may be so to rude natures, to those who love to struggle, combat, and contend; who find happiness in a fray141, and joy in the conflict of passion. But softer and sweeter was the gentle spirit of Constance; and love and duty contending crushed and tortured her poor heart. To commit her conduct to the inspirations of religion, or, if it was so to be named, of superstition142, was a blessed relief. The very perils143 that threatened her undertaking144 gave a zest145 to it;—to dare for his sake was happiness;—the very difficulty of the way that led to the completion of her wishes at once gratified her love and distracted her thoughts from her despair. Or if it was decreed that she must sacrifice all, the risk of danger and of death were of trifling146 import in comparison with the anguish147 which would then be her portion for ever.
The night threatened to be stormy, the raging wind shook the casements148, and the trees waved their huge shadowy arms, as giants might in fantastic dance and mortal broil149. Constance and Manon, unattended, quitted the chateau by a postern, and began to descend150 the hill-side. The moon had not yet risen; and though the way was familiar to both, Manon tottered151 and trembled; while the countess, drawing her silken cloak round her, walked with a firm step down the steep. They came to the river’s side, where a small boat was moored152, and one man was in waiting. Constance stepped lightly in, and then aided her fearful companion. In a few moments they were in the middle of the stream. The warm, tempestuous153, animating154, equinoctial wind swept over them. For the first time since her mourning, a thrill of pleasure swelled155 the bosom of Constance. She hailed the emotion with double joy. It cannot be, she thought, that Heaven will forbid me to love one so brave, so generous, and so good as the noble Gaspar. Another I can never love; I shall die if divided from him; and this heart, these limbs, so alive with glowing sensation, are they already predestined to an early grave? Oh no! life speaks aloud within them. I shall live to love. Do not all things love?—the winds as they whisper to the rushing waters? the waters as they kiss the flowery banks, and speed to mingle with the sea? Heaven and earth are sustained by, and live through, love; and shall Constance alone, whose heart has ever been a deep, gushing156, overflowing157 well of true affection, be compelled to set a stone upon the fount to lock it up for ever?
These thoughts bade fair for pleasant dreams; and perhaps the countess, an adept158 in the blind god’s lore159, therefore indulged them the more readily. But as thus she was engrossed160 by soft emotions, Manon caught her arm:—“Lady, look,” she cried; “it comes—yet the oars161 have no sound. Now the Virgin shield us! Would we were at home!”
A dark boat glided by them. Four rowers, habited in black cloaks, pulled at oars which, as Manon said, gave no sound; another sat at the helm: like the rest, his person was veiled in a dark mantle162, but he wore no cap; and though his face was turned from them, Constance recognised her lover. “Gaspar,” she cried aloud, “dost thou live?”—but the figure in the boat neither turned its head nor replied, and quickly it was lost in the shadowy waters.
How changed now was the fair countess’ reverie! Already Heaven had begun its spell, and unearthly forms were around, as she strained her eyes through the gloom. Now she saw and now she lost view of the bark that occasioned her terror; and now it seemed that another was there, which held the spirits of the dead; and her father waved to her from shore, and her brothers frowned on her.
Meanwhile they neared the landing. Her bark was moored in a little cove43, and Constance stood upon the bank. Now she trembled, and half yielded to Manon’s entreaty163 to return; till the unwise suivante mentioned the king’s and De Vaudemont’s name, and spoke of the answer to be given to-morrow. What answer, if she turned back from her intent?
She now hurried forward up the broken ground of the bank, and then along its edge, till they came to a hill which abruptly164 hung over the tide. A small chapel165 stood near. With trembling fingers the countess drew forth114 the key and unlocked its door. They entered. It was dark—save that a little lamp, flickering166 in the wind, showed an uncertain light from before the figure of Saint Catherine. The two women knelt; they prayed; and then rising, with a cheerful accent the countess bade her attendant good-night. She unlocked a little low iron door. It opened on a narrow cavern167. The roar of waters was heard beyond. “Thou mayest not follow, my poor Manon,” said Constance,—“nor dost thou much desire:—this adventure is for me alone.”
It was hardly fair to leave the trembling servant in the chapel alone, who had neither hope nor fear, nor love, nor grief to beguile168 her; but, in those days, esquires and waiting-women often played the part of subalterns in the army, gaining knocks and no fame. Besides, Manon was safe in holy ground. The countess meanwhile pursued her way groping in the dark through the narrow tortuous169 passage. At length what seemed light to her long-darkened sense gleamed on her. She reached an open cavern in the overhanging hill’s side, looking over the rushing tide beneath. She looked out upon the night. The waters of the Loire were speeding, as since that day have they ever sped—changeful, yet the same; the heavens were thickly veiled with clouds, and the wind in the trees was as mournful and ill-omened as if it rushed round a murderer’s tomb. Constance shuddered170 a little, and looked upon her bed,—a narrow ledge of earth and a moss-grown stone bordering on the very verge of the precipice171. She doffed172 her mantle,—such was one of the conditions of the spell;—she bowed her head, and loosened the tresses of her dark hair; she bared her feet; and thus, fully52 prepared for suffering to the utmost the chill influence of the cold night, she stretched herself on the narrow couch that scarce afforded room for her repose, and whence, if she moved in sleep, she must be precipitated173 into the cold waters below.
At first it seemed to her as if she never should sleep again. No great wonder that exposure to the blast and her perilous174 position should forbid her eyelids175 to close. At length she fell into a reverie so soft and soothing176 that she wished even to watch; and then by degrees her senses became confused; and now she was on St. Catherine’s bed—the Loire rushing beneath, and the wild wind sweeping177 by—and now—oh whither?—and what dreams did the saint send, to drive her to despair, or to bid her be blest for ever?
Beneath the rugged hill, upon the dark tide, another watched, who feared a thousand things, and scarce dared hope. He had meant to precede the lady on her way, but when he found that he had outstayed his time, with muffled178 oars and breathless haste he had shot by the bark that contained his Constance, nor even turned at her voice, fearful to incur179 her blame, and her commands to return. He had seen her emerge from the passage, and shuddered as she leant over the cliff. He saw her step forth, clad as she was in white, and could mark her as she lay on the ledge beetling180 above. What a vigil did the lovers keep!—she given up to visionary thoughts, he knowing—and the consciousness thrilled his bosom with strange emotion—that love, and love for him, had led her to that perilous couch; and that while dangers surrounded her in every shape, she was alive only to the small still voice that whispered to her heart the dream which was to decide their destinies. She slept perhaps—but he waked and watched, and night wore away, as, now praying, now entranced by alternating hope and fear, he sat in his boat, his eyes fixed181 on the white garb182 of the slumberer183 above.
Morning—was it morning that struggled in the clouds? Would morning ever come to waken her? And had she slept? and what dreams of weal or woe had peopled her sleep? Gaspar grew impatient. He commanded his boatmen still to wait, and he sprang forward, intent on clambering the precipice. In vain they urged the danger, nay, the impossibility of the attempt; he clung to the rugged face of the hill, and found footing where it would seem no footing was. The acclivity, indeed, was not high; the dangers of St. Catherine’s bed arising from the likelihood that any one who slept on so narrow a couch would be precipitated into the waters beneath. Up the steep ascent184 Gaspar continued to toil185, and at last reached the roots of a tree that grew near the summit. Aided by its branches, he made good his stand at the very extremity186 of the ledge, near the pillow on which lay the uncovered head of his beloved. Her hands were folded on her bosom; her dark hair fell round her throat and pillowed her cheek; her face was serene187: sleep was there in all its innocence188 and in all its helplessness; every wilder emotion was hushed, and her bosom heaved in regular breathing. He could see her heart beat as it lifted her fair hands crossed above. No statue hewn of marble in monumental effigy189 was ever half so fair; and within that surpassing form dwelt a soul true, tender, self-devoted, and affectionate as ever warmed a human breast.
With what deep passion did Gaspar gaze, gathering190 hope from the placidity191 of her angel countenance! A smile wreathed her lips; and he too involuntarily smiled, as he hailed the happy omen63; when suddenly her cheek was flushed, her bosom heaved, a tear stole from her dark lashes192, and then a whole shower fell, as starting up she cried, “No!—he shall not die!—I will unloose his chains!—I will save him!” Gaspar’s hand was there. He caught her light form ready to fall from the perilous couch. She opened her eyes and beheld193 her lover, who had watched over her dream of fate, and who had saved her.
Manon also had slept well, dreaming or not, and was startled in the morning to find that she waked surrounded by a crowd. The little desolate194 chapel was hung with tapestry—the altar adorned195 with golden chalices—the priest was chanting mass to a goodly array of kneeling knights196. Manon saw that King Henry was there; and she looked for another whom she found not, when the iron door of the cavern passage opened, and Gaspar de Vaudemont entered from it, leading the fair form of Constance; who, in her white robes and dark dishevelled hair, with a face in which smiles and blushes contended with deeper emotion, approached the altar, and, kneeling with her lover, pronounced the vows that united them for ever.
It was long before the happy Gaspar could win from his lady the secret of her dream. In spite of the happiness she now enjoyed, she had suffered too much not to look back even with terror to those days when she thought love a crime, and every event connected with them wore an awful aspect. “Many a vision,” she said, “she had that fearful night. She had seen the spirits of her father and brothers in Paradise; she had beheld Gaspar victoriously197 combating among the infidels; she had beheld him in King Henry’s court, favoured and beloved; and she herself—now pining in a cloister, now a bride, now grateful to Heaven for the full measure of bliss presented to her, now weeping away her sad days—till suddenly she thought herself in Paynim land; and the saint herself, St Catherine, guiding her unseen through the city of the infidels. She entered a palace, and beheld the miscreants198 rejoicing in victory; and then, descending199 to the dungeons200 beneath, they groped their way through damp vaults201, and low, mildewed202 passages, to one cell, darker and more frightful203 than the rest. On the floor lay one with soiled and tattered204 garments, with unkempt locks and wild, matted beard. His cheek was worn and thin; his eyes had lost their fire; his form was a mere205 skeleton; the chains hung loosely on the fleshless bones.”
“And was it my appearance in that attractive state and winning costume that softened206 the hard heart of Constance!” asked Gaspar, smiling at this painting of what would never be.
“Even so,” replied Constance; “for my heart whispered me that this was my doing; and who could recall the life that waned207 in your pulses—who restore, save the destroyer! My heart never warmed to my living, happy knight as then it did to his wasted image as it lay, in the visions of night, at my feet. A veil fell from my eyes; a darkness was dispelled208 from before me. Methought I then knew for the first time what life and what death was. I was bid believe that to make the living happy was not to injure the dead; and I felt how wicked and how vain was that false philosophy which placed virtue209 and good in hatred210 and unkindness. You should not die; I would loosen your chains and save you, and bid you live for love. I sprung forward, and the death I deprecated for you would, in my presumption211, have been mine,—then, when first I felt the real value of life,—but that your arm was there to save me, your dear voice to bid me be blest for evermore.”
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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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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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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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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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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10
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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11
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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12
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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13
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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14
rankling
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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15
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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16
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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17
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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18
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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19
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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20
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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21
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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22
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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23
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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24
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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25
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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26
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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27
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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28
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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29
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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30
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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31
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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32
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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33
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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34
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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35
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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36
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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37
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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38
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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39
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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40
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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41
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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43
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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44
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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45
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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46
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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47
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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48
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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49
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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50
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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51
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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52
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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53
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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54
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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55
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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56
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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57
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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58
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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59
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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60
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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61
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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62
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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64
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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65
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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66
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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67
immure
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| v.囚禁，幽禁 | |
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68
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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69
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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70
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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71
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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72
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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73
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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74
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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75
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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76
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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77
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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78
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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79
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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80
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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81
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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82
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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83
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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84
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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85
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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86
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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87
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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88
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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89
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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90
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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91
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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92
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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93
taints
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| n.变质( taint的名词复数 )；污染；玷污；丑陋或腐败的迹象v.使变质( taint的第三人称单数 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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94
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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95
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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96
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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97
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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98
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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99
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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100
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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101
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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102
votary
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| n.崇拜者；爱好者；adj.誓约的，立誓任圣职的 | |
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103
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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104
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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105
deigns
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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107
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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108
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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109
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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110
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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111
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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112
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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113
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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114
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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115
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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116
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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117
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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118
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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119
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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120
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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121
collation
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| n.便餐；整理 | |
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122
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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123
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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124
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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125
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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126
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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127
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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128
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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129
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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130
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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131
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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132
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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133
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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134
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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135
tyro
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| n.初学者；生手 | |
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136
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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137
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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138
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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139
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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140
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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141
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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142
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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143
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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144
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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145
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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146
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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147
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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148
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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149
broil
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| v.烤，烧，争吵，怒骂；n.烤，烧，争吵，怒骂 | |
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150
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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151
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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152
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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153
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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154
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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155
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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156
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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157
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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158
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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159
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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160
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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161
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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162
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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163
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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164
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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165
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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166
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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167
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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168
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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170
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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171
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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172
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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174
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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175
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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176
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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177
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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178
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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179
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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180
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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181
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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182
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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183
slumberer
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| 睡眠者，微睡者 | |
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184
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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185
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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186
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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187
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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188
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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189
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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190
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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191
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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192
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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193
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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194
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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195
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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196
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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197
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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198
miscreants
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| n.恶棍，歹徒( miscreant的名词复数 ) | |
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199
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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200
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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201
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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202
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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204
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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205
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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206
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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207
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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208
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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210
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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211
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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