It is well known that the hatred1 borne by one family against another, and the strife2 of parties, which often led to bloodshed in the Italian cities during the Middle Ages, so vividly3 described by Shakespeare in “Romeo and Juliet,” was not confined to the Montecchi and Ciapelletti of Verona, but existed with equal animosity in almost every other town of that beautiful peninsula. The greatest men among them were the victims; and crowds of exiles—families who but the day before were in the full enjoyment4 of the luxuries of life and the endearing associations of home—were every now and then seen issuing from the gates of their native cities, deprived of every possession, and with melancholy5 and slow steps dragging their wearied limbs to the nearest asylum6 offered them, thence to commence a new career of dependence7 and poverty, to endure to the end of their lives, or until some lucky accident should enable them to change places with their enemies, making those the sufferers who were late the tyrants9. In that country, where each town formed an independent State, to change one for the other was to depart from the spot cherished as a country and a home for distant banishment10—or worse; for as each city entertained either hatred or contempt for its neighbour, it often happened that the mourning exile was obliged to take up his abode11 among a people whom he had injured or scoffed12. Foreign service offered a resource to the young and bold among the men. But lovely Italy was to be left, the ties of young hearts severed14, and all the endearing associations of kin8 and country broken and scattered15 for ever. The Italians were always peculiarly susceptible17 to these misfortunes. They loved their native walls, the abodes18 of their ancestors, the familiar scenes of youth, with all the passionate19 fervour characteristic of that clime.
It was therefore no uncommon20 thing for any one among them, like Foscari of Venice, to prefer destitution21 and danger in their own city, to a precarious22 subsistence among strangers in distant lands; or, if compelled to quit the beloved precincts of their native walls, still to hover23 near, ready to avail themselves of the first occasion that should present itself for reversing the decree that condemned24 them to misery25.
For three days and nights there had been warfare26 in the streets of Siena,—blood flowed in torrents,—yet the cries and groans28 of the fallen but excited their friends to avenge29 them—not their foes30 to spare. On the fourth morning, Ugo Mancini, with a scanty32 band of followers33, was driven from the town; succours from Florence had arrived for his enemies, and he was forced to yield. Burning with rage, writhing35 with an impotent thirst for vengeance36, Ugo went round to the neighbouring villages to rouse them, not against his native town, but the victorious38 Tolomei. Unsuccessful in these endeavours, he next took the more equivocal step of seeking warlike aid from the Pisans. But Florence kept Pisa in check, and Ugo found only an inglorious refuge where he had hoped to acquire active allies. He had been wounded in these struggles; but, animated39 by a superhuman spirit, he had forgotten his pain and surmounted40 his weakness; nor was it until a cold refusal was returned to his energetic representations, that he sank beneath his physical sufferings. He was stretched on a bed of torture when he received intelligence that an edict of perpetual banishment and confiscation41 of property was passed against him. His two children, beggars now, were sent to him. His wife was dead, and these were all of near relations that he possessed42. His bitter feelings were still too paramount43 for him to receive comfort from their presence; yet these agitated44 and burning emotions appeared in after-times a remnant of happiness compared to the total loss of every hope—the wasting inaction of sickness and of poverty.
For five years Ugo Mancini lay stretched on his couch, alternating between states of intense pain and overpowering weakness; and then he died. During this interval45, the wreck46 of his fortunes, consisting of the rent of a small farm, and the use of some money lent, scantily47 supported him. His few relatives and followers were obliged to seek their subsistence elsewhere, and he remained alone to his pain, and to his two children, who yet clung to the paternal49 side.
Hatred to his foes, and love for his native town, were the sentiments that possessed his soul, and which he imparted in their full force to the plastic mind of his son, which received like molten metal the stamp he desired to impress. Lorenzo was scarcely twelve years old at the period of his father’s exile, and he naturally turned with fondness towards the spot where he had enjoyed every happiness, where each hour had been spent in light-hearted hilarity51, and the kindness and observance of many attended on his steps. Now, how sad the contrast!—dim penury52—a solitude53 cheered by no encouraging smiles or sunny flatteries—perpetual attendance on his father, and untimely cares, cast their dark shadows over his altered lot.
Lorenzo was a few years older than his sister. Friendless and destitute54 as was the exile’s family, it was he who overlooked its moderate disbursements, who was at once his father’s nurse and his sister’s guardian55, and acted as the head of the family during the incapacity of his parent. But instead of being narrowed or broken in spirit by these burdens, his ardent56 soul rose to meet them, and grew enlarged and lofty from the very calls made upon it. His look was serious, not careworn57; his manner calm, not humble58; his voice had all the tenderness of a woman—his eye all the pride and fire of a hero.
Still his unhappy father wasted away, and Lorenzo’s hours were entirely59 spent beside his bed. He was indefatigable60 in his attentions—weariness never seemed to overcome him. His limbs were always alert—his speech inspiriting and kind. His only pastime was during any interval in his parent’s sufferings, to listen to his eulogiums on his native town, and to the history of the wrongs which, from time immemorial, the Mancini had endured from the Tolomei. Lorenzo, though replete61 with noble qualities, was still an Italian; and fervent62 love for his birthplace, and violent hatred towards the foes of his house, were the darling passions of his heart. Nursed in loneliness, they acquired vigour63; and the nights he spent in watching his father were varied64 by musing65 on the career he should hereafter follow—his return to his beloved Siena, and the vengeance he would take on his enemies.
Ugo often said, I die because I am an exile:—at length these words were fulfilled, and the unhappy man sank beneath the ills of fortune. Lorenzo saw his beloved father expire—his father, whom he loved. He seemed to deposit in his obscure grave all that best deserved reverence66 and honour in the world; and turning away his steps, he lamented67 the loss of the sad occupation of so many years, and regretted the exchange he made from his father’s sick bed to a lonely and unprized freedom.
The first use he made of the liberty he had thus acquired was to return to Siena with his sister. He entered his native town as if it were a paradise, and he found it a desert in all save the hues69 of beauty and delight with which his imagination loved to invest it. There was no one to whom he could draw near in friendship within the whole circuit of its walls. According to the barbarous usage of the times, his father’s palace had been razed70, and the mournful ruins stood as a tomb to commemorate71 the fall of his fortunes. Not as such did Lorenzo view them; he often stole out at nightfall, when the stars alone beheld72 his enthusiasm, and, clambering to the highest part of the massy fragments, spent long hours in mentally rebuilding the desolate73 walls, and in consecrating74 once again the weed-grown hearth75 to family love and hospitable76 festivity. It seemed to him that the air was more balmy and light, breathed amidst these memorials of the past; and his heart warmed with rapture77 over the tale they told of what his progenitors78 had been—what he again would be.
Yet, had he viewed his position sanely79, he would have found it full of mortification80 and pain; and he would have become aware that his native town was perhaps the only place in the world where his ambition would fail in the attainment82 of its aim. The Tolomei reigned83 over it. They had led its citizens to conquest, and enriched them with spoils. They were adored; and to flatter them, the populace were prone84 to revile85 and scoff13 at the name of Mancini. Lorenzo did not possess one friend within its walls: he heard the murmur86 of hatred as he passed along, and beheld his enemies raised to the pinnacle87 of power and honour; and yet, so strangely framed is the human heart, that he continued to love Siena, and would not have exchanged his obscure and penurious88 abode within its walls to become the favoured follower34 of the German Emperor. Such a place, through education and the natural prejudices of man, did Siena hold in his imagination, that a lowly condition there seemed a nobler destiny than to be great in any other spot.
To win back the friendship of its citizens and humble his enemies was the dream that shed so sweet an influence over his darkened hours. He dedicated89 his whole being to this work, and he did not doubt but that he should succeed. The house of Tolomei had for its chief a youth but a year or two older than himself—with him, when an opportunity should present itself, he would enter the lists. It seemed the bounty90 of Providence91 that gave him one so nearly equal with whom to contend; and during the interval that must elapse before they could clash, he was busy in educating himself for the struggle. Count Fabian dei Tolomei bore the reputation of being a youth full of promise and talent; and Lorenzo was glad to anticipate a worthy93 antagonist94. He occupied himself in the practice of arms, and applied95 with perseverance96 to the study of the few books that fell in his way. He appeared in the market-place on public occasions modestly attired98; yet his height, his dignified99 carriage, and the thoughtful cast of his noble countenance100, drew the observation of the bystanders;—though, such was the prejudice against his name, and the flattery of the triumphant101 party, that taunts102 and maledictions followed him. His nobility of appearance was called pride; his affability, meanness; his aspiring103 views, faction;—and it was declared that it would be a happy day when he should no longer blot104 their sunshine with his shadow. Lorenzo smiled,—he disdained105 to resent, or even to feel, the mistaken insults of the crowd, who, if fortune changed, would the next day throw up their caps for him. It was only when loftier foes approached that his brow grew dark, that he drew himself up to his full height, repaying their scorn with glances of defiance106 and hate.
But although he was ready in his own person to encounter the contumely of his townsmen, and walked on with placid107 mien108, regardless of their sneers109, he carefully guarded his sister from such scenes. She was led by him each morning, closely veiled, to hear mass in an obscure church. And when, on feast-days, the public walks were crowded with cavaliers and dames110 in splendid attire97, and with citizens and peasants in their holiday garb111, this gentle pair might be seen in some solitary112 and shady spot, Flora113 knew none to love except her brother—she had grown under his eyes from infancy114; and while he attended on the sick-bed of their father, he was father, brother, tutor, guardian to her—the fondest mother could not have been more indulgent; and yet there was mingled115 a something beyond, pertaining116 to their difference of sex. Uniformly observant and kind, he treated her as if she had been a high-born damsel, nurtured117 in her gayest bower118.
Her attire was simple—but thus, she was instructed, it befitted every damsel to dress; her needle-works were such as a princess might have emulated119; and while she learnt under her brother’s tutelage to be reserved, studious of obscurity, and always occupied, she was taught that such were the virtues120 becoming her sex, and no idea of dependence or penury was raised in her mind. Had he been the sole human being that approached her, she might have believed herself to be on a level with the highest in the land; but coming in contact with dependants123 in the humble class of life, Flora became acquainted with her true position; and learnt, at the same time, to understand and appreciate the unequalled kindness and virtues of her brother.
Two years passed while brother and sister continued, in obscurity and poverty, cherishing hope, honour, and mutual124 love. If an anxious thought ever crossed Lorenzo, it was for the future destiny of Flora, whose beauty as a child gave promise of perfect loveliness hereafter. For her sake he was anxious to begin the career he had marked out for himself, and resolved no longer to delay his endeavours to revive his party in Siena, and to seek rather than avoid a contest with the young Count Fabian, on whose overthrow125 he would rise—Count Fabian, the darling of the citizens, vaunted as a model for a youthful cavalier, abounding126 in good qualities, and so adorned127 by gallantry, subtle wit, and gay, winning manners, that he stepped by right of nature, as well as birth, on the pedestal which exalted129 him the idol130 of all around.
It was on a day of public feasting that Lorenzo first presented himself in rivalship with Fabian. His person was unknown to the count, who, in all the pride of rich dress and splendid accoutrements, looked with a smile of patronage131 on the poorly-mounted and plainly-attired youth, who presented himself to run a tilt132 with him. But before the challenge was accepted, the name of his antagonist was whispered to Fabian; then, all the bitterness engendered133 by family feuds134; all the spirit of vengeance, which had been taught as a religion, arose at once in the young noble’s heart; he wheeled round his steed, and, riding rudely up to his competitor, ordered him instantly to retire from the course, nor dare to disturb the revels135 of the citizens by the hated presence of a Mancini. Lorenzo answered with equal scorn; and Fabian, governed by uncontrollable passion, called together his followers to drive the youth with ignominy from the lists. A fearful array was mustered136 against the hateful intruder; but had their number been trebled, the towering spirit of Lorenzo had met them all. One fell—another was disabled by his weapon before he was disarmed138 and made prisoner; but his bravery did not avail to extract admiration139 from his prejudiced foes: they rather poured execrations on him for its disastrous140 effects, as they hurried him to a dungeon141, and called loudly for his punishment and death.
Far from this scene of turmoil142 and bloodshed, in her poor but quiet chamber143, in a remote and obscure part of the town, sat Flora, occupied by her embroidery144, musing, as she worked, on her brother’s project, and anticipating his success. Hours passed, and Lorenzo did not return; the day declined, and still he tarried. Flora’s busy fancy forged a thousand causes for the delay. Her brother’s prowess had awaked the chilly145 zeal146 of the partisans147 of their family;—he was doubtless feasting among them, and the first stone was laid for the rebuilding of their house. At last, a rush of steps upon the staircase, and a confused clamour of female voices calling loudly for admittance, made her rise and open the door;—in rushed several women—dismay was painted on their faces—their words flowed in torrents—their eager gestures helped them to a meaning, and, though not without difficulty, amidst the confusion, Flora heard of the disaster and imprisonment148 of her brother—of the blood shed by his hand, and the fatal issue that such a deed ensured. She grew pale as marble. Her young heart was filled with speechless terror; she could form no image of the thing she dreaded149, but its indistinct idea was full of fear. Lorenzo was in prison—Count Fabian had placed him there—he was to die! Overwhelmed for a moment by such tidings, yet she rose above their benumbing power, and without proffering150 a word, or listening to the questions and remonstrances151 of the women, she rushed past them, down the high staircase, into the street; and then with swift pace to where the public prison was situated152. She knew the spot she wished to reach, but she had so seldom quitted her home that she soon got entangled153 among the streets, and proceeded onwards at random154. Breathless, at length, she paused before the lofty portal of a large palace—no one was near—the fast fading twilight155 of an Italian evening had deepened into absolute darkness. At this moment the glare of flambeaux was thrown upon the street, and a party of horsemen rode up; they were talking and laughing gaily156. She heard one addressed as Count Fabian: she involuntarily drew back with instinctive157 hate; and then rushed forward and threw herself at his horse’s feet, exclaiming, “Save my brother!” The young cavalier reined158 up shortly his prancing159 steed, angrily reproving her for her heedlessness, and, without deigning160 another word, entered the courtyard. He had not, perhaps, heard her prayer;—he could not see the suppliant161, he spoke162 but in the impatience163 of the moment;—but the poor child, deeply wounded by what had the appearance of a personal insult, turned proudly from the door, repressing the bitter tears that filled her eyes. Still she walked on; but night took from her every chance of finding her way to the prison, and she resolved to return home, to engage one of the women of the house, of which she occupied a part, to accompany her. But even to find her way back became matter of difficulty; and she wandered on, discovering no clue to guide her, and far too timid to address any one she might chance to meet. Fatigue165 and personal fear were added to her other griefs, and tears streamed plentifully166 down her cheeks as she continued her hopeless journey! At length, at the corner of a street, she recognised an image of the Madonna in a niche167, with a lamp burning over it, familiar to her recollection as being near her home. With characteristic piety169 she knelt before it in thankfulness, and was offering a prayer for Lorenzo, when the sound of steps made her start up, and her brother’s voice hailed, and her brother’s arms encircled her; it seemed a miracle, but he was there, and all her fears were ended.
Lorenzo anxiously asked whither she had been straying; her explanation was soon given; and he in return related the misfortunes of the morning—the fate that impended170 over him, averted171 by the generous intercession of young Fabian himself; and yet—he hesitated to unfold the bitter truth—he was not freely pardoned—he stood there a banished172 man, condemned to die if the morrow’s sun found him within the walls of Siena.
They had arrived, meanwhile, at their home; and with feminine care Flora placed a simple repast before her brother, and then employed herself busily in making various packages. Lorenzo paced the room, absorbed in thought; at length he stopped, and, kissing the fair girl, said,—
“Where can I place thee in safety? how preserve thee, my flower of beauty, while we are divided?”
Flora looked up fearfully. “Do I not go with you?” she asked; “I was making preparations for our journey.”
“Impossible, dearest; I go to privation and hardship.”
“And I would share them with thee.”
“It may not be, sweet sister,” replied Lorenzo, “fate divides us, and we must submit. I go to camps—to the society of rude men; to struggle with such fortune as cannot harm me, but which for thee would be fraught173 with peril174 and despair. No, my Flora, I must provide safe and honourable175 guardianship176 for thee, even in this town.” And again Lorenzo meditated177 deeply on the part he should take, till suddenly a thought flashed on his mind. “It is hazardous,” he murmured, “and yet I do him wrong to call it so. Were our fates reversed, should I not think myself highly honoured by such a trust?” And then he told his sister to don hastily her best attire; to wrap her veil round her, and to come with him. She obeyed—for obedience178 to her brother was the first and dearest of her duties. But she wept bitterly while her trembling fingers braided her long hair, and she hastily changed her dress.
At length they walked forth179 again, and proceeded slowly, as Lorenzo employed the precious minutes in consoling and counselling his sister. He promised as speedy a return as he could accomplish; but if he failed to appear as soon as he could wish, yet he vowed180 solemnly that, if alive and free, she should see him within five years from the moment of parting. Should he not come before, he besought182 her earnestly to take patience, and to hope for the best till the expiration183 of that period; and made her promise not to bind184 herself by any vestal or matrimonial vow181 in the interim185. They had arrived at their destination, and entered the courtyard of a spacious186 palace. They met no servants; so crossed the court, and ascended188 the ample stairs. Flora had endeavoured to listen to her brother. He had bade her be of good cheer, and he was about to leave her; he told her to hope; and he spoke of an absence to endure five years—an endless term to her youthful anticipations190. She promised obedience, but her voice was choked by sobs191, and her tottering192 limbs would not have supported her without his aid. She now perceived that they were entering the lighted and inhabited rooms of a noble dwelling193, and tried to restrain her tears, as she drew her veil closely around her. They passed from room to room, in which preparations for festivity were making; the servants ushered194 them on, as if they had been invited guests, and conducted them into a hall filled with all the nobility and beauty of Siena. Each eye turned with curiosity and wonder on the pair. Lorenzo’s tall person, and the lofty expression of his handsome countenance, put the ladies in good-humour with him, while the cavaliers tried to peep under Flora’s veil.
“It is a mere195 child,” they said, “and a sorrowing one—what can this mean?”
The youthful master of the house, however, instantly recognised his uninvited and unexpected guest; but before he could ask the meaning of his coming, Lorenzo had advanced with his sister to the spot where he stood, and addressed him.
“I never thought, Count Fabian, to stand beneath your roof, and much less to approach you as a suitor. But that Supreme196 Power, to whose decrees we must all bend, has reduced me to such adversity as, if it be His will, may also visit you, notwithstanding the many friends that now surround you, and the sunshine of prosperity in which you bask198. I stand here a banished man and a beggar. Nor do I repine at this my fate. Most willing am I that my right arm alone should create my fortunes; and, with the blessing199 of God, I hope so to direct my course, that we may yet meet upon more equal terms. In this hope I turn my steps, not unwillingly200, from this city; dear as its name is to my heart—and dear the associations which link its proud towers with the memory of my forefathers202. I leave it a soldier of fortune; how I may return is written in the page where your unread destiny is traced as well as mine. But my care ends not with myself. My dying father bequeathed to me this child, my orphan203 sister, whom I have, until now, watched over with a parent’s love. I should ill perform the part intrusted to me, were I to drag this tender blossom from its native bower into the rude highways of life. Lord Fabian, I can count no man my friend; for it would seem that your smiles have won the hearts of my fellow-citizens from me; and death and exile have so dealt with my house, that not one of my name exists within the walls of Siena. To you alone can I intrust this precious charge. Will you accept it until called upon to render it back to me, her brother, or to the juster hands of our Creator, pure and untarnished as I now deliver her to you? I ask you to protect her helplessness, to guard her honour; will you—dare you accept a treasure, with the assurance of restoring it unsoiled, unhurt?”
The deep expressive204 voice of the noble youth and his earnest eloquence205 enchained the ears of the whole assembly; and when he ceased, Fabian, proud of the appeal, and nothing loath206 in the buoyant spirit of youth to undertake a charge which, thus proffered207 before his assembled kinsmen208 and friends, became an honour, answered readily, “I agree, and solemnly before Heaven accept your offer. I declare myself the guardian and protector of your sister; she shall dwell in safety beneath my kind mother’s care, and if the saints permit your return, she shall be delivered back to you as spotless as she now is.”
Lorenzo bowed his head; something choked his utterance209 as he thought that he was about to part for ever from Flora; but he disdained to betray this weakness before his enemies. He took his sister’s hand and gazed upon her slight form with a look of earnest fondness, then murmuring a blessing over her, and kissing her brow, he again saluted210 Count Fabian, and turning away with measured steps and lofty mien, left the hall. Flora, scarcely understanding what had passed, stood trembling and weeping under her veil. She yielded her passive hand to Fabian, who, leading her to his mother, said: “Madam, I ask of your goodness, and the maternal211 indulgence you have ever shown, to assist me in fulfilling my promise, by taking under your gracious charge this young orphan.”
“You command here, my son,” said the countess, “and your will shall be obeyed.” Then making a sign to one of her attendants, Flora was conducted from the hall, to where, in solitude and silence, she wept over her brother’s departure, and her own strange position.
Flora thus became an inmate212 of the dwelling of her ancestral foes, and the ward50 of the most bitter enemy of her house. Lorenzo was gone she knew not whither, and her only pleasure consisted in reflecting that she was obeying his behests. Her life was uniform and tranquil213. Her occupation was working tapestry214, in which she displayed taste and skill. Sometimes she had the more mortifying215 task imposed on her of waiting on the Countess de’ Tolomei, who having lost two brothers in the last contest with the Mancini, nourished a deep hatred towards the whole race, and never smiled on the luckless orphan. Flora submitted to every command imposed upon her. She was buoyed216 up by the reflection that her sufferings wore imposed on her by Lorenzo; schooling217 herself in any moment of impatience by the idea that thus she shared his adversity. No murmur escaped her, though the pride and independence of her nature were often cruelly offended by the taunts and supercilious218 airs of her patroness or mistress, who was not a bad woman, but who thought it virtue121 to ill-treat a Mancini. Often, indeed, she neither heard nor heeded219 these things. Her thoughts were far away, and grief for the loss of her brother’s society weighed too heavily on her to allow her to spend more than a passing sigh on her personal injuries.
The countess was unkind and disdainful, but it was not thus with Flora’s companions. They were amiable220 and affectionate girls, either of the bourgeois221 class, or daughters of dependants of the house of Tolomei. The length of time which had elapsed since the overthrow of the Mancini, had erased222 from their young minds the bitter duty of hatred, and it was impossible for them to live on terms of daily intercourse223 with the orphan daughter of this ill-fated race, and not to become strongly attached to her. She was wholly devoid224 of selfishness, and content to perform her daily tasks in inoffensive silence. She had no envy, no wish to shine, no desire of pleasure. She was nevertheless ever ready to sympathize with her companions, and glad to have it in her power to administer to their happiness. To help them in the manufacture of some piece of finery; to assist them in their work; and, perfectly225 prudent226 and reserved herself, to listen to all their sentimental227 adventures; to give her best advice, and to aid them in any difficulty, were the simple means she used to win their unsophisticated hearts. They called her an angel; they looked up to her as to a saint, and in their hearts respected her more than the countess herself.
One only subject ever disturbed Flora’s serene228 melancholy. The praise she perpetually heard lavished229 on Count Fabian, her brother’s too successful rival and oppressor, was an unendurable addition to her other griefs. Content with her own obscurity, her ambition, her pride, her aspiring thoughts were spent upon her brother. She hated Count Fabian as Lorenzo’s destroyer, and the cause of his unhappy exile. His accomplishments230 she despised as painted vanities; his person she contemned231 as the opposite of his prototype. His blue eyes, clear and open as day; his fair complexion232 and light brown hair; his slight elegant person; his voice, whose tones in song won each listener’s heart to tenderness and love; his wit, his perpetual flow of spirits, and unalterable good-humour, were impertinences and frivolities to her who cherished with such dear worship the recollection of her serious, ardent, noble-hearted brother, whose soul was ever set on high thoughts, and devoted233 to acts of virtue and self-sacrifice; whose fortitude234 and affectionate courtesy seemed to her the crown and glory of manhood; how different from the trifling235 flippancy236 of Fabian! “Name an eagle,” she would say, “and we raise our eyes to heaven, there to behold237 a creature fashioned in Nature’s bounty; but it is a degradation238 to waste one thought on the insect of a day.” Some speech similar to this had been kindly239 reported to the young count’s lady mother, who idolized her son as the ornament240 and delight of his age and country. She severely241 reprimanded the incautious Flora, who, for the first time, listened proudly and unyieldingly. From this period her situation grew more irksome; all she could do was to endeavour to withdraw herself entirely from observation, and to brood over the perfections, while she lamented yet more keenly the absence, of her brother.
Two or three years thus flew away, and Flora grew from a childish-looking girl of twelve into the bewitching beauty of fifteen. She unclosed like a flower, whose fairest petals242 are yet shut, but whose half-veiled loveliness is yet more attractive. It was at this time that on occasion of doing honour to a prince of France, who was passing on to Naples, the Countess Tolomei and her son, with a bevy243 of friends and followers, went out to meet and to escort the royal traveller on his way. Assembled in the hall of the palace, and waiting for the arrival of some of their number, Count Fabian went round his mother’s circle, saying agreeable and merry things to all. Wherever his cheerful blue eyes lighted, there smiles were awakened244 and each young heart beat with vanity at his harmless flatteries. After a gallant128 speech or two, he espied245 Flora, retired246 behind her companions.
“What flower is this,” he said, “playing at hide and seek with her beauty?” And then, struck by the modest sweetness of her aspect, her eyes cast down, and a rosy247 blush mantling248 over her cheek, he added, “What fair angel makes one of your company?”
“An angel indeed, my lord,” exclaimed one of the younger girls, who dearly loved her best friend; “she is Flora Mancini.”
“Mancini!” exclaimed Fabian, while his manner became at once respectful and kind. “Are you the orphan daughter of Ugo—the sister of Lorenzo, committed by him to my care?” For since then, through her careful avoidance, Fabian had never even seen his fair ward. She bowed an assent249 to his questions, while her swelling250 heart denied her speech; and Fabian, going up to his mother, said, “Madam, I hope for our honour’s sake that this has not before happened. The adverse251 fortune of this young lady may render retirement252 and obscurity befitting; but it is not for us to turn into a menial one sprung from the best blood in Italy. Let me entreat253 you not to permit this to occur again. How shall I redeem254 my pledged honour, or answer to her brother for this unworthy degradation?”
“Would you have me make a friend and a companion of a Mancini?” asked the countess, with raised colour.
“I ask you not, mother, to do aught displeasing255 to you,” replied the young noble; “but Flora is my ward, not our servant;—permit her to retire; she will probably prefer the privacy of home, to making one among the festive256 crowd of her house’s enemies. If not, let the choice be hers—Say, gentle one, will you go with us or retire?”
She did not speak, but raising her soft eyes, curtsied to him and to his mother, and quitted the room; so, tacitly making her selection.
From this time Flora never quitted the more secluded257 apartments of the palace, nor again saw Fabian. She was unaware258 that he had been profuse259 in his eulogium on her beauty; but that while frequently expressing his interest in his ward, he rather avoided the dangerous power of her loveliness. She led rather a prison life, walking only in the palace garden when it was else deserted260, but otherwise her time was at her own disposal, and no commands now interfered261 with her freedom. Her labours were all spontaneous. The countess seldom even saw her, and she lived among this lady’s attendants like a free boarder in a convent; who cannot quit the walls, but who is not subservient262 to the rules of the asylum. She was more busy than ever at her tapestry frame, because the countess prized her work; and thus she could in some degree repay the protection afforded her. She never mentioned Fabian, and always imposed silence on her companions when they spoke of him. But she did this in no disrespectful terms. “He is a generous enemy, I acknowledge,” she would say, “but still he is my enemy, and while through him my brother is an exile and a wanderer upon earth, it is painful to me to hear his name.”
After the lapse92 of many months spent in entire seclusion263 and tranquillity264, a change occurred in the tenor265 of her life. The countess suddenly resolved to pass the Easter festival at Rome. Flora’s companions were wild with joy at the prospect266 of the journey, the novelty, and the entertainment they promised themselves from this visit, and pitied the dignity of their friend, which prevented her from making one in their mistress’s train; for it was soon understood that Flora was to be left behind; and she was informed that the interval of the lady’s absence was to be passed by her in a villa37 belonging to the family situated in a sequestered267 nook among the neighbouring Apennines.
The countess departed in pomp and pride on her so-called pilgrimage to the sacred city, and at the same time Flora was conveyed to her rural retreat. The villa was inhabited only by the peasant and his family, who cultivated the farm, or podere, attached to it, and the old cassiére or housekeeper268. The cheerfulness and freedom of the country were delightful269, and the entire solitude consonant270 to the habits of the meditative271 girl, accustomed to the confinement272 of the city, and the intrusive273 prattle274 of her associates. Spring was opening with all the beauty which that season showers upon favoured Italy. The almond and peach trees were in blossom; and the vine-dresser sang at his work, perched with his pruning-knife among the vines. Blossoms and flowers, in laughing plenty, graced the soil; and the trees, swelling with buds ready to expand into leaves, seemed to feel the life that animated their dark old boughs275. Flora was enchanted276; the country labours interested her, and the hoarded277 experience of old Sandra was a treasure-house of wisdom and amusement. Her attention had hitherto been directed to giving the most vivid hues and truest imitation to her transcript278 with her needle of some picture given her as a model; but here was a novel occupation. She learned the history of the bees, watched the habits of the birds, and inquired into the culture of plants. Sandra was delighted with her new companion; and, though notorious for being cross, yet could wriggle279 her antique lips into smiles for Flora.
To repay the kindness of her guardian and his mother, she still devoted much time to her needle. This occupation but engaged half her attention; and while she pursued it, she could give herself up to endless reverie on the subject of Lorenzo’s fortunes. Three years had flown since he had left her; and, except a little gold cross brought to her by a pilgrim from Milan, but one month after his departure, she had received no tidings of him. Whether from Milan he had proceeded to France, Germany, or the Holy Land, she did not know. By turns her fancy led him to either of these places, and fashioned the course of events that might have befallen him. She figured to herself his toilsome journeys—his life in the camp—his achievements, and the honours showered on him by kings and nobles; her cheek glowed at the praises he received, and her eye kindled280 with delight as it imaged him standing197 with modest pride and an erect281 but gentle mien before them. Then the fair enthusiast282 paused; it crossed her recollection like a shadow, that if all had gone prosperously, he had returned to share his prosperity with her, and her faltering283 heart turned to sadder scenes to account for his protracted284 absence.
Sometimes, while thus employed, she brought her work into the trellised arbour of the garden, or, when it was too warm for the open air, she had a favourite shady window, which looked down a deep ravine into a majestic285 wood, whence the sound of falling water met her ears. One day, while she employed her fingers upon the spirited likeness286 of a hound which made a part of the hunting-piece she was working for the countess, a sharp, wailing288 cry suddenly broke on her ear, followed by trampling289 of horses and the hurried steps and loud vociferations of men. They entered the villa on the opposite side from that which her window commanded; but, the noise continuing, she rose to ask the reason, when Sandra burst into the room, crying, “O Madonna! he is dead! he has been thrown from his horse, and he will never speak more.” Flora for an instant could only think of her brother. She rushed past the old woman, down into the great hall, in which, lying on a rude litter of boughs, she beheld the inanimate body of Count Fabian. He was surrounded by servitors and peasants, who were all clasping their hands and tearing their hair as, with frightful290 shrieks291, they pressed round their lord, not one of them endeavouring to restore him to life. Flora’s first impulse was to retire; but, casting a second glance on the livid brow of the young count, she saw his eyelids292 move, and the blood falling in quick drops from his hair on the pavement. She exclaimed, “He is not dead—he bleeds! hasten some of you for a leech293!” And meanwhile she hurried to get some water, sprinkled it on his face, and, dispersing294 the group that hung over him and impeded295 the free air, the soft breeze playing on his forehead revived him, and he gave manifest tokens of life; so that when the physician arrived, he found that, though he was seriously and even dangerously hurt, every hope might be entertained of his recovery.
Flora undertook the office of his nurse, and fulfilled its duties with unwearied attention. She watched him by night and waited on him by day with that spirit of Christian296 humility297 and benevolence298 which animates299 a Sister of Charity as she tends the sick. For several days Fabian’s soul seemed on the wing to quit its earthly abode; and the state of weakness that followed his insensibility was scarcely less alarming. At length, he recognised and acknowledged the care of Flora, but she alone possessed any power to calm and guide him during the state of irritability300 and fever that then ensued. Nothing except her presence controlled his impatience; before her he was so lamb-like, that she could scarcely have credited the accounts that others gave her of his violence, but that, whenever she returned, after leaving him for any time, she heard his voice far off in anger, and found him with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, all which demonstrations301 subsided302 into meek303 acquiescence304 when she drew near.
In a few weeks he was able to quit his room; but any noise or sudden sound drove him almost insane. So loud is an Italian’s quietest movements, that Flora was obliged to prevent the approach of any except herself; and her soft voice and noiseless footfall were the sweetest medicine she could administer to her patient. It was painful to her to be in perpetual attendance on Lorenzo’s rival and foe31, but she subdued305 her heart to her duty, and custom helped to reconcile her. As he grew better, she could not help remarking the intelligence of his countenance, and the kindness and cordiality of his manners. There was an unobtrusive and delicate attention and care in his intercourse with her that won her to be pleased. When he conversed306, his discourse307 was full of entertainment and variety. His memory was well-stored with numerous fabliaux, novelle, and romances, which he quickly discovered to be highly interesting to her, and so contrived308 to have one always ready from the exhaustless stock he possessed. These romantic stories reminded her of the imaginary adventures she had invented, in solitude and silence, for her brother; and each tale of foreign countries had a peculiar16 charm, which animated her face as she listened, so that Fabian could have gone on for ever, only to mark the varying expression of her countenance as he proceeded. Yet she acknowledged these attractions in him as a Catholic nun309 may the specious310 virtues of a heretic; and, while he contrived each day to increase the pleasure she derived311 from his society, she satisfied her conscience with regard to her brother by cherishing in secret a little quiet stock of family hate, and by throwing over her manners, whenever she could recollect168 so to do, a cold and ceremonious tone, which she had the pleasure of seeing vexed312 him heartily313.
Nearly two months had passed, and he was so well recovered that Flora began to wonder that he did not return to Siena, and of course to fulfil her duty by wishing that he should; and yet, while his cheek was sunk through past sickness, and his elastic314 step grown slow, she, as a nurse desirous of completing her good work, felt averse315 to his entering too soon on the scene of the busy town and its noisy pleasures. At length, two or three of his friends having come to see him, he agreed to return with them to the city. A significant glance which they cast on his young nurse probably determined316 him. He parted from her with a grave courtesy and a profusion317 of thanks, unlike his usual manner, and rode off without alluding318 to any probability of their meeting again.
She fancied that she was relieved from a burden when he went, and was surprised to find the days grow tedious, and mortified319 to perceive that her thoughts no longer spent themselves so spontaneously on her brother, and to feel that the occupation of a few weeks could unhinge her mind and dissipate her cherished reveries; thus, while she felt the absence of Fabian, she was annoyed at him the more for having, in addition to his other misdeeds, invaded the sanctuary320 of her dearest thoughts. She was beginning to conquer this listlessness, and to return with renewed zest321 to her usual occupations, when, in about a week after his departure, Fabian suddenly returned. He came upon her as she was gathering322 flowers for the shrine323 of the Madonna; and, on seeing him, she blushed as rosy red as the roses she held. He looked infinitely324 worse in health than when he went. His wan164 cheeks and sunk eyes excited her concern; and her earnest and kind questions somewhat revived him. He kissed her hand, and continued to stand beside her as she finished her nosegay. Had any one seen the glad, fond look with which he regarded her as she busied herself among the flowers, even old Sandra might have prognosticated his entire recovery under her care.
Flora was totally unaware of the feelings that were excited in Fabian’s heart, and the struggle he made to overcome a passion too sweet and too seductive, when awakened by so lovely a being, ever to be subdued. He had been struck with her some time ago, and avoided her. It was through his suggestion that she passed the period of the countess’s pilgrimage in this secluded villa. Nor had he thought of visiting her there; but, riding over one day to inquire concerning a foal rearing for him, his horse had thrown him, and caused him that injury which had made him so long the inmate of the same abode. Already prepared to admire her—her kindness, her gentleness, and her unwearied patience during his illness, easily conquered a heart most ready and yet most unwilling201 to yield. He had returned to Siena resolved to forget her, but he came back assured that his life and death were in her hands.
At first Count Fabian had forgot that he had any but his own feelings and prejudices, and those of his mother and kindred, to overcome; but when the tyranny of love vanquished325 these, he began to fear a more insurmountable impediment in Flora. The first whisper of love fell like mortal sin upon her ear; and disturbed, and even angry, she replied:—
“Methinks you wholly forget who I am, and what you are. I speak not of ancient feuds, though these were enough to divide us for ever. Know that I hate you as my brother’s oppressor. Restore Lorenzo to me—recall him from banishment—erase the memory of all that he has suffered through you—win his love and approbation;—and when all this is fulfilled, which never can be, speak a language which now it is as the bitterness of death for me to hear!”
And saying this, she hastily retired, to conceal326 the floods of tears which this, as she termed it, insult had caused to flow; to lament68 yet more deeply her brother’s absence and her own dependence.
Fabian was not so easily silenced; and Flora had no wish to renew scenes and expressions of violence so foreign to her nature. She imposed a rule on herself, by never swerving327 from which she hoped to destroy the ill-omened love of her protector. She secluded herself as much as possible; and when with him assumed a chilling indifference328 of manner, and made apparent in her silence so absolute and cold a rejection329 of all his persuasions331, that had not love with its unvanquishable hopes reigned absolutely in young Fabian’s heart, he must have despaired. He ceased to speak of his affection, so to win back her ancient kindness. This was at first difficult; for she was timid as a young bird, whose feet have touched the limed twigs332. But naturally credulous333, and quite inexperienced, she soon began to believe that her alarm was exaggerated, and to resume those habits of intimacy334 which had heretofore subsisted335 between them. By degrees Fabian contrived to insinuate336 the existence of his attachment—he could not help it. He asked no return; he would wait for Lorenzo’s arrival, which he was sure could not be far distant. Her displeasure could not change, nor silence destroy, a sentiment which survived in spite of both. Intrenched in her coldness and her indifference, she hoped to weary him out by her defensive337 warfare, and fancied that he would soon cease his pursuit in disgust.
The countess had been long away; she had proceeded to view the feast of San Gennaro at Naples, and had not received tidings of her son’s illness. Her return was now expected; and Fabian resolved to return to Siena in time to receive her. Both he and Flora were therefore surprised one day, when she suddenly entered the apartment where they both were. Flora had long peremptorily338 insisted that he should not intrude137 while she was employed on her embroidery frame; but this day he had made so good a pretext339, that for the first time he was admitted, and then suffered to stay a few minutes—they now neither of them knew how long; she was busy at her work; and he sitting near, gazing unreproved on her unconscious face and graceful340 figure, felt himself happier than he had ever been before.
The countess was sufficiently341 surprised, and not a little angry; but before she could do more than utter one exclamation342, Fabian interrupted, by entreating343 her not to spoil all. He drew her away; he made his own explanations, and urged his wishes with resistless persuasion330. The countess had been used to indulge him in every wish; it was impossible for her to deny any strongly urged request; his pertinacity344, his agitation345, his entreaties346 half won her; and the account of his illness, and his assurances, seconded by those of all the family, that Flora had saved his life, completed the conquest, and she became in her turn a suitor for her son to the orphan daughter of Mancini.
Flora, educated till the age of twelve by one who never consulted his own pleasures and gratifications, but went right on in the path of duty, regardless of pain or disappointment, had no idea of doing aught merely because she or others might wish it. Since that time she had been thrown on her own resources; and jealously cherishing her individuality, every feeling of her heart had been strengthened by solitude and by a sense of mental independence. She was the least likely of any one to go with the stream, or to yield to the mere influence of circumstances. She felt, she knew, what it became her to do, and that must be done in spite of every argument.
The countess’s expostulations and entreaties were of no avail. The promise she had made to her brother of engaging herself by no vow for five years must be observed under every event; it was asked from her at the sad and solemn hour of their parting, and was thus rendered doubly sacred. So constituted, indeed, were her feelings, that the slightest wish she ever remembered having been expressed by Lorenzo had more weight with her than the most urgent prayers of another. He was a part of her religion; reverence and love for him had been moulded into the substance of her soul from infancy; their very separation had tended to render these impressions irradicable. She brooded over them for years; and when no sympathy or generous kindness was afforded her—when the countess treated her like an inferior and a dependant122, and Fabian had forgotten her existence, she had lived from month to month, and from year to year, cherishing the image of her brother, and only able to tolerate the annoyances347 that beset348 her existence, by considering that her patience, her fortitude, and her obedience were all offerings at the shrine of her beloved Lorenzo’s desires.
It is true that the generous and kindly disposition349 of Fabian won her to regard him with a feeling nearly approaching tenderness, though this emotion was feeble, the mere ripple350 of the waves, compared to the mighty351 tide of affection that set her will all one way, and made her deem everything trivial except Lorenzo’s return—Lorenzo’s existence—obedience to Lorenzo. She listened to her lover’s persuasions so unyieldingly that the countess was provoked by her inflexibility352; but she bore her reproaches with such mildness, and smiled so sweetly, that Fabian was the more charmed. She admitted that she owed him a certain submission353 as the guardian set over her by her brother; Fabian would have gladly exchanged this authority for the pleasure of being commanded by her; but this was an honour he could not attain81, so in playful spite he enforced concessions354 from her. At his desire she appeared in society, dressed as became her rank, and filled in his house the station a sister of his own would have held. She preferred seclusion, but she was averse to contention355, and it was little that she yielded, while the purpose of her soul was as fixed356 as ever.
The fifth year of Lorenzo’s exile was now drawing to a close, but he did not return, nor had any intelligence been received of him. The decree of his banishment had been repealed357, the fortunes of his house restored, and his palace, under Fabian’s generous care, rebuilt. These were acts that demanded and excited Flora’s gratitude358; yet they were performed in an unpretending manner, as if the citizens of Siena had suddenly become just and wise without his interference. But these things dwindled359 into trifles while the continuation of Lorenzo’s absence seemed the pledge of her eternal misery; and the tacit appeal made to her kindness, while she had no thought but for her brother, drove her to desperation. She could no longer tolerate the painful anomaly of her situation; she could not endure her suspense360 for her brother’s fate, nor the reproachful glances of Fabian’s mother and his friends. He himself was more generous,—he read her heart, and, as the termination of the fifth year drew nigh, ceased to allude361 to his own feelings, and appeared as wrapt as herself in doubt concerning the fate of the noble youth, whom they could scarcely entertain a hope of ever seeing more. This was small comfort to Flora. She had resolved that when the completion of the fifth year assured her that her brother was for ever lost, she would never see Fabian again. At first she had resolved to take refuge in a convent, and in the sanctity of religious vows362. But she remembered how averse Lorenzo had always shown himself to this vocation363, and that he had preferred to place her beneath the roof of his foe, than within the walls of a nunnery. Besides, young as she was, and, despite of herself, full of hope, she recoiled364 from shutting the gates of life upon herself for ever. Notwithstanding her fears and sorrow, she clung to the belief that Lorenzo lived; and this led her to another plan. When she had received her little cross from Milan, it was accompanied by a message that he believed he had found a good friend in the archbishop of that place. This prelate, therefore, would know whither Lorenzo had first bent365 his steps, and to him she resolved to apply. Her scheme was easily formed. She possessed herself of the garb of a pilgrim, and resolved on the day following the completion of the fifth year to depart from Siena, and bend her steps towards Lombardy, buoyed up by the hope that she should gain some tidings of her brother.
Meanwhile Fabian had formed a similar resolve. He had learnt the fact from Flora, of Lorenzo having first resorted to Milan, and he determined to visit that city, and not to return without certain information. He acquainted his mother with his plan, but begged her not to inform Flora, that she might not be tortured by double doubt during his absence.
The anniversary of the fifth year was come, and with it the eve of these several and separate journeys. Flora had retired to spend the day at the villa before mentioned. She had chosen to retire thither366 for various reasons. Her escape was more practicable thence than in the town; and she was anxious to avoid seeing both Fabian and his mother, now that she was on the point of inflicting367 severe pain on them. She spent the day at the villa and in its gardens, musing on her plans, regretting the quiet of her past life—saddened on Fabian’s account—grieving bitterly for Lorenzo. She was not alone, for she had been obliged to confide368 in one of her former companions, and to obtain her assistance. Poor little Angeline was dreadfully frightened with the trust reposed369 in her, but did not dare expostulate with or betray her friend; and she continued near her during this last day, by turns trying to console and weeping with her. Towards evening they wandered together into the wood contiguous to the villa. Flora had taken her harp287 with her, but her trembling fingers refused to strike its chords; she left it, she left her companion, and strayed on alone to take leave of a spot consecrated371 by many a former visit. Here the umbrageous372 trees gathered about her, and shaded her with their thick and drooping373 foliage;—a torrent27 dashed down from neighbouring rock, and fell from a height into a rustic374 basin, hollowed to receive it; then, overflowing375 the margin376 at one spot, it continued falling over successive declivities, till it reached the bottom of a little ravine, when it stole on in a placid and silent course. This had ever been a favourite resort of Flora. The twilight of the wood and the perpetual flow, the thunder, the hurry, and the turmoil of the waters, the varied sameness of the eternal elements, accorded with the melancholy of her ideas, and the endless succession of her reveries. She came to it now; she gazed on the limpid377 cascade—for the last time; a soft sadness glistened378 in her eyes, and her attitude denoted the tender regret that filled her bosom379; her long bright tresses streaming in elegant disorder380, her light veil and simple, yet rich, attire, were fitfully mirrored in the smooth face of the rushing waters. At this moment the sound of steps more firm and manly381 than those of Angeline struck her ear, and Fabian himself stood before her; he was unable to bring himself to depart on his journey without seeing her once again. He had ridden to the villa, and, finding that she had quitted it, sought and found her in the lone48 recess382 where they had often spent hours together which had been full of bliss383 to him. Flora was sorry to see him, for her secret was on her lips, and yet she resolved not to give it utterance. He was ruled by the same feeling. Their interview was therefore short, and neither alluded384 to what sat nearest the heart of each. They parted with a simple “Good-night,” as if certain of meeting the following morning; each deceived the other, and each was in turn deceived. There was more of tenderness in Flora’s manner than there had ever been; it cheered his faltering soul, about to quit her, while the anticipation189 of the blow he was about to receive from her made her regard as venial385 this momentary386 softening387 towards her brother’s enemy.
Fabian passed the night at the villa, and early the next morning he departed for Milan. He was impatient to arrive at the end of his journey, and often he thrust his spurs into his horse’s sides, and put him to his speed, which even then appeared slow. Yet he was aware that his arrival at Milan might advance him not a jot388 towards the ultimate object of his journey; and he called Flora cruel and unkind, until the recollection of her kind farewell consoled and cheered him.
He stopped the first night at Empoli, and, crossing the Arno, began to ascend187 the Apennines on the northern side. Soon he penetrated389 their fastnesses, and entered deep into the ilex woods. He journeyed on perseveringly390, and yet the obstructions391 he met with were many, and borne with impatience. At length, on the afternoon of the third day, he arrived at a little rustic inn, hid deep in a wood, which showed signs of seldom being visited by travellers. The burning sun made it a welcome shelter for Fabian; and he deposited his steed in the stable, which he found already partly occupied by a handsome black horse, and then entered the inn to seek refreshment392 for himself. There seemed some difficulty in obtaining this. The landlady393 was the sole domestic, and it was long before she made her appearance, and then she was full of trouble and dismay; a sick traveller had arrived—a gentleman to all appearance dying of a malignant394 fever. His horse, his well-stored purse, and rich dress showed that he was a cavalier of consequence;—the more the pity. There was no help, nor any means of carrying him forward; yet half his pain seemed to arise from his regret at being detained—he was so eager to proceed to Siena. The name of his own town excited the interest of Count Fabian, and he went up to visit the stranger, while the hostess prepared his repast.
Meanwhile Flora awoke with the lark395, and with the assistance of Angeline attired herself in her pilgrim’s garb. From the stir below, she was surprised to find that Count Fabian had passed the night at the villa, and she lingered till he should have departed, as she believed, on his return to Siena. Then she embraced her young friend, and taking leave of her with many blessings396 and thanks, alone, with Heaven, as she trusted, for her guide, she quitted Fabian’s sheltering roof, and with a heart that maintained its purpose in spite of her feminine timidity, began her pilgrimage. Her journey performed on foot was slow, so that there was no likelihood that she could overtake her lover, already many miles in advance. Now that she had begun it, her undertaking397 appeared to her gigantic, and her heart almost failed her. The burning sun scorched398 her; never having before found herself alone in a highway, a thousand fears assailed399 her, and she grew so weary, that soon she was unable to support herself. By the advice of a landlady at an inn where she stopped, she purchased a mule400 to help her on her long journey. Yet with this help it was the third night before she arrived at Empoli, and then crossing the Arno, as her lover had done before, her difficulties seemed to begin to unfold themselves, and to grow gigantic, as she entered the dark woods of the Apennines, and found herself amidst the solitude of its vast forests. Her pilgrim’s garb inspired some respect, and she rested at convents by the way. The pious401 sisters held up their hands in admiration of her courage; while her heart beat faintly with the knowledge that she possessed absolutely none. Yet, again and again, she repeated to herself, that the Apennines once passed, the worst would be over. So she toiled402 on, now weary, now frightened—very slowly, and yet very anxious to get on with speed.
On the evening of the seventh day after quitting her home, she was still entangled in the mazes403 of these savage404 hills. She was to sleep at a convent on their summit that night, and the next day arrive at Bologna. This hope had cheered her through the day; but evening approached, the way grew more intricate, and no convent appeared. The sun had set, and she listened anxiously for the bell of the Ave Maria, which would give her hope that the goal she sought was nigh; but all was silent, save the swinging boughs of the vast trees, and the timid beating of her own heart; darkness closed around her, and despair came with the increased obscurity, till a twinkling light, revealing itself among the trees, afforded her some relief. She followed this beamy guide till it led her to a little inn, where the sight of a kind-looking woman, and the assurance of safe shelter, dispelled405 her terrors, and filled her with grateful pleasure.
Seeing her so weary, the considerate hostess hastened to place food before her, and then conducted her to a little low room where her bed was prepared. “I am sorry, lady,” said the landlady in a whisper, “not to be able to accommodate you better; but a sick cavalier occupies my best room—it is next to this—and he sleeps now, and I would not disturb him. Poor gentleman! I never thought he would rise more; and under Heaven he owes his life to one who, whether he is related to him or not I cannot tell, for he did not accompany him. Four days ago he stopped here, and I told him my sorrow—how I had a dying guest, and he charitably saw him, and has since then nursed him more like a twin-brother than a stranger.”
The good woman prattled406 on. Flora heard but little of what she said; and overcome by weariness and sleep, paid no attention to her tale. But having performed her orisons, and placed her head on the pillow, she was quickly lapped in the balmy slumber407 she so much needed.
Early in the morning she was awoke by a murmur of voices in the next room. She started up, and recalling her scattered thoughts, tried to remember the account the hostess had given her the preceding evening. The sick man spoke, but his accent was low, and the words did not reach her;—he was answered—could Flora believe her senses? did she not know the voice that spoke these words?—“Fear nothing, a sweet sleep has done you infinite good; and I rejoice in the belief that you will speedily recover. I have sent to Siena for your sister, and do indeed expect that Flora will arrive this very day.”
More was said, but Flora heard no more; she had risen, and was hastily dressing408 herself; in a few minutes she was by her brother’s, her Lorenzo’s bedside, kissing his wan hand, and assuring him that she was indeed Flora.
“These are indeed wonders,” he at last said; “and if you are mine own Flora you perhaps can tell me who this noble gentleman is, who day and night has watched beside me, as a mother may by her only child, giving no time to repose370, but exhausting himself for me.”
“How, dearest brother,” said Flora, “can I truly answer your question? to mention the name of our benefactor409 were to speak of a mask and a disguise, not a true thing. He is my protector and guardian, who has watched over and preserved me while you wandered far; his is the most generous heart in Italy, offering past enmity and family pride as sacrifices at the altar of nobleness and truth. He is the restorer of your fortunes in your native town”—
“And the lover of my sweet sister.—I have heard of these things, and was on my way to confirm his happiness and to find my own, when sickness laid me thus low, and would have destroyed us both for ever, but for Fabian Tolomei”—
“Who how exerts his expiring authority to put an end to this scene,” interrupted the young count. “Not till this day has Lorenzo been sufficiently composed to hear any of these explanations, and we risk his returning health by too long a conversation. The history of these things and of his long wanderings, now so happily ended, must be reserved for a future hour; when assembled in our beloved Siena, exiles and foes no longer, we shall long enjoy the happiness which Providence, after so many trials, has bounteously410 reserved for us.”
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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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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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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10
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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11
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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12
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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14
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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15
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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16
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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17
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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18
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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19
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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20
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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21
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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22
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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23
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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24
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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25
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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26
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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27
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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28
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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29
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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30
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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31
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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32
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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33
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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34
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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35
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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36
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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37
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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38
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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39
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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40
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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41
confiscation
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| n. 没收, 充公, 征收 | |
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42
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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43
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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44
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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45
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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46
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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47
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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48
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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49
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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50
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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51
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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52
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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53
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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54
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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55
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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56
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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57
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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58
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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59
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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60
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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61
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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62
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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63
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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64
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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65
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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66
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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67
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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69
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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70
razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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72
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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73
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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74
consecrating
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| v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的现在分词 )；奉献 | |
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75
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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76
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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77
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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78
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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79
sanely
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| ad.神志清楚地 | |
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80
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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81
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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82
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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83
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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84
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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85
revile
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| v.辱骂，谩骂 | |
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86
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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87
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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88
penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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89
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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90
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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91
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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92
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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93
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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94
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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95
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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96
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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97
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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98
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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100
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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101
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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102
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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103
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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104
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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105
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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106
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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107
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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108
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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109
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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110
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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111
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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112
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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113
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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114
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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115
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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116
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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117
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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118
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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119
emulated
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| v.与…竞争( emulate的过去式和过去分词 )；努力赶上；计算机程序等仿真；模仿 | |
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120
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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121
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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122
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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123
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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124
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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125
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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126
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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127
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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128
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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129
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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130
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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131
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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132
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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133
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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135
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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136
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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137
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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138
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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139
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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140
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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141
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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142
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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143
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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144
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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145
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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146
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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147
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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148
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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149
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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150
proffering
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的现在分词 ) | |
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151
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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152
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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153
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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155
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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156
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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157
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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158
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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159
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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160
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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161
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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162
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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163
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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164
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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165
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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166
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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167
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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168
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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169
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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170
impended
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
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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172
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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174
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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175
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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176
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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177
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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178
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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179
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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180
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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181
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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182
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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183
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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184
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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185
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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186
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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187
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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188
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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190
anticipations
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|
| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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191
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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192
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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193
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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194
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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196
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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197
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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198
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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199
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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200
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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201
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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202
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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203
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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204
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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205
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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206
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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207
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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208
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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209
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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210
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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211
maternal
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|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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212
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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213
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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214
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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215
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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216
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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217
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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218
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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219
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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221
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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222
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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223
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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224
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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225
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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226
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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227
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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228
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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229
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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230
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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231
contemned
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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232
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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233
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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234
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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235
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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236
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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237
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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238
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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239
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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240
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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241
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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242
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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243
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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244
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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245
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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246
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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247
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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248
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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249
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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250
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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251
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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252
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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253
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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254
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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255
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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256
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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257
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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258
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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259
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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260
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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261
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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262
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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263
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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264
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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265
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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266
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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267
sequestered
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|
| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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268
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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269
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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270
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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271
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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272
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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273
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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274
prattle
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|
| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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275
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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276
enchanted
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|
| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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277
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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278
transcript
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|
| n.抄本，誊本，副本，肄业证书 | |
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279
wriggle
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|
| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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280
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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281
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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282
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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283
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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284
protracted
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|
| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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285
majestic
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|
| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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286
likeness
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|
| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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287
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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288
wailing
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|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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289
trampling
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|
| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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290
frightful
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|
| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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291
shrieks
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|
| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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292
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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293
leech
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|
| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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294
dispersing
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|
| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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295
impeded
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|
| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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296
Christian
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|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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297
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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298
benevolence
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|
| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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299
animates
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|
| v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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300
irritability
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|
| n.易怒 | |
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301
demonstrations
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|
| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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302
subsided
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|
| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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303
meek
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|
| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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304
acquiescence
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|
| n.默许；顺从 | |
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305
subdued
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|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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306
conversed
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|
| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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307
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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308
contrived
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|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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309
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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310
specious
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|
| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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311
derived
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|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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312
vexed
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|
| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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313
heartily
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|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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314
elastic
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|
| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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315
averse
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|
| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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316
determined
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|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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317
profusion
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|
| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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318
alluding
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|
| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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319
mortified
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|
| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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320
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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321
zest
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|
| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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322
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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323
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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324
infinitely
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|
| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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325
vanquished
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|
| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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326
conceal
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|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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327
swerving
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|
| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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328
indifference
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|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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329
rejection
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|
| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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330
persuasion
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|
| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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331
persuasions
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|
| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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332
twigs
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|
| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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333
credulous
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|
| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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334
intimacy
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|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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335
subsisted
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|
| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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336
insinuate
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|
| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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337
defensive
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|
| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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338
peremptorily
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|
| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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339
pretext
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|
| n.借口，托词 | |
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340
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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341
sufficiently
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|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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342
exclamation
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|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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343
entreating
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|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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344
pertinacity
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|
| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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345
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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346
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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347
annoyances
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|
| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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348
beset
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|
| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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349
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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350
ripple
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|
| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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351
mighty
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|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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352
inflexibility
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|
| n.不屈性，顽固，不变性；不可弯曲；非挠性；刚性 | |
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353
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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354
concessions
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|
| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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355
contention
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|
| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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356
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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357
repealed
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| 撤销，废除( repeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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358
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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359
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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360
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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361
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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362
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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363
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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364
recoiled
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|
| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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365
bent
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|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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366
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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367
inflicting
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|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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368
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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369
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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370
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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371
consecrated
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|
| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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372
umbrageous
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|
| adj.多荫的 | |
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373
drooping
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|
| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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374
rustic
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|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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375
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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376
margin
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|
| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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377
limpid
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|
| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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378
glistened
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|
| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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379
bosom
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|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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380
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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381
manly
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|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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382
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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383
bliss
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|
| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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384
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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385
venial
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|
| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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386
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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387
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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388
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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389
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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390
perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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391
obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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392
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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393
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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394
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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395
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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396
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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397
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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398
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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399
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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400
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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401
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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402
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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403
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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404
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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405
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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406
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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407
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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408
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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409
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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410
bounteously
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| adv.慷慨地，丰富地 | |
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