It was the hour above all others most sacred to the daring science of the Egyptian—the science which would read our changeful destinies in the stars.
He had filled his scroll, he had noted10 the moment and the sign; and, leaning upon his hand, he had surrendered himself to the thoughts which his calculation excited.
'Again do the stars forewarn me! Some danger, then, assuredly awaits me!' said he, slowly; 'some danger, violent and sudden in its nature. The stars wear for me the same mocking menace which, if our chronicles do not err12, they once wore for Pyrrhus—for him, doomed13 to strive for all things, to enjoy none—all attacking, nothing gaining—battles without fruit, laurels15 without triumph, fame without success; at last made craven by his own superstitions16, and slain17 like a dog by a tile from the hand of an old woman! Verily, the stars flatter when they give me a type in this fool of war—when they promise to the ardour of my wisdom the same results as to the madness of his ambition—perpetual exercise—no certain goal!—the Sisyphus task, the mountain and the stone!—the stone, a gloomy image!—it reminds me that I am threatened with somewhat of the same death as the Epirote. Let me look again. "Beware," say the shining prophets, "how thou passest under ancient roofs, or besieged18 walls, or overhanging cliffs—a stone hurled19 from above, is charged by the curses of destiny against thee!" And, at no distant date from this, comes the peril20: but I cannot, of a certainty, read the day and hour. Well! if my glass runs low, the sands shall sparkle to the last. Yet, if I escape this peril—ay, if I escape—bright and clear as the moonlight track along the waters glows the rest of my existence. I see honors, happiness, success, shining upon every billow of the dark gulf21 beneath which I must sink at last. What, then, with such destinies beyond the peril, shall I succumb22 to the peril? My soul whispers hope, it sweeps exultingly23 beyond the boding24 hour, it revels25 in the future—its own courage is its fittest omen11. If I were to perish so suddenly and so soon, the shadow of death would darken over me, and I should feel the icy presentiment26 of my doom14. My soul would express, in sadness and in gloom, its forecast of the dreary27 Orcus. But it smiles—it assures me of deliverance.'
As he thus concluded his soliloquy, the Egyptian involuntarily rose. He paced rapidly the narrow space of that star-roofed floor, and, pausing at the parapet, looked again upon the grey and melancholy28 heavens. The chills of the faint dawn came refreshingly29 upon his brow, and gradually his mind resumed its natural and collected calm. He withdrew his gaze from the stars, as, one after one, they receded30 into the depths of heaven; and his eyes fell over the broad expanse below. Dim in the silenced port of the city rose the masts of the galleys31; along that mart of luxury and of labor32 was stilled the mighty33 hum. No lights, save here and there from before the columns of a temple, or in the porticoes34 of the voiceless forum35, broke the wan36 and fluctuating light of the struggling morn. From the heart of the torpid37 city, so soon to vibrate with a thousand passions, there came no sound: the streams of life circulated not; they lay locked under the ice of sleep. From the huge space of the amphitheatre, with its stony38 seats rising one above the other—coiled and round as some slumbering39 monster—rose a thin and ghastly mist, which gathered darker, and more dark, over the scattered41 foliage that gloomed in its vicinity. The city seemed as, after the awful change of seventeen ages, it seems now to the traveler,—a City of the Dead.'
The ocean itself—that serene42 and tideless sea—lay scarce less hushed, save that from its deep bosom43 came, softened44 by the distance, a faint and regular murmur45, like the breathing of its sleep; and curving far, as with outstretched arms, into the green and beautiful land, it seemed unconsciously to clasp to its breast the cities sloping to its margin—Stabiae, and Herculaneum, and Pompeii—those children and darlings of the deep. 'Ye slumber40,' said the Egyptian, as he scowled46 over the cities, the boast and flower of Campania; 'ye slumber!—would it were the eternal repose47 of death! As ye now—jewels in the crown of empire—so once were the cities of the Nile! Their greatness hath perished from them, they sleep amidst ruins, their palaces and their shrines48 are tombs, the serpent coils in the grass of their streets, the lizard49 basks50 in their solitary51 halls. By that mysterious law of Nature, which humbles52 one to exalt53 the other, ye have thriven upon their ruins; thou, haughty54 Rome, hast usurped55 the glories of Sesostris and Semiramis—thou art a robber, clothing thyself with their spoils! And these—slaves in thy triumph—that I (the last son of forgotten monarchs) survey below, reservoirs of thine all-pervading power and luxury, I curse as I behold56! The time shall come when Egypt shall be avenged57! when the barbarian's steed shall make his manger in the Golden House of Nero! and thou that hast sown the wind with conquest shalt reap the harvest in the whirlwind of desolation!'
As the Egyptian uttered a prediction which fate so fearfully fulfilled, a more solemn and boding image of ill omen never occurred to the dreams of painter or of poet. The morning light, which can pale so wanly58 even the young cheek of beauty, gave his majestic59 and stately features almost the colors of the grave, with the dark hair falling massively around them, and the dark robes flowing long and loose, and the arm outstretched from that lofty eminence60, and the glittering eyes, fierce with a savage61 gladness—half prophet and half fiend!
He turned his gaze from the city and the ocean; before him lay the vineyards and meadows of the rich Campania. The gate and walls—ancient, half Pelasgic—of the city, seemed not to bound its extent. Villas62 and villages stretched on every side up the ascent63 of Vesuvius, not nearly then so steep or so lofty as at present. For, as Rome itself is built on an exhausted64 volcano, so in similar security the inhabitants of the South tenanted the green and vine-clad places around a volcano whose fires they believed at rest for ever. From the gate stretched the long street of tombs, various in size and architecture, by which, on that side, the city is as yet approached. Above all, rode the cloud-capped summit of the Dread65 Mountain, with the shadows, now dark, now light, betraying the mossy caverns66 and ashy rocks, which testified the past conflagrations67, and might have prophesied—but man is blind—that which was to come!
Difficult was it then and there to guess the causes why the tradition of the place wore so gloomy and stern a hue68; why, in those smiling plains, for miles around—to Baiae and Misenum—the poets had imagined the entrance and thresholds of their hell—their Acheron, and their fabled69 Styx: why, in those Phlegrae, now laughing with the vine, they placed the battles of the gods, and supposed the daring Titans to have sought the victory of heaven—save, indeed, that yet, in yon seared and blasted summit, fancy might think to read the characters of the Olympian thunderbolt.
But it was neither the rugged70 height of the still volcano, nor the fertility of the sloping fields, nor the melancholy avenue of tombs, nor the glittering villas of a polished and luxurious71 people, that now arrested the eye of the Egyptian. On one part of the landscape, the mountain of Vesuvius descended72 to the plain in a narrow and uncultivated ridge73, broken here and there by jagged crags and copses of wild foliage. At the base of this lay a marshy75 and unwholesome pool; and the intent gaze of Arbaces caught the outline of some living form moving by the marshes76, and stooping ever and anon as if to pluck its rank produce.
'Ho!' said he, aloud, 'I have then, another companion in these unworldly night—watches. The witch of Vesuvius is abroad. What! doth she, too, as the credulous77 imagine—doth she, too, learn the lore78 of the great stars? Hath she been uttering foul79 magic to the moon, or culling80 (as her pauses betoken) foul herbs from the venomous marsh74? Well, I must see this fellow-laborer. Whoever strives to know learns that no human lore is despicable. Despicable only you—ye fat and bloated things—slaves of luxury—sluggards in thought—who, cultivating nothing but the barren sense, dream that its poor soil can produce alike the myrtle and the laurel. No, the wise only can enjoy—to us only true luxury is given, when mind, brain, invention, experience, thought, learning, imagination, all contribute like rivers to swell81 the seas of SENSE!—Ione!'
As Arbaces uttered that last and charmed word, his thoughts sunk at once into a more deep and profound channel. His steps paused; he took not his eyes from the ground; once or twice he smiled joyously82, and then, as he turned from his place of vigil, and sought his couch, he muttered, 'If death frowns so near, I will say at least that I have lived—Ione shall be mine!'
The character of Arbaces was one of those intricate and varied83 webs, in which even the mind that sat within it was sometimes confused and perplexed84. In him, the son of a fallen dynasty, the outcast of a sunken people, was that spirit of discontented pride, which ever rankles86 in one of a sterner mould, who feels himself inexorably shut from the sphere in which his fathers shone, and to which Nature as well as birth no less entitles himself. This sentiment hath no benevolence87; it wars with society, it sees enemies in mankind. But with this sentiment did not go its common companion, poverty. Arbaces possessed88 wealth which equalled that of most of the Roman nobles; and this enabled him to gratify to the utmost the passions which had no outlet89 in business or ambition. Travelling from clime to clime, and beholding90 still Rome everywhere, he increased both his hatred91 of society and his passion for pleasure. He was in a vast prison, which, however, he could fill with the ministers of luxury. He could not escape from the prison, and his only object, therefore, was to give it the character of the palace. The Egyptians, from the earliest time, were devoted92 to the joys of sense; Arbaces inherited both their appetite for sensuality and the glow of imagination which struck light from its rottenness. But still, unsocial in his pleasures as in his graver pursuits, and brooking93 neither superior nor equal, he admitted few to his companionship, save the willing slaves of his profligacy94. He was the solitary lord of a crowded harem; but, with all, he felt condemned95 to that satiety96 which is the constant curse of men whose intellect is above their pursuits, and that which once had been the impulse of passion froze down to the ordinance97 of custom. From the disappointments of sense he sought to raise himself by the cultivation98 of knowledge; but as it was not his object to serve mankind, so he despised that knowledge which is practical and useful. His dark imagination loved to exercise itself in those more visionary and obscure researches which are ever the most delightful99 to a wayward and solitary mind, and to which he himself was invited by the daring pride of his disposition100 and the mysterious traditions of his clime. Dismissing faith in the confused creeds101 of the heathen world, he reposed102 the greatest faith in the power of human wisdom. He did not know (perhaps no one in that age distinctly did) the limits which Nature imposes upon our discoveries. Seeing that the higher we mount in knowledge the more wonders we behold, he imagined that Nature not only worked miracles in her ordinary course, but that she might, by the cabala of some master soul, be diverted from that course itself. Thus he pursued science, across her appointed boundaries, into the land of perplexity and shadow. From the truths of astronomy he wandered into astrological fallacy; from the secrets of chemistry he passed into the spectral103 labyrinth104 of magic; and he who could be sceptical as to the power of the gods, was credulously105 superstitious106 as to the power of man.
The cultivation of magic, carried at that day to a singular height among the would-be wise, was especially Eastern in its origin; it was alien to the early philosophy of the Greeks; nor had it been received by them with favor until Ostanes, who accompanied the army of Xerxes, introduced, amongst the simple credulities of Hellas, the solemn superstitions of Zoroaster. Under the Roman emperors it had become, however, naturalized at Rome (a meet subject for Juvenal's fiery107 wit). Intimately connected with magic was the worship of Isis, and the Egyptian religion was the means by which was extended the devotion to Egyptian sorcery. The theurgic, or benevolent108 magic—the goetic, or dark and evil necromancy—were alike in pre-eminent repute during the first century of the Christian109 era; and the marvels110 of Faustus are not comparable to those of Apollonius. Kings, courtiers, and sages111, all trembled before the professors of the dread science. And not the least remarkable113 of his tribe was the most formidable and profound Arbaces. His fame and his discoveries were known to all the cultivators of magic; they even survived himself. But it was not by his real name that he was honored by the sorcerer and the sage112: his real name, indeed, was unknown in Italy, for 'Arbaces' was not a genuinely Egyptian but a Median appellation114, which, in the admixture and unsettlement of the ancient races, had become common in the country of the Nile; and there were various reasons, not only of pride, but of policy (for in youth he had conspired against the majesty115 of Rome), which induced him to conceal116 his true name and rank. But neither by the name he had borrowed from the Mede, nor by that which in the colleges of Egypt would have attested117 his origin from kings, did the cultivators of magic acknowledge the potent118 master. He received from their homage119 a more mystic appellation, and was long remembered in Magna Graecia and the Eastern plain by the name of 'Hermes, the Lord of the Flaming Belt'. His subtle speculations120 and boasted attributes of wisdom, recorded in various volumes, were among those tokens 'of the curious arts' which the Christian converts most joyfully121, yet most fearfully, burnt at Ephesus, depriving posterity122 of the proofs of the cunning of the fiend.
The conscience of Arbaces was solely123 of the intellect—it was awed124 by no moral laws. If man imposed these checks upon the herd125, so he believed that man, by superior wisdom, could raise himself above them. 'If (he reasoned) I have the genius to impose laws, have I not the right to command my own creations? Still more, have I not the right to control—to evade—to scorn—the fabrications of yet meaner intellects than my own?' Thus, if he were a villain126, he justified127 his villainy by what ought to have made him virtuous—namely, the elevation128 of his capacities.
Most men have more or less the passion for power; in Arbaces that passion corresponded exactly to his character. It was not the passion for an external and brute129 authority. He desired not the purple and the fasces, the insignia of vulgar command. His youthful ambition once foiled and defeated, scorn had supplied its place—his pride, his contempt for Rome—Rome, which had become the synonym130 of the world (Rome, whose haughty name he regarded with the same disdain131 as that which Rome herself lavished132 upon the barbarian), did not permit him to aspire133 to sway over others, for that would render him at once the tool or creature of the emperor. He, the Son of the Great Race of Rameses—he execute the orders of, and receive his power from, another!—the mere134 notion filled him with rage. But in rejecting an ambition that coveted135 nominal136 distinctions, he but indulged the more in the ambition to rule the heart. Honoring mental power as the greatest of earthly gifts, he loved to feel that power palpably in himself, by extending it over all whom he encountered. Thus had he ever sought the young—thus had he ever fascinated and controlled them. He loved to find subjects in men's souls—to rule over an invisible and immaterial empire!—had he been less sensual and less wealthy, he might have sought to become the founder137 of a new religion. As it was, his energies were checked by his pleasures. Besides, however, the vague love of this moral sway (vanity so dear to sages!) he was influenced by a singular and dreamlike devotion to all that belonged to the mystic Land his ancestors had swayed. Although he disbelieved in her deities138, he believed in the allegories they represented (or rather he interpreted those allegories anew). He loved to keep alive the worship of Egypt, because he thus maintained the shadow and the recollection of her power. He loaded, therefore, the altars of Osiris and of Isis with regal donations, and was ever anxious to dignify139 their priesthood by new and wealthy converts. The vow140 taken—the priesthood embraced—he usually chose the comrades of his pleasures from those whom he made his victims, partly because he thus secured to himself their secrecy—partly because he thus yet more confirmed to himself his peculiar141 power. Hence the motives142 of his conduct to Apaecides, strengthened as these were, in that instance, by his passion for Ione.
He had seldom lived long in one place; but as he grew older, he grew more wearied of the excitement of new scenes, and he had sojourned among the delightful cities of Campania for a period which surprised even himself. In fact, his pride somewhat crippled his choice of residence. His unsuccessful conspiracy143 excluded him from those burning climes which he deemed of right his own hereditary144 possession, and which now cowered145, supine and sunken, under the wings of the Roman eagle. Rome herself was hateful to his indignant soul; nor did he love to find his riches rivalled by the minions146 of the court, and cast into comparative poverty by the mighty magnificence of the court itself. The Campanian cities proffered147 to him all that his nature craved—the luxuries of an unequalled climate—the imaginative refinements148 of a voluptuous149 civilization. He was removed from the sight of a superior wealth; he was without rivals to his riches; he was free from the spies of a jealous court. As long as he was rich, none pried150 into his conduct. He pursued the dark tenour of his way undisturbed and secure.
It is the curse of sensualists never to love till the pleasures of sense begin to pall151; their ardent152 youth is frittered away in countless153 desires—their hearts are exhausted. So, ever chasing love, and taught by a restless imagination to exaggerate, perhaps, its charms, the Egyptian had spent all the glory of his years without attaining154 the object of his desires. The beauty of to-morrow succeeded the beauty of to-day, and the shadows bewildered him in his pursuit of the substance. When, two years before the present date, he beheld155 Ione, he saw, for the first time, one whom he imagined he could love. He stood, then, upon that bridge of life, from which man sees before him distinctly a wasted youth on the one side, and the darkness of approaching age upon the other: a time in which we are more than ever anxious, perhaps, to secure to ourselves, ere it be yet too late, whatever we have been taught to consider necessary to the enjoyment156 of a life of which the brighter half is gone.
With an earnestness and a patience which he had never before commanded for his pleasures, Arbaces had devoted himself to win the heart of Ione. It did not content him to love, he desired to be loved. In this hope he had watched the expanding youth of the beautiful Neapolitan; and, knowing the influence that the mind possesses over those who are taught to cultivate the mind, he had contributed willingly to form the genius and enlighten the intellect of Ione, in the hope that she would be thus able to appreciate what he felt would be his best claim to her affection: viz, a character which, however criminal and perverted157, was rich in its original elements of strength and grandeur158. When he felt that character to be acknowledged, he willingly allowed, nay159, encouraged her, to mix among the idle votaries160 of pleasure, in the belief that her soul, fitted for higher commune, would miss the companionship of his own, and that, in comparison with others, she would learn to love herself. He had forgot, that as the sunflower to the sun, so youth turns to youth, until his jealousy161 of Glaucus suddenly apprised162 him of his error. From that moment, though, as we have seen, he knew not the extent of his danger, a fiercer and more tumultuous direction was given to a passion long controlled. Nothing kindles163 the fire of love like the sprinkling of the anxieties of jealousy; it takes then a wilder, a more resistless flame; it forgets its softness; it ceases to be tender; it assumes something of the intensity—of the ferocity—of hate.
Arbaces resolved to lose no further time upon cautious and perilous164 preparations: he resolved to place an irrevocable barrier between himself and his rivals: he resolved to possess himself of the person of Ione: not that in his present love, so long nursed and fed by hopes purer than those of passion alone, he would have been contented85 with that mere possession. He desired the heart, the soul, no less than the beauty, of Ione; but he imagined that once separated by a daring crime from the rest of mankind—once bound to Ione by a tie that memory could not break, she would be driven to concentrate her thoughts in him—that his arts would complete his conquest, and that, according to the true moral of the Roman and the Sabine, the empire obtained by force would be cemented by gentler means. This resolution was yet more confirmed in him by his belief in the prophecies of the stars: they had long foretold165 to him this year, and even the present month, as the epoch166 of some dread disaster, menacing life itself. He was driven to a certain and limited date. He resolved to crowd, monarch-like, on his funeral pyre all that his soul held most dear. In his own words, if he were to die, he resolved to feel that he had lived, and that Ione should be his own.
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1
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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2
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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3
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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4
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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5
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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13
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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boding
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| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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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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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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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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refreshingly
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| adv.清爽地，有精神地 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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porticoes
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| n.柱廊，（有圆柱的）门廊( portico的名词复数 ) | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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39
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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41
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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42
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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43
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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44
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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45
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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48
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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49
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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50
basks
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的第三人称单数 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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51
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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52
humbles
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| v.使谦恭( humble的第三人称单数 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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53
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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54
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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55
usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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56
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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57
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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58
wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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59
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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60
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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61
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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62
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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63
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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64
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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65
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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66
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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67
conflagrations
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| n.大火（灾）( conflagration的名词复数 ) | |
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68
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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69
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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70
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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71
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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72
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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73
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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74
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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75
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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76
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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77
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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78
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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79
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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80
culling
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| n.选择，大批物品中剔出劣质货v.挑选，剔除( cull的现在分词 ) | |
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81
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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82
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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83
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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84
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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85
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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86
rankles
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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88
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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89
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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90
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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91
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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92
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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93
brooking
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| 容忍，忍受（brook的现在分词形式） | |
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94
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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95
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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96
satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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97
ordinance
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| n.法令；条令；条例 | |
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98
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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99
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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100
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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101
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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102
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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103
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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104
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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105
credulously
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| adv.轻信地，易被瞒地 | |
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106
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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107
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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108
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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109
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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110
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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111
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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112
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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113
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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114
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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115
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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116
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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117
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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118
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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119
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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120
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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121
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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122
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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123
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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124
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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126
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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127
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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128
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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129
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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130
synonym
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| n.同义词，换喻词 | |
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131
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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132
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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133
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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134
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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135
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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136
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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137
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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138
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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139
dignify
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| vt.使有尊严；使崇高；给增光 | |
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140
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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141
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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142
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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143
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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144
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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145
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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146
minions
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| n.奴颜婢膝的仆从( minion的名词复数 )；走狗；宠儿；受人崇拜者 | |
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147
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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148
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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149
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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150
pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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151
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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152
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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153
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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154
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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155
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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156
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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157
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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158
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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159
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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160
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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161
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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162
apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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163
kindles
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的第三人称单数 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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164
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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165
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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