Desperately1 wounded, O'Connor lay between life and death for many weeks in the dim and secluded2 apartment whither O'Hanlon had borne him after his combat with Sir Henry Ashwoode. There, fearing lest his own encounter with Wharton, and its startling result, should mark them for pursuit and search, he placed O'Connor under the charge of trusty creatures of his own—for some time not daring to visit him except under cover of the night. This alarm, however, soon subsided3; and consequently less precaution was adopted. O'Connor's wounds were, as we have said, most dangerous, and for fully4 two months he lay upon the fiery5 couch of fever, alternately raving6 in delirium7, and locked in the dull stupor8 of entire apathy9 and exhaustion10. Through this season of pain and peril11 he was sustained, however, by the energies of a young and vigorous constitution. The fever, at length, abated12, and the unclouded light of reason returned; still, however, in body he was weak, so weak that, sorely against his will, he was perforce obliged to continue the occupant of his narrow bed, in the dingy13 and secluded lodgings15 in which he lay. Impatient to learn something of her who entirely16 filled his thoughts, and of the truth of whose love for him he now felt the revival17 of more than hope, he chafed19 and fretted21 in the narrow limits of his dark and gloomy chamber22. Spite of all the remonstrances23 of the old crone who attended him, backed by the more awful fulminations of his apothecary24, O'Connor would not submit any longer to the confinement25 of his bed; and, but for the firm and effectual resistance of O'Hanlon, would have succeeded, weak as he was, in making his escape from the house, and resuming his ordinary occupations and pursuits, as though his health had not suffered, nor his strength become impaired26, so as to leave him scarcely the power of walking a hundred steps, without the extremest exhaustion and lassitude. To O'Hanlon's expostulations he was forced to yield, and even pledged his word to him not to attempt a removal from his hated lodgings, without his consent and approbation27. In reply to a message to his friend Audley, he learned, much to his mortification28, that that gentleman had left town, and as thus full of disquiet29 and anxiety, one day O'Connor was seated, pale and languid, in his usual place by the window, the door of his apartment opened, and O'Hanlon entered. He took the hand of the invalid30 and said,—
"I commend your patience, young man, you have been my parole prisoner for many days. When is this durance to end?"
"I'faith, I believe with my life," rejoined O'Connor, "I never knew before what weariness and vexation in perfection are—this dusky room is hateful to me, it grows narrower and narrower every day—and those old houses opposite—every pane31 of glass in their windows, and every brick in their walls I have learned by rote—I am tired to death. But, seriously, I have other and very different reasons for wishing to be at liberty again—reasons so urgent as to leave me no rest by night or day. I chafe18 and fret20 here like a caged bird. I have been too long shut up—my strength will never come again unless I am allowed to breathe the fresh air—you are all literally32 killing33 me with kindness."
"And yet," rejoined O'Hanlon, "I have never been thought an over-careful leech34, and truth to say, had I suffered you to have your own way, you would not now have been a living man. I know, as well as any of them, how to tend a wound, and this I will say, that in all my practice it never yet has been my lot to meet with so ill-conditioned and cross-grained a patient as yourself. Why, nothing short of downright force has kept you in your room—your life is saved in spite of yourself."
"If you keep me here much longer," replied O'Connor, "it will prove but indifferent economy as regards my bodily health, for I shall undoubtedly35 cut my throat before another week."
"There shall be no need, my friend, to find such an escape," replied O'Hanlon, "for I now absolve36 you of your promise, hitherto so well observed; nay37, more, I advise you to leave the house to-day. I think your strength sufficient, and the occasion, moreover, demands that you should visit an acquaintance immediately."
"Who is it?" inquired O'Connor, starting to his feet with alacrity38, "thank God I am at length again my own master."
"When I this day entered the yard of the 'Cock and Anchor'," answered O'Hanlon, "the inn where you and I first encountered, I found a fellow inquiring after you most earnestly; he had a letter with which he was charged. It is from Sir Henry Ashwoode, who lies now in prison, and under sentence of death. You start, and no wonder—his old associates have convicted him of forgery39."
"Gracious Heaven, is it possible?" exclaimed O'Connor.
"Nay, certain," continued O'Hanlon, "nor has he any longer a chance of escape. He has been twice reprieved—but his friend Wharton is recalled—his reprieve40 expires in three days' time, and then he will be inevitably41 executed."
"Good God, is this—can it be reality?" exclaimed O'Connor, trembling with the violence of his agitation42, "give me the letter." He broke the seal, and read as follows:—
"Edmond O'Connor,—I know I have wronged you sorely. I have destroyed your peace and endangered your life. You are more than avenged43. I write this in the condemned44 cell of the gaol45. If you can bring yourself to confer with me for a few minutes, come here. I stand on no ceremony, and time presses. Do not fail. If you be living I shall expect you.
"Henry Ashwoode."
O'Connor's preparations were speedily made, and leaning upon the arm of his elder friend, he, with slow and feeble steps, and a head giddy with his long confinement, and the agitating46 anticipation47 of the scene in which he was just about to be engaged, traversed the streets which separated his lodging14 from the old city gaol—a sombre, stern, and melancholy-looking building, surrounded by crowded and dilapidated houses, with decayed plaster and patched windows, and a certain desolate48 and sickly aspect, as though scared and blasted by the contagious49 proximity50 of that dark receptacle of crime and desperation which loomed51 above them. At the gate O'Hanlon parted from him, appointing to meet him again in the "Cock and Anchor," whither he repaired. After some questions, O'Connor was admitted. The clanging of bolts, and bars, and door-chains, smote52 heavily on his heart—he heard no other sounds but these and the echoing tread of their own feet, as they traversed the long, dark, stone-paved passages which led to the dungeon53 in which he whom he had last seen in the pride of fashion, and youth, and strength, was now a condemned felon54, and within a few hours of a public and ignominious55 death. The turnkey paused at one of the narrow doors opening from the dusky corridor, and unclosing it, said,—
"A gentleman, sir, to see you."
"Request him to come in," replied a voice, which, though feebler than it used to be, O'Connor had no difficulty in recognizing. In compliance56 with this invitation, he with a throbbing57 heart entered the prison-room. It was dimly lighted by a single small window set high in the wall, and darkened by iron bars. A small deal table, with a few books carelessly laid upon it, occupied the centre of the cell, and two heavy stools were placed beside it, on one of which was seated a figure, with his back to the light, to conceal58, with a desperate tenacity59 of pride, the ravages60 which the terrific mental fever of weeks had wrought61 in his once bold and handsome face. By the wall was stretched a wretched pallet; and upon the plaster were written and scratched, according to the various moods of the miserable62 and guilty tenants63 of the place, a hundred records, some of slang philosophy, some of desperate drunken defiance64, and some again of terror, but all bearing reference to the dreadful scene to which this was but the ante-chamber and the passage. Many hieroglyphical65 emblems66 of unmistakable significance had also been traced upon the walls by the successive occupants of the place, such as coffins67, gallows-trees, skulls68 and cross-bones; the most striking among which symbols was a large figure of death upon a horse, sketched69 with much spirit, by some moralizing convict, with a piece of burned stick, and to which some waggish70 successor had appropriately added, in red chalk, a gigantic pair of spurs. As soon as O'Connor entered, the turnkey closed the door, and he and Sir Henry Ashwoode were left alone. A silence of some minutes, which neither party dared to break, ensued.
点击收听单词发音
1 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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2 secluded | |
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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3 subsided | |
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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4 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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5 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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6 raving | |
adj.说胡话的;疯狂的,怒吼的;非常漂亮的;令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话;疯话adv.胡言乱语地;疯狂地 | |
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7 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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8 stupor | |
v.昏迷;不省人事 | |
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9 apathy | |
n.漠不关心,无动于衷;冷淡 | |
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10 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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11 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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12 abated | |
减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 ); 减去; 降价; 撤消(诉讼) | |
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13 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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14 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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15 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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16 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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17 revival | |
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
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18 chafe | |
v.擦伤;冲洗;惹怒 | |
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19 chafed | |
v.擦热(尤指皮肤)( chafe的过去式 );擦痛;发怒;惹怒 | |
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20 fret | |
v.(使)烦恼;(使)焦急;(使)腐蚀,(使)磨损 | |
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21 fretted | |
焦躁的,附有弦马的,腐蚀的 | |
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22 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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23 remonstrances | |
n.抱怨,抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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24 apothecary | |
n.药剂师 | |
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25 confinement | |
n.幽禁,拘留,监禁;分娩;限制,局限 | |
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26 impaired | |
adj.受损的;出毛病的;有(身体或智力)缺陷的v.损害,削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27 approbation | |
n.称赞;认可 | |
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28 mortification | |
n.耻辱,屈辱 | |
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29 disquiet | |
n.担心,焦虑 | |
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30 invalid | |
n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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31 pane | |
n.窗格玻璃,长方块 | |
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32 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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33 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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34 leech | |
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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35 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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36 absolve | |
v.赦免,解除(责任等) | |
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37 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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38 alacrity | |
n.敏捷,轻快,乐意 | |
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39 forgery | |
n.伪造的文件等,赝品,伪造(行为) | |
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40 reprieve | |
n.暂缓执行(死刑);v.缓期执行;给…带来缓解 | |
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41 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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42 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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43 avenged | |
v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 );为…报复 | |
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44 condemned | |
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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45 gaol | |
n.(jail)监狱;(不加冠词)监禁;vt.使…坐牢 | |
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46 agitating | |
搅动( agitate的现在分词 ); 激怒; 使焦虑不安; (尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而)激烈争论 | |
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47 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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48 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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49 contagious | |
adj.传染性的,有感染力的 | |
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50 proximity | |
n.接近,邻近 | |
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51 loomed | |
v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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52 smote | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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53 dungeon | |
n.地牢,土牢 | |
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54 felon | |
n.重罪犯;adj.残忍的 | |
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55 ignominious | |
adj.可鄙的,不光彩的,耻辱的 | |
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56 compliance | |
n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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57 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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58 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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59 tenacity | |
n.坚韧 | |
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60 ravages | |
劫掠后的残迹,破坏的结果,毁坏后的残迹 | |
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61 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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62 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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63 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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64 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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65 hieroglyphical | |
n.象形文字,象形文字的文章 | |
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66 emblems | |
n.象征,标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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67 coffins | |
n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 );使某人早亡[死,完蛋,垮台等]之物 | |
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68 skulls | |
颅骨( skull的名词复数 ); 脑袋; 脑子; 脑瓜 | |
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69 sketched | |
v.草拟(sketch的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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70 waggish | |
adj.诙谐的,滑稽的 | |
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