Prende, giovine audace e impaziente,
L’occasione offerta avidamente.
“Ger. Lib.,” c. vi. xxix.
(Take, youth, bold and impatient, the offered occasion eagerly.)
Clarence Glyndon was a young man of fortune, not large, but easy and independent. His parents were dead, and his nearest relation was an only sister, left in England under the care of her aunt, and many years younger than himself. Early in life he had evinced considerable promise in the art of painting, and rather from enthusiasm than any pecuniary1 necessity for a profession, he determined2 to devote himself to a career in which the English artist generally commences with rapture3 and historical composition, to conclude with avaricious4 calculation and portraits of Alderman Simpkins. Glyndon was supposed by his friends to possess no inconsiderable genius; but it was of a rash and presumptuous5 order. He was averse6 from continuous and steady labour, and his ambition rather sought to gather the fruit than to plant the tree. In common with many artists in their youth, he was fond of pleasure and excitement, yielding with little forethought to whatever impressed his fancy or appealed to his passions. He had travelled through the more celebrated7 cities of Europe, with the avowed8 purpose and sincere resolution of studying the divine masterpieces of his art. But in each, pleasure had too often allured9 him from ambition, and living beauty distracted his worship from the senseless canvas. Brave, adventurous10, vain, restless, inquisitive11, he was ever involved in wild projects and pleasant dangers,— the creature of impulse and the slave of imagination.
It was then the period when a feverish12 spirit of change was working its way to that hideous13 mockery of human aspirations14, the Revolution of France; and from the chaos15 into which were already jarring the sanctities of the World’s Venerable Belief, arose many shapeless and unformed chimeras16. Need I remind the reader that, while that was the day for polished scepticism and affected17 wisdom, it was the day also for the most egregious18 credulity and the most mystical superstitions,— the day in which magnetism19 and magic found converts amongst the disciples20 of Diderot; when prophecies were current in every mouth; when the salon21 of a philosophical22 deist was converted into an Heraclea, in which necromancy23 professed24 to conjure25 up the shadows of the dead; when the Crosier and the Book were ridiculed26, and Mesmer and Cagliostro were believed. In that Heliacal Rising, heralding27 the new sun before which all vapours were to vanish, stalked from their graves in the feudal28 ages all the phantoms29 that had flitted before the eyes of Paracelsus and Agrippa. Dazzled by the dawn of the Revolution, Glyndon was yet more attracted by its strange accompaniments; and natural it was with him, as with others, that the fancy which ran riot amidst the hopes of a social Utopia, should grasp with avidity all that promised, out of the dusty tracks of the beaten science, the bold discoveries of some marvellous Elysium.
In his travels he had listened with vivid interest, at least, if not with implicit30 belief, to the wonders told of each more renowned31 Ghost-seer, and his mind was therefore prepared for the impression which the mysterious Zanoni at first sight had produced upon it.
There might be another cause for this disposition32 to credulity. A remote ancestor of Glyndon’s on the mother’s side, had achieved no inconsiderable reputation as a philosopher and alchemist. Strange stories were afloat concerning this wise progenitor33. He was said to have lived to an age far exceeding the allotted34 boundaries of mortal existence, and to have preserved to the last the appearance of middle life. He had died at length, it was supposed, of grief for the sudden death of a great-grandchild, the only creature he had ever appeared to love. The works of this philosopher, though rare, were extant, and found in the library of Glyndon’s home. Their Platonic35 mysticism, their bold assertions, the high promises that might be detected through their figurative and typical phraseology, had early made a deep impression on the young imagination of Clarence Glyndon. His parents, not alive to the consequences of encouraging fancies which the very enlightenment of the age appeared to them sufficient to prevent or dispel36, were fond, in the long winter nights, of conversing37 on the traditional history of this distinguished38 progenitor. And Clarence thrilled with a fearful pleasure when his mother playfully detected a striking likeness39 between the features of the young heir and the faded portrait of the alchemist that overhung their mantelpiece, and was the boast of their household and the admiration40 of their friends,— the child is, indeed, more often than we think for, “the father of the man.”
I have said that Glyndon was fond of pleasure. Facile, as genius ever must be, to cheerful impression, his careless artist-life, ere artist-life settles down to labour, had wandered from flower to flower. He had enjoyed, almost to the reaction of satiety41, the gay revelries of Naples, when he fell in love with the face and voice of Viola Pisani. But his love, like his ambition, was vague and desultory42. It did not satisfy his whole heart and fill up his whole nature; not from want of strong and noble passions, but because his mind was not yet matured and settled enough for their development. As there is one season for the blossom, another for the fruit; so it is not till the bloom of fancy begins to fade, that the heart ripens43 to the passions that the bloom precedes and foretells44. Joyous45 alike at his lonely easel or amidst his boon46 companions, he had not yet known enough of sorrow to love deeply. For man must be disappointed with the lesser48 things of life before he can comprehend the full value of the greatest. It is the shallow sensualists of France, who, in their salon-language, call love “a folly49,”— love, better understood, is wisdom. Besides, the world was too much with Clarence Glyndon. His ambition of art was associated with the applause and estimation of that miserable50 minority of the surface that we call the Public.
Like those who deceive, he was ever fearful of being himself the dupe. He distrusted the sweet innocence51 of Viola. He could not venture the hazard of seriously proposing marriage to an Italian actress; but the modest dignity of the girl, and something good and generous in his own nature, had hitherto made him shrink from any more worldly but less honourable52 designs. Thus the familiarity between them seemed rather that of kindness and regard than passion. He attended the theatre; he stole behind the scenes to converse53 with her; he filled his portfolio54 with countless55 sketches56 of a beauty that charmed him as an artist as well as lover; and day after day he floated on through a changing sea of doubt and irresolution57, of affection and distrust. The last, indeed, constantly sustained against his better reason by the sober admonitions of Mervale, a matter-of-fact man!
The day following that eve on which this section of my story opens, Glyndon was riding alone by the shores of the Neapolitan sea, on the other side of the Cavern58 of Posilipo. It was past noon; the sun had lost its early fervour, and a cool breeze sprung up voluptuously59 from the sparkling sea. Bending over a fragment of stone near the roadside, he perceived the form of a man; and when he approached, he recognised Zanoni.
The Englishman saluted60 him courteously61. “Have you discovered some antique?” said he, with a smile; “they are common as pebbles62 on this road.”
“No,” replied Zanoni; “it was but one of those antiques that have their date, indeed, from the beginning of the world, but which Nature eternally withers63 and renews.” So saying, he showed Glyndon a small herb with a pale-blue flower, and then placed it carefully in his bosom64.
“You are an herbalist?”
“I am.”
“It is, I am told, a study full of interest.”
“To those who understand it, doubtless.”
“Is the knowledge, then, so rare?”
“Rare! The deeper knowledge is perhaps rather, among the arts, LOST to the modern philosophy of commonplace and surface! Do you imagine there was no foundation for those traditions which come dimly down from remoter ages,— as shells now found on the mountain-tops inform us where the seas have been? What was the old Colchian magic, but the minute study of Nature in her lowliest works? What the fable65 of Medea, but a proof of the powers that may be extracted from the germ and leaf? The most gifted of all the Priestcrafts, the mysterious sisterhoods of Cuth, concerning whose incantations Learning vainly bewilders itself amidst the maze66 of legends, sought in the meanest herbs what, perhaps, the Babylonian Sages67 explored in vain amidst the loftiest stars. Tradition yet tells you that there existed a race (“Plut. Symp.” l. 5. c. 7.) who could slay68 their enemies from afar, without weapon, without movement. The herb that ye tread on may have deadlier powers than your engineers can give to their mightiest69 instruments of war. Can you guess that to these Italian shores, to the old Circaean Promontory70, came the Wise from the farthest East, to search for plants and simples which your Pharmacists of the Counter would fling from them as weeds? The first herbalists — the master chemists of the world — were the tribe that the ancient reverence71 called by the name of Titans. (Syncellus, page 14.—“Chemistry the Invention of the Giants.”) I remember once, by the Hebrus, in the reign72 of — But this talk,” said Zanoni, checking himself abruptly73, and with a cold smile, “serves only to waste your time and my own.” He paused, looked steadily74 at Glyndon, and continued, “Young man, think you that vague curiosity will supply the place of earnest labour? I read your heart. You wish to know me, and not this humble75 herb: but pass on; your desire cannot be satisfied.”
“You have not the politeness of your countrymen,” said Glyndon, somewhat discomposed. “Suppose I were desirous to cultivate your acquaintance, why should you reject my advances?”
“I reject no man’s advances,” answered Zanoni; “I must know them if they so desire; but ME, in return, they can never comprehend. If you ask my acquaintance, it is yours; but I would warn you to shun76 me.”
“And why are you, then, so dangerous?”
“On this earth, men are often, without their own agency, fated to be dangerous to others. If I were to predict your fortune by the vain calculations of the astrologer, I should tell you, in their despicable jargon77, that my planet sat darkly in your house of life. Cross me not, if you can avoid it. I warn you now for the first time and last.”
“You despise the astrologers, yet you utter a jargon as mysterious as theirs. I neither gamble nor quarrel; why, then, should I fear you?”
“As you will; I have done.”
“Let me speak frankly,— your conversation last night interested and perplexed78 me.”
“I know it: minds like yours are attracted by mystery.”
Glyndon was piqued79 at these words, though in the tone in which they were spoken there was no contempt.
“I see you do not consider me worthy81 of your friendship. Be it so. Good-day!”
Zanoni coldly replied to the salutation; and as the Englishman rode on, returned to his botanical employment.
The same night, Glyndon went, as usual, to the theatre. He was standing82 behind the scenes watching Viola, who was on the stage in one of her most brilliant parts. The house resounded83 with applause. Glyndon was transported with a young man’s passion and a young man’s pride: “This glorious creature,” thought he, “may yet be mine.”
He felt, while thus wrapped in delicious reverie, a slight touch upon his shoulder; he turned, and beheld84 Zanoni. “You are in danger,” said the latter. “Do not walk home to-night; or if you do, go not alone.”
Before Glyndon recovered from his surprise, Zanoni disappeared; and when the Englishman saw him again, he was in the box of one of the Neapolitan nobles, where Glyndon could not follow him.
Viola now left the stage, and Glyndon accosted85 her with an unaccustomed warmth of gallantry. But Viola, contrary to her gentle habit, turned with an evident impatience86 from the address of her lover. Taking aside Gionetta, who was her constant attendant at the theatre, she said, in an earnest whisper,—
“Oh, Gionetta! He is here again!— the stranger of whom I spoke80 to thee!— and again, he alone, of the whole theatre, withholds87 from me his applause.”
“Which is he, my darling?” said the old woman, with fondness in her voice. “He must indeed be dull — not worth a thought.”
The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and pointed47 out to her a man in one of the boxes, conspicuous88 amongst all else by the simplicity89 of his dress, and the extraordinary beauty of his features.
“Not worth a thought, Gionetta!” repeated Viola,—“Not worth a thought! Alas90, not to think of him, seems the absence of thought itself!”
The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. “Find out his name, Gionetta,” said she, moving slowly to the stage, and passing by Glyndon, who gazed at her with a look of sorrowful reproach.
The scene on which the actress now entered was that of the final catastrophe91, wherein all her remarkable92 powers of voice and art were preeminently called forth93. The house hung on every word with breathless worship; but the eyes of Viola sought only those of one calm and unmoved spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired. Zanoni listened, and observed her with an attentive94 gaze, but no approval escaped his lips; no emotion changed the expression of his cold and half-disdainful aspect. Viola, who was in the character of one who loved, but without return, never felt so acutely the part she played. Her tears were truthful95; her passion that of nature: it was almost too terrible to behold96. She was borne from the stage exhausted97 and insensible, amidst such a tempest of admiring rapture as Continental98 audiences alone can raise. The crowd stood up, handkerchiefs waved, garlands and flowers were thrown on the stage,— men wiped their eyes, and women sobbed99 aloud.
“By heavens!” said a Neapolitan of great rank, “She has fired me beyond endurance. To-night — this very night — she shall be mine! You have arranged all, Mascari?”
“All, signor. And the young Englishman?”
“The presuming barbarian100! As I before told thee, let him bleed for his folly. I will have no rival.”
“But an Englishman! There is always a search after the bodies of the English.”
“Fool! is not the sea deep enough, or the earth secret enough, to hide one dead man? Our ruffians are silent as the grave itself; and I!— who would dare to suspect, to arraign101 the Prince di —? See to it,— this night. I trust him to you. Robbers murder him, you understand,— the country swarms102 with them; plunder103 and strip him, the better to favour such report. Take three men; the rest shall be my escort.”
Mascari shrugged104 his shoulders, and bowed submissively.
The streets of Naples were not then so safe as now, and carriages were both less expensive and more necessary. The vehicle which was regularly engaged by the young actress was not to be found. Gionetta, too aware of the beauty of her mistress and the number of her admirers to contemplate105 without alarm the idea of their return on foot, communicated her distress106 to Glyndon, and he besought107 Viola, who recovered but slowly, to accept his own carriage. Perhaps before that night she would not have rejected so slight a service. Now, for some reason or other, she refused. Glyndon, offended, was retiring sullenly108, when Gionetta stopped him. “Stay, signor,” said she, coaxingly109: “the dear signora is not well,— do not be angry with her; I will make her accept your offer.”
Glyndon stayed, and after a few moments spent in expostulation on the part of Gionetta, and resistance on that of Viola, the offer was accepted. Gionetta and her charge entered the carriage, and Glyndon was left at the door of the theatre to return home on foot. The mysterious warning of Zanoni then suddenly occurred to him; he had forgotten it in the interest of his lover’s quarrel with Viola. He thought it now advisable to guard against danger foretold110 by lips so mysterious. He looked round for some one he knew: the theatre was disgorging its crowds; they hustled111, and jostled, and pressed upon him; but he recognised no familiar countenance112. While pausing irresolute113, he heard Mervale’s voice calling on him, and, to his great relief, discovered his friend making his way through the throng114.
“I have secured you,” said he, “a place in the Count Cetoxa’s carriage. Come along, he is waiting for us.”
“How kind in you! how did you find me out?”
“I met Zanoni in the passage,—‘Your friend is at the door of the theatre,’ said he; ‘do not let him go home on foot to-night; the streets of Naples are not always safe.’ I immediately remembered that some of the Calabrian bravos had been busy within the city the last few weeks, and suddenly meeting Cetoxa — but here he is.”
Further explanation was forbidden, for they now joined the count. As Glyndon entered the carriage and drew up the glass, he saw four men standing apart by the pavement, who seemed to eye him with attention.
“Cospetto!” cried one; “that is the Englishman!” Glyndon imperfectly heard the exclamation115 as the carriage drove on. He reached home in safety.
The familiar and endearing intimacy116 which always exists in Italy between the nurse and the child she has reared, and which the “Romeo and Juliet” of Shakespeare in no way exaggerates, could not but be drawn117 yet closer than usual, in a situation so friendless as that of the orphan-actress. In all that concerned the weaknesses of the heart, Gionetta had large experience; and when, three nights before, Viola, on returning from the theatre, had wept bitterly, the nurse had succeeded in extracting from her a confession118 that she had seen one,— not seen for two weary and eventful years,— but never forgotten, and who, alas! had not evinced the slightest recognition of herself. Gionetta could not comprehend all the vague and innocent emotions that swelled119 this sorrow; but she resolved them all, with her plain, blunt understanding, to the one sentiment of love. And here, she was well fitted to sympathise and console. Confidante to Viola’s entire and deep heart she never could be,— for that heart never could have words for all its secrets. But such confidence as she could obtain, she was ready to repay by the most unreproving pity and the most ready service.
“Have you discovered who he is?” asked Viola, as she was now alone in the carriage with Gionetta.
“Yes; he is the celebrated Signor Zanoni, about whom all the great ladies have gone mad. They say he is so rich!— oh! so much richer than any of the Inglesi!— not but what the Signor Glyndon —”
“Cease!” interrupted the young actress. “Zanoni! Speak of the Englishman no more.”
The carriage was now entering that more lonely and remote part of the city in which Viola’s house was situated120, when it suddenly stopped.
Gionetta, in alarm, thrust her head out of the window, and perceived, by the pale light of the moon, that the driver, torn from his seat, was already pinioned121 in the arms of two men; the next moment the door was opened violently, and a tall figure, masked and mantled123, appeared.
“Fear not, fairest Pisani,” said he, gently; “no ill shall befall you.” As he spoke, he wound his arm round the form of the fair actress, and endeavoured to lift her from the carriage. But Gionetta was no ordinary ally,— she thrust back the assailant with a force that astonished him, and followed the shock by a volley of the most energetic reprobation124.
The mask drew back, and composed his disordered mantle122.
“By the body of Bacchus!” said he, half laughing, “she is well protected. Here, Luigi, Giovanni! seize the hag!— quick!— why loiter ye?”
The mask retired125 from the door, and another and yet taller form presented itself. “Be calm, Viola Pisani,” said he, in a low voice; “with me you are indeed safe!” He lifted his mask as he spoke, and showed the noble features of Zanoni.
“Be calm, be hushed,— I can save you.” He vanished, leaving Viola lost in surprise, agitation126, and delight. There were, in all, nine masks: two were engaged with the driver; one stood at the head of the carriage-horses; a fourth guarded the well-trained steeds of the party; three others (besides Zanoni and the one who had first accosted Viola) stood apart by a carriage drawn to the side of the road. To these three Zanoni motioned; they advanced; he pointed towards the first mask, who was in fact the Prince di —, and to his unspeakable astonishment127 the prince was suddenly seized from behind.
“Treason!” he cried. “Treason among my own men! What means this?”
“Place him in his carriage! If he resist, his blood be on his own head!” said Zanoni, calmly.
He approached the men who had detained the coachman.
“You are outnumbered and outwitted,” said he; “join your lord; you are three men,— we six, armed to the teeth. Thank our mercy that we spare your lives. Go!”
The men gave way, dismayed. The driver remounted.
“Cut the traces of their carriage and the bridles128 of their horses,” said Zanoni, as he entered the vehicle containing Viola, which now drove on rapidly, leaving the discomfited129 ravisher in a state of rage and stupor130 impossible to describe.
“Allow me to explain this mystery to you,” said Zanoni. “I discovered the plot against you,— no matter how; I frustrated131 it thus: The head of this design is a nobleman, who has long persecuted132 you in vain. He and two of his creatures watched you from the entrance of the theatre, having directed six others to await him on the spot where you were attacked; myself and five of my servants supplied their place, and were mistaken for his own followers133. I had previously134 ridden alone to the spot where the men were waiting, and informed them that their master would not require their services that night. They believed me, and accordingly dispersed135. I then joined my own band, whom I had left in the rear; you know all. We are at your door.”
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adventurous
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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chimeras
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| n.（由几种动物的各部分构成的）假想的怪兽( chimera的名词复数 )；不可能实现的想法；幻想；妄想 | |
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affected
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egregious
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magnetism
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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philosophical
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necromancy
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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conjure
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ridiculed
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heralding
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feudal
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phantoms
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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progenitor
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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conversing
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distinguished
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likeness
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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desultory
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ripens
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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foretells
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的第三人称单数 ) | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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46
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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47
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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48
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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49
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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50
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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51
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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52
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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53
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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54
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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55
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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56
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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57
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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58
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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59
voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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60
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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61
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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62
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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63
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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64
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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65
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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66
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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67
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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68
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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69
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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70
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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71
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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72
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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73
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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74
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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75
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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76
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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77
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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78
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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79
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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80
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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81
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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82
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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83
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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84
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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85
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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86
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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87
withholds
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| v.扣留( withhold的第三人称单数 )；拒绝给予；抑制（某事物）；制止 | |
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88
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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89
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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90
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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91
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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92
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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93
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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94
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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95
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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96
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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97
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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98
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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99
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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100
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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101
arraign
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| v.提讯；控告 | |
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102
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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103
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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104
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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105
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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106
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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107
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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108
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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109
coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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110
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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112
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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113
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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114
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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115
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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116
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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117
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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118
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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119
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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120
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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121
pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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123
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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124
reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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125
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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126
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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127
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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128
bridles
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| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
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129
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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130
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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131
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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132
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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133
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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134
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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135
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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