Come vittima io vengo all’ ara.
“Metast.,” At. ii. Sc. 7.
(As a victim I go to the altar.)
It was about a month after the date of Zanoni’s departure and Glyndon’s introduction to Mejnour, when two Englishmen were walking, arm-in-arm, through the Toledo.
“I tell you,” said one (who spoke1 warmly), “that if you have a particle of common-sense left in you, you will accompany me to England. This Mejnour is an imposter more dangerous, because more in earnest, than Zanoni. After all, what do his promises amount to? You allow that nothing can be more equivocal. You say that he has left Naples,— that he has selected a retreat more congenial than the crowded thoroughfares of men to the studies in which he is to initiate2 you; and this retreat is among the haunts of the fiercest bandits of Italy,— haunts which justice itself dares not penetrate3. Fitting hermitage for a sage4! I tremble for you. What if this stranger — of whom nothing is known — be leagued with the robbers; and these lures5 for your credulity bait but the traps for your property,— perhaps your life? You might come off cheaply by a ransom6 of half your fortune. You smile indignantly! Well, put common-sense out of the question; take your own view of the matter. You are to undergo an ordeal7 which Mejnour himself does not profess8 to describe as a very tempting9 one. It may, or it may not, succeed: if it does not, you are menaced with the darkest evils; and if it does, you cannot be better off than the dull and joyless mystic whom you have taken for a master. Away with this folly10; enjoy youth while it is left to you; return with me to England; forget these dreams; enter your proper career; form affections more respectable than those which lured11 you awhile to an Italian adventuress. Attend to your fortune, make money, and become a happy and distinguished12 man. This is the advice of sober friendship; yet the promises I hold out to you are fairer than those of Mejnour.”
“Mervale,” said Glyndon, doggedly13, “I cannot, if I would, yield to your wishes. A power that is above me urges me on; I cannot resist its influence. I will proceed to the last in the strange career I have commenced. Think of me no more. Follow yourself the advice you give to me, and be happy.”
“This is madness,” said Mervale; “your health is already failing; you are so changed I should scarcely know you. Come; I have already had your name entered in my passport; in another hour I shall be gone, and you, boy that you are, will be left, without a friend, to the deceits of your own fancy and the machinations of this relentless14 mountebank15.”
“Enough,” said Glyndon, coldly; “you cease to be an effective counsellor when you suffer your prejudices to be thus evident. I have already had ample proof,” added the Englishman, and his pale cheek grew more pale, “of the power of this man,— if man he be, which I sometimes doubt,— and, come life, come death, I will not shrink from the paths that allure16 me. Farewell, Mervale; if we never meet again,— if you hear, amidst our old and cheerful haunts, that Clarence Glyndon sleeps the last sleep by the shores of Naples, or amidst yon distant hills, say to the friends of our youth, ‘He died worthily17, as thousands of martyr-students have died before him, in the pursuit of knowledge.’”
He wrung19 Mervale’s hand as he spoke, darted20 from his side, and disappeared amidst the crowd.
By the corner of the Toledo he was arrested by Nicot.
“Ah, Glyndon! I have not seen you this month. Where have you hid yourself? Have you been absorbed in your studies?”
“Yes.”
“I am about to leave Naples for Paris. Will you accompany me? Talent of all order is eagerly sought for there, and will be sure to rise.”
“I thank you; I have other schemes for the present.”
“So laconic21!— what ails22 you? Do you grieve for the loss of the Pisani? Take example by me. I have already consoled myself with Bianca Sacchini,— a handsome woman, enlightened, no prejudices. A valuable creature I shall find her, no doubt. But as for this Zanoni!”
“What of him?”
“If ever I paint an allegorical subject, I will take his likeness23 as Satan. Ha, ha! a true painter’s revenge,— eh? And the way of the world, too! When we can do nothing else against a man whom we hate, we can at least paint his effigies24 as the Devil’s. Seriously, though: I abhor25 that man.”
“Wherefore?’
“Wherefore! Has he not carried off the wife and the dowry I had marked for myself! Yet, after all,” added Nicot, musingly26, “had he served instead of injured me, I should have hated him all the same. His very form, and his very face, made me at once envy and detest27 him. I felt that there is something antipathetic in our natures. I feel, too, that we shall meet again, when Jean Nicot’s hate may be less impotent. We, too, cher confrere,— we, too, may meet again! Vive la Republique! I to my new world!”
“And I to mine. Farewell!”
That day Mervale left Naples; the next morning Glyndon also quitted the City of Delight alone, and on horseback. He bent28 his way into those picturesque29 but dangerous parts of the country which at that time were infested30 by banditti, and which few travellers dared to pass, even in broad daylight, without a strong escort. A road more lonely cannot well be conceived than that on which the hoofs31 of his steed, striking upon the fragments of rock that encumbered32 the neglected way, woke a dull and melancholy33 echo. Large tracts34 of waste land, varied35 by the rank and profuse36 foliage37 of the South, lay before him; occasionally a wild goat peeped down from some rocky crag, or the discordant38 cry of a bird of prey39, startled in its sombre haunt, was heard above the hills. These were the only signs of life; not a human being was met,— not a hut was visible. Wrapped in his own ardent40 and solemn thoughts, the young man continued his way, till the sun had spent its noonday heat, and a breeze that announced the approach of eve sprung up from the unseen ocean which lay far distant to his right. It was then that a turn in the road brought before him one of those long, desolate41, gloomy villages which are found in the interior of the Neapolitan dominions42: and now he came upon a small chapel43 on one side the road, with a gaudily44 painted image of the Virgin45 in the open shrine46. Around this spot, which, in the heart of a Christian47 land, retained the vestige48 of the old idolatry (for just such were the chapels49 that in the pagan age were dedicated50 to the demon-saints of mythology), gathered six or seven miserable51 and squalid wretches52, whom the curse of the leper had cut off from mankind. They set up a shrill53 cry as they turned their ghastly visages towards the horseman; and, without stirring from the spot, stretched out their gaunt arms, and implored54 charity in the name of the Merciful Mother! Glyndon hastily threw them some small coins, and, turning away his face, clapped spurs to his horse, and relaxed not his speed till he entered the village. On either side the narrow and miry street, fierce and haggard forms — some leaning against the ruined walls of blackened huts, some seated at the threshold, some lying at full length in the mud — presented groups that at once invoked55 pity and aroused alarm: pity for their squalor, alarm for the ferocity imprinted56 on their savage57 aspects. They gazed at him, grim and sullen58, as he rode slowly up the rugged59 street; sometimes whispering significantly to each other, but without attempting to stop his way. Even the children hushed their babble60, and ragged61 urchins62, devouring63 him with sparkling eyes, muttered to their mothers; “We shall feast well tomorrow!” It was, indeed, one of those hamlets in which Law sets not its sober step, in which Violence and Murder house secure,— hamlets common then in the wilder parts of Italy, in which the peasant was but the gentler name for the robber.
Glyndon’s heart somewhat failed him as he looked around, and the question he desired to ask died upon his lips. At length from one of the dismal64 cabins emerged a form superior to the rest. Instead of the patched and ragged over-all, which made the only garment of the men he had hitherto seen, the dress of this person was characterised by all the trappings of the national bravery. Upon his raven65 hair, the glossy66 curls of which made a notable contrast to the matted and elfin locks of the savages67 around, was placed a cloth cap, with a gold tassel68 that hung down to his shoulder; his mustaches were trimmed with care, and a silk kerchief of gay hues69 was twisted round a well-shaped but sinewy70 throat; a short jacket of rough cloth was decorated with several rows of gilt71 filagree buttons; his nether72 garments fitted tight to his limbs, and were curiously73 braided; while in a broad parti-coloured sash were placed two silver-hilted pistols, and the sheathed74 knife, usually worn by Italians of the lower order, mounted in ivory elaborately carved. A small carbine of handsome workmanship was slung75 across his shoulder and completed his costume. The man himself was of middle size, athletic76 yet slender, with straight and regular features, sunburnt, but not swarthy; and an expression of countenance77 which, though reckless and bold, had in it frankness rather than ferocity, and, if defying, was not altogether unprepossessing.
Glyndon, after eyeing this figure for some moments with great attention, checked his rein78, and asked the way to the “Castle of the Mountain.”
The man lifted his cap as he heard the question, and, approaching Glyndon, laid his hand upon the neck of the horse, and said, in a low voice, “Then you are the cavalier whom our patron the signor expected. He bade me wait for you here, and lead you to the castle. And indeed, signor, it might have been unfortunate if I had neglected to obey the command.”
The man then, drawing a little aside, called out to the bystanders in a loud voice, “Ho, ho! my friends, pay henceforth and forever all respect to this worshipful cavalier. He is the expected guest of our blessed patron of the Castle of the Mountain. Long life to him! May he, like his host, be safe by day and by night; on the hill and in the waste; against the dagger79 and the bullet,— in limb and in life! Cursed be he who touches a hair of his head, or a baioccho in his pouch80. Now and forever we will protect and honour him,— for the law or against the law; with the faith and to the death. Amen! Amen!”
“Amen!” responded, in wild chorus, a hundred voices; and the scattered81 and straggling groups pressed up the street, nearer and nearer to the horseman.
“And that he may be known,” continued the Englishman’s strange protector, “to the eye and to the ear, I place around him the white sash, and I give him the sacred watchword, ‘Peace to the Brave.’ Signor, when you wear this sash, the proudest in these parts will bare the head and bend the knee. Signor, when you utter this watchword, the bravest hearts will be bound to your bidding. Desire you safety, or ask you revenge — to gain a beauty, or to lose a foe,— speak but the word, and we are yours: we are yours! Is it not so, comrades?”
And again the hoarse83 voices shouted, “Amen, Amen!”
“Now, signor,” whispered the bravo, “if you have a few coins to spare, scatter82 them amongst the crowd, and let us be gone.”
Glyndon, not displeased85 at the concluding sentence, emptied his purse in the streets; and while, with mingled86 oaths, blessings87, shrieks88, and yells, men, women, and children scrambled89 for the money, the bravo, taking the rein of the horse, led it a few paces through the village at a brisk trot90, and then, turning up a narrow lane to the left, in a few minutes neither houses nor men were visible, and the mountains closed their path on either side. It was then that, releasing the bridle91 and slackening his pace, the guide turned his dark eyes on Glyndon with an arch expression, and said,—
“Your Excellency was not, perhaps, prepared for the hearty92 welcome we have given you.”
“Why, in truth, I OUGHT to have been prepared for it, since the signor, to whose house I am bound, did not disguise from me the character of the neighbourhood. And your name, my friend, if I may so call you?”
“Oh, no ceremonies with me, Excellency. In the village I am generally called Maestro Paolo. I had a surname once, though a very equivocal one; and I have forgotten THAT since I retired93 from the world.”
“And was it from disgust, from poverty, or from some — some ebullition of passion which entailed94 punishment, that you betook yourself to the mountains?”
“Why, signor,” said the bravo, with a gay laugh, “hermits of my class seldom love the confessional. However, I have no secrets while my step is in these defiles95, my whistle in my pouch, and my carbine at my back.” With that the robber, as if he loved permission to talk at his will, hemmed96 thrice, and began with much humour; though, as his tale proceeded, the memories it roused seemed to carry him farther than he at first intended, and reckless and light-hearted ease gave way to that fierce and varied play of countenance and passion of gesture which characterise the emotions of his countrymen.
“I was born at Terracina,— a fair spot, is it not? My father was a learned monk97 of high birth; my mother — Heaven rest her!— an innkeeper’s pretty daughter. Of course there could be no marriage in the case; and when I was born, the monk gravely declared my appearance to be miraculous98. I was dedicated from my cradle to the altar; and my head was universally declared to be the orthodox shape for a cowl. As I grew up, the monk took great pains with my education; and I learned Latin and psalmody as soon as less miraculous infants learn crowing. Nor did the holy man’s care stint99 itself to my interior accomplishments100. Although vowed101 to poverty, he always contrived102 that my mother should have her pockets full; and between her pockets and mine there was soon established a clandestine103 communication; accordingly, at fourteen, I wore my cap on one side, stuck pistols in my belt, and assumed the swagger of a cavalier and a gallant104. At that age my poor mother died; and about the same period my father, having written a History of the Pontifical105 Bulls, in forty volumes, and being, as I said, of high birth, obtained a cardinal106’s hat. From that time he thought fit to disown your humble107 servant. He bound me over to an honest notary108 at Naples, and gave me two hundred crowns by way of provision. Well, signor, I saw enough of the law to convince me that I should never be rogue109 enough to shine in the profession. So, instead of spoiling parchment, I made love to the notary’s daughter. My master discovered our innocent amusement, and turned me out of doors; that was disagreeable. But my Ninetta loved me, and took care that I should not lie out in the streets with the Lazzaroni. Little jade110! I think I see her now with her bare feet, and her finger to her lips, opening the door in the summer nights, and bidding me creep softly into the kitchen, where, praised be the saints! a flask111 and a manchet always awaited the hungry amoroso. At last, however, Ninetta grew cold. It is the way of the sex, signor. Her father found her an excellent marriage in the person of a withered112 old picture-dealer. She took the spouse113, and very properly clapped the door in the face of the lover. I was not disheartened, Excellency; no, not I. Women are plentiful114 while we are young. So, without a ducat in my pocket or a crust for my teeth, I set out to seek my fortune on board of a Spanish merchantman. That was duller work than I expected; but luckily we were attacked by a pirate,— half the crew were butchered, the rest captured. I was one of the last: always in luck, you see, signor,— monks’ sons have a knack115 that way! The captain of the pirates took a fancy to me. ‘Serve with us?’ said he. ‘Too happy,’ said I. Behold116 me, then, a pirate! O jolly life! how I blessed the old notary for turning me out of doors! What feasting, what fighting, what wooing, what quarrelling! Sometimes we ran ashore117 and enjoyed ourselves like princes; sometimes we lay in a calm for days together on the loveliest sea that man ever traversed. And then, if the breeze rose and a sail came in sight, who so merry as we? I passed three years in that charming profession, and then, signor, I grew ambitious. I caballed against the captain; I wanted his post. One still night we struck the blow. The ship was like a log in the sea, no land to be seen from the mast-head, the waves like glass, and the moon at its full. Up we rose, thirty of us and more. Up we rose with a shout; we poured into the captain’s cabin, I at the head. The brave old boy had caught the alarm, and there he stood at the doorway118, a pistol in each hand; and his one eye (he had only one) worse to meet than the pistols were.
“‘Yield!’ cried I; ‘your life shall be safe.’
“‘Take that,’ said he, and whiz went the pistol; but the saints took care of their own, and the ball passed by my cheek, and shot the boatswain behind me. I closed with the captain, and the other pistol went off without mischief119 in the struggle. Such a fellow he was,— six feet four without his shoes! Over we went, rolling each on the other. Santa Maria! no time to get hold of one’s knife. Meanwhile all the crew were up, some for the captain, some for me,— clashing and firing, and swearing and groaning120, and now and then a heavy splash in the sea. Fine supper for the sharks that night! At last old Bilboa got uppermost; out flashed his knife; down it came, but not in my heart. No! I gave my left arm as a shield; and the blade went through to the hilt, with the blood spurting121 up like the rain from a whale’s nostril122! With the weight of the blow the stout123 fellow came down so that his face touched mine; with my right hand I caught him by the throat, turned him over like a lamb, signor, and faith it was soon all up with him: the boatswain’s brother, a fat Dutchman, ran him through with a pike.
“‘Old fellow,’ said I, as he turned his terrible eye to me, ‘I bear you no malice124, but we must try to get on in the world, you know.’ The captain grinned and gave up the ghost. I went upon deck,— what a sight! Twenty bold fellows stark125 and cold, and the moon sparkling on the puddles126 of blood as calmly as if it were water. Well, signor, the victory was ours, and the ship mine; I ruled merrily enough for six months. We then attacked a French ship twice our size; what sport it was! And we had not had a good fight so long, we were quite like virgins127 at it! We got the best of it, and won ship and cargo128. They wanted to pistol the captain, but that was against my laws: so we gagged him, for he scolded as loud as if we were married to him; left him and the rest of his crew on board our own vessel129, which was terribly battered130; clapped our black flag on the Frenchman’s, and set off merrily, with a brisk wind in our favour. But luck deserted131 us on forsaking132 our own dear old ship. A storm came on, a plank133 struck; several of us escaped in a boat; we had lots of gold with us, but no water. For two days and two nights we suffered horribly; but at last we ran ashore near a French seaport134. Our sorry plight135 moved compassion136, and as we had money, we were not suspected,— people only suspect the poor. Here we soon recovered our fatigues137, rigged ourselves out gayly, and your humble servant was considered as noble a captain as ever walked deck. But now, alas138! my fate would have it that I should fall in love with a silk-mercer’s daughter. Ah, how I loved her!— the pretty Clara! Yes, I loved her so well that I was seized with horror at my past life! I resolved to repent139, to marry her, and settle down into an honest man. Accordingly, I summoned my messmates, told them my resolution, resigned my command, and persuaded them to depart. They were good fellows, engaged with a Dutchman, against whom I heard afterwards they made a successful mutiny, but I never saw them more. I had two thousand crowns still left; with this sum I obtained the consent of the silk-mercer, and it was agreed that I should become a partner in the firm. I need not say that no one suspected that I had been so great a man, and I passed for a Neapolitan goldsmith’s son instead of a cardinal’s. I was very happy then, signor, very,— I could not have harmed a fly! Had I married Clara, I had been as gentle a mercer as ever handled a measure.”
The bravo paused a moment, and it was easy to see that he felt more than his words and tone betokened140. “Well, well, we must not look back at the past too earnestly,— the sunlight upon it makes one’s eyes water. The day was fixed141 for our wedding,— it approached. On the evening before the appointed day, Clara, her mother, her little sister, and myself, were walking by the port; and as we looked on the sea, I was telling them old gossip-tales of mermaids142 and sea-serpents, when a red-faced, bottle-nosed Frenchman clapped himself right before me, and, placing his spectacles very deliberately143 astride his proboscis144, echoed out, ‘Sacre, mille tonnerres! this is the damned pirate who boarded the “Niobe”!’”
“‘None of your jests,’ said I, mildly. ‘Ho, ho!’ said he; ‘I can’t be mistaken; help there!’ and he griped me by the collar. I replied, as you may suppose, by laying him in the kennel145; but it would not do. The French captain had a French lieutenant146 at his back, whose memory was as good as his chief’s. A crowd assembled; other sailors came up: the odds147 were against me. I slept that night in prison; and in a few weeks afterwards I was sent to the galleys149. They spared my life, because the old Frenchman politely averred150 that I had made my crew spare his. You may believe that the oar84 and the chain were not to my taste. I and two others escaped; they took to the road, and have, no doubt, been long since broken on the wheel. I, soft soul, would not commit another crime to gain my bread, for Clara was still at my heart with her sweet eyes; so, limiting my rogueries to the theft of a beggar’s rags, which I compensated151 by leaving him my galley148 attire152 instead, I begged my way to the town where I left Clara. It was a clear winter’s day when I approached the outskirts153 of the town. I had no fear of detection, for my beard and hair were as good as a mask. Oh, Mother of Mercy! there came across my way a funeral procession! There, now you know it; I can tell you no more. She had died, perhaps of love, more likely of shame. Can you guess how I spent that night?— I stole a pickaxe from a mason’s shed, and all alone and unseen, under the frosty heavens, I dug the fresh mould from the grave; I lifted the coffin154, I wrenched155 the lid, I saw her again — again! Decay had not touched her. She was always pale in life! I could have sworn she lived! It was a blessed thing to see her once more, and all alone too! But then, at dawn, to give her back to the earth,— to close the lid, to throw down the mould, to hear the pebbles156 rattle157 on the coffin: that was dreadful! Signor, I never knew before, and I don’t wish to think now, how valuable a thing human life is. At sunrise I was again a wanderer; but now that Clara was gone, my scruples158 vanished, and again I was at war with my betters. I contrived at last, at O—, to get taken on board a vessel bound to Leghorn, working out my passage. From Leghorn I went to Rome, and stationed myself at the door of the cardinal’s palace. Out he came, his gilded159 coach at the gate.
“‘Ho, father!’ said I; ‘don’t you know me?’
“‘Who are you?’
“‘Your son,’ said I, in a whisper.
“The cardinal drew back, looked at me earnestly, and mused160 a moment. ‘All men are my sons,’ quoth he then, very mildly; ‘there is gold for thee! To him who begs once, alms are due; to him who begs twice, jails are open. Take the hint and molest161 me no more. Heaven bless thee!’ With that he got into his coach, and drove off to the Vatican. His purse which he had left behind was well supplied. I was grateful and contented162, and took my way to Terracina. I had not long passed the marshes163 when I saw two horsemen approach at a canter.
“‘You look poor, friend,’ said one of them, halting; ‘yet you are strong.’
“‘Poor men and strong are both serviceable and dangerous, Signor Cavalier.’
“‘Well said; follow us.’
“I obeyed, and became a bandit. I rose by degrees; and as I have always been mild in my calling, and have taken purses without cutting throats, I bear an excellent character, and can eat my macaroni at Naples without any danger to life and limb. For the last two years I have settled in these parts, where I hold sway, and where I have purchased land. I am called a farmer, signor; and I myself now only rob for amusement, and to keep my hand in. I trust I have satisfied your curiosity. We are within a hundred yards of the castle.”
“And how,” asked the Englishman, whose interest had been much excited by his companion’s narrative,—“and how came you acquainted with my host?— and by what means has he so well conciliated the goodwill164 of yourself and friends?”
Maestro Paolo turned his black eyes very gravely towards his questioner. “Why, signor,” said he, “you must surely know more of the foreign cavalier with the hard name than I do. All I can say is, that about a fortnight ago I chanced to be standing165 by a booth in the Toledo at Naples, when a sober-looking gentleman touched me by the arm, and said, ‘Maestro Paolo, I want to make your acquaintance; do me the favour to come into yonder tavern166, and drink a flask of lacrima.’ ‘Willingly,’ said I. So we entered the tavern. When we were seated, my new acquaintance thus accosted167 me: ‘The Count d’O— has offered to let me hire his old castle near B—. You know the spot?’
“‘Extremely well; no one has inhabited it for a century at least; it is half in ruins, signor. A queer place to hire; I hope the rent is not heavy.’
“‘Maestro Paolo,’ said he, ‘I am a philosopher, and don’t care for luxuries. I want a quiet retreat for some scientific experiments. The castle will suit me very well, provided you will accept me as a neighbour, and place me and my friends under your special protection. I am rich; but I shall take nothing to the castle worth robbing. I will pay one rent to the count, and another to you.’
“With that we soon came to terms; and as the strange signor doubled the sum I myself proposed, he is in high favour with all his neighbours. We would guard the whole castle against an army. And now, signor, that I have been thus frank, be frank with me. Who is this singular cavalier?”
“Who?— he himself told you, a philosopher.”
“Hem! searching for the Philosopher’s Stone,— eh, a bit of a magician; afraid of the priests?”
“Precisely; you have hit it.”
“I thought so; and you are his pupil?”
“I am.”
“I wish you well through it,” said the robber, seriously, and crossing himself with much devotion; “I am not much better than other people, but one’s soul is one’s soul. I do not mind a little honest robbery, or knocking a man on the head if need be,— but to make a bargain with the devil! Ah, take care, young gentleman, take care!”
“You need not fear,” said Glyndon, smiling; “my preceptor is too wise and too good for such a compact. But here we are, I suppose. A noble ruin,— a glorious prospect168!”
Glyndon paused delightedly, and surveyed the scene before and below with the eye of a painter. Insensibly, while listening to the bandit, he had wound up a considerable ascent169, and now he was upon a broad ledge18 of rock covered with mosses170 and dwarf171 shrubs172. Between this eminence173 and another of equal height, upon which the castle was built, there was a deep but narrow fissure174, overgrown with the most profuse foliage, so that the eye could not penetrate many yards below the rugged surface of the abyss; but the profoundness might be well conjectured175 by the hoarse, low, monotonous176 roar of waters unseen that rolled below, and the subsequent course of which was visible at a distance in a perturbed177 and rapid stream that intersected the waste and desolate valleys.
To the left, the prospect seemed almost boundless,— the extreme clearness of the purple air serving to render distinct the features of a range of country that a conqueror178 of old might have deemed in itself a kingdom. Lonely and desolate as the road which Glyndon had passed that day had appeared, the landscape now seemed studded with castles, spires179, and villages. Afar off, Naples gleamed whitely in the last rays of the sun, and the rose-tints of the horizon melted into the azure180 of her glorious bay. Yet more remote, and in another part of the prospect, might be caught, dim and shadowy, and backed by the darkest foliage, the ruined pillars of the ancient Posidonia. There, in the midst of his blackened and sterile181 realms, rose the dismal Mount of Fire; while on the other hand, winding182 through variegated183 plains, to which distance lent all its magic, glittered many and many a stream by which Etruscan and Sybarite, Roman and Saracen and Norman had, at intervals184 of ages, pitched the invading tent. All the visions of the past — the stormy and dazzling histories of Southern Italy — rushed over the artist’s mind as he gazed below. And then, slowly turning to look behind, he saw the grey and mouldering185 walls of the castle in which he sought the secrets that were to give to hope in the future a mightier186 empire than memory owns in the past. It was one of those baronial fortresses187 with which Italy was studded in the earlier middle ages, having but little of the Gothic grace or grandeur188 which belongs to the ecclesiastical architecture of the same time, but rude, vast, and menacing, even in decay. A wooden bridge was thrown over the chasm189, wide enough to admit two horsemen abreast190; and the planks191 trembled and gave back a hollow sound as Glyndon urged his jaded192 steed across.
A road which had once been broad and paved with rough flags, but which now was half-obliterated by long grass and rank weeds, conducted to the outer court of the castle hard by; the gates were open, and half the building in this part was dismantled193; the ruins partially194 hid by ivy195 that was the growth of centuries. But on entering the inner court, Glyndon was not sorry to notice that there was less appearance of neglect and decay; some wild roses gave a smile to the grey walls, and in the centre there was a fountain in which the waters still trickled196 coolly, and with a pleasing murmur197, from the jaws198 of a gigantic Triton. Here he was met by Mejnour with a smile.
“Welcome, my friend and pupil,” said he: “he who seeks for Truth can find in these solitudes199 an immortal200 Academe.”
收听单词发音 |
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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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initiate
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| vt.开始，创始，发动；启蒙，使入门；引入 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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lures
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| 吸引力，魅力（lure的复数形式） | |
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6
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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7
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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8
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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9
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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10
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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11
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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12
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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13
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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14
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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15
mountebank
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| n.江湖郎中；骗子 | |
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16
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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17
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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18
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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19
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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20
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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21
laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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22
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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23
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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24
effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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25
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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26
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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27
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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28
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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29
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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30
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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31
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
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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34
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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35
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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36
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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37
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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38
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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39
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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40
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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41
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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42
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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43
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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44
gaudily
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| adv.俗丽地 | |
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45
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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46
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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47
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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48
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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49
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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50
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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51
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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52
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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53
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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54
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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56
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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57
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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58
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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59
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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60
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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61
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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62
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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63
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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64
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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65
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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66
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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67
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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68
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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69
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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70
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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71
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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72
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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73
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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74
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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75
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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76
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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77
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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78
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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79
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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80
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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81
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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82
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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83
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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84
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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85
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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86
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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87
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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88
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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89
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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90
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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91
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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92
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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93
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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94
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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95
defiles
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| v.玷污( defile的第三人称单数 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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96
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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97
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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98
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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99
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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100
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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101
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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102
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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103
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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104
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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105
pontifical
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| adj.自以为是的，武断的 | |
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106
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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107
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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108
notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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109
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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110
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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111
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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112
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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113
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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114
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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115
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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116
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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117
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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118
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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119
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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120
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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121
spurting
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的现在分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺； 溅射 | |
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122
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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124
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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125
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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126
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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127
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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128
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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129
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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130
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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131
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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132
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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133
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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134
seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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135
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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136
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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137
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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138
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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139
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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140
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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142
mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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143
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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144
proboscis
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| n.（象的）长鼻 | |
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145
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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146
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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147
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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148
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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149
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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150
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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151
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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152
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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153
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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154
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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155
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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156
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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157
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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158
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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159
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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160
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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161
molest
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| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
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162
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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163
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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164
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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165
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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166
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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167
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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168
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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169
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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170
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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171
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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172
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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173
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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174
fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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175
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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177
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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179
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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180
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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181
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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182
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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183
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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184
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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185
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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186
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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187
fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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188
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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189
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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190
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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191
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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192
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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193
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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194
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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195
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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196
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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197
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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198
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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199
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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200
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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