The chatelaine of Martzburg sat in the best guest-chamber1 of a wayside hostel2 that lay a few hours’ journeying from her home. Outside the rain dripped in the trees and a cold mountain wind shook the signboard. Jacobea trimmed the lamp, drew the curtains, and began walking up and down the room; the inner silence broken only by the sound of her footfall and an occasional sharp patter as the rain fell on to the bare hearth3.
So swiftly had she fled from Frankfort that its last scenes were still before her eyes like a gorgeous and disjointed pageant4; the Emperor stricken down at the feast, the brief, flashing turmoil5, Ysabeau’s peerless face, that her own horrid6 thoughts coloured with a sinister7 expression, Balthasar of Courtrai bringing the city to his feet — Hugh of Rooselaare snatched away to a dungeon8 — and over it all the leaping red light of a hundred flambeaux.
She herself was free here of everything save the sound of the rain, yet she must needs think of and brood on the tumult9 she had left.
The quiet about her now, the distance she had put between herself and Frankfort, gave her no sense of peace or safety; she strove, indeed, with a feeling of horror, as if they from whom she had fled were about her still, menacing her in this lonely room.
Presently she passed into the little bed-chamber and took up a mirror into which she gazed long and earnestly.
“Is it a wicked face?”
She answered herself —
“No, no.”
“Is it a weak face?”
“Alas!”
The wind rose higher, fluttered the lamp-flame and stirred the arras on the wall; and laying the mirror down she returned to the outer chamber. Her long hair that hung down her back was the only bright thing in the gloomy apartment where the tapestry10 was old and dusty, the furniture worn and faded; she wore a dark dress of embroidered11 purple, contrasting with her colourless face; only her yellow locks glittered as the lamplight fell on them.
The wind rose yet higher, struggled at the casement12, seized and shook the curtains and whistled in the chimney.
Up and down walked Jacobea of Martzburg, clasping and unclasping her soft young hands, her grey eyes turning from right to left.
It was very cold, blowing straight from the great mountains the dark hid; she wished she had asked for a fire and that she had kept one of the women to sleep with her — it was so lonely, and the sound of the rain reminded her of that night at Martzburg when the two scholars had been given shelter. She wanted to go to the door and call some one, but a curious heaviness in her limbs began to make movement irksome; she could no longer drag her steps, and with a sigh she sank into the frayed14 velvet15 chair by the fireplace.
She tried to tell herself that she was free, that she was on her way to escape, but could not form the words on her lips, hardly the thought; her head throbbed16, and a Cold sensation gripped her heart; she moved in the chair, only to feel as if held down in it; she struggled in vain to rise. “Barbara!” she whispered, and thought she was calling aloud.
A gathering17 duskiness seemed to overspread the chamber, and the tongue-shaped flame of the lamp showed through it distinct yet very far away; the noise of the wind and rain made one long insistent18 murmur19 and moaning.
Jacobea laughed drearily20, and lifted her hands to her bosom21 to try to find the crucifix that hung there, but her fingers were like lead, and fell uselessly into her lap again.
Her brain whirled with memories, with anticipations22 and vague expectations, tinged23 with fear like the sensations of a dream; she felt that she was sinking into soft infolding darkness; the lamp-flame changed into a fire-pointed star that rested on a knight24’s helm, the sound of wind and rain became faint human cries.
She whispered, as the dying Emperor had done ——“I am bewitched.”
Then the Knight, with the star glittering above his brow, came towards her and offered her a goblet25.
“Sebastian!” she cried, and sat up with a face of horror; the chamber was spinning about her; she saw the Knight’s long painted shield and his bare hand holding out the wine; his visor was down.
She shrieked26 and laughed together, and put the goblet aside.
Some one spoke27 out of the mystery.
“The Empress found happiness — why not you? — may not a woman die as easily as a man?”
She tried to remember her prayers, to find her crucifix; but the cold edge of the gold touched her lips, and she drank.
The hot wine scorched28 her throat and filled her with strength; as she sprang up the Knight’s star quivered back into the lamp-flame, the vapours cleared from the room; she found herself staring at Dirk Renswoude, who stood in the centre of the room and smiled at her.
“Oh!” she cried in a bewildered way, and put her hands to her forehead.
“Well,” said Dirk; he held a rich gold goblet, empty, and his was the voice she had already heard. “Why did you leave Frankfort?”
“I do not know;” her eyes were blank and dull. “I think I was afraid
“Lest you might do as Ysabeau did?” asked Dirk.
“What has happened to me?” was all her answer. All sound without had ceased; the light burnt clear and steadily30, casting its faint radiance over the slim outlines of the young man and the shuddering31 figure of the lady.
“What of your steward32?” whispered Dirk.
She responded mechanically as if she spoke by rote33. “I have no steward. I am going alone to Martzburg.”
“What of Sebastian?” urged the youth.
Jacobea was silent; she came slowly down the chamber, guiding herself with one hand along the wall, as though she could not see; the wind stirred the arras under her fingers and ruffled34 her gown about her feet.
Dirk set the goblet beside the lamp the while he watched her intently with frowning eyes. “What of Sebastian?” he repeated. “Ye fled from him, but have ye ceased to think of him?” “No,” said the chatelaine of Martzburg; “no, day and night — what is God, that He lets a man’s face to come between me and Him?”
“The Emperor is dead,” said Dirk.
“Is dead,” she repeated.
“Ysabeau knows how.”
“Ah!” she whispered. “I think I knew it.”
“Shall the Empress be happy and you starve your heart to death?”
Jacobea sighed. “Sebastian! Sebastian!” She had the look of one walking in sleep. “What is Sybilla to you?”
“His wife,” answered Jacobea in the same tone; “his wife.”
“The dead do not bind35 the living.” Jacobea laughed.
“No, no — how cold it is here; do you not feel the wind across the floor?” Her fingers wandered aimless over her bosom. “Sybilla is dead, you say?”
“Nay36 — Sybilla might die — so easily.”
Jacobea laughed again.
“Ysabeau did it — she is young and fair,” she said. “And she could do it — why not I? But I cannot bear to look on death.”
Her expressionless eyes turned on Dirk still in sightless fashion.
“A word,” said Dirk —“that is all your part; send him ahead to Martzburg.”
Jacobea nodded aimlessly.
“Why not? — why not? — Sybilla would be in bed, lying awake, listening to the wind as I have done —— so often — and he would come up the steep, dark stairs. Oh, and she would raise her head —”
Dirk put in-
“Has the chatelaine spoken?’ she would say, and he would make an end of it.”
“Perhaps she would be glad to die,” said Jacobea dreamily. “I have thought that I should be glad to die.”
“And Sebastian?” said Dirk.
Her strangely altered face lit and changed.
“Does he care for me?” she asked piteously.
“Enough to make life and death of little moment,” answered Dirk. “Has he not followed you from Frankfort?”
“Followed me?” murmured Jacobea. “I thought he had forsaken37 me.”
“He is here.”
“Here — here?” She turned, her movements still curiously39 blind, and the long strand40 of her hair shone on her dark gown as she stood with her back to the light.
“Sebastian,” said Dirk softly.
He waved his little hand, and the steward appeared in the dark doorway41 of the inner room; he looked from one to the other swiftly, and his face was flushed and dangerous.
“Sebastian,” said Jacobea; there was no change in voice nor countenance42; she was erect43 and facing him, yet it might well be she did not see him, for there seemed no life in her eyes.
He came across the room to her, speaking as he came, but a sudden fresh gust44 of wind without scattered45 his words.
“Have you followed me?” she asked.
“Yea,” he answered hoarsely46, staring at her; he had not dreamed a living face could look so white as hers, no, nor dead face either. He dropped to one knee before her, and took her limp hand.
“Shall we be free to-night?” she asked gently.
“You have but to speak,” he said. “So much will I do for you.”
She bent47 forward, and with her other hand touched his tumbled hair.
“Lord of Martzburg and my lord,” she said, and smiled sweetly. “Do you know how much I love you, Sebastian? why, you must ask the image of the Virgin48 — I have told her so often, and no one else; nay, no one else.”
Sebastian sprang to his feet.
“Oh God!” he cried. “I am ashamed — ye have bewitched her — she knows not what she says.” Dirk turned on him fiercely.
“Did ye not curse me when ye thought she had escaped? did I not swear to recover her for you? is she not yours? Saint Gabriel cannot save her now.”
“If she had not said that,” muttered Sebastian; he turned distracted eyes upon her standing49 with no change in her expression, the tips of her fingers resting on the table; her wide grey eyes gazing before her.
“Fool,” answered Dirk; “an’ she did not love you, what chance had you? I left my fortunes to help you to this prize, and I will not see you palter now — lady, speak to him.”
“Ay, speak to me,” cried Sebastian earnestly; “tell me if it be your wish that I, at all costs, should become your husband, tell me if it is your will that the woman in our way should go.” A slow passion stirred the calm of her face; her eyes glittered.
“Yes,” she said; “yes.”
“Jacobea!”— he took her arm and drew her close to him —“look me in the face and repeat that to me; think if it is worth — Hell — to you and me.”
She gazed up at him, then hid her face on his sleeve.
“Ay, Hell,” she answered heavily; “go to Martzburg to-night; she cannot claim you when she is dead; how I have striven not to hate her — my lord, my husband.” She clung to him like a sleepy child that feels itself falling into oblivion. “Now it is all over, is it not? — the unrest, the striving. Sebastian beware of the storm — it blows so loud.”
He put her from him into the worn old chair. “I will come back to you — tomorrow.” “To-morrow,” she repeated —“when the sun is up.”
The wind rushed between them and made the lamp-flame leap wildly.
“Make haste!” cried Dirk; “away — the horse is below.”
But Sebastian still gazed at Jacobea.
“It is done,” said Dirk impatiently, “begone.”
The steward turned away.
“They are all asleep below?” he questioned.
“Nor will they wake.”
Sebastian opened the door on to the dark stairway and went softly out.
“Now, it is done,” repeated Dirk in a swelling50 whisper, “and she is lost.”
He snatched up the lamp, and, holding it aloft, looked down at the drooping51 figure in the chair; Jacobea’s head sank back against the tarnished52 velvet; there was a smile on her white lips, and her hands rested in her lap; even with Dirk’s intent face bending over her and the full light pouring down on her, she did not look up.
“Gold hair and grey eyes — and her little feet,” murmured Dirk; “one of God’s own flowers —— what are you now?”
He laughed to himself and reset53 the lamp on the table; the lull54 in the storm was over, wind and rain strove together in the bare trees, and the howlings of the tempest shook the long bare room. Jacobea moved in her seat.
“Is he gone?” she asked fearfully.
“Certes, he has gone,” smiled Dirk. “Would you have him daily on such an errand?” Jacobea rose swiftly and stood a moment listening to the unhappy wind.
“I thought he was here,” she said under her breath. “I thought that he had come at last.” “He came,” said Dirk.
The chatelaine looked swiftly round at him; there was a dawning knowledge in her eyes. “Who are you?” she demanded, and her voice had lost its calm; “what has happened?” “Do you not remember me?” smiled Dirk.
Jacobea staggered back.
“Why,” she stammered55, “he was here, down at my feet, and we spoke — about Sybilla.” “And now,” said Dirk, “he has gone to free you of Sybilla — as you bid him.”
The Pursuit of Jacobea
“As I bid him?”
Dirk clasped his cloak across his breast.
“At this moment he rides to Martzburg on this service of yours, and I must begone to Frankfort where my fortunes wait. For you, these words: should you meet again one Theirry, a pretty scholar, do not prate56 to him of God and Judgment57, nor try to act the saint. Let him alone, he is no matter of yours, and maybe some woman cares for him as ye care for Sebastian, ay, and will hold him, though she have not yellow hair.”
Jacobea uttered a moan of anguish58.
“I bid him go,” she whispered. “Did God utterly59 forsake38 me and I bid him go?”
She gave Dirk a wild look over her shoulders, huddling60 them to her ears, as she crouched61 upon the floor.
“You are the Devil!” she shrieked. “I have delivered myself unto the Devil!”
She beat her hands together, and fell towards his feet.
Dirk stepped close and peered curiously into her unconscious face.
“Why, she is not so fair,” he murmured, “and grief will spoil her bloom, and ’twas only her face he loved.”
He extinguished the lamp and smiled into the darkness.
“I do think God is very weak.”
He drew the curtain away from the deep-set window, and the moon, riding the storm clouds like a silver armoured Amazon, cast a ghastly light over the huddled62 figure of Jacobea of Martzburg, and threw her shadow dark and trailing across the cold floor. Dirk left the chamber and the hostel unseen and unheard. The wind made too great a clamour for stray sounds to tell. Out in the wild, wet night he paused a moment to get his bearings; then turned towards the shed where he and Sebastian had left their horses.
The trees and the sign-board creaked and swung together; the long lances of the rain struck his face and the wind dashed his hair into his eyes, but he sang to himself under his breath with a joyous63 note.
The angry triumphant64 moon, casting her beams down the clouds, served to light the hittle wooden shed — the inn-stable — built against the rocks.
There were the chatelaine’s horses asleep in their stalls, here was his own; but the place beside it where Sebastian’s steed had waited was empty.
Dirk, shivering a little in the tempest, unfastened his horse, and was preparing to depart, when a near sound arrested him.
Some one was moving in the straw at the back of the shed.
Dirk listened, his hand on the bridle65, till a moonbeam striking across his shoulder revealed a cloaked figure rising from the ground.
“Ah,” said Dirk softly, “who is this?”
The stranger got to his feet.
“I have but taken shelter here, sir,” he said, “deeming it too late to rouse the hostel —” “Theirry!” cried Dirk, and laughed excitedly. “Now, this is strange —”
The figure came forward.
“Theirry — yes; have you followed me?” he exclaimed wildly, and his face showed drawn66 and wan13 in the silver light. “I left Frankfort to escape you; what fiend’s trick has brought you here?” Dirk softly stroked his horse’s neck.
“Are you afraid of me, Theirry?” he asked mournfully. “Certes, there is no need.” But Theirry cried out at him with the fierceness of one at bay —
“Begone, I want none of you nor of your kind; I know how the Emperor died, and I fled from a city where such as you come to power, ay, even as Jacobea of Martzburg did — I am come after her.”
“And where think you to find her?” asked Dirk.
“By now she is at Basle.”
“Are ye not afraid to go to Basle?”
Theirry trembled, and stepped back into the shadows of the shed.
“I want to save my soul; no, I am not afraid; if need be, I will confess.”
Dirk laughed.
“At the shrine67 of Jacobea of Martzburg? Look to it she be not trampled68 in the mire69 by then.” “You lie, you malign70 her!” cried the other in strong agitation71.
But Dirk turned on him with imperious sternness. “I did not leave Frankfort on a fool’s errand — I was triumphant, at the high tide of my fortunes, my foot on Ysabeau’s neck. I had good reason to have left this alone. Come with me to Martzburg and see my work, and know the saint you worship.”
“To Martzburg?” Theirry’s voice had terror in it.
“Certes — to Martzburg.” Dirk began to lead hi horse into the open.
“Is the chatelaine there?”
“If not yet, she will be soon; take one of these horses,” he added.
“I know not your meaning,” answered fearfully; “but my road was to Martzburg. I mean to pray Jacobea, who left without a word to me, to give me some small place in her service.” “Belike she will,” mocked Dirk.
“You shall not go alone,” cried Theirry, becoming more distracted, “for no good purpose can you be pursuing her.”
“I asked your company.”
Impatiently and feverishly72 Theirry unfastened and prepared himself a mount.
“If ye have evil designs on her,” he cried, “be very sure ye will be defeated, for her strength is as the strength of angels.”
Dirk delicately guided his steed out of the shod; the moon had at last conquered the cloud battalions73, and a clear cold light revealed the square dark shape of the hostel, the flapping sign, the bare pine-trees and the long glimmer74 of the road; Dirk’s eyes turned to the blank window of the room where Jacobea lay, and he smiled wickedly.
“The night has cleared,” he said, as Theirry, leading one of the chatelaine’s horses, came out of the stable; “and we should reach Martzburg before the dawn.”
收听单词发音 |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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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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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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53
reset
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| v.重新安排，复位；n.重新放置；重放之物 | |
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54
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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55
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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57
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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59
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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60
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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63
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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64
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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66
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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68
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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69
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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71
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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73
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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