That shapes this monstrous1 apparition2.
It comes upon me!
JULIUS CAESAR
Daylight dispelled3 from Emily’s mind the glooms of superstition4, but not those of apprehension5. The Count Morano was the first image, that occurred to her waking thoughts, and then came a train of anticipated evils, which she could neither conquer, nor avoid. She rose, and, to relieve her mind from the busy ideas, that tormented7 it, compelled herself to notice external objects. From her casement8 she looked out upon the wild grandeur9 of the scene, closed nearly on all sides by alpine10 steeps, whose tops, peeping over each other, faded from the eye in misty11 hues12, while the promontories13 below were dark with woods, that swept down to their base, and stretched along the narrow vallies. The rich pomp of these woods was particularly delightful14 to Emily; and she viewed with astonishment15 the fortifications of the castle spreading along a vast extent of rock, and now partly in decay, the grandeur of the ramparts below, and the towers and battlements and various features of the fabric16 above. From these her sight wandered over the cliffs and woods into the valley, along which foamed17 a broad and rapid stream, seen falling among the crags of an opposite mountain, now flashing in the sun- beams, and now shadowed by over-arching pines, till it was entirely19 concealed21 by their thick foliage22. Again it burst from beneath this darkness in one broad sheet of foam18, and fell thundering into the vale. Nearer, towards the west, opened the mountain-vista23, which Emily had viewed with such sublime24 emotion, on her approach to the castle: a thin dusky vapour, that rose from the valley, overspread its features with a sweet obscurity. As this ascended25 and caught the sun-beams, it kindled26 into a crimson27 tint28, and touched with exquisite29 beauty the woods and cliffs, over which it passed to the summit of the mountains; then, as the veil drew up, it was delightful to watch the gleaming objects, that progressively disclosed themselves in the valley — the green turf — dark woods — little rocky recesses30 — a few peasants’ huts — the foaming31 stream — a herd32 of cattle, and various images of pastoral beauty. Then, the pine-forests brightened, and then the broad breast of the mountains, till, at length, the mist settled round their summit, touching33 them with a ruddy glow. The features of the vista now appeared distinctly, and the broad deep shadows, that fell from the lower cliffs, gave strong effect to the streaming splendour above; while the mountains, gradually sinking in the perspective, appeared to shelve into the Adriatic sea, for such Emily imagined to be the gleam of blueish light, that terminated the view.
Thus she endeavoured to amuse her fancy, and was not unsuccessful. The breezy freshness of the morning, too, revived her. She raised her thoughts in prayer, which she felt always most disposed to do, when viewing the sublimity34 of nature, and her mind recovered its strength.
When she turned from the casement, her eyes glanced upon the door she had so carefully guarded, on the preceding night, and she now determined35 to examine whither it led; but, on advancing to remove the chairs, she perceived, that they were already moved a little way. Her surprise cannot be easily imagined, when, in the next minute, she perceived that the door was fastened.— She felt, as if she had seen an apparition. The door of the corridor was locked as she had left it, but this door, which could be secured only on the outside, must have been bolted, during the night. She became seriously uneasy at the thought of sleeping again in a chamber36, thus liable to intrusion, so remote, too, as it was from the family, and she determined to mention the circumstance to Madame Montoni, and to request a change.
After some perplexity she found her way into the great hall, and to the room, which she had left, on the preceding night, where breakfast was spread, and her aunt was alone, for Montoni had been walking over the environs of the castle, examining the condition of its fortifications, and talking for some time with Carlo. Emily observed that her aunt had been weeping, and her heart softened38 towards her, with an affection, that shewed itself in her manner, rather than in words, while she carefully avoided the appearance of having noticed, that she was unhappy. She seized the opportunity of Montoni’s absence to mention the circumstance of the door, to request that she might be allowed another apartment, and to enquire39 again, concerning the occasion of their sudden journey. On the first subject her aunt referred her to Montoni, positively40 refusing to interfere41 in the affair; on the last, she professed42 utter ignorance.
Emily, then, with a wish of making her aunt more reconciled to her situation, praised the grandeur of the castle and the surrounding scenery, and endeavoured to soften37 every unpleasing circumstance attending it. But, though misfortune had somewhat conquered the asperities43 of Madame Montoni’s temper, and, by increasing her cares for herself, had taught her to feel in some degree for others, the capricious love of rule, which nature had planted and habit had nourished in her heart, was not subdued44. She could not now deny herself the gratification of tyrannizing over the innocent and helpless Emily, by attempting to ridicule47 the taste she could not feel.
Her satirical discourse48 was, however, interrupted by the entrance of Montoni, and her countenance49 immediately assumed a mingled50 expression of fear and resentment51, while he seated himself at the breakfast- table, as if unconscious of there being any person but himself in the room.
Emily, as she observed him in silence, saw, that his countenance was darker and sterner than usual. ‘O could I know,’ said she to herself, ‘what passes in that mind; could I know the thoughts, that are known there, I should no longer be condemned53 to this torturing suspense54!’ Their breakfast passed in silence, till Emily ventured to request, that another apartment might be allotted55 to her, and related the circumstance which made her wish it.
‘I have no time to attend to these idle whims56,’ said Montoni, ‘that chamber was prepared for you, and you must rest contented57 with it. It is not probable, that any person would take the trouble of going to that remote stair-case, for the purpose of fastening a door. If it was not fastened, when you entered the chamber, the wind, perhaps, shook the door and made the bolts slide. But I know not why I should undertake to account for so trifling58 an occurrence.’
This explanation was by no means satisfactory to Emily, who had observed, that the bolts were rusted59, and consequently could not be thus easily moved; but she forbore to say so, and repeated her request.
‘If you will not release yourself from the slavery of these fears,’ said Montoni, sternly, ‘at least forbear to torment6 others by the mention of them. Conquer such whims, and endeavour to strengthen your mind. No existence is more contemptible60 than that, which is embittered61 by fear.’ As he said this, his eye glanced upon Madame Montoni, who coloured highly, but was still silent. Emily, wounded and disappointed, thought her fears were, in this instance, too reasonable to deserve ridicule; but, perceiving, that, however they might oppress her, she must endure them, she tried to withdraw her attention from the subject.
Carlo soon after entered with some fruit:
‘Your excellenza is tired after your long ramble,’ said he, as he set the fruit upon the table; ‘but you have more to see after breakfast. There is a place in the vaulted62 passage leading to —’
Montoni frowned upon him, and waved his hand for him to leave the room. Carlo stopped, looked down, and then added, as he advanced to the breakfast-table, and took up the basket of fruit, ‘I made bold, your excellenza, to bring some cherries, here, for my honoured lady and my young mistress. Will your ladyship taste them, madam?’ said Carlo, presenting the basket, ‘they are very fine ones, though I gathered them myself, and from an old tree, that catches all the south sun; they are as big as plums, your ladyship.’
‘Very well, old Carlo,’ said Madame Montoni; ‘I am obliged to you.’
‘And the young Signora, too, she may like some of them,’ rejoined Carlo, turning with the basket to Emily, ‘it will do me good to see her eat some.’
‘Thank you, Carlo,’ said Emily, taking some cherries, and smiling kindly63.
‘Come, come,’ said Montoni, impatiently, ‘enough of this. Leave the room, but be in waiting. I shall want you presently.’
Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, went out to examine further into the state of the castle; while Emily remained with her aunt, patiently enduring her ill humour, and endeavouring, with much sweetness, to soothe64 her affliction, instead of resenting its effect.
When Madame Montoni retired65 to her dressing-room, Emily endeavoured to amuse herself by a view of the castle. Through a folding door she passed from the great hall to the ramparts, which extended along the brow of the precipice66, round three sides of the edifice67; the fourth was guarded by the high walls of the courts, and by the gateway68, through which she had passed, on the preceding evening. The grandeur of the broad ramparts, and the changing scenery they overlooked, excited her high admiration69; for the extent of the terraces allowed the features of the country to be seen in such various points of view, that they appeared to form new landscapes. She often paused to examine the gothic magnificence of Udolpho, its proud irregularity, its lofty towers and battlements, its high-arched casements70, and its slender watch-towers, perched upon the corners of turrets71. Then she would lean on the wall of the terrace, and, shuddering74, measure with her eye the precipice below, till the dark summits of the woods arrested it. Wherever she turned, appeared mountain-tops, forests of pine and narrow glens, opening among the Apennines and retiring from the sight into inaccessible75 regions.
While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed by two men, appeared, ascending76 a winding77 path, cut in the rock below. He stopped upon a cliff, and, pointing to the ramparts, turned to his followers78, and talked with much eagerness of gesticulation.— Emily perceived, that one of these men was Carlo; the other was in the dress of a peasant, and he alone seemed to be receiving the directions of Montoni.
She withdrew from the walls, and pursued her walk, till she heard at a distance the sound of carriage wheels, and then the loud bell of the portal, when it instantly occurred to her, that Count Morano was arrived. As she hastily passed the folding doors from the terrace, towards her own apartment, several persons entered the hall by an opposite door. She saw them at the extremities79 of the arcades80, and immediately retreated; but the agitation81 of her spirits, and the extent and duskiness of the hall, had prevented her from distinguishing the persons of the strangers. Her fears, however, had but one object, and they had called up that object to her fancy:— she believed that she had seen Count Morano.
When she thought that they had passed the hall, she ventured again to the door, and proceeded, unobserved, to her room, where she remained, agitated82 with apprehensions83, and listening to every distant sound. At length, hearing voices on the rampart, she hastened to her window, and observed Montoni, with Signor Cavigni, walking below, conversing84 earnestly, and often stopping and turning towards each other, at which time their discourse seemed to be uncommonly85 interesting.
Of the several persons who had appeared in the hall, here was Cavigni alone: but Emily’s alarm was soon after heightened by the steps of some one in the corridor, who, she apprehended87, brought a message from the Count. In the next moment, Annette appeared.
‘Ah! ma’amselle,’ said she, ‘here is the Signor Cavigni arrived! I am sure I rejoiced to see a christian89 person in this place; and then he is so good natured too, he always takes so much notice of me!— And here is also Signor Verezzi, and who do you think besides, ma’amselle?’
‘I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.’
‘Nay90, ma’am, do guess once.’
‘Well, then,’ said Emily, with assumed composure, ‘it is — Count Morano, I suppose.’
‘Holy Virgin91!’ cried Annette, ‘are you ill, ma’amselle? you are going to faint! let me get some water.’
Emily sunk into a chair. ‘Stay, Annette,’ said she, feebly, ‘do not leave me — I shall soon be better; open the casement.— The Count, you say — he is come, then?’
‘Who, I!— the Count! No, ma’amselle, I did not say so.’ ‘He is NOT come then?’ said Emily eagerly. ‘No, ma’amselle.’
‘You are sure of it?’
‘Lord bless me!’ said Annette, ‘you recover very suddenly, ma’am! why, I thought you was dying, just now.’
‘But the Count — you are sure, is not come?’
‘O yes, quite sure of that, ma’amselle. Why, I was looking out through the grate in the north turret72, when the carriages drove into the court-yard, and I never expected to see such a goodly sight in this dismal92 old castle! but here are masters and servants, too, enough to make the place ring again. O! I was ready to leap through the rusty93 old bars for joy!— O! who would ever have thought of seeing a christian face in this huge dreary94 house? I could have kissed the very horses that brought them.’
‘Well, Annette, well, I am better now.’
‘Yes, ma’amselle, I see you are. O! all the servants will lead merry lives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little hall, for the Signor cannot hear us there — and droll95 stories — Ludovico’s come, ma’am; yes, there is Ludovico come with them! You remember Ludovico, ma’am — a tall, handsome young man — Signor Cavigni’s lacquey — who always wears his cloak with such a grace, thrown round his left arm, and his hat set on so smartly, all on one side, and —’
‘No,’ said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity96.
‘What, ma’amselle, don’t you remember Ludovico — who rowed the Cavaliero’s gondola97, at the last regatta, and won the prize? And who used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the Black-a- moors98, too; and Charly — Charly — magne, yes, that was the name, all under my lattice, in the west portico99, on the moon-light nights at Venice? O! I have listened to him!’—-
‘I fear, to thy peril100, my good Annette,’ said Emily; ‘for it seems his verses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is so, keep the secret; never let him know it.’
‘Ah — ma’amselle!— how can one keep such a secret as that?’
‘Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me.’
‘O, but, ma’amselle, I forgot to ask — how did you sleep in this dreary old chamber last night?’—‘As well as usual.’—‘Did you hear no noises?’—‘None.’—‘Nor see anything?’—‘Nothing.’—‘Well, that is surprising!’—‘Not in the least: and now tell me, why you ask these questions.’
‘O, ma’amselle! I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have heard about this chamber, either; it would frighten you so.’
‘If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore tell me what you know, without hurting your conscience.’
‘O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these many years.’
‘It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,’ said Emily, endeavouring to laugh away her apprehensions; ‘for I left the door open, last night, and found it fastened this morning.’
Annette turned pale, and said not a word.
‘Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in the morning, before I rose?’
‘No, ma’am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don’t know: shall I go and ask, ma’amselle?’ said Annette, moving hastily towards the corridor.
‘Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you have heard concerning this room, and whither that stair-case leads.’
‘I will go and ask it all directly, ma’am; besides, I am sure my lady wants me. I cannot stay now, indeed, ma’am.’
She hurried from the room, without waiting Emily’s reply, whose heart, lightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived, allowed her to smile at the superstitious101 terror, which had seized on Annette; for, though she sometimes felt its influence herself, she could smile at it, when apparent in other persons.
Montoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bear with patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make the room as comfortable as possible, unpacked102 her books, her sweet delight in happier days, and her soothing103 resource in the hours of moderate sorrow: but there were hours when even these failed of their effect; when the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the sublimest104 writers were felt no longer.
Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the furniture of the room, she took out her drawing utensils105, and was tranquil106 enough to be pleased with the thought of sketching107 the sublime scenes, beheld108 from her windows; but she suddenly checked this pleasure, remembering how often she had soothed109 herself by the intention of obtaining amusement of this kind, and had been prevented by some new circumstance of misfortune.
‘How can I suffer myself to be deluded110 by hope,’ said she, ‘and, because Count Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary111 happiness? Alas112! what is it to me, whether he is here to-day, or to-morrow, if he comes at all?— and that he will come — it were weakness to doubt.’
To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her misfortunes, she attempted to read, but her attention wandered from the page, and, at length, she threw aside the book, and determined to explore the adjoining chambers113 of the castle. Her imagination was pleased with the view of ancient grandeur, and an emotion of melancholy114 awe115 awakened116 all its powers, as she walked through rooms, obscure and desolate117, where no footsteps had passed probably for many years, and remembered the strange history of the former possessor of the edifice. This brought to her recollection the veiled picture, which had attracted her curiosity, on the preceding night, and she resolved to examine it. As she passed through the chambers, that led to this, she found herself somewhat agitated; its connection with the late lady of the castle, and the conversation of Annette, together with the circumstance of the veil, throwing a mystery over the subject, that excited a faint degree of terror. But a terror of this nature, as it occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high expectation, is purely118 sublime, and leads us, by a kind of fascination119, to seek even the object, from which we appear to shrink.
Emily passed on with faltering120 steps, and having paused a moment at the door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon86 size, that hung in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil; but instantly let it fall — perceiving that what it had concealed was no picture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless on the floor.
When she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what she had seen had nearly deprived her of it a second time. She had scarcely strength to remove from the room, and regain121 her own; and, when arrived there, wanted courage to remain alone. Horror occupied her mind, and excluded, for a time, all sense of past, and dread122 of future misfortune: she seated herself near the casement, because from thence she heard voices, though distant, on the terrace, and might see people pass, and these, trifling as they were, were reviving circumstances. When her spirits had recovered their tone, she considered, whether she should mention what she had seen to Madame Montoni, and various and important motives123 urged her to do so, among which the least was the hope of the relief, which an overburdened mind finds in speaking of the subject of its interest. But she was aware of the terrible consequences, which such a communication might lead to; and, dreading125 the indiscretion of her aunt, at length, endeavoured to arm herself with resolution to observe a profound silence, on the subject. Montoni and Verezzi soon after passed under the casement, speaking cheerfully, and their voices revived her. Presently the Signors Bertolini and Cavigni joined the party on the terrace, and Emily, supposing that Madame Montoni was then alone, went to seek her; for the solitude126 of her chamber, and its proximity127 to that where she had received so severe a shock, again affected128 her spirit.
She found her aunt in her dressing-room, preparing for dinner. Emily’s pale and affrighted countenance alarmed even Madame Montoni; but she had sufficient strength of mind to be silent on the subject, that still made her shudder73, and which was ready to burst from her lips. In her aunt’s apartment she remained, till they both descended129 to dinner. There she met the gentlemen lately arrived, who had a kind of busy seriousness in their looks, which was somewhat unusual with them, while their thoughts seemed too much occupied by some deep interest, to suffer them to bestow131 much attention either on Emily, or Madame Montoni. They spoke132 little, and Montoni less. Emily, as she now looked on him, shuddered133. The horror of the chamber rushed on her mind. Several times the colour faded from her cheeks, and she feared, that illness would betray her emotions, and compel her to leave the room; but the strength of her resolution remedied the weakness of her frame; she obliged herself to converse134, and even tried to look cheerful.
Montoni evidently laboured under some vexation, such as would probably have agitated a weaker mind, or a more susceptible135 heart, but which appeared, from the sternness of his countenance, only to bend up his faculties136 to energy and fortitude137.
It was a comfortless and silent meal. The gloom of the castle seemed to have spread its contagion138 even over the gay countenance of Cavigni, and with this gloom was mingled a fierceness, such as she had seldom seen him indicate. Count Morano was not named, and what conversation there was, turned chiefly upon the wars, which at that time agitated the Italian states, the strength of the Venetian armies, and the characters of their generals.
After dinner, when the servants had withdrawn139, Emily learned, that the cavalier, who had drawn140 upon himself the vengeance141 of Orsino, had since died of his wounds, and that strict search was still making for his murderer. The intelligence seemed to disturb Montoni, who mused142, and then enquired143, where Orsino had concealed himself. His guests, who all, except Cavigni, were ignorant, that Montoni had himself assisted him to escape from Venice, replied, that he had fled in the night with such precipitation and secrecy144, that his most intimate companions knew not whither. Montoni blamed himself for having asked the question, for a second thought convinced him, that a man of Orsino’s suspicious temper was not likely to trust any of the persons present with the knowledge of his asylum145. He considered himself, however, as entitled to his utmost confidence, and did not doubt, that he should soon hear of him.
Emily retired with Madame Montoni, soon after the cloth was withdrawn, and left the cavaliers to their secret councils, but not before the significant frowns of Montoni had warned his wife to depart, who passed from the hall to the ramparts, and walked, for some time, in silence, which Emily did not interrupt, for her mind was also occupied by interests of its own. It required all her resolution, to forbear communicating to Madame Montoni the terrible subject, which still thrilled her every nerve with horror; and sometimes she was on the point of doing so, merely to obtain the relief of a moment; but she knew how wholly she was in the power of Montoni, and, considering, that the indiscretion of her aunt might prove fatal to them both, she compelled herself to endure a present and an inferior evil, rather than to tempt46 a future and a heavier one. A strange kind of presentiment147 frequently, on this day, occurred to her;— it seemed as if her fate rested here, and was by some invisible means connected with this castle.
‘Let me not accelerate it,’ said she to herself: ‘for whatever I may be reserved, let me, at least, avoid self-reproach.’
As she looked on the massy walls of the edifice, her melancholy spirits represented it to be her prison; and she started as at a new suggestion, when she considered how far distant she was from her native country, from her little peaceful home, and from her only friend — how remote was her hope of happiness, how feeble the expectation of again seeing him! Yet the idea of Valancourt, and her confidence in his faithful love, had hitherto been her only solace148, and she struggled hard to retain them. A few tears of agony started to her eyes, which she turned aside to conceal20.
While she afterwards leaned on the wall of the rampart, some peasants, at a little distance, were seen examining a breach149, before which lay a heap of stones, as if to repair it, and a rusty old cannon150, that appeared to have fallen from its station above. Madame Montoni stopped to speak to the men, and enquired what they were going to do. ‘To repair the fortifications, your ladyship,’ said one of them; a labour which she was somewhat surprised, that Montoni should think necessary, particularly since he had never spoken of the castle, as of a place, at which he meant to reside for any considerable time; but she passed on towards a lofty arch, that led from the south to the east rampart, and which adjoined the castle, on one side, while, on the other, it supported a small watch-tower, that entirely commanded the deep valley below. As she approached this arch, she saw, beyond it, winding along the woody descent of a distant mountain, a long troop of horse and foot, whom she knew to be soldiers, only by the glitter of their pikes and other arms, for the distance did not allow her to discover the colour of their liveries. As she gazed, the vanguard issued from the woods into the valley, but the train still continued to pour over the remote summit of the mountain, in endless succession; while, in the front, the military uniform became distinguishable, and the commanders, riding first, and seeming, by their gestures, to direct the march of those that followed, at length, approached very near to the castle.
Such a spectacle, in these solitary151 regions, both surprised and alarmed Madame Montoni, and she hastened towards some peasants, who were employed in raising bastions before the south rampart, where the rock was less abrupt152 than elsewhere. These men could give no satisfactory answers to her enquiries, but, being roused by them, gazed in stupid astonishment upon the long cavalcade153. Madame Montoni, then thinking it necessary to communicate further the object of her alarm, sent Emily to say, that she wished to speak to Montoni; an errand her niece did not approve, for she dreaded154 his frowns, which she knew this message would provoke; but she obeyed in silence.
As she drew near the apartment, in which he sat with his guests, she heard them in earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a moment, trembling at the displeasure, which her sudden interruption would occasion. In the next, their voices sunk all together; she then ventured to open the door, and, while Montoni turned hastily and looked at her, without speaking, she delivered her message.
‘Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged,’ said he.
Emily then thought it proper to mention the subject of her alarm. Montoni and his companions rose instantly and went to the windows, but, these not affording them a view of the troops, they at length proceeded to the ramparts, where Cavigni conjectured156 it to be a legion of condottieri, on their march towards Modena.
One part of the cavalcade now extended along the valley, and another wound among the mountains towards the north, while some troops still lingered on the woody precipices157, where the first had appeared, so that the great length of the procession seemed to include an whole army. While Montoni and his family watched its progress, they heard the sound of trumpets158 and the clash of cymbals160 in the vale, and then others, answering from the heights. Emily listened with emotion to the shrill161 blast, that woke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoni explained the signals, with which he appeared to be well acquainted, and which meant nothing hostile. The uniforms of the troops, and the kind of arms they bore, confirmed to him the conjecture155 of Cavigni, and he had the satisfaction to see them pass by, without even stopping to gaze upon his castle. He did not, however, leave the rampart, till the bases of the mountains had shut them from his view, and the last murmur162 of the trumpet159 floated away on the wind. Cavigni and Verezzi were inspirited by this spectacle, which seemed to have roused all the fire of their temper; Montoni turned into the castle in thoughtful silence.
Emily’s mind had not yet sufficiently163 recovered from its late shock, to endure the loneliness of her chamber, and she remained upon the ramparts; for Madame Montoni had not invited her to her dressing- room, whither she had gone evidently in low spirits, and Emily, from her late experience, had lost all wish to explore the gloomy and mysterious recesses of the castle. The ramparts, therefore, were almost her only retreat, and here she lingered, till the gray haze164 of evening was again spread over the scene.
The cavaliers supped by themselves, and Madame Montoni remained in her apartment, whither Emily went, before she retired to her own. She found her aunt weeping, and in much agitation. The tenderness of Emily was naturally so soothing, that it seldom failed to give comfort to the drooping165 heart: but Madame Montoni’s was torn, and the softest accents of Emily’s voice were lost upon it. With her usual delicacy166, she did not appear to observe her aunt’s distress167, but it gave an involuntary gentleness to her manners, and an air of solicitude169 to her countenance, which Madame Montoni was vexed170 to perceive, who seemed to feel the pity of her niece to be an insult to her pride, and dismissed her as soon as she properly could. Emily did not venture to mention again the reluctance171 she felt to her gloomy chamber, but she requested that Annette might be permitted to remain with her till she retired to rest; and the request was somewhat reluctantly granted. Annette, however, was now with the servants, and Emily withdrew alone.
With light and hasty steps she passed through the long galleries, while the feeble glimmer172 of the lamp she carried only shewed the gloom around her, and the passing air threatened to extinguish it. The lonely silence, that reigned173 in this part of the castle, awed174 her; now and then, indeed, she heard a faint peal175 of laughter rise from a remote part of the edifice, where the servants were assembled, but it was soon lost, and a kind of breathless stillness remained. As she passed the suite176 of rooms which she had visited in the morning, her eyes glanced fearfully on the door, and she almost fancied she heard murmuring sounds within, but she paused not a moment to enquire.
Having reached her own apartment, where no blazing wood on the hearth177 dissipated the gloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven her attention, till Annette should come, and a fire could be kindled. She continued to read till her light was nearly expired, but Annette did not appear, and the solitude and obscurity of her chamber again affected her spirits, the more, because of its nearness to the scene of horror, that she had witnessed in the morning. Gloomy and fantastic images came to her mind. She looked fearfully towards the door of the stair-case, and then, examining whether it was still fastened, found that it was so. Unable to conquer the uneasiness she felt at the prospect178 of sleeping again in this remote and insecure apartment, which some person seemed to have entered during the preceding night, her impatience179 to see Annette, whom she had bidden to enquire concerning this circumstance, became extremely painful. She wished also to question her, as to the object, which had excited so much horror in her own mind, and which Annette on the preceding evening had appeared to be in part acquainted with, though her words were very remote from the truth, and it appeared plainly to Emily, that the girl had been purposely misled by a false report: above all she was surprised, that the door of the chamber, which contained it, should be left unguarded. Such an instance of negligence180 almost surpassed belief. But her light was now expiring; the faint flashes it threw upon the walls called up all the terrors of fancy, and she rose to find her way to the habitable part of the castle, before it was quite extinguished. As she opened the chamber door, she heard remote voices, and, soon after, saw a light issue upon the further end of the corridor, which Annette and another servant approached. ‘I am glad you are come,’ said Emily: ‘what has detained you so long? Pray light me a fire immediately.’
‘My lady wanted me, ma’amselle,’ replied Annette in some confusion; ‘I will go and get the wood.’
‘No,’ said Caterina, ‘that is my business,’ and left the room instantly, while Annette would have followed; but, being called back, she began to talk very loud, and laugh, and seemed afraid to trust a pause of silence.
Caterina soon returned with the wood, and then, when the cheerful blaze once more animated181 the room, and this servant had withdrawn, Emily asked Annette, whether she had made the enquiry she bade her. ‘Yes, ma’amselle,’ said Annette, ‘but not a soul knows any thing about the matter: and old Carlo — I watched him well, for they say he knows strange things — old Carlo looked so as I don’t know how to tell, and he asked me again and again, if I was sure the door was ever unfastened. Lord, says I— am I sure I am alive? And as for me, ma’am, I am all astounded182, as one may say, and would no more sleep in this chamber, than I would on the great cannon at the end of the east rampart.’
‘And what objection have you to that cannon, more than to any of the rest?’ said Emily smiling: ‘the best would be rather a hard bed.’
‘Yes, ma’amselle, any of them would be hard enough for that matter; but they do say, that something has been seen in the dead of night, standing183 beside the great cannon, as if to guard it.’
‘Well! my good Annette, the people who tell such stories, are happy in having you for an auditor184, for I perceive you believe them all.’
‘Dear ma’amselle! I will shew you the very cannon; you can see it from these windows!’
‘Well,’ said Emily, ‘but that does not prove, that an apparition guards it.’
‘What! not if I shew you the very cannon! Dear ma’am, you will believe nothing.’
‘Nothing probably upon this subject, but what I see,’ said Emily.— ‘Well, ma’am, but you shall see it, if you will only step this way to the casement.’— Emily could not forbear laughing, and Annette looked surprised. Perceiving her extreme aptitude185 to credit the marvellous, Emily forbore to mention the subject she had intended, lest it should overcome her with idle terrors, and she began to speak on a lively topic — the regattas of Venice.
‘Aye, ma’amselle, those rowing matches,’ said Annette, ‘and the fine moon-light nights, are all, that are worth seeing in Venice. To be sure the moon is brighter than any I ever saw; and then to hear such sweet music, too, as Ludovico has often and often sung under the lattice by the west portico! Ma’amselle, it was Ludovico, that told me about that picture, which you wanted so to look at last night, and —-’
‘What picture?’ said Emily, wishing Annette to explain herself.
‘O! that terrible picture with the black veil over it.’
‘You never saw it, then?’ said Emily.
‘Who, I!— No, ma’amselle, I never did. But this morning,’ continued Annette, lowering her voice, and looking round the room, ‘this morning, as it was broad daylight, do you know, ma’am, I took a strange fancy to see it, as I had heard such odd hints about it, and I got as far as the door, and should have opened it, if it had not been locked!’
Emily, endeavouring to conceal the emotion this circumstance occasioned, enquired at what hour she went to the chamber, and found, that it was soon after herself had been there. She also asked further questions, and the answers convinced her, that Annette, and probably her informer, were ignorant of the terrible truth, though in Annette’s account something very like the truth, now and then, mingled with the falsehood. Emily now began to fear, that her visit to the chamber had been observed, since the door had been closed, so immediately after her departure; and dreaded lest this should draw upon her the vengeance of Montoni. Her anxiety, also, was excited to know whence, and for what purpose, the delusive186 report, which had been imposed upon Annette, had originated, since Montoni could only have wished for silence and secrecy; but she felt, that the subject was too terrible for this lonely hour, and she compelled herself to leave it, to converse with Annette, whose chat, simple as it was, she preferred to the stillness of total solitude.
Thus they sat, till near midnight, but not without many hints from Annette, that she wished to go. The embers were now nearly burnt out; and Emily heard, at a distance, the thundering sound of the hall doors, as they were shut for the night. She, therefore, prepared for rest, but was still unwilling187 that Annette should leave her. At this instant, the great bell of the portal sounded. They listened in fearful expectation, when, after a long pause of silence, it sounded again. Soon after, they heard the noise of carriage wheels in the court-yard. Emily sunk almost lifeless in her chair; ‘It is the Count,’ said she.
‘What, at this time of night, ma’am!’ said Annette: ‘no, my dear lady. But, for that matter, it is a strange time of night for any body to come!’
‘Nay, pr’ythee, good Annette, stay not talking,’ said Emily in a voice of agony —‘Go, pr’ythee, go, and see who it is.’
Annette left the room, and carried with her the light, leaving Emily in darkness, which a few moments before would have terrified her in this room, but was now scarcely observed by her. She listened and waited, in breathless expectation, and heard distant noises, but Annette did not return. Her patience, at length, exhausted188, she tried to find her way to the corridor, but it was long before she could touch the door of the chamber, and, when she had opened it, the total darkness without made her fear to proceed. Voices were now heard, and Emily even thought she distinguished189 those of Count Morano, and Montoni. Soon after, she heard steps approaching, and then a ray of light streamed through the darkness, and Annette appeared, whom Emily went to meet.
‘Yes, ma’amselle,’ said she, ‘you was right, it is the Count sure enough.’
‘It is he!’ exclaimed Emily, lifting her eyes towards heaven and supporting herself by Annette’s arm.
‘Good Lord! my dear lady, don’t be in such a FLUSTER190, and look so pale, we shall soon hear more.’
‘We shall, indeed!’ said Emily, moving as fast as she was able towards her apartment. ‘I am not well; give me air.’ Annette opened a casement, and brought water. The faintness soon left Emily, but she desired Annette would not go till she heard from Montoni.
‘Dear ma’amselle! he surely will not disturb you at this time of night; why he must think you are asleep.’
‘Stay with me till I am so, then,’ said Emily, who felt temporary relief from this suggestion, which appeared probable enough, though her fears had prevented its occurring to her. Annette, with secret reluctance, consented to stay, and Emily was now composed enough to ask her some questions; among others, whether she had seen the Count.
‘Yes, ma’am, I saw him alight, for I went from hence to the grate in the north turret, that overlooks the inner court-yard, you know. There I saw the Count’s carriage, and the Count in it, waiting at the great door,— for the porter was just gone to bed — with several men on horseback all by the light of the torches they carried.’ Emily was compelled to smile. ‘When the door was opened, the Count said something, that I could not make out, and then got out, and another gentleman with him. I thought, to be sure, the Signor was gone to bed, and I hastened away to my lady’s dressing-room, to see what I could hear. But in the way I met Ludovico, and he told me that the Signor was up, counselling with his master and the other Signors, in the room at the end of the north gallery; and Ludovico held up his finger, and laid it on his lips, as much as to say — There is more going on, than you think of, Annette, but you must hold your tongue. And so I did hold my tongue, ma’amselle, and came away to tell you directly.’
Emily enquired who the cavalier was, that accompanied the Count, and how Montoni received them; but Annette could not inform her.
‘Ludovico,’ she added, ‘had just been to call Signor Montoni’s valet, that he might tell him they were arrived, when I met him.’
Emily sat musing191, for some time, and then her anxiety was so much increased, that she desired Annette would go to the servants’ hall, where it was possible she might hear something of the Count’s intention, respecting his stay at the castle.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Annette with readiness; ‘but how am I to find the way, if I leave the lamp with you?’
Emily said she would light her, and they immediately quitted the chamber. When they had reached the top of the great stair-case, Emily recollected192, that she might be seen by the Count, and, to avoid the great hall, Annette conducted her through some private passages to a back stair-case, which led directly to that of the servants.
As she returned towards her chamber, Emily began to fear, that she might again lose herself in the intricacies of the castle, and again be shocked by some mysterious spectacle; and, though she was already perplexed193 by the numerous turnings, she feared to open one of the many doors that offered. While she stepped thoughtfully along, she fancied, that she heard a low moaning at no great distance, and, having paused a moment, she heard it again and distinctly. Several doors appeared on the right hand of the passage. She advanced, and listened. When she came to the second, she heard a voice, apparently194 in complaint, within, to which she continued to listen, afraid to open the door, and unwilling to leave it. Convulsive sobs195 followed, and then the piercing accents of an agonizing196 spirit burst forth197. Emily stood appalled199, and looked through the gloom, that surrounded her, in fearful expectation. The lamentations continued. Pity now began to subdue45 terror; it was possible she might administer comfort to the sufferer, at least, by expressing sympathy, and she laid her hand on the door. While she hesitated she thought she knew this voice, disguised as it was by tones of grief. Having, therefore, set down the lamp in the passage, she gently opened the door, within which all was dark, except that from an inner apartment a partial light appeared; and she stepped softly on. Before she reached it, the appearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on her dressing-table, weeping, and with a handkerchief held to her eyes, struck her, and she paused.
Some person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she could not distinguish. He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that did not allow Emily to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that Madame Montoni, at those times, wept the more, who was too much occupied by her own distress, to observe Emily, while the latter, though anxious to know what occasioned this, and who was the person admitted at so late an hour to her aunt’s dressing-room, forbore to add to her sufferings by surprising her, or to take advantage of her situation, by listening to a private discourse. She, therefore, stepped softly back, and, after some further difficulty, found the way to her own chamber, where nearer interests, at length, excluded the surprise and concern she had felt, respecting Madame Montoni.
Annette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for the servants, among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, or affected to be so, concerning the Count’s intended stay at the castle. They could talk only of the steep and broken road they had just passed, and of the numerous dangers they had escaped and express wonder how their lord could choose to encounter all these, in the darkness of night; for they scarcely allowed, that the torches had served for any other purpose but that of shewing the dreariness200 of the mountains. Annette, finding she could gain no information, left them, making noisy petitions, for more wood on the fire and more supper on the table.
‘And now, ma’amselle,’ added she, ‘I am so sleepy!— I am sure, if you was so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up with you.’
Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had also waited so long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that it appeared he did not mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and she determined to dismiss Annette. But, when she again looked round her gloomy chamber, and recollected certain circumstances, fear seized her spirits, and she hesitated.
‘And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep, Annette,’ said she, ‘for I fear it will be very long before I forget myself in sleep.’
‘I dare say it will be very long, ma’amselle,’ said Annette.
‘But, before you go,’ rejoined Emily, ‘let me ask you — Had Signor Montoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the hall?’
‘O no, ma’am, they were alone together.’
‘Have you been in my aunt’s dressing-room, since you left me?’
‘No, ma’amselle, I called at the door as I passed, but it was fastened; so I thought my lady was gone to bed.’
‘Who, then, was with your lady just now?’ said Emily, forgetting, in surprise, her usual prudence201.
‘Nobody, I believe, ma’am,’ replied Annette, ‘nobody has been with her, I believe, since I left you.’
Emily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some struggle with imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far, that she dismissed Annette for the night. She then sat, musing upon her own circumstances and those of Madame Montoni, till her eye rested on the miniature picture, which she had found, after her father’s death, among the papers he had enjoined202 her to destroy. It was open upon the table, before her, among some loose drawings, having, with them, been taken out of a little box by Emily, some hours before. The sight of it called up many interesting reflections, but the melancholy sweetness of the countenance soothed the emotions, which these had occasioned. It was the same style of countenance as that of her late father, and, while she gazed on it with fondness on this account, she even fancied a resemblance in the features. But this tranquillity203 was suddenly interrupted, when she recollected the words in the manuscript, that had been found with this picture, and which had formerly204 occasioned her so much doubt and horror. At length, she roused herself from the deep reverie, into which this remembrance had thrown her; but, when she rose to undress, the silence and solitude, to which she was left, at this midnight hour, for not even a distant sound was now heard, conspired205 with the impression the subject she had been considering had given to her mind, to appall198 her. Annette’s hints, too, concerning this chamber, simple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they followed a circumstance of peculiar206 horror, which she herself had witnessed, and since the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining her own.
The door of the stair-case was, perhaps, a subject of more reasonable alarm, and she now began to apprehend88, such was the aptitude of her fears, that this stair-case had some private communication with the apartment, which she shuddered even to remember. Determined not to undress, she lay down to sleep in her clothes, with her late father’s dog, the faithful MANCHON, at the foot of the bed, whom she considered as a kind of guard.
Thus circumstanced, she tried to banish207 reflection, but her busy fancy would still hover208 over the subjects of her interest, and she heard the clock of the castle strike two, before she closed her eyes.
From the disturbed slumber209, into which she then sunk, she was soon awakened by a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but the silence, that prevailed, as she fearfully listened, inclined her to believe, that she had been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes occur in dreams, and she laid her head again upon the pillow.
A return of the noise again disturbed her; it seemed to come from that part of the room, which communicated with the private stair- case, and she instantly remembered the odd circumstance of the door having been fastened, during the preceding night, by some unknown hand. Her late alarming suspicion, concerning its communication, also occurred to her. Her heart became faint with terror. Half raising herself from the bed, and gently drawing aside the curtain, she looked towards the door of the stair-case, but the lamp, that burnt on the hearth, spread so feeble a light through the apartment, that the remote parts of it were lost in shadow. The noise, however, which, she was convinced, came from the door, continued. It seemed like that made by the undrawing of rusty bolts, and often ceased, and was then renewed more gently, as if the hand, that occasioned it, was restrained by a fear of discovery.
While Emily kept her eyes fixed210 on the spot, she saw the door move, and then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the extreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almost fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself, to check the shriek211, that was escaping from her lips, and, letting the curtain drop from her hand, continued to observe in silence the motions of the mysterious form she saw. It seemed to glide212 along the remote obscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it approached the hearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to be a human figure. Certain remembrances now struck upon her heart, and almost subdued the feeble remains213 of her spirits; she continued, however, to watch the figure, which remained for some time motionless, but then, advancing slowly towards the bed, stood silently at the feet, where the curtains, being a little open, allowed her still to see it; terror, however, had now deprived her of the power of discrimination, as well as of that of utterance214.
Having continued there a moment, the form retreated towards the hearth, when it took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber, for a few moments, and then again advanced towards the bed. The light at that instant awakening215 the dog, that had slept at Emily’s feet, he barked loudly, and, jumping to the floor, flew at the stranger, who struck the animal smartly with a sheathed216 sword, and, springing towards the bed, Emily discovered — Count Morano!
She gazed at him for a moment in speechless affright, while he, throwing himself on his knee at the bed-side, besought217 her to fear nothing, and, having thrown down his sword, would have taken her hand, when the faculties, that terror had suspended, suddenly returned, and she sprung from the bed, in the dress, which surely a kind of prophetic apprehension had prevented her, on this night, from throwing aside.
Morano rose, followed her to the door, through which he had entered, and caught her hand, as she reached the top of the stair-case, but not before she had discovered, by the gleam of a lamp, another man half-way down the steps. She now screamed in despair, and, believing herself given up by Montoni, saw, indeed, no possibility of escape.
The Count, who still held her hand, led her back into the chamber.
‘Why all this terror?’ said he, in a tremulous voice. ‘Hear me, Emily: I come not to alarm you; no, by Heaven! I love you too well- -too well for my own peace.’
Emily looked at him for a moment, in fearful doubt.
‘Then leave me, sir,’ said she, ‘leave me instantly.’
‘Hear me, Emily,’ resumed Morano, ‘hear me! I love, and am in despair — yes — in despair. How can I gaze upon you, and know, that it is, perhaps, for the last time, without suffering all the phrensy of despair? But it shall not be so; you shall be mine, in spite of Montoni and all his villany.’
‘In spite of Montoni!’ cried Emily eagerly: ‘what is it I hear?’
‘You hear, that Montoni is a villain218,’ exclaimed Morano with vehemence219,—‘a villain who would have sold you to my love!— Who —-’
‘And is he less, who would have bought me?’ said Emily, fixing on the Count an eye of calm contempt. ‘Leave the room, sir, instantly,’ she continued in a voice, trembling between joy and fear, ‘or I will alarm the family, and you may receive that from Signor Montoni’s vengeance, which I have vainly supplicated220 from his pity.’ But Emily knew, that she was beyond the hearing of those, who might protect her.
‘You can never hope any thing from his pity,’ said Morano, ‘he has used me infamously221, and my vengeance shall pursue him. And for you, Emily, for you, he has new plans more profitable than the last, no doubt.’ The gleam of hope, which the Count’s former speech had revived, was now nearly extinguished by the latter; and, while Emily’s countenance betrayed the emotions of her mind, he endeavoured to take advantage of the discovery.
‘I lose time,’ said he: ‘I came not to exclaim against Montoni; I came to solicit168, to plead — to Emily; to tell her all I suffer, to entreat222 her to save me from despair, and herself from destruction. Emily! the schemes of Montoni are insearchable, but, I warn you, they are terrible; he has no principle, when interest, or ambition leads. Can I love you, and abandon you to his power? Fly, then, fly from this gloomy prison, with a lover, who adores you! I have bribed223 a servant of the castle to open the gates, and, before tomorrow’s dawn, you shall be far on the way to Venice.’
Emily, overcome by the sudden shock she had received, at the moment, too, when she had begun to hope for better days, now thought she saw destruction surround her on every side. Unable to reply, and almost to think, she threw herself into a chair, pale and breathless. That Montoni had formerly sold her to Morano, was very probable; that he had now withdrawn his consent to the marriage, was evident from the Count’s present conduct; and it was nearly certain, that a scheme of stronger interest only could have induced the selfish Montoni to forego a plan, which he had hitherto so strenuously224 pursued. These reflections made her tremble at the hints, which Morano had just given, which she no longer hesitated to believe; and, while she shrunk from the new scenes of misery225 and oppression, that might await her in the castle of Udolpho, she was compelled to observe, that almost her only means of escaping them was by submitting herself to the protection of this man, with whom evils more certain and not less terrible appeared,— evils, upon which she could not endure to pause for an instant.
Her silence, though it was that of agony, encouraged the hopes of Morano, who watched her countenance with impatience, took again the resisting hand she had withdrawn, and, as he pressed it to his heart, again conjured226 her to determine immediately. ‘Every moment we lose, will make our departure more dangerous,’ said he: ‘these few moments lost may enable Montoni to overtake us.’
‘I beseech227 you, sir, be silent,’ said Emily faintly: ‘I am indeed very wretched, and wretched I must remain. Leave me — I command you, leave me to my fate.’
‘Never!’ cried the Count vehemently229: ‘let me perish first! But forgive my violence! the thought of losing you is madness. You cannot be ignorant of Montoni’s character, you may be ignorant of his schemes — nay, you must be so, or you would not hesitate between my love and his power.’
‘Nor do I hesitate,’ said Emily.
‘Let us go, then,’ said Morano, eagerly kissing her hand, and rising, ‘my carriage waits, below the castle walls.’
‘You mistake me, sir,’ said Emily. ‘Allow me to thank you for the interest you express in my welfare, and to decide by my own choice. I shall remain under the protection of Signor Montoni.’
‘Under his protection!’ exclaimed Morano, proudly, ‘his PROTECTION! Emily, why will you suffer yourself to be thus deluded? I have already told you what you have to expect from his PROTECTION.’
‘And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance, I doubt mere146 assertion, and, to be convinced, require something approaching to proof.’
‘I have now neither the time, or the means of adducing proof,’ replied the Count.
‘Nor have I, sir, the inclination230 to listen to it, if you had.’
‘But you trifle with my patience and my distress,’ continued Morano. ‘Is a marriage with a man, who adores you, so very terrible in your eyes, that you would prefer to it all the misery, to which Montoni may condemn52 you in this remote prison? Some wretch228 must have stolen those affections, which ought to be mine, or you would not thus obstinately231 persist in refusing an offer, that would place you beyond the reach of oppression.’ Morano walked about the room, with quick steps, and a disturbed air.
‘This discourse, Count Morano, sufficiently proves, that my affections ought not to be yours,’ said Emily, mildly, ‘and this conduct, that I should not be placed beyond the reach of oppression, so long as I remained in your power. If you wish me to believe otherwise, cease to oppress me any longer by your presence. If you refuse this, you will compel me to expose you to the resentment of Signor Montoni.’
‘Yes, let him come,’ cried Morano furiously, ‘and brave MY resentment! Let him dare to face once more the man he has so courageously232 injured; danger shall teach him morality, and vengeance justice — let him come, and receive my sword in his heart!’
The vehemence, with which this was uttered, gave Emily new cause of alarm, who arose from her chair, but her trembling frame refused to support her, and she resumed her seat;— the words died on her lips, and, when she looked wistfully towards the door of the corridor, which was locked, she considered it was impossible for her to leave the apartment, before Morano would be apprised233 of, and able to counteract234, her intention.
Without observing her agitation, he continued to pace the room in the utmost perturbation of spirits. His darkened countenance expressed all the rage of jealousy235 and revenge; and a person, who had seen his features under the smile of ineffable236 tenderness, which he so lately assumed, would now scarcely have believed them to be the same.
‘Count Morano,’ said Emily, at length recovering her voice, ‘calm, I entreat you, these transports, and listen to reason, if you will not to pity. You have equally misplaced your love, and your hatred237.— I never could have returned the affection, with which you honour me, and certainly have never encouraged it; neither has Signor Montoni injured you, for you must have known, that he had no right to dispose of my hand, had he even possessed238 the power to do so. Leave, then, leave the castle, while you may with safety. Spare yourself the dreadful consequences of an unjust revenge, and the remorse239 of having prolonged to me these moments of suffering.’
‘Is it for mine, or for Montoni’s safety, that you are thus alarmed?’ said Morano, coldly, and turning towards her with a look of acrimony.
‘For both,’ replied Emily, in a trembling voice.
‘Unjust revenge!’ cried the Count, resuming the abrupt tones of passion. ‘Who, that looks upon that face, can imagine a punishment adequate to the injury he would have done me? Yes, I will leave the castle; but it shall not be alone. I have trifled too long. Since my prayers and my sufferings cannot prevail, force shall. I have people in waiting, who shall convey you to my carriage. Your voice will bring no succour; it cannot be heard from this remote part of the castle; submit, therefore, in silence, to go with me.’
This was an unnecessary injunction, at present; for Emily was too certain, that her call would avail her nothing; and terror had so entirely disordered her thoughts, that she knew not how to plead to Morano, but sat, mute and trembling, in her chair, till he advanced to lift her from it, when she suddenly raised herself, and, with a repulsive240 gesture, and a countenance of forced serenity241, said, ‘Count Morano! I am now in your power; but you will observe, that this is not the conduct which can win the esteem242 you appear so solicitous243 to obtain, and that you are preparing for yourself a load of remorse, in the miseries244 of a friendless orphan245, which can never leave you. Do you believe your heart to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can look without emotion on the suffering, to which you would condemn me?’—-
Emily was interrupted by the growling246 of the dog, who now came again from the bed, and Morano looked towards the door of the stair-case, where no person appearing, he called aloud, ‘Cesario!’
‘Emily,’ said the Count, ‘why will you reduce me to adopt this conduct? How much more willingly would I persuade, than compel you to become my wife! but, by Heaven! I will not leave you to be sold by Montoni. Yet a thought glances across my mind, that brings madness with it. I know not how to name it. It is preposterous247 — it cannot be.— Yet you tremble — you grow pale! It is! it is so;— you — you — love Montoni!’ cried Morano, grasping Emily’s wrist, and stamping his foot on the floor.
An involuntary air of surprise appeared on her countenance. ‘If you have indeed believed so,’ said she, ‘believe so still.’
‘That look, those words confirm it,’ exclaimed Morano, furiously. ‘No, no, no, Montoni had a richer prize in view, than gold. But he shall not live to triumph over me!— This very instant —-’
He was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog.
‘Stay, Count Morano,’ said Emily, terrified by his words, and by the fury expressed in his eyes, ‘I will save you from this error.— Of all men, Signor Montoni is not your rival; though, if I find all other means of saving myself vain, I will try whether my voice may not arouse his servants to my succour.’
‘Assertion,’ replied Morano, ‘at such a moment, is not to be depended upon. How could I suffer myself to doubt, even for an instant, that he could see you, and not love?— But my first care shall be to convey you from the castle. Cesario! ho,— Cesario!’
A man now appeared at the door of the stair-case, and other steps were heard ascending. Emily uttered a loud shriek, as Morano hurried her across the chamber, and, at the same moment, she heard a noise at the door, that opened upon the corridor. The Count paused an instant, as if his mind was suspended between love and the desire of vengeance; and, in that instant, the door gave way, and Montoni, followed by the old steward248 and several other persons, burst into the room.
‘Draw!’ cried Montoni to the Count, who did not pause for a second bidding, but, giving Emily into the hands of the people, that appeared from the stair-case, turned fiercely round. ‘This in thine heart, villain!’ said he, as he made a thrust at Montoni with his sword, who parried the blow, and aimed another, while some of the persons, who had followed him into the room, endeavoured to part the combatants, and others rescued Emily from the hands of Morano’s servants.
‘Was it for this, Count Morano,’ said Montoni, in a cool sarcastic249 tone of voice, ‘that I received you under my roof, and permitted you, though my declared enemy, to remain under it for the night? Was it, that you might repay my hospitality with the treachery of a fiend, and rob me of my niece?’
‘Who talks of treachery?’ said Morano, in a tone of unrestrained vehemence. ‘Let him that does, shew an unblushing face of innocence250. Montoni, you are a villain! If there is treachery in this affair, look to yourself as the author of it. IF— do I say? I— whom you have wronged with unexampled baseness, whom you have injured almost beyond redress251! But why do I use words?— Come on, coward, and receive justice at my hands!’
‘Coward!’ cried Montoni, bursting from the people who held him, and rushing on the Count, when they both retreated into the corridor, where the fight continued so desperately252, that none of the spectators dared approach them, Montoni swearing, that the first who interfered253, should fall by his sword.
Jealousy and revenge lent all their fury to Morano, while the superior skill and the temperance of Montoni enabled him to wound his adversary254, whom his servants now attempted to seize, but he would not be restrained, and, regardless of his wound, continued to fight. He seemed to be insensible both of pain and loss of blood, and alive only to the energy of his passions. Montoni, on the contrary, persevered255 in the combat, with a fierce, yet wary256, valour; he received the point of Morano’s sword on his arm, but, almost in the same instant, severely257 wounded and disarmed258 him. The Count then fell back into the arms of his servant, while Montoni held his sword over him, and bade him ask his life. Morano, sinking under the anguish259 of his wound, had scarcely replied by a gesture, and by a few words, feebly articulated, that he would not — when he fainted; and Montoni was then going to have plunged261 the sword into his breast, as he lay senseless, but his arm was arrested by Cavigni. To the interruption he yielded without much difficulty, but his complexion262 changed almost to blackness, as he looked upon his fallen adversary, and ordered, that he should be carried instantly from the castle.
In the mean time, Emily, who had been with-held from leaving the chamber during the affray, now came forward into the corridor, and pleaded a cause of common humanity, with the feelings of the warmest benevolence263, when she entreated264 Montoni to allow Morano the assistance in the castle, which his situation required. But Montoni, who had seldom listened to pity, now seemed rapacious265 of vengeance, and, with a monster’s cruelty, again ordered his defeated enemy to be taken from the castle, in his present state, though there were only the woods, or a solitary neighbouring cottage, to shelter him from the night.
The Count’s servants having declared, that they would not move him till he revived, Montoni’s stood inactive, Cavigni remonstrating266, and Emily, superior to Montoni’s menaces, giving water to Morano, and directing the attendants to bind267 up his wound. At length, Montoni had leisure to feel pain from his own hurt, and he withdrew to examine it.
The Count, meanwhile, having slowly recovered, the first object he saw, on raising his eyes, was Emily, bending over him with a countenance strongly expressive268 of solicitude. He surveyed her with a look of anguish.
‘I have deserved this,’ said he, ‘but not from Montoni. It is from you, Emily, that I have deserved punishment, yet I receive only pity!’ He paused, for he had spoken with difficulty. After a moment, he proceeded. ‘I must resign you, but not to Montoni. Forgive me the sufferings I have already occasioned you! But for THAT villain — his infamy269 shall not go unpunished. Carry me from this place,’ said he to his servants. ‘I am in no condition to travel: you must, therefore, take me to the nearest cottage, for I will not pass the night under his roof, although I may expire on the way from it.’
Cesario proposed to go out, and enquire for a cottage, that might receive his master, before he attempted to remove him: but Morano was impatient to be gone; the anguish of his mind seemed to be even greater than that of his wound, and he rejected, with disdain270, the offer of Cavigni to entreat Montoni, that he might be suffered to pass the night in the castle. Cesario was now going to call up the carriage to the great gate, but the Count forbade him. ‘I cannot bear the motion of a carriage,’ said he: ‘call some others of my people, that they may assist in bearing me in their arms.’
At length, however, Morano submitted to reason, and consented, that Cesario should first prepare some cottage to receive him. Emily, now that he had recovered his senses, was about to withdraw from the corridor, when a message from Montoni commanded her to do so, and also that the Count, if he was not already gone, should quit the castle immediately. Indignation flashed from Morano’s eyes, and flushed his cheeks.
‘Tell Montoni,’ said he, ‘that I shall go when it suits my own convenience; that I quit the castle, he dares to call his, as I would the nest of a serpent, and that this is not the last he shall hear from me. Tell him, I will not leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience, if I can help it.’
‘Count Morano! do you know what you say?’ said Cavigni.
‘Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and he will understand well what I mean. His conscience will assist his understanding, on this occasion.’
‘Count Morano,’ said Verezzi, who had hitherto silently observed him, ‘dare again to insult my friend, and I will plunge260 this sword in your body.’
‘It would be an action worthy271 the friend of a villain!’ said Morano, as the strong impulse of his indignation enabled him to raise himself from the arms of his servants; but the energy was momentary, and he sunk back, exhausted by the effort. Montoni’s people, meanwhile, held Verezzi, who seemed inclined, even in this instant, to execute his threat; and Cavigni, who was not so depraved as to abet272 the cowardly malignity273 of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdraw him from the corridor; and Emily, whom a compassionate274 interest had thus long detained, was now quitting it in new terror, when the supplicating276 voice of Morano arrested her, and, by a feeble gesture, he beckoned277 her to draw nearer. She advanced with timid steps, but the fainting languor278 of his countenance again awakened her pity, and overcame her terror.
‘I am going from hence for ever,’ said he: ‘perhaps, I shall never see you again. I would carry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay more — I would also carry your good wishes.’
‘You have my forgiveness, then,’ said Emily, ‘and my sincere wishes for your recovery.’
‘And only for my recovery?’ said Morano, with a sigh. ‘For your general welfare,’ added Emily.
‘Perhaps I ought to be contented with this,’ he resumed; ‘I certainly have not deserved more; but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to think of me, and, forgetting my offence, to remember only the passion which occasioned it. I would ask, alas! impossibilities: I would ask you to love me! At this moment, when I am about to part with you, and that, perhaps, for ever, I am scarcely myself. Emily — may you never know the torture of a passion like mine! What do I say? O, that, for me, you might be sensible of such a passion!’
Emily looked impatient to be gone. ‘I entreat you, Count, to consult your own safety,’ said she, ‘and linger here no longer. I tremble for the consequences of Signor Verezzi’s passion, and of Montoni’s resentment, should he learn that you are still here.’
Morano’s face was overspread with a momentary crimson, his eyes sparkled, but he seemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion, and replied in a calm voice, ‘Since you are interested for my safety, I will regard it, and be gone. But, before I go, let me again hear you say, that you wish me well,’ said he, fixing on her an earnest and mournful look.
Emily repeated her assurances. He took her hand, which she scarcely attempted to withdraw, and put it to his lips. ‘Farewell, Count Morano!’ said Emily; and she turned to go, when a second message arrived from Montoni, and she again conjured Morano, as he valued his life, to quit the castle immediately. He regarded her in silence, with a look of fixed despair. But she had no time to enforce her compassionate entreaties279, and, not daring to disobey the second command of Montoni, she left the corridor, to attend him.
He was in the cedar280 parlour, that adjoined the great hall, laid upon a couch, and suffering a degree of anguish from his wound, which few persons could have disguised, as he did. His countenance, which was stern, but calm, expressed the dark passion of revenge, but no symptom of pain; bodily pain, indeed, he had always despised, and had yielded only to the strong and terrible energies of the soul. He was attended by old Carlo and by Signor Bertolini, but Madame Montoni was not with him.
Emily trembled, as she approached and received his severe rebuke281, for not having obeyed his first summons; and perceived, also, that he attributed her stay in the corridor to a motive124, that had not even occurred to her artless mind.
‘This is an instance of female caprice,’ said he, ‘which I ought to have foreseen. Count Morano, whose suit you obstinately rejected, so long as it was countenanced282 by me, you favour, it seems, since you find I have dismissed him.’
Emily looked astonished. ‘I do not comprehend you, sir,’ said she: ‘You certainly do not mean to imply, that the design of the Count to visit the double-chamber, was founded upon any approbation283 of mine.’
‘To that I reply nothing,’ said Montoni; ‘but it must certainly be a more than common interest, that made you plead so warmly in his cause, and that could detain you thus long in his presence, contrary to my express order — in the presence of a man, whom you have hitherto, on all occasions, most scrupulously284 shunned285!’
‘I fear, sir, it was a more than common interest, that detained me,’ said Emily calmly; ‘for of late I have been inclined to think, that of compassion275 is an uncommon one. But how could I, could YOU, sir, witness Count Morano’s deplorable condition, and not wish to relieve it?’
‘You add hypocrisy286 to caprice,’ said Montoni, frowning, ‘and an attempt at satire287, to both; but, before you undertake to regulate the morals of other persons, you should learn and practise the virtues288, which are indispensable to a woman — sincerity289, uniformity of conduct and obedience290.’
Emily, who had always endeavoured to regulate her conduct by the nicest laws, and whose mind was finely sensible, not only of what is just in morals, but of whatever is beautiful in the female character, was shocked by these words; yet, in the next moment, her heart swelled291 with the consciousness of having deserved praise, instead of censure292, and she was proudly silent. Montoni, acquainted with the delicacy of her mind, knew how keenly she would feel his rebuke; but he was a stranger to the luxury of conscious worth, and, therefore, did not foresee the energy of that sentiment, which now repelled293 his satire. Turning to a servant who had lately entered the room, he asked whether Morano had quitted the castle. The man answered, that his servants were then removing him, on a couch, to a neighbouring cottage. Montoni seemed somewhat appeased294, on hearing this; and, when Ludovico appeared, a few moments after, and said, that Morano was gone, he told Emily she might retire to her apartment.
She withdrew willingly from his presence; but the thought of passing the remainder of the night in a chamber, which the door from the stair-case made liable to the intrusion of any person, now alarmed her more than ever, and she determined to call at Madame Montoni’s room, and request, that Annette might be permitted to be with her.
On reaching the great gallery, she heard voices seemingly in dispute, and, her spirits now apt to take alarm, she paused, but soon distinguished some words of Cavigni and Verezzi, and went towards them, in the hope of conciliating their difference. They were alone. Verezzi’s face was still flushed with rage; and, as the first object of it was now removed from him, he appeared willing to transfer his resentment to Cavigni, who seemed to be expostulating, rather than disputing, with him.
Verezzi was protesting, that he would instantly inform Montoni of the insult, which Morano had thrown out against him, and above all, that, wherein he had accused him of murder.
‘There is no answering,’ said Cavigni, ‘for the words of a man in a passion; little serious regard ought to be paid to them. If you persist in your resolution, the consequences may be fatal to both. We have now more serious interests to pursue, than those of a petty revenge.’
Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni’s arguments, and they, at length, prevailed so far, as that Verezzi consented to retire, without seeing Montoni.
On calling at her aunt’s apartment, she found it fastened. In a few minutes, however, it was opened by Madame Montoni herself.
It may be remembered, that it was by a door leading into the bedroom from a back passage, that Emily had secretly entered a few hours preceding. She now conjectured, by the calmness of Madame Montoni’s air, that she was not apprised of the accident, which had befallen her husband, and was beginning to inform her of it, in the tenderest manner she could, when her aunt interrupted her, by saying, she was acquainted with the whole affair.
Emily knew indeed, that she had little reason to love Montoni, but could scarcely have believed her capable of such perfect apathy295, as she now discovered towards him; having obtained permission, however, for Annette to sleep in her chamber, she went thither296 immediately.
A track of blood appeared along the corridor, leading to it; and on the spot, where the Count and Montoni had fought, the whole floor was stained. Emily shuddered, and leaned on Annette, as she passed. When she reached her apartment, she instantly determined, since the door of the stair-case had been left open, and that Annette was now with her, to explore whither it led,— a circumstance now materially connected with her own safety. Annette accordingly, half curious and half afraid, proposed to descend130 the stairs; but, on approaching the door, they perceived, that it was already fastened without, and their care was then directed to the securing it on the inside also, by placing against it as much of the heavy furniture of the room, as they could lift. Emily then retired to bed, and Annette continued on a chair by the hearth, where some feeble embers remained.
点击收听单词发音
1 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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2 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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3 dispelled | |
v.驱散,赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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5 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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6 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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7 tormented | |
饱受折磨的 | |
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8 casement | |
n.竖铰链窗;窗扉 | |
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9 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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10 alpine | |
adj.高山的;n.高山植物 | |
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11 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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12 hues | |
色彩( hue的名词复数 ); 色调; 信仰; 观点 | |
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13 promontories | |
n.岬,隆起,海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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14 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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15 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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16 fabric | |
n.织物,织品,布;构造,结构,组织 | |
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17 foamed | |
泡沫的 | |
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18 foam | |
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
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19 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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20 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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21 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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22 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
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23 vista | |
n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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24 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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25 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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27 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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28 tint | |
n.淡色,浅色;染发剂;vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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29 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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30 recesses | |
n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 );(工作或业务活动的)中止或暂停期间;学校的课间休息;某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 );将(墙)做成凹形,在(墙)上做壁龛;休息,休会,休庭 | |
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31 foaming | |
adj.布满泡沫的;发泡 | |
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32 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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33 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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34 sublimity | |
崇高,庄严,气质高尚 | |
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35 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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36 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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37 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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38 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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39 enquire | |
v.打听,询问;调查,查问 | |
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40 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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41 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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42 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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43 asperities | |
n.粗暴( asperity的名词复数 );(表面的)粗糙;(环境的)艰苦;严寒的天气 | |
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44 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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45 subdue | |
vt.制服,使顺从,征服;抑制,克制 | |
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46 tempt | |
vt.引诱,勾引,吸引,引起…的兴趣 | |
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47 ridicule | |
v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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48 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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49 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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50 mingled | |
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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51 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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52 condemn | |
vt.谴责,指责;宣判(罪犯),判刑 | |
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53 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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54 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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55 allotted | |
分配,拨给,摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56 WHIMS | |
虚妄,禅病 | |
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57 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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58 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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59 rusted | |
v.(使)生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60 contemptible | |
adj.可鄙的,可轻视的,卑劣的 | |
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61 embittered | |
v.使怨恨,激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62 vaulted | |
adj.拱状的 | |
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63 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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64 soothe | |
v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
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65 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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66 precipice | |
n.悬崖,危急的处境 | |
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67 edifice | |
n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿,教室) | |
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68 gateway | |
n.大门口,出入口,途径,方法 | |
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69 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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70 casements | |
n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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71 turrets | |
(六角)转台( turret的名词复数 ); (战舰和坦克等上的)转动炮塔; (摄影机等上的)镜头转台; (旧时攻城用的)塔车 | |
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72 turret | |
n.塔楼,角塔 | |
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73 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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74 shuddering | |
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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75 inaccessible | |
adj.达不到的,难接近的 | |
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76 ascending | |
adj.上升的,向上的 | |
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77 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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78 followers | |
追随者( follower的名词复数 ); 用户; 契据的附面; 从动件 | |
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79 extremities | |
n.端点( extremity的名词复数 );尽头;手和足;极窘迫的境地 | |
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80 arcades | |
n.商场( arcade的名词复数 );拱形走道(两旁有商店或娱乐设施);连拱廊;拱形建筑物 | |
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81 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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82 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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83 apprehensions | |
疑惧 | |
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84 conversing | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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85 uncommonly | |
adv. 稀罕(极,非常) | |
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86 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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87 apprehended | |
逮捕,拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 ); 理解 | |
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88 apprehend | |
vt.理解,领悟,逮捕,拘捕,忧虑 | |
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89 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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90 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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91 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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92 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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93 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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94 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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95 droll | |
adj.古怪的,好笑的 | |
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96 loquacity | |
n.多话,饶舌 | |
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97 gondola | |
n.威尼斯的平底轻舟;飞船的吊船 | |
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98 moors | |
v.停泊,系泊(船只)( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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99 portico | |
n.柱廊,门廊 | |
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100 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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101 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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102 unpacked | |
v.从(包裹等)中取出(所装的东西),打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 );拆包;解除…的负担;吐露(心事等) | |
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103 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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104 sublimest | |
伟大的( sublime的最高级 ); 令人赞叹的; 极端的; 不顾后果的 | |
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105 utensils | |
器具,用具,器皿( utensil的名词复数 ); 器物 | |
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106 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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107 sketching | |
n.草图 | |
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108 beheld | |
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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109 soothed | |
v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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110 deluded | |
v.欺骗,哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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112 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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113 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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114 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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115 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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116 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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117 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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118 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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119 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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120 faltering | |
犹豫的,支吾的,蹒跚的 | |
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121 regain | |
vt.重新获得,收复,恢复 | |
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122 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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123 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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124 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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125 dreading | |
v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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126 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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127 proximity | |
n.接近,邻近 | |
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128 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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129 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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130 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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131 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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132 spoke | |
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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133 shuddered | |
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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134 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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135 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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136 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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137 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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138 contagion | |
n.(通过接触的疾病)传染;蔓延 | |
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139 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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140 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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141 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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142 mused | |
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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143 enquired | |
打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 ); 询问; 问问题; 查问 | |
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144 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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145 asylum | |
n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
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146 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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147 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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148 solace | |
n.安慰;v.使快乐;vt.安慰(物),缓和 | |
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149 breach | |
n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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150 cannon | |
n.大炮,火炮;飞机上的机关炮 | |
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151 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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152 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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153 cavalcade | |
n.车队等的行列 | |
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154 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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155 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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156 conjectured | |
推测,猜测,猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157 precipices | |
n.悬崖,峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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158 trumpets | |
喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 ); 小号; 喇叭形物; (尤指)绽开的水仙花 | |
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159 trumpet | |
n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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160 cymbals | |
pl.铙钹 | |
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161 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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162 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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163 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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164 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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165 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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166 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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167 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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168 solicit | |
vi.勾引;乞求;vt.请求,乞求;招揽(生意) | |
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169 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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170 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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171 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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172 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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173 reigned | |
vi.当政,统治(reign的过去式形式) | |
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174 awed | |
adj.充满敬畏的,表示敬畏的v.使敬畏,使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175 peal | |
n.钟声;v.鸣响 | |
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176 suite | |
n.一套(家具);套房;随从人员 | |
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177 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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178 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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179 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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180 negligence | |
n.疏忽,玩忽,粗心大意 | |
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181 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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182 astounded | |
v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词);愕然;愕;惊讶 | |
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183 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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184 auditor | |
n.审计员,旁听着 | |
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185 aptitude | |
n.(学习方面的)才能,资质,天资 | |
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186 delusive | |
adj.欺骗的,妄想的 | |
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187 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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188 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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189 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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190 fluster | |
adj.慌乱,狼狈,混乱,激动 | |
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191 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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192 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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193 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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194 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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195 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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196 agonizing | |
adj.痛苦难忍的;使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦;折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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197 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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198 appall | |
vt.使惊骇,使大吃一惊 | |
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199 appalled | |
v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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200 dreariness | |
沉寂,可怕,凄凉 | |
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201 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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202 enjoined | |
v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203 tranquillity | |
n. 平静, 安静 | |
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204 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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205 conspired | |
密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 ); 搞阴谋; (事件等)巧合; 共同导致 | |
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206 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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207 banish | |
vt.放逐,驱逐;消除,排除 | |
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208 hover | |
vi.翱翔,盘旋;徘徊;彷徨,犹豫 | |
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209 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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210 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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211 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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212 glide | |
n./v.溜,滑行;(时间)消逝 | |
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213 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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214 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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215 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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216 sheathed | |
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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217 besought | |
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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218 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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219 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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220 supplicated | |
v.祈求,哀求,恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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221 infamously | |
不名誉地 | |
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222 entreat | |
v.恳求,恳请 | |
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223 bribed | |
v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 );向(某人)行贿,贿赂 | |
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224 strenuously | |
adv.奋发地,费力地 | |
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225 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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226 conjured | |
用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 ); 祈求,恳求; 变戏法; (变魔术般地) 使…出现 | |
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227 beseech | |
v.祈求,恳求 | |
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228 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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229 vehemently | |
adv. 热烈地 | |
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230 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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231 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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232 courageously | |
ad.勇敢地,无畏地 | |
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233 apprised | |
v.告知,通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 );评价 | |
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234 counteract | |
vt.对…起反作用,对抗,抵消 | |
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235 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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236 ineffable | |
adj.无法表达的,不可言喻的 | |
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237 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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238 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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239 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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240 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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241 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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242 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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243 solicitous | |
adj.热切的,挂念的 | |
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244 miseries | |
n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 );痛苦的事;穷困;常发牢骚的人 | |
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245 orphan | |
n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
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246 growling | |
n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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247 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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248 steward | |
n.乘务员,服务员;看管人;膳食管理员 | |
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249 sarcastic | |
adj.讥讽的,讽刺的,嘲弄的 | |
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250 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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251 redress | |
n.赔偿,救济,矫正;v.纠正,匡正,革除 | |
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252 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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253 interfered | |
v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 );调停;妨碍;干涉 | |
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254 adversary | |
adj.敌手,对手 | |
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255 persevered | |
v.坚忍,坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256 wary | |
adj.谨慎的,机警的,小心的 | |
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257 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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258 disarmed | |
v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 );使息怒 | |
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259 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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260 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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261 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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262 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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263 benevolence | |
n.慈悲,捐助 | |
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264 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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265 rapacious | |
adj.贪婪的,强夺的 | |
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266 remonstrating | |
v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 );告诫 | |
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267 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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268 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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269 infamy | |
n.声名狼藉,出丑,恶行 | |
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270 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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271 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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272 abet | |
v.教唆,鼓励帮助 | |
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273 malignity | |
n.极度的恶意,恶毒;(病的)恶性 | |
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274 compassionate | |
adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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275 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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276 supplicating | |
v.祈求,哀求,恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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277 beckoned | |
v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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278 languor | |
n.无精力,倦怠 | |
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279 entreaties | |
n.恳求,乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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280 cedar | |
n.雪松,香柏(木) | |
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281 rebuke | |
v.指责,非难,斥责 [反]praise | |
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282 countenanced | |
v.支持,赞同,批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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283 approbation | |
n.称赞;认可 | |
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284 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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285 shunned | |
v.避开,回避,避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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286 hypocrisy | |
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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287 satire | |
n.讽刺,讽刺文学,讽刺作品 | |
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288 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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289 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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290 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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291 swelled | |
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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292 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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293 repelled | |
v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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294 appeased | |
安抚,抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 ); 绥靖(满足另一国的要求以避免战争) | |
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295 apathy | |
n.漠不关心,无动于衷;冷淡 | |
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296 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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