The folded flocks penn’d in their watled cotes,
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,
Or whistle from the lodge1, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery dames3,
‘Twould be some solace4 yet, some little cheering
In this close dungeon5 of innumerous boughs6.
MILTON
In the morning, Emily was relieved from her fears for Annette, who came at an early hour.
‘Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, ma’amselle,’ said she, as soon as she entered the room,—‘fine doings, indeed! Was you not frightened, ma’amselle, at not seeing me?’
‘I was alarmed both on your account and on my own,’ replied Emily — ‘What detained you?’
‘Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do. It was not my fault, indeed, ma’amselle, for I could not get out. That rogue7 Ludovico locked me up again.’
‘Locked you up!’ said Emily, with displeasure, ‘Why do you permit Ludovico to lock you up?’
‘Holy Saints!’ exclaimed Annette, ‘how can I help it! If he will lock the door, ma’amselle, and take away the key, how am I to get out, unless I jump through the window? But that I should not mind so much, if the casements8 here were not all so high; one can hardly scramble10 up to them on the inside, and one should break one’s neck, I suppose, going down on the outside. But you know, I dare say, ma’am, what a hurly-burly the castle was in, last night; you must have heard some of the uproar11.’
‘What, were they disputing, then?’ said Emily.
‘No, ma’amselle, nor fighting, but almost as good, for I believe there was not one of the Signors sober; and what is more, not one of those fine ladies sober, either. I thought, when I saw them first, that all those fine silks and fine veils,— why, ma’amselle, their veils were worked with silver! and fine trimmings — boded12 no good — I guessed what they were!’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Emily, ‘what will become of me!’
‘Aye, ma’am, Ludovico said much the same thing of me. Good God! said he, Annette, what is to become of you, if you are to go running about the castle among all these drunken Signors?’
‘O! says I, for that matter, I only want to go to my young lady’s chamber13, and I have only to go, you know, along the vaulted14 passage and across the great hall and up the marble stair-case and along the north gallery and through the west wing of the castle and I am in the corridor in a minute.’ ‘Are you so? says he, and what is to become of you, if you meet any of those noble cavaliers in the way?’ ‘Well, says I, if you think there is danger, then, go with me, and guard me; I am never afraid when you are by.’ ‘What! says he, when I am scarcely recovered of one wound, shall I put myself in the way of getting another? for if any of the cavaliers meet you, they will fall a-fighting with me directly. No, no, says he, I will cut the way shorter, than through the vaulted passage and up the marble stair- case, and along the north gallery and through the west wing of the castle, for you shall stay here, Annette; you shall not go out of this room, to-night.’ ‘So, with that I says’—
‘Well, well,’ said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire15 on another subject,—‘so he locked you up?’
‘Yes, he did indeed, ma’amselle, notwithstanding all I could say to the contrary; and Caterina and I and he staid there all night. And in a few minutes after I was not so vexed16, for there came Signor Verezzi roaring along the passage, like a mad bull, and he mistook Ludovico’s hall, for old Carlo’s; so he tried to burst open the door, and called out for more wine, for that he had drunk all the flasks17 dry, and was dying of thirst. So we were all as still as night, that he might suppose there was nobody in the room; but the Signor was as cunning as the best of us, and kept calling out at the door, “Come forth19, my antient hero!” said he, “here is no enemy at the gate, that you need hide yourself: come forth, my valorous Signor Steward20!” Just then old Carlo opened his door, and he came with a flask18 in his hand; for, as soon as the Signor saw him, he was as tame as could be, and followed him away as naturally as a dog does a butcher with a piece of meat in his basket. All this I saw through the key-hole. Well, Annette, said Ludovico, jeeringly21, shall I let you out now? O no, says I, I would not’—
‘I have some questions to ask you on another subject,’ interrupted Emily, quite wearied by this story. ‘Do you know whether there are any prisoners in the castle, and whether they are confined at this end of the edifice22?’
‘I was not in the way, ma’amselle,’ replied Annette, ‘when the first party came in from the mountains, and the last party is not come back yet, so I don’t know, whether there are any prisoners; but it is expected back to-night, or to-morrow, and I shall know then, perhaps.’
Emily enquired23 if she had ever heard the servants talk of prisoners.
‘Ah ma’amselle!’ said Annette archly, ‘now I dare say you are thinking of Monsieur Valancourt, and that he may have come among the armies, which, they say, are come from our country, to fight against this state, and that he has met with some of OUR people, and is taken captive. O Lord! how glad I should be, if it was so!’
‘Would you, indeed, be glad?’ said Emily, in a tone of mournful reproach.
‘To be sure I should, ma’am,’ replied Annette, ‘and would not you be glad too, to see Signor Valancourt? I don’t know any chevalier I like better, I have a very great regard for the Signor, truly.’
‘Your regard for him cannot be doubted,’ said Emily, ‘since you wish to see him a prisoner.’
‘Why no, ma’amselle, not a prisoner either; but one must be glad to see him, you know. And it was only the other night I dreamt — I dreamt I saw him drive into the castle-yard all in a coach and six, and dressed out, with a laced coat and a sword, like a lord as he is.’
Emily could not forbear smiling at Annette’s ideas of Valancourt, and repeated her enquiry, whether she had heard the servants talk of prisoners.
‘No, ma’amselle,’ replied she, ‘never; and lately they have done nothing but talk of the apparition24, that has been walking about of a night on the ramparts, and that frightened the sentinels into fits. It came among them like a flash of fire, they say, and they all fell down in a row, till they came to themselves again; and then it was gone, and nothing to be seen but the old castle walls; so they helped one another up again as fast as they could. You would not believe, ma’amselle, though I shewed you the very cannon25, where it used to appear.’
‘And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette,’ said Emily, smiling at this curious exaggeration of the circumstances she had witnessed, ‘as to credit these stories?’
‘Credit them, ma’amselle! why all the world could not persuade me out of them. Roberto and Sebastian and half a dozen more of them went into fits! To be sure, there was no occasion for that; I said, myself, there was no need of that, for, says I, when the enemy comes, what a pretty figure they will cut, if they are to fall down in fits, all of a row! The enemy won’t be so civil, perhaps, as to walk off, like the ghost, and leave them to help one another up, but will fall to, cutting and slashing26, till he makes them all rise up dead men. No, no, says I, there is reason in all things: though I might have fallen down in a fit that was no rule for them, being, because it is no business of mine to look gruff, and fight battles.’
Emily endeavoured to correct the superstitious27 weakness of Annette, though she could not entirely28 subdue29 her own; to which the latter only replied, ‘Nay, ma’amselle, you will believe nothing; you are almost as bad as the Signor himself, who was in a great passion when they told of what had happened, and swore that the first man, who repeated such nonsense, should be thrown into the dungeon under the east turret30. This was a hard punishment too, for only talking nonsense, as he called it, but I dare say he had other reasons for calling it so, than you have, ma’am.’
Emily looked displeased31, and made no reply. As she mused32 upon the recollected33 appearance, which had lately so much alarmed her, and considered the circumstances of the figure having stationed itself opposite to her casement9, she was for a moment inclined to believe it was Valancourt, whom she had seen. Yet, if it was he, why did he not speak to her, when he had the opportunity of doing so — and, if he was a prisoner in the castle, and he could be here in no other character, how could he obtain the means of walking abroad on the rampart? Thus she was utterly36 unable to decide, whether the musician and the form she had observed, were the same, or, if they were, whether this was Valancourt. She, however, desired that Annette would endeavour to learn whether any prisoners were in the castle, and also their names.
‘O dear, ma’amselle!’ said Annette, ‘I forget to tell you what you bade me ask about, the ladies, as they call themselves, who are lately come to Udolpho. Why that Signora Livona, that the Signor brought to see my late lady at Venice, is his mistress now, and was little better then, I dare say. And Ludovico says (but pray be secret, ma’am) that his excellenza introduced her only to impose upon the world, that had begun to make free with her character. So when people saw my lady notice her, they thought what they had heard must be scandal. The other two are the mistresses of Signor Verezzi and Signor Bertolini; and Signor Montoni invited them all to the castle; and so, yesterday, he gave a great entertainment; and there they were, all drinking Tuscany wine and all sorts, and laughing and singing, till they made the castle ring again. But I thought they were dismal37 sounds, so soon after my poor lady’s death too; and they brought to my mind what she would have thought, if she had heard them — but she cannot hear them now, poor soul! said I.’
Emily turned away to conceal38 her emotion, and then desired Annette to go, and make enquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might be in the castle, but conjured39 her to do it with caution, and on no account to mention her name, or that of Monsieur Valancourt.
‘Now I think of it, ma’amselle,’ said Annette, ‘I do believe there are prisoners, for I overheard one of the Signor’s men, yesterday, in the servants hall, talking something about ransoms40, and saying what a fine thing it was for his excellenza to catch up men, and they were as good booty as any other, because of the ransoms. And the other man was grumbling41, and saying it was fine enough for the Signor, but none so fine for his soldiers, because, said he, we don’t go shares there.’
This information heightened Emily’s impatience42 to know more, and Annette immediately departed on her enquiry.
The late resolution of Emily to resign her estates to Montoni, now gave way to new considerations; the possibility, that Valancourt was near her, revived her fortitude44, and she determined45 to brave the threatened vengeance47, at least, till she could be assured whether he was really in the castle. She was in this temper of mind, when she received a message from Montoni, requiring her attendance in the cedar48 parlour, which she obeyed with trembling, and, on her way thither49, endeavoured to animate50 her fortitude with the idea of Valancourt.
Montoni was alone. ‘I sent for you,’ said he, ‘to give you another opportunity of retracting51 your late mistaken assertions concerning the Languedoc estates. I will condescend53 to advise, where I may command.— If you are really deluded54 by an opinion, that you have any right to these estates, at least, do not persist in the error — an error, which you may perceive, too late, has been fatal to you. Dare my resentment55 no further, but sign the papers.’
‘If I have no right in these estates, sir,’ said Emily, ‘of what service can it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning them? If the lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them, without my interference, or my consent.’
‘I will have no more argument,’ said Montoni, with a look that made her tremble. ‘What had I but trouble to expect, when I condescended56 to reason with a baby! But I will be trifled with no longer: let the recollection of your aunt’s sufferings, in consequence of her folly58 and obstinacy59, teach you a lesson.— Sign the papers.’
Emily’s resolution was for a moment awed:— she shrunk at the recollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; but then, the image of Valancourt, who so long had loved her, and who was now, perhaps, so near her, came to her heart, and, together with the strong feelings of indignation, with which she had always, from her infancy61, regarded an act of injustice62, inspired her with a noble, though imprudent, courage.
‘Sign the papers,’ said Montoni, more impatiently than before.
‘Never, sir,’ replied Emily; ‘that request would have proved to me the injustice of your claim, had I even been ignorant of my right.’
Montoni turned pale with anger, while his quivering lip and lurking63 eye made her almost repent64 the boldness of her speech.
‘Then all my vengeance falls upon you,’ he exclaimed, with an horrible oath. ‘and think not it shall be delayed. Neither the estates in Languedoc, or Gascony, shall be yours; you have dared to question my right,— now dare to question my power. I have a punishment which you think not of; it is terrible! This night — this very night’—
‘This night!’ repeated another voice.
Montoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollect34 himself, he proceeded in a lower tone.
‘You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly; yet this, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter46 you.— I could tell you of others — I could make you tremble at the bare recital65.’
He was interrupted by a groan66, which seemed to rise from underneath67 the chamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it, impatience and rage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade of fear passed over his countenance68. Emily sat down in a chair, near the door, for the various emotions she had suffered, now almost overcame her; but Montoni paused scarcely an instant, and, commanding his features, resumed his discourse69 in a lower, yet sterner voice.
‘I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of my character, which it seems you do not understand, or you would not defy me.— I could tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken — but I am talking to a baby. Let me, however, repeat, that terrible as are the examples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit you; for, though your repentance70 would put an immediate43 end to opposition71, it would not now appease72 my indignation.— I will have vengeance as well as justice.’
Another groan filled the pause which Montoni made.
‘Leave the room instantly!’ said he, seeming not to notice this strange occurrence. Without power to implore73 his pity, she rose to go, but found that she could not support herself; awe60 and terror overcame her, and she sunk again into the chair.
‘Quit my presence!’ cried Montoni. ‘This affectation of fear ill becomes the heroine who has just dared to brave my indignation.’
‘Did you hear nothing, Signor?’ said Emily, trembling, and still unable to leave the room.
‘I heard my own voice,’ rejoined Montoni, sternly.
‘And nothing else?’ said Emily, speaking with difficulty.—‘There again! Do you hear nothing now?’
‘Obey my order,’ repeated Montoni. ‘And for these fool’s tricks — I will soon discover by whom they are practised.’
Emily again rose, and exerted herself to the utmost to leave the room, while Montoni followed her; but, instead of calling aloud to his servants to search the chamber, as he had formerly74 done on a similar occurrence, passed to the ramparts.
As, in her way to the corridor, she rested for a moment at an open casement, Emily saw a party of Montoni’s troops winding75 down a distant mountain, whom she noticed no further, than as they brought to her mind the wretched prisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to the castle. At length, having reached her apartment, she threw herself upon the couch, overcome with the new horrors of her situation. Her thoughts lost in tumult76 and perplexity, she could neither repent of, or approve, her late conduct; she could only remember, that she was in the power of a man, who had no principle of action — but his will; and the astonishment77 and terrors of superstition78, which had, for a moment, so strongly assailed79 her, now yielded to those of reason.
She was, at length, roused from the reverie, which engaged her, by a confusion of distant voices, and a clattering80 of hoofs81, that seemed to come, on the wind, from the courts. A sudden hope, that some good was approaching, seized her mind, till she remembered the troops she had observed from the casement, and concluded this to be the party, which Annette had said were expected at Udolpho.
Soon after, she heard voices faintly from the halls, and the noise of horses’ feet sunk away in the wind; silence ensued. Emily listened anxiously for Annette’s step in the corridor, but a pause of total stillness continued, till again the castle seemed to be all tumult and confusion. She heard the echoes of many footsteps, passing to and fro in the halls and avenues below, and then busy tongues were loud on the rampart. Having hurried to her casement, she perceived Montoni, with some of his officers, leaning on the walls, and pointing from them; while several soldiers were employed at the further end of the rampart about some cannon; and she continued to observe them, careless of the passing time.
Annette at length appeared, but brought no intelligence of Valancourt, ‘For, ma’amselle,’ said she, ‘all the people pretend to know nothing about any prisoners. But here is a fine piece of business! The rest of the party are just arrived, ma’am; they came scampering82 in, as if they would have broken their necks; one scarcely knew whether the man, or his horse would get within the gates first. And they have brought word — and such news! they have brought word, that a party of the enemy, as they call them, are coming towards the castle; so we shall have all the officers of justice, I suppose, besieging83 it! all those terrible-looking fellows one used to see at Venice.’
‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Emily, fervently84, ‘there is yet a hope left for me, then!’
‘What mean you, ma’amselle? Do you wish to fall into the hands of those sad-looking men! Why I used to shudder85 as I passed them, and should have guessed what they were, if Ludovico had not told me.’
‘We cannot be in worse hands than at present,’ replied Emily, unguardedly; ‘but what reason have you to suppose these are officers of justice?’
‘Why OUR people, ma’am, are all in such a fright, and a fuss; and I don’t know any thing but the fear of justice, that could make them so. I used to think nothing on earth could fluster86 them, unless, indeed, it was a ghost, or so; but now, some of them are for hiding down in the vaults87 under the castle; but you must not tell the Signor this, ma’amselle, and I overheard two of them talking — Holy Mother! what makes you look so sad, ma’amselle? You don’t hear what I say!’
‘Yes, I do, Annette; pray proceed.’
‘Well, ma’amselle, all the castle is in such hurly-burly. Some of the men are loading the cannon, and some are examining the great gates, and the walls all round, and are hammering and patching up, just as if all those repairs had never been made, that were so long about. But what is to become of me and you, ma’amselle, and Ludovico? O! when I hear the sound of the cannon, I shall die with fright. If I could but catch the great gate open for one minute, I would be even with it for shutting me within these walls so long!— it should never see me again.’
Emily caught the latter words of Annette. ‘O! if you could find it open, but for one moment!’ she exclaimed, ‘my peace might yet be saved!’ The heavy groan she uttered, and the wildness of her look, terrified Annette, still more than her words; who entreated89 Emily to explain the meaning of them, to whom it suddenly occurred, that Ludovico might be of some service, if there should be a possibility of escape, and who repeated the substance of what had passed between Montoni and herself, but conjured her to mention this to no person except to Ludovico. ‘It may, perhaps, be in his power,’ she added, ‘to effect our escape. Go to him, Annette, tell him what I have to apprehend90, and what I have already suffered; but entreat88 him to be secret, and to lose no time in attempting to release us. If he is willing to undertake this he shall be amply rewarded. I cannot speak with him myself, for we might be observed, and then effectual care would be taken to prevent our flight. But be quick, Annette, and, above all, be discreet91 — I will await your return in this apartment.’
The girl, whose honest heart had been much affected92 by the recital, was now as eager to obey, as Emily was to employ her, and she immediately quitted the room.
Emily’s surprise increased, as she reflected upon Annette’s intelligence. ‘Alas93!’ said she, ‘what can the officers of justice do against an armed castle? these cannot be such.’ Upon further consideration, however, she concluded, that, Montoni’s bands having plundered94 the country round, the inhabitants had taken arms, and were coming with the officers of police and a party of soldiers, to force their way into the castle. ‘But they know not,’ thought she, ‘its strength, or the armed numbers within it. Alas! except from flight, I have nothing to hope!’
Montoni, though not precisely96 what Emily apprehended97 him to be — a captain of banditti — had employed his troops in enterprises not less daring, or less atrocious, than such a character would have undertaken. They had not only pillaged98, whenever opportunity offered, the helpless traveller, but had attacked, and plundered the villas99 of several persons, which, being situated100 among the solitary101 recesses102 of the mountains, were totally unprepared for resistance. In these expeditions the commanders of the party did not appear, and the men, partly disguised, had sometimes been mistaken for common robbers, and, at others, for bands of the foreign enemy, who, at that period, invaded the country. But, though they had already pillaged several mansions103, and brought home considerable treasures, they had ventured to approach only one castle, in the attack of which they were assisted by other troops of their own order; from this, however, they were vigorously repulsed104, and pursued by some of the foreign enemy, who were in league with the besieged105. Montoni’s troops fled precipitately106 towards Udolpho, but were so closely tracked over the mountains, that, when they reached one of the heights in the neighbourhood of the castle, and looked back upon the road, they perceived the enemy winding among the cliffs below, and at not more than a league distant. Upon this discovery, they hastened forward with increased speed, to prepare Montoni for the enemy; and it was their arrival, which had thrown the castle into such confusion and tumult.
As Emily awaited anxiously some information from below, she now saw from her casements a body of troops pour over the neighbouring heights; and, though Annette had been gone a very short time, and had a difficult and dangerous business to accomplish, her impatience for intelligence became painful: she listened; opened her door; and often went out upon the corridor to meet her.
At length, she heard a footstep approach her chamber; and, on opening the door, saw, not Annette, but old Carlo! New fears rushed upon her mind. He said he came from the Signor, who had ordered him to inform her, that she must be ready to depart from Udolpho immediately, for that the castle was about to be besieged; and that mules108 were preparing to convey her, with her guides, to a place of safety.
‘Of safety!’ exclaimed Emily, thoughtlessly; ‘has, then, the Signor so much consideration for me?’
Carlo looked upon the ground, and made no reply. A thousand opposite emotions agitated109 Emily, successively, as she listened to old Carlo; those of joy, grief, distrust and apprehension110, appeared, and vanished from her mind, with the quickness of lightning. One moment, it seemed impossible, that Montoni could take this measure merely for her preservation111; and so very strange was his sending her from the castle at all, that she could attribute it only to the design of carrying into execution the new scheme of vengeance, with which he had menaced her. In the next instant, it appeared so desirable to quit the castle, under any circumstances, that she could not but rejoice in the prospect112, believing that change must be for the better, till she remembered the probability of Valancourt being detained in it, when sorrow and regret usurped113 her mind, and she wished, much more fervently than she had yet done, that it might not be his voice which she had heard.
Carlo having reminded her, that she had no time to lose, for that the enemy were within sight of the castle, Emily entreated him to inform her whither she was to go; and, after some hesitation114, he said he had received no orders to tell; but, on her repeating the question, replied, that he believed she was to be carried into Tuscany.’
‘To Tuscany!’ exclaimed Emily —‘and why thither?’
Carlo answered, that he knew nothing further, than that she was to be lodged115 in a cottage on the borders of Tuscany, at the feet of the Apennines —‘Not a day’s journey distant,’ said he.
Emily now dismissed him; and, with trembling hands, prepared the small package, that she meant to take with her; while she was employed about which Annette returned.
‘O ma’amselle!’ said she, ‘nothing can be done! Ludovico says the new porter is more watchful116 even than Barnardine was, and we might as well throw ourselves in the way of a dragon, as in his. Ludovico is almost as broken-hearted as you are, ma’am, on my account, he says, and I am sure I shall never live to hear the cannon fire twice!’
She now began to weep, but revived upon hearing of what had just occurred, and entreated Emily to take her with her.
‘That I will do most willingly,’ replied Emily, ‘if Signor Montoni permits it;’ to which Annette made no reply, but ran out of the room, and immediately sought Montoni, who was on the terrace, surrounded by his officers, where she began her petition. He sharply bade her go into the castle, and absolutely refused her request. Annette, however, not only pleaded for herself, but for Ludovico; and Montoni had ordered some of his men to take her from his presence, before she would retire.
In an agony of disappointment, she returned to Emily, who foreboded little good towards herself, from this refusal to Annette, and who, soon after, received a summons to repair to the great court, where the mules, with her guides, were in waiting. Emily here tried in vain to sooth the weeping Annette, who persisted in saying, that she should never see her dear young lady again; a fear, which her mistress secretly thought too well justified117, but which she endeavoured to restrain, while, with apparent composure, she bade this affectionate servant farewell. Annette, however, followed to the courts, which were now thronged118 with people, busy in preparation for the enemy; and, having seen her mount her mule107 and depart, with her attendants, through the portal, turned into the castle and wept again.
Emily, meanwhile, as she looked back upon the gloomy courts of the castle, no longer silent as when she had first entered them, but resounding119 with the noise of preparation for their defence, as well as crowded with soldiers and workmen, hurrying to and fro; and, when she passed once more under the huge portcullis, which had formerly struck her with terror and dismay, and, looking round, saw no walls to confine her steps — felt, in spite of anticipation120, the sudden joy of a prisoner, who unexpectedly finds himself at liberty. This emotion would not suffer her now to look impartially121 on the dangers that awaited her without; on mountains infested123 by hostile parties, who seized every opportunity for plunder95; and on a journey commended under the guidance of men, whose countenances124 certainly did not speak favourably125 of their dispositions126. In the present moments, she could only rejoice, that she was liberated127 from those walls, which she had entered with such dismal forebodings; and, remembering the superstitious presentiment128, which had then seized her, she could now smile at the impression it had made upon her mind.
As she gazed, with these emotions, upon the turrets129 of the castle, rising high over the woods, among which she wound, the stranger, whom she believed to be confined there, returned to her remembrance, and anxiety and apprehension, lest he should be Valancourt, again passed like a cloud upon her joy. She recollected every circumstance, concerning this unknown person, since the night, when she had first heard him play the song of her native province;— circumstances, which she had so often recollected, and compared before, without extracting from them any thing like conviction, and which still only prompted her to believe, that Valancourt was a prisoner at Udolpho. It was possible, however, that the men, who were her conductors, might afford her information, on this subject; but, fearing to question them immediately, lest they should be unwilling130 to discover any circumstance to her in the presence of each other, she watched for an opportunity of speaking with them separately.
Soon after, a trumpet131 echoed faintly from a distance; the guides stopped, and looked toward the quarter whence it came, but the thick woods, which surrounded them, excluding all view of the country beyond, one of the men rode on to the point of an eminence132, that afforded a more extensive prospect, to observe how near the enemy, whose trumpet he guessed this to be, were advanced; the other, meanwhile, remained with Emily, and to him she put some questions, concerning the stranger at Udolpho. Ugo, for this was his name, said, that there were several prisoners in the castle, but he neither recollected their persons, or the precise time of their arrival, and could therefore give her no information. There was a surliness in his manner, as he spoke133, that made it probable he would not have satisfied her enquiries, even if he could have done so.
Having asked him what prisoners had been taken, about the time, as nearly as she could remember, when she had first heard the music, ‘All that week,’ said Ugo, ‘I was out with a party, upon the mountains, and knew nothing of what was doing at the castle. We had enough upon our hands, we had warm work of it.’
Bertrand, the other man, being now returned, Emily enquired no further, and, when he had related to his companion what he had seen, they travelled on in deep silence; while Emily often caught, between the opening woods, partial glimpses of the castle above — the west towers, whose battlements were now crowded with archers134, and the ramparts below, where soldiers were seen hurrying along, or busy upon the walls, preparing the cannon.
Having emerged from the woods, they wound along the valley in an opposite direction to that, from whence the enemy were approaching. Emily now had a full view of Udolpho, with its gray walls, towers and terraces, high over-topping the precipices135 and the dark woods, and glittering partially122 with the arms of the condottieri, as the sun’s rays, streaming through an autumnal cloud, glanced upon a part of the edifice, whose remaining features stood in darkened majesty136. She continued to gaze, through her tears, upon walls that, perhaps, confined Valancourt, and which now, as the cloud floated away, were lighted up with sudden splendour, and then, as suddenly were shrouded137 in gloom; while the passing gleam fell on the wood-tops below, and heightened the first tints138 of autumn, that had begun to steal upon the foliage140. The winding mountains, at length, shut Udolpho from her view, and she turned, with mournful reluctance141, to other objects. The melancholy142 sighing of the wind among the pines, that waved high over the steeps, and the distant thunder of a torrent143 assisted her musings, and conspired144 with the wild scenery around, to diffuse145 over her mind emotions solemn, yet not unpleasing, but which were soon interrupted by the distant roar of cannon, echoing among the mountains. The sounds rolled along the wind, and were repeated in faint and fainter reverberation146, till they sunk in sullen147 murmurs149. This was a signal, that the enemy had reached the castle, and fear for Valancourt again tormented150 Emily. She turned her anxious eyes towards that part of the country, where the edifice stood, but the intervening heights concealed151 it from her view; still, however, she saw the tall head of a mountain, which immediately fronted her late chamber, and on this she fixed152 her gaze, as if it could have told her of all that was passing in the scene it overlooked. The guides twice reminded her, that she was losing time and that they had far to go, before she could turn from this interesting object, and, even when she again moved onward153, she often sent a look back, till only its blue point, brightening in a gleam of sunshine, appeared peeping over other mountains.
The sound of the cannon affected Ugo, as the blast of the trumpet does the war-horse; it called forth all the fire of his nature; he was impatient to be in the midst of the fight, and uttered frequent execrations against Montoni for having sent him to a distance. The feelings of his comrade seemed to be very opposite, and adapted rather to the cruelties, than to the dangers of war.
Emily asked frequent questions, concerning the place of her destination, but could only learn, that she was going to a cottage in Tuscany; and, whenever she mentioned the subject, she fancied she perceived, in the countenances of these men, an expression of malice154 and cunning, that alarmed her.
It was afternoon, when they had left the castle. During several hours, they travelled through regions of profound solitude155, where no bleat156 of sheep, or bark of watch-dog, broke on silence, and they were now too far off to hear even the faint thunder of the cannon. Towards evening, they wound down precipices, black with forests of cypress157, pine and cedar, into a glen so savage158 and secluded159, that, if Solitude ever had local habitation, this might have been ‘her place of dearest residence.’ To Emily it appeared a spot exactly suited for the retreat of banditti, and, in her imagination, she already saw them lurking under the brow of some projecting rock, whence their shadows, lengthened160 by the setting sun, stretched across the road, and warned the traveller of his danger. She shuddered161 at the idea, and, looking at her conductors, to observe whether they were armed, thought she saw in them the banditti she dreaded162!
It was in this glen, that they proposed to alight, ‘For,’ said Ugo, ‘night will come on presently, and then the wolves will make it dangerous to stop.’ This was a new subject of alarm to Emily, but inferior to what she suffered from the thought of being left in these wilds, at midnight, with two such men as her present conductors. Dark and dreadful hints of what might be Montoni’s purpose in sending her hither, came to her mind. She endeavoured to dissuade164 the men from stopping, and enquired, with anxiety, how far they had yet to go.
‘Many leagues yet,’ replied Bertrand. ‘As for you, Signora, you may do as you please about eating, but for us, we will make a hearty165 supper, while we can. We shall have need of it, I warrant, before we finish our journey. The sun’s going down apace; let us alight under that rock, yonder.’
His comrade assented166, and, turning the mules out of the road, they advanced towards a cliff, overhung with cedars167, Emily following in trembling silence. They lifted her from her mule, and, having seated themselves on the grass, at the foot of the rocks, drew some homely168 fare from a wallet, of which Emily tried to eat a little, the better to disguise her apprehensions169.
The sun was now sunk behind the high mountains in the west, upon which a purple haze170 began to spread, and the gloom of twilight171 to draw over the surrounding objects. To the low and sullen murmur148 of the breeze, passing among the woods, she no longer listened with any degree of pleasure, for it conspired with the wildness of the scene and the evening hour, to depress her spirits.
Suspense172 had so much increased her anxiety, as to the prisoner at Udolpho, that, finding it impracticable to speak alone with Bertrand, on that subject, she renewed her questions in the presence of Ugo; but he either was, or pretended to be entirely ignorant, concerning the stranger. When he had dismissed the question, he talked with Ugo on some subject, which led to the mention of Signor Orsino and of the affair that had banished173 him from Venice; respecting which Emily had ventured to ask a few questions. Ugo appeared to be well acquainted with the circumstances of that tragical175 event, and related some minute particulars, that both shocked and surprised her; for it appeared very extraordinary how such particulars could be known to any, but to persons, present when the assassination176 was committed.
‘He was of rank,’ said Bertrand, ‘or the State would not have troubled itself to enquire after his assassins. The Signor has been lucky hitherto; this is not the first affair of the kind he has had upon his hands; and to be sure, when a gentleman has no other way of getting redress177 — why he must take this.’
‘Aye,’ said Ugo, ‘and why is not this as good as another? This is the way to have justice done at once, without more ado. If you go to law, you must stay till the judges please, and may lose your cause, at last, Why the best way, then, is to make sure of your right, while you can, and execute justice yourself.’
‘Yes, yes,’ rejoined Bertrand, ‘if you wait till justice is done you- -you may stay long enough. Why if I want a friend of mine properly served, how am I to get my revenge? Ten to one they will tell me he is in the right, and I am in the wrong. Or, if a fellow has got possession of property, which I think ought to be mine, why I may wait, till I starve, perhaps, before the law will give it me, and then, after all, the judge may say — the estate is his. What is to be done then?— Why the case is plain enough, I must take it at last.’
Emily’s horror at this conversation was heightened by a suspicion, that the latter part of it was pointed178 against herself, and that these men had been commissioned by Montoni to execute a similar kind of JUSTICE, in his cause.
‘But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,’ resumed Bertrand, ‘he is one of those, who love to do justice at once. I remember, about ten years ago, the Signor had a quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan. The story was told me then, and it is still fresh in my head. They quarrelled about a lady, that the Signor liked, and she was perverse179 enough to prefer the gentleman of Milan, and even carried her whim180 so far as to marry him. This provoked the Signor, as well it might, for he had tried to talk reason to her a long while, and used to send people to serenade her, under her windows, of a night; and used to make verses about her, and would swear she was the handsomest lady in Milan — But all would not do — nothing would bring her to reason; and, as I said, she went so far at last, as to marry this other cavaliero. This made the Signor wrath181, with a vengeance; he resolved to be even with her though, and he watched his opportunity, and did not wait long, for, soon after the marriage, they set out for Padua, nothing doubting, I warrant, of what was preparing for them. The cavaliero thought, to be sure, he was to be called to no account, but was to go off triumphant182; but he was soon made to know another sort of story.’
‘What then, the lady had promised to have Signor Orsino?’ said Ugo.
‘Promised! No,’ replied Bertrand, ‘she had not wit enough even to tell him she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to say, from the first, she never meant to have him. And this was what provoked the Signor, so, and with good reason, for, who likes to be told that he is disagreeable? and this was saying as good. It was enough to tell him this; she need not have gone, and married another.’
‘What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?’ said Ugo.
‘I don’t know as for that,’ replied Bertrand, ‘they said, indeed, that she had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; but that is nothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and then the Signor would not have been so much provoked. She might have expected what was to follow; it was not to be supposed he would bear her ill usage tamely, and she might thank herself for what happened. But, as I said, they set out for Padua, she and her husband, and the road lay over some barren mountains like these. This suited the Signor’s purpose well. He watched the time of their departure, and sent his men after them, with directions what to do. They kept their distance, till they saw their opportunity, and this did not happen, till the second day’s journey, when, the gentleman having sent his servants forward to the next town, may be, to have horses in readiness, the Signor’s men quickened their pace, and overtook the carriage, in a hollow, between two mountains, where the woods prevented the servants from seeing what passed, though they were then not far off. When we came up, we fired our tromboni, but missed.’
Emily turned pale, at these words, and then hoped she had mistaken them; while Bertrand proceeded:
‘The gentleman fired again, but he was soon made to alight, and it was as he turned to call his people, that he was struck. It was the most dexterous183 feat2 you ever saw — he was struck in the back with three stillettos at once. He fell, and was dispatched in a minute; but the lady escaped, for the servants had heard the firing, and came up before she could be taken care of. “Bertrand,” said the Signor, when his men returned’—
‘Bertrand!’ exclaimed Emily, pale with horror, on whom not a syllable184 of this narrative185 had been lost.
‘Bertrand, did I say?’ rejoined the man, with some confusion —‘No, Giovanni. But I have forgot where I was;—“Bertrand,” said the Signor’—
‘Bertrand, again!’ said Emily, in a faltering186 voice, ‘Why do you repeat that name?’
Bertrand swore. ‘What signifies it,’ he proceeded, ‘what the man was called — Bertrand, or Giovanni — or Roberto? it’s all one for that. You have put me out twice with that — question. “Bertrand,” or Giovanni — or what you will —“Bertrand,” said the Signor, “if your comrades had done their duty, as well as you, I should not have lost the lady. Go, my honest fellow, and be happy with this.” He game him a purse of gold — and little enough too, considering the service he had done him.’
‘Aye, aye,’ said Ugo, ‘little enough — little enough.’
Emily now breathed with difficulty, and could scarcely support herself. When first she saw these men, their appearance and their connection with Montoni had been sufficient to impress her with distrust; but now, when one of them had betrayed himself to be a murderer, and she saw herself, at the approach of night, under his guidance, among wild and solitary mountains, and going she scarcely knew whither, the most agonizing187 terror seized her, which was the less supportable from the necessity she found herself under of concealing188 all symptoms of it from her companions. Reflecting on the character and the menaces of Montoni, it appeared not improbable, that he had delivered her to them, for the purpose of having her murdered, and of thus securing to himself, without further opposition, or delay, the estates, for which he had so long and so desperately189 contended. Yet, if this was his design, there appeared no necessity for sending her to such a distance from the castle; for, if any dread163 of discovery had made him unwilling to perpetrate the deed there, a much nearer place might have sufficed for the purpose of concealment190. These considerations, however, did not immediately occur to Emily, with whom so many circumstances conspired to rouse terror, that she had no power to oppose it, or to enquire coolly into its grounds; and, if she had done so, still there were many appearances which would too well have justified her most terrible apprehensions. She did not now dare to speak to her conductors, at the sound of whose voices she trembled; and when, now and then, she stole a glance at them, their countenances, seen imperfectly through the gloom of evening, served to confirm her fears.
The sun had now been set some time; heavy clouds, whose lower skirts were tinged191 with sulphureous crimson193, lingered in the west, and threw a reddish tint139 upon the pine forests, which sent forth a solemn sound, as the breeze rolled over them. The hollow moan struck upon Emily’s heart, and served to render more gloomy and terrific every object around her,— the mountains, shaded in twilight — the gleaming torrent, hoarsely194 roaring — the black forests, and the deep glen, broken into rocky recesses, high overshadowed by cypress and sycamore and winding into long obscurity. To this glen, Emily, as she sent forth her anxious eye, thought there was no end; no hamlet, or even cottage, was seen, and still no distant bark of watch dog, or even faint, far-off halloo came on the wind. In a tremulous voice, she now ventured to remind the guides, that it was growing late, and to ask again how far they had to go: but they were too much occupied by their own discourse to attend to her question, which she forbore to repeat, lest it should provoke a surly answer. Having, however, soon after, finished their supper, the men collected the fragments into their wallet, and proceeded along this winding glen, in gloomy silence; while Emily again mused upon her own situation, and concerning the motives195 of Montoni for involving her in it. That it was for some evil purpose towards herself, she could not doubt; and it seemed, that, if he did not intend to destroy her, with a view of immediately seizing her estates, he meant to reserve her a while in concealment, for some more terrible design, for one that might equally gratify his avarice196 and still more his deep revenge. At this moment, remembering Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the corridor, a few preceding nights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was, strengthened in her belief. Yet, why remove her from the castle, where deeds of darkness had, she feared, been often executed with secrecy197?— from chambers198, perhaps
With many a foul199, and midnight murder stain’d.
The dread of what she might be going to encounter was now so excessive, that it sometimes threatened her senses; and, often as she went, she thought of her late father and of all he would have suffered, could he have foreseen the strange and dreadful events of her future life; and how anxiously he would have avoided that fatal confidence, which committed his daughter to the care of a woman so weak as was Madame Montoni. So romantic and improbable, indeed, did her present situation appear to Emily herself, particularly when she compared it with the repose200 and beauty of her early days, that there were moments, when she could almost have believed herself the victim of frightful201 visions, glaring upon a disordered fancy.
Restrained by the presence of her guides from expressing her terrors, their acuteness was, at length, lost in gloomy despair. The dreadful view of what might await her hereafter rendered her almost indifferent to the surrounding dangers. She now looked, with little emotion, on the wild dingles, and the gloomy road and mountains, whose outlines were only distinguishable through the dusk;— objects, which but lately had affected her spirits so much, as to awaken202 horrid203 views of the future, and to tinge192 these with their own gloom.
It was now so nearly dark, that the travellers, who proceeded only by the slowest pace, could scarcely discern their way. The clouds, which seemed charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens, shewing, at intervals204, the trembling stars; while the groves205 of cypress and sycamore, that overhung the rocks, waved high in the breeze, as it swept over the glen, and then rushed among the distant woods. Emily shivered as it passed.
‘Where is the torch?’ said Ugo, ‘It grows dark.’
‘Not so dark yet,’ replied Bertrand, ‘but we may find our way, and ’tis best not light the torch, before we can help, for it may betray us, if any straggling party of the enemy is abroad.’
Ugo muttered something, which Emily did not understand, and they proceeded in darkness, while she almost wished, that the enemy might discover them; for from change there was something to hope, since she could scarcely imagine any situation more dreadful than her present one.
As they moved slowly along, her attention was surprised by a thin tapering206 flame, that appeared, by fits, at the point of the pike, which Bertrand carried, resembling what she had observed on the lance of the sentinel, the night Madame Montoni died, and which he had said was an omen35. The event immediately following it appeared to justify207 the assertion, and a superstitious impression had remained on Emily’s mind, which the present appearance confirmed. She thought it was an omen of her own fate, and watched it successively vanish and return, in gloomy silence, which was at length interrupted by Bertrand.
‘Let us light the torch,’ said he, ‘and get under shelter of the woods;— a storm is coming on — look at my lance.’
He held it forth, with the flame tapering at its point.*
(* See the Abbe Berthelon on Electricity. [A. R.])
‘Aye,’ said Ugo, ‘you are not one of those, that believe in omens208: we have left cowards at the castle, who would turn pale at such a sight. I have often seen it before a thunder storm, it is an omen of that, and one is coming now, sure enough. The clouds flash fast already.’
Emily was relieved by this conversation from some of the terrors of superstition, but those of reason increased, as, waiting while Ugo searched for a flint, to strike fire, she watched the pale lightning gleam over the woods they were about to enter, and illumine the harsh countenances of her companions. Ugo could not find a flint, and Bertrand became impatient, for the thunder sounded hollowly at a distance, and the lightning was more frequent. Sometimes, it revealed the nearer recesses of the woods, or, displaying some opening in their summits, illumined the ground beneath with partial splendour, the thick foliage of the trees preserving the surrounding scene in deep shadow.
At length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch was lighted. The men then dismounted, and, having assisted Emily, led the mules towards the woods, that skirted the glen, on the left, over broken ground, frequently interrupted with brush-wood and wild plants, which she was often obliged to make a circuit to avoid.
She could not approach these woods, without experiencing keener sense of her danger. Their deep silence, except when the wind swept among their branches, and impenetrable glooms shewn partially by the sudden flash, and then, by the red glare of the torch, which served only to make ‘darkness visible,’ were circumstances, that contributed to renew all her most terrible apprehensions; she thought, too, that, at this moment, the countenances of her conductors displayed more than their usual fierceness, mingled209 with a kind of lurking exultation210, which they seemed endeavouring to disguise. To her affrighted fancy it occurred, that they were leading her into these woods to complete the will of Montoni by her murder. The horrid suggestion called a groan from her heart, which surprised her companions, who turned round quickly towards her, and she demanded why they led her thither, beseeching211 them to continue their way along the open glen, which she represented to be less dangerous than the woods, in a thunder storm.
‘No, no,’ said Bertrand, ‘we know best where the danger lies. See how the clouds open over our heads. Besides, we can glide212 under cover of the woods with less hazard of being seen, should any of the enemy be wandering this way. By holy St. Peter and all the rest of them, I’ve as stout213 a heart as the best, as many a poor devil could tell, if he were alive again — but what can we do against numbers?’
‘What are you whining214 about?’ said Ugo, contemptuously, ‘who fears numbers! Let them come, though they were as many, as the Signor’s castle could hold; I would shew the knaves215 what fighting is. For you — I would lay you quietly in a dry ditch, where you might peep out, and see me put the rogues216 to flight.— Who talks of fear!’
Bertrand replied, with an horrible oath, that he did not like such jesting, and a violent altercation217 ensued, which was, at length, silenced by the thunder, whose deep volley was heard afar, rolling onward till it burst over their heads in sounds, that seemed to shake the earth to its centre. The ruffians paused, and looked upon each other. Between the boles of the trees, the blue lightning flashed and quivered along the ground, while, as Emily looked under the boughs, the mountains beyond, frequently appeared to be clothed in livid flame. At this moment, perhaps, she felt less fear of the storm, than did either of her companions, for other terrors occupied her mind.
The men now rested under an enormous chesnut-tree, and fixed their pikes in the ground, at some distance, on the iron points of which Emily repeatedly observed the lightning play, and then glide down them into the earth.
‘I would we were well in the Signor’s castle!’ said Bertrand, ‘I know not why he should send us on this business. Hark! how it rattles218 above, there! I could almost find in my heart to turn priest, and pray. Ugo, hast got a rosary?’
‘No,’ replied Ugo, ‘I leave it to cowards like thee, to carry rosaries — I, carry a sword.’
‘And much good may it do thee in fighting against the storm!’ said Bertrand.
Another peal219, which was reverberated220 in tremendous echoes among the mountains, silenced them for a moment. As it rolled away, Ugo proposed going on. ‘We are only losing time here,’ said he, ‘for the thick boughs of the woods will shelter us as well as this chesnut- tree.’
They again led the mules forward, between the boles of the trees, and over pathless grass, that concealed their high knotted roots. The rising wind was now heard contending with the thunder, as it rushed furiously among the branches above, and brightened the red flame of the torch, which threw a stronger light forward among the woods, and shewed their gloomy recesses to be suitable resorts for the wolves, of which Ugo had formerly spoken.
At length, the strength of the wind seemed to drive the storm before it, for the thunder rolled away into distance, and was only faintly heard. After travelling through the woods for nearly an hour, during which the elements seemed to have returned to repose, the travellers, gradually ascending221 from the glen, found themselves upon the open brow of a mountain, with a wide valley, extending in misty222 moon- light, at their feet, and above, the blue sky, trembling through the few thin clouds, that lingered after the storm, and were sinking slowly to the verge223 of the horizon.
Emily’s spirits, now that she had quitted the woods, began to revive; for she considered, that, if these men had received an order to destroy her, they would probably have executed their barbarous purpose in the solitary wild, from whence they had just emerged, where the deed would have been shrouded from every human eye. Reassured224 by this reflection, and by the quiet demeanour of her guides, Emily, as they proceeded silently, in a kind of sheep track, that wound along the skirts of the woods, which ascended225 on the right, could not survey the sleeping beauty of the vale, to which they were declining, without a momentary226 sensation of pleasure. It seemed varied227 with woods, pastures, and sloping grounds, and was screened to the north and the east by an amphitheatre of the Apennines, whose outline on the horizon was here broken into varied and elegant forms; to the west and the south, the landscape extended indistinctly into the lowlands of Tuscany.
‘There is the sea yonder,’ said Bertrand, as if he had known that Emily was examining the twilight view, ‘yonder in the west, though we cannot see it.’
Emily already perceived a change in the climate, from that of the wild and mountainous tract52 she had left; and, as she continued descending228, the air became perfumed by the breath of a thousand nameless flowers among the grass, called forth by the late rain. So soothingly229 beautiful was the scene around her, and so strikingly contrasted to the gloomy grandeur230 of those, to which she had long been confined, and to the manners of the people, who moved among them, that she could almost have fancied herself again at La Vallee, and, wondering why Montoni had sent her hither, could scarcely believe, that he had selected so enchanting231 a spot for any cruel design. It was, however, probably not the spot, but the persons, who happened to inhabit it, and to whose care he could safely commit the execution of his plans, whatever they might be, that had determined his choice.
She now ventured again to enquire, whether they were near the place of their destination, and was answered by Ugo, that they had not far to go. ‘Only to the wood of chesnuts in the valley yonder,’ said he, ‘there, by the brook232, that sparkles with the moon; I wish I was once at rest there, with a flask of good wine, and a slice of Tuscany bacon.’
Emily’s spirits revived, when she heard, that the journey was so nearly concluded, and saw the wood of chesnuts in an open part of the vale, on the margin233 of the stream.
In a short time, they reached the entrance of the wood, and perceived, between the twinkling leaves, a light, streaming from a distant cottage window. They proceeded along the edge of the brook to where the trees, crowding over it, excluded the moon-beams, but a long line of light, from the cottage above, was seen on its dark tremulous surface. Bertrand now stepped on first, and Emily heard him knock, and call loudly at the door. As she reached it, the small upper casement, where the light appeared, was unclosed by a man, who, having enquired what they wanted, immediately descended57, let them into a neat rustic234 cot, and called up his wife to set refreshments236 before the travellers. As this man conversed237, rather apart, with Bertrand, Emily anxiously surveyed him. He was a tall, but not robust238, peasant, of a sallow complexion239, and had a shrewd and cunning eye; his countenance was not of a character to win the ready confidence of youth, and there was nothing in his manner, that might conciliate a stranger.
Ugo called impatiently for supper, and in a tone as if he knew his authority here to be unquestionable. ‘I expected you an hour ago,’ said the peasant, ‘for I have had Signor Montoni’s letter these three hours, and I and my wife had given you up, and gone to bed. How did you fare in the storm?’
‘Ill enough,’ replied Ugo, ‘ill enough and we are like to fare ill enough here, too, unless you will make more haste. Get us more wine, and let us see what you have to eat.’
The peasant placed before them all, that his cottage afforded — ham, wine, figs240, and grapes of such size and flavour, as Emily had seldom tasted.
After taking refreshment235, she was shewn by the peasant’s wife to her little bed-chamber, where she asked some questions concerning Montoni, to which the woman, whose name was Dorina, gave reserved answers, pretending ignorance of his excellenza’s intention in sending Emily hither, but acknowledging that her husband had been apprized of the circumstance. Perceiving, that she could obtain no intelligence concerning her destination, Emily dismissed Dorina, and retired241 to repose; but all the busy scenes of her past and the anticipated ones of the future came to her anxious mind, and conspired with the sense of her new situation to banish174 sleep.
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1
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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3
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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10
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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15
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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vexed
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| 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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flasks
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| n.瓶，长颈瓶， 烧瓶( flask的名词复数 ) | |
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18
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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19
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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20
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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21
jeeringly
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| adv.嘲弄地 | |
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22
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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23
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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24
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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25
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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26
slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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27
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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28
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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29
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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30
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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31
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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32
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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33
recollected
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| 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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34
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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35
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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36
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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37
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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38
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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39
conjured
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| 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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40
ransoms
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| 付赎金救人，赎金( ransom的名词复数 ) | |
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41
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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42
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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43
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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44
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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45
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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46
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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47
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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48
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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49
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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50
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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51
retracting
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的现在分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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52
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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53
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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54
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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56
condescended
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|
| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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57
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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58
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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59
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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60
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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61
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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62
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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63
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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64
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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65
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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66
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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67
underneath
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|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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68
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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69
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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70
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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71
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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72
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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73
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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74
formerly
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|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
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75
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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76
tumult
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|
| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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77
astonishment
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|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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78
superstition
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|
| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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79
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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80
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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81
hoofs
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|
| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
scampering
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|
| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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83
besieging
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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84
fervently
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|
| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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85
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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86
fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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87
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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88
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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89
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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91
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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92
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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93
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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94
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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96
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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97
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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98
pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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100
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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101
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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102
recesses
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| 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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103
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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104
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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105
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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107
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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108
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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109
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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110
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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111
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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112
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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113
usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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114
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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115
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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116
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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117
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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118
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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120
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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121
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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122
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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123
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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124
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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125
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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126
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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127
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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128
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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129
turrets
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| （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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130
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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131
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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132
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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133
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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134
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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135
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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136
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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137
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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138
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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139
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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140
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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141
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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142
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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143
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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144
conspired
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| 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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145
diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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146
reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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147
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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148
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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149
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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150
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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151
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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152
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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153
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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154
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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155
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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156
bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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157
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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158
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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159
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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160
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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162
dreaded
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| 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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163
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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164
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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165
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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166
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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168
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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169
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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170
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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171
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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172
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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173
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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175
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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176
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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177
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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178
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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179
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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180
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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181
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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182
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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183
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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184
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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185
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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186
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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187
agonizing
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| 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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188
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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189
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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190
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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191
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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193
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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194
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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195
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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196
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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197
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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198
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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199
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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200
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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201
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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202
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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203
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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204
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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205
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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206
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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207
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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208
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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209
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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210
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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211
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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212
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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214
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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215
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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216
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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217
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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218
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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219
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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220
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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221
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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222
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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223
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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224
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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225
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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226
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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227
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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228
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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229
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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230
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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231
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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232
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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233
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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234
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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235
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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236
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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237
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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238
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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239
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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240
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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241
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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