I play the torturer, by small and small,
To lengthen1 out the worst that must be spoken.
RICHARD II
We now return, for a moment, to Venice, where Count Morano was suffering under an accumulation of misfortunes. Soon after his arrival in that city, he had been arrested by order of the Senate, and, without knowing of what he was suspected, was conveyed to a place of confinement3, whither the most strenuous4 enquiries of his friends had been unable to trace him. Who the enemy was, that had occasioned him this calamity5, he had not been able to guess, unless, indeed, it was Montoni, on whom his suspicions rested, and not only with much apparent probability, but with justice.
In the affair of the poisoned cup, Montoni had suspected Morano; but, being unable to obtain the degree of proof, which was necessary to convict him of a guilty intention, he had recourse to means of other revenge, than he could hope to obtain by prosecution6. He employed a person, in whom he believed he might confide7, to drop a letter of accusation8 into the DENUNZIE SECRETE9, or lions’ mouths, which are fixed10 in a gallery of the Doge’s palace, as receptacles for anonymous11 information, concerning persons, who may be disaffected12 towards the state. As, on these occasions, the accuser is not confronted with the accused, a man may falsely impeach13 his enemy, and accomplish an unjust revenge, without fear of punishment, or detection. That Montoni should have recourse to these diabolical14 means of ruining a person, whom he suspected of having attempted his life, is not in the least surprising. In the letter, which he had employed as the instrument of his revenge, he accused Morano of designs against the state, which he attempted to prove, with all the plausible16 simplicity17 of which he was master; and the Senate, with whom a suspicion was, at that time, almost equal to a proof, arrested the Count, in consequence of this accusation; and, without even hinting to him his crime, threw him into one of those secret prisons, which were the terror of the Venetians, and in which persons often languished18, and sometimes died, without being discovered by their friends.
Morano had incurred19 the personal resentment20 of many members of the state; his habits of life had rendered him obnoxious21 to some; and his ambition, and the bold rivalship, which he discovered, on several public occasions,— to others; and it was not to be expected, that mercy would soften22 the rigour of a law, which was to be dispensed23 from the hands of his enemies.
Montoni, meantime, was beset24 by dangers of another kind. His castle was besieged25 by troops, who seemed willing to dare every thing, and to suffer patiently any hardships in pursuit of victory. The strength of the fortress26, however, withstood their attack, and this, with the vigorous defence of the garrison27 and the scarcity28 of provision on these wild mountains, soon compelled the assailants to raise the siege.
When Udolpho was once more left to the quiet possession of Montoni, he dispatched Ugo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had sent from considerations of her personal safety, to a place of greater security, than a castle, which was, at that time, liable to be overrun by his enemies. Tranquillity29 being once more restored to Udolpho, he was impatient to secure her again under his roof, and had commissioned Ugo to assist Bertrand in guarding her back to the castle. Thus compelled to return, Emily bade the kind Maddelina farewell, with regret, and, after about a fortnight’s stay in Tuscany, where she had experienced an interval30 of quiet, which was absolutely necessary to sustain her long-harassed32 spirits, began once more to ascend33 the Apennines, from whose heights she gave a long and sorrowful look to the beautiful country, that extended at their feet, and to the distant Mediterranean34, whose waves she had so often wished would bear her back to France. The distress35 she felt, on her return towards the place of her former sufferings, was, however, softened36 by a conjecture37, that Valancourt was there, and she found some degree of comfort in the thought of being near him, notwithstanding the consideration, that he was probably a prisoner.
It was noon, when she had left the cottage, and the evening was closed, long before she came within the neighbourhood of Udolpho. There was a moon, but it shone only at intervals39, for the night was cloudy, and, lighted by the torch, which Ugo carried, the travellers paced silently along, Emily musing40 on her situation, and Bertrand and Ugo anticipating the comforts of a flask41 of wine and a good fire, for they had perceived for some time the difference between the warm climate of the lowlands of Tuscany and the nipping air of these upper regions. Emily was, at length, roused from her reverie by the far- off sound of the castle clock, to which she listened not without some degree of awe42, as it rolled away on the breeze. Another and another note succeeded, and died in sullen43 murmur44 among the mountains:— to her mournful imagination it seemed a knell45 measuring out some fateful period for her.
‘Aye, there is the old clock,’ said Bertrand, ‘there he is still; the cannon46 have not silenced him!’
‘No,’ answered Ugo, ‘he crowed as loud as the best of them in the midst of it all. There he was roaring out in the hottest fire I have seen this many a day! I said that some of them would have a hit at the old fellow, but he escaped, and the tower too.’
The road winding47 round the base of a mountain, they now came within view of the castle, which was shewn in the perspective of the valley by a gleam of moon-shine, and then vanished in shade; while even a transient view of it had awakened48 the poignancy49 of Emily’s feelings. Its massy and gloomy walls gave her terrible ideas of imprisonment50 and suffering: yet, as she advanced, some degree of hope mingled51 with her terror; for, though this was certainly the residence of Montoni, it was possibly, also, that of Valancourt, and she could not approach a place, where he might be, without experiencing somewhat of the joy of hope.
They continued to wind along the valley, and, soon after, she saw again the old walls and moon-lit towers, rising over the woods: the strong rays enabled her, also, to perceive the ravages52, which the siege had made,— with the broken walls, and shattered battlements, for they were now at the foot of the steep, on which Udolpho stood. Massy fragments had rolled down among the woods, through which the travellers now began to ascend, and there mingled with the loose earth, and pieces of rock they had brought with them. The woods, too, had suffered much from the batteries above, for here the enemy had endeavoured to screen themselves from the fire of the ramparts. Many noble trees were levelled with the ground, and others, to a wide extent, were entirely53 stripped of their upper branches. ‘We had better dismount,’ said Ugo, ‘and lead the mules54 up the hill, or we shall get into some of the holes, which the balls have left. Here are plenty of them. Give me the torch,’ continued Ugo, after they had dismounted, ‘and take care you don’t stumble over any thing, that lies in your way, for the ground is not yet cleared of the enemy.’
‘How!’ exclaimed Emily, ‘are any of the enemy here, then?’
‘Nay, I don’t know for that, now,’ he replied, ‘but when I came away I saw one or two of them lying under the trees.’
As they proceeded, the torch threw a gloomy light upon the ground, and far among the recesses55 of the woods, and Emily feared to look forward, lest some object of horror should meet her eye. The path was often strewn with broken heads of arrows, and with shattered remains56 of armour57, such as at that period was mingled with the lighter58 dress of the soldiers. ‘Bring the light hither,’ said Bertrand, ‘I have stumbled over something, that rattles59 loud enough.’ Ugo holding up the torch, they perceived a steel breastplate on the ground, which Bertrand raised, and they saw, that it was pierced through, and that the lining60 was entirely covered with blood; but upon Emily’s earnest entreaties61, that they would proceed, Bertrand, uttering some joke upon the unfortunate person, to whom it had belonged, threw it hard upon the ground, and they passed on.
At every step she took, Emily feared to see some vestige62 of death. Coming soon after to an opening in the woods, Bertrand stopped to survey the ground, which was encumbered63 with massy trunks and branches of the trees, that had so lately adorned64 it, and seemed to have been a spot particularly fatal to the besiegers; for it was evident from the destruction of the trees, that here the hottest fire of the garrison had been directed. As Ugo held again forth65 the torch, steel glittered between the fallen trees; the ground beneath was covered with broken arms, and with the torn vestments of soldiers, whose mangled66 forms Emily almost expected to see; and she again entreated67 her companions to proceed, who were, however, too intent in their examination, to regard her, and she turned her eyes from this desolated68 scene to the castle above, where she observed lights gliding70 along the ramparts. Presently, the castle clock struck twelve, and then a trumpet71 sounded, of which Emily enquired73 the occasion.
‘O! they are only changing watch,’ replied Ugo. ‘I do not remember this trumpet,’ said Emily, ‘it is a new custom.’ ‘It is only an old one revived, lady; we always use it in time of war. We have sounded it, at midnight, ever since the place was besieged.’
‘Hark!’ said Emily, as the trumpet sounded again; and, in the next moment, she heard a faint clash of arms, and then the watchword passed along the terrace above, and was answered from a distant part of the castle; after which all was again still. She complained of cold, and begged to go on. ‘Presently, lady,’ said Bertrand, turning over some broken arms with the pike he usually carried. ‘What have we here?’
‘Hark!’ cried Emily, ‘what noise was that?’
‘What noise was it?’ said Ugo, starting up and listening.
‘Hush!’ repeated Emily. ‘It surely came from the ramparts above:’ and, on looking up, they perceived a light moving along the walls, while, in the next instant, the breeze swelling75, the voice sounded louder than before.
‘Who goes yonder?’ cried a sentinel of the castle. ‘Speak or it will be worse for you.’ Bertrand uttered a shout of joy. ‘Hah! my brave comrade, is it you?’ said he, and he blew a shrill76 whistle, which signal was answered by another from the soldier on watch; and the party, then passing forward, soon after emerged from the woods upon the broken road, that led immediately to the castle gates, and Emily saw, with renewed terror, the whole of that stupendous structure. ‘Alas!’ said she to herself, ‘I am going again into my prison!’
‘Here has been warm work, by St. Marco!’ cried Bertrand, waving a torch over the ground; ‘the balls have torn up the earth here with a vengeance78.’
‘Aye,’ replied Ugo, ‘they were fired from that redoubt, yonder, and rare execution they did. The enemy made a furious attack upon the great gates; but they might have guessed they could never carry it there; for, besides the cannon from the walls, our archers79, on the two round towers, showered down upon them at such a rate, that, by holy Peter! there was no standing38 it. I never saw a better sight in my life; I laughed, till my sides aked, to see how the knaves80 scampered81. Bertrand, my good fellow, thou shouldst have been among them; I warrant thou wouldst have won the race!’
‘Hah! you are at your old tricks again,’ said Bertrand in a surly tone. ‘It is well for thee thou art so near the castle; thou knowest I have killed my man before now.’ Ugo replied only by a laugh, and then gave some further account of the siege, to which as Emily listened, she was struck by the strong contrast of the present scene with that which had so lately been acted here.
The mingled uproar82 of cannon, drums, and trumpets83, the groans84 of the conquered, and the shouts of the conquerors85 were now sunk into a silence so profound, that it seemed as if death had triumphed alike over the vanquished86 and the victor. The shattered condition of one of the towers of the great gates by no means confirmed the VALIANT87 account just given by Ugo of the scampering88 party, who, it was evident, had not only made a stand, but had done much mischief89 before they took to flight; for this tower appeared, as far as Emily could judge by the dim moon-light that fell upon it, to be laid open, and the battlements were nearly demolished90. While she gazed, a light glimmered92 through one of the lower loop-holes, and disappeared; but, in the next moment, she perceived through the broken wall, a soldier, with a lamp, ascending93 the narrow staircase, that wound within the tower, and, remembering that it was the same she had passed up, on the night, when Barnardine had deluded94 her with a promise of seeing Madame Montoni, fancy gave her somewhat of the terror she had then suffered. She was now very near the gates, over which the soldier having opened the door of the portal-chamber96, the lamp he carried gave her a dusky view of that terrible apartment, and she almost sunk under the recollected98 horrors of the moment, when she had drawn99 aside the curtain, and discovered the object it was meant to conceal100.
‘Perhaps,’ said she to herself, ‘it is now used for a similar purpose; perhaps, that soldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch over the corpse101 of his friend!’ The little remains of her fortitude102 now gave way to the united force of remembered and anticipated horrors, for the melancholy103 fate of Madame Montoni appeared to foretell104 her own. She considered, that, though the Languedoc estates, if she relinquished105 them, would satisfy Montoni’s avarice106, they might not appease107 his vengeance, which was seldom pacified108 but by a terrible sacrifice; and she even thought, that, were she to resign them, the fear of justice might urge him either to detain her a prisoner, or to take away her life.
They were now arrived at the gates, where Bertrand, observing the light glimmer91 through a small casement109 of the portal-chamber, called aloud; and the soldier, looking out, demanded who was there. ‘Here, I have brought you a prisoner,’ said Ugo, ‘open the gate, and let us in.’
‘Tell me first who it is, that demands entrance,’ replied the soldier. ‘What! my old comrade,’ cried Ugo, ‘don’t you know me? not know Ugo? I have brought home a prisoner here, bound hand and foot — a fellow, who has been drinking Tuscany wine, while we here have been fighting.’
‘You will not rest till you meet with your match,’ said Bertrand sullenly110. ‘Hah! my comrade, is it you?’ said the soldier —‘I’ll be with you directly.’
Emily presently heard his steps descending111 the stairs within, and then the heavy chain fall, and the bolts undraw of a small postern door, which he opened to admit the party. He held the lamp low, to shew the step of the gate, and she found herself once more beneath the gloomy arch, and heard the door close, that seemed to shut her from the world for ever. In the next moment, she was in the first court of the castle, where she surveyed the spacious112 and solitary113 area, with a kind of calm despair; while the dead hour of the night, the gothic gloom of the surrounding buildings, and the hollow and imperfect echoes, which they returned, as Ugo and the soldier conversed114 together, assisted to increase the melancholy forebodings of her heart. Passing on to the second court, a distant sound broke feebly on the silence, and gradually swelling louder, as they advanced, Emily distinguished115 voices of revelry and laughter, but they were to her far other than sounds of joy. ‘Why, you have got some Tuscany wine among you, HERE,’ said Bertrand, ‘if one may judge by the uproar that is going forward. Ugo has taken a larger share of that than of fighting, I’ll be sworn. Who is carousing116 at this late hour?’
‘His excellenza and the Signors,’ replied the soldier: ‘it is a sign you are a stranger at the castle, or you would not need to ask the question. They are brave spirits, that do without sleep — they generally pass the night in good cheer; would that we, who keep the watch, had a little of it! It is cold work, pacing the ramparts so many hours of the night, if one has no good liquor to warm one’s heart.’
‘Courage, my lad, courage ought to warm your heart,’ said Ugo. ‘Courage!’ replied the soldier sharply, with a menacing air, which Ugo perceiving, prevented his saying more, by returning to the subject of the carousal117. ‘This is a new custom,’ said he; ‘when I left the castle, the Signors used to sit up counselling.’
‘Aye, and for that matter, carousing too,’ replied the soldier, ‘but, since the siege, they have done nothing but make merry: and if I was they, I would settle accounts with myself, for all my hard fighting, the same way.’
They had now crossed the second court, and reached the hall door, when the soldier, bidding them good night, hastened back to his post; and, while they waited for admittance, Emily considered how she might avoid seeing Montoni, and retire unnoticed to her former apartment, for she shrunk from the thought of encountering either him, or any of his party, at this hour. The uproar within the castle was now so loud, that, though Ugo knocked repeatedly at the hall door, he was not heard by any of the servants, a circumstance, which increased Emily’s alarm, while it allowed her time to deliberate on the means of retiring unobserved; for, though she might, perhaps, pass up the great stair-case unseen, it was impossible she could find the way to her chamber, without a light, the difficulty of procuring118 which, and the danger of wandering about the castle, without one, immediately struck her. Bertrand had only a torch, and she knew, that the servants never brought a taper119 to the door, for the hall was sufficiently120 lighted by the large tripod lamp, which hung in the vaulted121 roof; and, while she should wait till Annette could bring a taper, Montoni, or some of his companions, might discover her.
The door was now opened by Carlo; and Emily, having requested him to send Annette immediately with a light to the great gallery, where she determined122 to await her, passed on with hasty steps towards the stair-case; while Bertrand and Ugo, with the torch, followed old Carlo to the servants’ hall, impatient for supper and the warm blaze of a wood fire. Emily, lighted only by the feeble rays, which the lamp above threw between the arches of this extensive hall, endeavoured to find her way to the stair-case, now hid in obscurity; while the shouts of merriment, that burst from a remote apartment, served, by heightening her terror, to increase her perplexity, and she expected, every instant, to see the door of that room open, and Montoni and his companions issue forth. Having, at length, reached the stair-case, and found her way to the top, she seated herself on the last stair, to await the arrival of Annette; for the profound darkness of the gallery deterred123 her from proceeding124 farther, and, while she listened for her footstep, she heard only distant sounds of revelry, which rose in sullen echoes from among the arcades125 below. Once she thought she heard a low sound from the dark gallery behind her; and, turning her eyes, fancied she saw something luminous126 move in it; and, since she could not, at this moment, subdue127 the weakness that caused her fears, she quitted her seat, and crept softly down a few stairs lower.
Annette not yet appearing, Emily now concluded, that she was gone to bed, and that nobody chose to call her up; and the prospect128, that presented itself, of passing the night in darkness, in this place, or in some other equally forlorn (for she knew it would be impracticable to find her way through the intricacies of the galleries to her chamber), drew tears of mingled terror and despondency from her eyes.
While thus she sat, she fancied she heard again an odd sound from the gallery, and she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but the increasing voices below overcame every other sound. Soon after, she heard Montoni and his companions burst into the hall, who spoke2, as if they were much intoxicated129, and seemed to be advancing towards the stair-case. She now remembered, that they must come this way to their chambers130, and, forgetting all the terrors of the gallery, hurried towards it with an intention of secreting131 herself in some of the passages, that opened beyond, and of endeavouring, when the Signors were retired132, to find her way to her own room, or to that of Annette, which was in a remote part of the castle.
With extended arms, she crept along the gallery, still hearing the voices of persons below, who seemed to stop in conversation at the foot of the stair-case, and then pausing for a moment to listen, half fearful of going further into the darkness of the gallery, where she still imagined, from the noise she had heard, that some person was lurking133, ‘They are already informed of my arrival,’ said she, ‘and Montoni is coming himself to seek me! In the present state of his mind, his purpose must be desperate.’ Then, recollecting134 the scene, that had passed in the corridor, on the night preceding her departure from the castle, ‘O Valancourt!’ said she, ‘I must then resign you for ever. To brave any longer the injustice135 of Montoni, would not be fortitude, but rashness.’ Still the voices below did not draw nearer, but they became louder, and she distinguished those of Verezzi and Bertolini above the rest, while the few words she caught made her listen more anxiously for others. The conversation seemed to concern herself; and, having ventured to step a few paces nearer to the stair-case, she discovered, that they were disputing about her, each seeming to claim some former promise of Montoni, who appeared, at first, inclined to appease and to persuade them to return to their wine, but afterwards to be weary of the dispute, and, saying that he left them to settle it as they could, was returning with the rest of the party to the apartment he had just quitted. Verezzi then stopped him. ‘Where is she? Signor,’ said he, in a voice of impatience136: ‘tell us where she is.’ ‘I have already told you that I do not know,’ replied Montoni, who seemed to be somewhat overcome with wine; ‘but she is most probably gone to her apartment.’ Verezzi and Bertolini now desisted from their enquiries, and sprang to the stair-case together, while Emily, who, during this discourse137, had trembled so excessively, that she had with difficulty supported herself, seemed inspired with new strength, the moment she heard the sound of their steps, and ran along the gallery, dark as it was, with the fleetness of a fawn138. But, long before she reached its extremity139, the light, which Verezzi carried, flashed upon the walls; both appeared, and, instantly perceiving Emily, pursued her. At this moment, Bertolini, whose steps, though swift, were not steady, and whose impatience overcame what little caution he had hitherto used, stumbled, and fell at his length. The lamp fell with him, and was presently expiring on the floor; but Verezzi, regardless of saving it, seized the advantage this accident gave him over his rival, and followed Emily, to whom, however, the light had shown one of the passages that branched from the gallery, and she instantly turned into it. Verezzi could just discern the way she had taken, and this he pursued; but the sound of her steps soon sunk in distance, while he, less acquainted with the passage, was obliged to proceed through the dark, with caution, lest he should fall down a flight of steps, such as in this extensive old castle frequently terminated an avenue. This passage at length brought Emily to the corridor, into which her own chamber opened, and, not hearing any footstep, she paused to take breath, and consider what was the safest design to be adopted. She had followed this passage, merely because it was the first that appeared, and now that she had reached the end of it, was as perplexed140 as before. Whither to go, or how further to find her way in the dark, she knew not; she was aware only that she must not seek her apartment, for there she would certainly be sought, and her danger increased every instant, while she remained near it. Her spirits and her breath, however, were so much exhausted141, that she was compelled to rest, for a few minutes, at the end of the passage, and still she heard no steps approaching. As thus she stood, light glimmered under an opposite door of the gallery, and, from its situation, she knew, that it was the door of that mysterious chamber, where she had made a discovery so shocking, that she never remembered it but with the utmost horror. That there should be light in this chamber, and at this hour, excited her strong surprise, and she felt a momentary142 terror concerning it, which did not permit her to look again, for her spirits were now in such a state of weakness, that she almost expected to see the door slowly open, and some horrible object appear at it. Still she listened for a step along the passage, and looked up it, where, not a ray of light appearing, she concluded, that Verezzi had gone back for the lamp; and, believing that he would shortly be there, she again considered which way she should go, or rather which way she could find in the dark.
A faint ray still glimmered under the opposite door, but so great, and, perhaps, so just was her horror of that chamber, that she would not again have tempted15 its secrets, though she had been certain of obtaining the light so important to her safety. She was still breathing with difficulty, and resting at the end of the passage, when she heard a rustling143 sound, and then a low voice, so very near her, that it seemed close to her ear; but she had presence of mind to check her emotions, and to remain quite still; in the next moment, she perceived it to be the voice of Verezzi, who did not appear to know, that she was there, but to have spoken to himself. ‘The air is fresher here,’ said he: ‘this should be the corridor.’ Perhaps, he was one of those heroes, whose courage can defy an enemy better than darkness, and he tried to rally his spirits with the sound of his own voice. However this might be, he turned to the right, and proceeded, with the same stealing steps, towards Emily’s apartment, apparently144 forgetting, that, in darkness, she could easily elude95 his search, even in her chamber; and, like an intoxicated person, he followed pertinaciously145 the one idea, that had possessed146 his imagination.
The moment she heard his steps steal away, she left her station and moved softly to the other end of the corridor, determined to trust again to chance, and to quit it by the first avenue she could find; but, before she could effect this, light broke upon the walls of the gallery, and, looking back, she saw Verezzi crossing it towards her chamber. She now glided147 into a passage, that opened on the left, without, as she thought, being perceived; but, in the next instant, another light, glimmering148 at the further end of this passage, threw her into new terror. While she stopped and hesitated which way to go, the pause allowed her to perceive, that it was Annette, who advanced, and she hurried to meet her: but her imprudence again alarmed Emily, on perceiving whom, she burst into a scream of joy, and it was some minutes, before she could be prevailed with to be silent, or to release her mistress from the ardent150 clasp, in which she held her. When, at length, Emily made Annette comprehend her danger, they hurried towards Annette’s room, which was in a distant part of the castle. No apprehensions151, however, could yet silence the latter. ‘Oh dear ma’amselle,’ said she, as they passed along, ‘what a terrified time have I had of it! Oh! I thought I should have died an hundred times! I never thought I should live to see you again! and I never was so glad to see any body in my whole life, as I am to see you now.’ ‘Hark!’ cried Emily, ‘we are pursued; that was the echo of steps!’ ‘No, ma’amselle,’ said Annette, ‘it was only the echo of a door shutting; sound runs along these vaulted passages so, that one is continually deceived by it; if one does but speak, or cough, it makes a noise as loud as a cannon.’ ‘Then there is the greater necessity for us to be silent,’ said Emily: ‘pr’ythee say no more, till we reach your chamber.’ Here, at length, they arrived, without interruption, and, Annette having fastened the door, Emily sat down on her little bed, to recover breath and composure. To her enquiry, whether Valancourt was among the prisoners in the castle, Annette replied, that she had not been able to hear, but that she knew there were several persons confined. She then proceeded, in her tedious way, to give an account of the siege, or rather a detail of her terrors and various sufferings, during the attack. ‘But,’ added she, ‘when I heard the shouts of victory from the ramparts, I thought we were all taken, and gave myself up for lost, instead of which, WE had driven the enemy away. I went then to the north gallery, and saw a great many of them scampering away among the mountains; but the rampart walls were all in ruins, as one may say, and there was a dismal152 sight to see down among the woods below, where the poor fellows were lying in heaps, but were carried off presently by their comrades. While the siege was going on, the Signor was here, and there, and every where, at the same time, as Ludovico told me, for he would not let me see any thing hardly, and locked me up, as he has often done before, in a room in the middle of the castle, and used to bring me food, and come and talk with me as often as he could; and I must say, if it had not been for Ludovico, I should have died outright153.’
‘Well, Annette,’ said Emily, ‘and how have affairs gone on, since the siege?’
‘O! sad hurly burly doings, ma’amselle,’ replied Annette; ‘the Signors have done nothing but sit and drink and game, ever since. They sit up, all night, and play among themselves, for all those riches and fine things, they brought in, some time since, when they used to go out a-robbing, or as good, for days together; and then they have dreadful quarrels about who loses, and who wins. That fierce Signor Verezzi is always losing, as they tell me, and Signor Orsino wins from him, and this makes him very wroth, and they have had several hard set-to’s about it. Then, all those fine ladies are at the castle still; and I declare I am frighted, whenever I meet any of them in the passages.’—
‘Surely, Annette,’ said Emily starting, ‘I heard a noise: listen.’ After a long pause, ‘No, ma’amselle,’ said Annette, ‘it was only the wind in the gallery; I often hear it, when it shakes the old doors, at the other end. But won’t you go to bed, ma’amselle? you surely will not sit up starving, all night.’ Emily now laid herself down on the mattress154, and desired Annette to leave the lamp burning on the hearth155; having done which, the latter placed herself beside Emily, who, however, was not suffered to sleep, for she again thought she heard a noise from the passage; and Annette was again trying to convince her, that it was only the wind, when footsteps were distinctly heard near the door. Annette was now starting from the bed, but Emily prevailed with her to remain there, and listened with her in a state of terrible expectation. The steps still loitered at the door, when presently an attempt was made on the lock, and, in the next instant, a voice called. ‘For heaven’s sake, Annette, do not answer,’ said Emily softly, ‘remain quite still; but I fear we must extinguish the lamp, or its glare will betray us.’ ‘Holy Virgin156!’ exclaimed Annette, forgetting her discretion157, ‘I would not be in darkness now for the whole world.’ While she spoke, the voice became louder than before, and repeated Annette’s name; ‘Blessed Virgin!’ cried she suddenly, ‘it is only Ludovico.’ She rose to open the door, but Emily prevented her, till they should be more certain, that it was he alone; with whom Annette, at length, talked for some time, and learned, that he was come to enquire72 after herself, whom he had let out of her room to go to Emily, and that he was now returned to lock her in again. Emily, fearful of being overheard, if they conversed any longer through the door, consented that it should be opened, and a young man appeared, whose open countenance158 confirmed the favourable159 opinion of him, which his care of Annette had already prompted her to form. She entreated his protection, should Verezzi make this requisite160; and Ludovico offered to pass the night in an old chamber, adjoining, that opened from the gallery, and, on the first alarm, to come to their defence.
Emily was much soothed161 by this proposal; and Ludovico, having lighted his lamp, went to his station, while she, once more, endeavoured to repose162 on her mattress. But a variety of interests pressed upon her attention, and prevented sleep. She thought much on what Annette had told her of the dissolute manners of Montoni and his associates, and more of his present conduct towards herself, and of the danger, from which she had just escaped. From the view of her present situation she shrunk, as from a new picture of terror. She saw herself in a castle, inhabited by vice163 and violence, seated beyond the reach of law or justice, and in the power of a man, whose perseverance164 was equal to every occasion, and in whom passions, of which revenge was not the weakest, entirely supplied the place of principles. She was compelled, once more, to acknowledge, that it would be folly165, and not fortitude, any longer to dare his power; and, resigning all hopes of future happiness with Valancourt, she determined, that, on the following morning, she would compromise with Montoni, and give up her estates, on condition, that he would permit her immediate77 return to France. Such considerations kept her waking for many hours; but, the night passed, without further alarm from Verezzi.
On the next morning, Emily had a long conversation with Ludovico, in which she heard circumstances concerning the castle, and received hints of the designs of Montoni, that considerably166 increased her alarms. On expressing her surprise, that Ludovico, who seemed to be so sensible of the evils of his situation, should continue in it, he informed her, that it was not his intention to do so, and she then ventured to ask him, if he would assist her to escape from the castle. Ludovico assured her of his readiness to attempt this, but strongly represented the difficulty of the enterprise, and the certain destruction which must ensure, should Montoni overtake them, before they had passed the mountains; he, however, promised to be watchful167 of every circumstance, that might contribute to the success of the attempt, and to think upon some plan of departure.
Emily now confided168 to him the name of Valancourt, and begged he would enquire for such a person among the prisoners in the castle; for the faint hope, which this conversation awakened, made her now recede169 from her resolution of an immediate compromise with Montoni. She determined, if possible, to delay this, till she heard further from Ludovico, and, if his designs were found to be impracticable, to resign the estates at once. Her thoughts were on this subject, when Montoni, who was now recovered from the intoxication170 of the preceding night, sent for her, and she immediately obeyed the summons. He was alone. ‘I find,’ said he, ‘that you were not in your chamber, last night; where were you?’ Emily related to him some circumstances of her alarm, and entreated his protection from a repetition of them. ‘You know the terms of my protection,’ said he; ‘if you really value this, you will secure it.’ His open declaration, that he would only conditionally171 protect her, while she remained a prisoner in the castle, shewed Emily the necessity of an immediate compliance172 with his terms; but she first demanded, whether he would permit her immediately to depart, if she gave up her claim to the contested estates. In a very solemn manner he then assured her, that he would, and immediately laid before her a paper, which was to transfer the right of those estates to himself.
She was, for a considerable time, unable to sign it, and her heart was torn with contending interests, for she was about to resign the happiness of all her future years — the hope, which had sustained her in so many hours of adversity.
After hearing from Montoni a recapitulation of the conditions of her compliance, and a remonstrance173, that his time was valuable, she put her hand to the paper; when she had done which, she fell back in her chair, but soon recovered, and desired, that he would give orders for her departure, and that he would allow Annette to accompany her. Montoni smiled. ‘It was necessary to deceive you,’ said he,—‘there was no other way of making you act reasonably; you shall go, but it must not be at present. I must first secure these estates by possession: when that is done, you may return to France if you will.’
The deliberate villany, with which he violated the solemn engagement he had just entered into, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty, that she had made a fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his prisoner. She had no words to express what she felt, and knew, that it would have been useless, if she had. As she looked piteously at Montoni, he turned away, and at the same time desired she would withdraw to her apartment; but, unable to leave the room, she sat down in a chair near the door, and sighed heavily. She had neither words nor tears.
‘Why will you indulge this childish grief?’ said he. ‘Endeavour to strengthen your mind, to bear patiently what cannot now be avoided; you have no real evil to lament174; be patient, and you will be sent back to France. At present retire to your apartment.’
‘I dare not go, sir,’ said she, ‘where I shall be liable to the intrusion of Signor Verezzi.’ ‘Have I not promised to protect you?’ said Montoni. ‘You have promised, sir,’— replied Emily, after some hesitation175. ‘And is not my promise sufficient?’ added he sternly. ‘You will recollect97 your former promise, Signor,’ said Emily, trembling, ‘and may determine for me, whether I ought to rely upon this.’ ‘Will you provoke me to declare to you, that I will not protect you then?’ said Montoni, in a tone of haughty176 displeasure. ‘If that will satisfy you, I will do it immediately. Withdraw to your chamber, before I retract177 my promise; you have nothing to fear there.’ Emily left the room, and moved slowly into the hall, where the fear of meeting Verezzi, or Bertolini, made her quicken her steps, though she could scarcely support herself; and soon after she reached once more her own apartment. Having looked fearfully round her, to examine if any person was there, and having searched every part of it, she fastened the door, and sat down by one of the casements178. Here, while she looked out for some hope to support her fainting spirits, which had been so long harassed and oppressed, that, if she had not now struggled much against misfortune, they would have left her, perhaps, for ever, she endeavoured to believe, that Montoni did really intend to permit her return to France as soon as he had secured her property, and that he would, in the mean time, protect her from insult; but her chief hope rested with Ludovico, who, she doubted not, would be zealous179 in her cause, though he seemed almost to despair of success in it. One circumstance, however, she had to rejoice in. Her prudence149, or rather her fears, had saved her from mentioning the name of Valancourt to Montoni, which she was several times on the point of doing, before she signed the paper, and of stipulating180 for his release, if he should be really a prisoner in the castle. Had she done this, Montoni’s jealous fears would now probably have loaded Valancourt with new severities, and have suggested the advantage of holding him a captive for life.
Thus passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in this same chamber. When night drew on, she would have withdrawn181 herself to Annette’s bed, had not a particular interest inclined her to remain in this chamber, in spite of her fears; for, when the castle should be still, and the customary hour arrived, she determined to watch for the music, which she had formerly182 heard. Though its sounds might not enable her positively183 to determine, whether Valancourt was there, they would perhaps strengthen her opinion that he was, and impart the comfort, so necessary to her present support.— But, on the other hand, if all should be silent —! She hardly dared to suffer her thoughts to glance that way, but waited, with impatient expectation, the approaching hour.
The night was stormy; the battlements of the castle appeared to rock in the wind, and, at intervals, long groans seemed to pass on the air, such as those, which often deceive the melancholy mind, in tempests, and amidst scenes of desolation. Emily heard, as formerly, the sentinels pass along the terrace to their posts, and, looking out from her casement, observed, that the watch was doubled; a precaution, which appeared necessary enough, when she threw her eyes on the walls, and saw their shattered condition. The well-known sounds of the soldiers’ march, and of their distant voices, which passed her in the wind, and were lost again, recalled to her memory the melancholy sensation she had suffered, when she formerly heard the same sounds; and occasioned almost involuntary comparisons between her present, and her late situation. But this was no subject for congratulations, and she wisely checked the course of her thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet come, in which she had been accustomed to hear the music, she closed the casement, and endeavoured to await it in patience. The door of the stair-case she tried to secure, as usual, with some of the furniture of the room; but this expedient184 her fears now represented to her to be very inadequate185 to the power and perseverance of Verezzi; and she often looked at a large and heavy chest, that stood in the chamber, with wishes that she and Annette had strength enough to move it. While she blamed the long stay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico and some other of the servants, she trimmed her wood fire, to make the room appear less desolate69, and sat down beside it with a book, which her eyes perused186, while her thoughts wandered to Valancourt, and her own misfortunes. As she sat thus, she thought, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished music, and went to the casement to listen, but the loud swell74 of the gust187 overcame every other sound. When the wind sunk again, she heard distinctly, in the deep pause that succeeded, the sweet strings188 of a lute31; but again the rising tempest bore away the notes, and again was succeeded by a solemn pause. Emily, trembling with hope and fear, opened her casement to listen, and to try whether her own voice could be heard by the musician; for to endure any longer this state of torturing suspense189 concerning Valancourt, seemed to be utterly190 impossible. There was a kind of breathless stillness in the chambers, that permitted her to distinguish from below the tender notes of the very lute she had formerly heard, and with it, a plaintive191 voice, made sweeter by the low rustling sound, that now began to creep along the wood-tops, till it was lost in the rising wind. Their tall heads then began to wave, while, through a forest of pine, on the left, the wind, groaning192 heavily, rolled onward193 over the woods below, bending them almost to their roots; and, as the long-resounding gale194 swept away, other woods, on the right, seemed to answer the ‘loud lament;’ then, others, further still, softened it into a murmur, that died into silence. Emily listened, with mingled awe and expectation, hope and fear; and again the melting sweetness of the lute was heard, and the same solemn-breathing voice. Convinced that these came from an apartment underneath195, she leaned far out of her window, that she might discover whether any light was there; but the casements below, as well as those above, were sunk so deep in the thick walls of the castle, that she could not see them, or even the faint ray, that probably glimmered through their bars. She then ventured to call; but the wind bore her voice to the other end of the terrace, and then the music was heard as before, in the pause of the gust. Suddenly, she thought she heard a noise in her chamber, and she drew herself within the casement; but, in a moment after, distinguishing Annette’s voice at the door, she concluded it was her she had heard before, and she let her in. ‘Move softly, Annette, to the casement,’ said she, ‘and listen with me; the music is returned.’ They were silent till, the measure changing, Annette exclaimed, ‘Holy Virgin! I know that song well; it is a French song, one of the favourite songs of my dear country.’ This was the ballad196 Emily had heard on a former night, though not the one she had first listened to from the fishing-house in Gascony. ‘O! it is a Frenchman, that sings,’ said Annette: ‘it must be Monsieur Valancourt.’ ‘Hark! Annette, do not speak so loud,’ said Emily, ‘we may be overheard.’ ‘What! by the Chevalier?’ said Annette. ‘No,’ replied Emily mournfully, ‘but by somebody, who may report us to the Signor. What reason have you to think it is Monsieur Valancourt, who sings? But hark! now the voice swells197 louder! Do you recollect those tones? I fear to trust my own judgment198.’ ‘I never happened to hear the Chevalier sing, Mademoiselle,’ replied Annette, who, as Emily was disappointed to perceive, had no stronger reason for concluding this to be Valancourt, than that the musician must be a Frenchman. Soon after, she heard the song of the fishing-house, and distinguished her own name, which was repeated so distinctly, that Annette had heard it also. She trembled, sunk into a chair by the window, and Annette called aloud, ‘Monsieur Valancourt! Monsieur Valancourt!’ while Emily endeavoured to check her, but she repeated the call more loudly than before, and the lute and the voice suddenly stopped. Emily listened, for some time, in a state of intolerable suspense; but, no answer being returned, ‘It does not signify, Mademoiselle,’ said Annette; ‘it is the Chevalier, and I will speak to him.’ ‘No, Annette,’ said Emily, ‘I think I will speak myself; if it is he, he will know my voice, and speak again.’ ‘Who is it,’ said she, ‘that sings at this late hour?’
A long silence ensued, and, having repeated the question, she perceived some faint accents, mingling199 in the blast, that swept by; but the sounds were so distant, and passed so suddenly, that she could scarcely hear them, much less distinguish the words they uttered, or recognise the voice. After another pause, Emily called again; and again they heard a voice, but as faintly as before; and they perceived, that there were other circumstances, besides the strength, and direction of the wind, to content with; for the great depth, at which the casements were fixed in the castle walls, contributed, still more than the distance, to prevent articulated sounds from being understood, though general ones were easily heard. Emily, however, ventured to believe, from the circumstance of her voice alone having been answered, that the stranger was Valancourt, as well as that he knew her, and she gave herself up to speechless joy. Annette, however, was not speechless.— She renewed her calls, but received no answer; and Emily, fearing, that a further attempt, which certainly was, as present, highly dangerous, might expose them to the guards of the castle, while it could not perhaps terminate her suspense, insisted on Annette’s dropping the enquiry for this night; though she determined herself to question Ludovico, on the subject, in the morning, more urgently than she had yet done. She was now enabled to say, that the stranger, whom she had formerly heard, was still in the castle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it, in which he was confined.
Emily, attended by Annette, continued at the casement, for some time, but all remained still; they heard neither lute or voice again, and Emily was now as much oppressed by anxious joy, as she lately was by a sense of her misfortunes. With hasty steps she paced the room, now half calling on Valancourt’s name, then suddenly stopping, and now going to the casement and listening, where, however, she heard nothing but the solemn waving of the woods. Sometimes her impatience to speak to Ludovico prompted her to send Annette to call him; but a sense of the impropriety of this at midnight restrained her. Annette, meanwhile, as impatient as her mistress, went as often to the casement to listen, and returned almost as much disappointed. She, at length, mentioned Signor Verezzi, and her fear, lest he should enter the chamber by the staircase, door. ‘But the night is now almost past, Mademoiselle,’ said she, recollecting herself; ‘there is the morning light, beginning to peep over those mountains yonder in the east.’
Emily had forgotten, till this moment, that such a person existed as Verezzi, and all the danger that had appeared to threaten her; but the mention of his name renewed her alarm, and she remembered the old chest, that she had wished to place against the door, which she now, with Annette, attempted to move, but it was so heavy, that they could not lift it from the floor. ‘What is in this great old chest, Mademoiselle,’ said Annette, ‘that makes it so weighty?’ Emily having replied, ‘that she found it in the chamber, when she first came to the castle, and had never examined it.’—‘Then I will, ma’amselle,’ said Annette, and she tried to lift the lid; but this was held by a lock, for which she had no key, and which, indeed, appeared, from its peculiar200 construction, to open with a spring. The morning now glimmered through the casements, and the wind had sunk into a calm. Emily looked out upon the dusky woods, and on the twilight201 mountains, just stealing in the eye, and saw the whole scene, after the storm, lying in profound stillness, the woods motionless, and the clouds above, through which the dawn trembled, scarcely appearing to move along the heavens. One soldier was pacing the terrace beneath, with measured steps; and two, more distant, were sunk asleep on the walls, wearied with the night’s watch. Having inhaled202, for a while, the pure spirit of the air, and of vegetation, which the late rains had called forth; and having listened, once more, for a note of music, she now closed the casement, and retired to rest.
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1
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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2
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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3
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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7
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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secrete
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| vt.分泌；隐匿，使隐秘 | |
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10
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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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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disaffected
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| adj.（政治上）不满的，叛离的 | |
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impeach
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| v.弹劾；检举 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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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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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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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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40
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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41
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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42
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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48
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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50
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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51
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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52
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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53
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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54
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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55
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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56
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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57
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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58
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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59
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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60
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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61
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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62
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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63
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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65
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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66
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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67
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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69
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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70
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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71
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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72
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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73
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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74
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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75
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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76
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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77
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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78
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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79
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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80
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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81
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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83
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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84
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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85
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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86
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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87
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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88
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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89
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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90
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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91
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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92
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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94
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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96
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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97
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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98
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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99
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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100
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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101
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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102
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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103
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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104
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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105
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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106
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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107
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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108
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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109
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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110
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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111
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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112
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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113
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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114
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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115
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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116
carousing
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的现在分词 ) | |
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117
carousal
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| n.喧闹的酒会 | |
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118
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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119
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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120
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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121
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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122
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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123
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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125
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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126
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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127
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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128
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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129
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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130
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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131
secreting
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的现在分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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132
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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133
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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134
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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135
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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136
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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137
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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138
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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139
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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140
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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141
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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142
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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143
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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144
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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145
pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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146
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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147
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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148
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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149
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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150
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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151
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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152
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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153
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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154
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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155
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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156
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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157
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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158
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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159
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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160
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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161
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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162
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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163
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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164
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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165
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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166
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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167
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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168
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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169
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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170
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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171
conditionally
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| adv. 有条件地 | |
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172
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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173
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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174
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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175
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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176
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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177
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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178
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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179
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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stipulating
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| v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的现在分词 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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181
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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182
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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183
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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184
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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185
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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186
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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187
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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188
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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189
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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190
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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191
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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192
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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193
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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194
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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195
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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196
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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197
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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198
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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199
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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200
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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201
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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202
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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