For many a long month lost in snow profound,
When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland2,
And in their northern cave the storms hath bound;
From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,
Torrents3 are hurl’d, green hills emerge, and lo,
The trees with foliage4, cliffs with flow’rs are crown’d;
Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;
And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant’s heart o’erflow.
BEATTIE
Several of her succeeding days passed in suspense5, for Ludovico could only learn from the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in the apartment, described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman, whom they had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a party of his countrymen. During this interval6, Emily escaped the persecutions of Bertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her apartment; except that sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoining corridor. Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he had prophaned his first; for to his protection only could she attribute her present repose7; and in this she was now so secure, that she did not wish to leave the castle, till she could obtain some certainty concerning Valancourt; for which she waited, indeed, without any sacrifice of her own comfort, since no circumstance had occurred to make her escape probable.
On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of being admitted to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a soldier, with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend him on the following night. He was not deceived in his hope; for, under pretence8 of carrying in a pitcher9 of water, he entered the prison, though, his prudence10 having prevented him from telling the sentinel the real motive11 of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference with the prisoner a very short one.
Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promised to accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, after several hours impatiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having then uttered the name of Valancourt, could articulate no more, but hesitated in trembling expectation. ‘The Chevalier would not entrust12 me with his name, Signora,’ replied Ludovico; ‘but, when I just mentioned yours, he seemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so much surprised as I expected.’ ‘Does he then remember me?’ she exclaimed.
‘O! it is Mons. Valancourt,’ said Annette, and looked impatiently at Ludovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily: ‘Yes, lady, the Chevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very great regard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him. He then enquired13 how you came to know he was in the castle, and whether you ordered me to speak to him. The first question I could not answer, but the second I did; and then he went off into his ecstasies14 again. I was afraid his joy would have betrayed him to the sentinel at the door.’
‘But how does he look, Ludovico?’ interrupted Emily: ‘is he not melancholy15 and ill with this long confinement16?’—‘Why, as to melancholy, I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for he seemed in the finest spirits I ever saw any body in, in all my life. His countenance17 was all joy, and, if one may judge from that, he was very well; but I did not ask him.’ ‘Did he send me no message?’ said Emily. ‘O yes, Signora, and something besides,’ replied Ludovico, who searched his pockets. ‘Surely, I have not lost it,’ added he. ‘The Chevalier said, he would have written, madam, if he had had pen and ink, and was going to have sent a very long message, when the sentinel entered the room, but not before he had give me this.’ Ludovico then drew forth18 a miniature from his bosom19, which Emily received with a trembling hand, and perceived to be a portrait of herself — the very picture, which her mother had lost so strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallee.
Tears of mingled20 joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico proceeded —’“Tell your lady,” said the Chevalier, as he gave me the picture, “that this has been my companion, and only solace21 in all my misfortunes. Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and that I sent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never die; that I would not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that I now part with it, only in the hope of soon receiving it from her hands. Tell her”— Just then, Signora, the sentinel came in, and the Chevalier said no more; but he had before asked me to contrive22 an interview for him with you; and when I told him, how little hope I had of prevailing23 with the guard to assist me, he said, that was not, perhaps, of so much consequence as I imagined, and bade me contrive to bring back your answer, and he would inform me of more than he chose to do then. So this, I think, lady, is the whole of what passed.’
‘How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal24?’ said Emily: ‘but, indeed, I do not now possess the means. When can you see the Chevalier again?’ ‘That is uncertain, Signora,’ replied he. ‘It depends upon who stands guard next: there are not more than one or two among them, from whom I would dare to ask admittance to the prison-chamber25.’
‘I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,’ resumed Emily, ‘how very much interested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you do so, tell him, that I have received the picture, and, with the sentiments he wished. Tell him I have suffered much, and still suffer —’ She paused. ‘But shall I tell him you will see him, lady?’ said Ludovico. ‘Most certainly I will,’ replied Emily. ‘But when, Signora, and where?’ ‘That must depend upon circumstances,’ returned Emily. ‘The place, and the hour, must be regulated by his opportunities.’
‘As to the place, mademoiselle,’ said Annette, ‘there is no other place in the castle, besides this corridor, where WE can see him in safety, you know; and, as for the hour,— it must be when all the Signors are asleep, if that ever happens!’ ‘You may mention these circumstances to the Chevalier, Ludovico,’ said she, checking the flippancy26 of Annette, ‘and leave them to his judgment27 and opportunity. Tell him, my heart is unchanged. But, above all, let him see you again as soon as possible; and, Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I shall very anxiously look for you.’ Having then wished her good night, Ludovico descended28 the staircase, and Emily retired30 to rest, but not to sleep, for joy now rendered her as wakeful, as she had ever been from grief. Montoni and his castle had all vanished from her mind, like the frightful31 vision of a necromancer32, and she wandered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfading happiness:
As when, beneath the beam
Of summer moons, the distant woods among,
Or by some flood, all silver’d with the gleam,
The soft embodied33 Fays thro’ airy portals stream.
A week elapsed, before Ludovico again visited the prison; for the sentinels, during that period, were men, in whom he could not confide34, and he feared to awaken35 curiosity, by asking to see their prisoner. In this interval, he communicated to Emily terrific reports of what was passing in the castle; of riots, quarrels, and of carousals more alarming than either; while from some circumstances, which he mentioned, she not only doubted, whether Montoni meant ever to release her, but greatly feared, that he had designs, concerning her,— such as she had formerly36 dreaded37. Her name was frequently mentioned in the conversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held together, and, at those times, they were frequently in contention39. Montoni had lost large sums to Verezzi, so that there was a dreadful possibility of his designing her to be a substitute for the debt; but, as she was ignorant, that he had formerly encouraged the hopes of Bertolini also, concerning herself, after the latter had done him some signal service, she knew not how to account for these contentions41 between Bertolini and Verezzi. The cause of them, however, appeared to be of little consequence, for she thought she saw destruction approaching in many forms, and her entreaties42 to Ludovico to contrive an escape and to see the prisoner again, were more urgent than ever.
At length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier, who had directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom he had already received some instances of kindness, and who had promised to permit his going into the castle for half an hour, on the ensuing night, when Montoni and his companions should be engaged at their carousals. ‘This was kind, to be sure,’ added Ludovico: ‘but Sebastian knows he runs no risque in letting the Chevalier out, for, if he can get beyond the bars and iron doors of the castle, he must be cunning indeed. But the Chevalier desired me, Signora, to go to you immediately, and to beg you would allow him to visit you, this night, if it was only for a moment, for that he could no longer live under the same roof, without seeing you; the hour, he said, he could not mention, for it must depend on circumstances (just as you said, Signora); and the place he desired you would appoint, as knowing which was best for your own safety.’
Emily was now so much agitated43 by the near prospect44 of meeting Valancourt, that it was some time, before she could give any answer to Ludovico, or consider of the place of meeting; when she did, she saw none, that promised so much security, as the corridor, near her own apartment, which she was checked from leaving, by the apprehension45 of meeting any of Montoni’s guests, on their way to their rooms; and she dismissed the scruples46, which delicacy47 opposed, now that a serious danger was to be avoided by encountering them. It was settled, therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the corridor, at that hour of the night, which Ludovico, who was to be upon the watch, should judge safest: and Emily, as may be imagined, passed this interval in a tumult48 of hope and joy, anxiety and impatience49. Never, since her residence in the castle, had she watched, with so much pleasure, the sun set behind the mountains, and twilight50 shade, and darkness veil the scene, as on this evening. She counted the notes of the great clock, and listened to the steps of the sentinels, as they changed the watch, only to rejoice, that another hour was gone. ‘O, Valancourt!’ said she, ‘after all I have suffered; after our long, long separation, when I thought I should never — never see you more — we are still to meet again! O! I have endured grief, and anxiety, and terror, and let me, then, not sink beneath this joy!’ These were moments, when it was impossible for her to feel emotions of regret, or melancholy, for any ordinary interests;— even the reflection, that she had resigned the estates, which would have been a provision for herself and Valancourt for life, threw only a light and transient shade upon her spirits. The idea of Valancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone occupied her heart.
At length the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, if any noise was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot and laughter, echoed feebly along the gallery. She guessed, that the Signor and his guests were at the banquet. ‘They are now engaged for the night,’ said she; ‘and Valancourt will soon be here.’ Having softly closed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps, and often went to the casement51 to listen for the lute52; but all was silent, and, her agitation53 every moment increasing, she was at length unable to support herself, and sat down by the window. Annette, whom she detained, was, in the meantime, as loquacious54 as usual; but Emily heard scarcely any thing she said, and having at length risen to the casement, she distinguished55 the chords of the lute, struck with an expressive56 hand, and then the voice, she had formerly listened to, accompanied it.
Now rising love they fann’d, now pleasing dole57
They breath’d in tender musings through the heart;
And now a graver, sacred strain they stole,
As when seraphic hands an hymn59 impart!
Emily wept in doubtful joy and tenderness; and, when the strain ceased, she considered it as a signal, that Valancourt was about to leave the prison. Soon after, she heard steps in the corridor;— they were the light, quick steps of hope; she could scarcely support herself, as they approached, but opening the door of the apartment, she advanced to meet Valancourt, and, in the next moment, sunk in the arms of a stranger. His voice — his countenance instantly convinced her, and she fainted away.
On reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who was watching over her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable60 tenderness and anxiety. She had no spirits for reply, or enquiry; she asked no questions, but burst into tears, and disengaged herself from his arms; when the expression of his countenance changed to surprise and disappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an explanation; Annette soon gave the information, which Ludovico could not. ‘O, sir!’ said she, in a voice, interrupted with sobs61; ‘O, sir! you are not the other Chevalier. We expected Monsieur Valancourt, but you are not he! O Ludovico! how could you deceive us so? my poor lady will never recover it — never!’ The stranger, who now appeared much agitated, attempted to speak, but his words faltered62; and then striking his hand against his forehead, as if in sudden despair, he walked abruptly63 to the other end of the corridor.
Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoke64 to Ludovico. ‘But, perhaps,’ said she, ‘after all, the other Chevalier is not this: perhaps the Chevalier Valancourt is still below.’ Emily raised her head. ‘No,’ replied Ludovico, ‘Monsieur Valancourt never was below, if this gentleman is not he.’ ‘If you, sir,’ said Ludovico, addressing the stranger, ‘would but have had the goodness to trust me with your name, this mistake had been avoided.’ ‘Most true,’ replied the stranger, speaking in broken Italian, ‘but it was of the utmost consequence to me, that my name should be concealed66 from Montoni. Madam,’ added he then, addressing Emily in French, ‘will you permit me to apologize for the pain I have occasioned you, and to explain to you alone my name, and the circumstance, which has led me into this error? I am of France;— I am your countryman;— we are met in a foreign land.’ Emily tried to compose her spirits; yet she hesitated to grant his request. At length, desiring, that Ludovico would wait on the stair-case, and detaining Annette, she told the stranger, that her woman understood very little Italian, and begged he would communicate what he wished to say, in that language.— Having withdrawn67 to a distant part of the corridor, he said, with a long- drawn68 sigh, ‘You, madam, are no stranger to me, though I am so unhappy as to be unknown to you.— My name is Du Pont; I am of France, of Gascony, your native province, and have long admired,— and, why should I affect to disguise it?— have long loved you.’ He paused, but, in the next moment, proceeded. ‘My family, madam, is probably not unknown to you, for we lived within a few miles of La Vallee, and I have, sometimes, had the happiness of meeting you, on visits in the neighbourhood. I will not offend you by repeating how much you interested me; how much I loved to wander in the scenes you frequented; how often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and lamented70 the circumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal my passion. I will not explain how I surrendered to temptation, and became possessed71 of a treasure, which was to me inestimable; a treasure, which I committed to your messenger, a few days ago, with expectations very different from my present ones. I will say nothing of these circumstances, for I know they will avail me little; let me only supplicate72 from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so unwarily returned. Your generosity73 will pardon the theft, and restore the prize. My crime has been my punishment; for the portrait I stole has contributed to nourish a passion, which must still be my torment74.’
Emily now interrupted him. ‘I think, sir, I may leave it to your integrity to determine, whether, after what has just appeared, concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to return the picture. I think you will acknowledge, that this would not be generosity; and you will allow me to add, that it would be doing myself an injustice75. I must consider myself honoured by your good opinion, but’— and she hesitated,—‘the mistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me to say more.’
‘It does, madam,— alas76! it does!’ said the stranger, who, after a long pause, proceeded.—‘But you will allow me to shew my disinterestedness77, though not my love, and will accept the services I offer. Yet, alas! what services can I offer? I am myself a prisoner, a sufferer, like you. But, dear as liberty is to me, I would not seek it through half the hazards I would encounter to deliver you from this recess78 of vice40. Accept the offered services of a friend; do not refuse me the reward of having, at least, attempted to deserve your thanks.’
‘You deserve them already, sir,’ said Emily; ‘the wish deserves my warmest thanks. But you will excuse me for reminding you of the danger you incur79 by prolonging this interview. It will be a great consolation80 to me to remember, whether your friendly attempts to release me succeed or not, that I have a countryman, who would so generously protect me.’— Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she but feebly attempted to withdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his lips. ‘Allow me to breathe another fervent81 sigh for your happiness,’ said he, ‘and to applaud myself for an affection, which I cannot conquer.’ As he said this, Emily heard a noise from her apartment, and, turning round, saw the door from the stair-case open, and a man rush into her chamber. ‘I will teach you to conquer it,’ cried he, as he advanced into the corridor, and drew a stiletto, which he aimed at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but who, stepping back, avoided the blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi, from whom he wrenched82 the stiletto. While they struggled in each other’s grasp, Emily, followed by Annette, ran further into the corridor, calling on Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the stair-case, and, as she advanced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a distant noise, that seemed to arise from the hall, reminded her of the danger she was incurring83; and, sending Annette forward in search of Ludovico, she returned to the spot where Du Pont and Verezzi were still struggling for victory. It was her own cause which was to be decided84 with that of the former, whose conduct, independently of this circumstance, would, however, have interested her in his success, even had she not disliked and dreaded Verezzi. She threw herself in a chair, and supplicated85 them to desist from further violence, till, at length, Du Pont forced Verezzi to the floor, where he lay stunned86 by the violence of his fall; and she then entreated87 Du Pont to escape from the room, before Montoni, or his party, should appear; but he still refused to leave her unprotected; and, while Emily, now more terrified for him, than for herself, enforced the entreaty88, they heard steps ascending89 the private stair-case.
‘O you are lost!’ cried she, ‘these are Montoni’s people.’ Du Pont made no reply, but supported Emily, while, with a steady, though eager, countenance, he awaited their appearance, and, in the next moment, Ludovico, alone, mounted the landing-place. Throwing an hasty glance round the chamber, ‘Follow me,’ said he, ‘as you value your lives; we have not an instant to lose!’
Emily enquired what had occurred, and whither they were to go?
‘I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora,’ replied Ludovico: ‘fly! fly!’
She immediately followed him, accompanied by Mons. Du Pont, down the stair-case, and along a vaulted90 passage, when suddenly she recollected91 Annette, and enquired for her. ‘She awaits us further on, Signora,’ said Ludovico, almost breathless with haste; ‘the gates were open, a moment since, to a party just come in from the mountains: they will be shut, I fear, before we can reach them! Through this door, Signora,’ added Ludovico, holding down the lamp, ‘take care, here are two steps.’
Emily followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood, that her escape from the castle, depended upon the present moment; while Du Pont supported her, and endeavoured, as they passed along, to cheer her spirits.
‘Speak low, Signor,’ said Ludovico, ‘these passages send echoes all round the castle.’
‘Take care of the light,’ cried Emily, ‘you go so fast, that the air will extinguish it.’
Ludovico now opened another door, where they found Annette, and the party then descended a short flight of steps into a passage, which, Ludovico said, led round the inner court of the castle, and opened into the outer one. As they advanced, confused and tumultuous sounds, that seemed to come from the inner court, alarmed Emily. ‘Nay, Signora,’ said Ludovico, ‘our only hope is in that tumult; while the Signor’s people are busied about the men, who are just arrived, we may, perhaps, pass unnoticed through the gates. But hush92!’ he added, as they approached the small door, that opened into the outer court, ‘if you will remain here a moment, I will go to see whether the gates are open, and any body is in the way. Pray extinguish the light, Signor, if you hear me talking,’ continued Ludovico, delivering the lamp to Du Pont, ‘and remain quite still.’
Saying this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door, listening anxiously to his departing steps. No voice, however, was heard in the court, which he was crossing, though a confusion of many voices yet issued from the inner one. ‘We shall soon be beyond the walls,’ said Du Pont softly to Emily, ‘support yourself a little longer, Madam, and all will be well.’
But soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of some other person, and Du Pont immediately extinguished the lamp. ‘Ah! it is too late!’ exclaimed Emily, ‘what is to become of us?’ They listened again, and then perceived, that Ludovico was talking with a sentinel, whose voices were heard also by Emily’s favourite dog, that had followed her from the chamber, and now barked loudly. ‘This dog will betray us!’ said Du Pont, ‘I will hold him.’ ‘I fear he has already betrayed us!’ replied Emily. Du Pont, however, caught him up, and, again listening to what was going on without, they heard Ludovico say, ‘I’ll watch the gates the while.’
‘Stay a minute,’ replied the sentinel, ‘and you need not have the trouble, for the horses will be sent round to the outer stables, then the gates will be shut, and I can leave my post.’ ‘I don’t mind the trouble, comrade,’ said Ludovico, ‘you will do such another good turn for me, some time. Go — go, and fetch the wine; the rogues93, that are just come in, will drink it all else.’
The soldier hesitated, and then called aloud to the people in the second court, to know why they did not send out the horses, that the gates might be shut; but they were too much engaged, to attend to him, even if they had heard his voice.
‘Aye — aye,’ said Ludovico, ‘they know better than that; they are sharing it all among them; if you wait till the horses come out, you must wait till the wine is drunk. I have had my share already, but, since you do not care about yours, I see no reason why I should not have that too.’
‘Hold, hold, not so fast,’ cried the sentinel, ‘do watch then, for a moment: I’ll be with you presently.’
‘Don’t hurry yourself,’ said Ludovico, coolly, ‘I have kept guard before now. But you may leave me your trombone,* that, if the castle should be attacked, you know, I may be able to defend the pass, like a hero.’
(* A kind of blunderbuss. [A. R.])
‘There, my good fellow,’ returned the soldier, ‘there, take it — it has seen service, though it could do little in defending the castle. I’ll tell you a good story, though, about this same trombone.’
‘You’ll tell it better when you have had the wine,’ said Ludovico. ‘There! they are coming out from the court already.’
‘I’ll have the wine, though,’ said the sentinel, running off. ‘I won’t keep you a minute.’
‘Take your time, I am in no haste,’ replied Ludovico, who was already hurrying across the court, when the soldier came back. ‘Whither so fast, friend — whither so fast?’ said the latter. ‘What! is this the way you keep watch! I must stand to my post myself, I see.’
‘Aye, well,’ replied Ludovico, ‘you have saved me the trouble of following you further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind to drink the Tuscany wine, you must go to Sebastian, he is dealing94 it out; the other that Federico has, is not worth having. But you are not likely to have any, I see, for they are all coming out.’
‘By St. Peter! so they are,’ said the soldier, and again ran off, while Ludovico, once more at liberty, hastened to the door of the passage, where Emily was sinking under the anxiety this long discourse95 had occasioned; but, on his telling them the court was clear, they followed him to the gates, without waiting another instant, yet not before he had seized two horses, that had strayed from the second court, and were picking a scanty96 meal among the grass, which grew between the pavement of the first.
They passed, without interruption, the dreadful gates, and took the road that led down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pont and Annette on foot, and Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading the other. Having reached them, they stopped, while Emily and Annette were placed on horseback with their two protectors, when, Ludovico leading the way, they set off as fast as the broken road, and the feeble light, which a rising moon threw among the foliage, would permit.
Emily was so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she scarcely dared to believe herself awake; and she yet much doubted whether this adventure would terminate in escape,— a doubt, which had too much probability to justify97 it; for, before they quitted the woods, they heard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from them, saw lights moving quickly near the castle above. Du Pont whipped his horse, and with some difficulty compelled him to go faster.
‘Ah! poor beast,’ said Ludovico, ‘he is weary enough;— he has been out all day; but, Signor, we must fly for it, now; for yonder are lights coming this way.’
Having given his own horse a lash98, they now both set off on a full gallop99; and, when they again looked back, the lights were so distant as scarcely to be discerned, and the voices were sunk into silence. The travellers then abated100 their pace, and, consulting whither they should direct their course, it was determined101 they should descend29 into Tuscany, and endeavour to reach the Mediterranean102, where they could readily embark103 for France. Thither104 Du Pont meant to attend Emily, if he should learn, that the regiment105 he had accompanied into Italy, was returned to his native country.
They were now in the road, which Emily had travelled with Ugo and Bertrand; but Ludovico, who was the only one of the party, acquainted with the passes of these mountains, said, that, a little further on, a bye-road, branching from this, would lead them down into Tuscany with very little difficulty; and that, at a few leagues distance, was a small town, where necessaries could be procured107 for their journey.
‘But, I hope,’ added he, ‘we shall meet with no straggling parties of banditti; some of them are abroad, I know. However, I have got a good trombone, which will be of some service, if we should encounter any of those brave spirits. You have no arms, Signor?’ ‘Yes,’ replied Du Pont, ‘I have the villain’s stilletto, who would have stabbed me — but let us rejoice in our escape from Udolpho, nor torment ourselves with looking out for dangers, that may never arrive.’
The moon was now risen high over the woods, that hung upon the sides of the narrow glen, through which they wandered, and afforded them light sufficient to distinguish their way, and to avoid the loose and broken stones, that frequently crossed it. They now travelled leisurely108, and in profound silence; for they had scarcely yet recovered from the astonishment109, into which this sudden escape had thrown them.— Emily’s mind, especially, was sunk, after the various emotions it had suffered, into a kind of musing58 stillness, which the reposing110 beauty of the surrounding scene and the creeping murmur111 of the night-breeze among the foliage above contributed to prolong. She thought of Valancourt and of France, with hope, and she would have thought of them with joy, had not the first events of this evening harassed112 her spirits too much, to permit her now to feel so lively a sensation. Meanwhile, Emily was alone the object of Du Pont’s melancholy consideration; yet, with the despondency he suffered, as he mused113 on his recent disappointment, was mingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned by her presence, though they did not now exchange a single word. Annette thought of this wonderful escape, of the bustle114 in which Montoni and his people must be, now that their flight was discovered; of her native country, whither she hoped she was returning, and of her marriage with Ludovico, to which there no longer appeared any impediment, for poverty she did not consider such. Ludovico, on his part, congratulated himself, on having rescued his Annette and Signora Emily from the danger, that had surrounded them; on his own liberation from people, whose manners he had long detested115; on the freedom he had given to Monsieur Du Pont; on his prospect of happiness with the object of his affections, and not a little on the address, with which he had deceived the sentinel, and conducted the whole of this affair.
Thus variously engaged in thought, the travellers passed on silently, for above an hour, a question only being, now and then, asked by Du Pont, concerning the road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respecting objects, seen imperfectly in the twilight. At length, lights were perceived twinkling on the side of a mountain, and Ludovico had no doubt, that they proceeded from the town he had mentioned, while his companions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk again into silence. Annette was the first who interrupted this. ‘Holy Peter!’ said she, ‘What shall we do for money on our journey? for I know neither I, or my lady, have a single sequin; the Signor took care of that!’
This remark produced a serious enquiry, which ended in as serious an embarrassment117, for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly all his money, when he was taken prisoner; the remainder he had given to the sentinel, who had enabled him occasionally to leave his prison- chamber; and Ludovico, who had for some time found a difficulty, in procuring118 any part of the wages due to him, had now scarcely cash sufficient to procure106 necessary refreshment119 at the first town, in which they should arrive.
Their poverty was the more distressing121, since it would detain them among the mountains, where, even in a town, they could scarcely consider themselves safe from Montoni. The travellers, however, had only to proceed and dare the future; and they continued their way through lonely wilds and dusky vallies, where the overhanging foliage now admitted, and then excluded the moon-light;— wilds so desolate122, that they appeared, on the first glance, as if no human being had ever trode them before. Even the road, in which the party were, did but slightly contradict this error, for the high grass and other luxuriant vegetation, with which it was overgrown, told how very seldom the foot of a traveller had passed it.
At length, from a distance, was heard the faint tinkling123 of a sheep- bell; and, soon after, the bleat124 of flocks, and the party then knew, that they were near some human habitation, for the light, which Ludovico had fancied to proceed from a town, had long been concealed by intervening mountains. Cheered by this hope, they quickened their pace along the narrow pass they were winding125, and it opened upon one of those pastoral vallies of the Apennines, which might be painted for a scene of Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity126 are finely contrasted by the grandeur127 of the snow-topt mountains above.
The morning light, now glimmering128 in the horizon, shewed faintly, at a little distance, upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from ‘under the opening eye-lids of the morn,’ the town they were in search of, and which they soon after reached. It was not without some difficulty, that they there found a house, which could afford shelter for themselves and their horses; and Emily desired they might not rest longer than was necessary for refreshment. Her appearance excited some surprise, for she was without a hat, having had time only to throw on her veil before she left the castle, a circumstance, that compelled her to regret again the want of money, without which it was impossible to procure this necessary article of dress.
Ludovico, on examining his purse, found it even insufficient129 to supply present refreshment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to inform the landlord, whose countenance was simple and honest, of their exact situation, and requested, that he would assist them to pursue their journey; a purpose, which he promised to comply with, as far as he was able, when he learned that they were prisoners escaping from Montoni, whom he had too much reason to hate. But, though he consented to lend them fresh horses to carry them to the next town, he was too poor himself to trust them with money, and they were again lamenting130 their poverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired horses to the hovel, which served for a stable, entered the room, half frantic131 with joy, in which his auditors132 soon participated. On removing the saddle from one of the horses, he had found beneath it a small bag, containing, no doubt, the booty of one of the condottieri, who had returned from a plundering133 excursion, just before Ludovico left the castle, and whose horse having strayed from the inner court, while his master was engaged in drinking, had brought away the treasure, which the ruffian had considered the reward of his exploit.
On counting over this, Du Pont found, that it would be more than sufficient to carry them all to France, where he now determined to accompany Emily, whether he should obtain intelligence of his regiment, or not; for, though he had as much confidence in the integrity of Ludovico, as his small knowledge of him allowed, he could not endure the thought of committing her to his care for the voyage; nor, perhaps, had he resolution enough to deny himself the dangerous pleasure, which he might derive134 from her presence.
He now consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they should direct their way, and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of the country, said, that Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence, which Du Pont knew also to be the most likely of any in Italy to assist their plan, since from thence vessels136 of all nations were continually departing. Thither, therefore, it was determined, that they should proceed.
Emily, having purchased a little straw hat, such as was worn by the peasant girls of Tuscany, and some other little necessary equipments for the journey, and the travellers, having exchanged their tired horses for others better able to carry them, re-commenced their joyous137 way, as the sun was rising over the mountains, and, after travelling through this romantic country, for several hours, began to descend into the vale of Arno. And here Emily beheld138 all the charms of sylvan139 and pastoral landscape united, adorned140 with the elegant villas141 of the Florentine nobles, and diversified142 with the various riches of cultivation143. How vivid the shrubs144, that embowered the slopes, with the woods, that stretched amphitheatrically along the mountains! and, above all, how elegant the outline of these waving Apennines, now softening145 from the wildness, which their interior regions exhibited! At a distance, in the east, Emily discovered Florence, with its towers rising on the brilliant horizon, and its luxuriant plain, spreading to the feet of the Apennines, speckled with gardens and magnificent villas, or coloured with groves146 of orange and lemon, with vines, corn, and plantations148 of olives and mulberry; while, to the west, the vale opened to the waters of the Mediterranean, so distant, that they were known only by a blueish line, that appeared upon the horizon, and by the light marine149 vapour, which just stained the aether above.
With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves, that were to bear her back to her native country, the remembrance of which, however, brought with it a pang150; for she had there no home to receive, no parents to welcome her, but was going, like a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot, where he, who WAS her father, lay interred151. Nor were her spirits cheered, when she considered how long it would probably be before she should see Valancourt, who might be stationed with his regiment in a distant part of France, and that, when they did meet, it would be only to lament69 the successful villany of Montoni; yet, still she would have felt inexpressible delight at the thought of being once more in the same country with Valancourt, had it even been certain, that she could not see him.
The intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travellers to look out for a shady recess, where they might rest, for a few hours, and the neighbouring thickets152, abounding153 with wild grapes, raspberries, and figs154, promised them grateful refreshment. Soon after, they turned from the road into a grove147, whose thick foliage entirely155 excluded the sun-beams, and where a spring, gushing156 from the rock, gave coolness to the air; and, having alighted and turned the horses to graze, Annette and Ludovico ran to gather fruit from the surrounding thickets, of which they soon returned with an abundance. The travellers, seated under the shade of a pine and cypress157 grove and on turf, enriched with such a profusion158 of fragrant159 flowers, as Emily had scarcely ever seen, even among the Pyrenees, took their simple repast, and viewed, with new delight, beneath the dark umbrage160 of gigantic pines, the glowing landscape stretching to the sea.
Emily and Du Pont gradually became thoughtful and silent; but Annette was all joy and loquacity161, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting the respectful distance, which was due to his companions. The repast being over, Du Pont recommended Emily to endeavour to sleep, during these sultry hours, and, desiring the servants would do the same, said he would watch the while; but Ludovico wished to spare him this trouble; and Emily and Annette, wearied with travelling, tried to repose, while he stood guard with his trombone.
When Emily, refreshed by slumber162, awoke, she found the sentinel asleep on his post and Du Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought. As the sun was yet too high to allow them to continue their journey, and as it was necessary, that Ludovico, after the toils163 and trouble he had suffered, should finish his sleep, Emily took this opportunity of enquiring164 by what accident Du Pont became Montoni’s prisoner, and he, pleased with the interest this enquiry expressed and with the excuse it gave him for talking to her of himself, immediately answered her curiosity.
‘I came into Italy, madam,’ said Du Pont, ‘in the service of my country. In an adventure among the mountains our party, engaging with the bands of Montoni, was routed, and I, with a few of my comrades, was taken prisoner. When they told me, whose captive I was, the name of Montoni struck me, for I remembered, that Madame Cheron, your aunt, had married an Italian of that name, and that you had accompanied them into Italy. It was not, however, till some time after, that I became convinced this was the same Montoni, or learned that you, madam, was under the same roof with myself. I will not pain you by describing what were my emotions upon this discovery, which I owed to a sentinel, whom I had so far won to my interest, that he granted me many indulgences, one of which was very important to me, and somewhat dangerous to himself; but he persisted in refusing to convey any letter, or notice of my situation to you, for he justly dreaded a discovery and the consequent vengeance165 of Montoni. He however enabled me to see you more than once. You are surprised, madam, and I will explain myself. My health and spirits suffered extremely from want of air and exercise, and, at length, I gained so far upon the pity, or the avarice166 of the man, that he gave me the means of walking on the terrace.’
Emily now listened, with very anxious attention, to the narrative167 of Du Pont, who proceeded:
‘In granting this indulgence, he knew, that he had nothing to apprehend168 from a chance of my escaping from a castle, which was vigilantly169 guarded, and the nearest terrace of which rose over a perpendicular170 rock; he shewed me also,’ continued Du Pont, ‘a door concealed in the cedar171 wainscot of the apartment where I was confined, which he instructed me how to open; and which, leading into a passage, formed within the thickness of the wall, that extended far along the castle, finally opened in an obscure corner of the eastern rampart. I have since been informed, that there are many passages of the same kind concealed within the prodigious172 walls of that edifice173, and which were, undoubtedly174, contrived175 for the purpose of facilitating escapes in time of war. Through this avenue, at the dead of night, I often stole to the terrace, where I walked with the utmost caution, lest my steps should betray me to the sentinels on duty in distant parts; for this end of it, being guarded by high buildings, was not watched by soldiers. In one of these midnight wanderings, I saw light in a casement that overlooked the rampart, and which, I observed, was immediately over my prison-chamber. It occurred to me, that you might be in that apartment, and, with the hope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite to the window.’
Emily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the terrace, and which had occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed, ‘It was you then, Monsieur Du Pont, who occasioned me much foolish terror; my spirits were, at that time, so much weakened by long suffering, that they took alarm at every hint.’ Du Pont, after lamenting, that he had occasioned her any apprehension, added, ‘As I rested on the wall, opposite to your casement, the consideration of your melancholy situation and of my own called from me involuntary sounds of lamentation176, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I saw there a person, whom I believed to be you. O! I will say nothing of my emotion at that moment; I wished to speak, but prudence restrained me, till the distant foot-step of a sentinel compelled me suddenly to quit my station.
‘It was some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for I could only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of one man to guard me; meanwhile I became convinced from some circumstances related by him, that your apartment was over mine, and, when again I ventured forth, I returned to your casement, where again I saw you, but without daring to speak. I waved my hand, and you suddenly disappeared; then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to lamentation; again you appeared — you spoke — I heard the well-known accent of your voice! and, at that moment, my discretion177 would have forsaken178 me again, had I not heard also the approaching steps of a soldier, when I instantly quitted the place, though not before the man had seen me. He followed down the terrace and gained so fast upon me, that I was compelled to make use of a stratagem179, ridiculous enough, to save myself. I had heard of the superstition180 of many of these men, and I uttered a strange noise, with a hope, that my pursuer would mistake it for something supernatural, and desist from pursuit. Luckily for myself I succeeded; the man, it seems, was subject to fits, and the terror he suffered threw him into one, by which accident I secured my retreat. A sense of the danger I had escaped, and the increased watchfulness181, which my appearance had occasioned among the sentinels, deterred182 me ever after from walking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night, I frequently beguiled183 myself with an old lute, procured for me by a soldier, which I sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, I will acknowledge, with a hope of making myself heard by you; but it was only a few evenings ago, that this hope was answered. I then thought I heard a voice in the wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to reply, lest the sentinel at the prison door should hear me. Was I right, madam, in this conjecture184 — was it you who spoke?’
‘Yes,’ said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, ‘you was right indeed.’
Du Pont, observing the painful emotions, which this question revived, now changed the subject. ‘In one of my excursions through the passage, which I have mentioned, I overheard a singular conversation,’ said he.
‘In the passage!’ said Emily, with surprise.
‘I heard it in the passage,’ said Du Pont, ‘but it proceeded from an apartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and the shell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat decayed, that I could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other side. It happened that Montoni and his companions were assembled in the room, and Montoni began to relate the extraordinary history of the lady, his predecessor185, in the castle. He did, indeed, mention some very surprising circumstances, and whether they were strictly186 true, his conscience must decide; I fear it will determine against him. But you, madam, have doubtless heard the report, which he designs should circulate, on the subject of that lady’s mysterious fate.’
‘I have, sir,’ replied Emily, ‘and I perceive, that you doubt it.’
‘I doubted it before the period I am speaking of,’ rejoined Du Pont;- -‘but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatly contributed to my suspicions. The account I then heard, almost convinced me, that he was a murderer. I trembled for you;— the more so that I had heard the guests mention your name in a manner, that threatened your repose; and, knowing, that the most impious men are often the most superstitious187, I determined to try whether I could not awaken their consciences, and awe188 them from the commission of the crime I dreaded. I listened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking passages of his story, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words, in a disguised and hollow tone.’
‘But was you not afraid of being discovered?’ said Emily.
‘I was not,’ replied Du Pont; ‘for I knew, that, if Montoni had been acquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have confined me in the apartment, to which it led. I knew also, from better authority, that he was ignorant of it. The party, for some time, appeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length, were so much alarmed, that they quitted the apartment; and, having heard Montoni order his servants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was very distant from this part of the passage.’ ‘I remember perfectly116 to have heard of the conversation you mention,’ said Emily; ‘it spread a general alarm among Montoni’s people, and I will own I was weak enough to partake of it.’
Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse189 of Montoni, and then of France, and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him, that it was her intention to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where she had been formerly treated with much kindness, and from thence to write to her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and inform him of her conduct. There, she designed to wait, till La Vallee should again be her own, whither she hoped her income would some time permit her to return; for Du Pont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of which Montoni had attempted to defraud190 her, was not irrecoverably lost, and he again congratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who, he had not a doubt, meant to have detained her for life. The possibility of recovering her aunt’s estates for Valancourt and herself lighted up a joy in Emily’s heart, such as she had not known for many months; but she endeavoured to conceal65 this from Monsieur Du Pont, lest it should lead him to a painful remembrance of his rival.
They continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west, when Du Pont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey. Gradually descending191 the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the Arno, and wound along its pastoral margin192, for many miles, delighted with the scenery around them, and with the remembrances, which its classic waves revived. At a distance, they heard the gay song of the peasants among the vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint193 the waves with yellow lustre194, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the mountains, which, at length, deepened into night. Then the LUCCIOLA, the fire-fly of Tuscany, was seen to flash its sudden sparks among the foliage, while the cicala, with its shrill195 note, became more clamorous196 than even during the noon-day heat, loving best the hour when the English beetle197, with less offensive sound,
winds
His small but sullen198 horn,
As oft he rises ‘midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.*
(* Collins. [A. R.])
The travellers crossed the Arno by moon-light, at a ferry, and, learning that Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they wished to have proceeded thither in a boat, but, as none could be procured, they set out on their wearied horses for that city. As they approached it, the vale expanded into a plain, variegated199 with vineyards, corn, olives and mulberry groves; but it was late, before they reached its gates, where Emily was surprised to hear the busy sound of footsteps and the tones of musical instruments, as well as to see the lively groups, that filled the streets, and she almost fancied herself again at Venice; but here was no moon-light sea — no gay gondolas200, dashing the waves,— no PALLADIAN palaces, to throw enchantment201 over the fancy and lead it into the wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolled through the town, but no music trembled from balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy voices of sailors on board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean; the melancholy heaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain’s whistle;— sounds, which, since that period, have there sunk almost into silence. They then served to remind Du Pont, that it was probable he might hear of a vessel135, sailing soon to France from this port, and thus be spared the trouble of going to Leghorn. As soon as Emily had reached the inn, he went therefore to the quay202, to make his enquiries; but, after all the endeavours of himself and Ludovico, they could hear of no bark, destined203 immediately for France, and the travellers returned to their resting-place. Here also, Du Pont endeavoured to learn where his regiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning it. The travellers retired early to rest, after the fatigues204 of this day; and, on the following, rose early, and, without pausing to view the celebrated205 antiquities206 of the place, or the wonders of its hanging tower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours, through a charming country, rich with wine, and corn and oil. The Apennines, no longer awful, or even grand, here softened207 into the beauty of sylvan and pastoral landscape; and Emily, as she descended them, looked down delighted on Leghorn, and its spacious208 bay, filled with vessels, and crowned with these beautiful hills.
She was no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to find it crowded with persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, which reminded her of a Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at the time of the Carnival209; but here, was bustle, without gaiety, and noise instead of music, while elegance210 was to be looked for only in the waving outlines of the surrounding hills.
Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the quay, where he heard of several French vessels, and of one, that was to sail, in a few days, for Marseilles, from whence another vessel could be procured, without difficulty, to take them across the gulf211 of Lyons towards Narbonne, on the coast not many leagues from which city he understood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to retire. He, therefore, immediately engaged with the captain to take them to Marseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her passage to France was secured. Her mind was now relieved from the terror of pursuit, and the pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country — that country which held Valancourt, restored to her spirits a degree of cheerfulness, such as she had scarcely known, since the death of her father. At Leghorn also, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and that it had embarked212 for France; a circumstance, which gave him great satisfaction, for he could now accompany Emily thither, without reproach to his conscience, or apprehension of displeasure from his commander. During these days, he scrupulously213 forbore to distress120 her by a mention of his passion, and she was compelled to esteem214 and pity, though she could not love him. He endeavoured to amuse her by shewing the environs of the town, and they often walked together on the sea-shore, and on the busy quays215, where Emily was frequently interested by the arrival and departure of vessels, participating in the joy of meeting friends, and, sometimes, shedding a sympathetic tear to the sorrow of those, that were separating. It was after having witnessed a scene of the latter kind, that she arranged the following stanzas216:
THE MARINER217
Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow’d the tide;
And blue the heaven in its mirror smil’d;
The white sail trembled, swell’d, expanded wide,
The busy sailors at the anchor toil’d.
With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,
The deck was throng’d — how swift the moments fly!
The vessel heaves, the farewel signs appear;
Mute is each tongue, and eloquent218 each eye!
The last dread38 moment comes!— The sailor-youth
Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,
Sooths his sad bride, and vows219 eternal truth,
‘Farewel, my love — we shall — shall meet again!’
Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;
The crowded shore sinks, lessening220, from his view,
As gradual glides221 the bark along the flood;
His bride is seen no more —‘Adieu!— adieu!’
The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o’er,
Dim steals her twilight down the crimson’d west,
He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more
The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.
He views its dark line on the distant sky,
And Fancy leads him to his little home,
He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,
He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.
Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales222,
In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;
He turns his aching eyes,— his spirit fails,
The chill tear falls;— sad to the deck he goes!
The storm of midnight swells223, the sails are furl’d,
Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore,
Fast o’er the waves the wretched bark is hurl’d,
‘O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!’
Lightnings, that shew the vast and foamy224 deep,
The rending225 thunders, as they onward226 roll,
The loud, loud winds, that o’er the billows sweep —
Shake the firm nerve, appall227 the bravest soul!
Ah! what avails the seamen’s toiling228 care!
The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv’n;
The sounds of terror groan229 along the air,
Then sink afar;— the bark on rocks is driv’n!
Fierce o’er the wreck230 the whelming waters pass’d,
The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!
Henry’s faint accents trembled in the blast —
‘Farewel, my love!— we ne’er shall meet again!’
Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,
When summer-breezes linger on the wave,
A melancholy voice is heard to pour
Its lonely sweetness o’er poor Henry’s grave!
And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard
Around the grove, where Ellen’s form is laid;
Nor is the dirge231 by village-maidens fear’d,
For lovers’ spirits guard the holy shade!
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收听单词发音
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1
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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3
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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4
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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5
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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6
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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7
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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8
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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10
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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11
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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12
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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13
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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14
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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15
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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16
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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17
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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18
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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19
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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20
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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21
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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22
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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23
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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25
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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27
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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28
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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29
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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30
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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31
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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32
necromancer
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| n. 巫师 | |
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33
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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34
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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35
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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37
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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38
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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39
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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40
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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41
contentions
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| n.竞争( contention的名词复数 )；争夺；争论；论点 | |
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42
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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43
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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44
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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45
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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46
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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48
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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49
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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50
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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51
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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52
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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53
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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54
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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55
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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56
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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57
dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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58
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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59
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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60
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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61
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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62
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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63
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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64
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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65
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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66
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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67
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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68
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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69
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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70
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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72
supplicate
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| v.恳求；adv.祈求地，哀求地，恳求地 | |
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73
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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74
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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75
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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76
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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77
disinterestedness
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78
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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79
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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80
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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81
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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82
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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83
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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84
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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85
supplicated
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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87
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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89
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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90
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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91
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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92
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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93
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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94
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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95
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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96
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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97
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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98
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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99
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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100
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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101
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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102
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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103
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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104
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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105
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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106
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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107
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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108
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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109
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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110
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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111
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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112
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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113
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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114
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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115
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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117
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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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
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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120
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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121
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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122
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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123
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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124
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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125
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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126
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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127
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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128
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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129
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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130
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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131
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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132
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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133
plundering
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的现在分词 ) | |
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134
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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135
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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136
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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137
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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138
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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139
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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140
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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141
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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142
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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143
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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144
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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145
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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146
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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147
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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148
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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149
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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150
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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151
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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153
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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154
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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155
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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156
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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157
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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158
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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159
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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160
umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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161
loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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162
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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163
toils
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| 网 | |
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164
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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165
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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166
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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167
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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vigilantly
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| adv.警觉地，警惕地 | |
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170
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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171
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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172
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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173
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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174
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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175
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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176
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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177
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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178
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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179
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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180
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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181
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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182
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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184
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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185
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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186
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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187
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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188
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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defraud
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| vt.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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191
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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192
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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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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194
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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195
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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196
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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197
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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198
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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200
gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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201
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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202
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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203
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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204
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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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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208
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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209
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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215
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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216
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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217
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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219
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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220
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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221
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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222
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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223
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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224
foamy
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| adj.全是泡沫的，泡沫的，起泡沫的 | |
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225
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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227
appall
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| vt.使惊骇，使大吃一惊 | |
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228
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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229
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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230
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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231
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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