Though children born when King Theodoric still reigned9 had yet scarce grown to manhood, that golden age seemed already a legend of the past. Athalaric, Amalasuntha, Theodahad, last of the Amal blood, had held the throne in brief succession and were gone; warriors10 chosen at will by the Gothic host, mere11 kings of the battlefield, had risen and perished; reduced to a wandering tribe, the nation which alone of her invaders12 had given peace and hope to Italy, which alone had reverenced13 and upheld the laws, polity, culture of Rome, would soon, it was thought, be utterly14 destroyed, or vanish in flight beyond the Alps. Yet war did not come to an end. In the plain of the great river there was once more a chieftain whom the Goths had raised upon their shields, a king, men said, glorious in youth and strength, and able, even yet, to worst the Emperor’s generals. His fame increased. Ere long he was known to be moving southward, to have crossed the Apennines, to have won a battle in Etruria. The name of this young hero was Totila.
In these days the senators of Rome, heirs to a title whose ancient power and dignity were half-forgotten, abode15 within the City, under constraint16 disguised as honour, the conqueror’s hostages. One among them, of noblest name, Flavius Anicius Maximus, broken in health by the troubles of the time and by private sorrow, languishing18 all but unto death in the heavy air of the Tiber, was permitted to seek relief in a visit to which he would of his domains19 in Italy. His birth, his repute, gave warrant of loyalty20 to the empire, and his coffers furnished the price put upon such a favour by Byzantine greed. Maximus chose for refuge his villa21 by the Campanian shore, vast, beautiful, half in ruin, which had been enjoyed by generations of the Anician family; situated22 above the little town of Surrentum it caught the cooler breeze, and on its mountainous promontory23 lay apart from the tramp of armies. Here, as summer burned into autumn, the sick man lived in brooding silence, feeling his strength waste, and holding to the world only by one desire.
The household comprised his unwedded sister Petronilla, a lady in middle age, his nephew Basil, and another kinsman25, Decius, a student and an invalid26; together with a physician, certain freedmen who rendered services of trust, a eunuch at the Command of Petronilla, and the usual body of male and female slaves. Some score of glebe-bound peasants cultivated the large estate for their lord’s behoof. Notwithstanding the distress27 that had fallen upon the Roman nobility, many of whom were sunk into indigence28, the chief of the Anicii still controlled large means; and the disposal of these possessions at his death was matter of interest to many persons—not least to the clergy29 of Rome, who found in the dying man’s sister a piously30 tenacious31 advocate. Children had been born to Maximus, but the only son who reached mature years fell a victim to pestilence32 when Vitiges was camped about the City. There survived one daughter, Aurelia. Her the father had not seen for years; her he longed to see and to pardon ere he died. For Aurelia, widowed of her first husband in early youth, had used her liberty to love and wed24 a flaxen-haired barbarian4, a lord of the Goths; and, worse still, had renounced33 the Catholic faith for the religion of the Gothic people, that heresy34 of Arianism condemned35 and abhorred36 by Rome. In Consequence she became an outcast from her kith and kin1. Her husband commanded in the city of Cumae, hard by Neapolis. When this stronghold fell before the advance of Belisarius, the Goth escaped, soon after to die in battle; Aurelia, a captive of the Conquerors37, remained at Cumae, and still was living there, though no longer under restraint. Because of its strength, this ancient city became the retreat of many ladies who fled from Rome before the hardships and perils38 of the siege; from them the proud and unhappy woman, ever held apart, yet she refused to quit the town when she would have been permitted to do so. From his terrace above the Surrentine shore, Maximus gazed across the broad gulf39 to the hills that concealed40 Cumae, yearning41 for the last of his children. When at length he wrote her a letter, a letter of sad kindness, inviting42 rather than beseeching43 her to visit him, Aurelia made no reply. Wounded, he sunk again into silence, until his heart could no longer bear its secret burden, and he spoke44—not to Petronilla, from whose austere45 orthodoxy little sympathy was to be expected—but to his nephew Basil, whose generous mettle46 willingly lent itself to such a service as was proposed. On his delicate mission, the young man set forth47 without delay. To Cumae, whether by sea or land, was but a short journey: starting at daybreak, Basil might have given ample time to his embassy, and have been back again early on the morrow. But the second day passed, and he did not return. Though harassed48 by the delay, Maximus tried to deem it of good omen49, and nursed his hope through another sleepless50 night.
Soon after sunrise, he was carried forth to his place of observation, a portico51 in semicircle, the marble honey-toned by time, which afforded shelter from the eastern rays and commanded a view of vast extent. Below him lay the little town, built on the cliffs above its landing-place; the hillsides on either hand were clad with vineyards, splendid in the purple of autumn, and with olives. Sky and sea shone to each other in perfect calm; the softly breathing air mingled52 its morning freshness with a scent53 of fallen flower and leaf. A rosy54 vapour from Vesuvius floated gently inland; and this the eye of Maximus marked with contentment, as it signified a favourable55 wind for a boat crossing hither from the far side of the bay. For the loveliness of the scene before him, its noble lines, its jewelled colouring, he had little care; but the infinite sadness of its suggestion, the decay and the desolation uttered by all he saw, sank deep into his heart. If his look turned to the gleaming spot which was the city of Neapolis, there came into his mind the sack and massacre56 of a few years ago, when Belisarius so terribly avenged57 upon the Neapolitans their stubborn resistance to his siege. Faithful to the traditions of his house, of his order, Maximus had welcomed the invasion which promised to restore Italy to the Empire; now that the restoration was effected, he saw with bitterness the evils resulting from it, and all but hoped that this new king of the Goths, this fortune-favoured Totila, might sweep the land of its Greek oppressors. He looked back upon his own life, on the placid58 dignity of his career under the rule of Theodoric, the offices by which he had risen, until he sat in the chair of the Consul59. Yet in that time, which now seemed so full of peaceful glories, he had never at heart been loyal to the great king; in his view, as in that of the nobles generally, Theodoric was but a usurper60, who had abused the mandate61 intrusted to him by the Emperor Zeno, to deliver Italy from the barbarians. When his own kinsmen62, Boethius and Symmachus, were put to death on a charge of treachery, Maximus burned with hatred63 of the Goth. He regarded with disdain64 the principles of Cassiodorus, who devoted65 his life to the Gothic cause, and who held that only as an independent kingdom could there be hope for Italy. Having for a moment the ear of Theodoric’s daughter, Amalasuntha, when she ruled for her son, Maximus urged her to yield her kingdom to the Emperor, and all but saw his counsel acted upon. After all, was not Cassiodorus right? Were not the senators who had ceaselessly intrigued66 with Byzantium in truth traitors67 to Rome? It was a bitter thought for the dying man that all his life he had not only failed in service to his country, but had obstinately68 wrought69 for her ruin.
Attendants placed food beside him. He mingled wine with water and soothed70 a feverish71 thirst. His physician, an elderly man of Oriental visage, moved respectfully to his side, greeted him as Illustrious, inquired how his Magnificence had passed the latter part of the night. Whilst replying, as ever courteously—for in the look and bearing of Maximus there was that senatorius decor which Pliny noted72 in a great Roman of another time—his straining eyes seemed to descry73 a sail in the quarter he continually watched. Was it only a fishing boat? Raised upon the couch, he gazed long and fixedly74. Impossible as yet to be sure whether he saw the expected bark; but the sail seemed to draw nearer, and he watched.
The voice of a servant, who stood at a respectful distance, announced: ‘The gracious Lady’; and there appeared a little procession. Ushered75 by her eunuch, and attended by half a dozen maidens76, one of whom held over her a silk sunshade with a handle of gold, the sister of Maximus approached at a stately pace. She was tall, and of features severely77 regular; her dark hair—richer in tone and more abundant than her years could warrant—rose in elaborate braiding intermingled with golden threads; her waistless robe was of white silk adorned78 with narrow stripes of purple, which descended79, two on each side, from the shoulders to the hem17, and about her neck lay a shawl of delicate tissue. In her hand, which glistened80 with many gems81, she carried a small volume, richly bound, the Psalter. Courtesies of the gravest passed between her and Maximus, who, though he could not rise from his couch, assumed an attitude of graceful82 deference83, and Petronilla seated herself in a chair which a slave had placed for her. After many inquiries84 as to her brother’s health, the lady allowed her eyes to wander for a moment, then spoke with the smile of one who imparts rare tidings.
‘Late last night—too late to trouble you with the news—there came a post from the reverend deacon Leander. He disembarked yesterday at Salernum, and, after brief repose85, hopes to visit us. Your Amiability86 will, I am sure, welcome his coming.’
‘Assuredly,’ answered Maximus, bending his head, whilst his eyes watched the distant sail. ‘Whence comes he?’
‘From Sicily. We shall learn, I dare say, the business which took him there,’ added Petronilla, with a self-satisfied softening87 of her lips. ‘The deacon is wont88 to talk freely with me of whatever concerns the interests of our holy Church, even as I think you remember, has now and then deigned—though I know not how I have deserved such honour—to ask, I dare not say my counsel, but my humble89 thoughts on this or that. I think we may expect him before morning. The day will not be too warm for travel.’
Maximus wore an anxious look, and spoke after hesitation90.
‘Will his reverend leisure permit him to pass more than one day with us?’
‘Earnestly I hope so. You, beyond doubt, dear lord, my brother, will desire long privacy with the holy man. His coming at this time is plainly of Heaven’s direction.’
‘Lady sister,’ answered Maximus, with the faintest smile on his sad features, ‘I would not willingly rob you of a moment’s conference with the good deacon. My own business with him is soon despatched. I would fain be assured of burial in the Temple of Probus where sleep our ancestors.’
‘Of that,’ replied Petronilla, solemnly and not unkindly, ‘doubt not for a moment. Your body shall lie there, by the blessed Peter’s sanctuary91, and your tomb be honoured among those of the greatest of our blood. But there is another honour that I covet92 for you, an honour above all that the world can bestow93. In these sad times, Maximus, the Church has need of strengthening. You have no children—’
A glance from the listener checked her, and, before she could resume, Maximus interposed in a low voice:
‘I have yet a daughter.’
‘A daughter?’ exclaimed Petronilla, troubled, confused, scarce subduing94 indignation.
‘It is better I should tell you,’ continued her brother, with some sternness, resulting from the efforts to command himself, ‘that Basil is gone to Cumae to see Aurelia, and, if it may be, to lead her to me. Perhaps even now’—he pointed95 to the sea—‘they are on the way hither. Let us not speak of it, Petronilla,’ he added in a firmer tone. ‘It is my will; that must suffice. Of you I ask nothing save silence.’
The lady arose. Her countenance96 expressed angry and bitter feeling, but there was no danger of her uttering what she thought. Gravely, somewhat coldly, she spoke good wishes for her brother’s ease during the day, and so retired97 with her retinue98. Alone, Maximus sighed, and looked again across the waters.
In a few minutes the servant who guarded his privacy was again heard announcing the lord Decius. The Senator turned his eyes with a look of good-humoured greeting.
‘Abroad so early, good cousin? Did the oil fail you last night and send you too soon to bed?’
‘You have not chanced to remember, dear my lord, what day it is?’ returned Decius, when he had bestowed99 a kiss on his kinsman’s cheek. ‘Had I but vigour100 enough, this morning would have seen me on a pilgrimage to the tomb.’ He put out a hand towards Neapolis. ‘I rose at daybreak to meditate101 the Fourth Eclogue.’
‘The ides of October—true. I take shame to myself for having lost the memory of Virgil in my own distresses102.’
Decius, whose years were scarce thirty, had the aspect and the gait of an elderly man; his thin hair streaked103 with grey, his cheeks hollow, his eyes heavy, he stooped in walking and breathed with difficulty; the tunic104 and the light cloak, which were all his attire105, manifested an infinite carelessness in matters of costume, being worn and soiled. Than he, no Roman was poorer; he owned nothing but his clothing and a few books. Akin106 to the greatest, and bearing a name of which he was inordinately107 proud—as a schoolboy he had once burst into tears when reciting with passion the Lay of the Decii—felt content to owe his sustenance108 to the delicate and respectful kindness of Maximus, who sympathised with the great wrong he had suffered early in life. This was no less than wilful109 impoverishment110 by his father, who, seeking to atone111 for sins by fanaticism112, had sold the little he possessed113 to found a pilgrims’ hospice at Portus, whither, accompanied by the twelve-year-old boy, he went to live as monk-servitor In a year or two the penitent114 died; Decius, in revolt against the tasks to which he was subjected, managed to escape, made his way to Rome, and appealed to Maximus. Nominally115 he still held the post of secretary to his benefactor116, but for many years he had enjoyed entire leisure, all of it devoted to study. Several times illness had brought him to the threshold of death, yet it had never conquered his love of letters, his enthusiasm for his country’s past. Few liked him only one or two understood him: Decius was content that it should be so.
‘Let us speak of it,’ he continued, unrolling a manuscript of Virgil some two hundred years old, a gift to him from Maximus. ‘Tell me, dear lord, your true thought: is it indeed a prophecy of the Divine Birth? To you’—he smiled his gentle, beautiful smile—‘may I not confess that I have doubted this interpretation117? Yet’—he cast his eyes down—‘the doubt is perhaps a prompting of the spirit of evil.’
‘I know not, Decius, I know not,’ replied the sick man with thoughtful melancholy118. ‘My father held it a prophecy his father before him.—But forgive me, I am expecting anxiously the return of Basil; yonder sail—is it his? Your eyes see further than mine.’
Decius at once put aside his own reflections, and watched the oncoming bark. Before long there was an end of doubt. Rising in agitation119 to his feet, Maximus gave orders that the litter, which since yesterday morning had been in readiness, should at once be borne with all speed down to the landing-place. Sail and oars120 soon brought the boat so near that Decius was able to descry certain female figures and that of a man, doubtless Basil, who stood up and waved his arms shoreward.
‘She has come,’ broke from Maximus; and, in reply to his kinsman’s face of inquiry121, he told of whom it was he spoke.
The landing-place was not visible from here. As soon as the boat disappeared beneath the buildings of the town, Maximus requested of his companion a service which asked some courage in the performance: it was, to wait forthwith upon the Lady Petronilla, to inform her that Aurelia had just disembarked, to require that three female slaves should be selected to attend upon the visitor. This mission Decius discharged, not without trembling; he then walked to the main entrance of the villa, and stood there, the roll of Virgil still in his hand, until the sound of a horse’s hoofs122 on the upward road announced the arrival of the travellers. The horseman, who came some yards in advance of the slave-borne litter, was Basil. At sight of Decius, he dismounted, and asked in an undertone: ‘You know?’ The other replied with the instructions given by Maximus, that the litter, which was closed against curious eyes, should be straightway conveyed to the Senator’s presence, Basil himself to hold apart until summoned.
And so it was done. Having deposited their burden between two columns of the portico, the bearers withdrew. The father’s voice uttered the name of Aurelia, and, putting aside the curtains that had concealed her, she stood before him. A woman still young, and of bearing which became her birth; a woman who would have had much grace, much charm, but for the passion which, turned to vehement123 self-will, had made her blood acrid124. Her great dark eyes burned with quenchless125 resentment126; her sunken and pallid127 face told of the sufferings of a tortured pride.
‘Lord Maximus,’ were her first words, as she stood holding by the litter, glancing distrustfully about her, ‘you have sworn!’
‘Hear me repeat my oath,’ answered the father, strengthened by his emotion to move forward from the couch. ‘By the blessed martyr128 Pancratius, I swear that no harm shall befall you, no constraint shall be put upon you, that you shall be free to come and to go as you will.’
It was the oath no perjurer129 durst make. Aurelia gazed into her father’s face, which was wet with tears. She stepped nearer to him, took his thin, hot hand, and, as in her childhood, bent130 to kiss the back of the wrist. But Maximus folded her to his heart.
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1
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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garrisoned
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| 卫戍部队守备( garrison的过去式和过去分词 )； 派部队驻防 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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5
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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7
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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9
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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11
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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12
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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18
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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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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indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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41
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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42
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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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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45
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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46
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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48
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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49
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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50
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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51
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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52
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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53
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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54
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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55
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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56
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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57
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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58
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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59
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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60
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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61
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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62
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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67
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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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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71
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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73
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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80
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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82
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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86
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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89
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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101
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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103
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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104
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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105
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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106
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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107
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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108
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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109
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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110
impoverishment
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| n.贫穷，穷困；贫化 | |
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111
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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112
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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113
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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114
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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115
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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116
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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117
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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118
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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119
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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120
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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122
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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123
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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124
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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125
quenchless
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| 不可熄灭的 | |
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126
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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127
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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128
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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129
perjurer
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| n.伪誓者，伪证者 | |
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130
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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