On Sunday morning the good prelate lay wakeful at the hour of matins, and with quavering voice chanted to himself the psalm11 of the office from which his weakness held him apart. Presently the door opened, and in the dim lamp-light appeared the presbyter Andreas, stepping softly. He made known that an urgent message had just summoned him to the villa; Maximus was near his end.
‘I, too, will come,’ exclaimed the bishop, rising in his bed and ringing loudly a little hand-bell.
‘Venerable father! your health—’
‘Hasten, hasten, Andreas! I follow.’
In less than an hour he descended12 from his litter, and, resting on the arms of two servants, was conducted to the chamber13 of the dying man. Andreas had just administered the last rites14; whether the fixed15 eyes still saw was doubtful. At a murmur16 of ‘the bishop’ those by the doorway17 reverently18 drew aside. On one side of the bed were Aurelia and the deacon; on the other, Petronilla and Basil and Decius. Though kneeling, the senator’s daughter held herself proudly. Though tears were on her face, she hardly disguised an air of triumph. Nor was the head of Petronilla bent19; her countenance20 looked hard and cold as marble. Leander, a model of decorum, stepped with grave greeting towards the prelate, and whispered a word or two. In the stillness that followed there quivered a deep breath. Flavius Anicius Maximus had lived his life.
When the bishop, supported by Leander and Andreas, rose from prayer, he was led by the obsequious21 clerics to a hall illumined by several lamps, where two brasiers gave forth22 a grateful glow in the chill of the autumn morning. Round about the walls, in niches23, stood busts25 carved or cast of the ancestors of him who lay dead. Here, whilst voices of lamentation26 sounded from without, Leander made known to the prelate and the presbyter the terms of the will. Basil was instituted ‘heir’; that is to say, he became the legal representative of the dead man, and was charged with the distribution of those parts of the estate bequeathed to others. First of the legatees stood Aurelia. The listeners learnt with astonishment27 that the obstinate28 heretic was treated as though her father had had no cause of complaint against her; she was now mistress of the Surrentine estate, as well as of the great house in Rome, and of other property. A lamentable29 thing, the deacon admitted suavely31; but, for his part, he was not without hope, and he fixed his eyes with a peculiar32 intensity33 on the troubled bishop.
Petronilla drew near. The will was already known to her in every detail, and she harboured a keen suspicion of the secret which lay behind it. Leander, she could not doubt, was behaving to her with duplicity, and this grieved her to the heart. It was to the bishop that she now addressed herself.
‘Holy father, I am your suppliant34. Not even for a day will I remain under this roof, even if—which is doubtful—I should be suffered to do so. I put myself under the protection of your Holiness, until such time as I can set forth on my sad journey to Rome. At Surrentum I must abide35 until the corpse36 of my brother can be conveyed to its final resting place—as I promised him.’
Much agitated37, the prelate made answer that a fitting residence should be prepared for her before noon, and the presbyter Andreas added that he would instantly betake himself to the city on that business. Petronilla thanked him with the loftiest humility38. For any lack of respect, or for common courtesy, to which they might be exposed ere they quitted the villa, she besought39 their Sanctities not to hold her responsible, she herself being now an unwilling40 intruder at this hearth41, and liable at any moment to insult. Uttering which words in a resonant42 voice, she turned her eyes to where, a few yards away, stood Aurelia, with Basil and Decius behind her.
‘Reverend bishop,’ spoke43 a voice not less steady and sonorous44 than that of the elder lady, ‘should you suffer any discourtesy in my house, it will come not from me, but from her who suggests its possibility, and whose mind is bent upon such things. Indeed, she has already scanted45 the respect she owes you in uttering these words. As for herself, remain she here for an hour or for a month, she is in no danger of insult—unless she deem it an insult to have her base falsehood flung back at her, and the enmity in her fierce eyes answered with the scorn it merits.’
Petronilla trembled with wrath46.
‘Falsehood!’ she echoed, on a high, mocking note. ‘A charge of falsehood upon her lips! Your Holiness will ere long, I do not doubt, be enlightened as to that woman’s principles in the matter of truth and falsehood. Meanwhile, we shall consult our souls’ welfare, as well as our dignity, in holding as little intercourse47 as may be with one who has renounced48 the faith in Christ.’
Aurelia bent her eyes upon the deacon, who met the look with austere49 fixedness50. There was dead silence for a moment, then she turned to the young men behind her.
‘My noble cousins, I desired your company because I foresaw this woman’s violence, and knew not to what length it might carry her. She pretends to fear my tongue; for my part, I would not lightly trust myself within reach of her hands, of which I learnt the weight when I was a little child. Lord Decius, attend, I beg you, these reverend men whilst they honour my house and on their way homeward. My cousin Basil, I must needs ask you to be my guard, until I can command service here. Follow me, I pray.’
With another piercing glance at Leander she withdrew from the assembly.
It was a morning of wind and cloud; the day broke sadly. When the first gleam of yellow sunlight flitted over Surrentum towards the cliffs of Capreae, silence had fallen upon the villa. Wearied by their night of watching, the inhabitants slept, or at least reposed51 in privacy. But this quiet was of short duration. When the customary bell had given notice of the third hour, Aurelia called together the servants of the house—only those who belonged to Petronilla failing to answer her summons—and announced to them her new authority. At the same time the steward52 of the estate read out a list of those slaves who, under the will of Maximus, could claim their emancipation53. The gathering54 having dispersed55, there appeared an attendant of the deacon Leander; his reverend master would wait upon the lady Aurelia, as soon as her leisure permitted, for the purpose of taking leave. Forthwith the deacon was admitted. Alone in the great hall, Aurelia sat beside a brasier, at which she warmed her hands; she scarcely deigned56 to glance at the ecclesiastic57.
‘You pursue your journey, reverend?’ were her first words.
‘As far as Neapolis, gracious lady,’ came the suave30 reply. ‘There or in the neighbourhood I shall remain at least ten days. Should you desire to communicate with me—’
‘I think I can save that trouble,’ interrupted Aurelia, with quivering lips. ‘All I have to say to your Sanctity, I will say at once. It is, that you have enlightened me as to the value of solemn oaths on the lips of the Roman clergy58.’
‘Your meaning, dear madam?’ asked Leander, with a look of bland59 disdain60.
‘You have the face to ask it, deacon, after Petronilla’s words this morning?’
‘I feared they might mislead you. The lady Petronilla knows nothing of what has passed between us. She spoke in anger, and hazarded an accusation—as angry ladies are wont61.’
‘Of course you say so,’ returned Aurelia. ‘I will believe you if you give me back the paper I signed, and trust to my word for the fulfilment of what I promised.’
Leander smiled, almost as if he had heard some happy intelligence.
‘You ask,’ he said, ‘for a trust you yourself refuse.’
‘Then go your way, perjurer62!’ exclaimed Aurelia, her cheeks aflame with passion. ‘I know henceforth on whom to rely.’
For a moment Leander stood as if reflecting on these last words; then he bowed, and with placid63 dignity retired64.
Meanwhile Basil and Decius were conversing65 with Petronilla. Neither of them had ever stood on terms of more than courteous66 forbearance with this authoritative67 lady; at present they maintained their usual demeanour, and did not think it needful to apologise for friendly relations with Aurelia. The only subject on which Petronilla deigned to hold colloquy68 with them was that of her brother’s burial at Rome. Should the transport be by land or by sea? This evening the corpse would be conveyed to the cathedral of Surrentum, where due rites would be performed early on the morrow; there it would remain in temporary interment until a coffin69 of lead could be prepared, and arrangements completed for the removal. Was the year too advanced, questioned Petronilla, to allow of the sea voyage? On the other hand, would the land journey be safe, having regard to the advance of the Gothic army? Basil pronounced for the sea, and undertook to seek for a vessel70. Was he willing, asked Petronilla, to accompany the body to Rome? This question gave Basil pause; he reflected uneasily; he hesitated. Yet who could discharge this duty, if he did not? Suddenly ashamed of his hesitation71, the true reason of which could not be avowed72, he declared that he would make the voyage.
Hereupon entered the deacon, who, the matter being put before him, approved these arrangements. He himself would doubtless be in Rome before the arrival of the remains73 of Maximus, and all the details of the burial there might be left to him. So Petronilla thanked and dismissed the young men, on whose retirement74 she turned eagerly to Leander.
‘Forgive me!’ broke from her lips. ‘I know how deeply I have offended your Sanctity. It was my fear that you would go away without a word. My haste, my vehemence75, merited even that punishment.’
‘Calm yourself, noble lady,’ returned the deacon. ‘I was indeed grieved, but I know your provocation76. We may speak on this subject again; but not here. For the present, I take my leave of you, all being ready for my departure. As you are quitting this house at once, you need no counsel as to immediate77 difficulties; I will only say, in all things be prudent78, be self-controlled; before long, you may see reason for the discreet79 silence which I urge upon you.’
‘When do you set forth to Rome?’ asked Petronilla. ‘If it might be my privilege to journey in your company—?’
‘The day is uncertain,’ replied Leander; ‘but if it be possible for us to travel together, trust me to beg for the honour. You shall hear of my projects in a week’s time from Neapolis.’
Petronilla fell to her knees, and again besought his forgiveness with his benediction80. The deacon magnanimously granted both, and whilst bending over the devout81 lady, whispered one word:
‘Patience!’
An hour after mid-day, Petronilla quitted the villa. Her great travelling chariot, drawn82 by four mules83, wherein she and her most precious possessions were conveyed, descended at a stately pace the winding84 road to Surrentum. Before it rode Basil; behind came a laden85 wagon86, two light vehicles carrying female slaves, and mounted men-servants, armed as though for a long and perilous87 journey. Since the encounter before sunrise, there had been no meeting between the hostile ladies. Aurelia signified her scorn by paying no heed88 to her aunt’s departure.
Alone in her dominion89, the inheritress entered the death-chamber, and there passed an hour upon her knees. Whilst she was thus secluded90, a pealing91 storm traversed the sky. When Aurelia came forth again, her face was wan92, tearstained. She summoned her nurse, and held much talk with her as to the significance of thunder whilst a corpse lay in the house. The good woman, though she durst not utter all her thoughts, babbled93 concern, and used the occasion to beseech94 Aurelia—as she had often done since the death of her Gothic lord—to be reconciled with the true church.
‘True church!’ exclaimed Aurelia, with sudden passion. ‘How do you know which is the true church? Have not emperors, have not bishops95 and numberless holy men lived and died in the faith I confess—?’
She checked herself; grew silent, brooded. Meanwhile, the old nurse talked on, and presently began to relate how a handmaid of Petronilla, in going with her this morning, professed96 to know on the surest evidence that Aurelia, by her father’s deathbed, had renounced Arianism. The sullen97 countenance of her mistress flashed again into wrath.
‘Did I not forbid you,’ cried Aurelia, ‘to converse98 with those women? And you dare repeat to me their loose-lipped chatter99. I am too familiar with you; go and talk with your kind; go!’
Mutteringly the woman went apart. The mistress, alone, fell into a long weeping. When she had sobbed100 herself into quiet once more, she sought a volume of the Gospels, inserted her forefinger101 between the pages at random102, and anxiously regarded the passage thus chosen.
‘While ye have the light, believe in the light, that ye may be the children of light.’
She brooded, but in the end seemed to find solace103.
Basil was absent all day. On his return, just before sunset, Aurelia met him in the atrium, heard the report of what he had done, and at length asked whether, on the day after tomorrow, he could go to Cumae.
‘To Cumae?’ exclaimed Basil. ‘Ay, that I can! You are returning thither104?’
‘For a day only. I go to seek that which no one but myself can find.’
The listener had no difficulty in understanding this; it meant, of course, treasure concealed105 in the house Aurelia had long inhabited.
‘We must both go and return by sea,’ said Aurelia, ‘even though it cause us delay. I have no mind to pass through Neapolis.’
‘Be it so. The sky will be calm when this storm has passed Shall you return,’ said Basil, ‘alone?’
‘Alone? Do you purpose to forsake106 me?’
‘Think better of my manners, cousin—and more shrewdly of my meaning.’
‘You mean fairly, I trust?’ she returned, looking him steadily107 in the face.
‘Nay,’ cried the young man vehemently108, ‘if I have any thought other than honest, may I perish before I ever again behold109 her!’
Aurelia’s gaze softened110.
‘It is well,’ she said; ‘we will speak again tomorrow.’
That night Petronilla kept vigil in the church of Surrentum, Basil and Decius relieving her an hour before dawn. At the funeral service, which began soon after sunrise, the greater part of the townsfolk attended. All were eager to see whether the daughter of Maximus would be present, for many rumours111 were rife112 touching113 Aurelia, some declaring that she had returned to the true faith, some that she remained obstinate in heresy114. Her failure to appear did not set the debate at rest. A servant of Petronilla whispered it about that only by a false pretence115 of conversion116 had Aurelia made sure her inheritance; and at the mere117 thought of such wickedness the hearers shuddered118, foretelling119 a dread120 retribution. The clergy were mute on the subject, even with the most favoured of their flock. Meanwhile the piety121 and austerity of Petronilla made a safe topic of talk, and a long procession reverently escorted her to her temporary abode122 near the bishop’s house.
To-day the clouds spent themselves in rain; before nightfall the heavens began to clear. The island peak of Inarime stood purple against a crimson123 sunset. After supper, Aurelia and Basil held conference. The wind would not be favourable124 for their voyage; none the less, they decided125 to start at the earliest possible hour. Dawn was but just streaking126 the sky, when they rode down the dark gorge127 which led to the shore, Basil attended by Felix, the lady by one maid. The bark awaited them, swaying gently against the harbour-side. Aurelia descended to the little cabin curtained off below a half-deck, and—sails as yet being useless—four great oars128 urged the craft on its way.
What little wind there was breathed from the north For an hour they made but slow progress, but when the first rays of sun gleamed above the mountains, the breeze shifted westward129; sails were presently hoisted130, and the rippling131 water hissed132 before the prow133. Soon a golden day shone upon sea and land. Aurelia came forth on to the deck, and sat gazing towards Neapolis.
‘You know that the deacon is yonder,’ she said in a low voice to Basil, this the first mention of Leander that had fallen from her lips in speaking with him.
‘Is he?’ returned the other carelessly. ‘Yes, I remember.’
But Basil’s eyes were turned to the long promontory134 of Misenum. He was wondering anxiously how his letter had affected135 Veranilda, and whether, when she heard of it, Aurelia would be angered.
‘Where is your friend Marcian?’ were her next words.
Basil replied that he, too, was sojourning at Neapolis; and, when Aurelia inquired what business held him there, her cousin answered truly that he did not know.
‘Do you trust him?’ asked the lady, after a thoughtful pause.
‘Marcian? As I trust myself!’
One of the boatmen coming within earshot, their conversation ceased.
The hour before noon saw them drawing near to land. They left on the right the little island of Nesis, and drew towards Puteoli. On the left lay Baiae, all but forsaken136, its ancient temples and villas137 stretching along the shore from the Lucrine lake to the harbour shadowed by Cape138 Misenum; desolate139 magnificence, marble overgrown with ivy140, gardens where the rose grew wild, and terraces crumbling141 into the sea. Basil and Aurelia looked upon these things with an eye made careless by familiarity; all their lives ruin had lain about them, deserted142 sanctuaries143 of a bygone creed144, unpeopled homes of a vanished greatness.
As the boat advanced into the bay, it lost the wind, and rowing again became needful. Thus they entered the harbour of Puteoli, where the travellers disembarked.
Hard by the port was a tavern145, which, owing to its position midway between Neapolis and Cumae, still retained something of its character as a mansio of the posting service; but the vehicles and quadrupeds of which it boasted were no longer held in strict reserve for state officials and persons privileged. Gladly the innkeeper put at Basil’s disposal his one covered carriage, a trifle cleaner inside than it was without, and a couple of saddle horses, declared to be Sicilian, but advanced in age. Thus, with slight delay, the party pursued their journey, Basil and his man riding before the carriage. The road ran coastwise as far as the Julian haven146, once thronged147 with the shipping148 of the Roman world, now all but abandoned to a few fishermen; there it turned inland, skirted the Lucrine water, and presently reached the shore of Lake Avernus, where was the entrance to the long tunnel piercing the hill between the lake and Cumae. On an ill-kept way, under a low vault149 of rock dripping moisture, the carriage with difficulty tossed and rumbled150 through the gloom. Basil impatiently trotted151 on, and, as he issued into sunlight, there before him stood the walls of the ancient city, round about that little hill by the sea which, in an age remote, had been chosen for their abode by the first Hellenes tempted152 to the land of Italy. High above rose the acropolis, a frowning stronghold. Through Basil’s mind passed the thought that ere long Cumae might again belong to the Goths, and this caused him no uneasiness; half, perchance, he hoped it.
A guard at the city gate inspected the carriage, and let it pass on. In a few minutes, guided by Basil, it drew up before a house in a narrow, climbing street, a small house, brick fronted, with stucco pilasters painted red at the door, and two windows, closed with wooden shutters153, in the upper storey. On one side of the entrance stood a shop for the sale of earthenware154; on the other, a vintner’s with a projecting marble table, the jars of wine thereon exhibited being attached by chains to rings in the wall. Odours of cookery, and of worse things, oppressed the air, and down the street ran a noisome155 gutter156. When Basil’s servant had knocked, a little wicket slipped aside for observation; then, after a grinding of heavy locks and bars, the double doors were opened, and a grey-headed slave stepped forward to receive his mistress. Basil had jumped down from his horse, and would fain have entered, but, by an arrangement already made, this was forbidden. Saying that she would expect him at the second hour on the morrow, Aurelia disappeared. Her cousin after a longing157 look at the blind and mute house, rode away to another quarter of the city, near the harbour, where was an inn at which he had lodged158 during his previous visit. In a poor and dirty room, he made shift to dine on such food as could be offered him; then lay down on the truckle bed, and slept for an hour or two.
A knock at the door awoke him. It was Felix, who brought the news that Marcian was at Cumae.
‘You have seen him?’ cried Basil, astonished and eager.
‘His servant Sagaris,’ Felix replied. ‘I met him but now in the forum159, and learnt that his lord lodges160 at the house of the curial Venustus; hard by the Temple of Diana.’
‘Go thither at once, and beg him, if his leisure serve, to come to me. I would go myself; but, if he have seen Sagaris, he may be already on the way here.’
And so it proved, for in a very few minutes Marcian himself entered the room.
‘Your uncle is dead,’ were his first words. ‘I heard it in Neapolis yesterday. What brings you here?’
‘Nay, best Marcian,’ returned the other, with hands on his friend’s shoulders, and peering him in the face, ‘let me once again put that question to you.’
‘I cannot answer it, yet,’ said Marcian gravely. ‘Your business is more easily guessed.’
‘But must not be talked of here,’ interrupted Basil, glancing at the door. ‘Let us find some more suitable place.’
They descended the dark, foul161 stairs, and went out together. Before the house stood the two serving-men, who, as their masters walked away, followed at a respectful distance. When safe from being overheard, Basil recounted to his friend the course of events at the Surrentine villa since Marcian’s departure, made known his suspicion that Aurelia had secretly returned to the Catholic faith. He then told of to day’s journey and its purpose, his hearer wearing a look of grave attention.
‘Can it be,’ asked Marcian, ‘that you think of wedding this Gothic beauty?’
‘Assuredly,’ answered Basil, with a laugh, ‘I have thought of it.’
‘And it looks as though Aurelia favoured your desire.’
‘It has indeed something of that appearance.’
‘Pray you now, dear lord,’ said Marcian, ‘be sober awhile. Have you reflected that, with such a wife, you would not dare return to Rome?’
Basil had not regarded that aspect of the matter, but his friend’s reasoning soon brought him to perceive the danger he would lightly have incurred162. Dangers, not merely those that resulted from the war; could he suppose, asked Marcian, that Heliodora would meekly163 endure his disdain, and that the life of Veranilda would be safe in such a rival’s proximity164? Hereat, Basil gnashed his teeth and handled his dagger165. Why return to Rome at all? he cried impatiently. He had no mind to go through the torments166 of a long siege such as again threatened. Why should he not live on in Campania—
‘And tend your sheep or your goats?’ interrupted Marcian, with his familiar note of sad irony167. ‘And pipe sub tegmine fagi to your blue-eyed Amaryllis? Why not, indeed? But what if; on learning the death of Maximus, the Thracian who rules yonder see fit to command your instant return, and to exact from you an account of what you have inherited? Bessas loses no time—suspecting—perhaps—that his tenure168 of a fruitful office may not be long.’
‘And if the suspicion be just?’ said Basil, gazing hard at his friend.
‘Well, if it be?’ said the other, returning the look.
‘Should we not do well to hold far from Rome, looking to King Totila, whom men praise, as a deliverer of our land from hateful tyranny?’
Marcian laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
‘O, brave Basil!’ he murmured, with a smile. ‘O, nobly confident in those you love! Never did man so merit love in return.—Do as you will. In a few days I shall again visit you at Surrentum, and perchance bring news that may give us matter for talk.’
From a portico169 hard by there approached a beggar, a filthy170 and hideous171 cripple, who, with whining172 prayer, besought alms. Marcian from his wallet took a copper173 coin, and, having glanced at it, drew Basil’s attention.
‘Look,’ said he, smiling oddly, ‘at the image and the superscription.’
It was a coin of Vitiges, showing a helmeted bust24 of the goddess of the city, with legend ‘Invicta Roma.’
‘Invicta Roma,’ muttered Basil sadly, with head bent.
Meanwhile, out of earshot of their masters, the two servants conversed174 with not less intimacy175. At a glance these men were seen to be of different races. Felix, aged176 some five and thirty, could boast of free birth; he was the son of a curial—that is to say, municipal councillor—of Arpinum, who had been brought to ruin, like so many of his class in this age, by fiscal177 burdens, the curiales being responsible for the taxes payable178 by their colleagues, as well as for the dues on any estate in their district which might be abandoned, and, in brief, for whatsoever179 deficiencies of local revenue. Gravity and sincerity180 appeared in his countenance; he seldom smiled, spoke in a subdued181 voice, and often kept his eyes on the ground; but his service was performed with rare conscientiousness182, and he had often given proof of affection for his master. Sagaris, a Syrian slave, less than thirty years old, had a comely183 visage which ever seemed to shine with contentment, and often twinkled with a sort of roguish mirth. Tall and of graceful184 bearing, the man’s every movement betrayed personal vanity; his speech had the note of facile obsequiousness185; he talked whenever occasion offered, and was fond of airing his views on political and other high matters. Therewithal, he was the most superstitious186 of mortals; wore amulets187, phylacteries, charms of all sorts, and secretly prayed to many strange gods. When he had nothing else to do, and could find a genial188 companion, his delight was to play by the hour at micare digitis; but, in spite of his master’s good opinion, not to Sagaris would have applied189 the proverb that you might play that game with him in the dark.
‘Take my word for it,’ he whispered to Felix, with his most important air, ‘we shall see strange things ere long. Last night I counted seven shooting stars.’
‘What does that argue?’ asked the other soberly.
‘More than I care to put into Latin. At Capua, three days ago, a woman gave birth to a serpent, a winged dragon, which flew away towards Rome. I talked at Neapolis with a man who saw it.’
‘Strange, indeed,’ murmured Felix, with raised eyebrows190. ‘I have often heard of such portents191, but never had the luck to behold one of them. Yet,’ he added gravely, ‘I have received a sign. When my father died, I was far away from him, and at that very hour, as I prayed in the church of Holy Clement192 at Rome, I heard a voice that said in my ear, Vale! three times.’
‘Oh, I have had signs far more wonderful than that,’ exclaimed the Syrian. ‘I was at sea, between Alexandria and Berytus—for you must know that in my boyhood I passed three years at Berytus, and there obtained that knowledge of law which you may have remarked in talking with me—well, I was at sea—’
‘Peace!’ interposed Felix. ‘We are summoned.’
Sagaris sighed, and became the obsequious attendant.
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1
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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colloquies
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| n.谈话，对话( colloquy的名词复数 ) | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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6
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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23
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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24
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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25
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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26
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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27
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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28
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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29
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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30
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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31
suavely
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32
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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33
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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34
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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35
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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36
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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37
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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38
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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39
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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40
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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41
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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42
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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43
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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44
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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45
scanted
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| 不足的，缺乏的( scant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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47
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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48
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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49
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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50
fixedness
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| n.固定；稳定；稳固 | |
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51
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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53
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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54
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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55
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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56
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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58
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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59
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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60
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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61
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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62
perjurer
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| n.伪誓者，伪证者 | |
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63
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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64
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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65
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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66
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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67
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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68
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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69
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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70
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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71
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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72
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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73
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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74
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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75
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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76
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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77
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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78
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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79
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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80
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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81
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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82
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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83
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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84
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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85
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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86
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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87
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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88
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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89
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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90
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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91
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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92
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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93
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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94
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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95
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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96
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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97
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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98
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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99
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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100
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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101
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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102
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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103
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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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
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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106
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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107
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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108
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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109
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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110
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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111
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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112
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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113
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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114
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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115
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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116
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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117
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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118
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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119
foretelling
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的现在分词 ) | |
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120
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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121
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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122
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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123
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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124
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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125
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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126
streaking
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| n.裸奔（指在公共场所裸体飞跑）v.快速移动( streak的现在分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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127
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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128
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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129
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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130
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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132
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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133
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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134
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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135
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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136
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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137
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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138
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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139
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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140
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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141
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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142
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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143
sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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144
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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145
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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146
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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147
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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149
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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150
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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151
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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152
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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153
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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154
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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155
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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156
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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157
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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158
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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159
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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160
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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161
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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162
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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163
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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164
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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165
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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166
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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167
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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168
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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169
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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170
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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171
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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172
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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173
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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174
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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175
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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176
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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177
fiscal
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| adj.财政的，会计的，国库的，国库岁入的 | |
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178
payable
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| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
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179
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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180
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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181
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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182
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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183
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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184
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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185
obsequiousness
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| 媚骨 | |
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186
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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187
amulets
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| n.护身符( amulet的名词复数 ) | |
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188
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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189
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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190
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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191
portents
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| n.预兆( portent的名词复数 )；征兆；怪事；奇物 | |
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192
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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