Such a personage was Venantius, son of a senator of the same name, who, under Theodoric, had attained12 the dignity of Patrician13 and what other titular14 glories the time afforded. Venantius, the younger, coming into possession of an estate between Neapolis and Salernum, here took up his abode15 after the siege of Rome, and lived as seemed good to him, lord over the little town of Nuceria, and of a considerable tract16 of country, with a villa9 converted into a stronghold up on the mountain side. Having suffered wrongs at the hands of the Imperial conquerors—property of his in Rome had been seized—he heard with satisfaction of the rise of Totila, and, as soon as the king’s progress southward justified17 such a step, entered into friendly communication with the Goth, whom he invited to come with all speed into Campania, where Salernum, Neapolis, Cumae, would readily fall into his hands. Marcian, on his double mission of spy in the Greek service and friend of the Goths, had naturally sought out Venantius; and the description he gave to Basil of the fortress18 above Nuceria filled the listener with enthusiasm.
‘I would I could live in the same way,’ Basil exclaimed. ‘And why not? My own villa in Picenum might be strengthened with walls and towers. We have stone enough, and no lack of men to build.’
Yet as he spoke19 a misgiving20 betrayed itself on his countenance21. Consciously or not, he had always had before him a life at Rome, the life which became a Roman, as distinguished22 from a barbarian23. But the need to seek security for Veranilda again became vivid to his mind. At Rome, clearly, he could not live with his wife until the Goths had reconquered the city, which was not likely to happen soon. His means were represented chiefly by the Arpinum estate, which he had inherited from his father; in Rome he had nothing but his mansion25 on the Caelian. The treasure at his command, a considerable sum, he had brought away in a strong box, and it was now more than doubled in value by what fell to him under the will of Maximus—money to be paid out of the great coffer which the senator had conveyed hither. As they talked, Marcian urged upon him a close friendship with Venantius, in whose castle he would be welcomed. Here at Surrentum he could not long rest in safety, for Chorsoman might at any time have his suspicions awakened26 by learning the delay of Veranilda’s journey to Rome, and the news of her marriage could not be prevented from spreading.
So Basil lay through an anxious hour or two before sleep fell upon him to-night. He resolved to change the habits of his life, to shake off indolence and the love of ease, to fortify7 himself with vigorous exercises, and become ready for warfare27. It was all very well for an invalid28, like Decius, to nurse a tranquil29 existence, unheeding the temper of the times. A strong and healthy man had no right to lurk30 away from the streaming flood of things; it behoved him to take his part in strife31 and tumult32, to aid in reestablishing a civic33 state. This determination firmly grasped, he turned to think of the hoped-for meeting with Veranilda in the morning, and gentler emotions lulled34 him into dreams.
At dawn he bestirred himself. The gallery outside his chamber35 was lighted with a hanging lamp, and at a little distance sounded the footstep of the watchman, who told him that the morning was fair, and, at his bidding, opened a door which admitted to the open terrace overlooking the sea. Having stepped forth36, Basil stood for a moment sniffing37 the cool air with its scent38 from the vineyards, and looking at the yellow rift39 in the eastern sky; then he followed a path which skirted the villa’s outward wall and led towards the dwelling41 of Aurelia. Presently he reached the ruined wall of the little garden, and here a voice challenged him, that of a servant on watch until sunrise.
‘It is well,’ he replied. ‘I will relieve you for this last half hour; go to your rest.’
But the slave hesitated. He had strictest orders, and feared to disobey them even at this bidding.
‘You are an honest fellow,’ said Basil, ‘and the lady Aurelia shall know of your steadfastness42. But get you gone; there is no danger whilst I am here.’
Impatiently he watched the man retire, then stood just within the gap of the wall, and waited with as much fear as hope. It might be that Veranilda would not venture forth without speaking to Aurelia, who might forbid the meeting; or, if she tried to steal out, she might be detected and hindered; perhaps she would fear to pass under the eyes of a watchman or other servant who might be in her way. He stamped nervously43, and turned to look for a moment in the outward direction. This little villa stood on the edge of a declivity44 falling towards the sea; a thicket45 of myrtles grew below. At the distance of half a mile along the coast, beyond a hollow wooded with ilex, rose a temple, which time and the hand of man had yet spared; its whiteness glimmered46 against a sky whose cloudless dusk was warming with a reflection of the daybreak. An influence in the scene before him, something he neither understood nor tried to understand, held him gazing longer than he supposed, and with a start he heard his name spoken by the beloved voice. Close to him stood Veranilda. She was cloaked and hooded47, so that he could hardly see her face; but her white hands were held out for his.
Heart to heart, mouth to mouth, they whispered. To be more private, Basil drew her without the garden. Veranilda’s eyes fixed48 themselves upon the spreading glory of the east; and it moved her to utterance49.
‘When I was a child,’ she said, ‘at Ravenna, I gazed once at the sunrise, and behold50, in the rays which shot upwards51 stood an angel, a great, beautiful angel, with wings of blue, and a garment which shone like gold, and on his head was a wreath of I know not what flowers. I ran to tell my mother, but when she came, alas52! the angel had vanished. No one could tell me certainly what the vision meant. Often I have looked and hoped to see the angel again, but he has never come.’
Basil listened without a doubt, and murmured soft words. Then he asked whether Aurelia knew of this meeting; but Veranilda shook her head.
‘I durst not speak. I so feared to disappoint you. This night I have hardly slept, lest I should miss the moment. Should I not return very soon, O Basil?’
‘You shall; though your going will make the sky black as when Auster blows. But it is not for long. A few days—’
He broke off with the little laugh of a triumphing lover.
‘A few days?’ responded Veranilda, timidly questioning.
‘We wait only until that dark ship has sailed for Rome.’ ‘Does Aurelia know that you purpose it so soon?’ asked Veranilda.
‘Why? Has she seemed to you to wish otherwise?’
‘She has never spoken of it.—And afterwards? Shall we remain here, Basil?’
‘For no long time. Here I am but a guest. We must dwell where I am lord and you lady of all about us.’
He told her of his possessions, of the great house in Rome with the villa at Arpinum. Then he asked her, playfully, but with a serious purpose in his mind, which of the two she would prefer for an abode.
‘I have no choice but yours,’ she replied. ‘Where it seems good to my dear lord to dwell, there shall I be at rest.’
‘We must be safe against our enemies,’ said Basil, with graver countenance.
‘Our enemies?’
‘Has not Aurelia talked to you of the war? You know that the Gothic king is conquering all before him, coming from the north?’
Veranilda looked into her lover’s face with a tender anxiety.
‘And you fear him, O Basil? It is he that is our enemy?’
‘Not so, sweetest. No foe53 of mine is he who wears the crown of Theodoric. They whom I fear and abhor54 are the slaves of Justinian, the robber captains who rule at Ravenna and in Rome.’
As she heard him, Veranilda trembled with joy. She caught his hand, and bent55 over it, and kissed it.
‘Had I been the enemy of Totila,’ said Basil, ‘could you still have loved me as a wife should love?’
‘I had not asked myself,’ she answered, ‘for it was needless. When I look on you, I think neither of Roman nor of Goth.’
Basil spoke of his hope that Rome might be restored to the same freedom it had enjoyed under the great king. Then they would dwell together in the sacred city. That, too, was Veranilda’s desire; for on her ear the name of Rome fell with a magic sound; all her life she had heard it spoken reverentially, with awe56, yet the city itself she had never seen. Rome, she knew, was vast; there, it seemed to her, she would live unobserved, unthought of save by him she loved. Seclusion57 from all strangers, from all who, learning her origin, would regard her slightingly, was what her soul desired.
Day had broken; behind the mountains there was light of the sun. Once more they held each other heart to heart, and Veranilda hastened through the garden to regain58 her chamber. Basil stood for some minutes lost in a delicious dream; the rising day made his face beautiful, his eyes gleamed with an unutterable rapture59. At length he sighed and awoke and looked about him. At no great distance, as though just issued from the ilex wood, moved a man’s figure. It approached very slowly, and Basil watched until he saw that the man was bent as if with age, and had black garments such as were worn by wandering mendicant60 monks62. Carelessly he turned, and went his way back to the villa.
An hour later, Aurelia learnt that a ‘holy man,’ a pilgrim much travel worn, was begging to be admitted to her. She refused to see him. Still he urged his entreaty63, declaring that he had a precious gift for her acceptance, and an important message for her ear. At length he was allowed to enter the atrium, and Aurelia saw before her a man in black monkish64 habit, his body bent and tremulous, but evidently not with age, for his aspect otherwise was that of middle life. What, she asked briefly65 and coldly, was his business with her? Thereupon the monk61 drew from his bosom66 a small wrappage of tissues, which when unfolded disclosed a scrap67 of something hairy.
‘This, noble lady,’ said the monk, in a voice reverently68 subdued69, ‘is from the camel-hair garment of Holy John the Baptist. I had it of a hermit70 in the Egyptian desert, who not many days after I quitted him was for his sanctity borne up to heaven by angels, and knew not death.’
Aurelia viewed the relic71 with emotion.
‘Why,’ she asked, ‘do you offer it to me?’
The monk drew a step nearer and whispered:
‘Because I know that you, like him from whom I received it, are of the true faith.’
Aurelia observed him closely. His robe was ragged72 and filthy73; his bare feet were thick with the dust of the road; his visage, much begrimed, wore an expression of habitual74 suffering, and sighs as of pain frequently broke from him. The hand by which he supported himself on a staff trembled as with weakness.
‘You are not a presbyter?’ she said in an undertone, after a glance at his untonsured head.
‘I am unworthy of the meanest order in the Church. In pilgrimings and fastings I do penance75 for a sin of youth. You see how wasted is my flesh.’
‘What, then,’ asked Aurelia, ‘was the message you said you bore for me?’
‘This. Though I myself have no power to perform the sacraments of our faith, I tend upon one who has. He lies not far from here, like myself sick and weary, and, because of a vow76, may not come within the precincts of any dwelling. In Macedonia, oppressed by our persecutors, he was long imprisoned77, and so sorely tormented79 that, in a moment when the Evil One prevailed over his flesh, he denied the truth. This sin gave him liberty, but scarce had he come forth when a torment78 of the soul, far worse than that of his body, fell upon him. He was delivered over to the Demon80, and, being yet alive, saw about him the fires of Gehenna. Thus, for a season, did he suffer things unspeakable, wandering in desert places, ahungered, athirst, faint unto death, yet not permitted to die. One night of storm, he crept for shelter into the ruins of a heathen temple. Of a sudden, a dreadful light shone about him, and he beheld81 the Demon in the guise82 of that false god, who fell upon him and seemed like to slay83 him. But Sisinnius—so is the holy man named—strove in prayer and in conjuration, yea, strove hours until the crowing of the cock, and thus sank into slumber84. And while he slept, an angel of the Most High appeared before him, and spoke words which I know not. Since then, Sisinnius wanders from land to land, seeking out the temples of the heathen which have not been purified, and passing the night in strife with the Powers of Darkness, wherein he is ever victorious85.’
With intent look did Aurelia listen to this narrative86. At its close, she asked eagerly:
‘This man of God has sent you to me?’
‘Moved by a vision—for in the sleep which follows upon his struggle it is often granted him to see beyond this world. He bids you resist temptation, and be of good courage.’
‘Know you what this bidding means?’ inquired the awed87 woman, gazing into the monk’s eyes till they fell.
‘I know nothing. I am but a follower88 of the holy Sisinnius—an unworthy follower.’
‘May I not speak with him?’
The monk had a troubled look.
‘I have told you, lady, that he must not, by reason of his vow, enter a human dwelling.’
‘But may I not go to him?’ she urged. ‘May I not seek him in his solitude89, guided by you?’
To this, said the monk, he could give no reply until he had spoken with Sisinnius. He promised to do so, and to return, though he knew not at what hour, nor even whether it would be this day. And, after demanding many assurances that he would come again as speedily as might be, Aurelia allowed the messenger to depart.
Meanwhile Basil and Marcian have spent an hour in talk, the result of which was a decision that Marcian should again repair to the stronghold of Venantius, and persuade him to come over to Surrentum. When his friend had ridden forth Basil sought conversation with Aurelia, whom he found in a mood unlike any she had yet shown to him, a mood of dreamy trouble, some suppressed emotion appearing in her look and in her speech. He began by telling her of Venantius, but this seemed to interest her less than he had expected.
‘Cousin,’ he resumed, ‘I have a double thought in desiring that Venantius should come hither. It is not only that I may talk with him of the war, and learn his hopes, but that I may secure a safe retreat for Veranilda when she is my wife, and for you, dear cousin, if you desire it.’
He spoke as strongly as he could without revealing the secret danger, of the risks to which they would all be exposed when rumours90 of his marriage reached the governor of Cumae, or the Greeks in Neapolis. Until the Goths reached Campania, a Roman here who fell under suspicion of favouring them must be prepared either to flee or to defend himself. Defence of this villa was impossible even against the smallest body of soldiers, but within the walls, raised and fortified91 by Venantius, a long siege might be safely sustained.
‘It is true,’ said Aurelia at length, as if rousing herself from her abstraction, ‘that we must think of safety. But you are not yet wedded92.’
‘A few days hence I shall be.’
‘Have you forgotten,’ she resumed, meeting his resolute93 smile, ‘what still divides you from Veranilda?’
‘You mean the difference of religion. Tell me, did that stand in the way of your marriage with a Goth?’
She cast down her eyes and was silent.
‘Was your marriage,’ Basil went on, ‘blessed by a Catholic or by an Arian presbyter?’
‘By neither,’ replied Aurelia gently.
‘Then why may it not be so with me and Veranilda? And so it shall be, lady cousin,’ he added cheerily. ‘Our good Decius will be gone; we await the sailing of the ship; but you and Marcian, and perhaps Venantius, will be our witnesses.’
For the validity of Christian94 wedlock95 no religious rite24 was necessary: the sufficient, the one indispensable, condition was mutual96 consent. The Church favoured a union which had been sanctified by the oblation97 and the blessing98, but no ecclesiastical law imposed this ceremony. As in the days of the old religion, a man wedded his bride by putting the ring upon her finger and delivering her dowry in a written document, before chosen witnesses. Aurelia knew that even as this marriage had satisfied her, so would it suffice to Veranilda, whom a rapturous love made careless of doctrinal differences: She perceived, moreover, that Basil was in no mood for religious discussion; there was little hope that he would consent to postpone99 his marriage on such an account; yet to convert Basil to ‘heresy’ was a fine revenge she would not willingly forego, her own bias100 to Arianism being stronger than ever since the wrong she believed herself to have suffered at the hands of the deacon, and the insult cast at her by her long-hated aunt. After years of bitterness, her triumph seemed assured. It was much to have inherited from her father, to have expelled Petronilla; but the marriage of Basil with a Goth, his renunciation of Catholicism, and with it the Imperial cause, were greater things, and together with their attainment101 she foredreamt the greatest of all, Totila’s complete conquest of Italy. She saw herself mistress in the Anician palace at Rome, commanding vast wealth, her enemies mute, powerless, submissive before her. Then, if it seemed good to her, she would again wed40, and her excited imagination deigned102 to think of no spouse103 save him whose alliance would make her royal.
Providential was the coming of the holy Sisinnius. Beyond doubt he had the gift of prophecy. From him she would not only receive the consolations104 of religion, but might learn what awaited her. Very slowly passed the hours until the reappearance of the black monk. He came when day was declining, and joyfully105 she learnt that Sisinnius permitted her to visit him; it must be on the morrow at the second hour, the place a spot in the ilex wood, not far away, whither the monk would guide her. But she must come alone; were she accompanied, even at a distance, by any attendant, Sisinnius would refuse to see her. To all the conditions Aurelia readily consented, and bade the monk meet her at the appointed hour by the breach106 in her garden wall.
On the morrow there was no glory of sunrise; clouds hung heavy, and a sobbing107 wind shook the dry leaves of the vine. But at the second hour, after pretence108 of idling about the garden, Aurelia saw approach the black, bowed figure, with a gesture bade him go before, and followed. She was absent not long enough to excite the remark of her household. In going forth she had been pale with agitation109; at her return she had a fire in her cheeks, a lustre110 in her eyes, which told of hopes abundantly fulfilled. At once she sought Veranilda, to whom she had not yet spoken of the monk’s visit. At this juncture111 the coming even of an ordinary priest of the Arian faith would have been more than welcome to them, living as they perforce did without office or sacrament; but Sisinnius, declared Aurelia, was a veritable man of God, one who had visions and saw into the future, one whom merely to behold was a sacred privilege. She had begged his permission to visit him again, with Veranilda, and he had consented; but a few days must pass before that, as the holy man was called away she knew not whither. When he summoned them they must go forth in early morning, to a certain cave near at hand, where Sisinnius would say mass and administer to them the communion. Hearing such news, Veranilda gladdened.
‘Will the holy man reveal our fate to us?’ she asked, with a child’s simplicity112.
‘To me he has already uttered a prophetic word,’ answered Aurelia, ‘but I may not repeat it, no, not even to you. Enough that it has filled my soul with wonder and joy.’
‘May that joy also be mine!’ said Veranilda, pressing her hands together.
This afternoon, when Basil sat with her and Aurelia, she took her cithern, and in a low voice sang songs she had heard her mother sing, in the days before shame and sorrow fell upon Theodenantha. There were old ballads113 of the Goths, oftener stern than tender, but to the listeners, ignorant of her tongue, Veranilda’s singing made them sweet as lover’s praise. One little song was Greek; it was all she knew of that language, and the sole inheritance that had come to her from her Greek-loving grandparent, the King Theodahad.
Auster was blowing; great lurid114 clouds rolled above the dark green waters, and at evening rain began to fall. Through the next day, and the day after that, the sky still lowered; there was thunder of waves upon the shore; at times a mist swept down from the mountains, which enveloped115 all in gloom. To Basil and Veranilda it mattered nothing. Where they sat together there was sunshine, and before them gleamed an eternity116 of cloudless azure117.
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1
citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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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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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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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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fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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titular
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| adj.名义上的，有名无实的；n.只有名义（或头衔）的人 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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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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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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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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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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46
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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48
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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49
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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50
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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51
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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52
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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53
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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54
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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55
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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56
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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57
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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58
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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59
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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60
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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61
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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62
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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63
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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64
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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65
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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66
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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67
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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68
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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69
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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70
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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71
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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72
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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73
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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74
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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75
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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76
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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79
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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80
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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81
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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82
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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83
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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84
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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85
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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86
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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87
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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88
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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89
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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91
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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92
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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94
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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95
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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96
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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97
oblation
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| n.圣餐式；祭品 | |
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98
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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99
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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100
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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101
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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102
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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104
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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105
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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106
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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107
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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108
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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109
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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110
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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111
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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112
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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113
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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114
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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115
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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117
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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