His family, active in public services under Theodoric, had suffered great losses in the early years of the war; and Marcian, who, as a very young man, held a post under the Praetorian Prefect at Ravenna, found himself reduced to narrow circumstances. After the fall of Ravenna, he came to Rome (accompanied on the journey by Basil, with whom his intimacy17 then began), and ere long, necessity driving him to expedients18 for which he had no natural inclination19, he entered upon that life of double treachery which he had avowed20 to his friend. As the world went, Marcian was an honest man: he kept before him an ideal of personal rectitude; he believed himself, and hitherto with reason, incapable22 of falsity to those who trusted him in the relations of private life. Moreover, he had a sense of religion, which at times, taking the form of an overpowering sense of sin, plunged23 him into gloom. Though burdened in conscience with no crime, he was subject in a notable degree to that malady24 of his world, the disposition25 to regard all human kind, and himself especially, as impure26, depraved. Often at the mercy of his passions, he refrained from marriage chiefly on this very account, the married state seeming to him a mere27 compromise with the evil of the flesh; but in his house were two children, born to him by a slave now dead, and these he would already have sent into a monastery28, but that human affection struggled against what he deemed duty. The man lived in dread29 of eternal judgment30; he could not look at a setting sun without having his thought turned to the fires of hell, and a night of wakefulness, common enough in his imperfect health, shook him with horrors unutterable. Being of such mind and temper, it was strange that he had not long ago joined the multitude of those who day by day fled from worldly life into ascetic31 seclusion32; what withheld33 him was a spark of the ancestral spirit, some drops of the old Roman blood, prompting his human nature to assert and justify34 itself. Hence the sympathy between him and Basil, both being capable of patriotism35, and feeling a desire in the depths of their hearts to live as they would have lived had they been born in an earlier time. But whereas Basil nursed this disposition, regarding it as altogether laudable, Marcian could only see in it an outcome of original sin, and after every indulgence of such mundane36 thoughts did penance37 as for something worse than weakness. His father had died in an anguish38 of compunction for a life stained with sensuality; his mother had killed herself by excessive rigours of penitence39; these examples were ever before his mind. Yet he seldom spoke40, save to spiritual counsellors, of this haunting trouble, and only the bitterness of envy, an envy entirely41 human, had drawn42 from him the words which so astonished Basil in their last conversation. Indeed, the loves of Basil and Veranilda made a tumult43 in his soul; at times it seemed to him that he hated his friend, so intolerable was the jealousy44 that racked him. Veranilda he had never seen, but the lover’s rapture45 had created in his imagination a face and form of matchless beauty which he could not cease from worshipping. He took this for a persecution46 of the fiend, and strove against it by all methods known to him. About his body he wore things that tortured; he fasted to the point of exhaustion47; he slept—if sleep came to him—on a bare stone floor; some hours of each day he spent in visiting churches, where he prayed ardently48.
Basil, when he had rushed forth49 from the Anicianum, rode straightway to the Via Lata, and presented himself at Marcian’s door. The porter said that his master had been absent since dawn, but Basil none the less entered, and, in the room where he and his friend were wont50 to talk, threw himself upon a couch to wait. He lay sunk in the most sombre thoughts, until at the door appeared Sagaris, who with the wonted suave51 servility, begged permission to speak to him.
‘Speak on,’ said Basil gloomily, fixing his eyes upon the oriental visage, so little reassuring52 to one harassed53 by suspicions.
‘It is regarding my dear lord, Illustrious, that I would say a humble54 word, if your nobility will bear with me.’
‘What can that be?’
‘I am guilty, I know, of much presumption55, but I entreat56 your nobility’s patience, for in truth it is only my love and my fears that embolden57 me to speak. What I would make known to you, Illustrious, is that for more than two whole days my dear lord has not broken bread. Since our return to Rome he has fasted all but continuously, at the same time inflicting58 upon himself many other penances60 of the severest kind. For this, I well know, he will have his reward in the eternal life; but when I note his aspect, I am overcome with fear lest we should lose him too soon. This morning, when I was helping61 him to dress, he sank down, and lay for a time as one dead. My lord would rebuke62 me severely63 if he knew that I had ventured to speak of these things; but with you, Illustrious, I feel that I am in no danger. You will understand me, and pardon me.’
Basil had raised himself to a sitting position. Supporting himself on one hand, he stared straight before him, and only spoke when a movement on the part of the servant betrayed impatience64.
‘This has gone on, you say, since your return to Rome? Was it your lord’s habit to do such penance on his travels?’
‘Never in this extreme, though I have always marvelled65 at his piety66.’
Again Basil kept a long silence.
‘You have done well to tell me,’ he said at length; then, with a wave of the hand, dismissed the Syrian.
It was nearly mid-day when Marcian returned. At the sight of Basil his pale, weary countenance67 assumed a troubled smile. He embraced his friend, kissing him affectionately on both cheeks, and sat down by him with a sigh of fatigue68.
‘What makes you so wan69?’ asked Basil, peering into his eyes.
‘I sleep ill.’
‘Why so? Is it pain or thought that keeps you wakeful?’
‘Both, perhaps,’ answered Marcian. He paused, reflected gloomily, and went on in a subdued70 voice. ‘Do you think often, Basil, of the eternal fire?’
‘Not often. Sometimes, of course.’
‘Last night I had a dream, which assuredly was a temptation of the evil one. My father stood before me, and said, “Fear not, Marcian, for there is no Gehenna. It is but the vision of man’s tormented71 conscience.” And I awoke with a great joy. But at once the truth came upon me; and until dawn I prayed for strength to resist that perilous73 solace74. This morning I have talked long with a holy man, opening my heart to him, that he might finally resolve my doubts. I said to him: “Slaves who have committed a fault are punished that they may amend75. To what purpose is the punishment of the wicked after death, since there can be no amendment76?” and he replied: “My son, the wicked are punished in Gehenna that the just may feel gratitude77 to the divine grace which has preserved them from such a doom78.” “But,” I objected, “ought not the just to pray for their enemies in such evil case?” His answer was prompt: “The time for prayer is past. The blessed concur79 in the judgment of God!”’
Basil listened with bent80 head.
‘Maximus,’ he said presently, ‘often doubted of eternal torment72; and my cousin Decius has more than once confessed to me that he believes it not at all, being strengthened therein by his friend the philosopher Simplicius. I, O Marcian, would fain think it a dream—yet there are evil doings in this world which make me fear that it may be true.’
‘You have seen Bessas again?’
‘Yes. And I have seen Petronilla.’
His eyes on the listener, Basil recounted his conversation of this morning, all save that part of it which related to Marcian. He could detect no sign of guilty uneasiness in his friend’s face, but saw that Marcian grew very thoughtful.
‘Is not this a shamelessness in falsehood which passes belief?’ were his last words.
‘If indeed it be falsehood,’ replied Marcian, meeting the other’s eyes. ‘I will confess that, this day or two, I have suspected Bessas of knowing more than he pretends.’
‘What?’ Basil exclaimed. ‘You think Veranilda is really in his power?’
Marcian answered with a return to the old irony81.
‘I would not venture to set bounds to the hypocrisy82 and the mendacity and the pertinacity83 of woman, but, after another conversation with Petronilla, I am shaken in my belief that she still holds her prisoners. She may, in truth, have surrendered them. What makes me inclined to think it, is the fierceness with which she now turns on me, accusing me of the whole plot from the first. That, look you, would be sweet revenge to a woman defeated. Why,’ he added, with a piercing but kindly84 look, ‘do you hide from me that she sought to persuade you of my treachery? Is it, O Basil, because you feared lest she spoke the truth?’
Flushing under that honest gaze, Basil sprang up and seized his friend’s hand. Tears came into his eyes as he avowed the truth and entreated85 pardon.
‘It was only because misery86 has made me all but mad. Nay87, I knew that she lied, but I could not rest till I had the assurance of it from your own lips. You think, then, dearest Marcian, that Veranilda is lost to me for ever? You believe it is true that she is already on the way to Constantinople?’
Marcian hoped it with all his heart, for with the disappearance88 of Veranilda this strange, evil jealousy of his would fade away; and he had many reasons for thinking that the loss of his Gothic love would be the best thing that could happen to Basil. At the same time, he felt his friend’s suffering, and could not bring himself to inflict59 another wound.
‘If so,’ he replied, ‘the Greek has less confidence in me than I thought, and I must take it as a warning. It may be. On the other hand, there is the possibility that Petronilla’s effrontery90 outwits us all. Of course she has done her best to ruin both of us, and perhaps is still trying to persuade Bessas that you keep Veranilda in hiding, whilst I act as your accomplice91. If this be the case, we shall both of us know the smell of a prison before long, and perchance the taste of torture. What say you? Shall we wait for that chance, or speed away into Campania, and march with the king against Neapolis?’
Though he smiled, there was no mistaking Marcian’s earnestness. For the moment he had shaken off his visions of Tartarus, and was his saner92 self once more.
‘If I knew that she has gone!’ cried Basil wretchedly. ‘If I knew!’
‘So you take your chance?’
‘Listen! You speak of prison, of torture. Marcian, can you not help, me to capture that woman, and to get from her the truth?’
Basil’s face grew terrible as he spoke. He quivered, his teeth ground together.
‘I, too, have thought of it,’ replied the other coldly. ‘But it is difficult and dangerous.’
They talked yet awhile, until Marcian, who looked cadaverous, declared his need of food, and they went to the mid-day meal.
A few days went by. Basil was occupied with the business of his inheritance. He had messengers to despatch93 to estates in Lucania and Apulia. Then came news that a possession of Maximus’ in the south had been invaded and seized by a neighbour; for which outrage94 there was little hope of legal remedy in the present state of affairs; only by the strong hand could Basil vindicate95 his right. Trouble was caused him by a dispute with one of the legatees, a poor kinsman96 who put an unexpected interpretation97 upon the item of the will which concerned him. Another poor kinsman, to whom Maximus had bequeathed a share in certain property in Rome, wished to raise money on this security. Basil himself could not lend the desired sum, for, though lord of great estates, he found himself after Chorsoman’s pillage98 of the strong room at Surrentum, scarcely able to meet immediate99 claims upon him under the will; but he consented to accompany his relative to a certain moneychanger, of whom perchance a loan might be obtained. This man of business, an Alexandrian, had his office on the Capitoline Hill, in that open space between the Capitol and the Arx, where merchants were still found; he sat in a shadowed corner of a portico, before him a little table on which coins were displayed, and at his back a small dark shop, whence came a confused odour of stuffs and spices. Long and difficult were the negotiations100. To Basil’s surprise, the Alexandrian, though treating him with the utmost respect, evidently gave little weight to his guarantee in money matters; as to property in Rome, he seemed to regard it as the most insubstantial of securities. Only on gems101 and precious metals would he consent to lend a sum of any importance.
Whilst this debate was in progress, a litter, gaudy102 and luxurious103, borne by eight slaves clad in yellow, with others like them before and behind, came to a stop close by, and from it alighted a lady whose gorgeous costume matched the brilliance104 of her vehicle and retinue105. She was young and beautiful, with dark, oriental features, and a bearing which aimed at supremity of arrogance106. Having stepped down, she stood at the edge of the portico, languidly gazing this way and that, with the plain intention of exhibiting herself to the loiterers whom her appearance drew together; at every slightest movement, the clink of metal sounded from her neck, her arms, her ankles; stones glistened107 on her brow and on her hands; about her she shed a perfume like that wafted108 from the Arabian shore.
The Greek merchant, as soon as he was aware of her arrival, ran forward and stood obsequiously109 before her, until she deigned110 to notice him.
‘I would speak with you. See that we are private.’
‘Noble lady,’ he replied, ‘the lord Basilius, heir of the Senator Maximus, is within. I will straightway beg him to defer111 his business.’
The lady turned and gazed into the dusky shop.
‘He is not alone, I see.’
‘A kinsman is with him, noble lady.’
‘Then bid the kinsman go his way, and keep apart, you, until you are summoned. I will speak for a moment with the lord Basilius.’
The Alexandrian, masking a smile, drew near to Basil, and whispered that the lady Heliodora demanded to see him alone. A gesture of annoyance112 was the first reply, but, after an instant’s reflection, Basil begged his kinsman to withdraw. Heliodora then entered the shop, which was nothing more than an open recess113, with a stone counter half across the entrance, and behind it a couple of wooden stools. Upon one of these the lady seated herself, and Basil, who had greeted her only with a movement of the head, stood waiting.
‘So you will not sup with me?’ began Heliodora, in a voice of bantering114 indifference115. ‘You will not come to see me? You will not write to me? It is well. I care less than the clipping of a finger-nail.’
‘So I would have it,’ Basil replied coldly.
‘Good. Then we are both satisfied. This is much better than making pretence116 of what we don’t feel, and playing a comedy with our two selves for spectators. You amused me for a while; that is over; now you amuse me in another way. Turn a little towards the light. Let me have a look at your pretty face, Basilidion.’
She spoke with a Greek accent, mingling117 now and then with the Roman speech a Greek word or exclamation118, and her voice, sonorous119 rather than melodious120, one moment seemed about to strike the note of anger, at another seemed softening121 to tenderness.
‘With your leave,’ said Basil, ‘I will be gone. I have matters of some importance to attend to.’
‘With your leave,’ echoed Heliodora, ‘I will detain you yet a little. For you, Basilidion, there is only one matter of importance, and it may be that I can serve you better therein than any you esteem122 your graver friends. There, now, I see your face. Holy Mary I how wan and worn it is. From my heart I pity you, Basilidion. Come now, tell me the story. I have heard fifty versions, some credible123, some plain fable124. Confide89 in me; who knows but I may help you.’
‘Scoff as you will,’ was his answer. ‘It is your privilege. But in truth, lady, I have little time to waste.’
‘And in truth, lord, your courtesy has suffered since you began to peck and pine for this little Hun.’
‘Hun?’
‘Oh, I cry pardon! Goth, I should have said. Indeed, there are degrees of barbarism—but, as you will. I say again, I care not the clipping of my smallest nail.’ She held her hand towards him; very white it was, and soft and shapely, but burdened with too many rings. ‘Tell me all, and I will help you. Tell me nothing, and have nothing for your pains.’
‘Help me?’ exclaimed Basil, in scornful impatience. ‘Am I such a fool as to think you would wish to help me, even if you could?’
‘Listen to me, Basil.’ She spoke in a deep note which was half friendliness125, half menace. ‘I am not wont to have my requests refused. Leave me thus, and you have one more enemy—an enemy more to be dreaded126 than all the rest. Already I know something of this story, and I can know the whole of it as soon as I will; but what I want now is to hear the truth about your part in it. You have lost your little Goth; of that I need no assurance. But tell me how it came about.’
Basil stood with bent head. In the portico, at a little distance, there began to sound the notes of a flute127 played by some itinerant128 musician.
‘You dare refuse me?’ said Heliodora, after waiting a moment. ‘You are a bolder man than I thought.’
‘Ask what you wish to know,’ broke from the other. ‘Recount to you I will not. Put questions, and I will reply if I think fit.’
‘Good.’
Heliodora smiled, with a movement which made all her trappings of precious metal jingle129 as though triumphantly130. And she began to question, tracking out all Basil’s relations with Veranilda from their first meeting at Cumae to the day of the maiden’s disappearance. His answers, forced from him partly by vague fear, partly by as vague a hope, were the briefest possible, but in every case he told the truth.
‘It is well,’ said Heliodora, when the interrogation was over. ‘Poor, poor Basilidion! How ill he has been used! And not even a kiss from the little Goth. Or am I mistaken? Perhaps—’
‘Be silent!’ exclaimed Basil harshly.
‘Oh, I will not pry131 into chaste132 secrets. For the present, enough. Go your ways, Basil, and take courage. I keep faith, as you know; and that I am disposed to be your friend is not your standing133 here, alive and well, a sufficient proof?’
She had risen, and, as she uttered these words, her eyes gleamed large in the dusk.
‘When you wish to see me,’ she added, ‘come to my house. To you it is always open. I may perchance send you a message. If so, pay heed134 to it.’
Basil was turning away.
‘What! Not even the formal courtesy? Your manners have indeed declined, my poor Basil.’
With an abrupt135, awkward movement, he took her half offered hand, and touched the rings with his lips; then hastened away.
On the edge of the cluster of idlers who were listening to the flute player stood his needy136 kinsman. Basil spoke with him for a moment, postponed137 their business, and, with a sign to the two slaves in attendance, walked on. By the Clivus Argentarius he descended138 to the Forum140. In front of the Curia stood the state’ carriage of the City Prefect, for the Senate had been called together this morning to hear read some decree newly arrived from Byzantium; and as Basil drew near he saw the Prefect, with senators about him, come forth and descend139 the steps. These dignitaries, who wore with but ill grace the ancient toga, were evidently little pleased by what they had heard; they talked under their breath together, many of them, no doubt, recalling sadly the honour they were wont to receive from King Theodoric. As their president drove away, Basil, gazing idly after the carpentum, felt himself touched on the arm; he looked round and saw Decius, whose panting breath declared his haste, whilst his countenance was eloquent141 of ill.
‘I come from the Anicianum,’ Decius whispered, ‘and bring terrible news. Petronilla lies dying of the pest.’
Dazed as if under a violent blow, Basil stretched out his hand. It touched the wall of the little temple of Janus, in the shadow of which they were standing.
‘The pest?’ he echoed faintly.
‘She was seized in the night. Some one in the house—some woman, they tell me, whom she brought with her a few days ago, I know not whence—is just dead. I have sped hither in search of any one with whom I could speak of it; God be thanked that I have met you! I went to fetch away books, as you know.’
‘I must go there,’ said Basil, gazing about him to find his slaves. ‘I must go straightway.’
‘Why? The danger is great.’
‘It may be’—this was spoken into Decius’ ear—‘that Veranilda is imprisoned142 there. I have proof now, awful proof, that Petronilla lied to me. I must enter, and seek.’
Hard by were litters for public hire. Bidding his slaves follow, Basil had himself carried, fast as bearers could run, towards the Anicianum. Not even fear of the pestilence143 could withhold144 him. His curse upon Petronilla had been heard; the Almighty145 God had smitten146 her; would not the same Power protect him? He prayed mentally, beseeching147 the intercession of the Virgin148, of the saints. He made a vow21 that, did he recover Veranilda, he would not rest until he had won her conversion149 to the Catholic faith.
Without the Anicianum, nothing indicated disturbance150, but as soon as he had knocked at the door it was thrown wide open, and he saw, gathered in the vestibule, a crowd of dismayed servants. Two or three of them, whom he knew well, hurried forward, eager to speak. He learnt that physicians were with the sick lady, and that the presbyter of St. Cecilia, for whom she had sent in the early morning, remained by her side. No member of the family (save Decius) had yet come, though messages had been despatched to several. Unopposed, Basil entered the atrium, and there spoke with Petronilla’s confidential151 freedman.
‘Leo, your mistress is dying. Speak the truth to me, and you shall be rewarded; refuse to answer, or lie to me, and I swear by the Cross that you shall suffer. Who was the woman that died here yesterday?’
The freedman answered without hesitation152, telling the same story Basil had already heard from Petronilla.
‘Good. She has been buried?’
‘She was carried out before dawn.’
‘Tell me now, upon your salvation153, is any one kept prisoner here?’
Leo, an elderly man, his eyes red with tears and his hands tremulous, gazed meaningly at the questioner.
‘No one; no one,’ he answered under his breath. ‘I swear it to you, O lord Basil.’
‘Come with me through the house.’
‘But Leo, moving nearer, begged that he might be heard and believed. He understood the meaning of these inquiries154, for he had been with his mistress at Surrentum. They whom Basil sought were not here; all search would be useless; in proof of this Leo offered the evidence of his wife, who could reveal something of moment which she had learnt only a few hours ago. The woman was called, and Basil spoke apart with her; he learnt that Petronilla, as soon as her pains began, sent a messenger to the deacon Leander, entreating155 him to come; but Leander had only yesterday set out on a journey, and would not be back for a week or more. Hearing this, the stricken lady fell into an anguish of mind worse even than that of the body; she uttered words signifying repentance156 for some ill-doing, and, after a while, said to those who were beside her—a physician and the speaker—that, if she died, they were to make known to Bessas that the deacon Leander, he and he alone, could tell all. Having said this, Petronilla became for a time calmer; but her sufferings increased, and suddenly she bade summon the presbyter of St. Cecilia’s church. With him she spoke alone, and for a long time. Since, she had uttered no word touching157 worldly matters; the woman believed that she was now unconscious.
‘And you swear to me,’ said Basil, who quivered as he listened, ‘that this is the truth and all you know?’
Leo’s wife swore by everything sacred on earth, and by all the powers of heaven, that she had falsified nothing, concealed158 nothing. Thereupon Basil turned to go away. In the vestibule, the slaves knelt weeping before him, some with entreaties159 to be permitted to leave this stricken house, some imploring160 advice against the plague; men and women alike, all were beside themselves with terror. In this moment there came a knocking at the entrance; the porter ran to open, and admitted Gordian. Basil and he, who had not met since the day of the family gathering161, spoke together in the portico. He had come, said Gordian, in the fear that Petronilla had been forsaken162 by all her household, as sometimes happened to those infected. Had it been so, he would have held it a duty to approach her with what solace he could. As it was, physician and priest and servants being here, he durst not risk harm to his own family; but he would hold himself in readiness, if grave occasion summoned him. So Gordian remounted his horse, and rode back home.
Basil lingered. He no longer entertained the suspicion that Veranilda might be here, but he thought that, could he speak with Petronilla herself, penitence might prompt her to tell him where the captive lay hidden. It surprised him not at all to hear Leander’s name as that of her confidant in the matter, though hitherto his thought had not turned in that direction. Leander signified the Church, and what hope was there that he could gain his end against such an opponent?—more formidable than Bessas, more powerful, perhaps, than Justinian. Were Veranilda imprisoned in some monastery, he might abandon hope of beholding163 her again on this side of the grave.
Yet it was something to know that she had not passed into the hands of the Greeks; that she was not journeying to the Byzantine court, there to be wedded164 against her will. Cheered by this, he felt an impulse of daring; he would see Petronilla.
‘Leo! Lead me to the chamber165.’
The freedman besought166 him not to be so rash, but Basil was possessed167 with furious resolve. He drove the servant before him, through the atrium, into a long corridor. Suddenly the silence was broken by a shriek168 of agony, so terrible that Basil felt his blood chilled to the very heart. This cry came again, echoing fearfully through the halls and galleries of this palace of marble. The servants had fled; Basil dropped to his knees, crossed himself, prayed, the sweat standing upon his forehead. A footstep approached him; he rose, and saw the physician who had been with Maximus at Surrentum.
‘Does she still live?’ he asked.
‘If life it can be called. What do you here, lord Basil?’
‘Can she hear and speak?’
‘I understand you,’ replied the physician. ‘But it is useless. She has confessed to the priest, and will utter no word more. Look to yourself; the air you breathe is deadly.’
And Basil, weak as a child, suffered himself to be led away.
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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crumbling
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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dwelling
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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inundation
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wrought
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frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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carving
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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intimacy
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expedients
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inclination
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avowed
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vow
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incapable
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plunged
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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25
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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26
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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27
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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28
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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29
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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30
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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31
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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32
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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33
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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34
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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35
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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36
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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37
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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38
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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39
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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40
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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41
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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42
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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43
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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44
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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45
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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46
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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47
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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48
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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49
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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50
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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51
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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52
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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53
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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54
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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55
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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56
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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57
embolden
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| v.给…壮胆，鼓励 | |
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58
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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59
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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60
penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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61
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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62
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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63
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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64
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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65
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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67
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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68
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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69
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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70
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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71
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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72
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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73
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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74
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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75
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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76
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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77
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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78
doom
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|
| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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79
concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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80
bent
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|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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81
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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82
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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83
pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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84
kindly
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|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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85
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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87
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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88
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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89
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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90
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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91
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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92
saner
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|
| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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93
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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94
outrage
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|
| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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95
vindicate
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|
| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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96
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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97
interpretation
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|
| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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98
pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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99
immediate
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|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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100
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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101
gems
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|
| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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102
gaudy
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|
| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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103
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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104
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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105
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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106
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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107
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
obsequiously
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110
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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112
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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113
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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114
bantering
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|
| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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115
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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116
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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117
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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118
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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119
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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120
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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121
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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122
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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123
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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124
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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125
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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126
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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127
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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128
itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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129
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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130
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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131
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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132
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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133
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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134
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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135
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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136
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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137
postponed
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|
| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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138
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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139
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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140
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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141
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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142
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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144
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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145
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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146
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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147
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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148
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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149
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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150
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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151
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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152
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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153
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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154
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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155
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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156
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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157
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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158
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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159
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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160
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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161
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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162
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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163
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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164
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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165
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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166
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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167
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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168
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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