The steward16 and the housekeeper17, who were man and wife, speedily stood before him, and he bade them make ready with all expedition certain chambers19 long unoccupied, merely saying that a lady would for some days be his guest. Whilst Sagaris guided the horsemen to the stables, and received them hospitably21 in the servants’ quarter, Marcian, using a more formal courtesy than hitherto, conducted his charge into the great hall, and begged her to be seated for a few minutes, until her room was prepared. Seeing that fatigue22 scarce suffered her to reply, he at once withdrew, leaving her alone with her handmaiden. And yet he had not beheld24 Veranilda’s face.
Himself unable to take repose25, he strayed about the purlieus of the villa, in his ears the sound of rushing water, before his eyes a flitting vision which he would not see. He had heard from his steward the latest news of the countryside; it was said in Arpinum that the Gothic forces were at length assembled for the march on Rome; at Aquinum Totila would be welcomed, and what resistance was he likely to meet with all along the Latin Way? When the horsemen had refreshed themselves, Marcian summoned the leader; their services, he said, would no longer be necessary; he bade them depart as early as might be on the morrow, and bear with all speed to their lord the bishop26 an important letter which he forthwith wrote and gave to the man, together with a generous guerdon. This business despatched, he again wandered hither and thither28, incapable29 of rest, incapable of clear thought, fever in his heart and in his brain.
As the sun sank, fear once more beset30 him. This house lay open on all sides, its only protection being a couple of dogs, which prowled at large. He thought with dread31 of the possibility of a brigand32 attack. But when night had fallen, when all lights except his own were extinguished, when no sound struck against the deep monotone of the cataracts, this emotion yielded before another, which no less harassed33 his mind. In the hall, in the corridors, in the garden-court, he paced ceaselessly, at times walking in utter darkness, for not yet had the moon risen. When at length its rays fell upon the pillars of the upper gallery where Veranilda slept, he stood looking towards her chamber18, and turned away at length with a wild gesture, like that of a demoniac in torment34.
The man was torn between spiritual fervour and passions of the flesh. With his aspiration35 to saintliness blended that love of his friend which was the purest affection he had known in all the years of manhood; yet this very love became, through evil thoughts, an instrument against him, being sullied, poisoned by the basest spirit of jealousy36, until it seemed all but to have turned to hate. One moment he felt himself capable of acting37 nobly, even as he had resolved when at mass in the little mountain church; his bosom38 glowed with the defiance39 of every risk; he would guard Veranilda secretly until he could lay her hand in that of Basil. The next, he saw only danger, impossibility, in such a purpose, and was anxious to deliver the beautiful maiden23 to the king of her own race as soon as might be-lest worse befell. Thus did he strive with himself, thus was he racked and rent under the glowing moon.
At dawn he slept. When he rose the horsemen had long since set forth27 on their journey home. He inquired which road they had taken. But to this no one had paid heed40; he could only learn that they had crossed the river by the westward41 bridge, and so perhaps had gone back by way of Aletrium, instead of descending42 the valley to the Latin Way. Even yet Marcian did not feel quite safe from his Greek pursuers. He feared a meeting between them and the Praenestines.
Having bathed (a luxury after waterless Rome), and eaten a morsel43 of bread with a draught44 of his own wine, he called his housekeeper, and bade her make known to the lady, his guest, that he begged permission to wait upon her. With but a few minutes’ delay Veranilda descended45 to the room which lay behind the atrium. Marcian, loitering among the ivied plane-trees without, was told of her coming, and at once entered.
She was alone, standing46 at the back of the room; her hands hanging linked before her, the lower part of the arms white against the folds of a russet-coloured tunic47. And Marcian beheld her face.
He took a few rapid steps toward her, checked himself, bowed profoundly, and said in a somewhat abrupt48 voice:
‘Gracious lady, is it by your own wish that you are unattended? Or have my women, by long disuse, so forgotten their duties—’
Veranilda interrupted him.
‘I assure you it was my own wish, lord Marcian. We must speak of things which are not for others’ hearing.’
In the same unnatural49 voice, as though he put constraint50 upon himself for the performance of a disagreeable duty, he begged her to be seated, and Veranilda, not without betraying a slight trouble of surprise, took the chair to which he pointed51. But he himself did not sit down. In the middle of the room stood a great bronze candelabrum, many-branched for the suspension of lamps, at its base three figures, Pluto52, Neptune53, and Proserpine. It was the only work of any value which the villa now contained, and Marcian associated it with the memories of his earliest years. As a little child he had often gazed at those three faces, awed54 by their noble gravity, and, with a child’s diffidence, he had never ventured to ask what beings these were. He fixed his eyes upon them now, to avoid looking at Veranilda. She, timidly glancing at him, said in her soft, low voice, with the simplest sincerity55:
‘I have not yet found words in which to thank you, lord Marcian.’
‘My thanks are due to you, dear lady, for gracing this poor house with your presence.’
His tone was more suavely56 courteous57. For an instant he looked at her, and his lips set themselves in something meant for a smile.
‘This is the end of our journey?’ she asked.
‘For some days—if the place does not displease58 you.’
‘How could I be ill at ease in the house of Basil’s friend, and with the promise that Basil will soon come?’
Marcian stared at the face of Proserpine, who seemed to regard him with solemn thoughtfulness.
‘Had you any forewarning of your release from the monastery?’ he asked of a sudden.
‘None. None whatever.’
‘You thought you would remain there for long to come?’
‘I had not dared to think of that.’
Marcian took a few paces, glanced at the sweet face, the beautiful head with its long golden hair, and came back to his place by the candelabrum, on which he rested a trembling hand.
‘Had they spoken of making you a nun60?’
A look of dread came upon her countenance61, and she whispered, ‘Once or twice.’
‘You would never have consented?’
‘Only if I had known that release was hopeless, or that Basil—’
Her voice failed.
‘That Basil—?’ echoed Marcian’s lips, in an undertone.
‘That he was dead.’
‘You never feared that he might have forgotten you?’
Again his accents were so hard that Veranilda gazed at him in troubled wonder.
‘You never feared that?’ he added, with fugitive62 eyes.
‘Had I dreamt of it,’ she replied, ‘I think I should not live.’ Then in a voice of anxious humility64, ‘Could Basil forget me?’
‘Indeed, I should not think it easy,’ murmured the other, his eyes cast down. ‘And what,’ he continued abruptly66, ‘was said to you when you left the convent? In what words did they take leave of you?’
‘With none at all. I was bidden prepare for a journey, and soon after they led me to the gates. I knew nothing, nor did the woman with me.’
‘Was the lady Aurelia in the same convent?’ Marcian next inquired.
‘I never saw her after we had landed from the ship which carried us from Surrentum?’
‘You do not know, of course, that Petronilla is dead?’
He told her of that, and of other events such as would interest her, but without uttering the name of Basil. Above all, he spoke59 of Totila, lauding67 the victorious68 king who would soon complete his triumph by the conquest of Rome.
‘I had all but forgotten,’ were Veranilda’s words, when she had listened anxiously. ‘I thought only of Basil.’
He turned abruptly from her, seemed to reflect for a moment, and said with formal politeness:
‘Permit me now to leave you, lady. This house is yours. I would it offered you worthier69 accommodation. As soon as I have news, I will again come before you.’
Veranilda rose whilst he was speaking. Her eyes were fixed upon him, wistfully, almost pleadingly, and before he had reached the exit she advanced a step, with lips parted as if to beseech70 his delay. But he walked too hurriedly, and was gone ere she durst utter a word.
At the same hurried pace, gazing before him and seeing nothing, Marcian left the villa, and walked until he came to the river side. Here was a jutting71 rock known as the Lover’s Leap; story told of a noble maiden, frenzied72 by unhappy love, who had cast herself into the roaring waterfall. Long he stood on the brink73, till his eyes dazzled from the sun-stricken foam. His mind was blasted with shame; he could not hold his head erect74. In sorry effort to recover self-respect he reasoned inwardly thus:
‘Where Basil may be I know not. If he is still at Asculum many days must pass before a summons from me could bring him hither. He may already be on his way to join the king, as I bade him in my last message. The uncertainty75, the danger of this situation, can be met only in one way. On leaving Rome I saw my duty plain before me. A desire to pleasure my friend made me waver, but I was wrong—if Basil is to have Veranilda for his bride he can only receive her from the hands of Totila. Anything else would mean peril76 to the friend I love, and disrespect, even treachery, to the king I honour. And so it shall be; I will torment myself no more.’
He hastened back into the villa, summoned Sagaris, and bade him be ready in half an hour to set forth on a journey of a day or two. He then wrote a brief letter to the king of the Goths. It was in the Gothic tongue, such Gothic as a few Romans could command for everyday use. Herein he told that Veranilda, intrusted to him by the deacon Leander to be conducted to the king’s camp, had arrived in safety at his villa by Arpinum. The country being disturbed, he had thought better to wait here with his charge until he could learn the king’s pleasure, which he begged might be made known to him as soon as possible.
‘This,’ he said, when Sagaris appeared before him equipped for travel, ‘you will deliver into the king’s own hands. At Aquinum you will be directed to his camp, which cannot be far beyond. Danger there is none between here and there. Make your utmost speed.’
Many were the confidential77 missions which Sagaris had discharged; yet, looking now into his man’s face, the master was troubled by a sudden misgiving78. The state of his own mind disposed him to see peril everywhere. At another time he would not have noted79 so curiously80 a sort of gleam in the Syrian’s eye, a something on the fellow’s cunning, sensual lips, which might mean anything or nothing. Did Sagaris divine who the veiled lady was? From the bishop’s man he could not have learned it, they themselves, as the bishop had assured Marcian, being totally ignorant in the matter. If he guessed the truth, as was likely enough after all the talk he had heard concerning Veranilda, was it a danger? Had Sagaris any motive81 for treachery?
‘Listen,’ continued Marcian, in a tone such as he had never before used with his servant, a tone rather of entreaty82 than of command. ‘Upon the safe and swift delivery of that letter more depends than you can imagine. You will not lack your reward. But not a word to any save the king. Should any one else question you, you will say that you bear only a verbal message, and that you come direct from Rome.’
‘My lord shall be obeyed,’ answered the slave, ‘though I die under torture.’
‘Of that,’ said Marcian, with a forced laugh, ‘you need have no fear. But, hark you!’ He hesitated, again searching the man’s countenance. ‘You might chance to meet some friend of mine who would inquire after me. No matter who it be-were it even the lord Basil—you will answer in the same words, saying that I am still in Rome. You understand me? Were it even lord Basil who asked?’
‘It shall be as my lord commands,’ replied the slave, his face set in unctuous84 solemnity.
‘Go, then. Lose not a moment.’
Marcian watched him ride away in the blaze of the cloudless sun. The man’s head was sheltered with a broad-brimmed hat of the lightest felt, and his horse’s with a cluster of vine-leaves. He rode away at a quick trot85, the while dust rising in a cloud behind him.
And Marcian lived through the day he knew not how. It was a day of burning sunshine, of heat scarce tolerable even in places the most sheltered. Clad only in a loose tunic, bare-armed, bare-footed, he lay or sauntered wherever shade was dense86, as far as possible from the part of the villa consecrated87 to his guest. Hour after hour crawled by, an eternity88 of distressful89 idleness. And, even while wishing for the day’s end, he dreaded91 the coming of the night.
It came; the silent, lonely night, the warm, perfumed night, the season of fierce temptations, of dreadful opportunity. Never had the passionate92 soul of Marcian been so manifestly lured93 by the Evil One, never had it fought so desperately94 in the strength of religious hopes and fears. He knelt, he prayed, his voice breaking upon the stillness with anguish95 of supplication96. Between him and the celestial97 vision rose that face which he had at length beheld, a face only the more provocative98 of sensual rage because of its sweet purity, its flawless truth. Then he flung himself upon the stones, bruised99 his limbs, lay at length exhausted100, as if lifeless.
No longer could he strengthen himself by the thought of loyalty101 in friendship; that he had renounced102. Yet he strove to think of Basil, and, in doing so, knew that he still loved him. For Basil he would do anything, suffer anything, lose anything; but when he imaged Basil with Veranilda, at once his love turned to spleen, a sullen103 madness possessed him, he hated his friend to the death.
By his own order, two watchmen stood below the stairs which led to Veranilda’s chamber. Nigh upon midnight he walked in that direction, walked in barefooted stealth, listening for a movement, a voice. Nearer and nearer he approached, till he saw at length the ray of a lantern; but no step, no murmur65, told of wakeful guard. Trembling as though with cold, though sweat streamed over his body, he strode forward; there, propped104 against the wall, sat the two slaves fast asleep. Marcian glanced at the stairs; his face in the dim lantern light was that of a devil. All of a sudden one of the men started, and opened his eyes. Thereupon Marcian caught up a staff that lay beside them, and began to belabour them both with savage105 blows. Fiercely, frantically106, he plied63 his weapon, until the delinquents107, who had fallen to their knees before him, roared for mercy.
‘Let me find you sleeping again,’ he said in a low voice, ‘and your eyes shall be burnt out.’
He stole away into the darkness, and the men whispered to each other that he had gone mad. For Marcian was notably108 humane109 with his slaves, never having been known even to inflict110 a whipping. Perhaps they were even more astonished at this proof that their master seriously guarded the privacy of his guest; last night they had slept for long hours undisturbed, and, on waking, congratulated each other with familiar jests on having done just what was expected of them.
The morn broke dark and stormy. Thunder-clouds purpled before the rising sun, and ere mid-day there fell torrents111 of rain. Heedless of the sky, Marcian rode forth this morning; rode aimlessly about the hills, for the villa was no longer endurable to him. He talked awhile with a labouring serf, who told him that the plague had broken out in Arpinum, where, during the last week or two, many had died. From his steward he had already heard the same news, but without heeding112 it; it now alarmed him, and for some hours fear had a wholesome113 effect upon his thoughts. In the coolness following upon the storm, he enjoyed a long, tranquil114 sleep. And this day he did not see Veranilda.
A mile or two down the valley was a church, built by Marcian’s grandfather, on a spot where he had been saved from great peril; the land attached to it supported two priests and certain acolytes115, together with a little colony of serfs. On his ride this morning Marcian had passed within view of the church, and would have gone thither but for his rain drenched116 clothing. Now, during the second night of temptation, he resolved to visit the priests as soon as it was day and to bring one of them back with him to the villa, to remain as long as Veranilda should be there. Firm in this purpose he rose with the rising sun, called for his horse, and rode to the bridge. There, looking down at the white cataract4, stood Veranilda and her attendant.
He alighted. With a timid smile the maiden advanced to meet him.
‘Abroad so early?’ were his first words, a mere20 tongue-found phrase.
‘I was tempted117 by the fresh morning. It does not displease you, lord Marcian?’
‘Nay, I am glad.’
‘It is so long,’ continued the gentle voice, ‘since I was free to walk under the open sky.’
Marcian forgot that his gaze was fixed upon her, forgot that he was silent, forgot the purpose with which he had ridden forth.
‘I hoped I might see you today,’ she added. ‘You have yet no news for me?’
‘None.’
The blue eyes drooped118 sadly.
‘To-morrow, perhaps,’ she murmured. Then, with an effort to seem cheerful, as if ashamed of her troubled thought, ‘I had listened so long to a sound of falling water that I could not resist the desire to see it. How beautiful it is!’
Marcian felt surprise; he himself saw the cataract as an object of beauty, but had seldom heard it so spoken of, and could least of all have expected such words on the lips of a woman, dread seeming to him the more natural impression.
‘That on the other side,’ he said, pointing across the island, ‘is more beautiful still. And there is shade, whilst here the sun grows too hot. But you must not walk so far. My horse has a very even pace. If you would let me lift you to the saddle—’
‘Oh, gladly!’ she answered, with a little laugh of pleasure.
And it was done. For a moment he held her, for a moment felt the warmth and softness of her flesh; then she sat sideways upon the horse, looking down at Marcian with startled gaiety. He showed her how to hold the reins119, and the horse went gently forward.
‘It makes me a child again,’ she exclaimed. ‘I have never ridden since I was a little girl, when my father—’
Her voice died away; her look was averted120, and Marcian, remembering the shame that mingled121 with her memories, began to talk of other things.
By a path that circled the villa, they came to a little wood of ilex, which shadowed the brink of the larger cataract. Marcian had bidden Veranilda’s woman follow them, but as they entered the wood, his companion looking eagerly before her, he turned and made a gesture of dismissal, which the servant at once obeyed. In the shadiest spot which offered a view of the plunging122 river, he asked Veranilda if she would alight.
‘Willingly, I would spend an hour here,’ she replied. ‘The leafage and the water make such a delightful123 freshness.’
‘I have anticipated your thought,’ said Marcian. ‘The woman is gone to bid them bring seats.’
Veranilda glanced back in surprise and saw that they were alone. She thanked him winsomely124, and then, simply as before, accepted his help. Again Marcian held her an instant, her slim, light body trembling when he set her down, as if from a burden which strained his utmost force. She stepped forward to gaze at the fall. He, with an exclamation125 of alarm, caught her hand and held it.
‘You are too rash,’ he said in a thick voice. ‘The depth, the roar of the waters, will daze126 you.’
Against his burning palm, her hand was cool as a lily leaf. He did not release it, though he knew that his peril from that maidenly127 touch was greater far than hers from the gulf128 before them. Veranilda, accepting his protection with the thoughtlessness of a child, leaned forward, uttering her wonder and her admiration129. He, the while, watched her lips, fed his eyes upon her cheek, her neck, the golden ripples130 of her hair. At length she gently offered to draw her hand away. A frenzy131 urged him to resist, but madness yielded to cunning, and he released her.
‘Of course Basil has been here,’ she was saying.
‘Never.’
‘Never? Oh, the joy of showing him this when he comes! Lord Marcian, you do not think it will be long?’
Her eyes seemed as though they would read in the depth of his; again the look of troubled wonder rose to her countenance.
‘It will not be more than a few days?’ she added, in a timid undertone, scarce audible upon the water’s deeper note.
‘I fear it may be longer,’ replied Marcian.
He heard his own accents as those of another man. He, his very self, willed the utterance132 of certain words, kind, hopeful, honest; but something else within him commanded his tongue, and, ere he knew it, he had added:
‘You have never thought that Basil might forget you?’
Veranilda quivered as though she had been struck.
‘Why do you again ask me that question?’ she said gently, but no longer timidly. ‘Why do you look at me so? Surely,’ her voice sank, ‘you could not have let me feel so happy if Basil were dead?’
‘He lives.’
‘Then why do you look so strangely at me? Ah, he is a prisoner?’
‘Not so. No man’s liberty is less in danger.’
She clasped her hands before her. ‘You make me suffer. I was so light of heart, and now—your eyes, your silence. Oh, speak, lord Marcian!’
‘I have hidden the truth so long because I knew not how to utter it. Veranilda, Basil is false to you.’
Her hands fell; her eyes grew wider in wonder. She seemed not to understand what she had heard, and to be troubled by incomprehension rather than by a shock of pain.
‘False to me?’ she murmured. ‘How false?’
‘He loves another woman, and for her sake has turned to the Greeks.’
Still Veranilda gazed wonderingly.
‘Things have come to pass of which you know nothing,’ pursued Marcian, forcing his voice to a subdued133 evenness, a sad gravity. ‘Listen whilst I tell you all. Had you remained but a few days longer at Cumae, you would have been seized by the Greeks and sent to Constantinople; for the Emperor Justinian himself had given this command. You came to Surrentum; you plighted134 troth with Basil; he would have wedded135 you, and—not only for safety’s sake, but because he wished well to the Goths—would have sought the friendship of Totila. But you were carried away; vainly we searched for you; we feared you had been delivered to the Greeks. In Rome, Basil was tempted by a woman, whom he had loved before ever he saw you, a woman beautiful, but evil hearted, her name Heliodora. She won him back to her; she made him faithless to you and to the cause of the Goths. Little by little, I learnt how far he had gone in treachery. He had discovered where you were, but no longer desired to release you that you might become his wife. To satisfy the jealousy of Heliodora, and at the same time to please the Greek commander in Rome, he plotted to convey you to Constantinople. I having discovered this plot, found a way to defeat it. You escaped but narrowly. When I carried you away from Praeneste, pursuers were close behind us, therefore it was that we travelled through the night. Here you are in safety, for King Totila is close at hand, and will guard you against your enemies.’
Veranilda pressed her hands upon her forehead, and stood mute. As his eyes shifted furtively136 about her, Marcian caught sight of something black and undulant stirring among stones near her feet; at once he grasped her by the arm, and drew her towards him.
‘A viper137!’ he exclaimed, pointing.
‘What of that?’ was her reply, with a careless glance. ‘I would not stir a step to escape its fangs138.’
And, burying her face in her hands, she wept.
These tears, this attitude of bewildered grief, were Marcian’s encouragement. He had dreaded the innocence139 of her eyes lest it should turn to distrust and rejection140. Had she refused to believe him, he knew not how he would have persisted in his villainy; for, even in concluding his story, it seemed to him that he must betray himself; so perfidious141 sounded to him the voice which he could hardly believe his own, and so slinking-knavish did he feel the posture142 of his body, the movements of his limbs. The distress90 which should have smitten143 him to the heart restored his baser courage. Again he spoke with the sad gravity of a sympathetic friend.
‘Dearest lady, I cannot bid you be comforted, but I entreat83 you to pardon me, the hapless revealer of your misfortune. Say only that you forgive me.’
‘What is there to forgive?’ she answered, checking her all but silent sobs144. ‘You have told what it behoved you to tell. And it may be’—her look changed of a sudden—‘that I am too hasty in embracing sorrow. How can I believe that Basil has done this? Are you not misled by some false suspicion? Has not some enemy slandered145 him to you? What can you say to make me credit a thing so evil?’
‘Alas! It were but too easy for me to lengthen146 a tale which all but choked me in the telling; I could name others who know, but to you they would be only names. That of Heliodora, had you lived in Rome, were more than enough.’
‘You say he loved her before?’
‘He did, dear lady, and when her husband was yet living. Now that he is dead—’
‘Have you yet told me all?’ asked Veranilda, gazing fixedly147 at him. ‘Has he married her?’
‘Not yet—I think.’
Again she bowed her head. For a moment her tears fell silently, then she looked up once more fighting against her anguish.
‘It cannot be true that he would have given me to the Greeks; that he may have forgotten me, that he may have turned to another love, I can perhaps believe—for what am I that Basil should love me? But to scheme my injury, to deliver me to our enemies—Oh, you are deceived, you are deceived!’
Marcian was silent, with eyes cast down. In the branches, cicadas trilled their monotone. The viper, which had been startled away, again showed its lithe148 blackness among the stones behind Veranilda, and Marcian, catching149 sight of it, again touched her arm.
‘The snake! Come away from this place.’
Veranilda drew her arm back as if his touch stung her.
‘I will go,’ she said. ‘I must be alone—my thoughts are in such confusion I know not what I say.’
‘Say but one word,’ he pleaded. ‘Having rescued you, I knew not how to provide for your security save under ward1 of the king. Totila is noble and merciful; all Italy will soon be his, and the Gothic rule be reestablished. Assure me that I have done well and wisely.’
‘I hope you have,’ answered Veranilda, regarding him for an instant. ‘But I know nothing; I must bear what befalls. Let me go to my chamber, lord Marcian, and sit alone and think.’
He led her back into the villa, and they parted without another word.
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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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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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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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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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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24
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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25
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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26
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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27
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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28
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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29
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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30
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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31
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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32
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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33
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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34
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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35
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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36
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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37
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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38
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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39
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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40
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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41
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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42
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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43
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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44
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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45
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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46
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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47
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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48
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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49
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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50
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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51
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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52
Pluto
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| n.冥王星 | |
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53
Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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54
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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55
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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56
suavely
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57
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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58
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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59
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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60
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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61
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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62
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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63
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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64
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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65
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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66
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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67
lauding
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的现在分词 ) | |
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68
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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69
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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70
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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71
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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72
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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73
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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74
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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75
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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76
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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77
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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78
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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79
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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80
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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81
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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82
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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83
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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84
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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85
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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86
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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87
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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88
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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89
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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90
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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91
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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92
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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93
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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94
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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95
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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96
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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97
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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98
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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99
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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100
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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101
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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102
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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103
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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104
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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106
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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107
delinquents
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| n.（尤指青少年）有过失的人，违法的人( delinquent的名词复数 ) | |
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108
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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109
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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110
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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111
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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112
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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113
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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114
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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115
acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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116
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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117
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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118
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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120
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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121
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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122
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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123
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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124
winsomely
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125
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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126
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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127
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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128
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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129
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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130
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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131
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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132
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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133
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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134
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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135
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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136
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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137
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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138
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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139
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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140
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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141
perfidious
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| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
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142
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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143
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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144
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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145
slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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147
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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148
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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149
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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