On fire to his finger-tips, he could yet reason with the coldest clarity of thought. Having betrayed his friend thus far, he must needs betray him to the extremity11 of traitorhood; must stand face to face with him in the presence of the noble Totila, and accuse him even as he had done to Veranilda. Only thus, as things had come about, could he assure himself against the fear that Totila, in generosity12, or policy, or both, might give the Amal-descended maid to Basil. To defeat Basil’s love was his prime end, jealousy13 being more instant with him than fleshly impulse. Yet so strong had this second motive14 now become, that he all but regretted his message to the king: to hold Veranilda in his power, to gratify his passion sooner or later, by this means or by that, he would perhaps have risked all the danger to which such audacity15 exposed him. But Marcian was not lust-bitten quite to madness. For the present, enough to ruin the hopes of Basil. This done, the field for his own attempt lay open. By skilful16 use of his advantages, he might bring it to pass that Totila would grant him a supreme17 reward—the hand of Veranilda.
Unless, indeed, the young king, young and warm-blooded however noble of mind, should himself look upon Veranilda with a lover’s eyes. It was not the first time that Marcian had thought of this. It made him wince18. But he reminded himself that herein lay another safeguard against the happiness of Basil, and so was able to disregard the fear.
He would let his victim repose19 during the heat of the day, and then, towards evening, would summon her to another interview. Not much longer could he hope to be with her in privacy; tomorrow, or the next day at latest, emissaries of the Gothic king would come in response to his letter. But this evening he should speak with her, gaze upon her, for a long, long hour. She was gentle, meek20, pious21; in everything the exquisite22 antithesis23 of such a woman as Heliodora. Out of very humility24 she allowed herself to believe that Basil had ceased to love her. How persuade her, against the pure loyalty25 of her heart, that he had even plotted her surrender to an unknown fate? What proof of that could he devise? Did he succeed in overcoming her doubts, would he not have gone far towards winning her gratitude26?
She would shed tears again; it gave him a nameless pleasure to see Veranilda weep.
Thinking thus, he strayed aimlessly and unconsciously in courts and corridors. Night would come again, and could he trust himself through the long, still night after long speech with Veranilda? A blacker thought than any he had yet nurtured27 began to stir in his mind, raising its head like the viper28 of an hour ago. Were she but his—his irredeemably? He tried to see beyond that, but his vision blurred29.
Her nature was gentle, timid; the kind of nature, he thought, which subdues30 itself to the irreparable. So soft, so sweet, so utterly31 woman, might she not, thinking herself abandoned by Basil, yield heart and soul to a man whom she saw helpless to resist a passionate32 love of her? Or, if this hope deceived him, was there no artifice33 with which to cover his ill-doing, no piece of guile34 subtle enough to cloak such daring infamy35?
He was in the atrium, standing36 on the spot where first he had talked with her. As then, he gazed at the bronze group of the candelabrum; his eyes were fixed37 on those of Proserpine.
A slave entered and announced to him a visit from one of the priests whom he was going to see when the meeting at the bridge changed his purpose. The name startled him. Was this man sent by God? He bade introduce the visitor, and in a moment there entered a white-bearded, shoulder-bowed ecclesiastic38, perspiring39 from the sunshine, who greeted him with pleasant cordiality. This priest it was—he bore the name Gaudiosus—who had baptized Marcian, and had given him in childhood religious teaching; a good, but timid man, at all times readier to praise than to reprove, a well-meaning utterer of smooth things, closing his eyes to evil, which confused rather than offended him. From the same newsbearer, who told him of Marcian’s arrival at the villa40, Gaudiosus had heard of a mysterious lady; but it was far from his thought to meddle41 with the morals of one whose noble birth and hereditary42 position of patron inspired him with respect; he came only to gossip about the affairs of the time. They sat down together, Marcian glad of the distraction43. But scarce had they been talking for five minutes, when again the servant presented himself.
‘What now?’ asked his master impatiently.
‘My lord, at the gate is the lord Basil.’
Marcian started up.
‘Basil? How equipped and attended?’
‘Armed, on horseback, and with a number of armed horsemen.’
‘Withdraw, and wait outside till I call you.’
Marcian turned to the presbyter. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes strangely bright.
‘Here,’ he said, in low, hurried tones, ‘comes an evil man, a deep-dyed traitor, with the aspect of friendliest integrity. I am glad you are with me. I have no leisure now to tell you the story; you shall hear it afterwards. What I ask of you, reverend father, is to bear me out in all I say, to corroborate44, if asked to do so, all I state to him. You may rely upon the truth of every word I shall utter; and may be assured that, in doing this, you serve only the cause of good. Let it not surprise you that I receive the man with open arms. He was my dear friend; I have only of late discovered his infamy, and for the gravest reasons, which you shall learn, I am obliged to mask my knowledge. Beloved father, you will give me your countenance45?’
‘I will, I will,’ replied Gaudiosus nervously46. ‘You would not deceive me, I well know, dear son.’
‘God forbid!’
Marcian summoned the waiting servant, and ordered that the traveller should be straightway admitted. A few minutes passed in absolute silence, then, as the two stood gazing towards the entrance, they saw the gleam of a casque and of a breastplate, and before them stood Basil. His arms extended, Marcian stepped forward.
‘So soon, O brave Basil!’ he exclaimed. ‘What speed you must have made! How long is it since my letter reached you?’
There passed the semblance47 of an embrace between them. Basil was death pale; he spoke48 in hollow tones, as though his tongue were parched49, and looked with bloodshot eyes from Marcian to the ecclesiastic.
‘I am travel-worn. Your hospitality must restore me.’
‘That it shall,’ replied Marcian. ‘Or, better still,’ he added, ‘the hospitality of my father Gaudiosus.’ He touched the priest’s arm, as if affectionately. ‘For here there is little solace50; barely one chamber habitable. You have often heard me describe, O Basil, my poor, ruinous island villa, and now at length you behold51 it. I did not think you would pass this way, or I would have prepared for your fitting reception. By the greatest chance you find me here; and tomorrow I must be gone. But scarce two thousand paces from here is the dwelling52 of this reverend man, who will entertain you fittingly, and give you the care you need; for it seems to me, dear Basil, that you are more than wearied.’
The listener nodded, and let himself drop upon a seat near to where Marcian was standing.
‘What have you to tell me?’ he asked under his breath.
‘Nothing good, alas53!’ was the murmured reply.
‘Shall we speak in private?’
‘Nay, it is needless. All my secrets lie open to Gaudiosus.’
Again Basil cast a glance at the presbyter, who had seated himself and appeared to be absorbed in thought.
‘Do you mean,’ he asked, ‘that something new has befallen?’
His eyes were upon Marcian, and Marcian’s upon those of Proserpine.
‘Yes, something new. The deacon of whom you know has left Rome, accompanying the Pope on his journey eastward54. And with him he has taken—’
A name was shaped upon the speaker’s lips, but whether of purpose, or because his voice failed him, it found no utterance55.
‘Veranilda?’
As Basil spoke, his eye was caught by the movement of a curtain at the back of the room. The curtain was pushed aside, and there appeared the figure of a maiden56, pale, beautiful. Marcian did not see her, nor yet did the priest.
‘Veranilda?’ repeated Basil, in the same questioning tone. He leaned forward, his hand upon his wrist.
‘She—alas!’ was Marcian’s reply.
‘Liar! traitor! devil!’
At each word, Basil’s dagger57 drank blood up to the hilt. With his furious voice blended a yell of terror, of agony, a faint cry of horror from Gaudiosus, and a woman’s scream. Then came silence.
The priest dropped to his knees by Marcian’s prostrate58 form. Basil, the stained weapon in his crimson59 hand, stared at Veranilda, who also had fallen.
‘Man! What hast thou done?’ gasped60 Gaudiosus.
The trembling, senile tones wakened Basil as if from a trance. He thrust his dagger into its sheath, stepped to the back of the room, and bent61 over the white loveliness that lay still.
‘Is it death?’ he murmured.
‘Death! death!’ answered the priest, who had just heard Marcian’s last sob62.
‘I speak not of that perjured63 wretch,’ said Basil. ‘Come hither.’
Gaudiosus obeyed, and looked with wonder at the unconscious face.
‘Who is this?’ he asked.
‘No matter who. Does she live?’
Basil had knelt, and taken one of the little hands in both his own, staining it with the blood of Marcian.
‘I can feel no throb64 of life,’ he said, speaking coldly, mechanically.
The priest bent, and put his cheek to her lips.
‘She lives. This is but a swoon. Help me to bear her to the couch.’
But Basil took the slender body in his arms, and carried it like that of a child. When he had laid it down, he looked at Gaudiosus sternly.
‘Have you authority in this house?’
‘Some little, perhaps. I know not. What is your will?’
Utterly confounded, his eyes dropping moisture, his limbs shaken as if with palsy, the priest babbled65 his reply.
‘Use any power you have,’ continued Basil, ‘to prevent more bloodshed. Outside the gates are men of mine. Bid the porter admit them to the outer court. Then call thither66 two servants, and let them bear away that—whither you will. After, you shall hear more.’
Like an obedient slave, Gaudiosus sped on his errand. Basil the while stood gazing at Veranilda; but he did not go very near to her, and his look had nothing of tenderness. He saw the priest return, followed by two men, heard him whisper to them, saw them take up and carry away their master’s corpse67; all this as if it did not regard him. Again he turned his gaze upon Veranilda. It seemed to him that her lips, her eyelids68 moved. He bent forward, heard a sigh. Then the blue eyes opened, but as yet saw nothing.
Gaudiosus reappeared, and Basil beckoned69 him.
‘You do not know her?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘I never looked upon her face till now,’ was the reply.
At the sound of their voices Veranilda stirred, tried to rouse herself, uttered a sound of distress70.
‘Speak to her,’ said Basil.
Gaudiosus approached the couch, and spoke soothing71 words.
‘What dreadful thought is this?’ said Veranilda. ‘What have I seen?’
The priest whispered an adjuration72 to prayer. But she, raising her head, cast terrified glances about the hall. Basil had moved further away, and she did not seem to be aware of his presence.
‘How long is it,’ he asked, with his eyes upon Gaudiosus, ‘since Marcian came from Rome?’
‘This is the fourth day. So I have been told. I myself saw him for the first time not an hour—nay, not half an hour ago.’
‘You knew not that he brought her with him?’
Basil, without looking in that direction, signalled with his head towards Veranilda.
‘I had heard of some companion unnamed.’
‘He had not spoken of her to you?’
‘Not a word.’
On the tesselated floor where Marcian had fallen was a pool of blood. Basil only now perceived it, and all at once a violent shudder73 went over him.
‘Man of God!’ he exclaimed in a voice of sudden passion, terribly resonant74 after the dull, hard accents of his questioning. ‘You look upon me with abhorrence75, and, perhaps, with fear. Hearken to my vindication76. He whom I have slain77 was the man I held in dearest friendship. I believed him true to the heart’s core. Yesterday—was it but yesterday?—O blessed Christ!—it seems to me so long ago—I learned that his heart was foul78 with treachery. Long, long, he has lied to me, pretending to seek with me for one I had lost, my plighted79 love. In secret he robbed me of her. Heard you not his answer when, to catch the lie on his very lips, I asked what news he could give me of her. I knew that she was here; his own servant had secretly avowed80 the truth to me. And you heard him say that she was gone on far travel. Therefore it was that he would not harbour me in his house—me, his friend. In the name of the Crucified, did I not well to lay him low?’
Somewhat recovered from the emotions which had enfeebled him, Gaudiosus held up his head, and made solemn answer.
‘Not yours was it to take vengeance81. The God to whom you appeal has said: “Thou shalt do no murder.”’
‘Consider his crime,’ returned the other. ‘In the moment when he swore falsely I lifted up my eyes, and behold, she herself stood before me. She whom I loved, who had pledged herself to me, who long ago would have been my wife but for the enemy who came between us—she, hidden here with him, become a wanton in his embraces—’
A low cry of anguish82 interrupted him. He turned. Veranilda had risen and drawn83 near.
‘Basil! You know not what you say.’
‘Nor what I could say,’ he replied, his eyes blazing with scorn. ‘You, who were truth itself have you so well learned to lie? Talk on. Tell me that he held you here perforce, and that you passed the days and the nights in weeping. Have I not heard of your smiles and your contentment? Whither did you stray this morning? Did you go into the wood to say your orisons?’
Veranilda turned to the priest.
‘Servant of God I Hear me, unhappy that I am!’
With a gesture of entreaty84 she flung out her hands, and, in doing so, saw that one of them was red. Her woebegone look changed to terror.
‘What is this? His blood is upon me—on my hand, my garment. When did I touch him? Holy father, whither has he gone? Does he live? Oh, tell me if he lives!’
‘Come hence with me,’ said Gaudiosus. ‘Come where I may hear you utter the truth before God.’
But Veranilda was as one distraught. She threw herself on to her knees.
‘Tell me he lives. He is but sorely hurt? He can speak? Whither have they carried him?’
Confirmed in his damning thought by every syllable85 she uttered, Basil strode away.
‘Lead her where you will,’ he shouted. ‘I stay under this abhorred86 roof only till my men have eaten and taken rest.’
Without knowing it, he had stepped into the pool of blood, and a red track was left behind him as he went forth87 from the hall.
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收听单词发音
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1
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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10
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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14
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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15
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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18
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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19
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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20
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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23
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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27
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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29
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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subdues
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| 征服( subdue的第三人称单数 )； 克制； 制服 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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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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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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ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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corroborate
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| v.支持，证实，确定 | |
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45
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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47
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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48
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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49
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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50
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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51
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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52
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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53
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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54
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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55
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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56
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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57
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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58
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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59
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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60
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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61
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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62
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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63
perjured
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| adj.伪证的，犯伪证罪的v.发假誓，作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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66
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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67
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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68
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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69
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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71
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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72
adjuration
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| n.祈求，命令 | |
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73
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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74
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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75
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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76
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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77
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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78
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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79
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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80
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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81
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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82
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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83
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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84
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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85
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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86
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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87
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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