This talk was interrupted by the approach of Basil’s men, who came to seek a meal for themselves and forage5 for their horses. Having no choice but to obey, the servants went about the work required of them. A quiet fell upon the house. The strangers talked little, and, when they spoke6, subdued7 their voices. In still chambers9 and corridors was heard now and then a sound of weeping.
Basil, though he had given orders for departure as soon as the meal was done, knew not whither his journey should be directed. A paralysis10 of thought and will kept him pacing alone in the courtyard; food he could not touch; of repose11 he was incapable12; and though he constantly lifted up his bloodstained hand, to gaze at it as if in bewildered horror, he did not even think of washing the blood away. At moments he lost consciousness of what he had done, his mind straying to things remote; then the present came back upon him with a shock, seeming, however, to strike on numbed13 senses, so that he had to say to himself, ‘I have slain14 Marcian,’ before he could fully15 understand his suffering.
Veranilda was now scarce present to his mind at all. Something vaguely16 outlined hovered17 in the background; something he durst not look at or think about; the sole thing in the world that had reality for him was the image of Marcian—stabbed, shrieking18, falling, dead. Every minute was the fearful scene reenacted. More than once he checked himself in his walk, seeming to be about to step on Marcian’s body.
At length, seeing a shadow draw near, he raised his eyes and beheld19 Gaudiosus. He tried to speak, but found that his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. Automatically he crossed himself, then caught the priest’s hand, and knelt and kissed it.
‘Rise, my son,’ said Gaudiosus, ‘for I would talk with you.’
On one side of the courtyard was a portico20 with seats, and thither21 the old man led.
‘Unless,’ he began gravely, ‘unless the author of all falsehood—who is so powerful over women—has entered into this maiden22 to baffle and mislead me utterly23, I feel assured that she is chaste24; not merely unsullied in the flesh, but as pure of heart as her fallen nature may permit a woman to be.’
Basil gazed at him darkly.
‘My father, how can you believe it? Did you not hear her lament26 because the man was dead? It is indeed the devil that beguiles27 you.’
Gaudiosus bent28 his head, and pondered anxiously.
‘Tell me,’ he said at length, ‘all her story, that I may compare it with what I have heard from her own lips.’
Slowly at first, and confusedly, with hesitations29, repetitions, long pauses, Basil recited the history of Veranilda, so far as he knew it. The priest listened and nodded, and when silence came, continued the narrative30. If Veranilda spoke truth she had never seen Marcian until he took her from the convent at Praeneste. Moreover, Marcian had never uttered to her a word of love; in his house she had lived as chastely31 as among the holy sisters.
‘What did she here, then?’ asked Basil bitterly. ‘Why did he bring her here? You know, O father, that it was not in fulfilment of his promise to me, for you heard his shameless lie when I questioned him.’
‘He told her,’ replied the priest, ‘that she sojourned here only until he could put her under the protection of the Gothic King.’
‘Of Totila?’ cried Basil. ‘Nay32, for all I know, he may have thought of that—his passion being appeased33.’
Even as he spoke be remembered Sagaris and the letter written in Gothic. Some motive34 of interest might, indeed, have prompted Marcian to this step. None the less was he Veranilda’s lover. Would he otherwise have kept her here with him, alone, and not rather have continued the journey, with all speed, till he reached Totila’s camp?
‘When I left her,’ pursued Gaudiosus, whose confidence in his own judgment35 was already shaken by the young man’s vehemence36, ‘I spoke in private with certain of the bondswomen, who declared to me that they could avouch37 the maiden’s innocence38 since her coming hither—until today’s sunrise.’
Basil laughed with scorn.
‘Until today’s sunrise? And pray, good father, what befell her at that moment? What whisper the Argus-eyed bondswomen?’
‘They tell me,’ replied the priest, ‘that she went forth39 and met Marcian, and walked with him in a wood, her own woman having been sent back to the villa40. This troubled me; but her voice, her countenance41—’
‘Helped by the devil,’ broke in Basil. ‘Reverend man, do not seek to deceive yourself, or to solace42 me with a vain hope. I pray you, did Marcian, when you came to visit him, speak of a lady whose virtue43 he was sworn to guard? Plainly, not a word fell from him. Yet assuredly he would have spoken had things been as you pretend.’
Gaudiosus, bent double, a hand propping44 his white-bearded chin, mused45 for a little with sadded air.
‘Lord Basil,’ he resumed at length, ‘somewhat more have I to say to you. I live far from the world, and hear little of its rumour46. Until this day your name was unknown to me, and of good concerning you I have to this hour heard nothing save from your own lips. May I credit this report you make of yourself? Or should I rather believe what Marcian, in brief words, declared to me when he heard that you were at his gate?’
The speaker paused, as if to collect courage.
‘He spoke ill of me?’ asked Basil.
‘He spoke much ill. He accused you of disloyalty in friendship, saying that he had but newly learnt how you had deceived him. More than this he had not time to tell.’
Basil looked into the old man’s rheumy eyes.
‘You do well to utter this, good father. Tell me one thing more. Yonder maiden, does she breathe the same charge against me?’
‘Not so,’ replied Gaudiosus. ‘Of you she said no evil.’
‘Yet I scarce think’—he smiled coldly—‘that she made profession of love for me?’
‘My son, her speech was maidenly47. She spoke of herself as erstwhile your betrothed48; no more than that.’
As he uttered these words, the priest rose. He had an uneasy look, as if he feared that infirmity of will and fondness for gossip had betrayed him into some neglect of spiritual obligation.
‘It is better,’ he said, ‘that we should converse49 no more. I know not what your purposes may be, nor do they concern me I remain here to pray by the dead, and I shall despatch50 a messenger to my brother presbyter, that we may prepare for the burial. Remember,’ he raised his head, and his voice struck a deeper note, ‘that the guilt51 of blood is upon you, and that no plea of earthly passion will avail before the Almighty52 Judge. Behold53 your hand—even so, but far more deeply have you stained your soul.’
Basil scarce heard. Numbness54 had crept over him again; he stared at the doorway55 by which the priest reentered the house, and only after some minutes recalled enough of the old man’s last words to look upon his defiled56 hand. Then he called aloud, summoning any slave who might hear him, and when the doorkeeper came timidly from a recess57 where he had been skulking58, bade him bring water. Having cleansed59 himself, he walked by an outer way to the rear of the villa; for he durst not pass through the atrium.
Here his men were busy over their meal, sitting or sprawling60 in a shadowed place, the slaves waiting upon them. With a reminder62 that they must hold themselves ready to ride at any moment, he passed on through a large, wild garden, and at length, where a grove63 of box-trees surrounded the ruins of a little summer-house, cast himself to the ground.
His breast heaved, his eyes swelled64 and smarted, but he could not shed tears. Face downwards65, like a man who bites the earth in his last agony, he lay quivering. So did an hour or more pass by.
He was roused by the voices of his men, who were searching and calling for him. With an effort, he rose to his feet, and stepped out into the sunshine, when he learnt that a troop of soldiers had just ridden up to the villa, and that their captain, who had already entered, was asking for him by name. Careless what might await him, Basil followed the men as far as the inner court, and there stood Venantius.
‘I surprise you,’ cried out the genial66 voice with a cheery laugh. You had five hours start of me. Pray, dear lord, when did you get here?’
Basil could make no reply, and the other, closely observing his strange countenance, went on to explain that, scarcely started from Aesernia on his way to the king, Marcian’s messenger had met with Totila himself, who was nearer than had been thought. After reading the letter, Totila had come on rapidly to Aesernia, and had forthwith despatched Venantius to the villa by Arpinum.
‘You guess my mission, lord Basil,’ he pursued, with bluff67 good-humour. ‘Dullard that I was, the talk of a fair lady travelling in Marcian’s charge never brought to my mind that old story of Surrentum. Here is our royal Totila all eagerness to see this maiden—if maiden still she be. What say you on that point, dear lord? Nay, look not so fiercely at me. I am not here to call any one to account, but only to see that the Gothic beauty comes safe to Aesernia as soon as may be.’
‘You will find her within,’ muttered Basil.
‘And Marcian? I might have thought I came inopportunely to this dwelling68, but that he himself wrote to the king that the lady was here.’
‘You are assured of that?’ Basil asked, under his breath.
‘I have Totila’s word for it, at all events. But you seem indisposed for talk, lord Basil, and my business is with Marcian. The slaves all look scared, and can’t or won’t answer a plain question. I have no time to waste. Tell me, I pray you, where the lord of the villa may be found.’
Basil summoned one of his followers69.
‘Conduct the lord Venantius to Marcian’s chamber8.’
It was done. Basil remained standing70 in the same spot, his eyes cast down, till a quick step announced the captain’s return. Venantius came close up to him, and spoke in a grave but not unfriendly voice:
‘The priest has told me what he saw, but will not say more. I ask you nothing, lord Basil. You will make your defence to the king.’
‘Be it so.’
‘My men must rest for an hour,’ continued Venantius. ‘We shall ride this afternoon as far as Aquinum, and there pass the night. I go now to speak with Veranilda.’
‘As you will.’
Basil withdrew into the portico, sat down, and covered his face with his hands. Fever consumed him, and a dreadful melancholy71 weighed upon his spirit. At a respectful distance from him, his followers had assembled, ready for departure. The soldiers who had come with Venantius, a score in number, were eating and drinking outside the gates. Within, all was quiet. Half an hour elapsed, and Venantius again came forward. Seeing Basil in the shadow of the portico, he went and sat beside him, and began to speak with rough but well-meaning solace. Why this heaviness? If he surmised72 aright, Basil had but avenged73 himself as any man would have done. For his own part, he had never thought enough of any woman to kill a man on her account; but such little troubles were of everyday occurrence, and must not be taken too much to heart. He had seen this Gothic damsel of whom there had been so much rumour, and, by Diana I (if the oath were not inappropriate) her face deserved all that was said of it. His rival being out of the way, why should not Basil pluck up cheer? Totila would not deal harshly in such a matter as this, and more likely than not he would be disposed to give the maiden to a Roman of noble race, his great desire being to win all Romans by generosity74.
‘Yonder priest tells me,’ he added, ‘that you were over hasty; that you struck on a mere25 suspicion. And methinks he may be right. By the Holy Cross, I could well believe this maiden a maiden in very deed. I never looked upon a purer brow, an eye that spoke more innocently. Hark ye, my good Basil, I am told that you have not spoken with her. If you would fain do so before we set forth, I will be no hinderer. Go, if you will, into yonder room’—he pointed75 to a door near by—’ and when she descends76 (I have but to call), you shall see her undisturbed.’
For a moment Basil sat motionless; then, without a word, he rose and went whither Venantius directed him. But a few minutes passed before he saw Veranilda enter. She was clad for travel, a veil over her face; this, and the shadow in which Basil stood, made her at first unaware77 of his presence, for Venantius had only requested her to enter this room until the carriage was ready. Standing with bowed head, she sobbed78.
‘Why do you weep?’ demanded an abrupt79 voice, which made her draw back trembling.
Basil moved a little towards her.
‘You weep for him?’ he added in the same pitiless tone.
‘For him, for you, and for myself, alas80! alas!’
The subdued anguish81 of her voice did not touch Basil. He burned with hatred82 of her and of the dead man.
‘Shed no tears for me. I am cured of a long folly83. And for you consolation84 will not be slow in coming. Who knows but you may throw your spell upon Totila himself.’
‘You know not what you say,’ replied Veranilda; not, as when she used the words before, in accents quivering from a stricken heart, but with sorrowful dignity and self-command. ‘Is it Basil who speaks thus? Were it only the wrong done me that I had to bear, I could keep silence, waiting until God restored your justice and your gentleness. But, though in nothing blameworthy, I am the cause of what has come about; for had I not entered that room when I did, you would not have struck the fatal blow. Listen then, O Basil, whilst I make known to you what happened before you came.’
She paused to control herself.
‘I must go back to the night when I left the convent. No one had told me I was to go away. In the middle of the night I was aroused and led forth, with me the woman who served me. We had travelled an hour or two, perhaps, when some one standing by the carriage spoke to me, some one who said he was Marcian the friend of Basil, and bade me have no fears, for Basil awaited me at the end of the journey. The next day he spoke to me again, this time face to face, but only a few words. We came to this villa. You have been told, by I know not whom, that I was light of heart. It is true, for I believed what Marcian had said to me, and nothing had befallen to disturb my gladness. I lived with my serving woman privately85, in quiet and hope. This morning, yielding, alas! to a wish which I thought harmless, I went forth with my attendant to the waterfall. As I stood gazing at it, the lord Marcian came forth on horseback. He alighted to speak with me, and presently asked if I would go to see another fall of the river, across the island. I consented. As we went, he dismissed my servant, and I did not know what he had done (thinking she still followed), until, when we were in a wood at the water’s edge, I could no longer see the woman, and Marcian told me he had bidden her go to fetch seats for us. Then he began to speak, and what he said, how shall I tell you?’
There was another brief silence. Basil did not stir; his eyes were bent sternly upon the veiled visage.
‘Was it evil in his heart that shaped such words? Or had he been deceived by some other? He said that Basil had forgotten me; that Basil loved, and would soon wed61, a lady in Rome. More than that, he said that Basil was plotting to get me into his power, his purpose being to deliver me to the Greeks, who would take me to Constantinople. But Marcian, so he declared, had rescued me in time, and I was to be guarded by the King of the Goths.’
The listener moved, raising his arm and letting it fall again. But he breathed no word.
‘This did he tell me,’ she added. ‘I went back to the villa to my chamber. I sat thinking, I know not how long; I know not how long. Then, unable to remain any longer alone, driven by my dreadful doubt, I came forth to seek Marcian. I descended86 the stairs to the atrium. You saw me—alas! alas!’
Basil drew nearer to her.
‘He had spoken no word of love?’
‘No word. I had no fear of that.’
‘Why, then, did he frame these lies, these hellish lies?’
‘Alas!’ cried Veranilda, clasping her hands above her head. ‘Did he still live, the truth might be discovered. His first words to me, in the night when he stood beside the carriage, sounded so kind and true; he named himself the friend of Basil, said that Basil awaited me at the journey’s end. How could he speak so, if he indeed then thought you what he afterwards said? Oh, were he alive, to stand face to face with me again!’
‘It is not enough,’ asked Basil harshly, ‘that I tell you he lied?’
She did not on the instant reply, and he, possessed87 with unreasoning bitterness, talked wildly on.
‘No! You believed him, and believe him still. I can well fancy that he spoke honestly at first; but when he had looked into your face, when he had talked with you, something tempted88 him to villainy. Go! Your tears and your lamentations betray you. It is not of me that you think, but of him, him, only him! “Oh, were he alive!” Ay, keep your face bidden; you know too well it could not bear my eyes upon it.’
Veranilda threw back the long veil, and stood looking at him.
‘Eyes red with weeping,’ he exclaimed, ‘and for whom? If you were true to me, would you not rejoice that I had slain my enemy? You say you were joyful89 in the thought of seeing me again? You see me—and with what countenance?’
‘I see not Basil,’ she murmured, her hands upon her breast.
‘You see a false lover, an ignoble90 traitor—the Basil shown you by Marcian. What would it avail me to speak in my own defence? His voice is in your ears, its lightest tone outweighing91 my most solemn oath. “Oh, that he were alive!” That is all you find to say to me.’
‘I know you not,’ sobbed Veranilda. ‘Alas, I know you not!’
‘Nor I you. I dreamt of a Veranilda who loved so purely92 and so constantly that not a thousand slanderers could have touched her heart with a shadow of mistrust. But who are you—you whom the first gross lie of a man lusting93 for your beauty utterly estranges94 from your faith? Who are you—who wail4 for the liar’s death, and shrink in horror from the hand that slew95 him? I ever heard that the daughters of the Goths were chaste and true and fearless. So they may be-all but one, whose birth marked her for faithlessness.’
As though smitten96 by a brutal97 blow, Veranilda bowed her head, shuddering98. Once more she looked at Basil, for an instant, with wide eyes of fear; then hid herself beneath the veil, and was gone.
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收听单词发音
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1
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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2
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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3
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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4
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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5
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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6
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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7
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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8
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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10
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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12
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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13
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
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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15
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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18
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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19
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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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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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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23
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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24
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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26
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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27
beguiles
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| v.欺骗( beguile的第三人称单数 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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28
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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29
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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30
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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31
chastely
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| adv.贞洁地，清高地，纯正地 | |
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32
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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34
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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36
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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37
avouch
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| v.确说，断言 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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40
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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41
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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42
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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43
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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44
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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45
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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46
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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47
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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48
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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49
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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50
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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51
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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52
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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53
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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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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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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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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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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outweighing
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的现在分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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lusting
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| 贪求（lust的现在分词形式） | |
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estranges
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| v.使疏远（尤指家庭成员之间）( estrange的第三人称单数 ) | |
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slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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