39小说

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第7部分（第1页）

cheaper　sort　of　canary　wine　to　a　few　seafaring　men；　who　would　sit　there　trolling　their　ditties；　and　telling　their　stories　of　Drake；　Hawkins；　and　Grenville；　till　they　toppled　off　the　benches　and　rolled　asleep　on　the　sanded　floor。　The　darkness　was　more　passionate　to　his　swollen　and　violent　heart。　He　listened　to　every　footfall；　speculated　on　every　sound。　Each　drunken　shout　and　each　wail　from　some　poor　wretch　laid　in　the　straw　or　in　other　distress　cut　his　heart　to　the　quick；　as　if　it　boded　ill　omen　to　his　venture。　Yet；　he　had　no　fear　for　Sasha。　Her　courage　made　nothing　of　the　adventure。　She　would　e　alone；　in　her　cloak　and　trousers；　booted　like　a　man。　Light　as　her　footfall　was；　it　would　hardly　be　heard；　even　in　this　silence。

So　he　waited　in　the　darkness。　Suddenly　he　was　struck　in　the　face　by　a　blow；　soft；　yet　heavy；　on　the　side　of　his　cheek。　So　strung　with　expectation　was　he；　that　he　started　and　put　his　hand　to　his　sword。　The　blow　was　repeated　a　dozen　times　on　forehead　and　cheek。　The　dry　frost　had　lasted　so　long　that　it　took　him　a　minute　to　realize　that　these　were　raindrops　falling；　the　blows　were　the　blows　of　the　rain。　At　first；　they　fell　slowly；　deliberately；　one　by　one。　But　soon　the　six　drops　became　sixty；　then　six　hundred；　then　ran　themselves　together　in　a　steady　spout　of　water。　It　was　as　if　the　hard　and　consolidated　sky　poured　itself　forth　in　one　profuse　fountain。　In　the　space　of　five　minutes　Orlando　was　soaked　to　the　skin。

Hastily　putting　the　horses　under　cover；　he　sought　shelter　beneath　the　lintel　of　the　door　whence　he　could　still　observe　the　courtyard。　The　air　was　thicker　now　than　ever；　and　such　a　steaming　and　droning　rose　from　the　downpour　that　no　footfall　of　man　or　beast　could　be　heard　above　it。　The　roads；　pitted　as　they　were　with　great　holes；　would　be　under　water　and　perhaps　impassable。　But　of　what　effect　this　would　have　upon　their　flight　he　scarcely　thought。　All　his　senses　were　bent　upon　gazing　along　the　cobbled　pathway—gleaming　in　the　light　of　the　lantern—for　Sasha’s　ing。　Sometimes；　in　the　darkness；　he　seemed　to　see　her　wrapped　about　with　rain　strokes。　But　the　phantom　vanished。　Suddenly；　with　an　awful　and　ominous　voice；　a　voice　full　of　horror　and　alarm　which　raised　every　hair　of　anguish　in　Orlando’s　soul；　St　Paul’s　struck　the　first　stroke　of　midnight。　Four　times　more　it　struck　remorselessly。　With　the　superstition　of　a　lover；　Orlando　had　made　out　that　it　was　on　the　sixth　stroke　that　she　would　e。　But　the　sixth　stroke　echoed　away；　and　the　seventh　came　and　the　eighth；　and　to　his　apprehensive　mind　they　seemed　notes　first　heralding　and　then　proclaiming　death　and　disaster。　When　the　twelfth　struck　he　knew　that　his　doom　was　sealed。　It　was　useless　for　the　rational　part　of　him　to　reason；　she　might　be　late；　she　might　be　prevented；　she　might　have　missed　her　way。　The　passionate　and　feeling　heart　of　Orlando　knew　the　truth。　Other　clocks　struck；　jangling　one　after　another。　The　whole　world　seemed　to　ring　with　the　news　of　her　deceit　and　his　derision。　The　old　suspicions　subterraneously　at　work　in　him　rushed　forth　from　concealment　openly。　He　was　bitten　by　a　swarm　of　snakes；　each　more　poisonous　than　the　last。　He　stood　in　the　doorway　in　the　tremendous　rain　without　moving。　As　the　minutes　passed；　he　sagged　a　little　at　the　knees。　The　downpour　rushed　on。　In　the　thick　of　it；　great　guns　seemed　to　boom。　Huge　noises　as　of　the　tearing　and　rending　of　oak　trees　could　be　heard。　There　were　also　wild　cries　and　terrible　inhuman　groanings。　But　Orlando　stood　there　immovable　till　Paul’s　clock　struck　two；　and　then；　crying　aloud　with　an　awful　irony；　and　all　his　teeth　showing；　‘Jour　de　ma　vie！’　he　dashed　the　lantern　to　the　ground；　mounted　his　horse　and　galloped　he　knew　not　where。

Some　blind　instinct；　for　he　was　past　reasoning；　must　have　driven　him　to　take　the　river　bank　in　the　direction　of　the　sea。　For　when　the　dawn　broke；　which　it　did　with　unusual　suddenness；　the　sky　turning　a　pale　yellow　and　the　rain　almost　ceasing；　he　found　himself　on　the　banks　of　the　Thames　off　Wapping。　Now　a　sight　of　the　most　extraordinary　nature　met　his　eyes。　Where；　for　three　months　and　more；　there　had　been　solid　ice　of　such　thickness　that　it　seemed　permanent　as　stone；　and　a　whole　gay　city　had　been　stood　on　its　pavement；　was　now　a　race　of　turbulent　yellow　waters。　The　river　had　gained　its　freedom　in　the　night。　It　was　as　if　a　sulphur　spring　（to　which　view　many　philosophers　inclined）　had　risen　from　the　volcanic　regions　beneath　and　burst　the　ice　asunder　with　such　vehemence　that　it　swept　the　huge　and　massy　fragments　furiously　apart。　The　mere　look　of　the　water　was　enough　to　turn　one　giddy。　All　was　riot　and　confusion。　The　river　was　strewn　with　icebergs。　Some　of　these　were　as　broad　as　a　bowling　green　and　as　high　as　a　house；　others　no　bigger　than　a　man’s　hat；　but　most　fantastically　twisted。　Now　would　e　down　a　whole　convoy　of　ice　blocks　sinking　everything　that　stood　in　their　way。　Now；　eddying　and　swirling　like　a　tortured　serpent；　the　river　would　seem　to　be　hurtling　itself　between　the　fragments　and　tossing　them　from　bank　to　bank；　so　that　they　could　be　heard　smashing　against　the　piers　and　pillars。　But　what　was　the　most　awful　and　inspiring　of　terror　was　the　sight　of　the　human　creatures　who　had　been　trapped　in　the　night　and　now　paced　their　twisting　and　precarious　islands　in　the　utmost　agony　of　spirit。　Whether　they　jumped　into　the　flood　or　stayed　on　the　ice　their　doom　was　certain。　Sometimes　quite　a　cluster　of　these　poor　creatures　would　e　down　together；　some　on　their　knees；　others　suckling　their　babies。　One　old　man　seemed　to　be　reading　aloud　from　a　holy　book。　At　other　times；　and　his　fate　perhaps　was　the　most　dreadful；　a　solitary　wretch　would　stride　his　narrow　tenement　alone。　As　they　swept　out　to　sea；　some　could　be　heard　crying　vainly　for　help；　making　wild　promises　to　amend　their　ways；　confessing　their　sins　and　vowing　altars　and　wealth　if　God　would　hear　their　prayers。　Others　were　so　dazed　with　terror　that　they　sat　immovable　and　silent　looking　steadfastly　before　them。　One　crew　of　young　watermen　or　post–boys；　to　judge　by　their　liveries；　roared　and　shouted　the　lewdest　tavern　songs；　as　if　in　bravado；　and　were　dashed　against　a　tree　and　sunk　with　blasphemies　on　their　lips。　An　old　nobleman—for　such　his　furred　gown　and　golden　chain　proclaimed　him—went　down　not　far　from　where　Orlando　stood；　calling　vengeance　upon　the　Irish　rebels；　who；　he　cried　with　his　last　breath；　had　plotted　this　devilry。　Many　perished　clasping　some　silver　pot　or　other　treasure　to　their　breasts；　and　at　least　a　score　of　poor　wretches　were　drowned　by　their　own　cupidity；　hurling　themselves　from　the　bank　into　the　flood　rather　than　let　a　gold　goblet　escape　them；　or　see　before　their　eyes　the　disappearance　of　some　furred　gown。　For　furniture；　valuables；　possessions　of　all　sorts　were　carried　away　on　the　icebergs。　Among　other　strange　sights　was　to　be　seen　a　cat　suckling　its　young；　a　table　laid　sumptuously　for　a　supper　of　twenty；　a　couple　in　bed；　together　with　an　extraordinary　number　of　cooking　utensils。

Dazed　and　astounded；　Orlando　could　do　nothing　for　some　time　but　watch　the　appalling　race　of　waters　as　it　hurled　itself　past　him。　At　last；　seeming　to　recollect　himself；　he　clapped　spurs　to　his　horse　and　galloped　hard　along　the　river　bank　in　the　direction　of　the　sea。　Rounding　a　bend　of　the　river；　he　came　opposite　that　reach　where；　not　two　days　ago；　the　ships　of　the　Ambassadors　had　seemed　immovably　frozen。　Hastily；　he　made　count　of　them　all；　the　French；　the　Spanish；　the　Austrian；　the　Turk。　All　still　floated；　though　the　French　had　broken　loose　from　her　moorings；　and　the　Turkish　vessel　had　taken　a　great　rent　in　her　side　and　was　fast　filling　with　water。　But　the　Russian　ship　was　nowhere　to　be　seen。　For　one　moment　Orlando　thought　it　must　have　foundered；　but；　raising　himself　in　his　stirrups　and　shading　his　eyes；　which　had　the　sight　of　a　hawk’s；　he　could　just　make　out　the　shape　of　a　ship　on　the　horizon。　The　black　eagles　were　flying　from　the　mast　head。　The　ship　of　the　Muscovite　Embassy　was　standing　out　to　sea。

Flinging　himself　from　his　horse；　he　made；　in　his　rage；　as　if　he　would　breast　the　flood。　Standing　knee–deep　in　water　he　hurled　at　the　faithless　woman　all　the　insults　that　have　ever　been　the　lot　of　her　sex。　Faithless；　mutable；　fickle；　he　called　her；　devil；　adulteress；　deceiver；　and　the　swirling　waters　took　his　words；　and　tossed　at　his　feet　a　broken　pot　and　a　little　straw。

CHAPTER　2。

The　biographer　is　now　faced　with　a　difficulty　which　it　is　better　perhaps　to　confess　than　to　gloss　over。　Up　to　this　point　in　telling　the　story　of　Orlando’s　life；　documents；　both　private　and　historical；　have　made　it　possible　to　fulfil　the　first　duty　of　a　biographer；　which　is　to　plod；　without　looking　to　right　or　left；　in　the　indelible　footprints　of　truth；　unenticed　by　flowers；　regardless　of　shade；　on　and　on　methodically　till　we　fall　plump　into　the　grave　and　write　finis　on　the　tombstone　above　our　heads。　But　now　we　e　to　an　episode　which　lies　right　across　our　path；　so　that　there　is　no　ignoring　it。　Yet　it　is　dark；　mysterious；　and　undocumented；　so　that　there　is　no　explaining　it。　Volumes　might　be　written　in　interpretation　of　it；　whole　religious　systems　founded　upon　the　signification　of　it。　Our　simple　duty　is　to　state　the　facts　as　far　as　they　are　known；　and　so　let　the　reader　make　of　them　what　he　may。

In　the　summer　of　that　disastrous　winter　which　saw　the　frost；　the　flood；　the　deaths　of　many　thousands；　and　the　plete　downfall　of　Orlando’s　hopes—for　he　was　exiled　from　Court；　in　deep　disgrace　with　the　most　powerful　nobles　of　his　time；　the　Irish　house　of　Desmond　was　justly　enraged；　the　King　had　already　trouble　enough　with　the　Irish　not　to　relish　this　further　addition—in　that　summer　Orlando　retired　to　his　great　house　in　the　country　and　there　lived　in　plete　solitude。　One　June　morning—it　was　Saturday　the　18th—he　failed　to　rise　at　his　usual　hour；　and　when　his　groom　went　to　call　him　he　was　found　fast　asleep。　Nor　could　he　be　awakened。　He　lay　as　if　in　a　trance；　without　perceptible　breathing；　and　though　dogs　were　set　to　bark　under　his　window；　cymbals；　drums；　bones　beaten　perpetually　in　his　room；　a　gorse　bush　put　under　his　pillow；　and　mustard　plasters　applied　to　his　feet；　still　he　did　not　wake；　take　food；　or　show　any　sign　of　life　for　seven　whole　days。　On　the　seventh　day　he　woke　at　his　usual　time　（a　quarter　before　eight；　precisely）　and　turned　the　whole　posse　of　caterwauling　wives　and　village　soothsayers　out　of　his　room；　which　was　natural　enough；　but　what　was　strange　was　that　he　showed　no　consciousness　of　any　such　trance；　but　dressed　himself　and　sent　for　his　horse　as　if　he　had　woken　from　a　single　night’s　slumber。　Yet　some　change；　it　was　suspected；　must　have　taken　place　in　the　chambers　of　his　brain；　for　though　he　was　perfectly　rational　and　seemed　graver　and　more　sedate　in　his　ways　than　before；　he　appeared　to　have　an　imperfect　recollection　of　his　past　life。　He　would　listen　when　people　spoke　of　the　great　frost　or　the　skating　or　the　carnival；　but　he　never　gave　any　sign；　except　by　passing　his　hand　across　his　brow　as　if　to　wipe　away　some　cloud；　of　having　witnessed　them　himself。　When　the　events　of　the　past　six　months　were　discussed；　he　seemed　not　so　much　distressed　as　puzzled；　as　if　he　were　troubled　by　confused　memories　of　some　time　long　gone　or　were　trying　to　recall　stories　told　him

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