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New Arabian Nights-Part40_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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ailed the door? he wondered. Why was it open? How came it to shut

so easily and so effectually after him? There was something



obscure and underhand about all this, that was little to the young

man's fancy. It looked like a snare; and yet who could suppose a



snare in such a quiet by-street and in a house of so prosperous and

even noble an exterior? And yet - snare or no snare, intentionally



or unintentionally - here he was, prettily trapped; and for the

life of him he could see no way out of it again. The darkness



began to weigh upon him. He gave ear; all was silent without, but

within and close by he seemed to catch a faint sighing, a faint



sobbing rustle, a little stealthy creak - as though many persons

were at his side, holding themselves quite still, and governing



even their respiration with the extreme of slyness. The idea went

to his vitals with a shock, and he faced about suddenly as if to



defend his life. Then, for the first time, he became aware of a

light about the level of his eyes and at some distance in the



interior of the house - a vertical thread of light, widening

towards the bottom, such as might escape between two wings of arras



over a doorway. To see anything was a relief to Denis; it was like

a piece of solid ground to a man labouring in a morass; his mind



seized upon it with avidity; and he stood staring at it and trying

to piece together some logicalconception of his surroundings.



Plainly there was a flight of steps ascending from his own level to

that of this illuminated doorway; and indeed he thought he could



make out another thread of light, as fine as a needle and as faint

as phosphorescence, which might very well be reflected along the



polished wood of a handrail. Since he had begun to suspect that he

was not alone, his heart had continued to beat with smothering



violence, and an intolerable desire for action of any sort had

possessed itself of his spirit. He was in deadly peril, he



believed. What could be more natural than to mount the staircase,

lift the curtain, and confront his difficulty at once? At least he



would be dealing with something tangible; at least he would be no

longer in the dark. He stepped slowly forward with outstretched



hands, until his foot struck the bottom step; then he rapidly

scaled the stairs, stood for a moment to compose his expression,



lifted the arras and went in.

He found himself in a large apartment of polished stone. There



were three doors; one on each of three sides; all similarly

curtained with tapestry. The fourth side was occupied by two large



windows and a great stone chimney-piece, carved with the arms of

the Maletroits. Denis recognised the bearings, and was gratified



to find himself in such good hands. The room was strongly

illuminated; but it contained little furniture except a heavy table



and a chair or two, the hearth was innocent of fire, and the

pavement was but sparsely strewn with rushes clearly many days old.



On a high chair beside the chimney, and directly facing Denis as he

entered, sat a little old gentleman in a fur tippet. He sat with



his legs crossed and his hands folded, and a cup of spiced wine

stood by his elbow on a bracket on the wall. His countenance had a



strongly masculine cast; not properly human, but such as we see in

the bull, the goat, or the domestic boar; something equivocal and



wheedling, something greedy, brutal, and dangerous. The upper lip

was inordinately full, as though swollen by a blow or a toothache;



and the smile, the peaked eyebrows, and the small, strong eyes were

quaintly and almost comically evil in expression. Beautiful white



hair hung straight all round his head, like a saint's, and fell in

a single curl upon the tippet. His beard and moustache were the



pink of venerablesweetness. Age, probably in consequence of

inordinate precautions, had left no mark upon his hands; and the



Maletroit hand was famous. It would be difficult to imagine

anything at once so fleshy and so delicate in design; the taper,



sensual fingers were like those of one of Leonardo's women; the




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