烧牲口棚
Presently he could see the grove of oaks and cedars and the other flowering trees and shrubs where the house would be, though not the house yet. They walked beside a fence massed with honeysuckle and Cherokee roses and came to a gate swinging open between two brick pillars, and now, beyond a sweep of drive, he saw the house for the first time and at that instant he forgot his father and the terror and despair both, and even when he remembered his father again (who had not stopped) the terror and despair did not return. Because, for all the twelve moving, they had sojourned until now in a poor country, a land of small farms and fields and houses and he had never seen a house like this before. Hits big as a courthouse he thought quietly, with a surge of peace and joy whose reason he could not have thought into words, being too young for that: They are safe from him. People whose lives are a part of this peace and dignity are beyond his touch, he no more to them than a buzzing wasp: capable of stinging for a little moment but that’s all,- the spell of this peace and dignity rendering even the barns and stable and cribs which belong to it impervious to the puny flames he might contrive . . . this, the peace and joy, ebbing for an instant as he looked again at the stiff black back, the stiff and implacable limp of the figure which was not dwarfed by the house, for the reason that it had never looked big anywhere and which now, against the serene columned backdrop, had more than ever that impervious quality of something cut ruthlessly from tin, depthless, as though, sidewise to the sun, it would cast no shadow. Watching him, the boy remarked the absolutely undeviating course which his father held and saw the stiff foot come squarely down in a pile of fresh droppings where a horse had stood in the drive and which his father could have avoided by a simple change of stride. But it ebbed only for a moment, though he could not have thought this into words either, walking on in the spell of the house, which he could ever want but without envy, without sorrow, certainly never with that ravening and jealous rage which unknown to him walked in the ironlike black coat before him; Maybe he will feel it too, Maybe it will even change him now from what maybe be couldn’t help but be.
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不一会儿他就看见了一片栎杉间杂的小树林，还有其他一些花开似锦的大树小树，宅子按说就是在这种地方，不过现在还看不见。他们沿着一道攀满忍冬和野蔷薇的篱笆走去，来到一扇洞开的大门前，两边有两道砖砌的门柱，他这才看见门后一弯车道的尽头就是那座宅子。他一见就把爸爸忘了，也把心头的恐怖和绝望全忘了，后来虽然又想起了爸爸（爸爸并没有停下脚步），那恐怖和绝望的感觉却再也不来了。因为，他们虽然也先后搬过十多次家，可是以前始终旅居在一个贫苦的地方，无论农庄、田地还是住宅，规模都不大，像眼前这样的一座宅第，他还从来没有见过。大得真像个官府呢——他暗暗想着，心里不觉顿时安定起来，感到一阵欣喜，这原因他是无法组织成言语的，他还太小，还说不上来。其实这原因就是：爸爸惹不了他们了。生活在这样安宁而体面的世界里的人，他别想去碰一碰；在他们的面前他只是一只嗡嗡的黄蜂，大不了把人蜇一下罢了。这个安宁而体面的世界自有一股魔力，就算他想尽办法放上一把小小的火，这里大大小小的马棚牛棚也决烧不掉一根毫毛。……他又望了望那直挺挺的黑色的背影，看见了那生硬而坚定的颠颠跛跛的步子，他这种安心而欢喜的感觉一时间又消失了。爸爸的身影并没有因为到了这样的宅第跟前而显得矮上三分，因为他到哪儿也没有显得高大过，倒是如今衬着这一派圆柱耸立的宁静的背景，反而越发显出了那种我自无动于衷的气概，仿佛是怀着铁石心肠从白铁皮上剪下的一个人形儿，薄薄的一片，斜对着太阳的话简直连个影子都不会有似的。孩子冷眼看着，发觉爸爸只顾朝一个方向走去，脚下绝不肯有半点偏离。车道上拴过马，有一堆新鲜马粪，爸爸明明只要挪一挪脚步，就可以让过，可是他看见那只不灵便的脚却偏偏不偏不斜一脚踩在粪堆里。不过那种安心而欢喜的感觉过了片刻就又恢复了。他一路走去，简直叫这座宅第给迷上了，这么一座宅第给他的话他也要的，不过没有的话他也并不眼红，并不伤心，更不会像前面那一位那样——他不知道前面那个穿着铁甲般的黑外套的人，却是妒火中烧，真恨不得一口吞下肚去呢。孩子这时候的心情，可惜他也无法用言语来表白：或许爸爸也会感受到这股魔力呢。他先前干那号事，可能也是身不由己，或许这一下就可以叫他改一改了。
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the cask of Amontillado Edgar Allan Poe 阿芒提拉多的水桶 埃德加 艾伦 坡
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. \——\
\is an ignoramus,\interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped back from the recess.
\damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power.\
\ \ I replied, \
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials, and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
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在墓穴的尽头，又出现了更狭窄的墓穴。四壁成排堆着尸骨，一直高高堆到拱顶，就跟巴黎那些大墓窖一个样。里头这个墓穴有三面墙，仍然这样堆着。还有一面的尸骨都给推倒了，乱七八糟的堆在地上，积成相当大的一个尸骨墩。在搬开尸骨的那堵墙间，只见里头还有一个墓穴，或者壁龛，深约四英尺，宽达三英尺，高六七英尺。看上去当初造了并没打算派什么特别用处，不过是墓窖顶下两根大柱间的空隙罢了，后面却靠着一堵坚固的花岗石垣墙。
福吐纳托举起昏暗的火把，尽力朝壁龛深处仔细探看，可就是白费劲，火光微弱，看不见底。
“往前走，”我说，“白葡萄酒就在这里头。卢克雷西——”
“他是个充内行，”我朋友一面摇摇晃晃的往前走，一面插嘴道，我紧跟在他屁股后走进去。一眨眼工夫，他走到壁龛的尽头了，一见给岩石挡住了道，就一筹莫展的发着楞。隔了片刻，我已经把他锁在花岗石墙上了。墙上装着两个铁环，横里相距两英尺左右。一个环上挂着根短铁链，另一个挂着把大锁。不消一刹那工夫，就把他拦腰拴上链子了。他惊慌失措，根本忘了反抗，我拔掉钥匙，就退出壁龛。
“伸出手去摸摸墙，”我说，“保你摸到硝。真是湿得很。让我再一次求求你回去吧。不回去？那我得离开你啦。可我还先得尽份心，照顾你一下。”
“白葡萄酒！”我朋友惊魂未定，不由失声喊道。 “不错，”我答，“白葡萄酒。”
说着我就在前文提过的尸骨堆间忙着。我把尸骨扔开，不久就掏出好些砌墙用的的石块和灰泥。我便用这些材料，再靠那把泥刀，一个劲地在壁龛入口处砌起一堵墙来。
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红字
Yet there were intervals when the whole scene， in which she was the most conspicuous object， seemed to vanish from her eyes， or， at least， glimmered indistinctly before them， like a mass of imperfectly shaped and spectral images. Her mind， and especially her memory， was preternaturally active， and kept bringing up other scenes than this roughly hewn street of a little town， on the edge of the western wilderness： other faces than were lowering upon her from beneath the brims of those steeple-crowned hats. Reminiscences， the most trifling and immaterial， passages of infancy and school-days， sports， childish quarrels， and the little domestic traits of her maiden years， came swarming back upon her， intermingled with recollections of whatever was gravest in her subsequent life； one picture precisely as vivid as another； as if all were of similar importance， or all alike a play. Possibly， it was an instinctive device of her spirit to relieve itself by the exhibition of these phantasmagoric forms， from the cruel weight and hardness of the reality.
Be that as it might， the scaffold of the pillory was a point of view that revealed to Hester Prynne the entire track along which she had been treading， since her happy infancy. Standing on that miserable eminence， she saw again her native village， in Old England， and her paternal home： a decayed house of grey stone， with a poverty-stricken aspect， but retaining a half obliterated shield of arms over the portal， in token of antique gentility. She saw her father's face， with its bold brow， and reverend white beard that flowed over the old-fashioned Elizabethan ruff； her mother's， too， with the look of heedful and anxious love which it always wore in her remembrance， and which， even since her death， had so often laid the impediment of a gentle remonstrance in her daughter's pathway. She saw her own face， glowing with girlish beauty， and illuminating all the interior of the dusky mirror in which she had been wont to gaze at it. There she beheld another countenance， of a man well stricken in years， a pale， thin， scholar-like visage， with eyes dim and bleared by the lamp-light that had served them to pore over many ponderous books. Yet those same bleared optics had a strange， penetrating power， when it was their owner's purpose to read the human soul. This figure of tile study and the cloister， as Hester Prynne's womanly fancy failed not to recall， was slightly deformed， with the left shoulder a trifle higher than the right. Next rose before her in memory's picture-gallery， the intricate and narrow thoroughfares， the tall， grey houses， the huge cathedrals， and the public edifices， ancient in date and quaint in architecture， of a continental city； where new life had awaited her， still in connexion with the misshapen scholar： a new life， but feeding itself on time-worn materials， like a tuft of green moss on a crumbling wall. Lastly， in lieu of these shifting scenes， came back the rude market-place of the Puritan， settlement， with all the townspeople assembled， and levelling their stern regards at Hester Prynne——yes， at herself——who stood on the scaffold of the pillory， an infant on her arm， and the letter A， in scarlet， fantastically embroidered with gold thread， upon her bosom.
Could it be true？ She clutched the child so fiercely to her breast that it sent forth a cry； she turned her eyes downward at the scarlet letter， and even touched it with her finger， to assure herself that the infant and the shame were real. Yes these were her realities——all else had vanished！
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