IT was half-flood when I got the length of Aros; and there was nothing for it but to stand on the far shore and whistle for Rorie with the boat. I had no need to repeat the signal. At the first sound, Mary was at the door flying a handkerchief by way of answer, and the old long-legged serving-man was shambling down the gravel2 to the pier3. For all his hurry, it took him a long while to pull across the bay; and I observed him several times to pause, go into the stern, and look over curiously4 into the wake. As he came nearer, he seemed to me aged5 and haggard, and I thought he avoided my eye. The coble had been repaired, with two new thwarts6 and several patches of some rare and beautiful foreign wood, the name of it unknown to me.
‘Why, Rorie,’ said I, as we began the return voyage, ‘this is fine wood. How came you by that?’
‘It will be hard to cheesel,’ Rorie opined reluctantly; and just then, dropping the oars7, he made another of those dives into the stern which I had remarked as he came across to fetch me, and, leaning his hand on my shoulder, stared with an awful look into the waters of the bay.
‘What is wrong?’ I asked, a good deal startled.
‘It will be a great feesh,’ said the old man, returning to his oars; and nothing more could I get out of him, but strange glances and an ominous8 nodding of the head. In spite of myself, I was infected with a measure of uneasiness; I turned also, and studied the wake. The water was still and transparent9, but, out here in the middle of the bay, exceeding deep. For some time I could see naught10; but at last it did seem to me as if something dark — a great fish, or perhaps only a shadow — followed studiously in the track of the moving coble. And then I remembered one of Rorie’s superstitions11: how in a ferry in Morven, in some great, exterminating12 feud13 among the clans14; a fish, the like of it unknown in all our waters, followed for some years the passage of the ferry-boat, until no man dared to make the crossing.
‘He will be waiting for the right man,’ said Rorie.
Mary met me on the beach, and led me up the brae and into the house of Aros. Outside and inside there were many changes. The garden was fenced with the same wood that I had noted16 in the boat; there were chairs in the kitchen covered with strange brocade; curtains of brocade hung from the window; a clock stood silent on the dresser; a lamp of brass17 was swinging from the roof; the table was set for dinner with the finest of linen18 and silver; and all these new riches were displayed in the plain old kitchen that I knew so well, with the high-backed settle, and the stools, and the closet bed for Rorie; with the wide chimney the sun shone into, and the clear-smouldering peats; with the pipes on the mantelshelf and the three-cornered spittoons, filled with sea-shells instead of sand, on the floor; with the bare stone walls and the bare wooden floor, and the three patchwork19 rugs that were of yore its sole adornment20 — poor man’s patchwork, the like of it unknown in cities, woven with homespun, and Sunday black, and sea-cloth polished on the bench of rowing. The room, like the house, had been a sort of wonder in that country-side, it was so neat and habitable; and to see it now, shamed by these incongruous additions, filled me with indignation and a kind of anger. In view of the errand I had come upon to Aros, the feeling was baseless and unjust; but it burned high, at the first moment, in my heart.
‘Mary, girl,’ said I, ‘this is the place I had learned to call my home, and I do not know it.’
‘It is my home by nature, not by the learning,’ she replied; ‘the place I was born and the place I’m like to die in; and I neither like these changes, nor the way they came, nor that which came with them. I would have liked better, under God’s pleasure, they had gone down into the sea, and the Merry Men were dancing on them now.’
Mary was always serious; it was perhaps the only trait that she shared with her father; but the tone with which she uttered these words was even graver than of custom.
‘Ay,’ said I, ‘I feared it came by wreck, and that’s by death; yet when my father died, I took his goods without remorse21.’
‘Your father died a clean strae death, as the folk say,’ said Mary.
‘True,’ I returned; ‘and a wreck is like a judgment22. What was she called?’
‘They ca’d her the CHRIST-ANNA,’ said a voice behind me; and, turning round, I saw my uncle standing23 in the doorway24.
He was a sour, small, bilious25 man, with a long face and very dark eyes; fifty-six years old, sound and active in body, and with an air somewhat between that of a shepherd and that of a man following the sea. He never laughed, that I heard; read long at the Bible; prayed much, like the Cameronians he had been brought up among; and indeed, in many ways, used to remind me of one of the hill-preachers in the killing26 times before the Revolution. But he never got much comfort, nor even, as I used to think, much guidance, by his piety27. He had his black fits when he was afraid of hell; but he had led a rough life, to which he would look back with envy, and was still a rough, cold, gloomy man.
As he came in at the door out of the sunlight, with his bonnet28 on his head and a pipe hanging in his button-hole, he seemed, like Rorie, to have grown older and paler, the lines were deeplier ploughed upon his face, and the whites of his eyes were yellow, like old stained ivory, or the bones of the dead.
‘Ay’ he repeated, dwelling29 upon the first part of the word, ‘the CHRIST-ANNA. It’s an awfu’ name.’
I made him my salutations, and complimented him upon his look of health; for I feared he had perhaps been ill.
‘I’m in the body,’ he replied, ungraciously enough; ‘aye in the body and the sins of the body, like yoursel’. Denner,’ he said abruptly30 to Mary, and then ran on to me: ‘They’re grand braws, thir that we hae gotten, are they no? Yon’s a bonny knock 2, but it’ll no gang; and the napery’s by ordnar. Bonny, bairnly braws; it’s for the like o’ them folk sells the peace of God that passeth understanding; it’s for the like o’ them, an’ maybe no even sae muckle worth, folk daunton God to His face and burn in muckle hell; and it’s for that reason the Scripture31 ca’s them, as I read the passage, the accursed thing. Mary, ye girzie,’ he interrupted himself to cry with some asperity32, ‘what for hae ye no put out the twa candlesticks?’
2 Clock
‘Why should we need them at high noon?’ she asked.
But my uncle was not to be turned from his idea. ‘We’ll bruik 3 them while we may,’ he said; and so two massive candlesticks of wrought33 silver were added to the table equipage, already so unsuited to that rough sea-side farm.
3 Enjoy.
‘She cam’ ashore34 Februar’ 10, about ten at nicht,’ he went on to me. ‘There was nae wind, and a sair run o’ sea; and she was in the sook o’ the Roost, as I jaloose. We had seen her a’ day, Rorie and me, beating to the wind. She wasnae a handy craft, I’m thinking, that CHRIST-ANNA; for she would neither steer35 nor stey wi’ them. A sair day they had of it; their hands was never aff the sheets, and it perishin’ cauld — ower cauld to snaw; and aye they would get a bit nip o’ wind, and awa’ again, to pit the emp’y hope into them. Eh, man! but they had a sair day for the last o’t! He would have had a prood, prood heart that won ashore upon the back o’ that.’
‘And were all lost?’ I cried. ‘God held them!’
‘Wheesht!’ he said sternly. ‘Nane shall pray for the deid on my hearth-stane.’
I disclaimed37 a Popish sense for my ejaculation; and he seemed to accept my disclaimer with unusual facility, and ran on once more upon what had evidently become a favourite subject.
‘We fand her in Sandag Bay, Rorie an’ me, and a’ thae braws in the inside of her. There’s a kittle bit, ye see, about Sandag; whiles the sook rins strong for the Merry Men; an’ whiles again, when the tide’s makin’ hard an’ ye can hear the Roost blawin’ at the far-end of Aros, there comes a back-spang of current straucht into Sandag Bay. Weel, there’s the thing that got the grip on the CHRIST-ANNA. She but to have come in ram-stam an’ stern forrit; for the bows of her are aften under, and the back-side of her is clear at hie-water o’ neaps. But, man! the dunt that she cam doon wi’ when she struck! Lord save us a’! but it’s an unco life to be a sailor — a cauld, wanchancy life. Mony’s the gliff I got mysel’ in the great deep; and why the Lord should hae made yon unco water is mair than ever I could win to understand. He made the vales and the pastures, the bonny green yaird, the halesome, canty land —
And now they shout and sing to Thee, For Thou hast made them glad,
as the Psalms38 say in the metrical version. No that I would preen39 my faith to that clink neither; but it’s bonny, and easier to mind. “Who go to sea in ships,” they hae’t again —
And in Great waters trading be, Within the deep these men God’s works And His great wonders see.
Weel, it’s easy sayin’ sae. Maybe Dauvit wasnae very weel acquant wi’ the sea. But, troth, if it wasnae prentit in the Bible, I wad whiles be temp’it to think it wasnae the Lord, but the muckle, black deil that made the sea. There’s naething good comes oot o’t but the fish; an’ the spentacle o’ God riding on the tempest, to be shure, whilk would be what Dauvit was likely ettling at. But, man, they were sair wonders that God showed to the CHRIST-ANNA— wonders, do I ca’ them? Judgments40, rather: judgments in the mirk nicht among the draygons o’ the deep. And their souls — to think o’ that — their souls, man, maybe no prepared! The sea — a muckle yett to hell!’
I observed, as my uncle spoke41, that his voice was unnaturally42 moved and his manner unwontedly demonstrative. He leaned forward at these last words, for example, and touched me on the knee with his spread fingers, looking up into my face with a certain pallor, and I could see that his eyes shone with a deep-seated fire, and that the lines about his mouth were drawn43 and tremulous.
Even the entrance of Rorie, and the beginning of our meal, did not detach him from his train of thought beyond a moment. He condescended44, indeed, to ask me some questions as to my success at college, but I thought it was with half his mind; and even in his extempore grace, which was, as usual, long and wandering, I could find the trace of his preoccupation, praying, as he did, that God would ‘remember in mercy fower puir, feckless, fiddling45, sinful creatures here by their lee-lane beside the great and dowie waters.’
Soon there came an interchange of speeches between him and Rorie.
‘Was it there?’ asked my uncle.
‘Ou, ay!’ said Rorie.
I observed that they both spoke in a manner of aside, and with some show of embarrassment46, and that Mary herself appeared to colour, and looked down on her plate. Partly to show my knowledge, and so relieve the party from an awkward strain, partly because I was curious, I pursued the subject.
‘You mean the fish?’ I asked.
‘Whatten fish?’ cried my uncle. ‘Fish, quo’ he! Fish! Your een are fu’ o’ fatness, man; your heid dozened wi’ carnal leir. Fish! it’s a bogle!’
He spoke with great vehemence47, as though angry; and perhaps I was not very willing to be put down so shortly, for young men are disputatious. At least I remember I retorted hotly, crying out upon childish superstitions.
‘And ye come frae the College!’ sneered48 Uncle Gordon. ‘Gude kens50 what they learn folk there; it’s no muckle service onyway. Do ye think, man, that there’s naething in a’ yon saut wilderness51 o’ a world oot wast there, wi’ the sea grasses growin’, an’ the sea beasts fechtin’, an’ the sun glintin’ down into it, day by day? Na; the sea’s like the land, but fearsomer. If there’s folk ashore, there’s folk in the sea — deid they may be, but they’re folk whatever; and as for deils, there’s nane that’s like the sea deils. There’s no sae muckle harm in the land deils, when a’s said and done. Lang syne52, when I was a callant in the south country, I mind there was an auld36, bald bogle in the Peewie Moss53. I got a glisk o’ him mysel’, sittin’ on his hunkers in a hag, as gray’s a tombstane. An’, troth, he was a fearsome-like taed. But he steered54 naebody. Nae doobt, if ane that was a reprobate55, ane the Lord hated, had gane by there wi’ his sin still upon his stamach, nae doobt the creature would hae lowped upo’ the likes o’ him. But there’s deils in the deep sea would yoke56 on a communicant! Eh, sirs, if ye had gane doon wi’ the puir lads in the CHRIST-ANNA, ye would ken49 by now the mercy o’ the seas. If ye had sailed it for as lang as me, ye would hate the thocht of it as I do. If ye had but used the een God gave ye, ye would hae learned the wickedness o’ that fause, saut, cauld, bullering creature, and of a’ that’s in it by the Lord’s permission: labsters an’ partans, an’ sic like, howking in the deid; muckle, gutsy, blawing whales; an’ fish — the hale clan15 o’ them — cauld-wamed, blind-eed uncanny ferlies. O, sirs,’ he cried, ‘the horror — the horror o’ the sea!’
We were all somewhat staggered by this outburst; and the speaker himself, after that last hoarse57 apostrophe, appeared to sink gloomily into his own thoughts. But Rorie, who was greedy of superstitious58 lore59, recalled him to the subject by a question.
‘You will not ever have seen a teevil of the sea?’ he asked.
‘No clearly,’ replied the other. ‘I misdoobt if a mere60 man could see ane clearly and conteenue in the body. I hae sailed wi’ a lad — they ca’d him Sandy Gabart; he saw ane, shure eneueh, an’ shure eneueh it was the end of him. We were seeven days oot frae the Clyde — a sair wark we had had — gaun north wi’ seeds an’ braws an’ things for the Macleod. We had got in ower near under the Cutchull’ns, an’ had just gane about by soa, an’ were off on a lang tack61, we thocht would maybe hauld as far’s Copnahow. I mind the nicht weel; a mune smoored wi’ mist; a fine gaun breeze upon the water, but no steedy; an’ — what nane o’ us likit to hear — anither wund gurlin’ owerheid, amang thae fearsome, auld stane craigs o’ the Cutchull’ns. Weel, Sandy was forrit wi’ the jib sheet; we couldnae see him for the mains’l, that had just begude to draw, when a’ at ance he gied a skirl. I luffed for my life, for I thocht we were ower near Soa; but na, it wasnae that, it was puir Sandy Gabart’s deid skreigh, or near hand, for he was deid in half an hour. A’t he could tell was that a sea deil, or sea bogle, or sea spenster, or sic-like, had clum up by the bowsprit, an’ gi’en him ae cauld, uncanny look. An’, or the life was oot o’ Sandy’s body, we kent weel what the thing betokened62, and why the wund gurled in the taps o’ the Cutchull’ns; for doon it cam’ — a wund do I ca’ it! it was the wund o’ the Lord’s anger — an’ a’ that nicht we foucht like men dementit, and the niest that we kenned63 we were ashore in Loch Uskevagh, an’ the cocks were crawin’ in Benbecula.’
‘It will have been a merman,’ Rorie said.
‘A merman!’ screamed my uncle with immeasurable scorn. ‘Auld wives’ clavers! There’s nae sic things as mermen.’
‘But what was the creature like?’ I asked.
‘What like was it? Gude forbid that we suld ken what like it was! It had a kind of a heid upon it — man could say nae mair.’
Then Rorie, smarting under the affront64, told several tales of mermen, mermaids65, and sea-horses that had come ashore upon the islands and attacked the crews of boats upon the sea; and my uncle, in spite of his incredulity, listened with uneasy interest.
‘Aweel, aweel,’ he said, ‘it may be sae; I may be wrang; but I find nae word o’ mermen in the Scriptures66.’
‘And you will find nae word of Aros Roost, maybe,’ objected Rorie, and his argument appeared to carry weight.
When dinner was over, my uncle carried me forth67 with him to a bank behind the house. It was a very hot and quiet afternoon; scarce a ripple68 anywhere upon the sea, nor any voice but the familiar voice of sheep and gulls69; and perhaps in consequence of this repose70 in nature, my kinsman71 showed himself more rational and tranquil72 than before. He spoke evenly and almost cheerfully of my career, with every now and then a reference to the lost ship or the treasures it had brought to Aros. For my part, I listened to him in a sort of trance, gazing with all my heart on that remembered scene, and drinking gladly the sea-air and the smoke of peats that had been lit by Mary.
Perhaps an hour had passed when my uncle, who had all the while been covertly73 gazing on the surface of the little bay, rose to his feet and bade me follow his example. Now I should say that the great run of tide at the south-west end of Aros exercises a perturbing74 influence round all the coast. In Sandag Bay, to the south, a strong current runs at certain periods of the flood and ebb75 respectively; but in this northern bay — Aros Bay, as it is called — where the house stands and on which my uncle was now gazing, the only sign of disturbance76 is towards the end of the ebb, and even then it is too slight to be remarkable77. When there is any swell78, nothing can be seen at all; but when it is calm, as it often is, there appear certain strange, undecipherable marks — sea-runes, as we may name them — on the glassy surface of the bay. The like is common in a thousand places on the coast; and many a boy must have amused himself as I did, seeking to read in them some reference to himself or those he loved. It was to these marks that my uncle now directed my attention, struggling, as he did so, with an evident reluctance79.
‘Do ye see yon scart upo’ the water?’ he inquired; ‘yon ane wast the gray stane? Ay? Weel, it’ll no be like a letter, wull it?’
‘Certainly it is,’ I replied. ‘I have often remarked it. It is like a C.’
He heaved a sigh as if heavily disappointed with my answer, and then added below his breath: ‘Ay, for the CHRIST-ANNA.’
‘I used to suppose, sir, it was for myself,’ said I; ‘for my name is Charles.’
‘And so ye saw’t afore?’, he ran on, not heeding80 my remark. ‘Weel, weel, but that’s unco strange. Maybe, it’s been there waitin’, as a man wad say, through a’ the weary ages. Man, but that’s awfu’.’ And then, breaking off: ‘Ye’ll no see anither, will ye?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said I. ‘I see another very plainly, near the Ross side, where the road comes down — an M.’
‘An M,’ he repeated very low; and then, again after another pause: ‘An’ what wad ye make o’ that?’ he inquired.
‘I had always thought it to mean Mary, sir,’ I answered, growing somewhat red, convinced as I was in my own mind that I was on the threshold of a decisive explanation.
But we were each following his own train of thought to the exclusion81 of the other’s. My uncle once more paid no attention to my words; only hung his head and held his peace; and I might have been led to fancy that he had not heard me, if his next speech had not contained a kind of echo from my own.
‘I would say naething o’ thae clavers to Mary,’ he observed, and began to walk forward.
There is a belt of turf along the side of Aros Bay, where walking is easy; and it was along this that I silently followed my silent kinsman. I was perhaps a little disappointed at having lost so good an opportunity to declare my love; but I was at the same time far more deeply exercised at the change that had befallen my uncle. He was never an ordinary, never, in the strict sense, an amiable82, man; but there was nothing in even the worst that I had known of him before, to prepare me for so strange a transformation83. It was impossible to close the eyes against one fact; that he had, as the saying goes, something on his mind; and as I mentally ran over the different words which might be represented by the letter M— misery84, mercy, marriage, money, and the like — I was arrested with a sort of start by the word murder. I was still considering the ugly sound and fatal meaning of the word, when the direction of our walk brought us to a point from which a view was to be had to either side, back towards Aros Bay and homestead, and forward on the ocean, dotted to the north with isles85, and lying to the southward blue and open to the sky. There my guide came to a halt, and stood staring for awhile on that expanse. Then he turned to me and laid a hand on my arm.
‘Ye think there’s naething there?’ he said, pointing with his pipe; and then cried out aloud, with a kind of exultation86: ‘I’ll tell ye, man! The deid are down there — thick like rattons!’
He turned at once, and, without another word, we retraced87 our steps to the house of Aros.
I was eager to be alone with Mary; yet it was not till after supper, and then but for a short while, that I could have a word with her. I lost no time beating about the bush, but spoke out plainly what was on my mind.
‘Mary,’ I said, ‘I have not come to Aros without a hope. If that should prove well founded, we may all leave and go somewhere else, secure of daily bread and comfort; secure, perhaps, of something far beyond that, which it would seem extravagant88 in me to promise. But there’s a hope that lies nearer to my heart than money.’ And at that I paused. ‘You can guess fine what that is, Mary,’ I said. She looked away from me in silence, and that was small encouragement, but I was not to be put off. ‘All my days I have thought the world of you,’ I continued; ‘the time goes on and I think always the more of you; I could not think to be happy or hearty89 in my life without you: you are the apple of my eye.’ Still she looked away, and said never a word; but I thought I saw that her hands shook. ‘Mary,’ I cried in fear, ‘do ye no like me?’
‘O, Charlie man,’ she said, ‘is this a time to speak of it? Let me be, a while; let me be the way I am; it’ll not be you that loses by the waiting!’
I made out by her voice that she was nearly weeping, and this put me out of any thought but to compose her. ‘Mary Ellen,’ I said, ‘say no more; I did not come to trouble you: your way shall be mine, and your time too; and you have told me all I wanted. Only just this one thing more: what ails90 you?’
She owned it was her father, but would enter into no particulars, only shook her head, and said he was not well and not like himself, and it was a great pity. She knew nothing of the wreck. ‘I havenae been near it,’ said she. ‘What for would I go near it, Charlie lad? The poor souls are gone to their account long syne; and I would just have wished they had ta’en their gear with them — poor souls!’
This was scarcely any great encouragement for me to tell her of the ESPIRITO SANTO; yet I did so, and at the very first word she cried out in surprise. ‘There was a man at Grisapol,’ she said, ‘in the month of May — a little, yellow, black-avised body, they tell me, with gold rings upon his fingers, and a beard; and he was speiring high and low for that same ship.’
It was towards the end of April that I had been given these papers to sort out by Dr. Robertson: and it came suddenly back upon my mind that they were thus prepared for a Spanish historian, or a man calling himself such, who had come with high recommendations to the Principal, on a mission of inquiry91 as to the dispersion of the great Armada. Putting one thing with another, I fancied that the visitor ‘with the gold rings upon his fingers’ might be the same with Dr. Robertson’s historian from Madrid. If that were so, he would be more likely after treasure for himself than information for a learned society. I made up my mind, I should lose no time over my undertaking92; and if the ship lay sunk in Sandag Bay, as perhaps both he and I supposed, it should not be for the advantage of this ringed adventurer, but for Mary and myself, and for the good, old, honest, kindly93 family of the Darnaways.
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1
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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thwarts
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| 阻挠( thwart的第三人称单数 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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7
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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8
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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10
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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exterminating
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| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的现在分词 ) | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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clans
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| 宗族( clan的名词复数 )； 氏族； 庞大的家族； 宗派 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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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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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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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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26
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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27
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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28
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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29
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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33
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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36
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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39
preen
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| v.（人）打扮修饰 | |
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40
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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41
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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42
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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43
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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44
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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45
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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46
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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47
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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48
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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50
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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51
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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53
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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54
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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55
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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56
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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kenned
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| v.知道( ken的过去式和过去分词 )；懂得；看到；认出 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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perturbing
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| v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的现在分词 ) | |
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75
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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78
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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79
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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82
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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83
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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84
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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85
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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86
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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87
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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88
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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89
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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91
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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92
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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93
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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