I FOUND my uncle at the gable end, watching the signs of the weather, with a pipe in his fingers.
‘Uncle,’ said I, ‘there were men ashore2 at Sandag Bay — ’
I had no time to go further; indeed, I not only forgot my words, but even my weariness, so strange was the effect on Uncle Gordon. He dropped his pipe and fell back against the end of the house with his jaw3 fallen, his eyes staring, and his long face as white as paper. We must have looked at one another silently for a quarter of a minute, before he made answer in this extraordinary fashion: ‘Had he a hair kep on?’
I knew as well as if I had been there that the man who now lay buried at Sandag had worn a hairy cap, and that he had come ashore alive. For the first and only time I lost toleration for the man who was my benefactor4 and the father of the woman I hoped to call my wife.
‘These were living men,’ said I, ‘perhaps Jacobites, perhaps the French, perhaps pirates, perhaps adventurers come here to seek the Spanish treasure ship; but, whatever they may be, dangerous at least to your daughter and my cousin. As for your own guilty terrors, man, the dead sleeps well where you have laid him. I stood this morning by his grave; he will not wake before the trump6 of doom7.’
My kinsman8 looked upon me, blinking, while I spoke9; then he fixed10 his eyes for a little on the ground, and pulled his fingers foolishly; but it was plain that he was past the power of speech.
‘Come,’ said I. ‘You must think for others. You must come up the hill with me, and see this ship.’
He obeyed without a word or a look, following slowly after my impatient strides. The spring seemed to have gone out of his body, and he scrambled11 heavily up and down the rocks, instead of leaping, as he was wont12, from one to another. Nor could I, for all my cries, induce him to make better haste. Only once he replied to me complainingly, and like one in bodily pain: ‘Ay, ay, man, I’m coming.’ Long before we had reached the top, I had no other thought for him but pity. If the crime had been monstrous13 the punishment was in proportion.
At last we emerged above the sky-line of the hill, and could see around us. All was black and stormy to the eye; the last gleam of sun had vanished; a wind had sprung up, not yet high, but gusty15 and unsteady to the point; the rain, on the other hand, had ceased. Short as was the interval16, the sea already ran vastly higher than when I had stood there last; already it had begun to break over some of the outward reefs, and already it moaned aloud in the sea-caves of Aros. I looked, at first, in vain for the schooner17.
‘There she is,’ I said at last. But her new position, and the course she was now lying, puzzled me. ‘They cannot mean to beat to sea,’ I cried.
‘That’s what they mean,’ said my uncle, with something like joy; and just then the schooner went about and stood upon another tack18, which put the question beyond the reach of doubt. These strangers, seeing a gale on hand, had thought first of sea-room. With the wind that threatened, in these reef-sown waters and contending against so violent a stream of tide, their course was certain death.
‘Good God!’ said I, ‘they are all lost.’
‘Ay,’ returned my uncle, ‘a’ — a’ lost. They hadnae a chance but to rin for Kyle Dona. The gate they’re gaun the noo, they couldnae win through an the muckle deil were there to pilot them. Eh, man,’ he continued, touching19 me on the sleeve, ‘it’s a braw nicht for a shipwreck20! Twa in ae twalmonth! Eh, but the Merry Men’ll dance bonny!’
I looked at him, and it was then that I began to fancy him no longer in his right mind. He was peering up to me, as if for sympathy, a timid joy in his eyes. All that had passed between us was already forgotten in the prospect22 of this fresh disaster.
‘If it were not too late,’ I cried with indignation, ‘I would take the coble and go out to warn them.’
‘Na, na,’ he protested, ‘ye maunnae interfere23; ye maunnae meddle24 wi’ the like o’ that. It’s His’ — doffing25 his bonnet26 — ‘His wull. And, eh, man! but it’s a braw nicht for’t!’
Something like fear began to creep into my soul and, reminding him that I had not yet dined, I proposed we should return to the house. But no; nothing would tear him from his place of outlook.
‘I maun see the hail thing, man, Cherlie,’ he explained — and then as the schooner went about a second time, ‘Eh, but they han’le her bonny!’ he cried. ‘The CHRIST-ANNA was naething to this.’
Already the men on board the schooner must have begun to realise some part, but not yet the twentieth, of the dangers that environed their doomed27 ship. At every lull28 of the capricious wind they must have seen how fast the current swept them back. Each tack was made shorter, as they saw how little it prevailed. Every moment the rising swell29 began to boom and foam30 upon another sunken reef; and ever and again a breaker would fall in sounding ruin under the very bows of her, and the brown reef and streaming tangle32 appear in the hollow of the wave. I tell you, they had to stand to their tackle: there was no idle men aboard that ship, God knows. It was upon the progress of a scene so horrible to any human-hearted man that my misguided uncle now pored and gloated like a connoisseur33. As I turned to go down the hill, he was lying on his belly34 on the summit, with his hands stretched forth35 and clutching in the heather. He seemed rejuvenated36, mind and body.
When I got back to the house already dismally37 affected38, I was still more sadly downcast at the sight of Mary. She had her sleeves rolled up over her strong arms, and was quietly making bread. I got a bannock from the dresser and sat down to eat it in silence.
‘Are ye wearied, lad?’ she asked after a while.
‘I am not so much wearied, Mary,’ I replied, getting on my feet, ‘as I am weary of delay, and perhaps of Aros too. You know me well enough to judge me fairly, say what I like. Well, Mary, you may be sure of this: you had better be anywhere but here.’
‘I’ll be sure of one thing,’ she returned: ‘I’ll be where my duty is.’
‘You forget, you have a duty to yourself,’ I said.
‘Ay, man?’ she replied, pounding at the dough40; ‘will you have found that in the Bible, now?’
‘Mary,’ I said solemnly, ‘you must not laugh at me just now. God knows I am in no heart for laughing. If we could get your father with us, it would be best; but with him or without him, I want you far away from here, my girl; for your own sake, and for mine, ay, and for your father’s too, I want you far — far away from here. I came with other thoughts; I came here as a man comes home; now it is all changed, and I have no desire nor hope but to flee — for that’s the word — flee, like a bird out of the fowler’s snare41, from this accursed island.’
She had stopped her work by this time.
‘And do you think, now,’ said she, ‘do you think, now, I have neither eyes nor ears? Do ye think I havenae broken my heart to have these braws (as he calls them, God forgive him!) thrown into the sea? Do ye think I have lived with him, day in, day out, and not seen what you saw in an hour or two? No,’ she said, ‘I know there’s wrong in it; what wrong, I neither know nor want to know. There was never an ill thing made better by meddling42, that I could hear of. But, my lad, you must never ask me to leave my father. While the breath is in his body, I’ll be with him. And he’s not long for here, either: that I can tell you, Charlie — he’s not long for here. The mark is on his brow; and better so — maybe better so.’
I was a while silent, not knowing what to say; and when I roused my head at last to speak, she got before me.
‘Charlie,’ she said, ‘what’s right for me, neednae be right for you. There’s sin upon this house and trouble; you are a stranger; take your things upon your back and go your ways to better places and to better folk, and if you were ever minded to come back, though it were twenty years syne43, you would find me aye waiting.’
‘Mary Ellen,’ I said, ‘I asked you to be my wife, and you said as good as yes. That’s done for good. Wherever you are, I am; as I shall answer to my God.’
As I said the words, the wind suddenly burst out raving44, and then seemed to stand still and shudder45 round the house of Aros. It was the first squall, or prologue46, of the coming tempest, and as we started and looked about us, we found that a gloom, like the approach of evening, had settled round the house.
‘God pity all poor folks at sea!’ she said. ‘We’ll see no more of my father till the morrow’s morning.’
And then she told me, as we sat by the fire and hearkened to the rising gusts47, of how this change had fallen upon my uncle. All last winter he had been dark and fitful in his mind. Whenever the Roost ran high, or, as Mary said, whenever the Merry Men were dancing, he would lie out for hours together on the Head, if it were at night, or on the top of Aros by day, watching the tumult48 of the sea, and sweeping49 the horizon for a sail. After February the tenth, when the wealth-bringing wreck21 was cast ashore at Sandag, he had been at first unnaturally50 gay, and his excitement had never fallen in degree, but only changed in kind from dark to darker. He neglected his work, and kept Rorie idle. They two would speak together by the hour at the gable end, in guarded tones and with an air of secrecy51 and almost of guilt5; and if she questioned either, as at first she sometimes did, her inquiries52 were put aside with confusion. Since Rorie had first remarked the fish that hung about the ferry, his master had never set foot but once upon the mainland of the Ross. That once — it was in the height of the springs — he had passed dryshod while the tide was out; but, having lingered overlong on the far side, found himself cut off from Aros by the returning waters. It was with a shriek53 of agony that he had leaped across the gut54, and he had reached home thereafter in a fever-fit of fear. A fear of the sea, a constant haunting thought of the sea, appeared in his talk and devotions, and even in his looks when he was silent.
Rorie alone came in to supper; but a little later my uncle appeared, took a bottle under his arm, put some bread in his pocket, and set forth again to his outlook, followed this time by Rorie. I heard that the schooner was losing ground, but the crew were still fighting every inch with hopeless ingenuity55 and course; and the news filled my mind with blackness.
A little after sundown the full fury of the gale broke forth, such a gale as I have never seen in summer, nor, seeing how swiftly it had come, even in winter. Mary and I sat in silence, the house quaking overhead, the tempest howling without, the fire between us sputtering56 with raindrops. Our thoughts were far away with the poor fellows on the schooner, or my not less unhappy uncle, houseless on the promontory57; and yet ever and again we were startled back to ourselves, when the wind would rise and strike the gable like a solid body, or suddenly fall and draw away, so that the fire leaped into flame and our hearts bounded in our sides. Now the storm in its might would seize and shake the four corners of the roof, roaring like Leviathan in anger. Anon, in a lull, cold eddies58 of tempest moved shudderingly59 in the room, lifting the hair upon our heads and passing between us as we sat. And again the wind would break forth in a chorus of melancholy61 sounds, hooting63 low in the chimney, wailing64 with flutelike softness round the house.
It was perhaps eight o’clock when Rorie came in and pulled me mysteriously to the door. My uncle, it appeared, had frightened even his constant comrade; and Rorie, uneasy at his extravagance, prayed me to come out and share the watch. I hastened to do as I was asked; the more readily as, what with fear and horror, and the electrical tension of the night, I was myself restless and disposed for action. I told Mary to be under no alarm, for I should be a safeguard on her father; and wrapping myself warmly in a plaid, I followed Rorie into the open air.
The night, though we were so little past midsummer, was as dark as January. Intervals65 of a groping twilight66 alternated with spells of utter blackness; and it was impossible to trace the reason of these changes in the flying horror of the sky. The wind blew the breath out of a man’s nostrils67; all heaven seemed to thunder overhead like one huge sail; and when there fell a momentary68 lull on Aros, we could hear the gusts dismally sweeping in the distance. Over all the lowlands of the Ross, the wind must have blown as fierce as on the open sea; and God only knows the uproar69 that was raging around the head of Ben Kyaw. Sheets of mingled70 spray and rain were driven in our faces. All round the isle71 of Aros the surf, with an incessant72, hammering thunder, beat upon the reefs and beaches. Now louder in one place, now lower in another, like the combinations of orchestral music, the constant mass of sound was hardly varied73 for a moment. And loud above all this hurly-burly I could hear the changeful voices of the Roost and the intermittent74 roaring of the Merry Men. At that hour, there flashed into my mind the reason of the name that they were called. For the noise of them seemed almost mirthful, as it out-topped the other noises of the night; or if not mirthful, yet instinct with a portentous75 joviality76. Nay77, and it seemed even human. As when savage78 men have drunk away their reason, and, discarding speech, bawl79 together in their madness by the hour; so, to my ears, these deadly breakers shouted by Aros in the night.
Arm in arm, and staggering against the wind, Rorie and I won every yard of ground with conscious effort. We slipped on the wet sod, we fell together sprawling80 on the rocks. Bruised81, drenched82, beaten, and breathless, it must have taken us near half an hour to get from the house down to the Head that overlooks the Roost. There, it seemed, was my uncle’s favourite observatory83. Right in the face of it, where the cliff is highest and most sheer, a hump of earth, like a parapet, makes a place of shelter from the common winds, where a man may sit in quiet and see the tide and the mad billows contending at his feet. As he might look down from the window of a house upon some street disturbance84, so, from this post, he looks down upon the tumbling of the Merry Men. On such a night, of course, he peers upon a world of blackness, where the waters wheel and boil, where the waves joust85 together with the noise of an explosion, and the foam towers and vanishes in the twinkling of an eye. Never before had I seen the Merry Men thus violent. The fury, height, and transiency of their spoutings was a thing to be seen and not recounted. High over our heads on the cliff rose their white columns in the darkness; and the same instant, like phantoms86, they were gone. Sometimes three at a time would thus aspire87 and vanish; sometimes a gust14 took them, and the spray would fall about us, heavy as a wave. And yet the spectacle was rather maddening in its levity88 than impressive by its force. Thought was beaten down by the confounding uproar — a gleeful vacancy89 possessed90 the brains of men, a state akin39 to madness; and I found myself at times following the dance of the Merry Men as it were a tune91 upon a jigging92 instrument.
I first caught sight of my uncle when we were still some yards away in one of the flying glimpses of twilight that chequered the pitch darkness of the night. He was standing93 up behind the parapet, his head thrown back and the bottle to his mouth. As he put it down, he saw and recognised us with a toss of one hand fleeringly above his head.
‘Has he been drinking?’ shouted I to Rorie.
‘He will aye be drunk when the wind blaws,’ returned Rorie in the same high key, and it was all that I could do to hear him.
‘Then — was he so — in February?’ I inquired.
Rorie’s ‘Ay’ was a cause of joy to me. The murder, then, had not sprung in cold blood from calculation; it was an act of madness no more to be condemned94 than to be pardoned. My uncle was a dangerous madman, if you will, but he was not cruel and base as I had feared. Yet what a scene for a carouse95, what an incredible vice97, was this that the poor man had chosen! I have always thought drunkenness a wild and almost fearful pleasure, rather demoniacal than human; but drunkenness, out here in the roaring blackness, on the edge of a cliff above that hell of waters, the man’s head spinning like the Roost, his foot tottering98 on the edge of death, his ear watching for the signs of ship-wreck, surely that, if it were credible96 in any one, was morally impossible in a man like my uncle, whose mind was set upon a damnatory creed99 and haunted by the darkest superstitions100. Yet so it was; and, as we reached the bight of shelter and could breathe again, I saw the man’s eyes shining in the night with an unholy glimmer101.
‘Eh, Charlie, man, it’s grand!’ he cried. ‘See to them!’ he continued, dragging me to the edge of the abyss from whence arose that deafening102 clamour and those clouds of spray; ‘see to them dancin’, man! Is that no wicked?’
He pronounced the word with gusto, and I thought it suited with the scene.
‘They’re yowlin’ for thon schooner,’ he went on, his thin, insane voice clearly audible in the shelter of the bank, ‘an’ she’s comin’ aye nearer, aye nearer, aye nearer an’ nearer an’ nearer; an’ they ken31’t, the folk kens103 it, they ken wool it’s by wi’ them. Charlie, lad, they’re a’ drunk in yon schooner, a’ dozened wi’ drink. They were a’ drunk in the CHRIST-ANNA, at the hinder end. There’s nane could droon at sea wantin’ the brandy. Hoot62 awa, what do you ken?’ with a sudden blast of anger. ‘I tell ye, it cannae be; they droon withoot it. Ha’e,’ holding out the bottle, ‘tak’ a sowp.’
I was about to refuse, but Rorie touched me as if in warning; and indeed I had already thought better of the movement. I took the bottle, therefore, and not only drank freely myself, but contrived104 to spill even more as I was doing so. It was pure spirit, and almost strangled me to swallow. My kinsman did not observe the loss, but, once more throwing back his head, drained the remainder to the dregs. Then, with a loud laugh, he cast the bottle forth among the Merry Men, who seemed to leap up, shouting to receive it.
‘Ha’e, bairns!’ he cried, ‘there’s your han’sel. Ye’ll get bonnier nor that, or morning.’
Suddenly, out in the black night before us, and not two hundred yards away, we heard, at a moment when the wind was silent, the clear note of a human voice. Instantly the wind swept howling down upon the Head, and the Roost bellowed105, and churned, and danced with a new fury. But we had heard the sound, and we knew, with agony, that this was the doomed ship now close on ruin, and that what we had heard was the voice of her master issuing his last command. Crouching106 together on the edge, we waited, straining every sense, for the inevitable107 end. It was long, however, and to us it seemed like ages, ere the schooner suddenly appeared for one brief instant, relieved against a tower of glimmering108 foam. I still see her reefed mainsail flapping loose, as the boom fell heavily across the deck; I still see the black outline of the hull109, and still think I can distinguish the figure of a man stretched upon the tiller. Yet the whole sight we had of her passed swifter than lightning; the very wave that disclosed her fell burying her for ever; the mingled cry of many voices at the point of death rose and was quenched110 in the roaring of the Merry Men. And with that the tragedy was at an end. The strong ship, with all her gear, and the lamp perhaps still burning in the cabin, the lives of so many men, precious surely to others, dear, at least, as heaven to themselves, had all, in that one moment, gone down into the surging waters. They were gone like a dream. And the wind still ran and shouted, and the senseless waters in the Roost still leaped and tumbled as before.
How long we lay there together, we three, speechless and motionless, is more than I can tell, but it must have been for long. At length, one by one, and almost mechanically, we crawled back into the shelter of the bank. As I lay against the parapet, wholly wretched and not entirely111 master of my mind, I could hear my kinsman maundering to himself in an altered and melancholy mood. Now he would repeat to himself with maudlin112 iteration, ‘Sic a fecht as they had — sic a sair fecht as they had, puir lads, puir lads!’ and anon he would bewail that ‘a’ the gear was as gude’s tint,’ because the ship had gone down among the Merry Men instead of stranding113 on the shore; and throughout, the name — the CHRIST-ANNA— would come and go in his divagations, pronounced with shuddering60 awe114. The storm all this time was rapidly abating115. In half an hour the wind had fallen to a breeze, and the change was accompanied or caused by a heavy, cold, and plumping rain. I must then have fallen asleep, and when I came to myself, drenched, stiff, and unrefreshed, day had already broken, grey, wet, discomfortable day; the wind blew in faint and shifting capfuls, the tide was out, the Roost was at its lowest, and only the strong beating surf round all the coasts of Aros remained to witness of the furies of the night.
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1
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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7
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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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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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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doffing
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| n.下筒，落纱v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的现在分词 ) | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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41
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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42
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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43
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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44
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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45
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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46
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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47
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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48
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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49
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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50
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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51
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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52
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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53
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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54
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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55
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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56
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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57
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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58
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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59
shudderingly
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60
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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61
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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62
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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63
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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64
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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65
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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66
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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67
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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68
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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69
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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70
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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71
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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72
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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73
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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74
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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75
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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76
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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77
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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78
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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79
bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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80
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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81
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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82
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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83
observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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84
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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85
joust
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| v.马上长枪比武，竞争 | |
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86
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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87
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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88
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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89
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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90
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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91
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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92
jigging
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| n.跳汰选，簸选v.（使）上下急动( jig的现在分词 ) | |
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93
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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94
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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95
carouse
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| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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96
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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97
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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98
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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99
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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100
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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101
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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102
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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103
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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104
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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105
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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106
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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107
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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108
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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109
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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110
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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111
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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112
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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113
stranding
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| n.（船只）搁浅v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的现在分词 ) | |
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114
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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115
abating
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| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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