After we had quitted St. Columb Major, our rambles3 began to draw rapidly to their close. Little more was now left for us to examine than the different localities connected with certain interesting Cornish legends. The places thus associated with the quaint4 fancies of the olden time, were all situated5 close together, some fifteen or twenty miles farther on, along the coast. The first among them that we reached was Tintagel Castle, an ancient ruin magnificently situated on a precipice6 overhanging the sea, and romantically, if not historically, reputed as the birthplace of King Arthur.
The date of the Castle of Tintagel is as much a subject of perplexity among modern antiquaries, as is the existence of King Arthur among modern historians. We may still see some ruins of the Castle; but when or by whom the building was erected7 which those ruins represent, we have no means of discovering: we only know that, after the Conquest, it was inhabited by some of our English princes, and that it was used as a state prison so late as the reign8 of Elizabeth. The rest is, for the most part, mere9 conjecture10, raised upon the weak foundation of a few mouldering11 fragments of walls which must soon crumble12 and disappear as the rest of the Castle has crumbled13 and disappeared before them.
The position of the old fortress14 was, probably, almost impregnable in the days of its strength and glory. The outer part of it was built on a precipitous projection15 of cliff, three hundred feet high, which must have been wrenched16 away from the mainland by some tremendous convulsion of Nature. The inner part stood on the opposite side of the chasm17 formed by this convulsion; and both divisions of the fortress were formerly18 connected by a draw-bridge. The most interesting portion of the few ruins now remaining, is that on the outermost19 promontory20, which is almost entirely21 surrounded by the sea. The way up to this cliff is by a steep and somewhat perilous22 path; so narrow in certain places, where it winds along the verge23 of the precipice, that a single false step would be certain destruction. The difficulties of the ascent24 appear to have impressed the old historian of Cornwall, Norden, so vividly25 that he tries in his “Survey,” to frighten all his readers from attempting it; warning “unstable man,” if he will try to mount the cliff, that “while he respecteth his footinge he indaungers his head; and looking to save the head, indaungers the footinge, accordinge to the old proverbe: Incidit in Scyllam qui vult vitare Charybdim. He must have eyes,”— ominously27 adds the worthy28 Norden —“that will scale Tintagel.”
The ruins on the summit of the promontory only consist of a few straggling walls, loosely piled up, rather than built, with dark-coloured stone. Some still remain entire enough to show the square loopholes that were pierced in them for arrows; and, here and there, fragments of rough irregular arches, which might have been either doorways29 or windows, are still visible. Those parts of the building which have fallen, are concealed30 by long, thickly growing grass — the foot may sometimes strike against them, but the eye perceives them not. These are all the vestiges32 which remain of the once mighty33 castle; all the signs that are left to point out the site of the old halls, where the bold knights34 of Arthur gathered for the feast or prepared for the fight, at their royal master’s command.
The Cornish legends tell us that the British hero held his last court, solemnized his last feast, reviewed his last array of warriors35, at Tintagel, before he went out to the fatal battle-field of Camelford, to combat his nephew Mordred, who had rebelled against his power. In the morning, the martial36 assemblage marched out of the castle in triumph, led by the king, with his death-dealing sword “Excalibur” slung37 at his shoulder, and his magic lance “Rou,” in his hand. In the evening the warriors returned, fatally victorious38, from the struggle. The rebel army had been routed and the rebel chief slain39; but they brought back with them, their renowned40 leader — the favourite hero of martial adventure, the conqueror41 of the Saxons in twelve battles — mortally wounded, from the field which he had quitted a victor.
That night, the wise and valiant42 king died in the castle of his birth; died among his followers43 who had feasted and sung around him at the festal table but a few hours before. The deep-toned bells of Tintagel rang his death peal44; and the awe-stricken populace from the country round, gathering45 together hurriedly before the fortress, heard portentous46 wailings from supernatural voices, which mingled48 in ghostly harmony with the moaning of the restless sea, the dirging of the dreary49 wind, and the dull deep thunder of the funeral knell50. About the heights of the castle, and in the caverns51 beneath it, these sounds ceased not night or day, until the corpse52 of the hero was conveyed to the ship destined53 to bear it to its burial-place in Glastonbury Abbey. Then, dirging winds, and moaning sea, and wailing47 voices, ceased; and in the intervals54 between the slow pealing55 of the funeral bells, clear child-like voices arose from the calmed waters, and told the mourning people that Arthur was gone from them but for a little time, to be healed of all his wounds in the Fairy Land; and that he would yet return to lead and to govern them, as of old.
Such is the scene — strange compound of fiction and truth, of the typical and the real — which legends teach us to imagine in the Tintagel Castle of thirteen centuries ago! What is the scene that we look on now? — A solitude56 where the decaying works of man, and the enduring works of Nature appear mingled in beauty together. The grass grows high and luxuriant, where the rushes were strewn over the floor of Arthur’s banqueting hall. Sheep are cropping the fresh pasture, within the walls which once echoed to the sweetest songs, or rang to the clash of the stoutest57 swords of ancient England! About the fortress nothing remains58 unchanged, but the sun which at evening still brightens it in its weak old age with the same glory that shone over its lusty youth; the sea that rolls and dashes, as at first, against its foundation rocks; and the wild Cornish country outspread on either side of it, as desolately60 and as magnificently as ever.
The grandeur61 of the scenery at Tintagel, the romantic interest of the old British traditions connected with the castle, might well have delayed us many hours on these solitary62 heights; but we had other places still to visit, other and far different legends still to gossip over. Descending63 the cliff while the day gave us ample time to wander at our will; we strolled away inland to track the scene of a new romance as far as the waterfall called Nighton’s Keive.
A walk of little more than half-a-mile brings us to the entrance of a valley, bounded on either side by high, gently-sloping hills, with a small stream running through its centre, fed by the waterfall of which we are in search. We now follow a footpath65 a few hundred yards, pass by a mill, and looking up the valley, see one compact mass of vegetation entirely filling it to its remotest corners, and not leaving the slightest vestige31 of a path, the merest patch of clear ground, visible in any direction, far or near.
It seems as if all the foliage66 which ought to have grown on the Cornish moorlands, had been mischievously67 crammed68 into this place, within the narrow limits of one Cornish valley. Weeds, ferns, brambles, bushes, and young trees, are flourishing together here, thickly intertwined in every possible position, in triumphant69 security from any invasion of bill-hook or axe70. You win every step of your way through this miniature forest of vegetation, by the labour of your arms and the weight of your body. Tangled71 branches and thorny72 bushes press against you in front and behind, meet over your head, knock off your cap, flap in your face, twist about your legs, and tear your coat skirts; so obstructing73 you in every conceivable manner and in every conceivable direction, that they seem possessed74 with a living power of opposition75, and commissioned by some evil genius of Fairy Mythology76 to prevent mortal footsteps from intruding77 into the valley. Whether you try a zig-zag or a straight course, whether you go up or down, it is the same thing — you must squeeze, and push, and jostle your way through the crowd of bushes, just as you would through a crowd of men — or else stand still, surrounded by leaves, like “a Jack-inthe-Green,” and wait for the very remote chance of somebody coming to help you out.
Forcing our road incessantly79 through these obstructions80, for a full half-hour, and taking care to keep our only guide — the sound of the running-water — always within hearing, we came at last to a little break in the vegetation, crossed the stream at this place, and found, on the opposite side of the bank, a faintly-marked track, which might have been once a footpath. Following it as well as we could among the branches and brambles, and now ascending81 steep ground, we soon heard the dash of the waterfall. But to attempt to see it, was no easy undertaking82. The trees, the bushes, and the wild herbage grew here thicker than ever, stretching in perfect canopies83 of leaves so closely across the overhanging banks of the stream, as entirely to hide it from view. We heard the monotonous84, eternal splashing of the water, close at our ears, and yet vainly tried to obtain even a glimpse of the fall. Adverse85 Fate led us up and down, and round and round, and backwards86 and forwards, amid a labyrinth87 of overgrown bushes which might have bewildered an Australian settler; and still the nymph of the waterfall coyly hid herself from our eyes. Our ears informed us that the invisible object of which we were in search was of very inconsiderable height; our patience was evaporating; our time was wasting away — in short, to confess the truth here, as I have confessed it elsewhere in these pages, let me acknowledge that we both concurred88 in a sound determination to consult our own convenience, and give up the attempt to discover Nighton’s Keive!
Our wanderings, however, though useless enough in one direction, procured89 us this compensating90 advantage in another: they led us accidentally to the exact scene of the legend which we knew to be connected with this part of the valley, and which had, indeed, first induced us to visit it.
We found ourselves standing91 before the damp, dismantled92 stone walls of a solitary cottage, placed on a plot of partially93 open ground, near the outskirts94 of the wood. Long dark herbage grew about the inside of the ruined little building; a toad95 was crawling where the leaves clustered thickest, on what had once been the floor of a room; in every direction corruption96 and decay were visibly battening on the lonesome place. Its aspect would repel97 rather than allure98 curiosity, but for the mysterious story associated with it, which gives it an attraction and an interest that are not its own.
Years and years ago, when this desolate59 building was a neat comfortable cottage, it was inhabited by two ladies, of whose histories, and even names, all the people of the district were perfectly99 ignorant. One day they were accidentally found living in their solitary abode100, before any one knew that they had so much as entered it, or that they existed at all. Both appeared to be about the same age, and both were inflexibly101 taciturn. One was never seen without the other; if they ever left the house, they only left it to walk in the most unfrequented parts of the wood; they kept no servant, and never had a visitor; no living souls but themselves ever crossed the door of their cottage. They procured their food and other necessaries from the people in the nearest village, paying for everything they received when it was delivered, and neither asking nor answering a single unnecessary question. Their manners were gentle, but grave and sorrowful as well. The people who brought them their household supplies, felt awed102 and uneasy, without knowing why, in their presence; and were always relieved when they had dispatched their errand and had got well away from the cottage and the wood.
Gradually, as month by month passed on, and the mystery hanging over the solitary pair was still not cleared up, superstitious103 doubts spread widely through the neighbourhood. Harmless as the conduct of the ladies always appeared to be, there was something so sinister104 and startling about the unearthly seclusion105 and secrecy106 of their lives, that people began to feel vaguely107 suspicious, to whisper awful imaginary rumours108 about them, to gossip over old stories of ghosts and false accusations110 that had never been properly sifted111 to the end, whenever the inhabitants of the cottage were mentioned. At last they were secretly watched by the less scrupulous112 among the villagers, whom intense curiosity had endowed with a morbid113 courage and resolution. Even this proceeding114 led to no results whatever, but increased rather than diminished the mystery.
The expertest eavesdroppers who had listened at the door, brought away no information with them for their pains. Some declared that when the ladies held any conversation together, they spoke115 in so low a tone that it was impossible to distinguish a word they said. Others, of more imaginative temperament116, protested, on the contrary, that their voices were perfectly audible, but that the language they talked was some mysterious or diabolical117 language of their own, incomprehensible to everybody but themselves. One or two expert and daring spies had even contrived118 to look in at them through the window, unperceived; but had seen nothing uncommon119, nothing supernatural — nothing, in short, beyond the spectacle of two ladies sitting quietly and silently by their own fireside.
So matters went on, until one day universal agitation120 was excited in the neighbourhood by a rumour109 that one of the ladies was dead. The rustic121 authorities immediately repaired to the cottage, accompanied by a long train of eager followers; and found that the report was true. The surviving lady was seated by her companion’s bedside, weeping over a corpse. She spoke not a word; she never looked up at the villagers as they entered. Question after question was put to her without ever eliciting122 an answer; kind words were useless — even threats proved equally inefficient123: the lady still remained weeping by the corpse, and still said nothing. Gradually her inexorable silence began to infect the visitors to the cottage. For a few moments nothing was heard in the room but the dash of the waterfall hard by, and the singing of birds in the surrounding wood. Bitterly as the lady was weeping, it was now first observed by everybody that she wept silently, that she never sobbed124, never even sighed under the oppression of her grief.
People began to urge each other, superstitiously125, to leave the place. It was determined126 that the corpse should be removed and buried; and that afterwards some new expedient127 should be tried to induce the survivor128 of the mysterious pair to abandon her inflexible129 silence. It was anticipated that she would have made some sign, or spoken some few words when they lifted the body from the bed on which it lay; but even this proceeding produced no visible effect. As the villagers quitted the dwelling130 with their dead burden, the last of them who went out left her in her solitude, still speechless, still weeping, as they had found her at first.
Days passed, and she sent no message to any one. Weeks elapsed, and the idlers who waited about the woodland paths where they knew that she was once wont131 to walk with her companion, never saw her, watch for her as patiently as they might. From haunting the wood, they soon got on to hovering132 round the cottage, and to looking in stealthily at the window. They saw her sitting on the same seat that she had always occupied, with a vacant chair opposite; her figure wasted, her face wan64 already with incessant78 weeping. It was a dismal133 sight to all who beheld134 it — a vision of affliction and solitude that sickened their hearts.
No one knew what to do; the kindest-hearted people hesitated, the hardest-hearted people dreaded135 to disturb her. While they were still irresolute136, the end was at hand. One morning a little girl, who had looked in at the cottage window in imitation of her elders, reported, when she returned home, that she had seen the lady still sitting in her accustomed place, but that one of her hands hung strangely over the arm of the chair, and that she never moved to pick up her pocket-handkerchief, which lay on the ground beside her. At these ominous26 tidings, the villagers summoned their resolution, and immediately repaired to the lonesome cottage in the wood.
They knocked and called at the door — it was not opened to them. They raised the latch137 and entered. She still occupied her chair; her head was resting on one of her hands; the other hung down, as the little girl had told them. The handkerchief, too, was on the ground, and was wet with tears. Was she sleeping? They went round in front to look. Her eyes were wide open; her drooping138 hand, worn almost to mere bone, was cold to the touch as the waters of the valley-stream on a winter’s day. She had died in her wonted place; died in mystery and in solitude as she had lived.
They buried her where they had buried her companion. No traces of the real history of either the one or the other have ever been discovered from that time to this.
Such is the tale that was related to us of the cottage in the valley of Nighton’s Keive. It may be only imagination; but the stained roofless walls, the damp clotted139 herbage, and the reptiles140 crawling about the ruins, give the place a gloomy and disastrous141 look. The air, too, seems just now unusually still and heavy here — for the evening is at hand, and the vapours are rising in the wood. The shadows of the trees are deepening; the rustling142 music of the waterfall is growing dreary; the utter stillness of all things besides, becomes wearying to the ear. Let us pass on, and get into bright wide space again, where the down leads back to happier solitudes143 by the seashore.
We now rapidly lose sight of the trees which have hitherto so closely surrounded us, and find ourselves treading the short scanty144 grass of the cliff-top once more. We still advance northward145, walking along rough cart-roads, and skirting the extremities146 of narrow gullies leading down to the sea, until we enter the picturesque147 village of Boscastle. Then, descending a long street of irregular houses, of all sizes, shapes, and ages, we are soon conducted to the bottom of a deep hollow. Beyond this, the bare ground rises again abruptly148 up to the highest point of the high cliffs which overhang the shore; and here, where the site is most elevated, and where neither cottages nor cultivation149 appear, we descry150 the ancient walls and gloomy tower of Forrabury Church.
The interior of the building still contains a part of the finely-carved rood-loft which once adorned151 it. Its rickety wooden pews are blackened with extreme old age, and covered with curiously-cut patterns and cyphers. The place is so dark that it is difficult to read the inscriptions152 on many of the mouldering monuments, fixed153 together without order or symmetry on the walls. Outside are some Saxon arches, oddly built of black slate154-stone; and the window-mouldings are ornamented155 with rough carving157, which at once proclaims its own antiquity158. But it is in the tower that the interest attached to the church chiefly centres. Square, thick, and of no extraordinary height, it resembles in appearance most other towers in Cornwall — except in one particular, all the belfry windows are completely stopped up.
This peculiarity159 is to be explained simply enough; the church has never had any bells; the old tower has been mute, and useless except for ornament156, since it was first built. The congregation of the district must trust to their watches and their punctuality to get to service in good time on Sundays. At Forrabury the chimes have never sounded for a marriage: the knell has never been heard for a funeral.
To know the reason of this; to discover why the church, though tower and belfry have always been waiting ready for them, has never had a peal of bells, we must seek instruction from another popular tradition, from a third legend of these legendary160 shores. Let us go down a little to the brink161 of the cliff, where the sea is rolling into a black, yawning, perpendicular162 pit of slate rock. The scene of our third story is the view over the waters from this place.
In ancient times, when Forrabury Church was still regarded as a building of recent date, it was a subject of sore vexation to all the people of the neighbourhood that their tower had no bells, while the inhabitants of Tintagel still possessed the famous peal that had rung for King Arthur’s funeral. For some years, this superiority of the rival village was borne with composure by the people of Forrabury; but, in process of time, they lost all patience, and it was publicly determined by the rustic council, that the honour of their church should be vindicated163. Money was immediately collected, and bells of magnificent tones and dimensions were forthwith ordered from the best manufactory that London could supply.
The bells were cast, blessed by high ecclesiastical authorities, and shipped for transportation to Forrabury. The voyage was one of the most prosperous that had ever been known. Fair winds and calm seas so expedited the passage of the ship, that she appeared in sight of the downs on which the church stood, many days before she had been expected. Great was the triumph of the populace on shore, as they watched her working into the bay with a steady evening breeze.
On board, however, the scene was very different. Here there was more uproar164 than happiness, for the captain and the pilot were at open opposition. As the ship neared the harbour, the bells of Tintagel were faintly heard across the water, ringing for the evening service. The pilot, who was a devout165 man, took off his hat as he heard the sound, crossed himself, and thanked God aloud for a prosperous voyage. The captain, who was a reckless, vain-glorious fellow, reviled166 the pilot as a fool, and impiously swore that the ship’s company had only to thank his skill as a navigator, and their own strong arms and ready wills, for bringing the ship safely in sight of harbour. The pilot, in reply, rebuked168 him as an infidel, and still piously167 continued to return thanks as before; while the captain, joined by the crew, tried to drown his voice by oaths and blasphemy169. They were still shouting their loudest, when the vengeance170 of Heaven descended171 in judgment172 on them all.
The clouds supernaturally gathered, the wind rose to a gale173 in a moment. An immense sea, higher than any man had ever beheld, overwhelmed the ship; and, to the horror of the people on shore, she went down in an instant, close to land. Of all the crew, the pilot only was saved.
The bells were never recovered. They were heard tolling174 a muffled175 death-peal, as they sank with the ship; and even yet, on stormy days, while the great waves roll over them, they still ring their ghostly knell above the fiercest roaring of wind and sea.
This is the ancient story of the bells — this is why the chimes are never heard from the belfry of Forrabury Church.
Now that we have visited the scene of our third legend, what is it that keeps me and my companion still lingering on the downs? Why we are still delaying the hour of our departure long after the time which we have ourselves appointed for it?
We both know but too well. At this point we leave the coast, not to return to it again: at Forrabury we look our last on the sea from these rocky shores. With this evening, our pleasant days of strolling travel are ended. To-morrow we go direct to Launceston, and from Launceston at once to Plymouth. To-morrow the adventures of the walking tourist are ours no longer; for on that day our rambles in Cornwall will have virtually closed!
Rise, brother-traveller! We have lingered until twilight176 already; the seaward crags grow vast and dim around us, and the inland view narrows and darkens solemnly in the waning177 light. Shut up your sketch-book which you have so industriously178 filled, and pocket your pencils which you have worn down to stumps179, even as I now shut up my dogs-eared old journal, and pocket my empty ink-bottle. One more of the few and fleeting180 scenes of life is fast closing, soon to leave us nothing but the remembrance that it once existed — a happy remembrance of a holiday walk in dear old England, which will always be welcome and vivid to the last, like other remembrances of home.
Come! the night is drawing round us her curtain of mist; let us strap181 on our trusty old friends, the knapsacks for the last time, and turn resolutely182 from the shore by which we have delayed too long. Come! let us once again “jog on the footpath way” as contentedly183, if not quite as merrily, as ever; and, remembering how much we have seen and learnt that must surely better us both, let us, as we now lose sight of the dark, grey waters, gratefully, though sadly, speak the parting word:—
FAREWELL TO CORNWALL!
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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precipice
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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mere
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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formerly
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outermost
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promontory
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entirely
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perilous
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verge
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ascent
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vividly
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ominous
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ominously
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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doorways
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concealed
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vestige
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vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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warriors
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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38
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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39
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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40
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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41
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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42
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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43
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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44
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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45
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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46
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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47
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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48
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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49
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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50
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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51
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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52
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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53
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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54
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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55
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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56
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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57
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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58
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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59
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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60
desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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61
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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62
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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63
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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64
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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65
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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66
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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67
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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68
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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69
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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70
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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71
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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73
obstructing
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| 阻塞( obstruct的现在分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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74
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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75
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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76
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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77
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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78
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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79
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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80
obstructions
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|
| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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81
ascending
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|
| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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82
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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83
canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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84
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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85
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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86
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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87
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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88
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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90
compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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91
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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92
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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93
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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94
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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95
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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96
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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97
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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98
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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99
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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100
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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101
inflexibly
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| adv.不屈曲地，不屈地 | |
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102
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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104
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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105
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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106
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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107
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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108
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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109
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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110
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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111
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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112
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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113
morbid
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|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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114
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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115
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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116
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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117
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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118
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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119
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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120
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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121
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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122
eliciting
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| n. 诱发, 引出 动词elicit的现在分词形式 | |
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123
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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124
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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125
superstitiously
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| 被邪教所支配 | |
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126
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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127
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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128
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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129
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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130
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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131
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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132
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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133
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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134
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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135
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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136
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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137
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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138
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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139
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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141
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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142
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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143
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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144
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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145
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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146
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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147
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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148
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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149
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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150
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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151
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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152
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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153
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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154
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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155
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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157
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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158
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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159
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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160
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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161
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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162
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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163
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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164
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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165
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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166
reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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168
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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170
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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171
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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172
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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173
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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174
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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175
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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176
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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177
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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178
industriously
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179
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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180
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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181
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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182
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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183
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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