He had left the snows of the Rigi-Kulm; down below, on the lake, he returned to rain, fine, close, misty3, a vapour of water through which the mountains stumped4 themselves in, graduating in the distance to the form of clouds.
The “F?hn” whistled, raising white caps on the lake where the gulls5, flying low, seemed borne upon the waves; one might have thought one’s self on the open ocean.
Tartarin recalled to mind his departure from the port of Marseilles, fifteen years earlier, when he started to hunt the lion — that spotless sky, dazzling with silvery light, that sea so blue, blue as the water of dye-works, blown back by the mistral in sparkling white saline crystals, the bugles6 of the forts and the bells of all the steeples echoing joy, rapture7, sun — the fairy world of a first journey.
What a contrast to this black dripping wharf8, almost deserted9, on which were seen, through the mist as through a sheet of oiled paper, a few passengers wrapped in ulsters and formless india-rubber garments, and the helmsman standing10 motionless, muffled11 in his hooded12 cloak, his manner grave and sibylline13, behind this notice printed in three languages:—
“Forbidden to speak to the man at the wheel.”
Very useless caution, for nobody spoke14 on board the “Winkelried,” neither on deck, nor in the first and second saloons crowded with lugubrious15-looking passengers, sleeping, reading, yawning, pell-mell, with their smaller packages scattered16 on the seats — the sort of scene we imagine that a batch17 of exiles on the morning after a coup-d’état might present.
From time to time the hoarse18 bellow19 of the steam-pipe announced the arrival of the boat at a stopping-place. A noise of steps, and of baggage dragged about the deck. The shore, looming20 through the fog, came nearer and showed its slopes of a sombre green, its villas21 shivering amid inundated22 groves23, files of poplars flanking the muddy roads along which sumptuous25 hotels were formed in line with their names in letters of gold upon their fa?ades, H?tel Meyer, Müller, du Lac, etc., where heads, bored with existence, made themselves visible behind the streaming window-panes.
The wharf was reached, the passengers disembarked and went upward, all equally muddy, soaked, and silent. ’Twas a coming and going of umbrellas and omnibuses, quickly vanishing. Then a great beating of the wheels, churning up the water with their paddles, and the shore retreated, becoming once more a misty landscape with its pensions Meyer, Müller, du Lac, etc., the windows of which, opened for an instant, gave fluttering handkerchiefs to view from every floor, and outstretched arms that seemed to say: “Mercy! pity! take us, take us . . . if you only knew!..”
At times the “Winkelried” crossed on its way some other steamer with its name in black letters on its white paddle-box: “Germania.”.. “Guillaume Tell” . . . The same lugubrious deck, the same refracting caoutchoucs, the same most lamentable26 pleasure trip as that of the other phantom27 vessel28 going its different way, and the same heart-broken glances exchanged from deck to deck.
And to say that those people travelled for enjoyment29! and that all those boarders in the H?tels du Lac, Meyer, and Müller were captives for pleasure!
Here, as on the Rigi-Kulm, the thing that above all suffocated30 Tartarin, agonized31 him, froze him, even more than the cold rain and the murky32 sky, was the utter impossibility of talking. True, he had again met faces that he knew — the member of the Jockey Club with his niece (h’m! h’m!..), the academician Astier-Réhu, and the Bonn Professor Schwanthaler, those two implacable enemies condemned33 to live side by side for a month manacled to the itinerary34 of a Cook’s Circular, and others. But none of these illustrious Prunes35 would recognize the Tarasconese Alpinist, although his mountain muffler, his metal utensils36, his ropes in saltire, distinguished37 him from others, and marked him in a manner that was quite peculiar38. They all seemed ashamed of the night before, and the inexplicable39 impulse communicated to them by the fiery40 ardour of that fat man.
Mme. Schwanthaler, alone, approached her partner, with the rosy41, laughing face of a plump little fairy, and taking her skirt in her two fingers as if to suggest a minuet. “Ballir . . . dantsir . . . very choli . . . ” remarked the good lady. Was this a memory that she evoked42, or a temptation that she offered? At any rate, as she did not let go of him, Tartarin, to escape her pertinacity43, went up on deck, preferring to be soaked to the skin rather than be made ridiculous.
And it rained!.. and the sky was dirty!.. To complete his gloom, a whole squad44 of the Salvation45 Army, who had come aboard at Beckenried, a dozen stout46 girls with stolid47 faces, in navy-blue gowns and Greenaway bonnets48, were grouped under three enormous scarlet49 umbrellas, and were singing verses, accompanied on the accordion50 by a man, a sort of David-la-Gamme, tall and fleshless with crazy eyes. These sharp, flat, discordant51 voices, like the cry of gulls, rolled dragging, drawling through the rain and the black smoke of the engine which the wind beat down upon the deck. Never had Tartarin heard anything so lamentable.
At Brünnen the squad landed, leaving the pockets of the other travellers swollen52 with pious53 little tracts54; and almost immediately after the songs and the accordion of these poor larvae55 ceased, the sky began to clear and patches of blue were seen.
They now entered the lake of Uri, closed in and darkened by lofty, untrodden mountains, and the tourists pointed56 out to each other, on the right at the foot of the Seelisberg, the field of Grütli, where Melchtal, Fürst, and Stauffacher made oath to deliver their country.
Tartarin, with much emotion, took off his cap, paying no attention to environing amazement57, and waved it in the air three times, to do honour to the ashes of those heroes. A few of the passengers mistook his purpose, and politely returned his bow.
The engine at last gave a hoarse roar, its echo repercussioning from cliff to cliff of the narrow space. The notice hung out on deck before each new landing-place (as they do at public balls to vary the country dances) announced the Tells-platte.
They arrived.
The chapel58 is situated59 just five minutes’ walk from the landing, at the edge of the lake, on the very rock to which William Tell sprang, during the tempest, from Gessler’s boat. It was to Tartarin a most delightful60 emotion to tread, as he followed the travellers of the Circular Cook along the lakeside, that historic soil, to recall and live again the principal episodes of the great drama which he knew as he did his own life.
From his earliest years, William Tell had been his type. When, in the Bézuquet pharmacy61, they played the game of preference, each person writing secretly on folded slips the poet, the tree, the odour, the hero, the woman he preferred, one of the papers invariably ran thus:—
“Tree preferred? . . . . . . . . . . . the baobab.
Odour? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . gunpowder62.
Writer? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fenimore Cooper.
What I would prefer to be .. William Tell.”
And every voice in the pharmacy cried out: “That’s Tartarin!”
Imagine, therefore, how happy he was and how his heart was beating as he stood before that memorial chapel raised to a hero by the gratitude63 of a whole people. It seemed to him that William Tell in person, still dripping with the waters of the lake, his crossbow and his arrows in hand, was about to open the door to him.
“No entrance . . . I am at work . . . This is not the day . . . ” cried a loud voice from within, made louder by the sonority64 of the vaulted65 roof.
“Monsieur Astier-Réhu, of the French Academy . . . ”
“Herr Doctor Professor Schwanthaler . . . ”
“Tartarin of Tarascon . . . ”
In the arch above the portal, perched upon a scaffolding, appeared a half-length of the painter in working-blouse, palette in hand.
“My famulus will come down and open to you, messieurs,” he said with respectful intonations66.
“I was sure of it, pardi!“ thought Tartarin; “I had only to name myself.”
However, he had the good taste to stand aside modestly, and only entered after all the others.
The painter, superb fellow, with the gilded67, ruddy head of an artist of the Renaissance68, received his visitors on the wooden steps which led to the temporary staging put up for the purpose of painting the roof. The frescos, representing the principal episodes in the life of William Tell, were finished, all but one, namely: the scene of the apple in the market-place of Altorf. On this he was now at work, and his young famulus, as he called him, feet and legs bare under a toga of the middle ages, and his hair archangelically arranged, was posing as the son of William Tell.
All these archaic69 personages, red, green, yellow, blue, made taller than nature in narrow streets and under the posterns of the period, intended, of course, to be seen at a distance, impressed the spectators rather sadly. However, they were there to admire, and they admired. Besides, none of them knew anything.
“I consider that a fine characterization,” said the pontifical70 Astier-Réhu, carpet-bag in hand.
And Schwanthaler, a camp-stool under his arm, not willing to be behindhand, quoted two verses of Schiller, most of it remaining in his flowing beard. Then the ladies exclaimed, and for a time nothing was heard but:—
“Sch?n!.. sch?n . . . ”
“Yes . . . lovely . . . ”
“Exquisite! delicious!..”
One might have thought one’s self at a confectioner’s.
Abruptly71 a voice broke forth73, rending74 with the ring of a trumpet75 that composed silence.
“Badly shouldered, I tell you . . . That crossbow is not in place . . . ”
Imagine the stupor76 of the painter in presence of this exorbitant77 Alpinist, who, alpenstock in hand and ice-axe on his shoulder, risking the annihilation of somebody at each of his many evolutions, was demonstrating to him by A + B that the motions of his William Tell were not correct.
“I know what I am talking about, au mouain . . . I beg you to believe it . . . ”
“Who are you?”
“Who am I!” exclaimed the Alpinist, now thoroughly78 vexed79 . . . So it was not to him that the door was opened; and drawing himself up he said: “Go ask my name of the panthers of the Zaccar, of the lions of Atlas80 . . . they will answer you, perhaps.”
The company recoiled81; there was general alarm.
“But,” asked the painter, “in what way is my action wrong?”
“Look at me, té!“
Falling into position with a thud of his heels that made the planks82 beneath them smoke, Tar-tarin, shouldering his ice-axe like a crossbow, stood rigid83.
“Superb! He’s right . . . Don’t stir . . . ”
Then to the famulus: “Quick! a block, charcoal84!..”
The fact is, the Tarasconese hero was something worth painting — squat85, round-shouldered, head bent86 forward, the muffler round his chin like a strap87, and his flaming little eye taking aim at the terrified famulus.
Imagination, O magic power!.. He thought himself on the marketplace of Altorf, in front of his own child, he, who had never had any; an arrow in his bow, another in his belt to pierce the heart of the tyrant88. His conviction became so strong that it conveyed itself to others.
“‘T is William Tell himself!..” said the painter, crouched89 on a stool and driving his sketch90 with a feverish91 hand. “Ah! monsieur, why did I not know you earlier? What a model you would have been for me!..”
“Really! then you see some resemblance?” said Tartarin, much flattered, but keeping his pose.
Yes, it was just so that the artist imagined his hero.
“The head, too?”
“Oh! the head, that’s no matter . . . ” and the painter stepped back to look at his sketch. “Yes, a virile92 mask, energetic, just what I wanted — inasmuch as nobody knows anything about William Tell, who probably never existed.”
Tartarin dropped the cross-bow from stupefaction.
“Outre! {*}.. Never existed!.. What is that you are saying?”
* “Outre” and “boufre” are Tarasconese oaths of mysterious etymology93.
“Ask these gentlemen . . . ”
Astier-Réhu, solemn, his three chins in his white cravat94, said: “That is a Danish legend.”
“Icelandic..” affirmed Schwanthaler, no less majestic95.
“Saxo Grammaticus relates that a valiant96 archer97 named Tobé or Paltanoke . . . ”
“Es ist in der Vilkinasaga geschrieben . . . ”
Both together:—
was condemned by the
King of Denmark Harold
of the Blue Teeth . . . ” dass der Islandische K?nig
Needing . . . ”
With staring eyes and arms extended, neither looking at nor comprehending each other, they both talked at once, as if on a rostrum, in the doctoral, despotic tones of professors certain of never being refuted; until, getting angry, they only shouted names: “Justinger of Berne!.. Jean of Winterthur!..”
Little by little, the discussion became general, excited, and furious among the visitors. Umbrellas, camp-stools, and valises were brandished98; the unhappy artist, trembling for the safety of his scaffolding, went from one to another imploring99 peace. When the tempest had abated100, he returned to his sketch and looked for his mysterious model, for him whose name the panthers of the Zaccar and the lions of Atlas could alone pronounce; but he was nowhere to be seen; the Alpinist had disappeared.
At that moment he was clambering with furious strides up a little path among beeches101 and birches that led to the H?tel Tellsplatte, where the courier of the Peruvian family was to pass the night; and under the shock of his deception102 he was talking to himself in a loud voice and ramming103 his alpenstock furiously into the sodden104 ground:—
Never existed! William Tell! William Tell a myth! And it was a painter charged with the duty of decorating the Tellsplatte who said that calmly. He hated him as if for a sacrilege; he hated those learned men, and this denying, demolishing105 impious age, which respects nothing, neither fame nor grandeur106 —coquin de sort!
And so, two hundred, three hundred years hence, when Tartarin was spoken of there would always be Astier-Réhus and Professor Schwanthalers to deny that he ever existed — a Proven?al myth! a Barbary legend!.. He stopped, choking with indignation and his rapid climb, and seated himself on a rustic107 bench.
From there he could see the lake between the branches, and the white walls of the chapel like a new mausoleum. A roaring of steam and the bustle108 of getting to the wharf announced the arrival of fresh visitors. They collected on the bank, guide-books in hand, and then advanced with thoughtful gestures and extended arms, evidently relating the “legend.” Suddenly, by an abrupt72 revulsion of ideas, the comicality of the whole thing struck him.
He pictured to himself all historical Switzerland living upon this imaginary hero; raising statues and chapels109 in his honour on the little squares of the little towns, and placing monuments in the museums of the great ones; organizing patriotic111 fêtes, to which everybody rushed, banners displayed, from all the cantons, with banquets, toasts, speeches, hurrahs, songs, and tears swelling112 all breasts, and this for a great patriot110, whom everybody knew had never existed.
Talk of Tarascon indeed! There’s a tarasconade for you, the like of which was never invented down there!
His good-humour quite restored, Tartarin in a few sturdy strides struck the highroad to Fluelen, at the side of which the H?tel Tellsplatte spreads out its long fa?ade. While awaiting the dinner-bell the guests were walking about in front of a cascade113 over rock-work on the gullied road, where landaus were drawn114 up, their poles on the ground among puddles115 of water in which was reflected a copper-coloured sun.
Tartarin inquired for his man. They told him he was dining. “Then take me to him, zou!“ and this was said with such authority that in spite of the respectful repugnance116 shown to disturbing so important a personage, a maid-servant conducted the Alpinist through the whole hotel, where his advent117 created some amazement, to the invaluable118 courier who was dining alone in a little room that looked upon the court-yard.
“Monsieur,” said Tartarin as he entered, his ice-axe on his shoulder, “excuse me if . . . ”
He stopped stupefied, and the courier, tall, lank24, his napkin at his chin, in the savoury steam of a plateful of hot soup, let fall his spoon.
“Vé! Monsieur Tartarin . . . ”
“Té! Bompard.”
It was Bompard, former manager of the Club, a good fellow, but afflicted119 with a fabulous120 imagination which rendered him incapable121 of telling a word of truth, and had caused him to be nicknamed in Tarascon “The Impostor.”
Called an impostor in Tarascon! you can judge what he must have been. And this was the incomparable guide, the climber of the Alps, the Himalayas, the Mountains of the Moon.
“Oh! now, then, I understand,” ejaculated Tartarin, rather nonplussed122; but, even so, joyful123 to see a face from home and to hear once more that dear, delicious accent of the Cours.
“Différemment, Monsieur Tartarin, you ‘ll dine with me, qué?“
Tartarin hastened to accept, delighted at the pleasure of sitting down at a private table opposite to a friend, without the very smallest litigious compote-dish between them, to be able to hobnob, to talk as he ate, and to eat good things, carefully cooked and fresh; for couriers are admirably treated by innkeepers, and served apart with all the best wines and the extra dainties.
Many were the au mouains, pas mouains, and différemments.
“Then, my dear fellow, it was really you I heard last night, up there, on the platform?..”
“Hey! parfaitemain . . . I was making those young ladies admire . . . Fine, isn’t it, sunrise on the Alps?”
“Superb!” cried Tartarin, at first without conviction and merely to avoid contradicting him, but caught the next minute; and after that it was really bewildering to hear those two Tarasconese enthusiasts124 lauding125 the splendours they had found on the Rigi. It was Joanne capping Baedeker.
Then, as the meal went on, the conversation became more intimate, full of confidences and effusive127 protestations, which brought real tears to their Proven?al eyes, lively, brilliant eyes, but keeping always in their facile emotion a little corner of jest and satire128. In that alone did the two friends resemble each other; for in person one was as lean, tanned, weatherbeaten, seamed with the wrinkles special to the grimaces129 of his profession, as the other was short, stocky, sleek-skinned, and sound-blooded.
He had seen all, that poor Bompard, since his exodus130 from the Club. That insatiable imagination of his which prevented him from ever staying in one place had kept him wandering under so many suns, and through such diverse fortunes. He related his adventures, and counted up the fine occasions to enrich himself which had snapped, there! in his fingers — such as his last invention for saving the war-budget the cost of boots and shoes . . . “Do you know how?.. Oh, moun Diou! it is very simple . . . by shoeing the feet of the soldiers.”
“Outre!“ cried Tartarin, horrified131.
Bompard continued very calmly, with his natural air of cold madness:—
“A great idea, wasn’t it? Eh! be! at the ministry132 they did not even answer me . . . Ah! my poor Monsieur Tartarin, I have had my bad moments, I have eaten the bread of poverty before I entered the service of the Company . . . ”
“Company! what Company?”
Bompard lowered his voice discreetly133.
“Hush! presently, not here . . . ” Then returning to his natural tones, ”Et autremain, you people at Tarascon, what are you all doing? You haven’t yet told me what brings you to our mountains . . . ”
It was now for Tartarin to pour himself out. Without anger, but with that melancholy134 of declining years, that ennui135 which attacks as they grow elderly great artists, beautiful women, and all conquerors136 of peoples and hearts, he told of the defection of his compatriots, the plot laid against him to deprive him of the presidency137, the decision he had come to to do some act of heroism138, a great ascension, the Tarasconese banner borne higher than it had ever before been planted; in short, to prove to the Alpinists of Tarascon that he was still worthy139 . . . still worthy of . . . Emotion overcame him, he was forced to keep silence . . . Then he added:—
“You know me, Gonzague . . . ” and nothing can ever render the effusion, the caressing140 charm with which he uttered that troubadouresque Christian141 name of the courier. It was like one way of pressing his hands, of coming nearer to his heart . . . “You know me, que! You know if I balked142 when the question came up of marching upon the lion; and during the war, when we organized together the defences of the Club . . . ”
Bompard nodded his head with terrible emphasis; he thought he was there still.
“Well, my good fellow, what the lions, what the Krupp cannon143 could never do, the Alps have accomplished144 . . . I am afraid.”
“Don’t say that, Tartarin!”
“Why not?” said the hero, with great gentleness . . . “I say it, because it is so . . . ”
And tranquilly145, without posing, he acknowledged the impression made upon him by Doré’s drawing of that catastrophe146 on the Matterhorn, which was ever before his eyes. He feared those perils147, and being told of an extraordinary guide, capable of avoiding them, he resolved to seek him out and confide126 in him.
Then, in a tone more natural, he added: “You have never been a guide, have you, Gonzague?”
“Hé! yes,” replied Bompard, smiling . . . “Only, I never did all that I related.”
“That’s understood,” assented148 Tartarin.
And the other added in a whisper:—
“Let us go out on the road; we can talk more freely there.”
It was getting dark; a warm damp breeze was rolling up black clouds upon the sky, where the setting sun had left behind it a vague gray mist.
They went along the shore in the direction of Fluelen, crossing the mute shadows of hungry tourists returning to the hotel; shadows themselves, and not speaking until they reached a tunnel through which the road is cut, opening at intervals149 to little terraces overhanging the lake.
“Let us stop here,” pealed150 forth the hollow voice of Bompard, which resounded151 under the vaulted roof like a cannon-shot. There, seated on the parapet, they contemplated152 that admirable view of the lake, the downward rush of the fir-trees and beeches pressing blackly together in the foreground, and farther on, the higher mountains with waving summits, and farther still, others of a bluish-gray confusion as of clouds, in the midst of which lay, though scarcely visible, the long white trail of a glacier153, winding154 through the hollows and suddenly illumined with irised fire, yellow, red, and green. They were exhibiting the mountain with Bengal lights!
From Fluelen the rockets rose, scattering155 their multicoloured stars; Venetian lanterns went and came in boats that remained invisible while bearing bands of music and pleasure-seekers.
A fairylike decoration seen through the frame, cold and architectural, of the granite156 walls of the tunnel.
“What a queer country, pas mouain, this Switzerland . . . ” cried Tartarin.
Bompard burst out laughing.
“Ah! va?, Switzerland!.. In the first place, there is no Switzerland.”
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1
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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2
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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3
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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4
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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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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bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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7
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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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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11
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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12
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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sibylline
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| adj.预言的；神巫的 | |
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14
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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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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17
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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29
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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30
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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31
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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32
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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33
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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34
itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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35
prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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36
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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37
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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38
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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39
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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40
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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41
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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42
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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43
pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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44
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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45
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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47
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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48
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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49
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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50
accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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51
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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52
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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53
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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54
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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55
larvae
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| n.幼虫 | |
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56
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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57
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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58
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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59
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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60
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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61
pharmacy
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| n.药房，药剂学，制药业，配药业，一批备用药品 | |
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62
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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63
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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64
sonority
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| n.响亮，宏亮 | |
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65
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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66
intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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67
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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68
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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69
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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70
pontifical
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| adj.自以为是的，武断的 | |
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71
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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72
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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73
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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74
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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75
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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76
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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77
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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78
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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79
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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80
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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81
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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82
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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83
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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84
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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85
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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86
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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87
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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88
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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89
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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91
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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92
virile
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|
| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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93
etymology
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| n.语源；字源学 | |
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94
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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95
majestic
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|
| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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96
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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97
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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98
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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99
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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100
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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101
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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102
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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103
ramming
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| n.打结炉底v.夯实（土等）( ram的现在分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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104
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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105
demolishing
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| v.摧毁( demolish的现在分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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106
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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107
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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108
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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109
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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110
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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111
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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112
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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113
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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114
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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115
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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116
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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117
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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118
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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119
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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121
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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122
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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124
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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125
lauding
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的现在分词 ) | |
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126
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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127
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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128
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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129
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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131
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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132
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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133
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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134
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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135
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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136
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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137
presidency
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| n.总统(校长，总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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138
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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139
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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140
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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141
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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142
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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143
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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144
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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145
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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146
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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147
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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148
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
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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150
pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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152
contemplated
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|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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153
glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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154
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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155
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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156
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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