“There’s ill news frae up the water, Mr. Sempill. It’s Marion Simpson, her that’s wife to Richie Smail, the herd3 o’ the Greenshiel. Marion, puir body, has been ill wi’ a wastin’ the past twalmonth, and now it seems she’s near her release. Johnnie Dow, the packman, is ben the house, and he has brocht word that Richie is fair dementit, and that the wife is no like to last the nicht, and would the minister come up to the Greenshiel. They’ve nae bairns, the Lord be thankit; but Richie and Marion have aye been fell fond o’ ither, and Richie’s an auld4 exercised Christian5 and has been many times spoken o’ for the eldership. I doot ye’ll hae to tak’ the road, sir.”
It was his first call to pastoral duty, and, though he had hoped to be at his books by candle-light, David responded gladly. He put his legs into boots, saddled his grey cob, flung his plaid round his shoulders, and in ten minutes was ready to start. Isobel watched him like a mother.
“I’ll hae a cup o’ burned yill [ale] waitin’ for ye to fend8 off the cauld — no but what it’s a fine lown [mild] nicht. Ye ken7 the road, sir? Up by Mirehope and round by the back o’ the Hill.”
“There’s a quicker way by Roodfoot, and on this errand there’s no time to lose.”
“But that’s through the Wud,” Isobel gasped9. “It’s no me that would go through the Wud in the dark, nor naebody in Woodilee. But a minister is different, nae doot.”
“The road is plain?” he asked.
“Aye, it’s plain eneuch. There’s naething wrong wi’ the road. But it’s an eerie10 bit when the sun’s no shinin’. But gang your ways, sir, for a man o’ God is no like common folk. Ye’ll get a mune to licht ye back.”
David rode out of the kirkton, and past the saughs and elders which marked the farm of Crossbasket, till the path dipped into the glen of the Woodilee burn and the trees began. Before he knew he was among them, old gnarled firs standing11 sparsely12 among bracken. They were thin along the roadside, but on the hill to his right and down in the burn’s hollow they made a cloud of darkness. The August night still had a faint reflected light, and the track, much ribbed by tree roots, showed white before him. The burn, small with the summer drought, made a far-away tinkling13, the sweet scents14 of pine and fern were about him, the dense15 boskage where it met the sky had in the dark a sharp marmoreal outline. The world was fragrant16 and quiet; if this be the Black Wood, thought David, I have been in less happy places.
But suddenly at a turn of the hill the trees closed in. It was almost as if he had stripped and dived into a stagnant17 pool. The road now seemed to have no purpose of its own, but ran on sufferance, slinking furtively19 as the Wood gave it leave, with many meaningless twists, as if unseen hands had warded20 it off. His horse, which had gone easily enough so far, now needed his heel in its side and many an application of his staff. It shied at nothing visible, jibbed, reared, breathing all the while as if its wind were touched. Something cold seemed to have descended21 on David’s spirits, which, as soon as he was aware of it, he tried to exorcise by whistling a bar or two, and then by speaking aloud. He recited a psalm22, but his voice, for usual notably23 full and mellow24, seemed not to carry a yard. It was forced back on him by the trees. He tried to shout, with no better effect. There came an echo which surprised him, till he perceived that it was an owl25. Others answered, and the place was filled with their eldritch cries. One flapped across the road not a yard from him, and in a second his beast was on its haunches.
He was now beyond the throat of the glen, and the Woodilee burn had left him, going its own way into the deeps of Fennan Moss26, where the wood was thin. The road plucked up courage, and for a little ran broad and straight through a covert27 of birches. Then the pines closed down again, this time with more insistence28, so that the path was a mere29 ladder among gnarled roots. Here there were moths30 about — a queer thing, David thought — white glimmering31 creatures that brushed his face and made his horse half crazy. He had ridden at a slow jog, but the beast’s neck and flanks were damp with sweat. Presently he had to dismount and lead it, testing every step with his foot, for there seemed to be ugly scaurs breaking away on his left. The owls32 kept up a continuous calling, and there was another bird with a note like a rusty33 saw. He tried to whistle, to shout, to laugh, but his voice seemed to come out of folds of cloth. He thought it was his plaid, but the plaid was about his chest and shoulders and far from his mouth. . . . And then, at one step the Wood ceased and he was among meadows.
He knew the place, for after the darkness of the trees the land, though the moon had not risen, seemed almost light. There in front was the vale down which Aller flowed, and on the right was his own familiar glen of Rood. Now he could laugh at his oppression — now that he was among the pleasant fields where he had played as a boy. . . . Why had he forgotten about the Black Wood, for it had no part in his memories? True, he had come always to Roodfoot by the other road behind the Hill of Deer, but there were the dark pines not a mile off — he must have adventured many times within their fringes. He thought that it was because a child is shielded by innocence34 from ugliness. . . . And yet, even then, he had had many nightmares and fled from many bogles. But not from the Wood. . . . No doubt it was the growing corruption36 of a man’s heart.
The mill at Roodfoot stood gaunt and tenantless37, passing swiftly into decay. He could see that the mill-wheel had gone, and its supports stood up like broken teeth; the lade was choked with rushes; the line of a hill showed through the broken rigging. He had known of this, but none the less the sight gave him a pang38, for David was a jealous conserver of his past.. .. But as the path turned up the glen beside the brawling39 Rood, he had a sudden uplifting of spirit. This could not change, this secret valley, whose every corner he had quartered, whose every nook was the home of a delightful40 memory. He felt again the old ardour, when, released from Edinburgh, he had first revisited his haunts, tearful with excited joy. The Wood was on him again, but a different wood, his own wood. The hazels snuggled close to the roadside, and the feathery birches and rowans made a canopy42, not a shadow. The oaks were ancient friends, the alders43 old playmates. His horse had recovered its sanity44, and David rode through the dew-drenched night in a happy rapture45 of remembrance.
He was riding up Rood — that had always been the thing he had hoped to do. He had never been even so far as Calidon before, for a boy’s day’s march is short. But he had promised himself that some day when he was a man he would have a horse, and ride to the utmost springs — to Roodhope-foot, to the crinkle in Moss Fell where Rood was born. . . . “Up the water” had always been like a spell in his ear. He remembered lying in bed at night and hearing a clamour at the mill door: it was men from up the water, drovers from Moffat, herds46 from the back of beyond, once a party of soldiers from the south. And up the water lay Calidon, that ancient castle. The Hawkshaws were a name in a dozen ballads48, and the tales of them in every old wife’s mouth. Once they had captained all the glens of Rood and Aller in raids to the Border, and when Musgrave and Salkeld had led a return foray, it was the Hawkshaws that smote49 them mightily50 in the passes. He had never seen one of the race; the men were always at the wars or at the King’s court; but they had filled his dreams. One fancy especially was of a little girl — a figure with gold hair like King Malcolm’s daughter in the “Red Etin of Ireland” tale — whom he rescued from some dire51 peril52, winning the thanks of her tall mail-clad kin18. In that dream he too had been mail-clad, and he laughed at the remembrance. It was a far cry from that to the sedate53 minister of Woodilee.
As he turned up the road to the Greenshiel he remembered with compunction his errand. He had been amusing himself with vain memories when he was on the way to comfort a bed of death. Both horse and rider were in a sober mood when they reached the sheiling, the horse from much stumbling in peat-bogs, and the man from reflections on his unworthiness.
Rushlights burned in the single room, and the door and the one window stood open. It was a miserable54 hut of unmortared stones from the hill, the gaps stuffed with earth and turf, and the roof of heather thatch55. One glance showed him that he was too late. A man sat on a stool by the dead peat-fire with his head in his hands. A woman was moving beside the box bed and unfolding a piece of coarse linen56. The shepherd of the Greenshiel might be an old exercised Christian, but there were things in that place which had no warrant from the Bible. A platter full of coarse salt lay at the foot of the bed, and at the top crossed twigs57 of ash.
The woman — she was a neighbouring shepherd’s wife — stilled her keening at the sound of David’s feet.
“It’s himsel’,” she cried. “Richie, it’s the minister. Wae’s me, sir, but ye’re ower late to speed puir Mirren. An hour syne58 she gaed to her reward — just slipped awa’ in a fit o’ hoastin’ [coughing]. I’ve strauchten’d the corp and am gettin’ the deid claes ready — Mirren was aye prood o’ hers, and keepit them fine and caller wi’ gall59 and rosmry. Come forrit, sir, and tak’ a look on her that’s gane. There was nae deid-thraws wi’ Mirren, and she’s lyin’ as peacefu’ as a bairn. Her face is sair faun in, but I mind when it was the bonniest face in a’ Rood water.”
The dead woman lay with cheeks like wax, a coin on each eye, so that for the moment her face had the look of a skull60. Disease had sculptured it to an extreme fineness, and the nose, the jaw61, and the lines of the forehead seemed chiselled62 out of ivory. David had rarely looked on death, and the sight gave him a sense first of repulsion and then of an intolerable pathos63. He scarcely heard the clatter64 of the shepherd’s wife.
“She’s been deein’ this mony a day, and now she’s gane joyfully65 to meet her Lord. Eh, but she was blithe66 to gang in the hinner end. There was a time when she was sweir to leave Richie. ‘Elspet,’ she says to me, ‘what will that puir man o’ mine dae his lee lane?’ and I aye says to her, ‘Mirren, my wumman, the Lord’s a grand provider, and Richie will haud fast by Him. Are not twa sparrows,’ I says —”
David went over to the husband on the creepie by the fireside, and laid his hand on his shoulder. The man sat hunched67 in a stupor68 of misery69.
“Richie,” he said, “if I’m too late to pray with Marion, I can pray with you.”
He prayed, as he always prayed, not in a mosaic70 of Scripture71 texts, but in simple words; and as he spoke6 he felt the man’s shoulder under his hand shake as with a sob2. He prayed with a sincere emotion, for he had been riding through a living, coloured world, and now felt like an icy blast the chill and pallor of death. Also he felt the pity of this lifelong companionship broken, and the old man left solitary72. When he had finished, Richie lifted his face from his hands, and into his eyes, which had been blank as a wall, came the wholesome73 dimness of tears.
“I’m no repinin’,” he said. “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away, and I bless His name. What saith the Apostle — Mirren has gane to be with Christ, whilk is far better. There was mony a time when the meal-ark was toom [empty], and the wind and weet cam’ in through the baulks, and the peats wadna kindle74, and we were baith hungry and cauld. But Mirren’s bye wi’ a’ that, for she’s bielded in the everlasting75 arms, and she’s suppin’ rich at the Lord’s ain table. But eh, sir, I could wish it had been His will to hae ta’en me wi’ her. I’m an auld man, and there’s nae weans [children], and for the rest o’ my days I’ll be like a beast in an unco loan [strange lane]. God send they binna mony.”
“The purposes of the Lord are true and altogether righteous. If He spares you, Richie, it’s because He has still work for you to do on this earth.”
“I kenna what it can be. My fit’s beginnin’ to lag on the hill, and ony way I’m guid for nocht but sheep. Lambin’s and clippin’s and spainin’s [weanings] is ower puir a wark for the Lord to fash wi’.”
“Whatever you put your hand to is the work of the Lord, if you keep His fear before you.”
“Maybe, sir.” The man rose from his stool and revealed a huge gaunt frame, much bowed at the shoulders. He peered in the rushlight at the minister’s face.
“Ye’re a young callant to be a minister. I was strong on your side, sir, when ye got the call, for your preachin’ was like a rushin’ michty wind. I mind I repeated the heids o’ your sermon to Mirren. . . . Ye’ve done me guid, sir — I think it’s maybe the young voice o’ ye. Ye wad get the word from Johnnie Dow. Man, it was kind to mak’ siccan haste. I wish — I wish ye had seen Mirren in life. . . . Pit up anither petition afore ye gang — for a blessin’ on this stricken house and on an auld man who has his title sure in Christ, but has an unco rebellious76 heart.”
It seemed to David as he turned from the door, where the shepherd stood with uplifted arm, that a benediction77 had been given, but not by him.
The moon had risen and the glen lay in a yellow light, with the high hills between Rood and Aller shrunk to mild ridges78. The stream caught the glow, and its shallows were like silver chased in amber79. The young man’s heart was full with the scene which he had left. Death was very near to men, jostling them at every corner, whispering in their ear at kirk and market, creeping between them and their firesides. Soon the shepherd of the Greenshiel would lie beside his wife; in a little, too, his own stout80 limbs would be a heap of dust. How small and frail81 seemed the life in that cottage, as contrasted with the rich pulsing world of the woods and hills and their serene82 continuance. But it was they that were the shadows in God’s sight. The immortal83 thing was the broken human heart that could say in its frailty84 that its Redeemer liveth. “Thou, Lord,” he repeated to himself, “in the beginning hast laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of Thy hands. They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure; they all shall wax old as doth a garment, and as a vesture shalt Thou change them, and they shall be changed: but Thou art the same, and Thy years shall not fail.”
But as the road twined among the birches David’s mood became insensibly more pagan. He could not resist the joy of the young life that ran in his members, and which seemed to be quickened by the glen of his childhood. Death was the portion of all, but youth was still far from death. . . . The dimness and delicacy85 of the landscape, the lines of hill melting into a haze41 under the moon, went to his head like wine. It was a world transfigured and spell~laden. On his left the dark blotch86 which was Melanudrigill lay like a spider over the hillsides and the mouths of the glens, but all in front and to his right was kindly87 and golden. He had come back to his own country, and it held out its arms to him. “Salve, O venusta Sirmio,” he cried, and an owl answered.
The glen road was reached, but he did not turn towards Roodfoot. He had now no dread88 of the wood of Melanudrigill, but he had a notion to stand beside Rood water, where it flowed in a ferny meadow which had been his favourite fishing-ground. So he pushed beyond the path into a maze89 of bracken and presently was at the stream’s edge.
And then, as he guided his horse past a thicket90 of alders, he came full upon a little party of riders who had halted there.
There were three of them — troopers, they seemed, with buff caps and doublets and heavy cavalry91 swords, and besides their own scraggy horses there was a led beast. The three men were consulting when David stumbled on them, and at the sight of him they had sprung apart and laid hands on their swords. But a second glance had reassured92 them.
“Good e’en to you, friend,” said he who appeared to be the leader. “You travel late.”
It was not an encounter which David would have sought, for wandering soldiery had a bad name in the land. Something of this may have been in the other’s mind, for his next words were an explanation.
“You see three old soldiers of Leven’s,” he said, “on the way north after the late crowning mercy vouchsafed93 to us against the malignants. We be Angus men, and have the general’s leave to visit our homes. If you belong hereaways you can maybe help us with the road. Ken you a place of the name of Calidon?”
To their eyes David must have seemed a young farmer or a bonnet~laird late on the road from some errand of roystering or sweethearting.
“I lived here as a boy,” he said, “and I’m but now returned. Yet I think I could put you on your way to Calidon. The moon’s high.”
“It’s a braw moon,” said the second trooper, “and it lighted us fine down Aller, but the brawest moon will not discover you a dwelling94 in a muckle wood, if you kenna the road to it.”
The three had moved out from the shade of the alders and were now clear under the sky. Troopers, common troopers and shabby at that, riding weary, ill-conditioned beasts. The nag95 which the third led was a mere rickle of bones. And yet to David’s eye there was that about them which belied96 their apparent rank. They had spoken in the country way, but their tones were not those of countrymen. They had not the air of a gaunt Jock or a round-faced Tam from the plough-tail. All three were slim, and the hands which grasped the bridles97 were notably fine. They held themselves straight like courtiers, and in their voices lurked99 a note as of men accustomed to command. The leader was a dark man, with a weary thin face and great circles round his eyes; the second a tall fellow, with a tanned skin, a cast in his left eye, and a restless dare-devil look; the third, who seemed to be their groom100, had so far not spoken, and had stood at the back with the led horse, but David had a glimpse above his ragged101 doublet of a neat small moustache and a delicate chin. “Leven has good blood in his ranks,” he thought, “for these three never came out of a but-and-ben.” Moreover, the ordinary trooper on his way home would not make Calidon a house of call.
He led them up to the glen road, intending to give them directions about their way, but there he found that his memory had betrayed him. He knew exactly in which nook of hill lay Calidon, but for the life of him he could not remember how the track ran to it.
“I’ll have to be your guide, sirs,” he told them. “I can take you to Calidon, but I cannot tell you how to get there.”
“We’re beholden to you, sir, but it’s a sore burden on your good~nature. Does your own road lie in that airt?”
The young man laughed. “The night is fine and I’m in no haste to be in bed. I’ll have you at Calidon door in half an hour.”
Presently he led them off the road across a patch of heather, forded Rood at a shallow, and entered a wood of birches. The going was bad, and the groom with the led horse had the worst of it. The troopers were humane102 men, for they seemed to have a curious care of their servant. It was “Canny now, James — there’s bog35 on the left,” or “Take tent of that howe;” and once or twice, when there was a difficult passage, one or the other would seize the bridle98 of the led horse till the groom had passed. David saw from the man’s face that he was grey with fatigue103.
“Get you on my beast,” he said, “and I’ll hold the bridle. I can find my way better on foot. And do you others each take a led horse. The road we’re travelling is none so wide, and we’ll make better speed that way.”
The troopers docilely104 did as they were bidden, and the weary groom was hoisted105 on David’s grey gelding. The change seemed to ease him, and he lost his air of heavy preoccupation and let his eyes wander. The birch wood gave place to a bare hillside, where even the grey slipped among the screes and the four horses behind sprawled106 and slithered. They crossed a burn, surmounted107 another ridge1, and entered a thick wood of oak, which David knew cloaked the environs of Calidon and which made dark travelling even in the strong moonlight. Great boulders108 were hidden in the moss, withered109 boughs110 hung low over the path, and now and then would come a patch of scrub so dense that it had to be laboriously111 circumvented112. The groom on the grey was murmuring to himself, and to David’s amazement113 it was Latin. “Ibant obscuri sola sub nocte per umbram,” were the words he spoke.
David capped them.
“Perque domos Ditis vacuas et inania regna,
Quale per incertam lunam . . . ”
The man on the horse laughed, and David, looking up, had his first proper sight of his face. It was a long face, very pale, unshaven and dirty, but it was no face of a groom. The thin aquiline114 nose, the broad finely arched brow, were in themselves impressive, but the dominant115 feature was the eyes. They seemed to be grey — ardent116, commanding, and yet brooding. David was so absorbed by this sudden vision that he tripped over a stone and almost pulled the horse down.
“I did not look,” said the rider, in a voice low-pitched and musical, “I did not look to find a scholar in these hills.”
“Nor did I know,” said David, “that Virgil was the common reading of Leven’s men.”
They had reached a field of wild pasture studded with little thorns, in the middle of which stood a great stone dovecot. A burn falling in a deep ravine made a moat on one side of the tower of Calidon, which now rose white like marble in the moon. They crossed the ravine, not without trouble, and joined the main road from the glen, which ended in a high-arched gate round which clustered half a dozen huts.
At the sound of their arrival men ran out of the huts, and one seized the bridle of the leader. David and the groom had now fallen back, and it was the dark man who did the talking. These were strange troopers, for they sat their horses like princes, so that the hand laid on the bridle was promptly117 dropped.
“We would speak with the laird of Calidon,” the dark man said. “Stay, carry this ring to him. He will know what it means.” It seemed curious to David that the signet given to the man was furnished by the groom.
In five minutes the servant returned. “The laird waits on ye, sirs. I’ll tak’ the beasts, and your mails, if ye’ve ony. Through the muckle yett an it please ye.”
David turned to go. “I’ve brought you to Calidon,” he said, “and now I’ll take my leave.”
“No, no,” cried the dark man. “You’ll come in and drink a cup after the noble convoy118 you’ve given us. Nicholas Hawkshaw will be blithe to welcome you.”
David would have refused, for the hour was already late and he was many miles from Woodilee, had not the groom laid his hand on his arm. “Come,” he said. “I would see my friend, the student of Virgil, in another light than the moon,” and to his amazement the young man found that it was a request which he could not deny. There was a compelling power in that quiet face, and he was strangely loth to part from it.
The four dismounted, the three troopers staggering with stiff bones. The dark man’s limp did not change after the first steps, and David saw that he was crippled in the left leg. They passed through the gate into a courtyard, beyond which rose the square massif of the tower. In the low doorway119 a candle wavered, under a stone which bore the hawk47 in lure120 which was the badge of the house.
The three men bowed low to the candle, and David saw that it was held by a young girl.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
ridge
|
|
| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
sob
|
|
| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
herd
|
|
| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
auld
|
|
| adj.老的，旧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
ken
|
|
| n.视野，知识领域 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
fend
|
|
| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
gasped
|
|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
eerie
|
|
| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
sparsely
|
|
| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
tinkling
|
|
| n.丁当作响声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
scents
|
|
| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
dense
|
|
| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
fragrant
|
|
| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
stagnant
|
|
| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
kin
|
|
| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
furtively
|
|
| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
warded
|
|
| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
psalm
|
|
| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
notably
|
|
| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
mellow
|
|
| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
owl
|
|
| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
moss
|
|
| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
covert
|
|
| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
insistence
|
|
| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
moths
|
|
| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
glimmering
|
|
| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
owls
|
|
| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
rusty
|
|
| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
innocence
|
|
| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
bog
|
|
| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
corruption
|
|
| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
tenantless
|
|
| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
38
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
brawling
|
|
| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
haze
|
|
| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
canopy
|
|
| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
alders
|
|
| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
44
sanity
|
|
| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
rapture
|
|
| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
herds
|
|
| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
hawk
|
|
| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
ballads
|
|
| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
smote
|
|
| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
mightily
|
|
| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
dire
|
|
| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
peril
|
|
| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
sedate
|
|
| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
thatch
|
|
| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
linen
|
|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
twigs
|
|
| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
syne
|
|
| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
gall
|
|
| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
skull
|
|
| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
jaw
|
|
| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
chiselled
|
|
| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
pathos
|
|
| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
clatter
|
|
| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
joyfully
|
|
| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
blithe
|
|
| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
hunched
|
|
| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
stupor
|
|
| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
mosaic
|
|
| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
scripture
|
|
| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
wholesome
|
|
| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
kindle
|
|
| v.点燃，着火 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
everlasting
|
|
| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
rebellious
|
|
| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
benediction
|
|
| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
ridges
|
|
| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
amber
|
|
| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
frail
|
|
| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
serene
|
|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
immortal
|
|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
frailty
|
|
| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
blotch
|
|
| n.大斑点；红斑点；v.使沾上污渍，弄脏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
maze
|
|
| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
thicket
|
|
| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
cavalry
|
|
| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
reassured
|
|
| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
vouchsafed
|
|
| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
dwelling
|
|
| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
nag
|
|
| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
belied
|
|
| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
bridles
|
|
| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
bridle
|
|
| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
lurked
|
|
| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
groom
|
|
| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
ragged
|
|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
humane
|
|
| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
docilely
|
|
| adv.容易教地，易驾驶地，驯服地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
hoisted
|
|
| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
sprawled
|
|
| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
surmounted
|
|
| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
boulders
|
|
| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
withered
|
|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
boughs
|
|
| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
laboriously
|
|
| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
circumvented
|
|
| v.设法克服或避免（某事物），回避( circumvent的过去式和过去分词 )；绕过，绕行，绕道旅行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
aquiline
|
|
| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
dominant
|
|
| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
promptly
|
|
| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
convoy
|
|
| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
doorway
|
|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
lure
|
|
| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |