“Johnnie Dow’s ben the house,” Isobel had said as he sat at meat. “He’s come down the water frae Calidon, and it seems there’s unco changes there. The laird is awa’ to the wars again. . . . Na, Johnnie didna ken2 what airt he had ridden. He gaed off ae mornin’ wi’ his man Tam Purves, baith o’ them on muckle horses, and that’s the last heard o’ them. It seems that the laird’s gude-sister, Mistress Saintserf frae Embro, cam’ oot a fortnight syne5 to tak’ chairge o’ Calidon and the young lassie — there’s a lassie bides6 there, ye maun ken, sir, though nane o’ the Woodilee folk ever cast een on her — and the puir body was like to be smoored [smothered] in the Carnwath Moss8. Johnnie says she’s an auld9 wumman, as straucht as a wand and wi’ an unco ill tongue in her heid. She fleyed Johnnie awa’ frae the door when he was for daffin’ wi’ the serving lasses.”
It was of Calidon that David thought as he took the hill. Nicholas Hawkshaw, lame11 as he was, had gone back to the wars. What wars? Remembering the talk of that autumn night he feared that it could not be a campaign of which a minister of the Kirk would approve. Was it possible that he had gone to join Montrose in his evil work? And the troopers and the groom12? Were they with Leven again under the Covenant’s banner, or were they perilling13 their souls with the malignants? The latter most likely, and to his surprise he felt no desire to reprobate15 them. Spring was loosening other bonds than those of winter.
It was a bright warm day, which might have been borrowed from June, and the bursting leaves were stirred by a wandering west wind. David sat for a little on the crest16 of the hill, gazing at the high summits, which, in the April light, were clear in every nook and yet infinitely17 distant. The great Herstane Craig had old snowdrifts still in its ravines, and he had the fancy that it was really built of marble which shone in places through the brown husk. The Green Dod did not now belie18 its name; above the screes and heather of its flanks rose a cone19 of dazzling greenness. The upper Aller glen was filled with pure sunshine, the very quintessence of light, and the sword-cut of the Rood was for once free from gloom. There was no gold in the landscape, for the shallows, even when they caught the sun, were silver, the bent20 was flushing into the palest green, the skies above were an infinity21 of colourless light. And yet the riot of spring was there. David felt it in his bones and in his heart.
The herd22 of Reiverslaw was busy with his late lambs. The man, Prentice by name, was a sour fellow whom an accident in childhood had deprived of a leg. In spite of his misfortune he could move about on a single crutch23 at a good pace, and had a voice and a tongue which the parish feared. He was a noted24 professor, with an uncanny gift of prayer, and his by-names in Woodilee were “Hirplin’ Rab” and the “One Leggit Prophet.” But to-day even Prentice seemed mellowed25 by the spring. He gave David a friendly good-day. “The voice o’ the turtle is heard on the yirth,” he announced, and as he hobbled over a patch of old moorburn, sending up clouds of grey dust, Prentice too became a figure of pastoral.
David had rarely felt a more benignant mood. The grimness of winter had gone clean out of his mind, and he had entered on a large and gracious world. He walked slowly like an epicure26, drinking in the quintessential air of the hills, marking the strong blue swirl27 of the burns, the fresh green of the mosses28, the buds on the hawthorns29, the flash of the water-ouzels in the spray of the little falls. Curlews and peewits filled the moor7 with their crying, and as he began to descend30 into the Rood glen a lark31 — the first he had heard — rose to heaven with a flood of song.
His eyes had been so engaged with the foreground that he had not looked towards Melanudrigill. Now he saw it, dark and massy, the only opaque32 thing in a translucent33 world. But there was nothing oppressive in its shadows, for oppression could not exist in a scene so full of air and light and song. For a moment he had a mind to go boldly into its coverts35 by way of Reiverslaw and make for the lower course of the Woodilee burn. But the sight of the wild wood in the Rood glen detained him. It was a day not for the pines, but for the hazels and birches, where in open glades36 a man would have always a view of the hills and the sky. So he slanted38 to his right through the open coppice, meaning to reach the valley floor near the foot of the path which led to the Greenshiel.
The coppice was thicker than he had imagined. This was no hillside scrub, but a forest, a greenwood, with its own glades and hollows, its own miniature glens and streams. He was in the midst of small birds who made a cheerful twittering from the greening boughs39, cushats too were busy, and the thickets40 were full of friendly beasts. He saw the russet back of a deer as it broke cover, and the tawny41 streak42 of a hill-fox, and there was a perpetual scurrying43 of rabbits. Above all there was a glory of primroses44. The pale blossoms starred the glades and the sides of the dells, clung to tree-roots, and climbed into crannies of the grey whinstone rock. So thick they were, that their paleness became golden, the first strong colour he had seen that day. David was young and his heart was light, so he gathered a great clump45 of blooms for his manse table, and set a bouquet46 in his coat and another in his bonnet47. These latter would have to go before he reached the highway, or the parish would think that its minister had gone daft. But here in the secret greenwood he could forget decorum and bedeck himself like a child.
Presently he had forgotten the route he had planned. He found himself in a shallow glade37 which ran to the left and away from the Greenshiel, and down which leaped a burn so entrancing in its madcap grace that he could not choose but follow it. Memory returned to him; this must be the burn which descended48 near the mill at Roodfoot; he knew well its lower course, for he had often guddled trout49 in its pools, but he had never explored its upper waters. Now he felt the excitement of a discoverer. . . . The ravine narrowed to a cleft50 where the stream fell in a white spout51 into a cauldron. David made the passage by slithering down the adjacent rocks and emerged wet to the knees. He was as amused as a boy playing truant52 from school, and when he found a water-ouzel’s nest in the notch53 of a tree-root he felt that he had profit of his truancy54. There came a more level stretch, which was a glory of primroses and wood-anemones55, then another linn, and then a cup of turf rimmed56 with hazels, where the water twined in placid57 shallows. . . . He looked up and saw on the opposite bank a regiment58 of dark pines.
He had come to the edge of Melanudrigill. The trees rose like a cloud above him, and after the open coppice of birch and hazel he seemed to be looking into deep water where things were seen darkly as through a dull glass. There were glades which ran into shadows, and fantastic rocks, and mounds59 of dead bracken which looked like tombs. Yet the place fascinated him. It, too, was under the spell of Spring, and he wondered how Spring walked in its recesses60. He leapt the stream and scrambled61 up the bank with an odd feeling of expectation. He was called to adventure on this day of days.
The place was not dark, but dim and very green. The ancient pines grew more sparsely62 than he had imagined, and beneath them were masses of sprouting63 ferns — primroses too, and violets, which he had not found among the hazels. A scent64 of rooty dampness was about, of fresh-turned earth, and welling fountains. In every tree-root wood-sorrel clustered. But there were no small birds, only large things like cushats and hawks10, which made a movement in the high branches. A little farther and he was in a glade, far more of a glade than the clearings in the hazels, for it was sharply defined by the walls of shade.
He stood and gazed, stuck silent by its beauty. Here in truth was a dancing-floor for wood nymphs, a playground for the Good Folk. It seemed strange that the place should be untenanted. . . . There was a rustling65 in the covert34, and his heart beat. He was no longer the adventurous66 boy, but a young man with a fancy fed by knowledge. He felt that the glade was aware and not empty. Light feet had lately brushed its sward. . . . There was a rustling again, and a gleam of colour. He stood poised67 like a runner, his blood throbbing68 in a sudden rapture69.
There was the gleam again and the rustle70. He thought that at the far end of the glade behind the red bracken he saw a figure. In two steps he was certain. A green gown fluttered, and at his third step broke cover. He saw the form of a girl — nymph, fairy, or mortal, he knew not which. He was no more the minister of Woodilee, but eternal wandering youth, and he gave chase.
The green gown wavered for a moment between two gnarled pines and then was lost in the dead fern. He saw it again in the cleft of a tiny rivulet71 which came down from a pile of rocks, but he missed it as he scrambled up the steep. It seemed that the gown played tricks with him and led him on, for, as he checked at fault, he had a glimpse of it lower down, where an aisle72 in the trees gave a view of the bald top of a mountain. David was young and active, but the gown was swifter than he, for as he went down the slope in great leaps it vanished into the dusk of the pines. He had it again, lost it, found it suddenly high above him — always a glimmer73 of green with but a hint of a girl’s form behind it. . . . David became wary74. Nymph or human, it should not beat him at this sport of hide-and-seek. There was a line of low cliffs above, up which it could not go unless it took wings. David kept the lower ground, determined75 that he would drive that which he followed towards the cliff line. He succeeded, for after twice trying to break away, the gown fluttered into a tiny ravine, with thick scrub on both sides and the rock wall at the top. As David panted upward he saw in a mossy place below the crags a breathless girl trying to master her tumbling tresses.
He stopped short in a deep embarrassment76. He had been pursuing a fairy, and had found a mortal — a mortal who looked down on him with a flushed face and angry eyes. He was furiously hot, and the pace and his amazement77 bereft78 him of speech. It was she who spoke79 first.
“What does the minister of Woodilee in the Wood — and bedecked with primroses?”
The voice was familiar, and as he brushed the sweat from his eyes the face too awoke recollection. She was far cooler than he, but her cheeks were flushed, and he had seen before those dark mirthful eyes. Mirthful they were, for her anger seemed to have gone, and she was looking down on him with a shy amusement. She had recognized him too, and had spoken his name. . . . He had it. It was the girl who had curtsied to Nicholas Hawkshaw’s guests in the candle-light at Calidon. His abashment80 was increased.
“Madam,” he stammered81, “Madam, I thought you were a fairy.”
She laughed out loud with the abandonment of childhood. “A fairy! And, pray, sir, is it part of the duties of a gospel minister to pursue fairies in the woods?”
“I am shamed,” he cried. “You do well to upbraid82 me. But on this spring day I had forgot my sacred calling and dreamed I was a boy once more.”
“I do not upbraid you. Indeed I am glad that a minister can still be a boy. But folks do not come here, and I thought the wood my own, so when I saw you stumbling among the fern I had a notion to play a trick on you, and frighten you, as I have frightened intruders before. I thought you would run away. But you were too bold for me, and now you have discovered my secret. This wood is my playground, where I can pick flowers and sing ballads83 and be happy with birds and beasts. . . . You were a man before you were a minister. What is your name?”
“They call me David Sempill. I lived as a child at the Mill of the Roodfoot.”
“Then you have seisin of this land. You too have played in the Wood?”
“Nay, madam, the Wood is strange to me. I have but ridden through it, and till to-day I have had some dread84 of it. This Melanudrigill is ill reputed.”
“Old wives’ havers! It is a blessed and innocent place. But I do not like that name — Melanudrigill. There is dark magic there. Call it the Wood, and you will love it as I do. . . . See, I am coming down. Make room, please, and then I will take you to Paradise. You do not know Paradise? It is the shrine85 of this grove86, and none but me can find the road.”
This was not the stately lady in the gown of yellow satin and blue velvet87 who had abashed88 him that night in Calidon tower. It was a slim laughing girl in green who presently stood beside him, her feet in stout89 country shoes, her hair bound only by a silk fillet and still unruly from the chase. He suddenly lost his embarrassment. His reason told him that this was Katrine Yester of Calidon, a daughter of a proud and contumacious90 house that was looked askance at by the godly, a woman, a beauty — commodities of which he knew nothing. But his reason was blinded, and he saw only a girl on a spring holiday.
She led him down the hill, and as she went she chattered91 gaily92, like a solitary93 child who has found a comrade.
“I saw you before you saw me, and I hoped you would follow when I ran away. I liked you that night at Calidon. They told me that ministers were all sour-faced and old, but you looked kind. And you are merry, too, I think — not sad, like most people in Scotland.”
“You have not been long in this land?” he asked.
“Since June of last year. This is my first Scottish spring, and it is different from France and England. In those lands summer comes with a rush on winter’s heels, but here there is a long preparation, and flowers steal very softly back to the world. I have lived mostly in France since my father died.”
“That is why your speech is so strange to my ears.”
“And yours to mine,” she retorted. “But Aunt Grizel is teaching me to be a good Scotswoman. I am made to spin till my arms are weary, and to make horrid94 brews95 of herbs, and to cook your strange dishes. ‘Kaatrine, ye daft quean, what for maun ye fill the hoose wi’ floorish and nesty green busses? D’ye think we’re nowt and the auld tower o’ Calidon a byre?’ That is Aunt Grizel. But she is like a good dog and barks but does not bite, though the serving~maids walk in terror. I play with her at the cartes, and she tells me tales, but not such good ones as Uncle Nick’s. Heigho! I wish the wars were over and he were home again. . . . Now, sir, what do you think of this? It is the gate of Paradise.”
She had led him into a part of the wood where the pines ceased and a green cleft was lined with bursting hazels and rowans and the tassels96 of birch. The place was rather hill than woodland, for the turf was as fine as on a mountain-side, and in the centre a bubbling spring sent out a rivulet, which twined among the flowers till it dropped in a long cascade97 to a lower shelf. Primroses, violets, and anemones made it as bright as a garden.
“I call this Paradise,” she said, “because it is hard for mortals to find. You would not guess it was here till you stumbled on it.”
“It’s away from the pines,” he said.
She nodded her head. “I love the dark trees well enough, and on a day like this I am happy among them. But they are moody98 things, and when there is no sun and the wind blows they make me sad. Here I am gay in any weather, for it is a kindly99 place. Confess, sir, that I have chosen well.”
“You have chosen well. It is what the poet wrote of — Deus nobis h?c otia fecit.”
“La, la! That is Latin, and I am not learned. But I can quote my own poets.” And in a voice like a bird’s she trilled a stanza100 of which David comprehended no more than that it was a song of Spring, and that it was Flora101 the goddess herself who sang it.
“O fontaine Bellerie,
Belle102 fontaine chérie
De nos Nymphes, quand ton eau
Les cache au creux de ta source,
Fuyantes le Satyreau
Qui les pourchasse à la course
Jusqu’au bord de ton ruisseau,
Tu es la Nymphe éternelle
De ma terre paternelle —”
Some strange and cataclysmic transformation103 was going on in David’s mind. He realized that a film had cleared from his sight, and that he was looking with new eyes. This dancing creature had unlocked a door for him — whether for good or ill he knew not, and did not care. He wanted the world to stand still and the scene to remain fixed104 for ever — the spring glade and the dark-haired girl singing among the primroses. He had the courage now to call her by her name.
“You have a voice like a linnet, Mistress Katrine. Can you sing none of our country songs?”
“I am learning them from the serving-maids. I know ‘The Ewebuchts’ and ‘The Yellow-hair’d Laddie’ and — ah, this is the one for Paradise,” and she sang:
“The King’s young dochter was sitting in her window,
Sewing at her silken seam;
She lookt out o’ a bow-window,
And she saw the leaves growing green,
My luve;
And she saw the leaves growing green.”
“But Jean, the goose-girl who taught it me, remembered just the one verse. I wish I was a poet to make others.”
Above the well was one of those circles of green mounds which country people call fairy-rings. The girl seated herself in the centre and began to make posies of the flowers she had picked. David lay on the turf at her feet, watching the quick movement of her hands, his garlanded hat removed and the temperate105 sun warming his body. Never had he felt so bathed in happy peace.
The pixie seated above him spared time from her flowers to glance down at him, and found him regarding her with abstracted eyes. For he was trying to fit this bright creature into his scheme of things. Did the world of the two of them touch nowhere save in this woodland?
“Your uncle is the chief heritor in Woodilee parish,” he said, “but you do not come to the kirk.”
“I was there no longer back than last Sunday —” she said.
“Sabbath,” he corrected.
“Sabbath, if you will have it so. Calidon is in Cauldshaw parish, and it was to Cauldshaw kirk we went. Four weary miles of jogging on a plough-horse, I riding pillion to Aunt Grizel. Before that the drifts were too deep to take the road. . . . I have heard many a sermon from Mr. Fordyce.”
“He is a good man.”
“He is a dull man. Such a preachment on dismal106 texts. ‘Seventhly, my brethren, and in parenthesis107 —’” she mimicked108. “But he is beyond doubt good, and Aunt Grizel says she has benefited from his words, and would fain repay him by healing his disorders109. He has many bodily disorders, the poor man, and Aunt Grizel loves sermons much, but her simples more.”
“You do not love sermons?”
She made a mouth.
“I do not think I follow them. You are learned theologians, you of Scotland, and I am still at the horn-book. But some day I will come to hear you, for YOUR sermons I think I might understand.”
“I could not preach to you,” he said.
“And wherefore, sir? Are your discourses110 only for wrinkled carls and old rudas wives? Is there no place in your kirk for a girl?”
“You are not of our people. The seed can be sown only in a field prepared.”
“But that is heresy111. Are not all souls alike?”
“True. But the voice of the preacher is heard only by open ears. I think you are too happy in your youth, mistress, for my solemnities.”
“You do me injustice,” she said, and her face was grave. “I am young, and I think I have a cheerful heart, for I can exult112 in a spring morning, and I cannot be very long sad. But I have had sorrows — a father slain113 in the wars, a mother dead of grieving, a bundling about among kinsfolk who were not all gracious. I have often had sore need of comfort, sir.”
“You have found it — where?”
“In the resolve never to be a faintheart. That is my creed114, though I fail often in the practice.”
To an ear accustomed to a formal piety115 the confession116 seemed almost a blasphemy117. He shook a disapproving118 head.
“That is but a cold pagan philosophy,” he said.
“Yet I learned it from a sermon, and that little more than a year back.”
“Where was it preached?”
“In England, and in no kirk, but at the King’s Court.”
“Was it by Mr. Henderson?”
“It was by a Presbyterian — but he was no minister. Listen, and I will tell you the story. In March of last year I was taken to Oxford119 by my lady Grevel, and was presented by her to the Queen, and her Majesty120 deigned121 to approve of me, so that I became a maid~of-honour, and was lodged122 beside her in Merton College. There all day long was a coming and going of great men. There I saw”— she counted on her fingers —“his grace of Hamilton — him I did not like — and my lord of Nithsdale, and my lord of Aboyne, and my lord Ogilvy, and that very grave person Sir Edward Hyde, and my lord Digby, and the wise Mr. Endymion Porter. And all day long there were distracted counsels, and the King’s servants plotting in side~chambers, and treason whispered, and nowhere a clear vision or a brave heart. Then there came among us a young man, who spoke simply. ‘If the King’s cause go down in England,’ he said, ‘it may be saved in Scotland.’ When they asked him what he proposed, he said —‘To raise the North for his Majesty.’ When they asked him by what means, he said —‘By my own resolution.’ All doubted and many laughed, but that young man was not discouraged. ‘The arm of the Lord is not shortened,’ he said, ‘and they who trust in Him will not be dismayed. . . . ’ That was the sermon he preached, and there was silence among the doubters. Then said Mr. Porter: ‘There is a certain faith that moves mountains, and a certain spirit which may win against all odds123. My voice is for the venture!’ . . . And then the Queen, my mistress, kissed the young man, and the King made him his lieutenant-general. . . . I watched him ride out of the city two days later, attended by but one servant, on his mission to conquer Scotland, and I flung him a nosegay of early primroses. He caught it and set it in his breast, and he waved his hand to me as he passed through the north gate.”
“Who was this hero?” David asked eagerly, for the tale had fired him.
The girl’s face was flushed and her eyes glistened124.
“That was a year ago,” she went on. “To-day he has done his purpose. He has won Scotland for the King.”
David gasped125.
“Montrose the malignant14!” he cried.
“He is as good a Presbyterian as you, sir,” she replied gently. “Do not call him malignant. He made his way north through his enemies as if God had sent His angel to guide him. And he is born to lead men to triumph. Did you not feel the compulsion of his greatness?”
“I?” David stammered.
“They told me that you had spoken with him, and that he liked you well. Yon groom at Calidon was the Lord Marquis.”
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收听单词发音
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1
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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5
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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6
bides
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| v.等待，停留( bide的第三人称单数 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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perilling
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| 置…于危险中（peril的现在分词形式） | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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15
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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16
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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17
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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hawthorns
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| n.山楂树( hawthorn的名词复数 ) | |
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30
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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32
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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34
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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35
coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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36
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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37
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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38
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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39
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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40
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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41
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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42
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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43
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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44
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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45
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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46
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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47
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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48
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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49
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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50
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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51
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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52
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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53
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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54
truancy
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| n.逃学，旷课 | |
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55
anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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56
rimmed
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| adj.有边缘的，有框的v.沿…边缘滚动；给…镶边 | |
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57
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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58
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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59
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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60
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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61
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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62
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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63
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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64
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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65
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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66
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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67
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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68
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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69
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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70
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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71
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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72
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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73
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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74
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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75
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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76
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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77
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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78
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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79
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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80
abashment
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| n.羞愧，害臊 | |
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81
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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83
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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84
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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85
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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86
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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87
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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88
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
contumacious
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| adj.拒不服从的，违抗的 | |
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91
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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92
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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93
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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94
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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95
brews
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| n.（尤指某地酿造的）啤酒( brew的名词复数 )；酿造物的种类；（茶）一次的冲泡量；（不同思想、环境、事件的）交融v.调制( brew的第三人称单数 )；酝酿；沏（茶）；煮（咖啡） | |
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96
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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97
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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98
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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99
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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100
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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101
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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102
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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103
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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104
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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105
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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106
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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107
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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108
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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109
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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110
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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111
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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112
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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113
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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114
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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115
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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116
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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117
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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118
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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119
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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120
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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121
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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123
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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124
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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