People in Woodilee talked much of the Work in Bold, and the Session sighed for a like experience. “Would but the wind blow frae that airt on our frostit lands!” was the aspiration13 of Peter Pennecuik. But David had no ears for these things, for he was engrossed15 with the conflict in his own soul.
Ever since that afternoon in Paradise he had walked like a man half asleep, his eyes turning inward. His first exhilaration had been succeeded by a black darkness of doubt. He had adventured into the Wood and found magic there, and the spell was tugging16 at his heartstrings. . . . Was the thing of Heaven or of Hell? . . . Sometimes, when he remembered the girl’s innocence17 and ardour, he thought of her as an angel. Surely no sin could dwell in so bright a presence. . . . But he remembered, too, how lightly she had held the things of the Kirk, how indeed she was vowed18 to the world against which the Kirk made war. Was she not a daughter of Heth, a fair Moabitish woman, with no part in the commonwealth19 of Israel? Her beauty was of the flesh, her graces were not those of the redeemed20. And always came the conviction that nevertheless she had stolen his heart. “Will I too be unregenerate?” he asked himself with terror.
The more he looked into his soul the more he was perplexed21. He thought of the groom22 at Calidon, to whom had gone out from him a spark of such affection as no other had inspired. That face was little out of his memory, and he longed to look on it again as a lover longs for his mistress. . . . But the man was Montrose the recreant23, who was even now troubling God’s people, and who had been solemnly excommunicated by the very Kirk he was vowed to serve. . . . And yet, recreant or no, the man believed in God and had covenanted24 himself with the Almighty25. . . . What were God’s purposes, and who were God’s people? Where in all the round earth should he find a solution of his doubts?
The study, now warm in the pleasant spring gloamings, saw no longer the preparation of the great work on Isaiah. It had become a closet for prayer. David cast his perplexities on the Lord, and waited feverishly27 for a sign. But no sign came. A horde28 of texts about Canaanitish garments and idol29 worship crowded into his mind, but he refused their application. A young man’s face, a girl’s eyes and voice, made folly30 of such easy formulas. . . . Yet there were moments when in sheer torment31 of soul David was minded to embrace them — to renounce32 what had charmed him as the Devil’s temptation, and steel his heart against its glamour33.
One day he rode over to Cauldshaw to see Mr. Fordyce. He was in the mood for confession35, but he found little encouragement. Mr. James was sick of a spring fever, and though he was on his feet he had been better in bed, for his teeth chattered36 and his hand trembled.
They spoke of the household at Calidon. “Mistress Saintserf has beyond doubt her interest in Christ,” said the minister of Cauldshaw. “When I have gone to Calidon for the catechizing I have found her quick to apprehend37 the doctrines38 of the faith, and her life is in all respects an ensample, save that she is something of a libertine39 with her tongue. But the lassie — she’s but a young thing, and has sojourned long in popish and prelatical lands. Yet I detect glimmerings of grace, Mr. David, and she has a heart that may well be attuned41 to God’s work. My wife pines for the sight of her like a sick man for the morning. Maybe I fail in my duty towards her, for she is lamentably42 ignorant, but I cannot find it in me to be harsh to so gracious a bairn.”
David returned with his purpose unfulfilled, but a certain comfort in his soul. He would rather have Mr. Fordyce’s judgment43 than that of the Boanerges of Bold or the sleek44 minister of Kirk Aller. His doubts were not resolved, but the very uncertainty45 gave him ease. He was not yet called to renunciation, and having reached this conclusion, he could let the memory of Paradise sweep back into his mind in a delightful46 flood.
Yet youth cannot be happy in indecision. David longed for some duty which would absorb the strong life that was in him. Why, oh why was he not a soldier? He turned to his parish, and tried to engross14 himself in its cares. It may have been that his perception was sharpened by his own mental conflicts, but he seemed to detect a strangeness in Woodilee.
It had been a fine spring, with a dry seed-bed, and the sowing of crops and the lambing had passed off well. The lean cattle had staggered out of byres and closes to the young grass, and their ribs47 were now covered again. Up on the hills lambs no longer tottered48 on weak legs. There was more food in the place, for there had been feasts of braxy mutton, and the hens were laying again, and there was milk in the cogies. The faces of the people had lost their winter strain; the girls had washed theirs, and fresh cheeks and bright eyes were to be seen on the roads. Woodilee had revived with the spring, but David as he went among the folk saw more than an increase in bodily well-being49. . . . There was a queer undercurrent of excitement — or was it expectation? — and the thing was secret.
Every one did not share this. There seemed to be an inner circle in the parish which was linked together by some private bond. He began to guess at its membership by the eyes. Some looked him frankly50 in the face, and these were not always the best reputed. Amos Ritchie, the blacksmith, for instance — he was a profane51 swearer, and was sometimes overtaken in drink — and the farmer of Reiverslaw had, in addition to the latter failing, a violent temper, which made him feared and hated. Yet these two faced him like free men. But there were others, whose speech was often the most devout52, who seemed to have shutters53 drawn54 over their eyes and to move stealthily on tiptoe.
Woodilee was amazingly well-conducted, and the Poor Box received the scantiest55 revenue in penalties. Apart from the lawless births in the winter, there were few apparent backslidings. David rarely met young lads and lasses at their hoydenish57 courtings in the gloamings. Oaths were never heard, and if there was drunkenness it was done in secret. Not often was a Sabbath-breaker before the Session, and there were no fines for slack attendance at the kirk. But as David watched the people thronging59 to service on the Sabbath, the girls in their clean linen60, walking barefoot and only putting on shoes at the kirkyard gate, the men in decent homespun and broad bonnets61, the old wives in their white mutches — as he looked down from the pulpit on the shoulders bent62 with toil63, the heavy features hardened to a stiff decorum, the eyes fixed64 dully on his face — he had the sense that he was looking on masks. The real life of Woodilee was shut to him. “Ye are my people,” he told himself bitterly, “and I know ye not.”
This was not true of all. He knew the children, and there were certain of the older men and women in the parish who had given him their friendship. Peter Pennecuik, his principal elder and session-clerk, he felt that he knew to the bottom — what little there was to know, for the man was a sanctimonious65 egotist. With Amos Ritchie and Reiverslaw, too, he could stand as man with man. . . . But with many of the others he fenced as with aliens; the farmers, for example, Chasehope and Mirehope and Nether66 Fennan, and Spotswood the miller67, and various elderly herds68 and hinds69, and the wives of them. Above all, he was no nearer the youth of the parish than when first he came. The slouching hobbledehoy lads, the girls, some comely70 and high-coloured, some waxen white — they were civil and decent, but impenetrable. There were moments when he found himself looking of a Sabbath at his sober respectable folk as a hostile body, who watched him furtively71 lest he should learn too much of them. . . . Woodilee had an ill name in the shire, Mr. Fordyce had told him the first day in the manse. For what? What was the life from which he was so resolutely72 barred — he, their minister, who should know every secret of their souls? What was behind those shuttered eyes? Was it fear? He thought that there might be fear in it, but that more than fear it was a wild and sinister73 expectation.
On the last day of April he noted74 that Isobel was ill at ease. “Ye’ll be for a daunder, sir,” she said after the midday meal. “See and be hame in gude time for your supper — I’ve a rale guid yowe-milk kebbuck [cheese] for ye, and a new bakin’ o’ cakes — and I’ll hae the can’les lichtit in your chamber75 for you to get to your books.”
He smiled at his housekeeper76. “Why this carefulness?” he said.
She laughed uneasily. “Naething by ordinar. But this is the day they ca’ the Rood–Mass and the morn is the Beltane, and it behoves a’ decent bodies to be indoors at the darkenin’ on Beltane’s Eve. My faither was a bauld man, but he wadna have stirred a fit over his ain doorstep on the night o’ Rood–Mass for a king’s ransom77. There’s anither Beltane on the aucht day of May, and till that’s by we maun walk eidently.”
“Old wives’ tales,” he said.
“But they’re nane auld34 wives’ tales. They’re the tales o’ wise men and bauld men.”
“I thought of walking in the Wood.”
“Mercy on us!” she cried. “Ye’ll no gang near the Wud. No on this day o’ a’ days. It’s fou’ o’ bogles.”
Her insistence78 vexed79 him, and he spoke to her sharply. The heavy preoccupation of his mind had put him out of patience with folly. “Woman,” he cried, “what concern has a servant of God with these heathen fables80? Think shame to repeat such folly.”
But Isobel was not convinced. She retired81 in dudgeon to her kitchen, and watched his movements till he left the house as a mother watches a defiant82 child. “Ye’ll be hame in guid time?” she begged.
“I will be home when I choose,” he said, and to show his independence he put some cheese and bannocks in his pockets.
The afternoon was warm and bright, with a thin haze83 on the highest hills. Spring had now fairly come; the yews84 in the kirkyard were russet with young shoots, the blossom was breaking on the hawthorn85, and hazel and oak and ash were in leaf. His spirit was too laden86 to be sensible of the sweet influences of sky and moorland as on the walk which had first taken him to Paradise. But there was in him what had been lacking before — excitement, for he had tasted of magic and was in the constant expectation of finding it again. The land was not as it had once been, for it held somewhere enchantments87 — a girl’s face and a girl’s voice. From the summit of the Hill of Deer he looked towards Calidon hidden in the fold of the Rood hills. Was she there in the stone tower, or among the meadows whose green showed in the turn of the glen? Or was she in her old playground of the Wood?
He had resolved not to go near the place, so he set himself to walk in the opposite direction along the ridge88 of hill which made the northern wall of the Rood valley. As he strode over the short turf and scrambled89 through the patches of peat-bog his spirits rose. It was hard not to be light-hearted in that world of essential airs and fresh odours and nesting birds. Presently he was in view of Calidon tower, and then he was past it, and the Rood below him was creeping nearer to his level as its glen lifted towards its source. He strode along till he felt the sedentary humours leave his body and his limbs acquire the lightness which is the reward of the hill walker. He seemed, too, to gain a lightness of soul and a clearness of eye. In a world which God had made so fair and clean, there could be no sin in anything that was also fair and innocent.
The sun had set beyond Herstane Craig before he turned his steps. Now from the hilltops he had Melanudrigill before him, a distant shadow in the trough of the valley. Since that afternoon in Paradise awe90 of the Wood had left him. He had been among its pines and had found Katrine there. He watched the cloud of trees, growing nearer at each step, as earlier that day he had watched the environs of Calidon. It was her haunt; haply she might now be there, singing in the scented91 twilight92?
When he stood above Reiverslaw the dusk was purple about him, and the moon, almost at her full, was climbing the sky. He longed to see how Paradise looked in this elfin light, for he had a premonition that the girl might have lingered there late and that he would meet her. There was no duty to take him home — nothing but Isobel’s silly fables. But in deference93 to Isobel he took the omens94. He sent his staff twirling into the air. If it fell with the crook95 towards him, he would go home. The thing lighted in a heather bush with the crook at the far end. So he plunged96 downhill among the hazels, making for the glade97 which slanted99 eastward100 towards the deserted101 mill.
He found it, and it was very dark in that narrow place. There was no light to see the flowers by, and there was no colour in it, only a dim purple gloom and the white of the falling stream, for the moon was still too low in the heavens to reach it.
In time he came to the high bank where the pines began. He was looking for Paradise, but he could not find it. It was not among the pines, he remembered, but among the oaks and hazels, but he had gone to it through the pines, led by a flitting girl. . . . He found the point where he had entered the darker Wood, and resolved to try to retrace102 his former tracks.
The place was less murky103 than he had expected, for the moon was now well up the sky, so that every glade was a patch of white light. . . . This surely was the open space where he had first caught the glimmer40 of a green gown. . . . There were the rocks where she had stood at bay. . . . She had led him down the hill and then at a slant98 — but was it to right or left? Right, he thought, and plunged through a wilderness of fern. There had been briars, too, and this was surely the place where a vast uprooted104 trunk had forced them to make a detour105.
Then he found a little stream which he fancied might be the outflow of the Paradise well. So he turned up hill again, and came into a jungle of scrub and boulder106. There was in most places a dim light to move by, but a dim light in a broken wood is apt to confuse the mind. David had soon lost all sense of direction, save that of the upward and downward slopes. He did not know east or west, and he did not stop to think, for he was beginning to be mesmerized107 by the hour and the scene. Dew was in the air and an overpowering sweetness of fern and pine and mosses108, and through the aisles110 of the high trees came a shimmer111 of palest gold, and in the open spaces the moon rode in the dusky blue heavens — not the mild moon of April, but a fiery112 conquering goddess, driving her chariot among trampled113 stars.
It was clear to him that he would not find Paradise except by happy chance, since he was utterly114 out of his bearings. But he was content to be lost, for the whole place was Paradise. Never before had he felt so strong a natural magic. This woodland, which he had once shunned115, had become a holy place, lit with heavenly lights and hallowed by some primordial116 peace. He had forgotten about the girl, forgotten his scruples117. In that hour he had acquired a mood at once serene118 and gay: he had the light-heartedness of a boy and the ease of a wise philosopher; his body seemed as light as air, and, though he had already walked some twenty miles, he felt as if he had just risen from his bed. But there was no exuberance119 in him, and he had not the impulse to sing which usually attended his seasons of high spirits. . . . The silence struck upon him as something at once miraculous120 and just. There was not a sound in the Wood — not the lightest whisper of wind, though there had been a breeze on the hilltops at sundown — not the cry of a single bird — not a rustle121 in the undergrowth. The place was dumb — not dead, but sleeping.
Suddenly he came into a broad glade over which the moonshine flowed like a tide. It was all of soft mossy green, without pebble122 or bush to break its carpet, and in the centre stood a thing like an altar.
At first he thought it was only a boulder dropped from the hill. But as he neared it he saw that it was human handiwork. Masons centuries ago had wrought123 on it, for it was roughly squared, and firmly founded on a pediment. Weather had battered124 it, and one corner of the top had been broken by some old storm, but it still stood foursquare to the seasons. One side was very clear in the moon, and on it David thought he could detect a half-obliterated legend. He knelt down, and though the lower part was obscured beyond hope, the upper letters stood out plain. I. O. M. — he read: “Jovi Optimo Maximo.” This uncouth125 thing had once been an altar.
He tiptoed away from it with a sudden sense of awe. Others had known this wood — mailed Romans clanking up the long roads from the south, white-robed priests who had once sacrificed here to their dead gods. He was scholar enough to feel the magic of this sudden window opened into the past. But there was that in the discovery which disquieted126 as well as charmed him. The mysteries of the heathen had been here, and he felt the simplicity127 of the woodland violated and its peace ravished. Once there had been wild tongues in the air, and he almost seemed to hear their echo.
He hurried off into the dark undergrowth. . . . But now his mood had changed. He felt fatigue128, his eyes were drowsy129, and he thought of the anxious Isobel sitting up for him. He realized that this was the night of Rood–Mass — pagan and papistical folly, but his reason could not altogether curb130 his fancy. The old folk said — folly, no doubt, but still — He had an overpowering desire to be safe in his bed at the manse. He would retrace his steps and strike the road from Reiverslaw. That would mean going west, and after a moment’s puzzling he started to run in what he thought the right direction.
The Wood, or his own mind, had changed. The moonlight was no longer gracious and kind, but like the dead-fires which the old folk said burned in the kirkyard. Confusion on the old folk, for their tales were making him a bairn again! . . . But what now broke the stillness? for it seemed as if there were veritably tongues in the air — not honest things like birds and winds, but tongues. The place was still silent so far as earthly sounds went — he realized that, when he stopped to listen — but nevertheless he had an impression of movement everywhere, of rustling131 — yes, and of tongues.
Fortune was against him, for he reached a glade and saw that it was the one which he had left and which he thought he had avoided. . . . There was a change in it, for the altar in the centre was draped. At first he thought it only a freak of moonlight, till he forced himself to go nearer. Then he saw that it was a coarse white linen cloth, such as was used in the kirk at the seasons of sacrament.
The discovery affected132 him with a spasm133 of blind terror. All the tales of the Wood, all the shrinking he had once felt for it, rushed back on his mind. For the moment he was an infant again, lost and fluttering, assailed134 by the shapeless phantoms135 of the dark. He fled from the place as if from something accursed.
Uphill he ran, for he felt that safety was in the hills and that soon he might come to the clear spaces of the heather. But a wall of crag forced him back, and he ran as he thought westward136 towards the oaks and hazels, for there he deemed he would be free of the magic of the pines. He did not run wildly, but softly and furtively, keeping to the moss109 and the darker places, and avoiding any crackling of twigs137, for he felt as if the Wood were full of watchers. At the back of his head was a stinging sense of shame — that he, a grown man and a minister of God, should be in such a pit of terror. But his instinct was stronger than his reason. He felt his heart crowding into his throat, and his legs so weak and uncontrollable that they seemed to be separate from his body. The boughs138 of the undergrowth whipped his face, and he knew that his cheeks were wet with blood, though he felt no pain.
The trees thinned and he saw light ahead — surely it was the glen which marked the division between pine and hazel. He quickened his speed, and the curtain of his fear lifted ever so little. He heard sounds now — was it the wind which he had left on the hilltops? There was a piping note in it, something high and clear and shrill139 — and yet the Wood had been so airless that his body was damp with sweat. Now he was very near air and sanctuary140.
His heart seemed to stop, and his legs wavered so that he sunk on his knees. For he was looking again on the accursed glade.
It was no longer empty. The draped altar was hidden by figures — human or infernal — moving round it in a slow dance. Beyond this circle sat another who played on some instrument. The moss stilled the noise of movement, and the only sound was the high, mad piping.
A film cleared from his eyes, and something lost came back to him — manhood, conscience, courage. Awe still held him, but it was being overmastered by a human repulsion and anger. For as he watched the dance he saw that the figures were indeed human, men and women both — the women half-naked, but the men with strange headpieces like animals. What he had taken for demons141 from the Pit were masked mortals — one with the snout of a pig, one with a goat’s horns, and the piper a gaping142 black hound. . . . As they passed, the altar was for a moment uncovered, and he saw that food and drink were set on it for some infernal sacrament.
The dance was slow and curiously143 arranged, for each woman was held close from behind by her partner. And they danced widdershins, against the sun. To one accustomed to the open movement of country jigs144 and reels the thing seemed the uttermost evil — the grinning masks, the white tranced female faces, the obscene postures145, above all that witch-music as horrid146 as a moan of terror.
David, a great anger gathering147 in his heart, was on his feet now, and as he rose the piping changed. Its slow measure became a crazy lilt, quick and furious. The piper was capering148; the dancers, still going widdershins, swung round and leaped forward, flinging their limbs as in some demented reel. . . . There were old women there, for he saw grey hair flying. And now came human cries to add to the din56 of the pipe — a crying and a sighing wrung149 out of maddened bodies.
To David it seemed a vision of the lost in Hell. The fury of an Israelitish prophet came upon him. He strode into the glade. Devils or no, he would put an end to this convention of the damned.
“In the name of God,” he cried, “I forbid you. If you are mortal, I summon you to repent150 — if you are demons, I command you to return to him that sent you.”
He had a great voice, but in that company there were no ears to hear. The pipe screeched151 and the dance went on.
Then the minister of Woodilee also went mad. A passion such as he had never known stiffened152 every nerve and sinew. He flung himself into the throng58, into that reek153 of unclean bestial154 pelts155 and sweating bodies. He reached the altar, seized the cloth on it, and swept it and its contents to the ground. Then he broke out of the circle and made for the capering piper, who seemed to him the chief of the orgiasts.
In his flight through the wood David had lost his staff, and had as weapon but his two hands. “Aroynt you, Sathanas,” he cried, snatched the pipe from the dog-faced figure, and shivered it on his masked head.
With the pause in the music the dance stopped suddenly, and in an instant the whole flock were on him like a weasel pack. He saw long-nailed claws stretched towards his face, he saw blank eyes suddenly fire into a lust156 of hate. But he had a second’s start of them, and that second he gave to the piper. The man — for the thing was clearly human — had dealt a mighty26 buffet157 at his assailant’s face, which missed it, and struck the point of the shoulder. David was whirled round, but, being young and nimble, he slipped in under the other’s guard, and had his hands on the hound-mask. The man was very powerful, but the minister’s knee was in his groin, and he toppled over, while David tore the covering of wood and skin from his head. It crumpled158 under his violent clutch like a wasps’ nest, and he had a glimpse of red hair and a mottled face.
A glimpse and no more. For by this time the press was on him and fingers were at his throat, choking out his senses.
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1
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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2
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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3
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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4
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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5
penitents
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| n.后悔者( penitent的名词复数 )；忏悔者 | |
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6
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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7
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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8
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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9
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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10
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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11
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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12
yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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14
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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16
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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17
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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18
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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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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recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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24
covenanted
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的过去分词 ) | |
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25
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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28
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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29
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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31
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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32
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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33
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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34
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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35
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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36
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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37
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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38
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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39
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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40
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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41
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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42
lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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43
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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44
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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45
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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46
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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47
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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48
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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49
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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50
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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51
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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52
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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53
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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54
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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55
scantiest
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| adj.（大小或数量）不足的，勉强够的( scanty的最高级 ) | |
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56
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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57
hoydenish
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| adj.顽皮的，爱嬉闹的，男孩子气的 | |
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58
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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59
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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60
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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61
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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62
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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63
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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64
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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65
sanctimonious
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| adj.假装神圣的，假装虔诚的，假装诚实的 | |
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66
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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67
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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68
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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69
hinds
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| n.（常指动物腿）后面的( hind的名词复数 )；在后的；（通常与can或could连用）唠叨不停；滔滔不绝 | |
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70
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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71
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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72
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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73
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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74
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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75
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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76
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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77
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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78
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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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
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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81
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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82
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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83
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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84
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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85
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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86
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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87
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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88
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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89
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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90
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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91
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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92
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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93
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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94
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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95
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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96
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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97
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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98
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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99
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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100
eastward
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|
| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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101
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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102
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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103
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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104
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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105
detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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106
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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107
mesmerized
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| v.使入迷( mesmerize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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109
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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110
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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111
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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112
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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113
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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114
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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115
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
primordial
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| adj.原始的；最初的 | |
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117
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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119
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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120
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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121
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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122
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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123
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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124
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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125
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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126
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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128
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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129
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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130
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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131
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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132
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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133
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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134
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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135
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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136
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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137
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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138
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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139
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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140
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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141
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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142
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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143
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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144
jigs
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| n.快步舞（曲）极快地( jig的名词复数 )；夹具v.（使）上下急动( jig的第三人称单数 ) | |
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145
postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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146
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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147
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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148
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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149
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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150
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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151
screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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152
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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153
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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154
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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155
pelts
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| n. 皮毛，投掷, 疾行 vt. 剥去皮毛，（连续）投掷 vi. 猛击，大步走 | |
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156
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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157
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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158
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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