“The Lord be thankit, sir, the Lord be praised, Mr. David, ye’re comin’ oot o’ your dwam. Here’s a fine het drink for ye. Get it doun like a man and syne2 ye’ll maybe sleep. There’s nae banes broke, and I’ve dressed your face wi’ a sure salve. Dinna disturb the clouts3, sir. Your skin’s ower clean to beal [fester], and ye’ll mend quick if ye let the clouts bide4 a wee.”
Her arm raised his aching head, and he swallowed the gruel5. It made him drowsy6, and soon he was asleep again, a healthy natural sleep, so that when he awoke in the evening he was in comparative ease and his headache had gone. Gingerly he felt his body. There were bruises8 on his legs, and one huge one on his right thigh9. His cheeks under the bandages felt raw and scarred, and there was a tenderness about his throat and the muscles of his neck, as if angry hands had throttled10 him. But apart from his stiffness he seemed to have suffered no great bodily hurt, and the effects of the slight concussion11 had passed.
With this assurance his mind came out of its torpor12, and he found himself in a misery13 of disquiet14. The events of the night before returned to him only too clearly. He remembered his exaltation in the Wood — the glade15, the altar. He recalled with abasement16 his panic and his flight. The glade again, the piping, the obscene dance — and at that memory he had almost staggered from his bed. He felt again the blind horror and wrath17 which had hurled18 him into the infernal throng19.
Isobel’s anxious face appeared in the doorway20.
“Ye’ve had a graund sleep, sir. And now ye’ll be for a bite o’ meat?”
“I have slept well, and I am well enough in body. Sit you down, Isobel Veitch, for I have much to say to you. How came I home last night?”
The woman sat down on the edge of a chair, and even in the twilight21 her nervousness was manifest.
“It wasna last nicht. It was aboot the hour o’ three this mornin’, and sic a nicht as I had waitin’ on ye! Oh, sir, what garred ye no hearken to me and gang to the Wud on Rood–Mass?”
“How do you know I was in the Wood?”
She did not answer.
“Tell me,” he said, “how I came home.”
“I was ryngin’ the hoose like a lost yowe, but I didna daur gang outbye. At twal hours I took a look up the road, and again when the knock was chappin’ twa. Syne I dozed23 off in my chair, till the knock waukened me. That was at three hours, and as I waukened I heard steps outbye. I keekit oot o’ the windy, but there was naebody on the road, just the yellow mune. I prayed to the Lord to strengthen me, and by-and-by I ventured out, but I fand naething. Syne I took a thocht to try the back yaird, and my hert gied a stound, for there was yoursel’, Mr. David, lyin’ like a cauld corp aneath the aipple tree. Blithe25 I was to find the breath still in ye, but I had a sair job gettin’ ye to your bed, sir, for ye’re a weary wecht for an auld24 wumman. The sun was up or I got your wounds washed and salved, and syne I sat by the bed prayin’ to the Lord that ye suld wauken in your richt mind, for I saw fine that the wounds o’ your body would heal, but I feared that the wits micht have clean gane frae ye. And now I am abundantly answered, for ye’re speakin’ like yoursel’, and your een’s as I mind them, and the blood’s back intil your cheeks. The Lord be thankit!”
But there was no jubilation26 in Isobel’s voice. Her fingers twined confusedly, and her eyes wandered.
“Do you know what befell me?” he asked.
“Eh, sirs, how suld I ken22?”
“But what do you think? You find me in the small hours lying senseless at your door, with my face scarred and my body bruised27. What do you think I had suffered?”
“I think ye were clawed by bogles, whilk a’body kens28 are gi’en a free dispensation on Rood–Mass E’en.”
“Woman, what is this talk of bogles from lips that have confessed Christ? I was assaulted by the Devil, but his emissaries were flesh and blood. I tell you it was women’s nails that tore my face, and men’s hands that clutched my throat. I walked in the Wood, for what has a minister of God to fear from trees and darkness? And as I walked I found in an open place a heathen altar, and that altar was covered with a linen29 cloth, as if for a sacrament. I was afraid — I confess it with shame — but the Lord used my fear for His own purpose, and led me back in my flight to that very altar. And there I saw what may God in His mercy forbid that I should see again — a dance of devils to the Devil’s piping. In my wrath I rushed among them, and tore the mask from the Devil’s head, and then they overbore me and I lost my senses. When I wrestled30 with them I wrestled with flesh and blood — perishing men and women rapt in a lust31 of evil.”
He stopped, and Isobel’s eyes did not meet his. “Keep us a’!” she moaned.
“These men and women were, I firmly believe, my own parishioners.”
“It canna be,” the old woman croaked32. “Ye werena yoursel’, Mr. David, sir. . . . Ye were clean fey wi’ the blackness o’ the Wud and the mune and the wanchancy hour. Ye saw ferlies [marvels], but they werena flesh and bluid, sir. . . . ”
“I saw the bodies of men and women in Woodilee who have sold their souls to damnation. Isobel Veitch, as your master and your minister, I charge you, as you will answer before the Judgment33 Seat, what know you of the accursed thing in this parish?”
“Me!” she cried. “Me! I ken nocht. Me and my man aye keepit clear o’ the Wud.”
“Which is to say that there were others in Woodilee who did not. Answer me, woman, as you hope for salvation34. The sin of witchcraft35 is rampant36 here, and I will not rest till I have rooted it out. Who are those in Woodilee who keep tryst37 with the Devil?”
“How suld I ken? Oh, sir, I pray ye to speir nae mair questions. Woodilee has aye been kenned38 for a queer bit, lappit in the muckle Wud, but the guilty aye come by an ill end. There’s been mair witches howkit out o’ Woodilee and brunt than in ony ither parochine on the Water o’ Aller. Trust to your graund Gospel preachin’, Mr. David, to wyse folk a better gait, for if ye start speirin’ about the Wud ye’ll stir up a byke that will sting ye sair. As my faither used to say, him that spits against the wind spits in his ain face. Trust to conviction o’ sin bringin’ evildoers to repentance39, as honest Mr. Macmichael did afore ye.”
“Did Mr. Macmichael know of this wickedness?”
“I canna tell. Nae doot he had a glimmerin’. But he was a quiet body wha keepit to the roads and his ain fireside, and wasna like yoursel’, aye ryngin’ the country like a moss-trooper. . . . Be content, sir, to let sleepin’ tykes lie till ye can catch them rauvagin’. Ye’ve a congregation o’ douce eident folk, and I’se warrant ye’ll lead them intil the straucht and narrow way. Maybe the warst’s no as ill as ye think. Maybe it’s just a sma’ backslidin’ in them that’s pilgrims to Sion. They’re weel kenned to be sound in doctrine40, and there was mair signed the Covenant41 —”
“Peace,” he cried. “This is rank blasphemy42, and a horrid43 hypocrisy44. What care I for lip service when there are professors who are living a lie? Who is there I can trust? The man who is loudest in his profession may be exulting45 in secret and dreadful evil. He whom I think a saint may be the chief of sinners. Are there no true servants of Christ in Woodilee?”
“Plenty,” said Isobel.
“But who are they? I had thought Richie Smail at the Greenshiel a saint, but am I wrong?”
“Na, na. Ye’re safe wi’ Richie.”
“And yourself, Isobel?”
Colour came into her strained face. “I’m but a broken vessel46, but neither my man nor me had ever trokin’s wi’ the Enemy.”
“But there are those to your knowledge who have? I demand from you their names.”
She pursed her lips. “Oh, sir, I ken nocht. What suld a widow~woman, thrang a’ the day in your service, ken o’ the doings in Woodilee?”
“Nevertheless you know something. You have heard rumours47. Speak, I command you.”
Her face was drawn48 with fright, but her mouth was obstinate49. “Wha am I to bring a railin’ accusation50 against onybody, when I have nae certainty of knowledge?”
“You are afraid. In God’s name, what do you fear? There is but the one fear, and that is the vengeance51 of the Almighty52, and your silence puts you in jeopardy53 of His wrath.”
Nevertheless there was no change in the woman’s face. David saw that her recalcitrance54 could not be broken.
“Then listen to me, Isobel Veitch. I have had my eyes opened, and I will not rest till I have rooted this evil thing from Woodilee. I will search out and denounce every malefactor55, though he were in my own Kirk Session. I will bring against them the terror of God and the arm of the human law. I will lay bare the evil mysteries of the Wood, though I have to hew56 down every tree with my own hand. In the strength of the Lord I will thresh this parish as corn is threshed, till I have separated the grain from the chaff57 and given the chaff to the burning. Make you your market for that, Isobel Veitch, and mind that he that is not for me is against me, and that in the day of God’s wrath the slack hand and the silent tongue will not be forgiven.”
The woman shivered and put a hand to her eyes.
“Will ye hae your bite o’ meat, sir?” she quavered.
“I will not break bread till God has given me clearness,” he said sternly; and Isobel, who was in the habit of spinning out her talks with her master till she was driven out, slipped from the room like a discharged prisoner who fears that the Court may change its mind.
David rose next morning after a sleepless58 night, battered59 in body, but with some peace of mind, and indeed a comfort which he scarcely dared to confess to himself. He had now a straight course before him. There was an evil thing in the place against which he had declared war, an omnipresent evil, for he did not know who were the guilty. The thing was like the Wood itself, an amorphous60 shadow clouding the daylight. Gone were the divided counsels, the scruples61 of conscience. What mattered his doubts about the policy of the Kirk at large when here before his eyes was a conflict of God and Belial? . . . For the first time, too, he could let his mind dwell without scruples upon the girl in the greenwood. The little glen that separated the pines from the oaks and the hazels had become for him the frontier between darkness and light — on the one side the innocency62 of the world which God had made, on the other the unclean haunts of devilry. . . . And yet he had first met Katrine among the pines. To his horror of the works of darkness was added a bitter sense of sacrilege — that obscene revelry should tread the very turf that her feet had trod.
That afternoon he set out for Chasehope. The matter should be without delay laid before his chief elder, and the monstrous63 suspicion which lurked64 at the back of his mind dispelled65. He was aware that his face was a spectacle, but it should not be hidden, for it was part of his testimony66. But at Chasehope there was no Ephraim Caird. The slatternly wife who met him, old before her time, with a clan67 of ragged68 children at her heels, was profuse69 in regrets. She dusted a settle for him, and offered new milk and a taste of her cheese, but all the time with an obvious discomfort70. To think that Ephraim should be away when the minister came up the hill! . . . He had had to ride off that morn to Kirk Aller upon a matter of a bull that Johnnie Davidson had brought from Carlisle — an English bull to improve the breed — and he would not be home till the darkening. The woman was voluble and hearty71, but it seemed to David that she protested too much. . . . Was her husband all the while between the blankets in the press-bed?
On his way back, at the turn of the road from the kirkton, he encountered Daft Gibbie. The idiot had throughout the winter been a satellite of the minister, and had had many a meal in the manse kitchen. When they met it was “Eh, my bonny Mr. Sempill,” or “my precious Mr. David,” and then an outpouring of grotesque72 but complimentary73 texts. But now the first news he had of Gibbie was a small stone that whizzed past his ear, and when he turned he saw a threatening figure with a face twisted into a demoniac hate. A second stone followed, very wide of the mark, and when David threatened pursuit, the idiot shuffled74 off, shouting filth75 over his shoulder. A woman came out of a cottage, and said something to Gibbie which caused him to hold his peace and disappear into a kailyard. . . . But the woman did not look towards the minister, but hurried in again and closed the door. Was the whole parish, thought David, banded in a tacit conspiracy76? Was this poor idiot one of the misbegotten things of the Wood?
The next Sabbath, which was the fifth of May, the kirk of Woodilee showed a full congregation. That day, save for infants in arms, there were few absentees. Never had the place been more hushed and expectant. David preached from the text, “Enter into the rock, and hide thee in the dust for fear of the Lord,” and he delivered his soul with a freedom hitherto lacking in his carefully prepared discourses77. Not the Boanerges of Bold could have outdone the fiery79 vigour80 with which he described how Israel went astray after forbidden gods and how the wrath of the Almighty smote81 her with death and exile. But when he came to the application, which should have been as a nail fastened in a sure place, he faltered82. The faces below him, set, composed, awful in their decency83, seemed like a stone wall against which he must beat with feeble hands.
“I have the sure knowledge,” he said, “that there are altars set up to Baal in this very parish, and that this little Israel of ours has its own groves84 where it worships the gods of the heathen — ay, the very devils from the Pit. Be assured that I will riddle85 out this evil mystery and drag it into the light of day, and on the priests of Baal in Woodilee, be they libertines86 or professors, I will call down the terrors of the Most High. I summon now in this place all poor deluded87 sinners to confession88 and repentance, for in the strength of the Lord I will go forward, and woe89 be to those that harden their hearts.”
But his words seemed to be driven back upon him by the steely silence. He saw his elders — the heavy white face of Chasehope, the long sanctimonious90 jowl of Peter Pennecuik, the impish mouth of Spotswood the miller91 now composed in an alien gravity, the dark sullenness92 of Mirehope — they relished93 his vigour, but their eyes were hard as stones. And the folk behind them, men and women, old and young, were attentively94 apathetic95. There was none of the crying and weeping and the spasms96 of conviction which had attended the fast-day service of the minister of Bold. Were they a congregation of innocents to whom his summons had no application? Or were they so thirled to their evil-doing that his appeals were no more than an idle wind?
His Session congratulated him on his discourse78.
“Ye had a gale97 on your spirit this day, Mr. Sempill,” said Chasehope. “Yon was a fine waft98 o’ the Word ye gie’d us, and it’s to be hoped that it will be blessed to many.”
As David looked at the pale cheeks and the red hair of the man he had a sudden assurance. It was a mild day, but Ephraim Caird wore a strip of flannel99 as if he were nursing a cold. And was there not a discoloration of the skin around his fleshy jaw100 and a dark bruise7 below his left ear?
Next day David sought out Amos Ritchie, the smith. He learned that the man was on a job at Nether101 Windyways, and he watched for him on the hill-road as he returned in the evening. The big loose-limbed figure of Amos, striding down the twilit slopes with his bag of tools slung102 on his shoulder, was a pleasant sight to eyes that hungered for a friend. For with the smith David had advanced far in friendliness103 since their partnership104 in the winter snowstorm. The man was of a high spirit and a complete honesty, and his professions were well behind his practice. Rough of tongue and apt in a quarrel, he had a warmth of heart that did not fail even those he despised. He was no purveyor105 of edifying106 speech, but the milk of human kindness ran strong in him. It was a saying in the village that there was “mair comfort in an aith from Amos than a prayer from Peter Pennecuik.”
But on this occasion the smith’s straightforward107 friendliness seemed to have deserted108 him. When David appeared before him he looked as if he would fain have avoided the meeting. His eyes were troubled, and he increased the pace of his walk when the minister fell into step beside him.
“How’s the wife?” David asked.
“Fine, sir. Her kist’s stronger, and I’m hopin’ the simmer will pit colour intil her cheek.” But as he spoke109 his eyes were on a distant hill.
“I want a word with you, Amos. You and I are, I believe, true friends, and I can speak to you as to a brother. I have become aware of a horrid evil in this parish. There is that in the Wood which tempts110 men and women to abominations. With these eyes of mine I saw it on Beltane’s Eve.”
There was no answer.
“You were in the kirk yesterday, Amos, and you heard my sermon. The decision is on Woodilee to choose whom they will serve. You are my friend, and, apart from certain backslidings, a man of a Christian111 walk and conversation. I summon you to my aid, and conjure112 you by Christ who died for you, to tell me what you know of this great sin and who are the sinners.”
Amos came to a standstill. He laid down his tools, and looked the minister in the face.
“Let it alane, sir. I rede ye, let it alane.”
“In the name of God, what folly113 is this?” David cried. “Are you, too, my own familiar friend, entangled114 in this wickedness?”
The man’s face crimsoned115.
“Deil a haet! Na, na, I never could abide116 thae trokin’s wi’ the Wud. But oh, Mr. Sempill, ye’re but a callant, and ye kenna the wecht o’ the principalities and poo’ers that are against ye. Hae patience, sir, and gang cannily117. Trust in the Word, whilk it is your duty to preach, to bring conviction o’ sin in the Lord’s ain gude time, for if ye’re ettlin’ [intending] to use the arm o’ flesh it will fail ye.”
It was the counsel which Isobel had given, and David’s heart sank. What was it in Woodilee which made honest men silent and craven in the face of proved iniquity118?
“Man, Amos,” he cried, “I never thought to get a coward’s counsel from you. Am I to reckon you among my enemies, and among God’s enemies? I tell you I see my duty as clear before me as the Hill of Deer. I must unveil this wickedness and blast its practisers into penitence119 or I fail in my first duty as the minister of this parish. And from you, my friend, I get only silence and contumacy, and what is worse, the advice of a Laodicean. Alas120! that you who have fought stoutly121 in your country’s battles should be such a poor soldier in God’s battles.”
There was no answer. The two had resumed their walk, and the smith strode at a pace which was almost a run, his eyes steadily122 averted123 from his companion.
“This is my last word to you, Amos,” said David, as they reached the turn where the loan ran to the manse. “Wednesday — the day after the morn — is the second Beltane, and I fear that that night there will be further evil in the Wood. I will go there and outface the Devil, but the flesh is weak, and I am one against many, and I would fain have a friend. Will you not bear me company?”
The smith stopped again. “Deil hae me if I gang near the Wud! Na, na, I’ll no pit my heid intil ony sic wull-cat’s hole. And, Mr. Sempill, be you guidit by an aulder man and bide at hame.”
“You are afraid?”
“Ay. I’m feared — but mair for you than for mysel’.”
“You’re like the men of Israel that failed Gideon at the waterside,” David cried angrily as he turned away.
The next two days were spent by the minister in a strange restlessness. He walked each afternoon some violent miles on the hilltops, but for the rest he stayed in the manse, principally in his study. Isobel believed him to be at prayer, and indeed he prayed long and fervently124, but he was also busied about other things. Among his belongings125 was a small-sword, for he had won some skill of fence in Edinburgh, and this he had out and saw to its point and edge. Also he read much in books which were not divinity, for he felt himself a soldier, and would brace126 his spirit with martial127 tales. With Isobel he exchanged no word save commonplaces, and the old woman, who had the air of a scolded child, showed no desire to talk. His meals were set before him in silence, and silently the table was cleared. Amos Ritchie came to the manse on some small repairing job, and he too seemed to be anxious to get his work done and leave. David saw him arrive as he set out for a walk, and when he returned the shoulders of the smith were disappearing past the stable end.
Wednesday evening came, an evening of mellow128 light and a quiet sunset, and after his early supper David retired129 to his study to prepare himself for his task. He had already written out an account of what he had seen in the Wood and of what he proposed to do, and this he signed and directed under cover to Mr. Fordyce at Cauldshaw. Whatever mischance befell him, he had left a record. He had also written a letter to his father, setting forth130 what, in the event of his death, was to be the destination of his worldly goods. Then on his knees he remained for a while in prayer.
The clock struck nine, and he arose to begin his journey, strapping131 the sword to his middle, and taking also a great stick which the shepherd of the Greenshiel had made for him. The moon would rise late, and there was ample time.
But he found that the door of his study would not open. It had no lock, and had hung on a light hasp, but now it seemed to have bolts and bars. It was a massive thing of oak, and when he shook it it did not yield.
He shouted for Isobel, but there was no reply. Then he assaulted it furiously with knees and feet and shoulder, but it did not give. There was no hope from the window, which was a small square through which a child could not have crept.
Further attacks on the door followed, and futile132 shouting. By the time the late light had faded from the little window David had acknowledged the fact that he was imprisoned133, and his first fury had ebbed134 from sheer bodily fatigue135. But the clock had struck one before he attempted to make a bed on the floor, with for pillow a bag of chaff which Isobel had placed there for a winter footstool, and the dawn was in the eastern sky before he slept.
He was awakened136 by Isobel in the doorway.
“Peety on us,” she wailed137, “that sic a thing suld hae come to this hoose! Hae ye spent the nicht in this cauld chamber138 and no in your bed? The wyte’s [blame] on me, for I got Amos Ritchie yestereen to put a bar on the door, for there’s walth of guid books here and I wad like to steek the place when ye’re awa’ to the hills and me maybe in the kitchen. I maun hae steekit it to see if it wad wark, no kennin’ ye were in inside. And syne I gaed doun to my gude~brither’s to speir after his bairn, and I was late in getting back, and, thinks I, the minister will be in his bed and I’ll awa’ to mine. Puir man, ye’ll be as stiff as a wand, and ye’ll maybe hae got your death o’ cauld. . . . See and I’ll get ye a het drink, and your parritch’s on the boil. . . . Wae’s me that I didn’ tak’ a thocht . . . ”
“Silence, woman, and do not cumber139 your soul with lies.” David’s white face as he strode from the room did more than his words to cut short Isobel’s laments140.
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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clouts
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| n.猛打( clout的名词复数 )；敲打；（尤指政治上的）影响；（用手或硬物的）击v.（尤指用手）猛击，重打( clout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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throttled
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| v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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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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abasement
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| n.滥用 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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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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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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31
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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33
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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34
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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35
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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36
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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37
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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38
kenned
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| v.知道( ken的过去式和过去分词 )；懂得；看到；认出 | |
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39
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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40
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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41
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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42
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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43
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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44
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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45
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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46
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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47
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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48
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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49
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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50
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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51
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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52
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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53
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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54
recalcitrance
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| n.固执，顽抗 | |
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55
malefactor
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| n.罪犯 | |
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56
hew
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| v.砍；伐；削 | |
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57
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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58
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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59
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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60
amorphous
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| adj.无定形的 | |
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61
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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62
innocency
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| 无罪，洁白 | |
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63
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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64
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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65
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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67
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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68
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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69
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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70
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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71
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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72
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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73
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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74
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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75
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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76
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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77
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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78
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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79
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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80
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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81
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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82
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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83
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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84
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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85
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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86
libertines
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| n.放荡不羁的人，淫荡的人( libertine的名词复数 ) | |
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87
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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89
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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90
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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91
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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92
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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93
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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94
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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95
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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96
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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97
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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98
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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99
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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100
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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101
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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102
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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103
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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104
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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105
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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106
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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107
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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108
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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109
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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110
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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111
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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112
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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113
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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114
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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117
cannily
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| 精明地 | |
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118
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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119
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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120
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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121
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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122
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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123
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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124
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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125
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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126
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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127
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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128
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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129
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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130
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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131
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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132
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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133
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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135
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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136
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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137
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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139
cumber
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| v.拖累，妨碍；n.妨害；拖累 | |
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140
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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