Not the oldest remembered such a sermon in the kirk of Woodilee, and the fame of it was soon to go abroad in the countryside. The place emptied in a strange silence, as if the congregation went on tiptoe, and men and women did not look at each other till they were outside the kirkyard gates. The elders did not await the minister in the session-house, and as David walked the hundred yards to the manse he saw what looked like the back of Peter Pennecuik, crouching20 behind a turf dyke21 to avoid a meeting.
These were days of loneliness and misery22 for the minister of Woodilee. He saw himself solitary23 among enemies, for even those whom he thought his friends had failed him. It was clear that Amos Ritchie had conspired24 with Isobel to imprison25 him in his study on the eve of the second Beltane, and though their motive26 was doubtless affection it but emphasized the hopelessness of his task. He had to bring conviction of sin into a parish where even the innocent were ready to cumber27 his arm. These honest creatures feared for him — what? Anger would choke him at the thought of such contempt for his sacred mission, and then awe28 would take its place, awe at the immensity of the evil with which he fought. “Principalities and powers,” Amos had said — yes, the Powers of the Air and the Principalities of Darkness. He had no doubt that the Devil and his myrmidons were present in the Wood in bodily form, mingling29 with the worshippers, and that the tongues which he had heard were in very truth mutterings of the lost. There were times when ordinary human fear loosened his knees, and he longed to flee from the parish as from a place accursed. But his courage would return, and his faith, for he knew that the armies of Heaven were on his side, and wrath30 would cast out fear, wrath and horror at the seducers of his flock. Nevertheless in these days his nerves were frayed31, he lay awake of nights listening anxiously for noises without, and he would awake suddenly in the sweat of a nameless terror.
But his chief burden was that he did not know how to shape his course. The pulpit rang with his denunciations, but there was no response; no stricken Nicodemus came to him by night. On the roads and at the house-doors people avoided his eyes. There were no more stones from Daft Gibbie — indeed Gibbie had resumed his fawning33 friendliness34 — but none waited to speak a word with him. Isobel had recovered her cheerfulness, and sought to atone35 for past misconduct by an assiduous attention to his comforts, but Amos Ritchie shunned36 him. And the children, too, who had been his chief allies. Perhaps their parents had warned them, for a group would scatter37 when he came near, and once when, coming up behind him, he laid a kindly38 hand on a boy’s head, the child burst into tears and fled. What was the ‘fama’ of the minister which had been put about in Woodilee?
The worst of it was that he could contrive39 no plan of campaign. Evidence which was overwhelming to his own mind would not convince the Presbytery or the Sheriff. He could not bring a reasoned charge against any man or woman in the parish. As the days passed he began to sort out his flock in his mind as the guilty and the abettors. Some were innocent enough, save for the sin of apathy40; but others he could believe to have shared in the midnight debauches — heavy-browed, sensual youths, women with shifty eyes, girls high-coloured and over-blown, whose sidelong glances seemed to hint at secrets, old wives, too, whose wild laughter he heard at cottage doors. But of one, his first certainty was giving way to doubt. Ephraim Caird’s white face had got a wholesome41 tan from the summer sun, and he alone in the parish seemed to seek out the minister. He gave him a cheerful greeting when they met, spoke42 wisely of parish matters, had a word of humble43 commendation for the Sabbath discourses45. “It’s gaun to be a braw year for the aits,” he said, “gin the weather hauds, and the lambs are the best I’ve yet seen on Chasehope hill. Let us hope, sir, that the guid seed ye’ve sown will come to as bountiful a hairst.” The words were so simply spoken that they seemed no hypocrisy46.
A plan of campaign! On that David could get no clearness, and the anxiety was with him at bed and board. He shrank from confessing himself to his brother-ministers, for what could they do to help him? Kirk Aller would pooh-pooh the whole thing, since Woodilee had been so forward in signing the Covenant. Bold would no doubt believe, but his remedy would be only a stiffer draught47 of doctrine48. Even Mr. Fordyce at Cauldshaw seemed a broken reed, for Mr. Fordyce was an ailing50 saint, and this task was for the church militant51. No, he must fight his battles alone, and trust to God to send him allies. He wanted men of violence, who would fight not with words but with deeds, Israelitish prophets who with their own hands cut down groves52 and uprooted53 altars and hewed54 Agag in pieces. And where would he find them in a countryside where the good were timid as sheep and their pastors55 like loud voices in a fog?
June was a month of hot suns and clear skies, when the hills were bone-dry and the deepest flowe-moss could be safely passed. It was weather for the high tops, and one afternoon David, walking off his restlessness on the Rood uplands, stumbled unexpectedly on a friend. For at the head of the glen where the drove-road crosses from Clyde to Aller, he fell in with the farmer of Reiverslaw leading his horse up a steep patch of screes.
This man, Andrew Shillinglaw, was something of a mystery both to parish and minister. He was a long lean fellow of some forty years, black-haired, black-bearded, whose sullen56 face was redeemed57 by a humorous mouth, so that the impression was of a genial58 ferocity. He was reputed the most skilful59 farmer in the place, and some held him a rival in worldly wealth to the miller60, but beyond the fact that he had in Reiverslaw the best of the hill farms, there was no clue to his prosperity. He had the only good riding~horse in Woodilee, and was a notable figure on the roads, for he travelled the country like a packman. For weeks on end he would be away from home, and he was heard of in Galloway and the west and as far south as the Border, so that speculation61 about his doings became a favourite pastime among his neighbours. He neither sold nor bought in the parish, and he kept his own counsel, but his profession was clear enough had there been eyes to see. For he was dealer62 and middleman as well as farmer, and in a day when stock and produce scarcely moved beyond parish bounds, he sold and bought in outlying markets. In a district of home-keepers he was the sole traveller.
Few liked him, for there was always an undertone of satire63 in his speech. But all feared him, for his temper was on a hair-trigger. Drink made him quarrelsome, and the spence at Lucky Weir’s had seen some ugly business, since with him blow followed fast on word. Three years before he had buried his wife, there were no children, and he lived at Reiverslaw with an aged64 cousin for housekeeper65, who was half blind and wholly deaf. His attendance at the kirk was far from exemplary; in winter there were the drifts and the full bogs66 to detain him, and in summer he was as often as not on his travels. The Session, who did not love him, had talked of citing him to appear before them, but in the end they seemed to shrink from belling so formidable a cat.
At the head of the little pass, which in that country is called a “slack,” he halted and let David approach him.
“A guid day to ye, sir,” he cried. “We’ll let Bess get her wind, for it’s a lang gait frae Crawfordjohn. I rade ower yestereen to see the sma’ Cumberland sheep that the Lowther herds67 are trying on yon hills. I hae nae great broo o’ them. They’ll maybe dae on yon green braes where the bite is short, but they’re nae use for a heather country. . . . Sit ye doun, sir. What brings ye sae far ower the tops? Ye werena ettlin’ to gie me a ca’ in at Reiverslaw?”
David gladly stretched himself on the bent68 beside him. The man seemed willing to talk, and of late he had had little speech with his fellows.
“I came here for the caller air,” he said, “and to drive ill humours from body and mind. There are whiles when I cannot draw breath in Woodilee.”
“Ay,” said the man. “Ay! Just so.” He pursed his lips and looked at the minister under half-shut eyes.
“Were you born in this parish?” David asked.
“Na, na. Far frae that. I’m but an incomer, though I’ve had the tack69 o’ Reiverslaw for a dizzen years. My father, honest man, was frae the Glenkens, and my mither cam’ frae the Cairn side. I was born at a bit they ca’ Dunscore, but I was a stirrin’ lad in my young days and I’ve traivelled the feck o’ the Lawlands, frae the Forth71 to the Solway. But now I’ve got my hinderlands doun in Woodilee, and it’s like I’ll lay my banes here.”
The man spoke in a different voice from the people of the place, and to David he seemed as one detached from the countryside, sharing neither its interests nor affections. As he looked at him, sprawling72 in the heather bush with one foot on his horse’s bridle73, he had a sense of something assured and resolute74 and not unfriendly.
“Ye’re an incomer like mysel’, sir,” Reiverslaw said after a pause. “What think ye o’ Woodilee?”
“I think that the Devil has chosen this miserable75 parish for his own.”
“Ay. . . . Well, I wadna say ye were wrang. I jaloused [guessed] frae your last discourse44 that ye were perplexed76 wi’ the Enemy. And they tell me that ye’ve stirred up an unco byke against ye.”
“Are you one of them?” David asked.
“No me. If there’s fechtin’ to be done, I’m on your side. I aye likit a bauld man, and it’s a question, sir, if ye ken32 yoursel’ how bauld ye are when ye offer to drive the Deil frae Woodilee.”
David had got to his feet, for these were the first words of sympathy he had had.
“Andrew Shillinglaw, I command you to tell me if you have kept yourself clean from this mystery of evil which scourges77 the parish.”
The man still sprawled78 on the ground, and the face he turned to the minister was twisted in a grim humour.
“Ay. I’ll swear ony aith ye like. I’ll no deny my backslidin’s, and, as ye may ken, my walk and conversation’s no to boast o’. But as sure as God made me, I wad burn off my richt hand in the fire afore I wad file mysel’ wi’ the Babylonish abominations o’ the Wud. I whiles drink a stoup ower muckle, and I whiles gie a waur straik than I ettle when my bluid’s het, but these are honest stumblin’s whilk I hope the Lord will forgie. But for yon —” and he spat79 viciously.
“Then, if you are yourself clean from this evil, tell me what you know of it, and who are its chief professors.”
“That’s easy speirin’ [asking], but ill to answer. How suld I ken the covens that rampage in the Wud? I bide80 cheek by jowl wi’ the muckle black thing, and often I wish it was a field o’ strae in a dry back-end so that I could set fire to it and see it burn frae Reiverslaw to Windyways, and frae Woodilee to the Aller side. But I’ve never entered the place in mirk or licht, for my wark’s wi’ sheep, and the honest beasts will no gang near it.”
“But you must have heard . . . ”
“I’ve heard nocht. I have maybe guessed, but it’s no like I wad hear a cheep. I never gang near the clachan except to kirk or to Lucky Weir’s, and the Woodilee folk are pawky bodies even when they’re fou, and ony way I’m nae clatter-vengeance to be clypin’ wi’ auld49 wives at the roadside. But I’ve my ain notion o’ what’s gaun on, and I can tell ye, sir, it’s gaun on in mony anither godly parochine in this kingdom o’ Scotland, and it’s been gaun on for hundreds o’ years, long afore John Knox dang doun the Pape. But it’s gotten a braw new tack in these days o’ reformed and covenantit kirks. What do your Presbytries and Assemblies or your godly ministers ken o’ the things that are done in the mirk? . . . What do they ken o’ the corps81 in the kirkyairds buried o’ their ain wull wi’ their faces downwards82? . . . They set up what they ca’ their discipline, and they lowse the terrors o’ Hell on sma’ fauts like an aith, or profane83 talk on the Sabbath, or giein’ the kirk the go-by, and they hale to the cutty-stool ilka lass that’s ower kind to her joe. And what’s the upshot? They drive the folk to their auld ways and turn them intil hypocrites as weel as sinners.”
“Hush, man!” said the scandalized David. “That is impious talk.”
“It’s true a’ the same, though it’s maybe no for a minister’s lugs84. The Kirk is set against witchcraft85, and every wee while a daft auld wife is brunt. But, God help us, that’s but the froth on the pat. Na, na, Mr. Sempill. If you’re lookin’ to get to grips wi’ the Adversary86, it’s no the feckless camsteery lad ye maun seek that likes a randan, or the bit lassie that’s ower fond to wait for the Kirk’s blessin’, or the grannie that swears she rade to France on a kail-runt. It’s the dacent body that sits and granes aneath the pu’pit, and the fosy professor that wags his pow and deplores87 the wickedness o’ the land. — Yon’s the true warlocks. There’s saunts in Scotland, the Lord kens70 and I ken mysel’, but there’s some that hae the name o’ saunts that wad make the Deil spew.”
Reiverslaw had risen, and in his face was such a flame of fierce honesty that David’s heart kindled88. He had found an ally.
“Give me names,” he cried. “I will denounce the sinner, though he were one of my own elders.”
“I speak nae names. I have nae proof. But ye’ve seen yoursel’. They tell me ye broke in on the coven at their wark.”
“I had but a glisk of them, before they beat the senses out of me. But I intend to go back to the Wood, and this time I shall not fail.”
“Ay. Ye’ve a stout89 heart, Mr. Sempill.”
“But I must have help. Out of the mouths of witnesses I must establish the truth, and the innocent in Woodilee are very fearful. I have nowhere to look but to you. Will you come with me when I return to the Wood?”
“I’ll no say that, for there’s maybe better ways o’ guidin’ it. But this I will say — I’ll stand by ye; for may the Deil flee awa’ wi’ me or I see a guid man beat. There’s my hand on’t. . . . And now I maun be takin’ the road again. Come na near the Reiverslaw, sir, for that would set the bodies talkin’. If ye want word wi’ me, tell Richie Smail at the Greenshiel.”
The knowledge that he had found a friend lightened David’s heavy preoccupation of mind. Athanasius now was not alone against the world, and his path was not towards martyrdom but to victory. He walked with a more assured step and turned a bolder face to the furtive90 hostility91 of the parish. When he met Amos Ritchie he looked on him not in reproach but in defiance92. His sermons were now less appeals than challenges, as of one whose course was proclaimed and whose loins were girded.
To his consternation93 he found that he now sat very loose in his devotion to the Kirk. The profession of religion was not the same thing as godliness, and he was coming to doubt whether the insistence94 upon minute conformities95 of outward conduct and the hair-splitting doctrines96 were not devices of Satan to entangle97 souls. The phrases of piety98, unctuously99 delivered, made him shudder100 as at a blasphemy101. The fact that his only supporter was one looked askance at by strict professors confirmed his shrinking. Had not Christ set the publican and the sinner above the Pharisee?
One consequence of his new mood was that his thoughts turned again to the girl in Paradise. In his season of desolation he had not dared to think of her; she belonged to a world of light, and had no part in his perplexities. To let her image fill his memory seemed sacrilege, when that memory held so many foul102 shadows. But as the skies cleared for him her figure appeared again in the sunlight and he did not banish103 it, for it was she who was the extreme opposite of the horror of the Wood — she and her bright domain104 of oaks and hazels. He would go again to Paradise for his soul’s comfort.
He chose a day when he was certain she would be there. There was a week of fiery105 weather — moist heat and heavy skies and flying thunderstorms, and after it came a spell of long bright days, when the sunshine had a dry tonic106 in it, and the afternoons were mellow107 and golden. On one such afternoon he crossed the Hill of Deer and entered the glen which divided the pines from the hazels.
Midsummer had changed the place. The burn-side turf was all thyme and eyebright and milkwort, with the stars of the grass of Parnassus in the wet places. The water was clear and small, and the cascades108 fell in a tinkling109 silver. He had no doubts as to his road now. Paradise was among the hazels, but one could find it only by descending110 the glen to where the pines of the Wood began and then turning to the right towards the Greenshiel.
Presently the pines in a sombre regiment111 rose on the steep to the left. He looked at the beginning of the Wood with an awe which had now no fear in it. The place was hateful, but it could not daunt112 him. It was the battleground to which he was called. . . . On the edge of the trees was a great mass of dark foxgloves, the colour of blood, and they seemed to make a blood-trail from the sunlight into the gloom.
He turned up the right bank, and through hazel copses and glades113, breast-high with bracken, he made his way as if by instinct. He found the shallow cup lined with birches and the blossoming rowans, and as he brushed through the covert114 he saw the girl sitting on the greensward by the well.
Motionless he watched her for a little, while his heart played strange pranks115. She had a basket beside her full of flowers, and she was reading in a book. . . . She laid down the book, and shook her curls and dabbled116 her fingers in the water. She sang as she dabbled, low and clear in snatches, a song which he was to remember to his dying day:
“There’s comfort for the comfortless,
And honey for the bee,
And there’s nane for me but you, my love,
And there’s nane for you but me.”
She crooned the verse twice, broke off to watch a ring-ouzel, and then sang again:
“It’s love for love that I have got,
And love for love again,
So turn your high horse heid about
And we will ride for hame, my love,
And we will ride for hame.”
He would fain have lingered and watched her, but he felt like an eavesdropper117 on her privacy. So “Mistress Katrine!” he cried softly, and “Mistress Katrine” a second time.
She sprang to the alert like a bird. Her face, when she saw him, showed no welcome.
“I give you good-day, sir,” she said. “Have you maybe lost your road?”
“I am seeking Paradise,” he replied.
“It is the quest of all mortals, they tell me. But the ministers say it is not to be found on earth.”
“I was seeking the earthly one to which you yourself first led me.”
“You entered then by my invitation, but I do not think I bade you come again.”
“Then I beg for admission, mistress, for indeed I have sore need of Paradise.”
She looked at him curiously118. “You look older — and sadder. I have not been to your kirk, but they tell me that you are scorching119 the souls of your folk with your terrors.”
“Would to God I could scorch120 them into salvation! . . . I have been in dire121 straits, Mistress Katrine. For I came again to find Paradise and I found it not, but stumbled into Hell.”
The girl looked at him with compassionate122 eyes.
“You may sit down in Paradise,” she said. “I permit you. And I will give you some of my wild strawberries. Tell me what has troubled you.”
He told her of the doings of Beltane Eve, stumblingly, with many omissions123. He told her of his strife124 with his parishioners, of his loneliness, of the mission to which he was vowed125. “I am resolved,” he said, “that though I go on alone I will not fail in courage. Your Montrose’s comfort is mine — that the arm of the Lord is not shortened.”
The girl brooded.
“Did you come here to find me?”
“I had a conviction that you would be in Paradise. This is no tale for a maid’s ear, but I came here to warn you, mistress. The long glen that runs down to the Rood Mill is a frontier-line, which if you pass you are in the land of darkness. I found you first among the pines, and I beseech126 you go not again among them, though it were at high noon, for yon Wood is accursed.”
She nodded. “I felt it too. When spring was passing I felt a gloom come over me as I walked there, and one day a terror seized me and I ran and ran till I was among the hazels. I cannot bear even to be in sight of the dark trees. You say that there is witchcraft there.” She lowered her voice and her eyes were solemn. “What is this witchcraft?”
“I cannot tell, save that it is the nethermost127 works of darkness, and that it has seduced128 the hearts of my unhappy people. . . . God help me, but I have seen with my eyes what I cannot forget. . . . There is no smooth ministry129 for me, for now I am a soldier of Christ and must be fighting till I have got the victory.”
“And you are alone?”
“I have one who will stand by me.” And he told her of Reiverslaw.
“Nay, you have another,” she cried. “You have me for a friend, and you have this greenwood for a sanctuary130. If I cannot fight by your side, you will know that I am here and that I am wishing you well. See, I make you free of Paradise. It is yours now, as well as mine.” She held out her hand.
He took off his hat.
“You were singing,” he said, “and your song was true, for here’s ‘comfort for the comfortless.’ You have put steel into my bones, Mistress Katrine. If I can come here and speak with you at times, it will be like the water beside the gate of Bethlehem to King David. . . . I will know when you are here without your sending me word.”
“Then there is witchcraft in the greenwood,” she said, smiling gravely, “for I, too, knew that you were coming to-day before you came.”
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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flay
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| vt.剥皮；痛骂 | |
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tamper
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| v.干预，玩弄，贿赂，窜改，削弱，损害 | |
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covenants
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| n.（有法律约束的）协议( covenant的名词复数 )；盟约；公约；（向慈善事业、信托基金会等定期捐款的）契约书 | |
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covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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thereby
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transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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abase
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| v.降低，贬抑 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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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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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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motive
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cumber
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awe
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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wrath
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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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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37
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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38
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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39
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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40
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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41
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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42
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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43
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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44
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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45
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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46
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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47
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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48
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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49
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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50
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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51
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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52
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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53
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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54
hewed
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的过去式和过去分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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55
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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56
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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57
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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58
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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59
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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60
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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61
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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62
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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63
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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64
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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65
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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66
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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67
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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68
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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69
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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70
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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71
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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72
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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73
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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74
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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75
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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76
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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77
scourges
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| 带来灾难的人或东西，祸害( scourge的名词复数 )； 鞭子 | |
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78
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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79
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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80
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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81
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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82
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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83
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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84
lugs
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| 钎柄 | |
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85
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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86
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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87
deplores
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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90
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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91
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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92
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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93
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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94
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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95
conformities
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| n.符合（conformity的复数形式） | |
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96
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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97
entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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98
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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99
unctuously
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| adv.油腻地，油腔滑调地；假惺惺 | |
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100
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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101
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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102
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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103
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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104
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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105
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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106
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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107
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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108
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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109
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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110
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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111
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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112
daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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113
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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114
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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115
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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116
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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117
eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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118
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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119
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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120
scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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121
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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122
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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123
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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124
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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125
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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126
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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127
nethermost
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| adj.最下面的 | |
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128
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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129
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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130
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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