At the meal Mr. Mungo Muirhead, primed with letters from Edinburgh, gave ill news of the war in the North. Montrose the recusant continued to win battles, and was even now marching southward with his savage5 Irishry to strike at the citadel6. “What for does Davie Leslie no hasten,” he cried, “and what profits it to have a covenanted7 State and a purified Kirk if a mailed Amalekite can hunt our sodgers from Dan to Beersheba? I tell you, sirs, this war which has hitherto been fought among Hieland glens will soon be at our ain doorcheeks, and our puir folk will be called to testify, not with voice and word and the scart of a pen, but with sufferings and revilings and bloody8 murderings. Forth9 and Aller may yet run red, and the hand of death be on the Lowdon fields. Are we prepared, I ask, and I ask it yet again? Whatna gifts will we bring to the altar in the coming day of sacrifice?”
His fears had given dignity to the minister of Kirk Aller. The man was a fighter, for his mouth shut tight, and there was a spark of fire in his heavy eyes. Nor was Mr. Proudfoot of Bold less ready for the fray10. He had got himself a pair of great boots, and looked a very Ironside as he expanded his big chest and groaned11 assent12 to his leader’s warning.
“Let us see that there is no Canaanitish thing in our midst,” Mr. Proudfoot cried, “for the purge13 of the Lord is nigh. And let Israel dwell in unity14, for a house divided shall not stand. These are the twin counsels for this day of wrath15, a pure cause and a brotherly people. These, I say, are the dams with which to stem the tide of the heathen’s rage.”
“And that’s a word in season for you, Mr. Sempill,” said Mr. Muirhead. “I hear ye’ve set the haill parish of Woodilee by the lugs16 with wanton accusations17. You’ll admit none to the Table, says you, till there is public confession18 of some unkenned iniquity21. I applaud zeal22 in a young minister, but it seems you’ve fair got your leg ower the trams, and the serious folk of Woodilee are troubled to ken20 what ye mean. Have a care, Mr. Sempill, lest this zeal of yours be but human impatience23. This is no time to sow confusion among God’s people.”
The minister of Kirk Aller had lost his air of rough good-humour. It was a hard face and an inquisitorial eye that he bent24 on David.
“I take my stand on the first of Mr. Proudfoot’s counsels,” said the latter. “If the day of trial is coming, our cause must be pure, and there must be no Canaanitish thing in our midst. When I am clear about the sins of Woodilee, the Presbytery will have further news of me.”
The young man’s speech was too assured to please Mr. Muirhead. He drew down his eyebrows25 till they formed a straight line bisecting his huge expanse of face.
“Have a care, have a care, I counsel you,” he said crossly. “I can tell you that there’s many an auld26 exercised professor in Woodilee that’s sore concerned about your doings.”
Mr. Proudfoot added his reproof27. “When I mind on the precious work I witnessed in that very parish in the month of March, I will not believe that the Devil has got the master hand. Examine yourself, I rede you, Mr. Sempill, and see if the beam be not in your own eye.”
David rode away from Kirk Aller in the company of Mr. Fordyce of Cauldshaw, but they had not ridden a mile before there was a clatter28 of hoofs29 behind them, and the minister of Bold joined himself to their company. His beast was fractious, having had an unaccustomed feed of oats in the Cross Keys stable, and Mr. Proudfoot, since he was an awkward horseman, had to spend much of his energy in keeping it to the road. But what time he could spare from his task he devoted30 to catechizing David, and for the three miles during which their course lay together his tongue never stopped.
“There’s an ill ‘fama’ of you gone abroad, Mr. Sempill, and it is my duty as your elder in the Lord’s service to satisfy myself thereanent. It is reported that you pervert31 the doctrine32 of election into grace, maintaining that this blessed estate may be forfeit33 by a failure in good works, as if the filthy34 rags of man’s righteousness were mair than the bite of a flea35 in face of the eternal purposes of God.”
“I say that a man who believes that his redemption through Christ gives him a licence to sin is more doubly damned than if he had never had a glimpse of grace.”
“But ye maun distinguish. The point is far finer than that, sir. I will construe36 your words, for there is an interpretation37 of them which is rank heresy38.”
The task of construing39 and distinguishing did not fare well, for every few minutes the teeth of Mr. Proudfoot were shaken in his head by his horse’s vagaries40. He had just reached a point of inordinate41 subtlety42, when the track to Bold branched off, and his animal, recognizing at last the road home, darted43 down it at a rough gallop44. The last seen of the minister of Bold was a massive figure swaying like a ship in a gale45, and still, if one might trust the echoes the wind brought back, distinguishing and construing.
Even Mr. Fordyce’s grave face smiled as he watched the fleeing Boanerges.
“He is a wilful46 man, and he has a wilful beast. But what is this rumour47 in the countryside, Mr. David? I fear that you are finding Woodilee a dour48 rig to plough.”
“What do they say in Cauldshaw?”
“I have been little about of late, for these last weeks I’ve been sore troubled with my bowels49. I’m like the Psalmist — the Lord trieth my reins50 in the night watches — and I’ve never made out my visit to you to have a read of Cardanus. But I cannot but hear orra bits of news from the next parish, and the speak in the countryside is that you have uncovered the nakedness of Woodilee and preach siccan sermons that the een of the folk turn inward in their heads. What’s the truth of it, Mr. David? My heart yearns51 over you as if you were my own mother’s son.”
“I have uncovered a great wickedness — but not yet all. I wait and watch, and when I have fuller knowledge I will know better how to act. You told me the first day we met that Woodilee had an ill reputation, and, sorrow on me! I have proved the justice of your words. And I greatly fear that it is the loudest professors that are deepest in the mire52.”
“Man, David, that is a grievous business. Is it the Wood?”
“It is the Wood, and the blackest kind of witchcraft54. Some old devilry of the heathen has lingered in that place, and the soul of my miserable55 parish is thirled to it. You will not find in Scotland a doucer bit, for there are no public sins and shortcomings. Man, there’s times when Woodilee seems as quiet and dead as a kirkyard. But there’s a mad life in its members, and at certain seasons it finds vent56. In the deeps of night and in the heart of the Wood there are things done of which it is shameful57 even to speak.”
“What witness have you?”
“My own eyes. I stumbled upon one of their hellish Sabbaths.”
“God be kind to us! I have heard tell of siccan things, and I have read of them in old books, but I never experienced them. I’m positive they’re not in Cauldshaw, for the place is ower bare and bright and the wind blows ower clean on our braes. There’s no cover for the abominations which must be done in darkness. But I have aye had a scunner of yon Wood. . . . It’s a queer thing the heart of man, Mr. David, and there’s that in my own that whiles terrifies me. The work of redemption is done in an instant, but the job of regeneration is a lifetime’s; and the holiest saint on his death-bed is but a bag of rottenness compared to the purity to which he shall yet attain58. And at times I’m tempted59 to think that our way and the Kirk’s way is not God’s way, for we’re apt to treat the natural man as altogether corrupt60, and put him under over~strict pains and penalties, whereas there’s matter in him that might be shaped to the purposes of grace. If there’s original sin, there’s likewise original innocence61. When I hear the lassie Katrine Yester singing about the door at Calidon, I have an assurance of God’s goodness as sharp as I ever got in prayer. If you ban this innocent joy it will curdle62 and sour, and the end will be sin. If young life may not caper63 on a spring morn to the glory of God, it will dance in the mirk wood to the Devil’s piping.”
Mr. Fordyce stopped short with a rueful face. “That’s for your own ear, Mr. David. If the bruit64 of what I have said came to the manse of Bold, Mr. Ebenezer would be for delating me to the Presbytery. But if it’s not orthodox it’s good sense.”
“I doubt orthodoxy is no salve against sin,” said David. “The devils, it is written, believe and tremble, and it’s my surmise65 that the leader of the witches’ coven in Woodilee could stand his ground with Bold himself on matters of doctrine.”
“You have formidable foes66.”
“I have a whole parish, for even those who are free of guilt67 are too timid to lift a hand. Likewise I have my Kirk Session.”
Mr. Fordyce exclaimed.
“And it looks like I will have the Presbytery. I’m in ill odour with Mr. Muirhead for dividing Israel, and to Mr. Proudfoot I smack68 of heresy.”
“You’ve aye gotten me on your side,” said Mr. Fordyce. “No that I’m much of a fighter, for my bowels melt and my speech sticks in my throat and I sit like a dumb ox, and syne69 mourn on my bed in the night watches that I have been found wanting. But my heart is with you, Mr. David, and what voice my infirmities permit me, and you’ll be never out of my prayers. . . . Come to Cauldshaw whenever ye long for speech with a friend. I can aye give you sympathy if I canna give you counsel.”
But when David three days later turned his horse in the direction of Cauldshaw, it was not to the manse he went, but to the tower of Calidon. For Katrine Yester had become for him the only light on his path. She personified the cause for which he fought, the fair world that stood in contrast to the obscene shades, and since their last meeting in Paradise she was no longer a flitting wood-nymph, but a woman of flesh and blood and heart. He longed to see her in the house where she dwelt and among her own people.
But there was no Katrine in Calidon that afternoon, for she had gone to the greenwood. It was a still day of July in which no cloud tempered the heat of the sun, but the great upper chamber70 in the tower was cool and dusky. He asked for Mistress Saintserf, and was received by that grim lady in state, for she kept him waiting while she donned a new toy and kerchief for the occasion. She spoke71 a Scots as broad as any shepherd’s wife, but the sharp vowels72 of Edinburgh took the place of the softer Border tones. Large and gaunt and domineering, her high-nosed face and prim4 mouth were mellowed73 by an audacious humour. Katrine had clearly never spoken of him (at which he was glad), but she knew him by repute and by his connection with the miller75 of the Roodfoot. She entertained him with shortcake of her own baking and elder wine of her own brewing76, and her tone mingled77 the deference78 of a good woman towards a spiritual guide and the freedom of an old woman towards a young man.
“That gilpie o’ mine suld have been here, but she’s awa’ to the hill. As weel try to keep a young juke frae the water as Katrine frae stravaigin’ the countryside. And her bred denty in France and England whaur there are nae hills! If she had a joe [sweetheart] I wad say nocht, but she has nae joe but the whaups.”
He asked concerning Nicholas Hawkshaw.
“And that’s speirin’!” she cried. “He’s fechtin’ and him a lameter, but whaur he’s fechtin’ and in what cause the Lord alone kens79! Since he gaed off wi’ Tam Purves three months syne sorrow a word has come frae him. He’s maybe in England and maybe in France, and maybe ryngin’ with Montrose, and I’ll wager80, wherever he is, him and his swird and Tam and his firelock are in the het o’t. Ye’ll no fetter81 a Hawkshaw, and they can nae mair bide82 in the ae place than a puddock on a brae, as my puir sister that was married on him kenned19 ower weel. And the same bluid’s in Katrine, wha suld hae been a laddie, and a tinkler laddie, for it’s no her that will mind her seam or watch the pot when the sun’s shinin’. She’s a fine lassie for a’ that, but by ordinar’ forgetfu’. I wish I saw her wed74.”
Of Woodilee she had many questions to ask.
“It’s a’ Hawkshaw land, but I never likit the folk. There’s a wheen fosy bodies yonder, wha pray mair with their tongues than their hearts, and they’re as keen at a niffer [bargain] as a Musselburgh wabster — aye wi’ the puir face and the greetin’ word when it comes to payin’ siller. Auld Dobbie in Murchison’s Close — he’s our doer [man of business], ye maun ken, as his father was afore him — he has had mony a sair tuilzie for our bits o’ rents. Now that Nicholas is at the wars it’s my shouther that has to carry the burden, and there’s never a post frae Embro but brings me Dobbie’s scribin’. Ye’ll ken that the mailin’ o’ Crossbasket is to let, and whaur am I to get a guid tenant83 wi’ the land in siccan a steer84?”
David told her the news he had heard at Kirk Aller.
“Keep us a’!” she cried. “God send Nicholas binna wi’ Montrose, or we’ll hae him and Tam Purves here rauvagin’ his ain lands, and if Argyll gets the upper hand they’ll be glorifyin’ God at the end o’ a tow in the Grassmarket. Hech, sir, we’re surely faun on the latter days when, it is written, confusion will be on the people. I’m for the Kirk, but they tell me Montrose is likewise for the Kirk as he conceives it, and between her twa well-wishers it’s like our auld Sion will get uncoly mishandled. But I hae nae broo o’ poalitics. My poalitics is just an auld wife’s poalitics that wants to be left in peace by her fireside. . . . But ye say Montrose is mairchin’ south? He’ll be for England, and that means the road by Aller Water. I’ll hae to kilt my coats and pit the tower o’ Calidon in a state of defence against Nicholas or ony ither, for if I let the laird intil his ain house we’ll hae to answer for’t before the Privy85 Council.”
It was plain that Mistress Saintserf was not ill-pleased with David, for she talked freely and would hardly let him go.
“Ye’re ower young for the sacred callin’,” she told him when at last he took his leave. “And ye’re ower wise-like a man for a minister. Saunts suld hae weak stomachs, like our ain Mr. Fordyce; it gars them sit loose to earthly affections.”
“I would put up with his affliction if I could get one-half of his goodness,” said David.
“‘Deed that’s weel spoken. I’m sure o’ Heaven if I can get haud o’ the strings86 of Mr. James’s cloak. Never heed87 an auld wife’s clavers. Come back and prie our grosarts when they’re ripe, and if ye see that lass o’ mine on the hill tell her I’m waitin’ for her wi’ a besom.”
On his way home David had no sight of Katrine, but the next afternoon he met her in Paradise. She came to him smiling and friendly as a boy.
“You have been to Calidon and seen Aunt Grizel. I congratulate you on your conquest, sir, for my aunt is now your devout88 partisan89 and you have won another friend in this countryside. But what is this news of the Lord Marquis?”
They whiled away the summer afternoon with talk, rambling90 sometimes through the oak glades91, but always returning to the nook by the spring, while David kept a jealous eye on the declining sun. The girl must be well on her way to Calidon before the first dusk began. When he came again they did not talk of his troubles, nor even of Montrose, but of little things — her childhood in France, her kin53, the tales of the glen, his own youth at Edinburgh College. For she was not an ally so much as a refuge. When he was with her he was conscious that the world was still large and sunlit, the oppression lifted from his spirit, he saw himself not only victor in the quarrel, but a messenger of God with a new gospel to perplexed92 mankind.
One evening, when he had seen the girl descend93 through the hazels to the Rood vale, and had turned back towards the shoulder of the Hill of Deer, he saw a man’s figure slanting94 across the hill as if coming from Melanudrigill. It was Reiverslaw, but though their paths all but intersected the farmer did not stop to talk. He waved a hand in greeting. “Ye suld gie a look in at the Greenshiel,” he shouted. “They tell me Richie Smail is in need of consolation95.”
David took the hint, passed word to Richie, and the next evening met Reiverslaw in the herd’s cottage. “Tak’ a look round the faulds, Richie,” said the master. “Me and the minister has something to say to ither,” and the two were left alone in the dim sheiling.
“I’ve been spyin’ oot the land,” said Reiverslaw, “like the lads that Joshua sent afore him into Canaan. I canna say I likit the job, but I’ve been through the Wud east and west, and I’ve found the bit whaur the coven meets aside the auld altar. I think I could find the road till’t on the blackest nicht. And I’ve been speirin’ judeeciously in Woodilee.”
“But surely they did not answer?”
The dark face of the farmer had a crooked96 grin.
“Trust me, I was discreet97. But I’ve a name for takin’ a stoup ower muckle, and when the folk thocht I was fou, my lugs were as gleg as a maukin’s. They’re preparin’ for another Sabbath, and it fa’s on the Lammas Eve. On that nicht you and me maun tak’ the Wud.”
David shivered, and the man saw it.
“The flesh is weak,” he said, “and I’m feelin’ like that mysel’. But you an’ me are no the anes to pit our hand to the plew-stilts and turn back. Mr. Sempill, are ye young enough to speel a tree?”
“I was a great climber as a laddie.”
“Weel, ye’ll hae to be a laddie aince again. And I’ll tell ye mair. Ye’ll hae to leave this place afore the Lammas-tide. Is there ony bit ye can bide at, not abune twenty miles frae Woodilee?”
“There is my cousin at Newbiggin.”
“Weel, to Newbiggin ye gang, and your departure maun be public. Crack about it for days afore. Tell the auld wife at the manse and deave her wi’ your preparations. For, if you’re no oot o’ the parish in guid time, ye’ll be lockit in your chamber, as ye were on the second Beltane. And ye maun be in the Wud that nicht as a witness, for there’s just us twasome, you and me, and we maun be witnesses that the Presbytery and the Sheriff and the Lords in Embro cannot deny.”
“I see that. But have you found out nothing more in Woodilee?”
“I’ve gotten a hantle o’ suspeecions. Man, ye’d wonder to see how chief me and Chasehope are these days. I’ve been ower to see his English bull, and I’ve ta’en his advice about sheep, and I’ve sell’t him a score o’ gimmers at a price that made me voamit. He thinks I’m a dacent, saft, through-ither body, wi’ his wits sair fuddled by strong drink, and has nae back-thochts o’ ane that’s just clay in his hands. . . . Ay, and I’ve been payin’ muckle attention to his hen-house. His wife, ye maun ken, is a notable hen-wife, and she has a red cock that there’s no the like o’ in the countryside. I took Rab Prentice up wi’ me to Chasehope toun, and I bade Rab tak’ special note o’ the red cock.”
“But I do not see the purpose . . . ”
“Ye needna — yet. Ye’ll be tell’t in guid time. I’m thinkin’ o’ the process afore the Presbytery, and it’s witnesses I’m seekin’. I hae twa honest men, my herds98 Richie Smail and Rab Prentice, but Richie’s ower auld to tak’ the Wud and Hirplin’ Rab wad dee afore he would pit his neb inside it. So there’s just you and me for the chief job, though the ither twa will hae their uses.”
The imminence99 of the trial made David’s heart sick, for he had now brooded for three months on the mysteries of the Wood, whereas at Beltane he had stumbled upon them in hot blood unwittingly. He was confident in his cause, but he believed most firmly that the Devil in person would be his antagonist100, and the cool tones of Reiverslaw struck him with admiration101 and awe102.
“Man, you speak as calm as if you were making ready for a clipping. Is it that you do not believe in the power of Satan?”
“I believe in God,” said the man, “and I’ve seen ower muckle o’ the world no to believe in the Deil. But I’ll no be feared o’ a Deil that misguides auld wives and tak’s up wi’ rotten peats like Chasehope, and though he comes in a brimstane lowe I’ll hae a nick at him.”
Then began for David a time of doubt and heart-searching. He could not share the robust103 confidence of Reiverslaw, for his memory of Beltane was too clear and he had lived too long under its shadows. His imagination, always quick and easily kindled104, ran riot, and he saw the Wood as an abode105 of horrid106 mysteries, which spread into subtle ramifications107 of evil the more he pondered them. His secular108 learning was so much fuel to this fire. Courage did not fail him, but brightness died out of his world, and he knew himself condemned109 to tread a dark winepress alone.
It was the thought of Katrine that most disquieted110 him. The Wood, the whole parish, the very mission on which he was engaged, seemed to him one vast pollution, to be kept hidden for ever from youth and innocence. The girl must not be allowed to come within sight of the skirts of it. There could be no friendship between them, and it was his first duty to warn her.
So when they met in Paradise it was a shamefaced young man that stood before her, a young man with a white face who kept his eyes on the ground and spoke terrible things. Words came unreadily, but his broken speech was more moving than eloquence111. He bade her keep to the clean precincts of Calidon and come not even near the greenwood. God’s curse was on the parish, and in the judgment112 preparing innocent might share with guilty. As for himself, he was no friend for such as she.
“I am too heavily burdened,” he stammered113. “I must touch pitch, and my hands will be defiled114. I will blight115 your youth with my dark duties. . . . I will never come again to this place, and I plead with you to come no more, for it is too near the Enemy’s country. . . . Go now, I beg of you, and forget that you have ever seen me and called me friend. You will torture me if you bide. . . . ”
There was more of the same sort, and then David stopped, confident that he had done his purpose, and that no proud girl would linger in the face of such a warning. He waited, very cold and lonely at heart, and he thought he heard her departing feet on the grass.
But when he raised his eyes she had not moved, and her face was smiling.
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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7
covenanted
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的过去分词 ) | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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lugs
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| 钎柄 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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confession
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kenned
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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zeal
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impatience
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bent
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eyebrows
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auld
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reproof
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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devoted
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pervert
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| n.堕落者，反常者；vt.误用，滥用；使人堕落，使入邪路 | |
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32
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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33
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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34
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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35
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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36
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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37
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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38
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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39
construing
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的现在分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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40
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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41
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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42
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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43
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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44
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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45
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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46
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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47
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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48
dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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49
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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50
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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51
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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53
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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54
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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55
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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56
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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57
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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58
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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59
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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60
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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61
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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62
curdle
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| v.使凝结，变稠 | |
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63
caper
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| v.雀跃，欢蹦；n.雀跃，跳跃；续随子，刺山柑花蕾；嬉戏 | |
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64
bruit
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| v.散布；n.（听诊时所听到的）杂音；吵闹 | |
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65
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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66
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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67
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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68
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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69
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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70
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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71
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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72
vowels
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| n.元音，元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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73
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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74
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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75
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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76
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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77
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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78
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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79
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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80
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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81
fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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82
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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83
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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84
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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85
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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86
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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87
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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88
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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89
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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90
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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91
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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92
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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93
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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94
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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95
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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96
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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97
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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98
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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99
imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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100
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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101
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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102
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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103
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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104
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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105
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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106
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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107
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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108
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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109
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
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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111
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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112
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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113
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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115
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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