Isobel, whose face was now always heavy with unspoken news, he kept at a distance, for in these days he was trying to make peace with his soul. By day and by night, on the hills and in his closet, he examined himself to find in his conscience cause of offence. He went over every step in his past course and could discover no other way than that he had followed. He could not see matter for blame in an act of common charity, though Old Testament9 precedents10 might be quoted against it; nor could he blame himself for his war against the things of the Wood. If he read his duty more by the dispensation of Christ than of Moses, it was Christ whom he had been ordained11 to preach. . . . Of Katrine he scarcely suffered himself to think. She was a thing too fine and gracious to be touched with such doleful cares. Yet it was the thought of her which kept youth alive in him, and in his dreariest12 moments gave him a lift of the heart. When he looked down from the Hill of Deer on the dark shroud13 of Melanudrigill and beside it the shaws of birch and hazel which stretched towards Calidon, he saw his strife14 as a thing natural and predestined, and he himself as only a puppet in the grip of primordial15 powers. The thought gave him the confidence which springs from humility16.
On the Sabbath he preached from a text in Ecclesiastes: “So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun: and behold17 the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power; but they had no comforter.” His hearers looked no doubt for some topical word, but they did not find it; few realized the meaning of a discourse18 which David preached rather to himself than to others. It was a confession19 of faith, a plea for personal religion, and an anathema20 against shibboleths21 and formulas which did not dwell in the heart. So long as religion is a pawn22 in a game of politics — the argument ran — so long will there be oppressors and oppressed, with truth the perquisite23 of neither side, and therefore comfort to none. . . . The congregation was notably24 reduced, for the five elders and their families were absent. But there was one new figure who sat modestly in the back parts of the kirk. It was that of a man of middle age, dressed like the other farmers in homespun, but holding himself with a spruceness rare in a place where men and women were soon bowed in the shoulders by unremitting toil25. His cheeks were shaven, so that he stood out from the others, since, besides the minister, only Chasehope was unbearded. His skin was as brown as a hazel-nut, and though the face was composed to a decent gravity, there was a vigour26 in the lines of it which spoke7 of a life not always grave. The man had a blue bonnet27 of a pattern common nearer the Border — smaller than the ordinary type which came from the Westlands — and after the fashion of Cheviot and Liddesdale he had a checked plaid of the kind called shepherds’ tartan. But in the cast in the left eye, shown by a sudden lifting of the face, he revealed his identity.
The stranger did not wait to speak to the minister, but David found Amos Ritchie at the kirkyard gate, and asked concerning him. “It’s the new man that has ta’en the tack29 o’ Crossbasket,” was the answer. “He’s frae the far Borders — Jeddart way, they tell me — and it’s no easy to understand the wild hill tongue o’ him. But he’s a decent, weel-spoken body, and it seems he’s a skilly fairmer and a graund judge o’ sheep. He has stockit his mailin’ weel, and has a full hirsel on Windyways. . . . Na, he’s a single man and bauds to himsel’, though he has a name for a guid neebor.”
Amos accompanied the minister to the manse, and there was a shy friendliness30 in his air, as if he regretted the estrangement31 of the summer. He spoke only of weather and crops, but his manner suggested a desire to say something by way of encouragement. Only at the manse gate, however, did he find utterance32. “If there’s deep waters to be crossed, sir, I’ll ride the ford33 wi’ ye,” he muttered as he turned away.
Presently it was apparent that a change had come over the parish. David’s doings in the summer had puzzled and alarmed it; even those with a clear conscience had thought of him as a danger to their peace and good repute. But now that he was himself in dire34 trouble, and indicted35 before the Presbytery, there was a revulsion in his favour; his friendliness was remembered, his kindness in the winter storms, his good looks and his youth. He had his own party in the place, a party composed of strange elements. There were in it noted professors like Richie Smail and Rab Prentice; Isobel and her kin6 were hot on his side; Reiverslaw, of course, many of the frequenters of Lucky Weir’s ale-house, and all who from poverty or misdeeds were a little blown upon. If the Pharisees and Scribes were against him, he had the publicans and sinners. Also he had the children. By some secret channel the word had gone round in the circles of childhood that their friend was in trouble, and in queer ways they showed their affection. The girls would bring him posies; bowls of wild rasps and blaeberries would be left at the manse; and often on the doorstep Isobel found an offering of guddled trout36 neatly37 strung on rushes. Daft Gibbie, too, had become a partisan38. He would dog David’s footsteps, and when spoken to would only reply with friendly pawings and incoherent gabble. He would swing his stick as if it were a flail39. “Sned them, sir,” he would cry, “sned them like thristles.”
But the comfort of the atmosphere in which he now moved was marred40 for David by the conduct of Reiverslaw. That worthy41 had been absent in Nithsdale when Philiphaugh was fought, and did not return till the week after the battle. It would seem that the general loss of stock due to the disturbances42 had benefited his pocket; he had sold his hog-lambs to advantage, and had had a prosperous deal in black cattle with Leslie’s quartermaster. By the middle of October the work on the hill farms was all but over for the year, and Reiverslaw was a leisured man. Whether the cause was the new access of wealth or the excitements of Lammas, he fell into evil courses. There was word of brawls43 in ale-houses as far apart as Lanark and Kirk Aller, and he would lie for days in Lucky Weir’s, sleeping off potations, only to renew them in the morning. His language coarsened, his tongue grew more unbridled, his aptitude45 for quarrels increased till he became a nuisance in the village and a public scandal. “A bonny friend ye’ve gotten in Andra Shillinglaw,” Isobel said bitterly. “For three days he has been as fou as the Baltic, and cursin’ like a cornet o’ horse.” David made several attempts to reason with him, penetrating46 to the back parts of the ale-house, but got no reply but tipsy laughter and owlish admonitions. It looked ill for the credit of his principal witness.
The call of Calidon was always in his ears, but he did not yield to it. October brought a fortnight of drenching47 rains, and Katrine came no more to Paradise. He could not bring himself to seek her in her home, for he dared not compromise her. Already a nameless woman appeared in the tales against him, and he would have died sooner than let the woman’s identity be revealed. From her he had had kindness and comradeship, but these things were not love, and how could he ask for love when every man’s hand was against him and he could offer nothing but companionship in disrepute? . . . But loneliness weighed on him, and he longed to talk with two especially — the minister of Cauldshaw and the new tenant49 of Crossbasket. But when he rode one afternoon to Cauldshaw, it was not only the minister’s self that drew him there, but the remembrance that the Calidon household were among his parishioners.
Mr. Fordyce was scarcely recovered of an autumn ague, and his little bookroom was as bleak50 and damp as a grave. He sat in a wooden armchair, propped51 up with pillows, nightcap on head, a coarse drugget dressing-gown round his shoulders, and two pairs of stockings on his thin shanks. His wife was sick a-bed, outside the rain dripped steadily52, there was no fireplace in the chamber53, and gloom muffled54 it like a shroud. Yet Mr. James was casting a horoscope, and mild and patient as ever.
“Tell me the whole story, Mr. David, for I’ve heard naught55 but rumour56. They say you’ve fallen out sorely with Mr. Mungo at Kirk Aller.”
David recounted the events of the past months, beginning with Lammastide in the Wood, and ending with his last visit to Mr. Muirhead, The other heard him out with many sighs and exclamations57, and mused58 for a little when he had finished.
“You havena been over-gentle with the Moderator,” he said. “Far be it from me, that am so imperfect, to impute59 error to a brother, but you canna deny that you took a high line with Mr. Mungo.”
“I was within my rights in refusing to obey his suspension. He had no resolution of the Presbytery behind him.”
“Maybe no. But was there no excess of vehemence60, Mr. David, in defying one who is your elder? Would not the soft word have availed better? You seem to have spoken to him like a dominie to a school bairn.”
“Oh, I do not deny that I was in a temper, but if I was angry it was surely with a righteous anger. Would you have me let that black business of the Wood be smothered61 just because Chasehope, with his sleek62 face and his cunning tongue, has imposed on the Presbytery? And for the charge against myself, would you, I ask you, have refused succour to any poor soul that came seeking it, though his sins were scarlet63 on him?”
“I’ll not say. I’m a timid man by nature, and I’m so deeply concerned with my own state towards God that I’m apt to give other duties the go-by — the more shame to me! In the matter of the Wood I think you have done honestly and bravely, and I doubt I wouldna have had the courage to do likewise myself. The Lord be thankit that such a perplexity never came my way!. .. As for Montrose’s man, what am I to say? Mr. Mungo will quote Scripture64 against you, and it’s not for me to deny the plenary inspiration of the whole Word, though I whiles think the Kirk in Scotland founds a wee thing over much on the Old Testament and forgets the New. But I can see great trouble for you there, Mr. David, for the view of Kirk Aller will be the view of the Presbytery — and the view of the General Assembly, if the thing ever wins that far.”
“But what would you yourself have done in like case? Would you have turned the suppliant65 from your doors?”
“I do not know. To be honest with you, I do not know. I am a weak vessel66, and very fearful. But in such a case I should pray — ay, I should pray to be given strength — to do as you did, Mr. David.”
The young man smiled. “I’ve got the comfort I wanted. I’m content to be judged by you, for you are nearer the Throne than the whole Presbytery of Aller and the Merse.”
“No, no. Dinna say that. I’m the feeblest and poorest of God’s servants, and at the moment I’m weakening on what I said, and doubting whether a man should not bow to lawful67 authority, and cultivate a humble68 spirit, as the first of the Christian69 graces. What for did our Lord found the Kirk if it wasna to be obeyed?”
“Bide70 where you were, Mr. James. What kind of a Presbyterian would you make yourself out? By your way we should be still under the bondage71 of Rome, because Rome was once the lawful authority. A bonny Covenanter, you! If the Kirk constrains72 conscience unduly73, and makes a tyranny out of Christian freedom, then the Kirk is no more to be respected than the mass the old priests mumbled74 in Woodilee.”
Mr. Fordyce smiled wanly75. “I daresay you’re in the right. But what a tangle76 for an honest man! You’ve taken the high road, Mr. David, and I must keep jogging along the low road, for there’s but the two of them. A man must either jouk and let the jaw77 go bye, as the owercome says, or he must ride the whirlwind. I have been given the lown downsetting, where I can nourish my own soul and preach Christ to the best of my power, and let the great matters of Kirk and State pass me, as a man hears the blast when he sits by his fireside. It is for stronger spirits like you to set your face to the storm. Alack and alas78, I’m no fierce Elijah to break down the temples of Baal, and I’m no John Knox to purge79 the commonwealth80 of Israel. If you go forward in God’s name, my dear young man, you’ll have a hard road to travel, but you’ll have the everlasting81 arms to support you. . . . But oh, sir, see that you fight in the Lord’s strength, and not in your own. Cultivate a meek82 and contrite83 spirit, for I suspect that there is a good leaven84 of the old Adam in your heart.”
“That’s a true word. There’s an unregenerate heat of temper in me at which I often tremble.”
“And you must keep your walk and conversation most pure and circumspect85. Let there be no cause of reproach against you save what comes from following your duty.” Mr. Fordyce hesitated a little. “There was word of another count in Mr. Mungo’s complaint anent you. . . . Wasna there some tale of a woman?”
David laughed.
“The Queen of the Fairies, Mr. Muirhead says, though he does not believe in her. . . . I have a confession to make to you, Mr. James, which I would make to no other ear. I have met with a lady in the Wood, for indeed she was engaged with me in the same errand of mercy. I had met with her before that, and I count the days till I may meet with her again. It is one whom you know — Katrine Yester.”
“Mistress Katrine!” Mr. Fordyce cried out. “The young lassie from Calidon. Mr. David, Mr. David, is this not a queer business for a minister of the Kirk? Forbye that she is of a house that is none too friendly to our calling — though far be it for me to deny her Christian graces — forbye that, I say, she is of the high gentrice. What kind of wife would she be for a poor Gospel preacher?”
“Oh, man, there’s no question of wife. You make me blush to hear you. The lady would never think of me any more than an eagle would mate with a throstle. But a minister is a man like the lave [rest], and this one is most deeply in love, though he has not the thousandth part of a hope. There’s no shame in an honest love, which was a blessing86 given to man by God’s own self in Eden.”
“It’s a matter I ken8 little of,” said Mr. Fordyce shyly. “Me and Annie have been that long wedded87 that we’ve forgot what our wooing was like. She wasna by-ordinar in looks, I mind, but she had a bonny voice, and she had mense and sense and a fine hand for making apple jeely. . . . Mistress Katrine! You fly high, David, but I wouldna say — I wouldna say. . . . Anyway you’ve a well-wisher in me. . . . But Katrine Yester!”
David left the minister of Cauldshaw ingeminating that name, and in a blink of fine weather set out on his way home. He was on foot and beyond Reiverslaw, where the road first runs out of the birks to the Hill of Deer, when he was overtaken by a horseman. The mount was no farmer’s shelty or minister’s garron, but a mettled chestnut90 mare91, with marks of breed in head and paces, and he who rode her was the new tacksman of Crossbasket.
In that open bright place there could be no eavesdropper92. The rider dismounted and flung his arms round the minister.
“I pay my debt,” he cried, “by becoming your dutiful parishioner, your next-door neighbour, and your faithful hearer ilka Sabbath. . . . Danger, you say. Man, the darkest hidy-hole is just under the light, and the best sanctuary93 for a hunted man is where he is not expected. They’re riping the ports for Mark Kerr, once captain of Mackay’s and till late a brigadier under the King’s Captain-general, but they’ll no trouble about honest Mark Riddel, a plain farmer-body from Teviotside, that comes up Aller seeking a better tack and has mair knowledge of sheep than any herd28 on the hills. And Mark will pay his way with good white siller, and will be a kind neighbour at kirk and market. My Roxburghe kin are buried deep, but there’s folk in Woodilee already that mind of my great~aunt that was married into Annandale, and my cousin once removed that was a herd in Megget. Trust an old soldier for making a fine palisado around him of credible94 lees. I run no risk save the new ones that I make for myself, and I’m in no mind for that, for a peaceful year or two will be good for my soul, till I see whatna way the cat jumps. Montrose must get him abroad, and if I’m to bide quiet let it be in my own countryside and not in a stinking95 foreign city. . . . But for yourself, Mr. David? From all I hear you’ve been making an ill bed to lie on.”
They sat down in the roadside heather, and David brought up to date the tale which he had first told him in the deeps of the Wood. To unburden himself to this man was a greater comfort than his talk at Cauldshaw, for this was one accustomed to desperate straits and chances, and of a spirit more akin89 to his own. The soldier whistled and looked grave.
“Faith, you’ve stirred up the hornets, and it’s not easy to see where you will get the sulphur to smoor them. There’s much in common between you and my Lord Marquis. You see the ills of the land and make haste to redd them, but you have no great notion of what is possible.”
“You would not have had me do otherwise?”
“No, no. I like your spirit fine, and beyond doubt you’ve taken the honest road. But we live in a pitiful world, where honesty is an ill-requited trade; and you’ve let yourself be forced into defence, whilk is an unpleasant position for a campaigner. . . . Count me on your side, but let me take my own gait. It winna do for you and me to appear to be chief [friendly] in public. I’ll make haste to conciliate the mammon of unrighteousness — whilk I take to be Chasehope — so dinna wonder if you hear that the two of us are like brothers. But it’s the Kirk I fear, your own sacred calling, Mr. David. One shilpit body in bands and a Geneva gown, the way things are guided now, is more powerful than a troop of horse, and less easy to get upsides with. . . . Still and on, I’m at hand across the glebe, and we’ll no be beat for lack of good contriving96. The night’s the time, when we can step across and collogue at our ease.”
To have the soldier at Crossbasket gave a lift to David’s spirit. But at first he saw him rarely, for it was wise to let the man settle down in the place before appearing in his company, lest people should suspect a previous friendship. Mark Riddel appeared to be for ever on the move, and the minister met him oftenest on the Rood road — generally in the early darkness. It pleased him to think that his neighbour was visiting Calidon, for it seemed to bring Katrine nearer. But he made no effort to see the girl himself. With the fall of the leaf the season for Paradise had gone, and he could not seek her at home till he had unravelled97 the tangle of his own perplexities.
The chief of them was the approach of Hallowmass. He was determined98 not for one moment to forgo88 his charge against Chasehope and his coven, whatever the counter-charge against himself might be, and if necessary to go in person again to the Wood. But his chief ally, Reiverslaw, spent his days drinking soddenly99 in the clachan, and when he sought him out at the ale-house he got nothing but fuddled laughter. Then one morning he found him on the hill, and apparently100 in a better mind.
“My ran-dan is bye,” said Reiverslaw sullenly101. “Ye’ve cause to upbraid102 me, sir, and no words o’ yours can be waur than what I gie mysel’. It’s apt to take me that way at this time o’ year, and I think black burnin’ shame that I should be sae thirled to the fauts o’ the flesh — drinking like a swine in a stye among folk that, when sober, I wadna touch wi’ a graip’s end. I’m no better than the beasts that perish. But I’ve fand out ae thing in these humblin’ days. There’ll be nae Wud at Hallowmass. The folk we ken o’ dinna fancy the Wud aince the Lammas is bye, and it’s the clachan itsel’ that will see their next cantrips.”
“But there is no place that could contain them —” David began.
“I ken, but they maybe follow some ither gait. I’ll be in the kirkton that nicht — na, na, ye needna fear for me, I’ll no gang near the hostler-wife — the verra thocht o’ yill and usquebagh staws [sickens] me. But I’ll be there, and you maun be in the manse, and we’ll guide our gait according to what the nicht brings forth103. I’ll wager104 Chasehope will no be long out o’ my sicht, and if he meddles105 wi’ me he’ll find me waur than the Deil’s oxter. . . . Keep a watch on yoursel’ that day, sir, for there’s mony will wish ye out o’ the clachan.”
The last day of October came, and David rose to find that the rain had gone, and that over the drenched106 hills had dawned a morning as bright as April. He spent the forenoon in distracted study, striving to keep his mind on printed pages, but his restlessness was such that after dinner it sent him to the moors107. He took his old road for the Rood tops, and by three o’clock had reached the pass from Clyde, where in July he had had his talk with Reiverslaw.
The earth was soaked with the October rains, and as the sun’s power declined in the afternoon a mist began to creep out of the glens. Insensibly the horizon shortened, the bold summit of Herstane Craig became a blur108 and then was hidden in clouds, the light wind of the morning died away, and over the land crept a blind eerie109 stillness. David turned for home, and long before he had reached the crest110 above Reiverslaw the fog was down on him. It was still a gossamer111 covering through which it was possible to see a hundred yards ahead, but objects stood up in it in unfamiliar112 outlines — a sheepfold like a city wall, a scrag of rowan like a forest tree.
A monstrous113 figure appeared in the dimness, which presently revealed itself as a man on horseback. David saw that it was Mark on his chestnut.
“Well met,” the man cried. “I’m pushing for home, for I’m getting the yowes to the infield, but I saw you before the mist dropped and I guessed I would find you here. There’s a friend of yours up bye that would be blithe114 to see you — up the rig from the auld48 aik on the road to the Greenshiel.” With no further word Mark touched his mare and went off at a canter.
The friend, thought David, would be Richie Smail, who might have some message to him from Reiverslaw. So he turned as directed past the root of oak towards the ridge115 of the hill. In twenty yards a figure loomed116 before him, a figure on a horse. He fancied it was Mark returning, till as he drew nearer he saw that it was no man that sat the black gelding and peered into the thick weather.
It flashed through his mind that Mark had sent him here on purpose. And then something came into his soul which he had never known before, a reckless boldness, a wild joy which caught at his heart. The girl was looking away from him, and did not turn her head till he was close on her and had spoken.
“Mistress Katrine,” he cried breathlessly.
She looked down on him, her face rosy117, her hair bedabbled with the mist jewels. She did not start at his approach. Was it possible that she was expecting him?
“What does the minister on the hill?” she asked.
“What does Mistress Katrine? It will be a thick night and you are still far from Calidon.”
She was dressed all in green, with a kirtle which scarcely reached her ankles and left her foot in the stirrup clear. The feather from her green hat hung low over her curls. David had never seen a woman gloved and booted for the hunt, and in that hour and in that wild place the apparition118 was as strange and as beautiful as a dream.
“I took out the hawks119 this morning with Edie the falconer, for the mallards were flighting over from Clyde. Edie went back an hour ago with the birds, and I lingered to watch the mist creep up. Maybe I have lingered too long.”
“That was good fortune for me,” he said. “I have not dared to come seeking you, but now that we are met I will convoy120 you to Calidon. Presently the world will be like the inside of a feather bed.”
She made no protest, when he laid his hand on her bridle44 to turn her horse, and as he stole a look at her he saw that she was smiling. That smile sent a tremor121 through him so that he forgot every care and duty. He and she were enclosed in a magical world — together and alone as they had never been before. . . . He felt that he could bring her safely through raging rivers and across mountains of stone, that for her he could scale the air and plough the hills, that nothing was impossible which she commanded. They two could make of the world a song and a rapture122. So deep was his transport that he scarcely heard her voice when she spoke.
“I have been hearing of your troubles, Mr. David. He whom we must call Mark Riddel has told me.”
“I have no troubles,” he cried. “Now that I see you the world is altogether good.”
“Will you tell that to the Presbytery?” she asked, laughing.
“I will tell it to the broad earth — if you give me leave.”
A momentary123 confusion came over her. She slightly checked her horse, and as the ground shelved the beast stumbled. The slip brought her in contact with David’s shoulder, and before she knew his hand was laid on hers.
“Oh, my dear, my dear,” he cried. “Katrine, I must say it . . . I am daft for love of you. . . . Since I first saw you down in the greenwood your two eyes have been sun and moon to me. Your face — God forgive me — comes between me and the Word. There are times when I cannot pray for thinking of you. . . . It’s nothing I ask of you, Katrine, but just leave to tell you. What was it your song said? —‘There’s nane for me but you, my love’— and oh! it’s the gospel truth.”
She did not reply, but her hand did not move under his. They were descending124 the hill towards Rood, and the fog had grown so thick that each to the other was only a shadow. Before it had enclosed them in a visible encirclement; now it seemed to have crept so near that it dislimned the outlines of horse and rider. He held her by touch rather than by sight, and this disembodiment seemed to give him courage.
“I seek nothing,” he said, “but that you should know my love. I am perplexed125 with coming battles, but so long as you’re in life there’s nothing can daunt126 me. I would not have you smirched with the stour of them, but if you’ll let me think of you and mind of you and whiles see you I’ll be as strong as Samson. The papist cries on his saints, and you are the saint whose name is written on my heart.”
Still she did not speak, and he cried out in alarm.
“Have I angered you? Forgive me — forgive me — but I had to speak. Not one other word more will I say till we are at Calidon door.”
Her answer, when it came, was strange, for it was a song crooned very softly:
“It’s love for love that I have got,
And love for love again.”
A great awe127 came over David and checked his breath — the awe of one who sees and yet does not believe, the answer to a hopeless prayer. His hand tightened128 on hers, but she slipped it away. “So turn,” she sang:
“So turn your high horse heid about
And we will ride for hame, my love,
And we will ride for hame.”
The hand which had moved from under his was laid on his head. Suddenly a face bent129 down towards him and a kiss as light as a bird’s wing brushed his forehead. He caught her to him from the saddle.
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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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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noted
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formerly
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kin
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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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ken
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testament
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precedents
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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dreariest
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shroud
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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primordial
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| adj.原始的；最初的 | |
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16
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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17
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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18
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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19
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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20
anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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21
shibboleths
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| n.（党派、集团等的）准则( shibboleth的名词复数 )；教条；用语；行话 | |
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22
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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23
perquisite
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| n.固定津贴，福利 | |
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24
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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25
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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26
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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27
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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28
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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29
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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30
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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31
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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32
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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33
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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34
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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35
indicted
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| 控告，起诉( indict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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37
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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38
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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39
flail
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| v.用连枷打；击打；n.连枷（脱粒用的工具） | |
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40
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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41
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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42
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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43
brawls
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| 吵架，打架( brawl的名词复数 ) | |
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44
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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45
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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46
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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47
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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48
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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49
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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50
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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51
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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53
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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54
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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55
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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56
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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57
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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58
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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59
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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60
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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61
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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62
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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63
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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64
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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65
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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66
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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67
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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68
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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69
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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70
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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71
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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72
constrains
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| 强迫( constrain的第三人称单数 )； 强使； 限制； 约束 | |
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73
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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74
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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76
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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77
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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78
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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79
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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80
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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81
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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82
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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83
contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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84
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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85
circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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86
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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87
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
forgo
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| v.放弃，抛弃 | |
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89
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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90
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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91
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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92
eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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93
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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94
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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95
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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96
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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97
unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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98
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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99
soddenly
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| 浸透的； 无表情的； 呆头呆脑的 | |
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100
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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101
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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102
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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103
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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104
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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105
meddles
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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107
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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109
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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110
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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111
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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112
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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113
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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114
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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115
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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116
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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117
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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118
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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119
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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120
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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121
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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122
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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123
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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124
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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125
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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126
daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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127
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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128
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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129
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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