His new fortitude2 was proof against even the news which Reiverslaw brought. That worthy3 arrived at the manse with a long face. The coven in Woodilee had held their Hallowmass rites4, and to the best of his belief they had held them in the kirk.. .. He had lost sight of Chasehope early in the evening, and had gone to Mirehope on a false scent5. . . . They had been watching the manse and knew that the minister was from home. . . . He had hastened up the road seeking David and had been overtaken by the fog, and when he got back to Woodilee the place had been under a blanket. Doubtless the Devil was protecting his own. . . . There had been no cruisies lit in the cottages, even of those who were known to be of the coven. But, as luck would have it, he had entered the kirkyard and had seen a speck7 of light in the kirk. The door was locked, but he was clear that there were folk inside. . . . He had roused Robb to get the key, but no key was to be found. He had gone for Amos Ritchie to break open the door, and though Amos had refused to stir, he had borrowed a mell and a crowbar; but when he reached the kirk, the place was quiet and dark again, and the keys were lying on Robb’s doorstep.
The man was really shocked, for this was a superfluity of naughtiness for which he had not been prepared. To David, with a memory of his Kirk Session, the sacrilege was less of a surprise; if men and women could defy their Maker8 by sitting at the communion table and by taking in vain the Gospel words, they would not shrink from polluting God’s house. But it proved the boldness and security of the evildoers. It was Chasehope of whom he chiefly thought, Chasehope, that darling of the Presbytery, the ally of the Kirk in hunting down malignants, the one in all the parish who flaunted9 most his piety10. The man grew in stature11 as he contemplated12 him. Here was no feeble sinner, but a very provost in the craft, who turned all the uses of religion to his foul13 purposes. And at the thought David, fired by his new happiness, almost rejoiced; he was fighting not with human frailty15, but against a resolute16 will to damnation.
That day he received a summons to attend on the following Monday upon a special meeting of Presbytery at Kirk Aller for a preliminary examination. The thing seemed to him now to have lost all terrors. He had no anger against his accusers, for were they not dull old men who knew nothing of the ravishing world that had been opened to him? He would be very meek17 with them, for he pitied them; if they chose to censure18 and degrade him he would bear it patiently. His extreme happiness made him feel more than ever in the hands of the Almighty19 and disposed to walk softly before Him. He had given many hostages to fortune, but he had won something which could never be taken away. Thankful and humble20 he felt, in love with life and with all humanity, and notably21 less bellicose22. His path of duty was clear, but he would not court antagonisms23. He owed much to the less fortunate, he who daily met Katrine in the greenwood or on the hill in the soft noons which make a false summer at autumn’s end.
So on the Sabbath he preached a sermon which was long spoken of in Woodilee. He discoursed25 of charity — a topic not popular in the Kirk, and commonly left to such as Mr. Fordyce who were afflicted26 with ill-health. For a young minister, his face ruddy with the hill winds and his figure as well set up as a dragoon’s, to expand on such a matter seemed a mere27 waste of precious time, when so many more marrowy28 subjects lay to his hand. Yet there was that in David’s earnestness which impressed his audience almost as much as if his sermon had been on death and judgment29. He had a new hearer. A man sat beneath the pulpit whose eyes never moved from the minister’s face — a mere lath of a man, thin to emaciation30, with a narrow head and a much-freckled face, a ragged31 beard, and eyes with red lights in them like a ferret’s. David noticed that, as the kirk emptied, the others seemed to shun32 the newcomer’s proximity33. As he moved to the door, there was a drift away from him, like sheep from a collie.
That night Isobel gave him news of the stranger.
“The pricker34 has come,” she announced in a solemn voice. “He arrived yestreen and is bidin’ wi’ Chasehope. Yon was him in the kirk the day, yon body wi’ the fernietickles [freckles] and the bleary een. They ca’ him Kincaid — John Kincaid, and he’s frae Newbottle way — anither than a guid ane, if a’ tales be true. Eh, sir, this is a shamefu’ business, routin’ out puir auld36 bodies and garrin’ them gie daft answers, and syne37 delatin’ them on what they ca’ their confessions38. There’s naebody safe that hasna a power o’ keepin’ a calm sough and giein’ back word for word. I wadna be feared mysel’ o’ ony Kincaid, but if you was to cross-speir me, Mr. David, wi’ your searchin’ een, I daresay ye could get me to own up to ony daftness ye liked to pit to me. I dinna aud wi’ this prickin’ o’ witches, and I can find nae warrant for it in the Word. Belike it’s some device that thae weary Embro lawyers hae howkit out o’ their rotten herts.”
As he rode to Kirk Aller next day David reflected much on Isobel’s tale. Who could have brought a pricker to Woodilee — and lodged40 him with Chasehope? Was it the work of the Presbytery? Was it a plan to cover up the major sin by hunting out minor41 sinners? He knew of the pricker class as of the worst repute, knaves42 and quacks43 who stirred up popular superstition44 and were responsible often for hideous45 brutalities. Even the Law looked askance at them. He did not like to be absent from his parish when such a creature was let loose in it.
The examination of the Presbytery lasted for two days. He had gone lightly to face it, but he found it a formidable affair. Business began with long prayers and prelections delivered to his address. The Moderator constituted the court with the formality of a Lord of Session and the solemnity of a minister fencing the tables at the Communion season. He announced that the matter for examination would be limited to the charge of assisting the Kirk’s enemies. The prior charge of witchcraft46 preferred by the minister of Woodilee against certain parishioners would be relegated47 to a later day, since the Privy48 Council on his motion had issued a commission to inquire into the machinations of the Devil in that parish, naming as its members himself, the minister of Bold, and the Laird of Killiequhair. This, thought David, explains the pricker. Mr. Muirhead added that he had moved in the matter at the request of a godly elder, known to all of them, Ephraim Caird in Chasehope.
The court was composed of the two score of ministers in the Presbytery, and only Mr. Fordyce was lacking, for he was once more stretched upon a bed of sickness. As it was only a preliminary examination there were no witnesses, since the object was to give the accused a chance of stating his case and so narrow the issue to be ultimately tried. The Moderator read aloud sworn statements, to which no names were appended, the names, as he explained, being reserved for the time when the complainants should appear in person. To David it was obvious that, though one of the statements was by a soldier of Leslie’s, the others must come from members of his own flock. There was nothing new in the details — the finding of the cavalier’s clothes in the manse outhouse, the interference with the troopers at the Greenshiel, and certain words spoken on that occasion; but what surprised him was the fact that the avowal49 which he had made to Mr. Muirhead was not set down. It was clear from the Moderator’s manner that he proposed to forget that episode, and was willing that David should deny any and every charge in the libel. Indeed he seemed to encourage such a course. “The Court will be glad,” he said, “if our young brother can blow away these most momentous51 charges. Everybody kens52 that among wars and rumours53 of war daft tales spring up, and that things are done in the confusion without ill intent, whilk are not defensible. It is the desire of all his brethren that Mr. Sempill shall go forth54 assoilzied of these charges, which are maybe to be explained by the carelessness of a domestic and the thoughtless words of a young man carried for a moment out of himself, and no doubt incorrectly reported.”
But David did not take the hint. He avowed55 frankly56 that he had entertained a fugitive57 of Montrose at the manse, and had assisted him to escape. Asked for the name, he refused to give it. He also confessed that he had endeavoured too late to protect an Irishwoman at the Greenshiel, and had spoken with candour his opinion of her persecutors.
“It is alleged,” said a heavy man, the minister of Westerton, “that you promised these poor soldiers eternal torments58, and them but doing their Christian59 duty, and that you mocked at them as inferior in valour to the reprobate60 Montrose.”
“No doubt a false report, Mr. Archibald,” said the Moderator. “It’s like that the worthy sodgers had been looking at the wine when it was red and werena that clear in their understanding.”
“I cannot charge my memory with what I said,” David replied, “but it may well have been as set forth. That, at any rate, was what I had it in my mind to say.”
A sigh of reprobation61 rose from the Court, and the Moderator shook his head. He honestly desired to give David a way of escape, not from any love he bore him, but for the credit of the Kirk. This, too, was the general feeling. As David looked over the ranks of his judges he saw stupidity, arrogance62, confusion, writ63 on many faces, but on none malevolence64. This Court would deal mildly with him, if he gave them the chance, for the sake of the repute of their common calling.
He laboured to be meek, but no answers, however soft, could disguise the fact that he and they looked upon things from standpoints eternally conflicting. It was suggested to him again and again that the stranger at the manse had been entertained by his housekeeper65, an ignorant woman and therefore the less reprehensible66, for had she not rolled up the clothes and hidden them in the byre, as the accused admitted? But David refused to shelter behind any misapprehension. He had admitted the man, what was done had been by his orders, and — this in reply to a question by the minister of Bold — what he had done he was prepared to do again. The close of the first day’s sederunt found the charges proven in substance by the admission, indeed by the vehement67 proclamation, of the accused.
For David there was no share in the clerical supper at the Cross Keys. He lay at a smaller inn in the Northgate, a resort of drovers and packmen, and spent such time as remained before bed in walking by Aller side, under the little hill crowned with kirk and castle, watching the salmon68 leap as they passed the cauld. Next day, the facts having been ascertained69 by admission, the Presbytery debated on principles, David was summoned to justify70 his conduct, and — with a prayer that he might be given humility71 — complied. With every sentence he rode deeper into the disapprobation of his hearers. He claimed that the cause of the helpless, however guilty, was the cause of Christ. Should a starving enemy be turned from the door, even though it was an enemy of the Kirk’s?
“Man, can ye no distinguish?” thundered the minister of Bold. “Have you no logic72 in your head?” And he quoted a dozen savage73 Scriptural precedents74 against him.
Was the Court, David asked, in a time of civil strife76 and war between brothers, clear that the precedent75 of Israel and the tribes of Canaan held? The men they fought against were professing77 Christians78, indeed professed79 Presbyterians. Granted that they were in error, was it an error which could only be extirpated80 in blood?
It was an unlucky plea, for it brought forth a frenzied81 torrent82 of denials. The appeal of his opponents was not only to Scripture83, but to the decisions of the Kirk. Was there not here, one cried, that rebellion which was as the sin of witchcraft? What became, cried another, of the deference84 which a young man was bound to show to the authority of his fathers in God? “Are we to be like Rehoboam, who hearkened to callow and inexperienced youth, and not to those elders who partook of the wisdom of his father Solomon?”
Presently David was silent. He remembered that meekness85 became him, and he had a sharp sense of the futility86 of argument. Respectfully he bowed his head to the blast, while a dozen of his brethren delivered extracts from their recent sermons. The Moderator confirmed the sense of the Court.
“Our young brother is lamentably87 estranged88 from Christ,” he said in a voice which was charged with regret as well as with indignation. “He is like the Church of Laodicea, of whom it was written, ‘Because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth.’ I tell you, sir, he that is not with us is against us, and that in the day of the Lord’s judgments89 there can be no halting between two opinions. It is the duty of the Kirk to follow His plain commandment and to rest not till the evil thing be utterly90 destroyed from our midst, even as Barak pursued after the chariots to Harosheth of the Gentiles, and all the host of Sisera fell upon the edge of the sword, and not a man was left. You are besotted in your error, and till you repent91 you have no part in the commonwealth92 of Israel, for you are like Lot and have taken up your dwelling93 in the Cities of the Plain and have pitched your tents towards Sodom, whereas the Kirk, like Abram, dwelleth in the plain of Mamre, which is in Hebron, and hath built there an altar to the Lord.”
The Presbytery refrained from any judgment on the case, that being deferred94 till a later meeting, when, if necessary, evidence could be called; but in view of the fact that the minister of Woodilee had acknowledged his fault and exhibited contumacy thereanent, he was by a unanimous decision suspended from occupying the pulpit and dispensing95 the Sacrament in the parish, and from all other pastoral rights and duties. As the winter was close on hand, when evil roads lessened96 church attendance, it was agreed that spiritual needs would be met if Mr. Fordyce were enjoined97 to conduct public worship alternately in Woodilee and Cauldshaw.
David rode home in a frame of mind which was neither sad nor glad. He felt no shame at his suspension, but he recognized with a pang98 the breadth of the gulf99 which separated him from his brethren, and the ruin of those high hopes with which a year ago he had begun his ministry100. He realized that he was but a poor ecclesiastic101, for he could not feel that loyalty102 which others felt to a Kirk which was mainly the work of men’s hands. “They have lamentably perverted103 reason and justice”— he remembered Montrose’s words; and yet most of them were honest men and pious104 men, and maybe their good on a wide computation was greater than their ill. It was his unhappy portion to have encountered the ill. But if the Kirk cast him off he had Christ —“Other sheep I have which are not of this fold,” was Christ’s word — and he must follow with all humility the light that was given to him. When the main trial came on he would not relent in his denunciation of the Wood, and his loss would be well repaid if, like Samson, he could bring down with him the pillars of Gaza. . . . He consoled himself thus, but he knew in his heart that he had no need of consolation105, for the thought of Katrine was there like a live coal.
He came to the manse in the gloaming, to find Isobel waiting for him in the road.
“Heaven save us a’!” she said, “but there’s an awfu’ thing come to Woodilee. They’ve prickit a witch, and it’s nane ither than puir Bessie Todd o’ the Mains. Guid kens what they did till her, but a’ nicht the clachan rang wi’ her skirlin’. The pricker fand the Deil’s mark on her back, and stappit a preen106 [pin] intil it up to the heid and nae bluid came, and they burnt her feet wi’ lichtit candles, and hung her by the thumbs frae the cupples till they garred her own to awesome107 deeds. I canna believe it, the puir doited body, but if the ae half is true she’s far ben wi’ the Adversary108, and oh, sir, it’s fearsome to think what wickedness can be hidden in the hert o’ man. She said the Deil gie’d her a new name, whilk she wadna tell, and she owned that ilka Lord’s Day, when she sat under ye on the pu’pit stair, she prayed to him —‘Our Father, which wert in Heaven.’ But whatever her faut, it canna be richt the way they guidit her, lickin’ her wi’ a bull’s pizzle and burnin’ the gums o’ her till she yammers like a bitted powny. If she maun dee, let death come quick. For the Lord’s sake, Mr. David, get her down to the Kirk Aller tolbooth, for the Shirra is kinder than yon red brock [badger] o’ a pricker. The verra sicht o’ his wild een sends a grue to my banes — and Chasehope standin’ by him and speakin’ saft and wicked, and smilin’ like a cat wi’ a mouse.”
David’s heart sickened with disgust. Chasehope had turned the tables on him; he had diverted suspicion from himself by sacrificing a half-witted woman. And yet this Bessie Todd had been a member of the coven — he had seen her grey locks flying in the Wood. Chasehope was presiding at the examination and torture; he would no doubt take good care that no word of the truth came out in her delirium109. And Isobel, who had denied with violence his own charges against this very woman, seemed to believe her confession39. She was revolted by the cruelty, but convinced of the sin. That would no doubt be the feeling of the parish, for who could disbelieve avowals which must send the avower to a shameful110 death?
“Where is the wretched woman?” he asked.
“They have her lockit up in Peter Pennecuik’s girnel. . . . They’ve gotten a’ they want, and they say that the Shirra has been sent for to carry her to the Kirk Aller steeple, whaur they confine the warlocks. . . . They’re in the girnel now, and the feck o’ Woodilee is waitin’ at the door. Will you stop for a bite? . . . ”
David waited only to stable his horse, and to buckle111 on the sword with which he had girt himself on the night of the second Beltane. He ran so fast towards the clachan that he was at Peter Pennecuik’s house before Isobel, labouring in his wake, had turned the corner of the manse loan.
The night had fallen dark, but from inside the girnel came a flicker112 of light. David had once before seen a witch hunt — in Liberton, as a boy — and then there had been a furious and noisy crowd surging round the change-house where the accused was imprisoned113. But the Woodilee mob was not like that. It was silent, almost furtive114. The granary was a large building, for it had once been the barn of the Mains farm; it was built of unmasoned stone cemented with mud, and had a deep roof of thatch115; through the chinks of both walls and roof came thin streams of light. The spectators did not press on the door, but stood in groups some paces back, as hushed as in the kirk of a Sabbath. The light was too dim for David to recognize faces, but he saw that one man stood at the door as keeper, and knew him for Reiverslaw.
He had been drinking, and greeted the minister hilariously116.
“We’ve gotten ane o’ the coven,” he whispered thickly, “ane you saw yoursel’ in the Wud.”
“But Chasehope is among her accusers.”
“I ken6, but we’ll get that kail-worm too, in the Lord’s guid time. At ony rate, we’re sure o’ ane o’ the deevils.”
“You fool, this is a trick of Chasehope’s to divert attention from the Wood. This miserable117 woman has only confessed bairnly faults, and on that he’ll ride off scot free.”
The truth penetrated118 slowly to Reiverslaw’s foggy brain, but in the end he saw it.
“God’s curse on him, but ye’re maybe right. What are ye ettlin’, sir? Gie me the word and I’ll come in by and wring119 the truth out o’ him wi’ my hands at his gutsy thrapple.”
“Bide120 where you are, and let none leave this place unless I bid you. I will see if I can get justice done.”
But when Reiverslaw opened the heavy door to let him enter, the first glance told David that he had come too late. The great empty place had straw piled at one end, and on a barrel in the centre a flickering121 lantern. By it, on an upturned barrow, sat the pricker, a paper in his hand and an inkhorn slung122 round his neck, his face wearing a smirking123 satisfaction. He had once been a schoolmaster, and at this moment he looked the part again. Behind him, sitting on kegs or squatted124 on the floor, were a dozen men — Chasehope at his elbow, Mirehope, the miller125, Peter Pennecuik, Nether126 Fennan — David saw only a few faces in the dim light. Daft Gibbie by some means or other had gained entrance, and had perched himself in a crevice128 of the wall, whence his long shoeless legs dangled129 over Chasehope’s head.
On the straw behind the lantern lay the witch. Her grey hair had fallen round her naked shoulders, and that and a ragged petticoat seemed her only covering. Even in the mirk David could see the cruel consequences of torture. Her feet were black and swollen130, and her hands, with dislocated thumbs, were splayed out on the straw as if they were no longer parts of her body. Her white face was hideously131 discoloured in patches, and her mouth was wide open, as if there were a tormenting132 fire within. She seemed delirious133, for she gabbled and slavered uncouthly134 to herself, scarcely moving her lips. Every now and then her thin breast was shaken with a frenzied shivering.
At the sight something gave in David’s head. He felt the blood rush above his eyebrows135, and a choking at the back of his throat. Always a hater of cruelty, he had rarely seen its more monstrous136 forms, and the spectacle of this broken woman awoke in him a fury of remonstrance137. He strode to the lantern and looked down on her, and then turned away, for he sickened. He saw the gimlet eyes of the pricker — red like a broody hen’s — and behind him the sullen138, secret face of Chasehope.
“What devil’s prank139 have you been at?” he cried. “Answer me, Ephraim Caird. Who is this mountebank140, and what have you done to this unhappy woman?”
“All has been done decently and in order,” said Chasehope. “The Presbytery is resolved to free this parochine of the sin of witchcraft, and this worthy man, who has skill in siccan matters, has been sent to guide us. There is a commission issued frae the Privy Council, as ye may have heard, to try those that are accused, but the first needcessity is to find the witches and exhort141 them to confession. This woman, Elspeth Todd, is convict out o’ her ain mouth, and we’ve gotten a memorial o’ the ill deeds she owns to. Word has been dispatched to the Shirra, and the morn, nae doot, he’ll send and shift her to Kirk Aller.”
The man spoke24 smoothly142 and not discourteously143, but David would have preferred oaths and shouting. He put a great restraint on his temper.
“How did you extort144 the confession? Answer me that. You have tortured her body and driven her demented, and suffering flesh and crazed wits will avow50 any foolishness.”
“We followed the means sanctioned by ilka presbytery in this land. It’s weel kenned145 that flesh sell’t to the Deil is no like common flesh, and the evil spirit will no speak without some sort o’ compulsion.”
David snatched the paper from the pricker and held it to the lantern. It was written clearly in a schoolmaster’s hand, and though oddly and elliptically worded, he made out the sum of it. As he read, there was silence in the place, except for the babbling146 of the woman and the mowing147 of Daft Gibbie from his perch127.
It seemed to him a bedlamite chronicle. The accused confessed that she had been guilty of charming, and had cured a cow on the Mains by taking live trouts from its belly148. She had “overlooked” a boy, Hobbie Simson, at Nether Fennan, and he had sickened and lain for three months on his back. She had made a clay figure of one of the ewe-milkers at Mirehope and stuck pins into it, and the girl had suffered from pains and dizziness all summer. She had shot cattle with elf-bolts, and had cursed a field on Windyways by driving round it a team of puddocks. The Devil had trysted with her on a rig of Mirehope’s, and had given her a name which she would not reveal, and on the rig there had been ever since an intractable crop of thistles. Her master visited her in the likeness149 of a black cat, and she herself had often taken the same likeness, and had travelled the country at night sitting on the crupper of one of the Devil’s mares. By means of the charm of the seven south~flowing streams and the nine rowan berries, she had kept her meal~ark full in the winter famine. She confessed to having ridden John Humbie, a ploughman of Chasehope’s, night after night to a witch~gathering150 at Charlie’s Moss151, so that John was done with weariness the next day and unfit for work. The said John declared that he woke with the cry of “Up horsie” in his ear. At these gatherings152 she admitted to having baked and eaten the witch-cake — a food made of grey bear and a black toad’s blood, and baked in the light of the moon, and at the eating had sung this spell:
“Some lass maun gang wi’ a kilted sark;
Some priest maun preach in a thackless kirk;
Thread maun be spun153 for a dead man’s sark;
A’ maun be done ere the sang o’ the lark154.”
She admitted that she had taken the pains of childbirth from women — but what women she would not say — and that then the child had been born dead, and had so become a “kain bairn” for the Devil. Last, and most damning, she had between her shoulders the Devil’s secret mark.
Some sentences from the document David read aloud, and in his voice there was bitter scorn. He believed most devoutly155 in the menace of witchcraft and in a Devil who could take bodily form and divert the course of nature to seduce156 human souls, but this catalogue of sins seemed to him too childish for credence157. It was what any woman crazed with pain might confess in the hope of winning respite158. Most of the details he remembered from his boyhood as common talk; the witch-cake rhyme he had sung himself; the charm to fill Bessie’s meal-ark during the winter he knew to be false, for she had nearly died of want, and he had fed her from the manse kitchen. . . . He had seen her in the Wood, and yet there was no mention of the Wood. Chasehope had been present at the torture, and doubtless his fell influence had kept her rhapsody away from the point of danger. The poor soul was guilty, but not of this childishness.
He looked at her as she lay, mindless, racked, dying perhaps, and an awful conviction entered his mind. She was a human sacrifice made by the coven to their master. . . . He had read of such things, he half-remembered tales of them. . . . Perhaps she was a willing victim — he had heard of such — coming forward with a perverted joy to confess her shame. The torture — that would be to stimulate159 her imagination. Isobel had always said she was weak in her mind. . . . She might have been chosen by lot in the kirk on Hallowmass-e’en. . . . Chasehope was not her inquisitor, but the dark priest who conducted the ritual.
His anger and disgust rose to a fury. He tore the paper into little pieces and flung them in the pricker’s face.
“What doubly damned crime have you committed?” he cried. “You have tortured a wretched weak woman and taken down her ravings for truth. You have maybe killed her, murderer that you be! Your sins cry out to God, and yours above all, Ephraim Caird, whose hands I have myself seen dipped in the blackest witchcraft.”
Chasehope’s face was smiling blandly160.
“I kenna what right ye have to meddle161, sir,” he said. “The paper ye’ve torn is but a copy. The memorial itsel’ will be in safe hands this nicht. Wad ye set yoursel’ up against the Presbytery and the law o’ the land, you that have been suspended this day, as is weel kenned, frae your rights as minister o’ this parish? Ye’d best gang hame to your bed, sir, and pray that ye may be delivered frae the sin o’ presumption162. This woman will bide the nicht in this place under lock and key, till the Shirra sends for her.”
“She will go with me to the manse this night — and, please God, I will nurse her back into life.”
There could be no question of the consternation163 of the audience — it almost equalled his own. Chasehope alone kept his composure; the others stared in horror and growing anger.
“That will no be permitted,” came from the lowering Mirehope, and “A bonny minister,” cried another, “to file his house wi’ a dirty witch. He maun himsel’ be ower great wi’ the Deil.” The pricker twisted and grinned, and his eyes watched approvingly the spasms164 of the woman on the straw.
David was carried out of himself, and before he was aware of it had drawn165 his sword.
“She goes to the manse. I will suffer no let or hindrance166 in this plain duty. Whoever opposes me will rue35 it.”
“Wad ye deforce the session?” Mirehope shouted in a voice like a bull and got to his feet. From the idiot on his perch came an unexpected encouragement. “Fine, sir. Fine, my bonny Mr. David,” cried Gibbie. “Stap your sword in his wame. I’ll uphaud ye wi’ my staff, for the puir kimmer was ill-guidit. I couldna sleep a wink167 a’ nicht for her skellochs.”
A voice broke in on the storm, and David saw that it was the new tenant168 of Crossbasket.
“Put up your blade, sir,” he said. “There’s no need for fighting among Christian folk. These honest men have been following the light vouchsafed169 to them, and if there’s blame to be cast it’s on this pricker chiel that comes from I know not where.”
There was something in the quiet tones which fell like oil on yeasty water. David settled back his sword into its sheath, Mirehope sat down again on his keg, Chasehope turned his head to the speaker with the first sign of discomposure he had yet shown.
“Ye’ll forgive me, neighbours,” Mark continued, “since I’m but new come to the parish, but I’ve seen a hantle o’ the world, and I would be wae to see honest men run their heids against a stone wall. The woman may be a’ you say and waur, but it looks as if her handlin’ had been ower sair, and I’m muckle mista’en if she’ll no be a corp ere morning. Consider, friends. — This is no a court constituted by a Privy Council commission; it’s nae mair than a private gathering o’ well-wishers to the Kirk and the Law. In my time I’ve meddled170 ower much wi’ the Law for my comfort, and I ken something about the jaud. The Law has no cognizance of a pricker or onything like him, and if well-meaning folk under his guiding compass the death of a man or woman that has not been duly tried and sentenced, the Law will uphaud it to be murder, just as muckle as if a caird had cut a throat at a dyke-side. I greatly fear ye’ve brought yourselves into its danger by this day’s work.”
Mark spoke with an air of anxious and friendly candour that called for no opposition171. Indeed it was plain that more than one of his hearers had similar doubts of their own.
“The wife’s weel eneuch,” said Mirehope. “Ye’ll no kill a tough auld greyhen like that wi’ a raxed thumb or brunt taes.”
“I hope you’re richt, neighbour,” said Mark. “But if she suld dee, what will ye say to the Shirra — and what to the Court o’ Justiciar? Ye’ve taken doun frae her mouth a long screed172 o’ crimes, but I’m of the minister’s opinion, that they’re what ony distrackit body wad admit that wasna verra strong in the intellectuals and fand her paiks [punishment] ower sair for her. Lord bless me, but they’re maist o’ them owercomes I heard at my grannie’s knee. I counsel ye in all friendliness173 to let the minister do his best to keep her in life, or it sticks in my mind that Woodilee will mak’ an ill showing when the King’s judges redd up the business.”
Chasehope angrily dissented174, but he had few supporters. Most of the others wore an anxious air.
“I come to the matter of the pricker.” Mark’s homely175 wheedling176 tones were like those of a packman in an ale-house kitchen. “I ken nocht about him, but I canna say I like the looks o’ him. I doubt if I was strapped177 up by the thumbs and had yon luntin’ een glowering178 at me I wad speak wi’ strange tongues mysel’. It’s no that difficult for a pawky body to gar a weaker vessel179 obey his will. . . . Get up off that barry,” he said sharply. “Stand ayont the licht till I have a look at ye.”
The words came out like a crack of a whip-lash. The atmosphere of the place had suddenly changed, the woman’s mutterings had ceased, and, as David stood back from the lantern, he saw that Mark had moved forward and was beside the pricker, a yard from him, with the light between them, and the faces of both in full view of the rest. The one shambled to his feet and set his hand to his head as if to avert180 a blow, while the other, his dark face like a thundercloud, stood menacingly over against him.
“Look at me,” Mark cried. “Look me in the een, if there’s that muckle smeddum in your breast.”
The eyes of the pricker were like small dark points in his dead~white eyeballs.
“Ye’re one Kincaid, but ye’ve gone by mony names. Ye’ve been a dominie and a stickit minister, a thief and a thief-taker, a spy and a witch-finder, and ye’d fain be a warlock if the Deil thocht your soul worth half a bodle. . . . Turn your een to the licht, and keep them there. . . . Answer me ere the Pit opens for ye. Was there ever a word in your mouth that wasna as false as hell? Say ‘I am a liar181, like my father the Devil afore me.’”
“I am a liar,” the man croaked182.
Mark stretched out one hand and passed it over the pricker’s brow.
“What’s aneath here?” he asked. “Honest banes? Na, na, rottenness like peat.” To the horrified183 spectators he seemed to pass his hand backwards184 and forwards through the man’s head, as if a knife had gone through a pat of butter.
“What’s in your een?” he cried, leaning forward. “I see the fires of hell and the worm that dieth not. God! the bleeze o’ them is keekin’ through!”
For a moment it seemed to all that a ruddy glow of flame leaped to the roof, and Daft Gibbie in his agitation185 fell from his seat and rushed to the door. The idiot flung it open and screamed beyond Reiverslaw to the waiting crowd, “Come inbye, every soul o’ ye. The pricker that tormented186 puir Bessie is getting his paiks, and Glee’d Mark is drawin’ hell fire out o’ him. Come inbye and see the bonny sicht.”
Reiverslaw and a dozen others entered the granary; the door remained half open and the night wind swept up the dust and chaff187 of the floor and made the red light seem a monstrous wavering cloud that hung like an infernal aureole over the wretched man.
Mark had him by the shoulder. “And what’s this?” he cried, tearing his shirt aside and showing his bare throat. “As I live by bread, it’s a Deil’s pap!” Certainly to the audience it seemed that above the breast grew a small black teat.
The creature was in an extremity188 of terror. Fear had so drained the blood from his eyeballs that the pupils seemed to burn with an uncanny brightness, even after the red had gone out of the light.
“There’s nae bull’s pizzle needit to make this wauf [feeble] body confess.” Mark’s iron grip was still on his shoulder. “If ony neighbour has ony misdeed in his mind, I’ll warrant to wring it oot o’ the pricker as glib189 as a bairn’s schule-lesson. I’ll mak’ him own to the Black Mass in the kirk on Hallowe’en. . . . There’s nane speaks? Weel, we’ll leave the dott’rel to his ain conscience.”
He relaxed his grip, and the man dropped gibbering and half~senseless on the floor.
“There’s your bonny pricker,” said Mark to Chasehope. “There’s your chosen instrument for getting truth out o’ auld wives. Do as you like wi’ him, but I counsel ye to get him furth o’ the parish if he be a friend o’ yours, or the folk will hae him in the deepest hole in Woodilee burn.”
Chasehope, white and stammering190, found himself deserted191 by his allies, but he still showed fight.
“I protest,” he cried. “I kenna what hellish tricks ye’ve played on a worthy man —”
“Just the same tricks as he played on the auld wife — a wee bit o’ speirin’.”
“It’s no my blame,” said Chasehope, changing his ground, “if I have leaned on a broken reed. The man was sent here by folk that vouched192 for his worth. And nevertheless, whatever the weakness o’ the instrument, the Lord has wrocht through him to produce a confession —”
“Ay. Just so,” said Mark dryly. “But what kind o’ instrument is yon to procure193 the truth? Will ye get caller water out o’ a foul pipe?”
“The Lord works —” Chasehope began, but Mark broke in on him. His dark mocking face, in which the squint194 of the left eye was now most noticeable and formidable, was thrust close to the other’s.
“See here, my bonny man. — Ye can get ony mortal daftness out o’ man or woman if ye first put fear on them. Ye’ve seen the auld wife and ye’ve seen the pricker. Do YOU come forrit forenent the licht. Ye’re a buirdly chiel, and weel spoken o’ for canniness195. Ye can keep your thumbs unraxed and your hide unscorched for me, but by the God abune us I’ll warrant that in ten minutes by the knock I’ll hae ye confessin’ fauts that will keep the haill parish waukrife till Yule. . . . Will ye thole the trial?”
The big man shrank back. “Na, na. I kenna what spell the Deil has gien ye, but ye’ll no lay it on me.”
“So muckle the better for yoursel’.” Mark turned to the others. “Ye’ve a’ seen, neighbours, that my spell, as he ca’s it, was nae mair than just an honest speirin’. I’m loth to think that this clachan should suffer for what has been done this day, so the sooner we get the wife to bed and weel-tended the better for us a’.”
“She shall go to the manse at once,” said David. He had been examining the tortured woman, who had passed into unconsciousness, and it seemed to him that her heart beat very faintly.
“That will be wisest, no doubt,” said Mark, but at this point Chasehope found support in his protest. Mirehope, Nether Fennan, and the miller exchanged anxious looks.
“Take her to Alison Geddie,” they cried. “She has a toom [empty] bed, and it’s near by.”
“She will go to my own house,” said David, “and be nursed by my own hand. I trust no man or woman of you after to-day’s devilry.”
The place had filled up, and it seemed to him that the better part of the parish were now onlookers196. It was clear that a considerable number were on Chasehope’s side, for the mention of the manse had wakened a curious disquiet197 in many faces. David solved the problem by dragging out from the back of the granary a wooden sledge198 used for drawing peats. He covered it with straw and laid the woman on it.
“Reiverslaw!” he cried. “You take the one end and I’ll take the other.”
The farmer advanced, and for a second it looked as if he might be prevented by force. He turned fierce eyes on the crowd. “Ay, sir. I’ll dae your bidding. . . . And if ony man lifts his hand to prevent me, he’ll get a sarkfu’ o’ broken banes.”
The strange cortège moved out into the darkness, without opposition. It may have been the honest feeling of the majority that let it go; it may have been the truculent199 Reiverslaw, or David with his white face and the sword bobbing at his belt: but most likely it was the fact that Mark Riddel walked by the minister’s side.
Bessie Todd died just before morning. Isobel received her old gossip with tears and lamentations, laid her in the best bed, washed and salved her wounds, and strove to revive her with cordials. But the trial had been too hard for a frail14 woman far down in the vale of years. David watched all night by her bedside, and though at the end she became conscious, her mind was hopelessly unhinged, and she babbled200 nonsense and scraps201 of childish rhymes. If he could not pray with her, he prayed beside her, pleading passionately202 for the departing soul.
As Isobel straightened the body and closed the eyes, she asked anxiously if there had been any space given for repentance203.
David shook his head.
“Puir thing, she got the Devil’s fee and bountith, and muckle guid it did her. Let’s hope, sir, that afore her mind left her she had grace given her to renounce204 him and creep to the Mercy Seat. . . . We’ll gar some folks in Woodilee look gash205 [ghastly] for this. There was a time, Mr. David, when I wad have held ye back, but my word now is Gang forrit, till ye rive this parish wi’ the fear o’ God, and sinners we ken o’ will howl on their knees for as quiet a death-bed as Bessie’s.”
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1
incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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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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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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18
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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19
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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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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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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bellicose
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| adj.好战的；好争吵的 | |
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antagonisms
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| 对抗，敌对( antagonism的名词复数 ) | |
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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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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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marrowy
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| adj.多髓的，有力的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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emaciation
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| n.消瘦，憔悴，衰弱 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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pricker
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| 刺（戳）的人； 松煤杆； 划虚线器 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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quacks
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| abbr.quacksalvers 庸医，骗子(16世纪习惯用水银或汞治疗梅毒的人)n.江湖医生( quack的名词复数 )；江湖郎中；（鸭子的）呱呱声v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的第三人称单数 ) | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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45
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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51
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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53
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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56
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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57
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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58
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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60
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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67
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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69
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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71
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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72
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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73
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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precedents
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| 引用单元； 范例( precedent的名词复数 )； 先前出现的事例； 前例； 先例 | |
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75
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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76
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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77
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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79
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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80
extirpated
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| v.消灭，灭绝( extirpate的过去式和过去分词 )；根除 | |
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81
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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82
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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83
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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84
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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85
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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86
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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87
lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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88
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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89
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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90
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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91
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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92
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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93
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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94
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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95
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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96
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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97
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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99
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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100
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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101
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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102
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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103
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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104
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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105
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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106
preen
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| v.（人）打扮修饰 | |
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107
awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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108
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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109
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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110
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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111
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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112
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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113
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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115
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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116
hilariously
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117
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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118
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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119
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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120
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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121
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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122
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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123
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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124
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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125
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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126
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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127
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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128
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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129
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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130
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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131
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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132
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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133
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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134
uncouthly
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135
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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136
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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137
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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138
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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139
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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140
mountebank
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| n.江湖郎中；骗子 | |
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141
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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142
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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143
discourteously
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| adv.不礼貌地，粗鲁地 | |
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144
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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145
kenned
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| v.知道( ken的过去式和过去分词 )；懂得；看到；认出 | |
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146
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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147
mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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148
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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149
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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150
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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151
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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152
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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153
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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154
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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155
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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156
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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157
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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158
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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159
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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160
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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161
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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162
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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163
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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164
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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165
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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166
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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167
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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168
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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169
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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170
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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172
screed
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| n.长篇大论 | |
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173
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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174
dissented
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| 不同意，持异议( dissent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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176
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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177
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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178
glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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179
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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180
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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181
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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182
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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183
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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184
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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185
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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186
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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187
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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188
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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189
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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190
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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191
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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192
vouched
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| v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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193
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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194
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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195
canniness
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| 精明 | |
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196
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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197
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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198
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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199
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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200
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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201
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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202
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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203
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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204
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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205
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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