Hamilton who was now in command of the royal troops, believing that the time had come when his overtures12 would be listened to, had sent a message containing liberal terms, but after some fruitless negotiations13, they refused his offer and determined14 to hold out. A messenger had been able to find his way from the ships with a letter which had revived their hopes a little, but they had lost all faith in Kirke, and looked only with stubborn despair to the time when they could defend themselves no longer.
After the death of Macpherson, Gervase had gone about his duty as before, but he had greatly missed the wise and faithful counsellor whose friendly comfort had helped him to bear his trials. The blow that he had sustained had been very great, and he had felt unwilling15 to face Dorothy Carew while the wound was still fresh. He had determined to observe the old soldier′s dying injunction that she should not know by whose hand he had fallen; and he himself would have desired even if the command had not been laid upon him 282that she should remain in ignorance of it. He knew that she had already suffered much, and he was desirous of sparing her further pain. Jasper had not appeared again in the city nor was it likely that he would, so that it could serve no purpose of any sort to denounce him as the murderer.
When he had summoned up courage and met Dorothy for the first time since Macpherson′s death, she had displayed much emotion, but it had not occurred to her that she was connected in any way with the old soldier′s end. She had told Gervase that her brother had disappeared, and that she had no doubt he had gone over to the enemy, but the subject was one on which she seemed naturally unwilling to dwell much, and he on his part did not press it. It struck him, however, as singular that she did not mention De Laprade; and it was only in answer to his inquiry16 that she told him that he was making rapid progress towards recovery. She herself was looking very ill and wretched--so ill that Gervase was alarmed at her appearance, and her eyes were red as if she had been weeping recently.
“I thought I was strong and able to bear anything,” she said, “but my heart is breaking. Is there no hope for us anywhere?”
“There is always hope----”
“I see that you can give me no comfort. My aunt is dying slowly, and she bears it very patiently. In a day or two there will be no more food and then----”
“And then there will be plenty if God helps us, 283Miss Carew,” Gervase went on. “You have not despaired till now. You have shown us an example in patient courage we might all have profited by, and you must not let your heart fail you now. You may tell Lady Hester she will not have long to wait. In three days the ships will be at the quays19 and all will be well.”
“I think you have always told me the truth,” she said; “but how is this to happen?”
“When we meet again I shall tell you that and more; you must not ask me now, but I believe I speak sincerely and with truth.”
“I have always trusted you.”
“And always may; there is nothing I would not try to do for your sake. But I am growing a boaster, and I have done nothing and perhaps can do nothing. Only do not let your heart fail. When we meet again I trust the joybells will be ringing, and there will be bonfires on the ramparts; if not----”
“It is too good news. We have waited so long but it seems as far away as ever.”
“I think it is coming now. Miss Carew, if we should never meet again, I want you to remember that I thought of you till the last, and that all I did was done--nay I should not say that. I feel that we shall meet again.”
She looked at him with a look of awakened20 fear. “You are not going into any great peril21?”
“We live among them, one and all of us.”
“But you----”
284“Would only carry your thoughts with me--Dorothy, my best beloved,” he cried, taking her hand in his, “before I go I want you to say you love me as I love you.”
She drew her hand away quickly.
“I cannot I cannot. I will tell you why hereafter. My God! I love you.”
He caught her in his arms and kissed her again and again unresistingly. Then she tore herself from his embrace, and with a stifled22 cry rushed from the room. But he went away happy, with her last words ringing in his ears, and feeling himself ready to do the work he was about to undertake. For while he was talking to Dorothy he had hastily formed a resolution that was lying dormant23 in his mind for days. In his last conversation with Macpherson, the old soldier had declared his intention of reaching the ships, and Gervase had been dwelling24 on the project for the last ten days. He knew the task was full of deadly peril--it had already been twice attempted without success, and it seemed so hopeless that he had shrunk from undertaking25 it. But the sight of Dorothy′s thin and wasted face had removed all his doubts, and he had determined to make one last effort to induce Kirke to undertake the relief. He himself believed that the undertaking was not nearly so formidable as it seemed, and if once a move was made he did not doubt that the boom would prove no very serious barrier. But the great problem was to reach the ships which were lying far down the river. On both sides of the bank the 285enemy were watching with a vigilance which it seemed impossible to escape. Even if he succeeded in eluding26 them, he could hardly hope to swim the long six miles in the condition he was in, and to land was almost certain death. But he made up his mind to make the attempt and to trust to the chapter of accidents to carry him safely through.
As he went to look for Walker from whom he desired to obtain his credentials27, he felt strong enough for anything. Had not he heard from the sweetest lips in the world the sweetest words he had ever heard spoken. Had he not everything to move him to the attempt? If he lived he would show her that he was not unworthy of her love, for this deed was one that all men would not attempt, and few could carry safely through. There was glory in it and renown28, though it was neither glory nor renown that he sought.
When he had told the old colonel of his intentions, the latter at first tried to dissuade29 him. He was only flinging his life away, he said, for nothing. Others had tried and failed; he could not hope to succeed. Even if he succeeded in reaching the ships, which he could not do, he could tell them nothing that they did not know there. Kirke was a coward or a traitor30, and they could not hope for help from him. He could send them letters that meant nothing, but that was all. But Gervase was not to be dissuaded31 by any argument. He had set his heart upon making the attempt, and his 286resolution was so evident that at length Walker unwillingly32 consented, and with a homely33 piety34 commended him to the protection of Providence35 that, however it might frown, had not forsaken36 them.
“We will say nothing of this to any,” he had said, “but will keep the matter closely to ourselves, for the folk yonder have long ears and can hear our whispers here. Some time before midnight we will even go down to the Waterside together, and as you are a brave man and a courageous37, there is one old man who will pray for your safe keeping and deliverance. I shall have the epistle writ38 out, and I pray God Kirke may be the first to read it.”
Gervase′s preparations for his adventure were easily made. He had left a letter in which he had made a disposal of his effects, in case anything happened to him, and had written another which was addressed to Dorothy Carew. The only weapon he had provided himself with was a small hunting knife that had belonged to Macpherson, which he hoped he would not require to use but which might prove useful in an emergency. There had been some rain during the day, and the night promised to be dark and cloudy. So long as there was no moonlight there was a possibility of his making the attempt with a reasonable chance of success, but should the moon show herself he could hardly hope to remain undiscovered.
The time hung heavily on his hands while he waited 287for the hour when he was to meet Walker, and then he found himself trembling with feverish39 impatience40. Walker, however, insisted on his taking supper before he left, and it was weeks since Gervase had seen so plentiful41 a meal spread before him. The old colonel watched him with a serious admiration42 as he made huge inroads on the food, and when Gervase had finished, he went to a cupboard and produced a flask43.
“You have had the last of the meat,” he said, taking the cork44 out of the bottle, “and now you are going to have the last of the drink. There are two glasses left, and you shall have both of them. Whenever we meet again, if Heaven pleases, we will crack a bottle together. I love a brave lad, and if age had not taken the oil out of my joints45, I should have liked nothing better than to bear you company. Now drink that off for it will keep you warm in the water.”
Going down Ship Quay18 Street together, they passed through the gate and came out upon the quay. The night was very dark and a slight drizzling46 rain had begun to fall. On both sides of the river they could see many lights, some moving, some stationary47, and could hear the sound of voices calling and answering from the other bank. But the river was flowing darkly at their feet, and a night better suited for his purpose Gervase could hardly have found. When he had divested48 himself of his boots coat and vest, he stuck the short knife in his belt, and fastened round his waist with a strip 288of canvas the piece of bladder in which the letter from Walker was rolled.
“God bless you, my lad, and send you safe back to us. I feel even like the patriarch when he would have offered up his son, but here too, it is my trust the Lord will not require a life.”
“I feel that I shall come back, colonel,” said Gervase; “never fear for me. Have the bonfires ready to give us a welcome.”
The old man in the excess of his emotion, took him in his arms and kissed him on the forehead, and then Gervase wringing49 his hand, dropped noiselessly into the water and struck out into the stream. He knew that it was necessary for him to husband his strength for it would all be needed; so after he found himself well in the middle of the river, he began to swim slowly, and to let the current carry him down. If the night should continue dark it would be impossible that he could be discovered from the land; he himself could only dimly make out the banks, and trusted to the lights to help him to direct his course. But the rain had ceased and he feared that the clouds were beginning to break; in the moonlight they could hardly fail to see him.
Still, every yard he made was a yard nearer safety, and to some extent lessened50 the chances of discovery, for the further he descended51 the stream, the more lax in all likelihood would their vigilance become.
As he swam on steadily52 with a slow strong stroke, his thoughts were busy with many things.
289He thought of Dorothy, who loved him and would repay him for his labour; of Macpherson, whose brave spirit was perhaps keeping him company on this perilous53 venture; and pardonably enough, of the honour he would gain for this deed. It never occurred to him that having reached the ships there would be any difficulty about the relief of the city. When once his story had been told, they must up with their anchors, if there was any manhood among them, and try the mettle54 of their guns. He imagined to himself with what joy Dorothy would welcome him back when he came among the first with the good news.
So he swam on for half an hour carried slowly down by the current, and then for the first time he began to feel that he had overestimated55 his strength, and that his extremities were growing numb56 and cold. He had long since passed the lights of Pennyburn; he must now be coming close to the boom where would be his first great danger, for the lights yonder on either side of the river must be the lights of the forts that guarded the barrier. The water seemed somehow to have grown colder and less buoyant, and worst of all, the moon was beginning to show through the masses of broken cloud. Three months ago he would have found little difficulty in swimming twice the distance, but now he dragged himself with difficulty through the water, and his shoulders were growing stiff and painful. What if he failed to reach the fleet after all! His mind was filled with despair at the thought, and he pulled 290himself together with an effort and swam on with an obstinate57 determination to keep himself afloat. With the wind blowing freshly, the waves came leaping past him with an icy shiver that seemed to take away his strength.
But there was gradually forcing itself upon his mind the conviction that, after all, he must land and make his way upon foot till he came opposite to where the ships were riding at anchor. It would be better to make for the shore at once while three hours of darkness still remained, for when the light came it would be impossible to travel. While he was making up his mind as to where it would be safest for him to land, the moon came out suddenly with a startling brilliance58, lighting59 up the river and the banks on either side. He could now see Charles Fort distinctly, and he fancied that he could discern lying across the river the dark fabric60 of the boom, with the water leaping into white waves against it. It was out of the question to attempt to cross the barrier now; even where he was swimming his position was perilous in the extreme.
Then he saw, near the shore, a small hooker lying at anchor, and almost without knowing why he struck out towards it. There was little or no likelihood of there being anyone on board and if, as seemed to be the case, he should have to lie concealed62 the whole of the day, he might find some food on board the little craft. He swam cautiously round her, but he could hear no sound; then catching63 hold of the cable, he lifted himself up by the bowsprit 291and found himself on board. She was decked forward, and though he did not know for what purpose she was used, there was a large gun covered with a piece of canvas lying amidships. But though there was no one on board, a small lamp suspended from a beam was burning dimly in the forecastle. He felt that it would not be wise to tarry long, so diving hastily down the companion, he began to investigate the contents of the lockers64. In one he found several louis which he left undisturbed, but in another to his joy he discovered some oat-cakes and a quantity of rum in a case bottle. The latter was particularly welcome, and after a dram he felt that he had got a new lease of strength and vigour65.
The circulation was beginning to return to his hands and feet. He sat down on the edge of a bunk66 and chafed67 his limbs till the cramp68 that he had begun to experience, was entirely69 gone. He was beginning to think that it was time to take his departure, when he heard the sound of oars70 creaking in their rowlocks and voices almost alongside. Hastily extinguishing the light he drew out the knife with which he was armed, and creeping out of the forecastle dropped cautiously down close to the great gun, where he concealed himself under the canvas. Then as the bow of a boat grated against the side of the hooker, he could see from where he lay a man and a lad clambering on board, the latter with the painter in his hand. “Make fast,” said the former, “and come and help 292me to get the mainsail up. They′ll be aboard in an hour.”
The man made his way into the forecastle growling71 and swearing at the lamp having gone out, while the boy clambered over the boom and made fast the painter to a ring in the stern-sheets. Gervase had hoped that the boy might have followed the man into the forecastle, and that he himself might then have dropped overboard unperceived. But in this he was disappointed, for the boy instead of going below began to unloose the earing by which the mainsail was fastened, whistling as he did so with a clear shrill72 note that Gervase remembered for years afterwards.
Presently the man came up from below swearing at the boy for the noise he was making, and began to take in a fathom73 or two of the cable by which the craft was moored74. There seemed to Gervase no chance of escaping unperceived, and a better opportunity than this might not present itself. So while the man knelt with his back turned towards him, and the boy was fumbling75 with the halyards in the darkness, he rose from his place of concealment76 and leaped upon the bulwark77.
The lad hearing the noise turned round with a look of terror on his face. “Holy Mother of God!” he cried, “it′s a spirit;” and as the man turned round where he was kneeling at the cat-heads, he seemed for a moment to share his belief and participate in his alarm.
As Gervase dropped noiselessly into the water 293they were both too bewildered to raise any alarm, and the river bed was already under his feet before he heard their outcry. Then they called out loudly to someone on the shore. Wading78 through the water toward the land, Gervase noticed for the first time a low fort built of sods and rough timber close to the bank. At the hubbub79 that was raised by the crew of the hooker, the door was opened and a man came down towards the water′s edge in the uniform of a French sergeant80.
Seeing Gervase come upon the bank and mistaking him for one of the crew he called out, “Que le diable faites-vous ce bruit81, coquin?” But as he came down and saw the young fellow closer, clad only in his shirt and breeches, he immediately divined what was wrong and came running down the bank. Gervase waited till he came close up; then, and it was an old trick he had learned years before, he put out his foot and struck him a tremendous blow with his left hand. The man went headlong into the water, and without waiting to see what became of him, Gervase ran at full speed along the bank, and never halted to take breath till he found himself in the shelter of the wood, that at that time grew thick along the bank.
He knew that in a short time the pursuit would be hot after him and that there was not a moment to be lost. But to hasten was another matter; his feet were torn and bleeding, and so painful that he could hardly put them to the ground. While he sat down to rest his head swam like one in a 294vertigo. But if he was to carry out his mission he could not rest now. He tore off a piece of his shirt which he wrapped tightly round his wounded feet, and set off again. The only way in which he could make certain that he was travelling in the right direction was by keeping close to the river, which he caught sight of from time to time through the trees. But his motion was necessarily slow; it was terrible work picking his way over the fallen branches and rough stones that jarred his nerves whenever he set his feet upon them. But the fate of the city was on his shoulders and the hope of the woman he loved.
It seems strange to me, the writer, and may seem strange to you who read, but the last words of his sweetheart restored his drooping82 heart and renewed his failing strength whenever he thought of them through this adventurous83 journey.
The night was nearly over and the dawn was coming up, when he still found himself in the wood, dragging one foot slowly after another. How far he had gone he could not tell, but he knew that he must have travelled several miles, and could not be far from his destination. He feared to leave the shelter of the wood, but he knew that he could not spend the day here, for he was already becoming weary and was consumed by a raging thirst. After a while the wood broke and there was a stretch of fields before him, with farther on some growing timber and a ruined building.
But with awakened hope he could now see the 295ships where they rode at anchor some two miles away. While it was yet a grey light he determined to take advantage of it, and gladly left the tangle84 of the wood for the soft, green turf that gave him some relief in walking. Then he came to a running water where he quenched85 his thirst and bathed his wounds. Following the course of the stream would bring him to the beach where there was standing86 a house, probably a fisherman′s cottage, surrounded by a fence and a few fruit trees growing about it. It was yet probably too early for the inmates87 to be astir, and the hope dawned upon him that he might perhaps be able to find a boat upon the beach, for he knew that any thought of swimming was now out of the question. There was a further advantage in following the little stream, for the briars grew thick along its course and would afford him shelter, while the country was open beyond. He did not hesitate, but set off with as much speed as he could make. His destination was now in sight and his chance of escape had considerably88 increased. If he had only another half hour of twilight89, he thought; but this was not to be, for it was rapidly growing lighter90, and as he came down to the cottage it was already broad day.
He had just gained the fence that surrounded the cottage, when looking back he saw a body of dragoons beating the edge of the wood that he had left half an hour before. They had not caught sight of him for their attention was fixed91 on the fern and briars that skirted the wood, but he had 296not a moment to lose. He could not retrace92 his steps and so gain the friendly shelter of the little stream, nor could he now make for the beach as had been at first his intention. But crushing his way through the thorn hedge, he came into a little garden. The door of the house was lying open, and he saw what he had not noticed before, that the inmates must be already astir, for a thick smoke was rising into the morning air. He knew that his pursuers could not fail to find him in the garden, and he determined to take his chance, and to trust to the humanity of the people in the cottage to conceal61 him. This resolution he had taken not without some hope of finding friends, for there was a homeliness93 and air of comfort in the place that seemed to him little in keeping with the character of the Celt.
When he entered the door he found himself in a spacious94 kitchen. A woman was standing on the hearth95 cooking some fish that gave forth96 an appetizing smell. As she heard him coming in she dropped the frying pan, and running over to the corner of the dresser, seized an old musket97 that was lying against it.
“For God′s sake, hear me,” cried Gervase; “do not shoot.”
“What do you want?” she said, still holding the weapon ready for use and looking at him with a doubtful air. Her speech at once assured him that he had found a friend.
“I have come from the city,” he said; “I have 297been travelling all night and am trying for the ships. The dragoons are after me now, and if you do not help me, I will be taken.”
She dropped the musket, and running over took hold of him by both hands. “My poor lad, my poor lad,” she cried, “you are but a woeful sight. If they haven′t seen you coming in I think I can save you. My good man lay a day in the loft98 and they couldn′t find him, though they searched high up and low down. He′s in the city like yourself and now--but I would like to ask you a question or two. Where are they now?”
“Close by the edge of the wood and I think they are coming down this way.”
“Then my questions will keep. You′ll step softly after me, for the young folk are still asleep upstairs, and it would never do they should see you now. I was before Derry myself,” she continued, as she led the way up the ladder to the loft above the kitchen, “but they are well-mannered enough and don′t trouble me now.”
In the loft above were two beds, in one of which three flaxen-headed boys were lying sound asleep, and as Gervase followed her the woman gave a warning gesture, and stopped for a moment to look at them. Then with Gervase′s assistance she noiselessly pulled away the other bed, and disclosed a recess99 in the wall which was wide enough to admit him. “Get in there,” she said, “and I′ll call you when they are gone. If they haven′t seen you they′ll never think of looking there; if they 298have, God help me and the children--but I′ll do more than that for the good cause.”
When she had left him and had gone down the ladder after replacing the bed, Gervase began to regret that he had imperilled the safety of the kindly100 soul who had shown anxiety to assist him. But it was not his own safety that was at stake; it was that of the city and the lives of the citizens.
He lay listening for the sound of his pursuers, but the moments seemed to lengthen101 into hours and still they did not make their appearance. Meanwhile the good woman downstairs had gone on cooking the breakfast for herself and the children, and had set out the rough earthenware102 on the table by the window. When she saw the dragoons coming across the fields straight toward the house, she walked to the threshold and met them with an unconcerned smile on her face. “You are early astir this morning,” she said. “Is there to be more trouble in these parts? I′m thinking, Captain Lambert, I′ve seen you before.”
“Troth, that is very possible,” was the answer, “and I don′t think you have seen the last of me either. Now, look here, I want you to tell me the truth, a thing most women find hard enough to do, but the truth I must have or I′ll know the reason, why. Have you seen anybody afoot this morning?”
She looked at him with an air of well-assumed astonishment103.--"Why, ′tis barely five, and the children, bless their hearts, are still abed. My good 299man, you know, is away yonder, and the neighbours don′t trouble me now."
“Come, my lads, we must search the house. We′ll get nothing out of her, she′s as close as perdition.”
“If you′ll tell me what you want,” she said, “I would try and answer you. The boys are sleeping upstairs and there is nobody below but myself.”
“A fellow from the city has come this way, and I′ll take my oath he′s here or hereabouts.”
“God help him then, for I think he′ll get little further.”
“That′s as may be, but we′ll see if he′s here at any rate. Now, my men, don′t leave a mousehole that you don′t go to the bottom of. I′ve a shrewd suspicion that he′s not far off.”
They searched the garden and lower part of the house without success, and then ascended104 the ladder into the loft. The boys were asleep when they came up, but the noise awakened them, and frightened at the red coats of whom they stood in deadly terror, they set up a great crying which highly amused the soldiers. It may also have somewhat diverted their attention, for they failed to find the hiding-place in which Gervase lay concealed. Returning downstairs they reported that it was impossible that the prisoner could have concealed himself above, at which the good woman who was entertaining the captain, expressed her unbounded surprise.
“I thought,” she said, “you would have brought 300him down with you. I′m sure my man would be glad to hear there was somebody in his wife′s bedroom. But you have strange notions, you soldiers, and I′m sorry, Captain, I can′t ask you to stay and share the breakfast with me.”
The dragoon laughed good-humouredly and flung a couple of coins on the table. “We′re not so black as we′re painted,” he said, “and there′s for your trouble; but had we found him it would have been another story. Now, my men, to the rightabout and let us make up the stream the way we came. He hasn′t left the wood yet.”
When they had quitted the house, the woman took her pail and followed them as far as the well, watching them till they had reached the wood and disappeared among the trees. Then she released Gervase from his hiding-place and he was now in no enviable condition either of mind or of body. He was so weak that he found it difficult to make his way down the ladder into the kitchen, and he could scarcely set his feet to the ground. The woman looked at him with a face on which compassion105 was plainly written; then she went over to a press and took out a coat that belonged to her husband, a coarse shirt, and a pair of worsted stockings. “Now,” she said, “just step behind there, and make yourself cosy106 in these. If Sandy Graham was at home he would make you welcome to the best he has. Then you′ll come and sit down and tell me about my good man and the city, and how they fare there while I make ready something to eat, 301for God knows you look as if you needed it.”
Gervase gladly did as he was directed, and when he was dressed, as gladly fell to upon the fresh fish and coarse bread which seemed to him the sweetest meat he had ever partaken of in his life.
While he went on with his breakfast he answered the numerous inquiries107 as well as he was able, while the boys, who were now stirring, gathered round in admiration of the young giant for whom their father′s ample coat was far too scanty108. “I′m sorry you don′t know Sandy,” she said; “it would have been some comfort to know that you had seen him. I knew it was ill with you in the city, but I never thought it was as bad as that. They′ll be thinking of ye now with an anxious heart.”
“They know nothing about me,” Gervase said; “only Colonel Walker and myself are in the secret. If I fail----”
“Tut, man, ye′ll not fail now. I think,” she went on, looking at him admiringly, “ye could find a way in anything. You just take a rest on the bed upstairs, and I′ll watch that you′re not disturbed. They′re not bad bodies, the redcoats, and they haven′t troubled me much since I came back from Londonderry. In the evening I′ll see you farther.”
“If I only could find a boat,” Gervase said: “I could never reach the fleet by swimming now.”
“I′ve been thinking of that,” she answered; “there′s a bit of a coble lying in the cove17, but the oars are gone and it must be leaky as a sieve109, for it had been lying there all the summer.”
302Gervase caught the idea eagerly. “Anything that will keep me afloat; I care not what it is. Mistress Graham, we′ll save the city between us.”
“There ye go,” she said, with a smile of gratified vanity. “Ye could never make the two miles in yon crazy tub, but I′ll see through the day if I can′t turn my hand to caulking110 her myself. I′ve seen it done and I think I can try it, but what you′ll do for oars I know not. However, the tide will help you and you′ll manage somehow, never fear. It will be a great day when ye meet Sandy in the Diamond, and tell him I helped you through.”
Throughout the day Gervase remained undisturbed in the cottage. A patrol had been stationed a little distance further along the shore, but they had not again visited the house. Two or three times he heard their shouts as they passed at a distance. Mistress Graham had kept her promise, and as well as she was able, had patched up the little boat, which she dragged into the water and left floating in the cove. By using one of the planks111 which had been left in the little craft as a paddle, she hoped that he would be able to make his way to the ships. All was now ready for his journey, and it only wanted the help of the darkness to allow him to set out.
It was a bright moonlight night when they went down to the beach together. There was not an air to ruffle112 the surface of the water, and they could see very plainly a couple of miles away the riding 303lights of the ships at anchor. The patrol that had been in the vicinity of the cottage during the day had apparently113 been withdrawn114, for they had not been in sight since sundown. Gervase found the coble more than half full of water, which took him some time to bale out, and when he was ready to start he wrung115 the hand of the kind-hearted woman warmly. “I have no time to spare,” he said. “God reward you for all your kindness! You had better go back to the house now, for if I should be discovered it would only bring you into trouble. I hope we′ll meet under better fortune. Farewell.”
He pushed off, and sitting down amid ships began to make his way slowly from the shore. The woman returned to the door of the cottage, where she stood watching till the black speck116 was swallowed up in the darkness.
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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doled
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| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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8
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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9
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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17
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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18
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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21
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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22
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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23
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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24
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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25
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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26
eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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27
credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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28
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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29
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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30
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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31
dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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33
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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34
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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35
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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37
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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38
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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39
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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40
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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41
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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42
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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43
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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44
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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45
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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46
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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47
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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48
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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49
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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50
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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51
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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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
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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54
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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55
overestimated
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| 对（数量）估计过高，对…作过高的评价( overestimate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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58
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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59
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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60
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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61
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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62
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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63
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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64
lockers
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| n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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65
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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66
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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67
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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68
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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69
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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70
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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71
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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72
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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73
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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74
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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75
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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76
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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77
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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78
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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79
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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80
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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81
bruit
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| v.散布；n.（听诊时所听到的）杂音；吵闹 | |
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82
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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83
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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84
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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85
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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86
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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87
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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88
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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89
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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90
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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91
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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92
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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93
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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94
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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95
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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96
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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97
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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98
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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99
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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100
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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101
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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102
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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103
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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104
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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106
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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107
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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108
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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109
sieve
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| n.筛，滤器，漏勺 | |
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110
caulking
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| n.堵缝；敛缝；捻缝；压紧v.堵（船的）缝( caulk的现在分词 )；泥…的缝；填塞；使不漏水 | |
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111
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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112
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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113
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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114
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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115
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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116
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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