Therefore I say, it is an unfair advantage which the novelist takes of hero and heroine, as of his inexperienced reader, to say good-by to the two former, as soon as ever they are made husband and wife; and I have often wished that additions should be made to all works of fiction which have been brought to abrupt10 terminations in the manner described; and that we should hear what occurs to the sober married man, as well as to the ardent11 bachelor; to the matron, as well as to the blushing spinster. And in this respect I admire (and would desire to imitate,) the noble and prolific12 French author, Alexandre Dumas, who carries his heroes from early youth down to the most venerable old age; and does not let them rest until they are so old, that it is full time the poor fellows should get a little peace and quiet. A hero is much too valuable a gentleman to be put upon the retired13 list, in the prime and vigor15 of his youth; and I wish to know what lady among us would like to be put on the shelf, and thought no longer interesting, because she has a family growing up, and is four or five and thirty years of age? I have known ladies at sixty, with hearts as tender and ideas as romantic as any young misses of sixteen. Let us have middle-aged16 novels then, as well as your extremely juvenile17 legends: let the young ones be warned that the old folks have a right to be interesting: and that a lady may continue to have a heart, although she is somewhat stouter18 than she was when a school-girl, and a man his feelings, although he gets his hair from Truefitt’s.
Thus I would desire that the biographies of many of our most illustrious personages of romance should be continued by fitting hands, and that they should be heard of, until at least a decent age. — Look at Mr. James’s heroes: they invariably marry young. Look at Mr. Dickens’s: they disappear from the scene when they are mere19 chits. I trust these authors, who are still alive, will see the propriety21 of telling us something more about people in whom we took a considerable interest, and who must be at present strong and hearty22, and in the full vigor of health and intellect. And in the tales of the great Sir Walter (may honor be to his name), I am sure there are a number of people who are untimely carried away from us, and of whom we ought to hear more.
My dear Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York, has always, in my mind, been one of these; nor can I ever believe that such a woman, so admirable, so tender, so heroic, so beautiful, could disappear altogether before such another woman as Rowena, that vapid23, flaxen-headed creature, who is, in my humble24 opinion, unworthy of Ivanhoe, and unworthy of her place as heroine. Had both of them got their rights, it ever seemed to me that Rebecca would have had the husband, and Rowena would have gone off to a convent and shut herself up, where I, for one, would never have taken the trouble of inquiring for her.
But after all she married Ivanhoe. What is to be done? There is no help for it. There it is in black and white at the end of the third volume of Sir Walter Scott’s chronicle, that the couple were joined together in matrimony. And must the Disinherited Knight25, whose blood has been fired by the suns of Palestine, and whose heart has been warmed in the company of the tender and beautiful Rebecca, sit down contented26 for life by the side of such a frigid27 piece of propriety as that icy, faultless, prim14, niminy-piminy Rowena? Forbid it fate, forbid it poetical28 justice! There is a simple plan for setting matters right, and giving all parties their due, which is here submitted to the novel-reader. Ivanhoe’s history MUST have had a continuation; and it is this which ensues. I may be wrong in some particulars of the narrative29 — as what writer will not be? — but of the main incidents of the history, I have in my own mind no sort of doubt, and confidently submit them to that generous public which likes to see virtue30 righted, true love rewarded, and the brilliant Fairy descend31 out of the blazing chariot at the end of the pantomime, and make Harlequin and Columbine happy. What, if reality be not so, gentlemen and ladies; and if, after dancing a variety of jigs32 and antics, and jumping in and out of endless trap-doors and windows, through life’s shifting scenes, no fairy comes down to make US comfortable at the close of the performance? Ah! let us give our honest novel-folks the benefit of their position, and not be envious33 of their good luck.
No person who has read the preceding volumes of this history, as the famous chronicler of Abbotsford has recorded them, can doubt for a moment what was the result of the marriage between Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe and Lady Rowena. Those who have marked her conduct during her maidenhood35, her distinguished37 politeness, her spotless modesty38 of demeanor39, her unalterable coolness under all circumstances, and her lofty and gentlewomanlike bearing, must be sure that her married conduct would equal her spinster behavior, and that Rowena the wife would be a pattern of correctness for all the matrons of England.
Such was the fact. For miles around Rotherwood her character for piety40 was known. Her castle was a rendezvous41 for all the clergy6 and monks42 of the district, whom she fed with the richest viands43, while she pinched herself upon pulse and water. There was not an invalid44 in the three Ridings, Saxon or Norman, but the palfrey of the Lady Rowena might be seen journeying to his door, in company with Father Glauber, her almoner, and Brother Thomas of Epsom, her leech45. She lighted up all the churches in Yorkshire with wax-candles, the offerings of her piety. The bells of her chapel46 began to ring at two o’clock in the morning; and all the domestics of Rotherwood were called upon to attend at matins, at complins, at nones, at vespers, and at sermon. I need not say that fasting was observed with all the rigors48 of the Church; and that those of the servants of the Lady Rowena were looked upon with most favor whose hair-shirts were the roughest, and who flagellated themselves with the most becoming perseverance49.
Whether it was that this discipline cleared poor Wamba’s wits or cooled his humor, it is certain that he became the most melancholy50 fool in England, and if ever he ventured upon a pun to the shuddering51 poor servitors, who were mumbling52 their dry crusts below the salt, it was such a faint and stale joke that noboby dared to laugh at the innuendoes53 of the unfortunate wag, and a sickly smile was the best applause he could muster54. Once, indeed, when Guffo, the goose-boy (a half-witted poor wretch), laughed outright55 at a lamentably56 stale pun which Wamba palmed upon him at supper-time, (it was dark, and the torches being brought in, Wamba said, “Guffo, they can’t see their way in the argument, and are going TO THROW A LITTLE LIGHT UPON THE SUBJECT,”) the Lady Rowena, being disturbed in a theological controversy57 with Father Willibald, (afterwards canonized as St. Willibald, of Bareacres, hermit58 and confessor,) called out to know what was the cause of the unseemly interruption, and Guffo and Wamba being pointed59 out as the culprits, ordered them straightway into the court-yard, and three dozen to be administered to each of them.
“I got you out of Front-de-Boeufs castle,” said poor Wamba, piteously, appealing to Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, “and canst thou not save me from the lash60?”
“Yes, from Front-de-Boeuf’s castle, WHERE YOU WERE LOCKED UP WITH THE JEWESS IN THE TOWER!” said Rowena, haughtily61 replying to the timid appeal of her husband. “Gurth, give him four dozen!”
And this was all poor Wamba got by applying for the mediation62 of his master.
In fact, Rowena knew her own dignity so well as a princess of the royal blood of England, that Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, her consort63, could scarcely call his life his own, and was made, in all things, to feel the inferiority of his station. And which of us is there acquainted with the sex that has not remarked this propensity64 in lovely woman, and how often the wisest in the council are made to be as fools at HER board, and the boldest in the battle-field are craven when facing her distaff?
“Where you were locked up with the Jewess in the tower,” was a remark, too, of which Wilfrid keenly felt, and perhaps the reader will understand, the significancy. When the daughter of Isaac of York brought her diamonds and rubies65 — the poor gentle victim! — and, meekly66 laying them at the feet of the conquering Rowena, departed into foreign lands to tend the sick of her people, and to brood over the bootless passion which consumed her own pure heart, one would have thought that the heart of the royal lady would have melted before such beauty and humility67, and that she would have been generous in the moment of her victory.
But did you ever know a right-minded woman pardon another for being handsome and more love-worthy than herself? The Lady Rowena did certainly say with mighty68 magnanimity to the Jewish maiden34, “Come and live with me as a sister,” as the former part of this history shows; but Rebecca knew in her heart that her ladyship’s proposition was what is called BOSH (in that noble Eastern language with which Wilfrid the Crusader was familiar), or fudge, in plain Saxon; and retired with a broken, gentle spirit, neither able to bear the sight of her rival’s happiness, nor willing to disturb it by the contrast of her own wretchedness. Rowena, like the most high-bred and virtuous69 of women, never forgave Isaac’s daughter her beauty, nor her flirtation70 with Wilfrid (as the Saxon lady chose to term it); nor, above all, her admirable diamonds and jewels, although Rowena was actually in possession of them.
In a word, she was always flinging Rebecca into Ivanhoe’s teeth. There was not a day in his life but that unhappy warrior71 was made to remember that a Hebrew damsel had been in love with him, and that a Christian72 lady of fashion could never forgive the insult. For instance, if Gurth, the swineherd, who was now promoted to be a gamekeeper and verderer, brought the account of a famous wild-boar in the wood, and proposed a hunt, Rowena would say, “Do, Sir Wilfrid, persecute73 these poor pigs: you know your friends the Jews can’t abide74 them!” Or when, as it oft would happen, our lion-hearted monarch75, Richard, in order to get a loan or a benevolence76 from the Jews, would roast a few of the Hebrew capitalists, or extract some of the principal rabbis’ teeth, Rowena would exult77 and say, “Serve them right, the misbelieving wretches78! England can never be a happy country until every one of these monsters is exterminated79!” or else, adopting a strain of still more savage80 sarcasm81, would exclaim, “Ivanhoe my dear, more persecution82 for the Jews! Hadn’t you better interfere83, my love? His Majesty84 will do anything for you; and, you know, the Jews were ALWAYS SUCH FAVORITES OF YOURS,” or words to that effect. But, nevertheless, her ladyship never lost an opportunity of wearing Rebecca’s jewels at court, whenever the Queen held a drawing-room; or at the York assizes and ball, when she appeared there: not of course because she took any interest in such things, but because she considered it her duty to attend, as one of the chief ladies of the county.
Thus Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, having attained85 the height of his wishes, was, like many a man when he has reached that dangerous elevation86, disappointed. Ah, dear friends, it is but too often so in life! Many a garden, seen from a distance, looks fresh and green, which, when beheld87 closely, is dismal88 and weedy; the shady walks melancholy and grass-grown; the bowers89 you would fain repose90 in, cushioned with stinging-nettles. I have ridden in a caique upon the waters of the Bosphorus, and looked upon the capital of the Soldan of Turkey. As seen from those blue waters, with palace and pinnacle91, with gilded92 dome47 and towering cypress93, it seemeth a very Paradise of Mahound: but, enter the city, and it is but a beggarly labyrinth94 of rickety huts and dirty alleys95, where the ways are steep and the smells are foul96, tenanted by mangy dogs and ragged97 beggars — a dismal illusion! Life is such, ah, well-a-day! It is only hope which is real, and reality is a bitterness and a deceit.
Perhaps a man with Ivanhoe’s high principles would never bring himself to acknowledge this fact; but others did for him. He grew thin, and pined away as much as if he had been in a fever under the scorching98 sun of Ascalon. He had no appetite for his meals; he slept ill, though he was yawning all day. The jangling of the doctors and friars whom Rowena brought together did not in the least enliven him, and he would sometimes give proofs of somnolency99 during their disputes, greatly to the consternation100 of his lady. He hunted a good deal, and, I very much fear, as Rowena rightly remarked, that he might have an excuse for being absent from home. He began to like wine, too, who had been as sober as a hermit; and when he came back from Athelstane’s (whither he would repair not unfrequently), the unsteadiness of his gait and the unnatural101 brilliancy of his eye were remarked by his lady: who, you may be sure, was sitting up for him. As for Athelstane, he swore by St. Wullstan that he was glad to have escaped a marriage with such a pattern of propriety; and honest Cedric the Saxon (who had been very speedily driven out of his daughter-inlaw’s castle) vowed102 by St. Waltheof that his son had bought a dear bargain.
So Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe became almost as tired of England as his royal master Richard was, (who always quitted the country when he had squeezed from his loyal nobles, commons, clergy, and Jews, all the money which he could get,) and when the lion-hearted Prince began to make war against the French King, in Normandy and Guienne, Sir Wilfrid pined like a true servant to be in company of the good champion, alongside of whom he had shivered so many lances, and dealt such woundy blows of sword and battle-axe8 on the plains of Jaffa or the breaches103 of Acre. Travellers were welcome at Rotherwood that brought news from the camp of the good King: and I warrant me that the knight listened with all his might when Father Drono, the chaplain, read in the St. James’s Chronykyll (which was the paper of news he of Ivanhoe took in) of “another glorious triumph”—“Defeat of the French near Blois”—“Splendid victory at Epte, and narrow escape of the French King:” the which deeds of arms the learned scribes had to narrate104.
However such tales might excite him during the reading, they left the Knight of Ivanhoe only the more melancholy after listening: and the more moody105 as he sat in his great hall silently draining his Gascony wine. Silently sat he and looked at his coats-of-mail hanging vacant on the wall, his banner covered with spider-webs, and his sword and axe rusting106 there. “Ah, dear axe,” sighed he (into his drinking-horn)—“ah, gentle steel! that was a merry time when I sent thee crashing into the pate107 of the Emir Abdul Melik as he rode on the right of Saladin. Ah, my sword, my dainty headsman? my sweet split-rib? my razor of infidel beards! is the rust20 to eat thine edge off, and am I never more to wield108 thee in battle? What is the use of a shield on a wall, or a lance that has a cobweb for a pennon? O Richard, my good king, would I could hear once more thy voice in the front of the onset109! Bones of Brian the Templar? would ye could rise from your grave at Templestowe, and that we might break another spear for honor and — and —” . . .
“And REBECCA,” he would have said; but the knight paused here in rather a guilty panic: and her Royal Highness the Princess Rowena (as she chose to style herself at home) looked so hard at him out of her china-blue eyes, that Sir Wilfrid felt as if she was reading his thoughts, and was fain to drop his own eyes into his flagon.
In a word, his life was intolerable. The dinner hour of the twelfth century, it is known, was very early; in fact, people dined at ten o’clock in the morning: and after dinner Rowena sat mum under her canopy110, embroidered111 with the arms of Edward the Confessor, working with her maidens112 at the most hideous113 pieces of tapestry114, representing the tortures and martyrdoms of her favorite saints, and not allowing a soul to speak above his breath, except when she chose to cry out in her own shrill115 voice when a handmaid made a wrong stitch, or let fall a ball of worsted. It was a dreary116 life. Wamba, we have said, never ventured to crack a joke, save in a whisper, when he was ten miles from home; and then Sir Wilfrid Ivanhoe was too weary and blue-devilled to laugh; but hunted in silence, moodily117 bringing down deer and wild-boar with shaft118 and quarrel.
Then he besought119 Robin120 of Huntingdon, the jolly outlaw121, nathless, to join him, and go to the help of their fair sire King Richard, with a score or two of lances. But the Earl of Huntingdon was a very different character from Robin Hood36 the forester. There was no more conscientious122 magistrate123 in all the county than his lordship: he was never known to miss church or quarter-sessions; he was the strictest game-proprietor in all the Riding, and sent scores of poachers to Botany Bay. “A man who has a stake in the country, my good Sir Wilfrid,” Lord Huntingdon said, with rather a patronizing air (his lordship had grown immensely fat since the King had taken him into grace, and required a horse as strong as an elephant to mount him)—“a man with a stake in the country ought to stay IN the country. Property has its duties as well as its privileges, and a person of my rank is bound to live on the land from which he gets his living.”
“‘Amen!” sang out the Reverend —— Tuck, his lordship’s domestic chaplain, who had also grown as sleek124 as the Abbot of Jorvaulx, who was as prim as a lady in his dress, wore bergamot in his handkerchief, and had his poll shaved and his beard curled every day. And so sanctified was his Reverence125 grown, that he thought it was a shame to kill the pretty deer, (though he ate of them still hugely, both in pasties and with French beans and currant-jelly,) and being shown a quarter-staff upon a certain occasion, handled it curiously126, and asked “what that ugly great stick was?”
Lady Huntingdon, late Maid Marian, had still some of her old fun and spirits, and poor Ivanhoe begged and prayed that she would come and stay at Rotherwood occasionally, and egayer the general dulness of that castle. But her ladyship said that Rowena gave herself such airs, and bored her so intolerably with stories of King Edward the Confessor, that she preferred any place rather than Rotherwood, which was as dull as if it had been at the top of Mount Athos.
The only person who visited it was Athelstane. “His Royal Highness the Prince” Rowena of course called him, whom the lady received with royal honors. She had the guns fired, and the footmen turned out with presented arms when he arrived; helped him to all Ivanhoe’s favorite cuts of the mutton or the turkey, and forced her poor husband to light him to the state bedroom, walking backwards127, holding a pair of wax-candles. At this hour of bedtime the Thane used to be in such a condition, that he saw two pair of candles and two Ivanhoes reeling before him. Let us hope it was not Ivanhoe that was reeling, but only his kinsman’s brains muddled128 with the quantities of drink which it was his daily custom to consume. Rowena said it was the crack which the wicked Bois Guilbert, “the Jewess’s OTHER lover, Wilfrid my dear,” gave him on his royal skull129, which caused the Prince to be disturbed so easily; but added, that drinking became a person of royal blood, and was but one of the duties of his station.
Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe saw it would be of no avail to ask this man to bear him company on his projected tour abroad; but still he himself was every day more and more bent130 upon going, and he long cast about for some means of breaking to his Rowena his firm resolution to join the King. He thought she would certainty fall ill if he communicated the news too abruptly131 to her: he would pretend a journey to York to attend a grand jury; then a call to London on law business or to buy stock; then he would slip over to Calais by the packet, by degrees as it were; and so be with the King before his wife knew that he was out of sight of Westminster Hall.
“Suppose your honor says you are going as your honor would say Bo! to a goose, plump, short, and to the point,” said Wamba the Jester — who was Sir Wilfrid’s chief counsellor and attendant —“depend on’t her Highness would bear the news like a Christian woman.”
“Tush, malapert! I will give thee the strap,” said Sir Wilfrid, in a fine tone of high-tragedy indignation. “Thou knowest not the delicacy132 of the nerves of high-born ladies. An she faint not, write me down Hollander.”
“I will wager133 my bauble134 against an Irish billet of exchange that she will let your honor go off readily: that is, if you press not the matter too strongly,” Wamba answered, knowingly. And this Ivanhoe found to his discomfiture135: for one morning at breakfast, adopting a degage air, as he sipped136 his tea, he said, “My love, I was thinking of going over to pay his Majesty a visit in Normandy.” Upon which, laying down her muffin, (which, since the royal Alfred baked those cakes, had been the chosen breakfast cate of noble Anglo-Saxons, and which a kneeling page tendered to her on a salver, chased by the Florentine, Benvenuto Cellini,)—“When do you think of going, Wilfrid my dear?” the lady said; and the moment the tea-things were removed, and the tables and their trestles put away, she set about mending his linen137, and getting ready his carpet-bag.
So Sir Wilfrid was as disgusted at her readiness to part with him as he had been weary of staying at home, which caused Wamba the Fool to say, “Marry, gossip, thou art like the man on ship-board, who, when the boatswain flogged him, did cry out ‘Oh!’ wherever the rope’s-end fell on him: which caused Master Boatswain to say, ‘Plague on thee, fellow, and a pize on thee, knave138, wherever I hit thee there is no pleasing thee.’”
“And truly there are some backs which Fortune is always belaboring,” thought Sir Wilfrid with a groan139, “and mine is one that is ever sore.”
So, with a moderate retinue140, whereof the knave Wamba made one, and a large woollen comforter round his neck, which his wife’s own white fingers had woven, Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe left home to join the King his master. Rowena, standing141 on the steps, poured out a series of prayers and blessings142, most edifying143 to hear, as her lord mounted his charger, which his squires144 led to the door. “It was the duty of the British female of rank,” she said, “to suffer all — ALL in the cause of her sovereign. SHE would not fear loneliness during the campaign: she would bear up against widowhood, desertion, and an unprotected situation.”
“My cousin Athelstane will protect thee,” said Ivanhoe, with profound emotion, as the tears trickled145 down his basenet; and bestowing146 a chaste147 salute148 upon the steel-clad warrior, Rowena modestly said “she hoped his Highness would be so kind.”
Then Ivanhoe’s trumpet149 blew: then Rowena waved her pocket-handkerchief: then the household gave a shout: then the pursuivant of the good Knight, Sir Wilfrid the Crusader, flung out his banner (which was argent, a gules cramoisy with three Moors150 impaled151 sable): then Wamba gave a lash on his mule152’s haunch, and Ivanhoe, heaving a great sigh, turned the tail of his war-horse upon the castle of his fathers.
As they rode along the forest, they met Athelstane the Thane powdering along the road in the direction of Rotherwood on his great dray-horse of a charger. “Good-by, good luck to you, old brick,” cried the Prince, using the vernacular153 Saxon. “Pitch into those Frenchmen; give it ’em over the face and eyes; and I’ll stop at home and take care of Mrs. I.”
“Thank you, kinsman,” said Ivanhoe — looking, however, not particularly well pleased; and the chiefs shaking hands, the train of each took its different way — Athelstane’s to Rotherwood, Ivanhoe’s towards his place of embarkation154.
The poor knight had his wish, and yet his face was a yard long and as yellow as a lawyer’s parchment; and having longed to quit home any time these three years past, he found himself envying Athelstane, because, forsooth, he was going to Rotherwood: which symptoms of discontent being observed by the witless Wamba, caused that absurd madman to bring his rebeck over his shoulder from his back, and to sing —
“ATRA CURA.
“Before I lost my five poor wits,
I mind me of a Romish clerk,
Who sang how Care, the phantom155 dark,
Beside the belted horseman sits.
Methought I saw the griesly sprite
Jump up but now behind my Knight.”
“Perhaps thou didst, knave,” said Ivanhoe, looking over his shoulder; and the knave went on with his jingle156:
“And though he gallop157 as he may,
I mark that cursed monster black
Still sits behind his honor’s back,
Tight squeezing of his heart alway.
Like two black Templars sit they there,
Beside one crupper, Knight and Care.
“No knight am I with pennoned spear,
To prance158 upon a bold destrere:
I will not have black Care prevail
Upon my long-eared charger’s tail,
For lo, I am a witless fool,
And laugh at Grief and ride a mule.”
And his bells rattled159 as he kicked his mule’s sides.
“Silence, fool!” said Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, in a voice both majestic160 and wrathful. “If thou knowest not care and grief, it is because thou knowest not love, whereof they are the companions. Who can love without an anxious heart? How shall there be joy at meeting, without tears at parting?” (“I did not see that his honor or my lady shed many anon,” thought Wamba the Fool; but he was only a zany, and his mind was not right.) “I would not exchange my very sorrows for thine indifference,” the knight continued. “Where there is a sun, there must be a shadow. If the shadow offend me, shall I put out my eyes and live in the dark? No! I am content with my fate, even such as it is. The Care of which thou speakest, hard though it may vex161 him, never yet rode down an honest man. I can bear him on my shoulders, and make my way through the world’s press in spite of him; for my arm is strong, and my sword is keen, and my shield has no stain on it; and my heart, though it is sad, knows no guile162.” And here, taking a locket out of his waistcoat (which was made of chain-mail), the knight kissed the token, put it back under the waistcoat again, heaved a profound sigh, and stuck spurs into his horse.
As for Wamba, he was munching163 a black pudding whilst Sir Wilfrid was making the above speech, (which implied some secret grief on the knight’s part, that must have been perfectly164 unintelligible165 to the fool,) and so did not listen to a single word of Ivanhoe’s pompous166 remarks. They travelled on by slow stages through the whole kingdom, until they came to Dover, whence they took shipping167 for Calais. And in this little voyage, being exceedingly sea-sick, and besides elated at the thought of meeting his sovereign, the good knight cast away that profound melancholy which had accompanied him during the whole of his land journey.
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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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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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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throbbing
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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nuptial
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abrupt
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ardent
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prolific
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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vigor
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middle-aged
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juvenile
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stouter
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mere
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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propriety
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22
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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23
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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24
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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25
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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26
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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27
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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28
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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29
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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30
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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31
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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32
jigs
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| n.快步舞（曲）极快地( jig的名词复数 )；夹具v.（使）上下急动( jig的第三人称单数 ) | |
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33
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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34
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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35
maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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36
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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37
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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38
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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39
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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40
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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41
rendezvous
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|
| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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42
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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43
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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44
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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45
leech
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|
| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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46
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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47
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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48
rigors
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| 严格( rigor的名词复数 )； 严酷； 严密； （由惊吓或中毒等导致的身体）僵直 | |
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49
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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50
melancholy
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|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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51
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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52
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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53
innuendoes
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|
| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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54
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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55
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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56
lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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57
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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58
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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59
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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60
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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61
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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62
mediation
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| n.调解 | |
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63
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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64
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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65
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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66
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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67
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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68
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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69
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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70
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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71
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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72
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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73
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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74
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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75
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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76
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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77
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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78
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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79
exterminated
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| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
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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81
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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82
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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83
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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84
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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85
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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86
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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87
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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88
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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89
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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90
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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91
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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92
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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93
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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94
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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95
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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96
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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97
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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98
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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99
somnolency
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| n.想睡，梦幻 | |
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100
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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101
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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102
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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103
breaches
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| 破坏( breach的名词复数 )； 破裂； 缺口； 违背 | |
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104
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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105
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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106
rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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107
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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108
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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109
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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110
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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111
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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112
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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113
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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114
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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115
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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116
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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117
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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118
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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119
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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120
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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121
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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122
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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123
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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124
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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125
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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126
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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127
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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128
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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129
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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130
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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131
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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132
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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133
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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134
bauble
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| n.美观而无价值的饰物 | |
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135
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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136
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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138
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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139
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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140
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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141
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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142
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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143
edifying
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|
| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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144
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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145
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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146
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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147
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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148
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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149
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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150
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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151
impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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153
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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154
embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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155
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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156
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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157
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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158
prance
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| v.（马）腾跃，(人)神气活现地走 | |
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159
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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160
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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161
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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162
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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163
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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164
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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165
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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166
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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167
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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