The mightiest1 monarch2 of his age, sovereign of England—as his proud grandsire made his vaunt of yore—by right of the sword’s edge; grand duke of Normandy, by privilege of blood; and liege lord of Guienne, by marriage with its powerful heritress; the bravest, the most fortunate, the wisest of the kings of Europe, Henry the Second, held his court for the high festival of Christmas in the fair halls of Rouen. The banquet was already over, the revelry was at the highest, still, the gothic arches ringing with the merriment, the laughter, and the blended cadences4 of many a minstrel’s harp5, of many a trouvere’s lay. Suddenly, while the din6 was at the loudest, piercing through all the mingled7 sounds, a single trumpet’s note was heard—wailing, prolonged, and ominous8—as was the chill it struck to every heart in that bright company—of coming evil. During the pause which followed, for at that thrilling blast the mirth and song were hushed as if by instinct—a bustle9 might be heard below, the tread of many feet, and the discordant10 tones of many eager voices. The great doors were thrown open, not with the stately ceremonial that befitted the occasion, but with a noisy and irreverent haste that proved the urgency or the importance of the new-comers. Then, to the wonder of all present, there entered—not in their wonted pomp,62 with stole, and mitre, crozier dalmatique and ring, but in soiled vestments, travel-worn and dusty, with features haggard from fatigue12, and sharpened by anxiety and fear—six of the noblest of old England’s prelates, led by the second dignitary of the church, York’s proud archbishop. Hurrying forward to the dais, where Henry sat in state, they halted all together at the step, and in one voice exclaimed:—
“Fair sir, and king, not for ourselves alone, but for the holy church, for your own realm and crown, for your own honor, your own safety, we beseech13 you—”
“What means this, holy fathers?” Henry cried, hastily, and half alarmed, as it would seem, by the excited language of the churchmen. “What means this vehemence14—or who hath dared to wrong ye, and for why?”
“For that, at your behest, we dared to crown the youthful king, your son! Such, sire, is our offence. Our wrong—that we your English prelates are excommunicated, and—”
“Now, by the eyes of God!”A exclaimed the king, breaking abruptly15 in upon the bishop’s speech, his noble features crimsoned16 by the indignant blood, that rushed to them at mention of this foul17 affront18, “Now, by the eyes of God, if all who have consented to his consecration19 be accursed, then am I so myself!”
A For this strange but authentic20 oath, see Thierry’s “Norman Conquest,” whence most of these details are taken.
“Nor is this all,” replied the prelate, well pleased to note the growing anger of the sovereign, “nor is this all the wrong. The same bold man, who did you this affront, an’ you look not the sharper, will light a blaze in England that shall consume right speedily your royal crown itself. He marches to and fro, with troops of horse, and bands of armed footmen, stirring the Saxon churls against the gentle blood of Normandy, nay21, seeking even to gain entrance into your garrisons22 and castles.”
63 “Do I hear right,” shouted the fiery23 prince, striking his hand upon the board with such fierce vehemence, that every flask24 and tankard rang. “Do I hear right—and is it but a dream that I am England’s king? What! one base vassal25; one who has fattened26 on the bread of our ill-wasted charity; one beggar, who first came to our court with all his fortunes on his back, bestriding a galled27, spavined jade28; one wretch29 like this insult at once a line of sovereign princes—trample a realm beneath his feet—and go unpunished and scathe-free? What! was there not one man, one only, of the hordes30 of recreant31 knights32 who feast around my board, to free his monarch from a shaveling who dishonors and defies him? Break off the feast—break off, I say! no time for revelry and wine!—To council, lords, to council! We must indeed bestir us, an’ we would hold the crown our grandsire won, not for himself alone, nor for his race—who, by God’s grace, will wear it, spite priest, cardinal33, or pope—but for the gentle blood of Norman chivalry34!”
Rising at once, he led the way to council; and, with wild haste and disarray35, the company dispersed36. But as the hall grew thin, four knights remained behind in close converse—so deep, so earnest, that they were left alone, when all the rest, ladies, and cavaliers, and chamberlains, and pages, had departed, and the vast gallery, which had so lately rung with every various sound of human merriment, was silent as the grave. There was a strange and almost awful contrast between the strong and stately forms of the four barons—their deep and energetic whispers, the fiery glances of their angry eyes, the fierce gesticulations of their muscular and well-turned limbs—and the deserted38 splendors39 of that royal hall: the vacant throne, the long array of seats; the gorgeous plate, flagons, and cups, and urns40 of gold and marquetry; the lights still glowing, as it were, in mockery over the empty board; the wine unpoured—the harps41 untouched and voiceless.
64 “Be it so—be it so!” exclaimed, in louder tones than they had used before, one, the most striking in appearance of the group; “be it so—let us swear! Richard le Breton, Hugues de Morville, William de Traci—even as I shall swear, swear ye—by God, and by our trusty blades, and by our Norman honor!”
“We will,” cried all, “we swear! we be not recreant, nor craven, as our good swords shall witness!”
“Thus, then,” continued the first speaker, drawing his sword, and grasping a huge cup of wine, “thus, then, I, Reginald Fitz-Urse, for mine own part, and for each one and all of ye, do swear—so help me God and our good Lady!—never to touch the winecup; never to bend before the shrine42; never to close the eyes in sleep; never to quit the saddle, or unbelt the brand; never to pray to God; never to hope for heaven—until the wrong we reck of be redressed43!—until the insult done our sovereign be avenged44!—until the life-blood of his foeman stream on our battle-swords as streams this nobler wine!”
Then, with the words—for not he only, but each one of the four, holding their long, two-handed blades extended at arms’ length before them with all their points in contact, and in the other hand grasping the brimming goblets45, had gone through, in resolute46, unflinching tones, the fearful adjuration—then, with the words, they all dashed down the generous liquor on the weapons, watched it in silence as it crimsoned them from point to hilt, and sheathing47 them, all purple as they were, hurried, not from the hall alone, but from the palace; mounted their fleetest war-steeds, and, that same night, rode furiously away toward the nearest sea.
The fifth day was in progress after King Henry’s banquet, when, at the hour of noon, four Norman knights, followed by fifty men-at-arms, sheathed48 cap-à-pie in mail, arrayed beneath the banner of Fitz-Urse, entered the town of Canterbury at a hard gallop49. The leaders of the band alone were clad in garbs65 of peace, bearing no weapon but their swords, and singularly ill-accoutred for horse-exercise, being attired50 in doublets of rich velvet51, with hose of cloth of gold or silver, as if in preparation for some high and festive52 meeting. Yet was it evident that they had ridden miles in that unsuitable apparel; for the rich velvet was besmeared with many a miry stain, and the hose dashed with blood, which had been drawn53 profusely54 by the long rowels of their gilded55 spurs.
Halting in serried56 order at the market-cross, the leader of the party summoned, by an equerry, the city mayor to hear the orders of the king; and, when that officer appeared—having commanded him, “on his allegiance, to call his men to arms, and take such steps as should assuredly prevent the burghers of the town from raising any tumult57 on that day, whate’er might come to pass”—with his three friends, and twelve, the stoutest58, of the men-at-arms who followed in their train, rode instantly away to the archbishop’s palace.
The object of their deadly hatred59, when the four knights arrived, was in the act of finishing his noonday meal; and all his household were assembled at the board, from which he had just risen. There was no sign of trepidation60, no symptom of surprise, much less of fear or consternation61, in his aspect or demeanor62, as one by one his visitors stalked unannounced into the long apartment. Yet was there much indeed in the strange guise63 wherein they came—in their disordered habits, in the excitement visibly depicted64 on their brows, haggard from want of sleep, pale with fatigue and labor65, yet resolute, and stern, and terse66, with the resolve of their dread67 purpose—to have astonished, nay, dismayed the spirit of one less resolute in the defence of what he deemed the right than Thomas à-Becket. Silently, one by one, they entered, the leader halting opposite the prelate, with his arms folded on his breast, and his three comrades forming as it were in a half-circle around him. Not66 one of them removed the bonnet68 from his brow, or bowed the knee on entering, or offered any greeting, whether to the temporal rank or spiritual station of their intended victim; but gazed on him with a fixed69 sternness that was far more awful than any show of violence. This dumb-show, although it needs must occupy some time in the description, had lasted perhaps a minute, when the bold prelate broke the silence, addressing them in clear, harmonious70 tones, and with an air as dignified71 and placid72 as though he had been bidding them to share the friendly banquet.
“Fair sirs,” he said, “I bid ye welcome; although, in truth, the manner of your entrance be not in all things courteous73, nor savoring74 of that respect which should be paid, if not to me—who am but as a worm, the meanest of His creatures—yet to the dignity whereunto HE has raised me! Natheless, I bid ye hail! Please ye disclose the business whereon ye now have come to me.”
Still not a word did they reply—but seated themselves all unbidden, still glaring on him with fixed eyes, ominous of evil. At length Fitz-Urse addressed him, speaking abruptly, and in tones so hoarse75 and hollow—the natural consequence of his extreme exertions76, four days and nights having been actually passed in almost constant travel—that his most intimate associate could not have recognised his voice.
“We come,” he said, “on the king’s part, to take—and that, too, on the instant—some order with your late proceedings78: to have the excommunicated presently absolved79; to see the bishops81, who have been suspended, forthwith re-established; and to hear what you may now allege83 concerning your design against your sovereign lord and master!”
“It is not I,” Thomas replied, still calmer and more dignified than the fierce spirits who addressed him, “it is not I who have done this. It is the sovereign pontiff, God’s own supreme67 vicegerent, who, of his own will, excommunicated my late brother of York. He alone, therefore, can absolve80 him. I have no power in’t. As for the rest, let them but make submission84, and straightway shall they be restored!”
“From whom, then,” Reginald Fitz-Urse demanded, “from whom, then, hold you your archbishopric—from England’s king, or from the pope of Rome?”
“My spiritual rights, of God and of the pope—my temporal privileges, of the king,” was the prompt answer.
“The king, then, gave you not?” the baron37 asked again. “Beware, I warn you, beware how you do answer me: the king, I say, gave you not ALL that you enjoy?”
“He did not,” answered Becket, without moving a single muscle of his composed but haughty85 countenance86; although, at the reply, the fiery temper of his unwelcome visiters was made more clearly manifest, as a deep, angry murmur87 burst simultaneously88 from all their lips, and they wrung89 with fierce gestures their gloved hands, as if it was with difficulty they restrained themselves from violence more open in its character.
“Ye threaten me, I well believe,” exclaimed the stately prelate, “but it is vain and useless. Were all the swords in England brandished90 against my head, ye should gain nothing, nothing from me.”
“We will do more than threaten,” answered Fitz-Urse; and rising from his seat, rushed out of the apartment, followed by his companions, crying aloud, even before they crossed the threshold, “To-arms, Normans, to-arms!”
The doors were closed behind them, and barred instantly with the most jealous care; while Reginald and the conspirators91, meeting the guard whom they had left without, armed themselves cap-à-pie in the courtyard before the palace-gates, as if for instant battle, with helmet, hood-of-mail, and hauberk; their triangular92 steel-plated shields hanging about their necks;68 their legs protected by mail-hose, fitting as closely and as flexible as modern stockings; their huge two-handed swords belted about them in such fashion, that their cross-guarded hilts came over their left shoulders, while their points clanked against the spur on their right heels.
There was no pause; for, snatching instantly an axe93 from the hands of a carpenter who chanced to be at work in the courtyard, Fitz-Urse assailed94 the gate. Strong as it was, it creaked and groaned95 beneath the furious blows, and the long corridors within rolled back the threatening sounds in deep and hollow echoes. Within the palace all was confusion and dismay, and every face was pale and ghastly, save his alone who had the cause for fear.
“Fly! fly, my lord!” cried the assistants, breathless with terror; “fly to the altar! There, there, at least, shall you be safe!”
“Never!” the prelate answered, his bold spirit as self-possessed and calm in that most imminent96 peril97 as though he had been bred from childhood upward to the performance of high deeds and daring; “never will I turn back from that which I have set myself to do! God, if it be his pleasure, shall preserve me from yet greater straits than these; and if it be not so his will to do, then God forbid I should gainsay98 him!” Nor would he stir one foot, until the vesper-bell, rung by the sacristan, unwitting of his superior’s peril, began to chime from the near walls of the cathedral. “It is the hour,” he quietly observed, on hearing the sweet cadence3 of the bells, “it is the hour of prayer; my duty calls me. Give me my vestments—carry my cross before me!” And, attiring99 himself as though nothing of unusual moment were impending100, he traversed, with steps even slower than his wont11, the cloister101 leading from his dwelling102 to the abbey; though, ere he left the palace, the din of blows had ceased, and the fierce shout of the assailants gave69 token that the door had yielded. Chiding103 his servitors for their excess of terror, as unworthy of their sacred calling, he still walked slowly onward104, while the steel-shod footsteps of his foemen might be heard clashing on the pavement but a few yards behind him. He reached the door of the cathedral; entered without casting so much as one last glance behind; passed up the nave105, and going up the steps of the high altar, separated from the body of the church by a slight rail of ornamental106 iron-work, commenced the service of the day.
Scarcely had he uttered the first words, when Reginald, sheathed, as has been heretofore described, in complete panoply107, with his two-handed sword already naked, rushed into the cathedral.
“To me!” he cried, with a fierce shout, “to me, valiant108 and loyal servants of the king!” while close behind him followed, in like array, with flashing eyes, and inflamed109 visages, and brandished weapons, his sworn confederates; and without the gates their banded men-at-arms stood in a serried circle, defying all assistance from the town. Again his servitors entreated110 Becket to preserve himself, by seeking refuge in the dark crypts beneath the chancel, where he might rest concealed111 in absolute security until the burghers should be aroused to rescue; or by ascending112 the intricate and winding113 turret-stairs to the cathedral-roof, whence he might summon aid ere he could possibly be overtaken: but it was all in vain. Confiding114 in the goodness of his cause, perhaps expecting supernatural assistance, the daring prelate silenced their prayers by a contemptuous refusal; and even left the altar, to prevent one of the monks115 from closing the weak, trellised gates, which marked the holiest precincts. Meanwhile, unmoved in their fell purpose, the Normans were at hand.
“Where is the traitor116?” cried Fitz-Urse, but not a voice replied; and the unwonted tones were vocal117 yet beneath the70 vaulted118 roof in lingering echoes, when he again exclaimed, “Where—where is the archbishop?”
“Here stands he,” Becket answered, drawing his lofty person up to its full height, and spreading his arms forth82 with a gesture of perfect majesty119. “Here stands he, but no traitor! What do ye in God’s house in such apparel? what is your will, or purpose?”
“That you die, presently!” was the reply, enforced by the uplifted weapon and determined120 features of the savage121 baron.
“I am resigned,” returned the prelate, the calm patience of the martyr122 blent with a noble daring that would have well become a warrior123 on the battle-field. “Ye shall not see me fly before your swords! But in the name of the all-powerful God, whom ye dishonor and defy, I do command ye injure no one of my companions, layman124 or priest.” His words were interrupted by a heavy blow across his shoulders, delivered, with the flat of his huge sword, by Reginald.
“Fly!” he said, “fly, priest, or you are dead!” But the archbishop moved not a step, spoke125 not a syllable126. “Drag him hence, comrades,” continued the last speaker; “away with him beyond the threshold—we may not smite127 him here!”
“Here—here, or nowhere!” the archbishop answered—“here, in the very presence, and before the altar, and the image, of our God!” And, as he spoke, he seized the railings with both hands, set his feet firm, and, being of a muscular and powerful frame, sustained by daring courage and highly-wrought excitement, he succeeded in maintaining his position, in spite of the united efforts of the four Norman warriors128.
Meanwhile, all the companions of the prelate had escaped, by ways known only to themselves—all but one faithful follower—the Saxon, Edward Grim, his cross-bearer since his first elevation129 to the see of Canterbury—the same who had so boldly spoken out after the conference of Clarendon; and the71 conspirators began to be alarmed lest, if their purpose were not speedily accomplished130, the rescue should arrive and frustrate131 their intentions. Their blood, moreover, was heated by the struggle; and their fierce natures, never much restrained by awe132 or reverence133 for things divine, burst through all bonds.
“Here, then, if it so please you!—here!” cried William de Traci, striking, as he spoke, a blow with the full sweep of both his arms wielding134 his ponderous135 weapon, at the defenceless victim’s head. But the bold Saxon suddenly stretched out his arm to guard his beloved master. Down came the mighty136 blow—but not for that did the true servitor withdraw his naked limb—down came the mighty blow, and lopped the unflinching hand, sheer as the woodman’s bill severs137 the hazel-twig!
Still, Becket stood unwounded. “Strike! strike, you others!” shouted the Norman, as he grasped the maimed but still-resolved protector of his master, and held him off by the exertion77 of his entire strength; “strike! strike!” And they did strike, fearlessly—mercilessly! Hugues de Morville smote138 him with a mace139 upon his temples, and he fell, stunned140, but still alive, face downward on the pavement; and Reginald Fitz-Urse, whirling his espaldron around his head, brought it down with such reckless fury upon the naked skull141, that the point clove142 right through it, down to the marble pavement, on which it yet alighted with a degree of violence so undiminished, that it was shivered to the very hilt, and the strong arms of him who wielded143 it were jarred up to the shoulders, as if by an electric shock. One of the men-at-arms, who had rushed in during the struggle, spurned144 with his foot the motionless and senseless clay.
“Thus perish all,” he said, “all foemen of the king, and of the gentle Normans—all who dare, henceforth, to arouse the base and slavish Saxons against their free and princely masters!”
72 Thus fell the Saxon prelate, ruthlessly butchered at the very shrine of God—not so much that he was a Romish priest, and an upholder of the rights of Rome, as that he was a Saxon-man, a vindicator145 of the liberties of England! Yet, though the pope absolved that king whose cruel will had, in truth, done the deed, yet was that deed not unavenged. If the revolt and treachery of all most dear to him, the hatred of his very flesh and blood, the unceasing enmity of his own sons, a miserable146 old age, and a heart-broken death-bed—if these things may be deemed Heaven’s vengeance147 upon murder—then, of a surety, that murder was avenged!
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1
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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3
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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garrisons
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| 守备部队，卫戍部队( garrison的名词复数 ) | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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fattened
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| v.喂肥( fatten的过去式和过去分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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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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splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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41
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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42
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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43
redressed
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| v.改正( redress的过去式和过去分词 )；重加权衡；恢复平衡 | |
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avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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45
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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46
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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47
sheathing
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| n.覆盖物，罩子v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的现在分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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48
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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49
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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50
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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52
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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53
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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54
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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55
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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56
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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57
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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58
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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59
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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60
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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61
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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62
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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63
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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64
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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65
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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66
terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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67
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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68
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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69
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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70
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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71
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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72
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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73
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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74
savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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75
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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76
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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77
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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78
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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79
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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80
absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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81
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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82
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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83
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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84
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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85
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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86
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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87
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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88
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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89
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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90
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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91
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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92
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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93
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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94
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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95
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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96
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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97
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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98
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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99
attiring
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| v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的现在分词 ) | |
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100
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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101
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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102
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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103
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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104
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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105
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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106
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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107
panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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108
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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109
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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112
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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113
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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114
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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115
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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116
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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117
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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118
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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119
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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120
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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121
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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122
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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123
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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124
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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125
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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126
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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127
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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128
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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129
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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130
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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131
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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132
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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133
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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134
wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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135
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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136
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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137
severs
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的第三人称单数 )；断，裂 | |
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138
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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139
mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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140
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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141
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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142
clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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143
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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144
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
vindicator
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| n.维护者，辩护者，辩明者 | |
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146
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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147
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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