It was with a light heart and a pleasing consciousness of holiday that I set out from the inn at Allermuir to tramp my fifteen miles into the unknown. I walked slowly, for I carried my equipment on my back—my basket, fly-books and rods, my plaid of Grant tartan (for I boast myself a distant kinsman1 of that house), and my great staff, which had tried ere then the front of the steeper Alps. A small valise with books and some changes of linen2 clothing had been sent on ahead in the shepherd's own hands. It was yet early April, and before me lay four weeks of freedom—twenty-eight blessed days in which to take fish and smoke the pipe of [Pg 14]idleness. The Lent term had pulled me down, a week of modest enjoyment4 thereafter in town had finished the work; and I drank in the sharp moorish5 air like a thirsty man who has been forwandered among deserts.
I am a man of varied7 tastes and a score of interests. As an undergraduate I had been filled with the old mania8 for the complete life. I distinguished9 myself in the Schools, rowed in my college eight, and reached the distinction of practising for three weeks in the Trials. I had dabbled10 in a score of learned activities, and when the time came that I won the inevitable11 St. Chad's fellowship on my chaotic12 acquirements, and I found myself compelled to select if I would pursue a scholar's life, I had some toil13 in finding my vocation15. In the end I resolved that the ancient life of the North, of the Celts and the Northmen and the unknown Pictish tribes, held for me the chief fascination16. I had acquired a smattering of Gaelic, having been brought up as a boy in Lochaber, and now I set myself to increase my store of languages. I mastered Erse and Icelandic, and my first book—a monograph17 on the probable Celtic elements in the Eddic songs—brought me the praise of scholars and the deputy-professor's chair of[Pg 15] Northern Antiquities18. So much for Oxford19. My vacations had been spent mainly in the North—in Ireland, Scotland, and the Isles21, in Scandinavia and Iceland, once even in the far limits of Finland. I was a keen sportsman of a sort, an old-experienced fisher, a fair shot with gun and rifle, and in my hillcraft I might well stand comparison with most men. April has ever seemed to me the finest season of the year even in our cold northern altitudes, and the memory of many bright Aprils had brought me up from the South on the night before to Allerfoot, whence a dogcart had taken me up Glen Aller to the inn at Allermuir; and now the same desire had set me on the heather with my face to the cold brown hills.
You are to picture a sort of plateau, benty and rock-strewn, running ridge24-wise above a chain of little peaty lochs and a vast tract25 of inexorable bog26. In a mile the ridge ceased in a shoulder of hill, and over this lay the head of another glen, with the same doleful accompaniment of sunless lochs, mosses27, and a shining and resolute29 water. East and west and north, in every direction save the south, rose walls of gashed30 and serrated hills. It was a grey day with blinks of sun, and when a ray chanced to fall on one of the great dark[Pg 16] faces, lines of light and colour sprang into being which told of mica31 and granite32. I was in high spirits, as on the eve of holiday; I had breakfasted excellently on eggs and salmon33-steaks; I had no cares to speak of, and my prospects34 were not uninviting. But in spite of myself the landscape began to take me in thrall36 and crush me. The silent vanished peoples of the hills seemed to be stirring; dark primeval faces seemed to stare at me from behind boulders37 and jags of rock. The place was so still, so free from the cheerful clamour of nesting birds, that it seemed a temenos sacred to some old-world god. At my feet the lochs lapped ceaselessly; but the waters were so dark that one could not see bottom a foot from the edge. On my right the links of green told of snake-like mires38 waiting to crush the unwary wanderer. It seemed to me for the moment a land of death, where the tongues of the dead cried aloud for recognition.
My whole morning's walk was full of such fancies. I lit a pipe to cheer me, but the things would not be got rid of. I thought of the Gaels who had held those fastnesses; I thought of the Britons before them, who yielded to their advent39. They were all strong peoples in their day, and now they had gone the way of the earth.[Pg 17] They had left their mark on the levels of the glens and on the more habitable uplands, both in names and in actual forts, and graves where men might still dig curios. But the hills—that black stony40 amphitheatre before me—it seemed strange that the hills bore no traces of them. And then with some uneasiness I reflected on that older and stranger race who were said to have held the hill-tops. The Picts, the Picti—what in the name of goodness were they? They had troubled me in all my studies, a sort of blank wall to put an end to speculation41. We knew nothing of them save certain strange names which men called Pictish, the names of those hills in front of me—the Muneraw, the Yirnie, the Calmarton. They were the corpus vile42 for learned experiment; but Heaven alone knew what dark abyss of savagery43 once yawned in the midst of this desert.
And then I remembered the crazy theories of a pupil of mine at St Chad's, the son of a small landowner on the Aller, a young gentleman who had spent his substance too freely at Oxford, and was now dreeing his weird44 in the Backwoods. He had been no scholar but a certain imagination marked all his doings, and of a Sunday night he would come and talk to me of[Pg 18] the North. The Picts were his special subject, and his ideas were mad. "Listen to me," he would say, when I had mixed him toddy and given him one of my cigars; "I believe there are traces—ay, and more than traces—of an old culture lurking46 in those hills and waiting to be discovered. We never hear of the Picts being driven from the hills. The Britons drove them from the lowlands, the Gaels from Ireland did the same for the Britons; but the hills were left unmolested. We hear of no one going near them except outlaws48 and tinklers. And in that very place you have the strangest mythology49. Take the story of the Brownie. What is that but the story of a little swart man of uncommon50 strength and cleverness, who does good and ill indiscriminately, and then disappears? There are many scholars, as you yourself confess, who think that the origin of the Brownie was in some mad belief in the old race of the Picts, which still survived somewhere in the hills. And do we not hear of the Brownie in authentic51 records right down to the year 1756? After that, when people grew more incredulous, it is natural that the belief should have begun to die out; but I do not see why stray traces should not have survived till late."
"Do you not see what that means?" I had said in mock gravity. "Those same hills are, if anything, less known now than they were a hundred years ago. Why should not your Picts or Brownies be living to this day?"
"Why not, indeed?" he had rejoined, in all seriousness.
I laughed, and he went to his rooms and returned with a large leather-bound book. It was lettered, in the rococo52 style of a young man's taste, 'Glimpses of the Unknown,' and some of the said glimpses he proceeded to impart to me. It was not pleasant reading; indeed, I had rarely heard anything so well fitted to shatter sensitive nerves. The early part consisted of folk-tales and folk-sayings, some of them wholly obscure, some of them with a glint of meaning, but all of them with some hint of a mystery in the hills. I heard the Brownie story in countless53 versions. Now the thing was a friendly little man, who wore grey breeches and lived on brose; now he was a twisted being, the sight of which made the ewes miscarry in the lambing-time. But the second part was the stranger, for it was made up of actual tales, most of them with date and place appended. It was a most Bedlamite catalogue of horrors, which, if true, made the [Pg 20]wholesome54 moors55 a place instinct with tragedy. Some told of children carried away from villages, even from towns, on the verge56 of the uplands. In almost every case they were girls, and the strange fact was their utter disappearance57. Two little girls would be coming home from school, would be seen last by a neighbour just where the road crossed a patch of heath or entered a wood and then—no human eye ever saw them again. Children's cries had startled outlying shepherds in the night, and when they had rushed to the door they could hear nothing but the night wind. The instances of such disappearances59 were not very common—perhaps once in twenty years—but they were confined to this one tract of country, and came in a sort of fixed60 progression from the middle of last century, when the record began. But this was only one side of the history. The latter part was all devoted61 to a chronicle of crimes which had gone unpunished, seeing that no hand had ever been traced. The list was fuller in last century;[1] in the earlier years of the present it had dwindled62; then came a revival63 about the 'Fifties; and now again in our own time it had sunk low. At the[Pg 21] little cottage of Auchterbrean, on the roadside in Glen Aller, a labourer's wife had been found pierced to the heart. It was thought to be a case of a woman's jealousy64, and her neighbour was accused, convicted, and hanged. The woman, to be sure, denied the charge with her last breath; but circumstantial evidence seemed sufficiently66 strong against her. Yet some people in the glen believed her guiltless. In particular, the carrier who had found the dead woman declared that the way in which her neighbour received the news was a sufficient proof of innocence67; and the doctor who was first summoned professed68 himself unable to tell with what instrument the wound had been given. But this was all before the days of expert evidence, so the woman had been hanged without scruple69. Then there had been another story of peculiar70 horror, telling of the death of an old man at some little lonely shieling called Carrickfey. But at this point I had risen in protest, and made to drive the young idiot from my room.
"It was my grandfather who collected most of them," he said. "He had theories,[2] but [Pg 22]people called him mad, so he was wise enough to hold his tongue. My father declares the whole thing mania; but I rescued the book, had it bound, and added to the collection. It is a queer hobby; but, as I say, I have theories, and there are more things in heaven and earth——"
But at this he heard a friend's voice in the Quad71., and dived out, leaving the banal72 quotation73 unfinished.
Strange though it may seem, this madness kept coming back to me as I crossed the last few miles of moor6. I was now on a rough tableland, the watershed74 between two lochs, and [Pg 23]beyond and above me rose the stony backs of the hills. The burns fell down in a chaos75 of granite boulders, and huge slabs76 of grey stone lay flat and tumbled in the heather. The full waters looked prosperously for my fishing, and I began to forget all fancies in anticipation77 of sport.
Then suddenly in a hollow of land I came on a ruined cottage. It had been a very small place, but the walls were still half-erect, and the little moorland garden was outlined on the turf. A lonely apple tree, twisted and gnarled with winds, stood in the midst.
From higher up on the hill I heard a loud roar, and I knew my excellent friend the shepherd of Farawa, who had come thus far to meet me. He greeted me with the boisterous78 embarrassment79 which was his way of prefacing hospitality. A grave reserved man at other times, on such occasions he thought it proper to relapse into hilarity80. I fell into step with him, and we set off for his dwelling81. But first I had the curiosity to look back to the tumble-down cottage and ask him its name.
A queer look came into his eyes. "They ca' the place Carrickfey," he said. "Naebody has daured to bide82 there this twenty year sin'—but I see ye ken22 the story." And, as if glad to leave[Pg 24] the subject, he hastened to discourse83 on fishing.
II: TELLS OF AN EVENING'S TALK
The shepherd was a masterful man; tall, save for the stoop which belongs to all moorland folk, and active as a wild goat. He was not a new importation, nor did he belong to the place; for his people had lived in the remote Borders, and he had come as a boy to this shieling of Farawa. He was unmarried, but an elderly sister lived with him and cooked his meals. He was reputed to be extraordinarily84 skilful85 in his trade; I know for a fact that he was in his way a keen sportsman; and his few neighbours gave him credit for a sincere piety86. Doubtless this last report was due in part to his silence, for after his first greeting he was wont87 to relapse into a singular taciturnity. As we strode across the heather he gave me a short outline of his year's lambing. "Five pair o' twins yestreen, twae this morn; that makes thirty-five yowes that hae lambed since the Sabbath. I'll dae weel if God's willin'." Then, as I looked towards the hilltops whence the thin mist of morn was trailing, he followed my gaze. "See," he said with uplifted crook—"see that sicht. Is that no what is written of in the Bible when it says, 'The[Pg 25] mountains do smoke.'" And with this piece of exegesis88 he finished his talk, and in a little we were at the cottage.
It was a small enough dwelling in truth, and yet large for a moorland house, for it had a garret below the thatch89, which was given up to my sole enjoyment. Below was the wide kitchen with box-beds, and next to it the inevitable second room, also with its cupboard sleeping-places. The interior was very clean, and yet I remember to have been struck with the faint musty smell which is inseparable from moorland dwellings90. The kitchen pleased me best, for there the great rafters were black with peat-reek, and the uncovered stone floor, on which the fire gleamed dully, gave an air of primeval simplicity91. But the walls spoiled all, for tawdry things of to-day had penetrated92 even there. Some grocers' almanacs—years old—hung in places of honour, and an extraordinary lithograph93 of the Royal Family in its youth. And this, mind you, between crooks94 and fishing-rods and old guns, and horns of sheep and deer.
The life for the first day or two was regular and placid95. I was up early, breakfasted on porridge (a dish which I detest96), and then off to the lochs and streams. At first my sport[Pg 26] prospered97 mightily98. With a drake-wing I killed a salmon of seventeen pounds, and the next day had a fine basket of trout99 from a hill-burn. Then for no earthly reason the weather changed. A bitter wind came out of the northeast, bringing showers of snow and stinging hail, and lashing100 the waters into storm. It was now farewell to fly-fishing. For a day or two I tried trolling with the minnow on the lochs, but it was poor sport, for I had no boat, and the edges were soft and mossy. Then in disgust I gave up the attempt, went back to the cottage, lit my biggest pipe, and sat down with a book to await the turn of the weather.
The shepherd was out from morning till night at his work, and when he came in at last, dog-tired, his face would be set and hard, and his eyes heavy with sleep. The strangeness of the man grew upon me. He had a shrewd brain beneath his thatch of hair, for I had tried him once or twice, and found him abundantly intelligent. He had some smattering of an education, like all Scottish peasants, and, as I have said, he was deeply religious. I set him down as a fine type of his class, sober, serious, keenly critical, free from the bondage101 of superstition102. But I rarely saw him, and our talk was chiefly[Pg 27] in monosyllables—short interjected accounts of the number of lambs dead or alive on the hill. Then he would produce a pencil and note-book, and be immersed in some calculation; and finally he would be revealed sleeping heavily in his chair, till his sister wakened him, and he stumbled off to bed.
So much for the ordinary course of life; but one day—the second I think of the bad weather—the extraordinary happened. The storm had passed in the afternoon into a resolute and blinding snow, and the shepherd, finding it hopeless on the hill, came home about three o'clock. I could make out from his way of entering that he was in a great temper. He kicked his feet savagely104 against the door-post. Then he swore at his dogs, a thing I had never heard him do before. "Hell!" he cried, "can ye no keep out o' my road, ye britts?" Then he came sullenly105 into the kitchen, thawed106 his numbed107 hands at the fire, and sat down to his meal.
I made some aimless remark about the weather.
"Death to man and beast," he grunted108. "I hae got the sheep doun frae the hill, but the lambs will never thole this. We maun pray that it will no last."
His sister came in with some dish. "Margit," he cried, "three lambs away this morning, and three deid wi' the hole in the throat."
The woman's face visibly paled. "Guid help us, Adam; that hasna happened this three year."
"It has happened noo," he said, surlily. "But, by God! if it happens again I'll gang mysel' to the Scarts o' the Muneraw."
"O Adam!" the woman cried shrilly110, "haud your tongue. Ye kenna wha hears ye." And with a frightened glance at me she left the room.
I asked no questions, but waited till the shepherd's anger should cool. But the cloud did not pass so lightly. When he had finished his dinner he pulled his chair to the fire and sat staring moodily111. He made some sort of apology to me for his conduct. "I'm sore troubled, sir; but I'm vexed113 ye should see me like this. Maybe things will be better the morn." And then, lighting114 his short black pipe, he resigned himself to his meditations115.
But he could not keep quiet. Some nervous unrest seemed to have possessed116 the man. He got up with a start and went to the window, where the snow was drifting unsteadily past. As he stared out into the storm I heard him mutter[Pg 29] to himself, "Three away, God help me, and three wi' the hole in the throat."
Then he turned round to me abruptly118. I was jotting120 down notes for an article I contemplated121 in the 'Revue Celtique,' so my thoughts were far away from the present. The man recalled me by demanding fiercely, "Do ye believe in God?"
I gave him some sort of answer in the affirmative.
"Then do ye believe in the Devil?" he asked.
The reply must have been less satisfactory, for he came forward and flung himself violently into the chair before me.
"What do ye ken about it?" he cried. "You that bides122 in a southern toun, what can ye ken o' the God that works in thae hills and the Devil—ay, the manifold devils—that He suffers to bide here? I tell ye, man, that if ye had seen what I have seen ye wad be on your knees at this moment praying to God to pardon your unbelief. There are devils at the back o' every stane and hidin' in every cleuch, and it's by the grace o' God alone that a man is alive upon the earth." His voice had risen high and shrill109, and then suddenly he cast a frightened glance towards the window and was silent.
I began to think that the man's wits were unhinged, and the thought did not give me satisfaction. I had no relish123 for the prospect35 of being left alone in this moorland dwelling with the cheerful company of a maniac124. But his next movements reassured125 me. He was clearly only dead-tired, for he fell sound asleep in his chair, and by the time his sister brought tea and wakened him, he seemed to have got the better of his excitement.
When the window was shuttered and the lamp lit, I sat myself again to the completion of my notes. The shepherd had got out his Bible, and was solemnly reading with one great finger travelling down the lines. He was smoking, and whenever some text came home to him with power he would make pretence126 to underline it with the end of the stem. Soon I had finished the work I desired, and, my mind being full of my pet hobby, I fell into an inquisitive127 mood, and began to question the solemn man opposite on the antiquities of the place.
He stared stupidly at me when I asked him concerning monuments or ancient weapons.
"I kenna," said he. "There's a heap o' queer things in the hills."
"This place should be a centre for such relics129.[Pg 31] You know that the name of the hill behind the house, as far as I can make it out, means the 'Place of the Little Men.' It is a good Gaelic word, though there is some doubt about its exact interpretation130. But clearly the Gaelic peoples did not speak of themselves when they gave the name; they must have referred to some older and stranger population."
The shepherd looked at me dully, as not understanding.
"It is partly this fact—besides the fishing, of course—which interests me in this countryside," said I, gaily132.
Again he cast the same queer frightened glance towards the window. "If ye'll tak the advice of an aulder man," he said, slowly, "ye'll let well alane and no meddle134 wi' uncanny things."
I laughed pleasantly, for at last I had found out my hard-headed host in a piece of childishness. "Why, I thought that you of all men would be free from superstition."
"What do ye call supersteetion?" he asked.
"A belief in old wives' tales," said I, "a trust in the crude supernatural and the patently impossible."
He looked at me beneath his shaggy brows.[Pg 32] "How do ye ken what is impossible? Mind ye, sir, ye're no in the toun just now, but in the thick of the wild hills."
"But, hang it all, man," I cried, "you don't mean to say that you believe in that sort of thing? I am prepared for many things up here, but not for the Brownie,—though, to be sure, if one could meet him in the flesh, it would be rather pleasant than otherwise, for he was a companionable sort of fellow."
"When a thing pits the fear o' death on a man he aye speaks well of it."
It was true—the Eumenides and the Good Folk over again; and I awoke with interest to the fact that the conversation was getting into strange channels.
The shepherd moved uneasily in his chair. "I am a man that fears God, and has nae time for daft stories; but I havena traivelled the hills for twenty years wi' my een shut. If I say that I could tell ye stories o' faces seen in the mist, and queer things that have knocked against me in the snaw, wad ye believe me? I wager135 ye wadna. Ye wad say I had been drunk, and yet I am a God-fearing temperate136 man."
He rose and went to a cupboard, unlocked it, and brought out something in his hand, which[Pg 33] he held out to me. I took it with some curiosity, and found that it was a flint arrow-head.
Clearly a flint arrow-head, and yet like none that I had ever seen in any collection. For one thing it was larger, and the barb137 less clumsily thick. More, the chipping was new, or comparatively so; this thing had not stood the wear of fifteen hundred years among the stones of the hillside. Now there are, I regret to say, institutions which manufacture primitive138 relics; but it is not hard for a practised eye to see the difference. The chipping has either a regularity139 and a balance which is unknown in the real thing, or the rudeness has been overdone140, and the result is an implement141 incapable142 of harming a mortal creature. But this was the real thing if it ever existed; and yet—I was prepared to swear on my reputation that it was not half a century old.
"Where did you get this?" I asked with some nervousness.
"I hae a story about that," said the shepherd. "Outside the door there ye can see a muckle flat stane aside the buchts. One simmer nicht I was sitting there smoking till the dark, and I wager there was naething on the stane then. But that same nicht I awoke wi' a queer thocht, as if there[Pg 34] were folk moving around the hoose—folk that didna mak' muckle noise. I mind o' lookin' out o' the windy, and I could hae sworn I saw something black movin' amang the heather and intil the buchts. Now I had maybe threescore o' lambs there that nicht, for I had to tak' them many miles off in the early morning. Weel, when I gets up about four o'clock and gangs out, as I am passing the muckle stane I finds this bit errow. 'That's come here in the nicht,' says I, and I wunnered a wee and put it in my pouch143. But when I came to my faulds what did I see? Five o' my best hoggs were away, and three mair were lying deid wi' a hole in their throat."
"Who in the world——?" I began.
"Dinna ask," said he. "If I aince sterted to speir about thae maitters, I wadna keep my reason."
"Then that was what happened on the hill this morning?"
"Even sae, and it has happened mair than aince sin' that time. It's the most uncanny slaughter144, for sheep-stealing I can understand, but no this pricking145 o' the puir beasts' wizands. I kenna how they dae't either, for it's no wi' a knife or any common tool."
"Have you never tried to follow the thieves?"
"Have I no?" he asked, grimly. "If it had been common sheep-stealers I wad hae had them by the heels, though I had followed them a hundred miles. But this is no common. I've tracked them, and it's ill they are to track; but I never got beyond ae place, and that was the Scarts o' the Muneraw that ye've heard me speak o'."
"But who in Heaven's name are the people? Tinklers or poachers or what?"
"Ay," said he, drily. "Even so. Tinklers and poachers whae wark wi' stane errows and kill sheep by a hole in their throat. Lord, I kenna what they are, unless the Muckle Deil himsel'."
The conversation had passed beyond my comprehension. In this prosaic146 hard-headed man I had come on the dead-rock of superstition and blind fear.
"That is only the story of the Brownie over again, and he is an exploded myth," I said, laughing.
"Are ye the man that exploded it?" said the shepherd, rudely. "I trow no, neither you nor ony ither. My bonny man, if ye lived a twal-month in thae hills, ye wad sing safter about exploded myths, as ye call them."
"I tell you what I would do," said I. "If I[Pg 36] lost sheep as you lose them, I would go up the Scarts of the Muneraw and never rest till I had settled the question once and for all." I spoke147 hotly, for I was vexed by the man's childish fear.
"I daresay ye wad," he said, slowly. "But then I am no you, and maybe I ken mair o' what is in the Scarts o' the Muneraw. Maybe I ken that whilk, if ye kenned148 it, wad send ye back to the South Country wi' your hert in your mouth. But, as I say, I am no sae brave as you, for I saw something in the first year o' my herding149 here which put the terror o' God on me, and makes me a fearfu' man to this day. Ye ken the story o' the gudeman o' Carrickfey?"
I nodded.
"Weel, I was the man that fand him. I had seen the deid afore and I've seen them since. But never have I seen aucht like the look in that man's een. What he saw at his death I may see the morn, so I walk before the Lord in fear."
Then he rose and stretched himself. "It's bedding-time, for I maun be up at three," and with a short good night he left the room.
III: THE SCARTS OF THE MUNERAW
The next morning was fine, for the snow had been intermittent150, and had soon melted except[Pg 37] in the high corries. True, it was deceptive151 weather, for the wind had gone to the rainy south-west, and the masses of cloud on that horizon boded152 ill for the afternoon. But some days' inaction had made me keen for a chance of sport, so I rose with the shepherd and set out for the day.
He asked me where I proposed to begin.
I told him the tarn153 called the Loch o' the Threshes, which lies over the back of the Muneraw on another watershed. It is on the ground of the Rhynns Forest, and I had fished it of old from the Forest House. I knew the merits of the trout, and I knew its virtues154 in a south-west wind, so I had resolved to go thus far afield.
The shepherd heard the name in silence. "Your best road will be ower that rig, and syne156 on to the water o' Caulds. Keep abune the moss28 till ye come to the place they ca' the Nick o' the Threshes. That will take ye to the very loch-side, but it's a lang road and a sair."
The morning was breaking over the bleak158 hills. Little clouds drifted athwart the corries, and wisps of haze159 fluttered from the peaks. A great rosy160 flush lay over one side of the glen, which caught the edge of the sluggish161 bog-pools and turned them to fire. Never before had I[Pg 38] seen the mountain-land so clear, for far back into the east and west I saw mountain-tops set as close as flowers in a border, black crags seamed with silver lines which I knew for mighty162 waterfalls, and below at my feet the lower slopes fresh with the dewy green of spring. A name stuck in my memory from the last night's talk.
"Where are the Scarts of the Muneraw?" I asked.
The shepherd pointed163 to the great hill which bears the name, and which lies, a huge mass, above the watershed.
"D'ye see yon corrie at the east that runs straucht up the side? It looks a bit scart, but it's sae deep that it's aye derk at the bottom o't. Weel, at the tap o' the rig it meets anither corrie that runs doun the ither side, and that one they ca' the Scarts. There is a sort o' burn in it that flows intil the Dule and sae intil the Aller, and, indeed, if ye were gaun there it wad be from Aller Glen that your best road wad lie. But it's an ill bit, and ye'll be sair guidit if ye try't."
There he left me and went across the glen, while I struck upwards164 over the ridge. At the top I halted and looked down on the wide glen of the Caulds, which there is little better than[Pg 39] a bog, but lower down grows into a green pastoral valley. The great Muneraw still dominated the landscape, and the black scaur on its side seemed blacker than before. The place fascinated me, for in that fresh morning air the shepherd's fears seemed monstrous165. "Some day," said I to myself, "I will go and explore the whole of that mighty hill." Then I descended166 and struggled over the moss, found the Nick, and in two hours' time was on the loch's edge.
I have little in the way of good to report of the fishing. For perhaps one hour the trout took well; after that they sulked steadily117 for the day. The promise, too, of fine weather had been deceptive. By midday the rain was falling in that soft soaking fashion which gives no hope of clearing. The mist was down to the edge of the water, and I cast my flies into a blind sea of white. It was hopeless work, and yet from a sort of ill-temper I stuck to it long after my better judgment168 had warned me of its folly169. At last, about three in the afternoon, I struck my camp, and prepared myself for a long and toilsome retreat.
And long and toilsome it was beyond anything I had ever encountered. Had I had a vestige[Pg 40] of sense I would have followed the burn from the loch down to the Forest House. The place was shut up, but the keeper would gladly have given me shelter for the night. But foolish pride was too strong in me. I had found my road in mist before, and could do it again.
Before I got to the top of the hill I had repented170 my decision; when I got there I repented it more. For below me was a dizzy chaos of grey; there was no landmark171 visible; and before me I knew was the bog through which the Caulds Water twined. I had crossed it with some trouble in the morning, but then I had light to pick my steps. Now I could only stumble on, and in five minutes I might be in a bog-hole, and in five more in a better world.
But there was no help to be got from hesitation172, so with a rueful courage I set off. The place was if possible worse than I had feared. Wading173 up to the knees with nothing before you but a blank wall of mist and the cheerful consciousness that your next step may be your last—such was my state for one weary mile. The stream itself was high, and rose to my armpits, and once and again I only saved myself by a violent leap backwards174 from a pitiless green[Pg 41] slough175. But at last it was past, and I was once more on the solid ground of the hillside.
Now, in the thick weather I had crossed the glen much lower down than in the morning, and the result was that the hill on which I stood was one of the giants which, with the Muneraw for centre, guard the watershed. Had I taken the proper way, the Nick o' the Threshes would have led me to the Caulds, and then once over the bog a little ridge was all that stood between me and the glen of Farawa. But instead I had come a wild cross-country road, and was now, though I did not know it, nearly as far from my destination as at the start.
Well for me that I did not know, for I was wet and dispirited, and had I not fancied myself all but home, I should scarcely have had the energy to make this last ascent177. But soon I found it was not the little ridge I had expected. I looked at my watch and saw that it was five o'clock. When, after the weariest climb, I lay on a piece of level ground which seemed the top, I was not surprised to find that it was now seven. The darkening must be at hand, and sure enough the mist seemed to be deepening into a greyish black. I began to grow desperate. Here was I on the summit of some infernal mountain, without any certainty where my road lay. I was lost with a vengeance178, and at the thought I began to be acutely afraid.
I took what seemed to me the way I had come, and began to descend167 steeply. Then something made me halt, and the next instant I was lying on my face trying painfully to retrace180 my steps. For I had found myself slipping, and before I could stop, my feet were dangling181 over a precipice182 with Heaven alone knows how many yards of sheer mist between me and the bottom. Then I tried keeping the ridge, and took that to the right, which I thought would bring me nearer home. It was no good trying to think out a direction, for in the fog my brain was running round, and I seemed to stand on a pin-point of space where the laws of the compass had ceased to hold.
It was the roughest sort of walking, now stepping warily183 over acres of loose stones, now crawling down the face of some battered184 rock, and now wading in the long dripping heather. The soft rain had begun to fall again, which completed my discomfort185. I was now seriously tired, and, like all men who in their day have bent23 too much over books, I began to feel it in my back. My spine186 ached, and my breath came[Pg 43] in short broken pants. It was a pitiable state of affairs for an honest man who had never encountered much grave discomfort. To ease myself I was compelled to leave my basket behind me, trusting to return and find it, if I should ever reach safety and discover on what pathless hill I had been strayed. My rod I used as a staff, but it was of little use, for my fingers were getting too numb103 to hold it.
Suddenly from the blankness I heard a sound as of human speech. At first I thought it mere187 craziness—the cry of a weasel or a hill-bird distorted by my ears. But again it came, thick and faint, as through acres of mist, and yet clearly the sound of "articulate-speaking men." In a moment I lost my despair and cried out in answer. This was some forwandered traveller like myself, and between us we could surely find some road to safety. So I yelled back at the pitch of my voice and waited intently.
But the sound ceased, and there was utter silence again. Still I waited, and then from some place much nearer came the same soft mumbling188 speech. I could make nothing of it. Heard in that drear place it made the nerves tense and the heart timorous189. It was the[Pg 44] strangest jumble190 of vowels191 and consonants192 I had ever met.
A dozen solutions flashed through my brain. It was some maniac talking Jabberwock to himself. It was some belated traveller whose wits had given out in fear. Perhaps it was only some shepherd who was amusing himself thus, and whiling the way with nonsense. Once again I cried out and waited.
Then suddenly in the hollow trough of mist before me, where things could still be half discerned, there appeared a figure. It was little and squat196 and dark; naked, apparently197, but so rough with hair that it wore the appearance of a skin-covered being. It crossed my line of vision, not staying for a moment, but in its face and eyes there seemed to lurk45 an elder world of mystery and barbarism, a troll-like life which was too horrible for words.
The shepherd's fear came back on me like a thunderclap. For one awful instant my legs failed me, and I had almost fallen. The next I had turned and ran shrieking198 up the hill.
If he who may read this narrative199 has never felt the force of an overmastering terror, then let him thank his Maker200 and pray that he never may. I am no weak child, but a strong grown[Pg 45] man, accredited201 in general with sound sense and little suspected of hysterics. And yet I went up that brae-face with my heart fluttering like a bird and my throat aching with fear. I screamed in short dry gasps202; involuntarily, for my mind was beyond any purpose. I felt that beast-like clutch at my throat; those red eyes seemed to be staring at me from the mist; I heard ever behind and before and on all sides the patter of those inhuman203 feet.
Before I knew I was down, slipping over a rock and falling some dozen feet into a soft marshy205 hollow. I was conscious of lying still for a second and whimpering like a child. But as I lay there I awoke to the silence of the place. There was no sound of pursuit; perhaps they had lost my track and given up. My courage began to return, and from this it was an easy step to hope. Perhaps after all it had been merely an illusion, for folk do not see clearly in the mist, and I was already done with weariness.
But even as I lay in the green moss and began to hope, the faces of my pursuers grew up through the mist. I stumbled madly to my feet; but I was hemmed206 in, the rock behind and my enemies before. With a cry I rushed forward, and struck wildly with my rod at the first dark[Pg 46] body. It was as if I had struck an animal, and the next second the thing was wrenched207 from my grasp. But still they came no nearer. I stood trembling there in the centre of those malignant208 devils, my brain a mere weathercock and my heart crushed shapeless with horror. At last the end came, for with the vigour209 of madness I flung myself on the nearest, and we rolled on the ground. Then the monstrous things seemed to close over me, and with a choking cry I passed into unconsciousness.
IV. THE DARKNESS THAT IS UNDER THE EARTH
There is an unconsciousness that is not wholly dead, where a man feels numbly210 and the body lives without the brain. I was beyond speech or thought, and yet I felt the upward or downward motion as the way lay in hill or glen, and I most assuredly knew when the open air was changed for the close underground. I could feel dimly that lights were flared211 in my face, and that I was laid in some bed on the earth. Then with the stopping of movement the real sleep of weakness seized me, and for long I knew nothing of this mad world.
Morning came over the moors with birdsong[Pg 47] and the glory of fine weather. The streams were still rolling in spate212, but the hill-pastures were alight with dawn, and the little seams of snow were glistening213 like white fire. A ray from the sunrise cleft214 its path somehow into the abyss, and danced on the wall above my couch. It caught my eye as I wakened, and for long I lay crazily wondering what it meant. My head was splitting with pain, and in my heart was the same fluttering nameless fear. I did not wake to full consciousness; not till the twinkle of sun from the clean bright out-of-doors caught my senses did I realise that I lay in a great dark place with a glow of dull firelight in the middle.
In time things rose and moved around me, a few ragged215 shapes of men, without clothing, shambling with their huge feet and looking towards me with curved beast-like glances. I tried to marshal my thoughts, and slowly, bit by bit, I built up the present. There was no question to my mind of dreaming; the past hours had scored reality upon my brain. Yet I cannot say that fear was my chief feeling. The first crazy terror had subsided216, and now I felt mainly a sickened disgust with just a tinge217 of curiosity. I found that my knife, watch, flask218, and money had gone, but they had left me a map of the[Pg 48] countryside. It seemed strange to look at the calico, with the name of a London printer stamped on the back, and lines of railway and highroad running through every shire. Decent and comfortable civilisation219! And here was I a prisoner in this den65 of nameless folk, and in the midst of a life which history knew not.
Courage is a virtue155 which grows with reflection and the absence of the immediate220 peril221. I thought myself into some sort of resolution, and lo! when the Folk approached me and bound my feet I was back at once in the most miserable222 terror. They tied me, all but my hands, with some strong cord, and carried me to the centre, where the fire was glowing. Their soft touch was the acutest torture to my nerves, but I stifled223 my cries lest some one should lay his hand on my mouth. Had that happened, I am convinced my reason would have failed me.
So there I lay in the shine of the fire, with the circle of unknown things around me. There seemed but three or four, but I took no note of number. They talked huskily among themselves in a tongue which sounded all gutturals. Slowly my fear became less an emotion than a habit, and I had room for the smallest shade of curiosity. I strained my ear to catch a word,[Pg 49] but it was a mere chaos of sound. The thing ran and thundered in my brain as I stared dumbly into the vacant air. Then I thought that unless I spoke I should certainly go crazy, for my head was beginning to swim at the strange cooing noise.
I spoke a word or two in my best Gaelic, and they closed round me inquiringly. Then I was sorry I had spoken, for my words had brought them nearer, and I shrank at the thought. But as the faint echoes of my speech hummed in the rock-chamber224, I was struck by a curious kinship of sound. Mine was sharper, more distinct, and staccato; theirs was blurred225, formless, but still with a certain root-resemblance.
Then from the back there came an older being, who seemed to have heard my words. He was like some foul226 grey badger227, his red eyes sightless, and his hands trembling on a stump228 of bog-oak. The others made way for him with such deference229 as they were capable of, and the thing squatted230 down by me and spoke.
To my amazement231 his words were familiar. It was some manner of speech akin157 to the Gaelic, but broadened, lengthened232, coarsened. I remembered an old book-tongue, commonly supposed posed to be an impure233 dialect once used in [Pg 50]Brittany, which I had met in the course of my researches. The words recalled it, and as far as I could remember the thing, I asked him who he was and where the place might be.
He answered me in the same speech—still more broadened, lengthened, coarsened. I lay back with sheer amazement. I had found the key to this unearthly life.
For a little an insatiable curiosity, the ardour of the scholar, prevailed. I forgot the horror of the place, and thought only of the fact that here before me was the greatest find that scholarship had ever made. I was precipitated234 into the heart of the past. Here must be the fountainhead of all legends, the chrysalis of all beliefs. I actually grew lighthearted. This strange folk around me were now no more shapeless things of terror, but objects of research and experiment. I almost came to think them not unfriendly.
For an hour I enjoyed the highest of earthly pleasures. In that strange conversation I heard—in fragments and suggestions—the history of the craziest survival the world has ever seen. I heard of the struggles with invaders236, preserved as it were in a sort of shapeless poetry. There were bitter words against the Gaelic oppressor,[Pg 51] bitterer words against the Saxon stranger, and for a moment ancient hatreds237 flared into life. Then there came the tale of the hill-refuge, the morbid238 hideous239 existence preserved for centuries amid a changing world. I heard fragments of old religions, primeval names of god and goddess, half-understood by the Folk, but to me the key to a hundred puzzles. Tales which survive to us in broken disjointed riddles240 were intact here in living form. I lay on my elbow and questioned feverishly242. At any moment they might become morose243 and refuse to speak. Clearly it was my duty to make the most of a brief good fortune.
And then the tale they told me grew more hideous. I heard of the circumstances of the life itself and their daily shifts for existence. It was a murderous chronicle—a history of lust244 and rapine and unmentionable deeds in the darkness. One thing they had early recognised—that the race could not be maintained within itself; so that ghoulish carrying away of little girls from the lowlands began, which I had heard of but never credited. Shut up in those dismal245 holes, the girls soon died, and when the new race had grown up the plunder246 had been repeated. Then there were bestial247 murders in lonely cottages,[Pg 52] done for God knows what purpose. Sometimes the occupant had seen more than was safe, sometimes the deed was the mere exuberance248 of a lust of slaying249. As they gabbled their tales my heart's blood froze, and I lay back in the agonies of fear. If they had used the others thus, what way of escape was open for myself? I had been brought to this place, and not murdered on the spot. Clearly there was torture before death in store for me, and I confess I quailed250 at the thought.
But none molested47 me. The elders continued to jabber195 out their stories, while I lay tense and deaf. Then to my amazement food was brought and placed beside me—almost with respect. Clearly my murder was not a thing of the immediate future. The meal was some form of mutton—perhaps the shepherd's lost ewes—and a little smoking was all the cooking it had got. I strove to eat, but the tasteless morsels251 choked me. Then they set drink before me in a curious cup, which I seized on eagerly, for my mouth was dry with thirst. The vessel252 was of gold, rudely formed, but of the pure metal, and a coarse design in circles ran round the middle. This surprised me enough, but a greater wonder awaited me. The liquor was not water, as I[Pg 53] had guessed, but a sort of sweet ale, a miracle of flavour. The taste was curious, but somehow familiar; it was like no wine I had ever drunk, and yet I had known that flavour all my life. I sniffed253 at the brim, and there rose a faint fragrance254 of thyme and heather honey and the sweet things of the moorland. I almost dropped it in my surprise; for here in this rude place I had stumbled upon that lost delicacy255 of the North, the heather ale.
For a second I was entranced with my discovery, and then the wonder of the cup claimed my attention. Was it a mere relic128 of pillage256, or had this folk some hidden mine of the precious metal? Gold had once been common in these hills. There were the traces of mines on Cairnsmore: shepherds had found it in the gravel257 of the Gled Water; and the name of a house at the head of the Clachlands meant the "Home of Gold."
Once more I began my questions, and they answered them willingly. There and then I heard that secret for which many had died in old time, the secret of the heather ale. They told of the gold in the hills, of corries where the sand gleamed and abysses where the rocks were veined. All this they told me, freely, without[Pg 54] a scruple. And then, like a clap, came the awful thought that this, too, spelled death. These were secrets which this race aforetime had guarded with their lives; they told them generously to me because there was no fear of betrayal. I should go no more out from this place.
The thought put me into a new sweat of terror—not at death, mind you, but at the unknown horrors which might precede the final suffering. I lay silent, and after binding258 my hands they began to leave me and go off to other parts of the cave. I dozed259 in the horrible half-swoon of fear, conscious only of my shaking limbs, and the great dull glow of the fire in the centre. Then I became calmer. After all, they had treated me with tolerable kindness: I had spoken their language, which few of their victims could have done for many a century; it might be that I had found favour in their eyes. For a little I comforted myself with this delusion260, till I caught sight of a wooden box in a corner. It was of modern make, one such as grocers use to pack provisions in. It had some address nailed on it, and an aimless curiosity compelled me to creep thither261 and read it. A torn and weather-stained scrap262 of paper, with the nails at the corner rusty263 with age; but something of the[Pg 55] address might still be made out. Amid the stains my feverish241 eyes read, "To Mr M——, Carrickfey, by Allerfoot Station."
The ruined cottage in the hollow of the waste with the single gnarled apple-tree was before me in a twinkling. I remembered the shepherd's shrinking from the place and the name, and his wild eyes when he told me of the thing that had happened there. I seemed to see the old man in his moorland cottage, thinking no evil; the sudden entry of the nameless things; and then the eyes glazed264 in unspeakable terror. I felt my lips dry and burning. Above me was the vault265 of rock; in the distance I saw the fire-glow and the shadows of shapes moving around it. My fright was too great for inaction, so I crept from the couch, and silently, stealthily, with tottering266 steps and bursting heart, I began to reconnoitre.
But I was still bound, my arms tightly, my legs more loosely, but yet firm enough to hinder flight. I could not get my hands at my leg-straps, still less could I undo267 the manacles. I rolled on the floor, seeking some sharp edge of rock, but all had been worn smooth by the use of centuries. Then suddenly an idea came upon me like an inspiration. The sounds from the fire[Pg 56] seemed to have ceased, and I could hear them repeated from another and more distant part of the cave. The Folk had left their orgy round the blaze, and at the end of the long tunnel I saw its glow fall unimpeded upon the floor. Once there, I might burn off my fetters268 and be free to turn my thoughts to escape.
I crawled a little way with much labour. Then suddenly I came abreast269 an opening in the wall, through which a path went. It was a long straight rock-cutting, and at the end I saw a gleam of pale light. It must be the open air; the way of escape was prepared for me; and with a prayer I made what speed I could towards the fire.
I rolled on the verge, but the fuel was peat, and the warm ashes would not burn the cords. In desperation I went farther, and my clothes began to singe270, while my face ached beyond endurance. But yet I got no nearer my object. The strips of hide warped271 and cracked, but did not burn. Then in a last effort I thrust my wrists bodily into the glow and held them there. In an instant I drew them out with a groan272 of pain, scarred and sore, but to my joy with the band snapped in one place. Weak as I was, it was now easy to free myself, and then came the[Pg 57] untying273 of my legs. My hands trembled, my eyes were dazed with hurry, and I was longer over the job than need have been. But at length I had loosed my cramped274 knees and stood on my feet, a free man once more.
I kicked off my boots, and fled noiselessly down the passage to the tunnel mouth. Apparently it was close on evening, for the white light had faded to a pale yellow. But it was daylight, and that was all I sought, and I ran for it as eagerly as ever runner ran to a goal. I came out on a rock-shelf, beneath which a moraine of boulders fell away in a chasm275 to a dark loch. It was all but night, but I could see the gnarled and fortressed rocks rise in ramparts above, and below the unknown screes and cliffs which make the side of the Muneraw a place only for foxes and the fowls276 of the air.
The first taste of liberty is an intoxication277, and assuredly I was mad when I leaped down among the boulders. Happily at the top of the gully the stones were large and stable, else the noise would certainly have discovered me. Down I went, slipping, praying, my charred278 wrists aching, and my stockinged feet wet with blood. Soon I was in the jaws280 of the cleft, and a pale star rose before me. I have always been timid[Pg 58] in the face of great rocks, and now, had not an awful terror been dogging my footsteps, no power on earth could have driven me to that descent. Soon I left the boulders behind, and came to long spouts282 of little stones, which moved with me till the hillside seemed sinking under my feet. Sometimes I was face downwards283, once and again I must have fallen for yards. Had there been a cliff at the foot, I should have gone over it without resistance; but by the providence284 of God the spout281 ended in a long curve into the heather of the bog.
When I found my feet once more on soft boggy285 earth, my strength was renewed within me. A great hope of escape sprang up in my heart. For a second I looked back. There was a great line of shingle286 with the cliffs beyond, and above all the unknown blackness of the cleft. There lay my terror, and I set off running across the bog for dear life. My mind was clear enough to know my road. If I held round the loch in front I should come to a burn which fed the Farawa stream, on whose banks stood the shepherd's cottage. The loch could not be far; once at the Farawa I would have the light of the shieling clear before me.
Suddenly I heard behind me, as if coming[Pg 59] from the hillside, the patter of feet. It was the sound which white hares make in the wintertime on a noiseless frosty day as they patter over the snow. I have heard the same soft noise from a herd3 of deer when they changed their pastures. Strange that so kindly287 a sound should put the very fear of death in my heart. I ran madly, blindly, yet thinking shrewdly. The loch was before me. Somewhere I had read or heard, I do not know where, that the brutish aboriginal288 races of the North could not swim. I myself swam powerfully; could I but cross the loch I should save two miles of a desperate country.
There was no time to lose, for the patter was coming nearer, and I was almost at the loch's edge. I tore off my coat and rushed in. The bottom was mossy, and I had to struggle far before I found any depth. Something plashed in the water before me, and then something else a little behind. The thought that I was a mark for unknown missiles made me crazy with fright, and I struck fiercely out for the other shore. A gleam of moonlight was on the water at the burn's exit, and thither I guided myself. I found the thing difficult enough in itself, for my hands ached, and I was numb from my[Pg 60] bonds. But my fancy raised a thousand phantoms289 to vex112 me. Swimming in that black bog water, pursued by those nameless things, I seemed to be in a world of horror far removed from the kindly world of men. My strength seemed inexhaustible from my terror. Monsters at the bottom of the water seemed to bite at my feet, and the pain of my wrists made me believe that the loch was boiling hot, and that I was in some hellish place of torment290.
I came out on a spit of gravel above the burn mouth, and set off down the ravine of the burn. It was a strait place, strewn with rocks; but now and then the hill turf came in stretches, and eased my wounded feet. Soon the fall became more abrupt119, and I was slipping down a hillside, with the water on my left making great cascades291 in the granite. And then I was out in the wider vale where the Farawa water flowed among links of moss.
Far in front, a speck292 in the blue darkness, shone the light of the cottage. I panted forward, my breath coming in gasps and my back shot with fiery293 pains. Happily the land was easier for the feet as long as I kept on the skirts of the bog. My ears were sharp as a wild beast's with fear, as I listened for the noise of[Pg 61] pursuit. Nothing came but the rustle294 of the gentlest hill-wind and the chatter295 of the falling streams.
Then suddenly the light began to waver and move athwart the window. I knew what it meant. In a minute or two the household at the cottage would retire to rest, and the lamp would be put out. True, I might find the place in the dark, for there was a moon of sorts and the road was not desperate. But somehow in that hour the lamplight gave a promise of safety which I clung to despairingly.
And then the last straw was added to my misery296. Behind me came the pad of feet, the pat-patter, soft, eerie297, incredibly swift. I choked with fear, and flung myself forward in a last effort. I give my word it was sheer mechanical shrinking that drove me on. God knows I would have lain down to die in the heather, had the things behind me been a common terror of life.
I ran as man never ran before, leaping hags, scrambling298 through green well-heads, straining towards the fast-dying light. A quarter of a mile and the patter sounded nearer. Soon I was not two hundred yards off, and the noise seemed almost at my elbow. The light went out, and[Pg 62] the black mass of the cottage loomed300 in the dark.
Then, before I knew, I was at the door, battering301 it wearily and yelling for help. I heard steps within and a hand on the bolt. Then something shot past me with lightning force and buried itself in the wood. The dreadful hands were almost at my throat, when the door was opened and I stumbled in, hearing with a gulp302 of joy the key turn and the bar fall behind me.
V: THE TROUBLES OF A CONSCIENCE
My body and senses slept, for I was utterly303 tired, but my brain all the night was on fire with horrid304 fancies. Again I was in that accursed cave; I was torturing my hands in the fire; I was slipping barefoot among jagged boulders; and then with bursting heart I was toiling305 the last mile with the cottage light—now grown to a great fire in the heavens—blazing before me.
It was broad daylight when I awoke, and I thanked God for the comfortable rays of the sun. I had been laid in a box-bed off the inner room, and my first sight was the shepherd sitting with folded arms in a chair regarding me solemnly. I rose and began to dress, [Pg 63]feeling my legs and arms still tremble with weariness. The shepherd's sister bound up my scarred wrists and put an ointment306 on my burns; and, limping like an old man, I went into the kitchen.
I could eat little breakfast, for my throat seemed dry and narrow; but they gave me some brandy-and-milk, which put strength into my body. All the time the brother and sister sat in silence, regarding me with covert307 glances.
"Ye have been delivered from the jaws o' the Pit," said the man at length. "See that," and he held out to me a thin shaft308 of flint. "I fand that in the door this morning."
I took it, let it drop, and stared vacantly at the window. My nerves had been too much tried to be roused by any new terror. Out of doors it was fair weather, flying gleams of April sunlight and the soft colours of spring. I felt dazed, isolated309, cut off from my easy past and pleasing future, a companion of horrors and the sport of nameless things. Then suddenly my eye fell on my books heaped on a table, and the old distant civilisation seemed for the moment inexpressibly dear.
"I must go—at once. And you must come too. You cannot stay here. I tell you it is death. If[Pg 64] you knew what I know you would be crying out with fear. How far is it to Allermuir? Eight, fifteen miles; and then ten down Glen Aller to Allerfoot, and then the railway. We must go together while it is daylight, and perhaps we may be untouched. But quick, there is not a moment to lose." And I was on my shaky feet, and bustling310 among my possessions.
"I'll gang wi' ye to the station," said the shepherd, "for ye're clearly no fit to look after yourself. My sister will bide and keep the house. If naething has touched us this ten year, naething will touch us the day."
"But you cannot stay. You are mad," I began; but he cut me short with the words, "I trust in God."
"In any case let your sister come with us. I dare not think of a woman alone in this place."
"I'll bide," said she. "I'm no feared as lang as I'm indoors and there's steeks on the windies."
So I packed my few belongings311 as best I could, tumbled my books into a haversack, and, gripping the shepherd's arm nervously312, crossed the threshold. The glen was full of sunlight. There lay the long shining links of the Farawa burn, the rough hills tumbled beyond, and far over all the scarred and distant forehead of the[Pg 65] Muneraw. I had always looked on moorland country as the freshest on earth—clean, wholesome, and homely313. But now the fresh uplands seemed like a horrible pit. When I looked to the hills my breath choked in my throat, and the feel of soft heather below my feet set my heart trembling.
It was a slow journey to the inn at Allermuir. For one thing, no power on earth would draw me within sight of the shieling of Carrickfey, so we had to cross a shoulder of hill and make our way down a difficult glen, and then over a treacherous314 moss. The lochs were now gleaming like fretted315 silver; but to me, in my dreadful knowledge, they seemed more eerie than on that grey day when I came. At last my eyes were cheered by the sight of a meadow and a fence; then we were on a little byroad; and soon the fir-woods and corn-lands of Allercleuch were plain before us.
The shepherd came no farther, but with brief good-bye turned his solemn face hillwards. I hired a trap and a man to drive, and down the ten miles of Glen Aller I struggled to keep my thoughts from the past. I thought of the kindly South Country, of Oxford, of anything comfortable and civilised. My driver pointed out[Pg 66] the objects of interest as in duty bound, but his words fell on unheeding ears. At last he said something which roused me indeed to interest—the interest of the man who hears the word he fears most in the world. On the left side of the river there suddenly sprang into view a long gloomy cleft in the hills, with a vista317 of dark mountains behind, down which a stream of considerable size poured its waters.
"That is the Water o' Dule," said the man in a reverent318 voice. "A graund water to fish, but dangerous to life, for it's a' linns. Awa' at the heid they say there's a terrible wild place called the Scarts o' Muneraw,—that's a shouther o' the muckle hill itsel' that ye see,—but I've never been there, and I never kent ony man that had either."
At the station, which is a mile from the village of Allerfoot, I found I had some hours to wait on my train for the south. I dared not trust myself for one moment alone, so I hung about the goods-shed, talked vacantly to the porters, and when one went to the village for tea I accompanied him, and to his wonder entertained him at the inn. When I returned I found on the platform a stray bagman who was that evening going to London. If there is one class[Pg 67] of men in the world which I heartily319 detest it is this; but such was my state that I hailed him as a brother, and besought320 his company. I paid the difference for a first-class fare, and had him in the carriage with me. He must have thought me an amiable321 maniac, for I talked in fits and starts, and when he fell asleep I would wake him up and beseech322 him to speak to me. At wayside stations I would pull down the blinds in case of recognition, for to my unquiet mind the world seemed full of spies sent by that terrible Folk of the Hills. When the train crossed a stretch of moor I would lie down on the seat in case of shafts323 fired from the heather. And then at last with utter weariness I fell asleep, and woke screaming about midnight to find myself well down in the cheerful English midlands, and red blast-furnaces blinking by the railwayside.
In the morning I breakfasted in my rooms at St Chad's with a dawning sense of safety. I was in a different and calmer world. The lawn-like quadrangles, the great trees, the cawing of rooks, and the homely twitter of sparrows—all seemed decent and settled and pleasing. Indoors the oak-panelled walls, the shelves of books, the pictures, the faint fragrance of tobacco, were very different from the gimcrack adornments[Pg 68] and the accursed smell of peat and heather in that deplorable cottage. It was still vacation-time, so most of my friends were down; but I spent the day hunting out the few cheerful pedants324 to whom term and vacation were the same. It delighted me to hear again their precise talk, to hear them make a boast of their work, and narrate325 the childish little accidents of their life. I yearned326 for the childish once more; I craved327 for women's drawing-rooms, and women's chatter, and everything which makes life an elegant game. God knows I had had enough of the other thing for a lifetime!
That night I shut myself in my rooms, barred my windows, drew my curtains, and made a great destruction. All books or pictures which recalled to me the moorlands were ruthlessly doomed329. Novels, poems, treatises330 I flung into an old box, for sale to the second-hand331 bookseller. Some prints and water-colour sketches332 I tore to pieces with my own hands. I ransacked333 my fishing-book, and condemned334 all tackle for moorland waters to the flames. I wrote a letter to my solicitors335, bidding them go no further in the purchase of a place in Lorn I had long been thinking of. Then, and not till then, did I feel the bondage of the past a little[Pg 69] loosed from my shoulders. I made myself a night-cap of rum-punch instead of my usual whisky-toddy, that all associations with that dismal land might be forgotten, and to complete the renunciation I returned to cigars and flung my pipe into a drawer.
But when I woke in the morning I found that it is hard to get rid of memories. My feet were still sore and wounded, and when I felt my arms cramped and reflected on the causes, there was that black memory always near to vex me.
In a little term began, and my duties—as deputy-professor of Northern Antiquities—were once more clamorous336. I can well believe that my hearers found my lectures strange, for instead of dealing337 with my favourite subjects and matters, which I might modestly say I had made my own, I confined myself to recondite338 and distant themes, treating even these cursorily339 and dully. For the truth is, my heart was no more in my subject. I hated—or I thought that I hated—all things Northern with the virulence340 of utter fear. My reading was confined to science of the most recent kind, to abstruse341 philosophy, and to foreign classics. Anything which savoured of romance or mystery was [Pg 70]abhorrent; I pined for sharp outlines and the tangibility342 of a high civilisation.
All the term I threw myself into the most frivolous343 life of the place. My Harrow schooldays seemed to have come back to me. I had once been a fair cricketer, so I played again for my college, and made decent scores. I coached an indifferent crew on the river. I fell into the slang of the place, which I had hitherto detested344. My former friends looked on me askance, as if some freakish changeling had possessed me. Formerly345 I had been ready for pedantic346 discussion, I had been absorbed in my work, men had spoken of me as a rising scholar. Now I fled the very mention of things I had once delighted in. The Professor of Northern Antiquities, a scholar of European reputation, meeting me once in the Parks, embarked347 on an account of certain novel rings recently found in Scotland, and to his horror found that, when he had got well under weigh, I had slipped off unnoticed. I heard afterwards that the good old man was found by a friend walking disconsolately348 with bowed head in the middle of the High Street. Being rescued from among the horses' feet, he could only murmur349, "I am [Pg 71]thinking of Graves, poor man! And a year ago he was as sane350 as I am!"
But a man may not long deceive himself. I kept up the illusion valiantly351 for the term; but I felt instinctively352 that the fresh schoolboy life, which seemed to me the extreme opposite to the ghoulish North, and as such the most desirable of things, was eternally cut off from me. No cunning affectation could ever dispel353 my real nature or efface354 the memory of a week. I realised miserably355 that sooner or latter I must fight it out with my conscience. I began to call myself a coward. The chief thoughts of my mind began to centre themselves more and more round that unknown life waiting to be explored among the wilds.
One day I met a friend—an official in the British Museum—who was full of some new theory about primitive habitations. To me it seemed inconceivably absurd; but he was strong in his confidence, and without flaw in his evidence. The man irritated me, and I burned to prove him wrong, but I could think of no argument which was final against his. Then it flashed upon me that my own experience held the disproof; and without more words I left him, hot,[Pg 72] angry with myself, and tantalised by the unattainable.
I might relate my bona-fide experience, but would men believe me? I must bring proofs, I must complete my researches, so as to make them incapable of disbelief. And there in those deserts was waiting the key. There lay the greatest discovery of the century—nay, of the millennium356. There, too, lay the road to wealth such as I had never dreamed of. Could I succeed, I should be famous for ever. I would revolutionise history and anthropology357; I would systematise folk-lore; I would show the world of men the pit whence they were digged and the rock whence they were hewn.
And then began a game of battledore between myself and my conscience.
"You are a coward," said my conscience.
"I am sufficiently brave," I would answer. "I have seen things and yet lived. The terror is more than mortal, and I cannot face it."
"You are a coward," said my conscience.
"I am not bound to go there again. It would be purely358 for my own aggrandisement if I went, and not for any matter of duty."
"Nevertheless you are a coward," said my conscience.
"In any case the matter can wait."
"You are a coward."
Then came one awful midsummer night, when I lay sleepless359 and fought the thing out with myself. I knew that the strife360 was hopeless, that I should have no peace in this world again unless I made the attempt. The dawn was breaking when I came to the final resolution; and when I rose and looked at my face in a mirror, lo! it was white and lined and drawn361 like a man of sixty.
VI: SUMMER ON THE MOORS
The next morning I packed a bag with some changes of clothing and a collection of notebooks, and went up to town. The first thing I did was to pay a visit to my solicitors. "I am about to travel," said I, "and I wish to have all things settled in case any accident should happen to me." So I arranged for the disposal of my property in case of death, and added a codicil362 which puzzled the lawyers. If I did not return within six months, communications were to be entered into with the shepherd at the shieling of Farawa—post-town Allerfoot. If he could produce any papers, they were to be put[Pg 74] into the hands of certain friends, published, and the cost charged to my estate. From my solicitors I went to a gunmaker's in Regent Street and bought an ordinary six-chambered revolver, feeling much as a man must feel who proposed to cross the Atlantic in a skiff and purchased a small life-belt as a precaution.
I took the night express to the North, and, for a marvel363, I slept. When I awoke about four we were on the verge of Westmoreland, and stony hills blocked the horizon. At first I hailed the mountain-land gladly; sleep for the moment had caused forgetfulness of my terrors. But soon a turn of the line brought me in full view of a heathery moor, running far to a confusion of distant peaks. I remembered my mission and my fate, and if ever condemned criminal felt a more bitter regret I pity his case. Why should I alone among the millions of this happy isle20 be singled out as the repository of a ghastly secret, and be cursed by a conscience which would not let it rest?
I came to Allerfoot early in the forenoon, and got a trap to drive me up the valley. It was a lowering grey day, hot and yet sunless. A sort of heat-haze cloaked the hills, and every now and then a smurr of rain would meet us on the[Pg 75] road, and in a minute be over. I felt wretchedly dispirited; and when at last the white-washed kirk of Allermuir came into sight and the broken-backed bridge of Aller, man's eyes seemed to have looked on no drearier364 scene since time began.
I ate what meal I could get, for, fears or no, I was voraciously365 hungry. Then I asked the landlord to find me some man who would show me the road to Farawa. I demanded company, not for protection—for what could two men do against such brutish strength?—but to keep my mind from its own thoughts.
The man looked at me anxiously.
"Are ye acquaint wi' the folks, then?" he asked.
I said I was, that I had often stayed in the cottage.
"Ye ken that they've a name for being queer. The man never comes here forbye once or twice a-year, and he has few dealings wi' other herds58. He's got an ill name, too, for losing sheep. I dinna like the country ava. Up by yon Muneraw—no that I've ever been there, but I've seen it afar off—is enough to put a man daft for the rest o' his days. What's taking ye thereaways? It's no the time for the fishing?"
I told him that I was a botanist366 going to explore certain hill-crevices for rare ferns. He shook his head, and then after some delay found me an ostler who would accompany me to the cottage.
The man was a shock-headed, long-limbed fellow, with fierce red hair and a humorous eye. He talked sociably367 about his life, answered my hasty questions with deftness368, and beguiled369 me for the moment out of myself. I passed the melancholy370 lochs, and came in sight of the great stony hills without the trepidation371 I had expected. Here at my side was one who found some humour even in those uplands. But one thing I noted372 which brought back the old uneasiness. He took the road which led us farthest from Carrickfey, and when to try him I proposed the other, he vetoed it with emphasis.
After this his good spirit departed, and he grew distrustful.
"What mak's ye a freend o' the herd at Farawa?" he demanded a dozen times.
Finally, I asked him if he knew the man, and had seen him lately.
"I dinna ken him, and I hadna seen him for years till a fortnicht syne, when a' Allermuir saw him. He cam doun one afternoon to the [Pg 77]public-hoose, and begood to drink. He had aye been kenned for a terrible godly kind o' a man, so ye may believe folk wondered at this. But when he had stuck to the drink for twae days, and filled himsel' blind-fou half-a-dozen o' times, he took a fit o' repentance373, and raved328 and blethered about siccan a life as he led in the muirs. There was some said he was speakin' serious, but maist thocht it was juist daftness."
"And what did he speak about?" I asked sharply.
"I canna verra weel tell ye. It was about some kind o' bogle that lived in the Muneraw—that's the shouthers o't ye see yonder—and it seems that the bogle killed his sheep and frichted himsel'. He was aye bletherin', too, about something or somebody ca'd Grave; but oh! the man wasna wise." And my companion shook a contemptuous head.
And then below us in the valley we saw the shieling, with a thin shaft of smoke rising into the rainy grey weather. The man left me, sturdily refusing any fee. "I wantit my legs stretched as weel as you. A walk in the hills is neither here nor there to a stoot man. When will ye be back, sir?"
The question was well-timed. "To-morrow fortnight," I said, "and I want somebody from Allermuir to come out here in the morning and carry some baggage. Will you see to that?"
He said "Ay," and went off, while I scrambled374 down the hill to the cottage. Nervousness possessed me, and though it was broad daylight and the whole place lay plain before me, I ran pell-mell, and did not stop till I reached the door.
The place was utterly empty. Unmade beds, unwashed dishes, a hearth376 strewn with the ashes of peat, and dust thick on everything, proclaimed the absence of inmates377. I began to be horribly frightened. Had the shepherd and his sister, also, disappeared? Was I left alone in this bleak place, with a dozen lonely miles between me and human dwellings? I could not return alone; better this horrible place than the unknown perils378 of the out-of-doors. Hastily I barricaded379 the door, and to the best of my power shuttered the windows; and then with dreary380 forebodings I sat down to wait on fortune.
In a little I heard a long swinging step outside and the sound of dogs. Joyfully381 I opened the latch382, and there was the shepherd's grim face waiting stolidly383 on what might appear.
At the sight of me he stepped back. "What in[Pg 79] the Lord's name are ye daein' here?" he asked. "Didna ye get enough afor?"
"Come in," I said, sharply. "I want to talk."
In he came with those blessed dogs,—what a comfort it was to look on their great honest faces! He sat down on the untidy bed and waited.
"I came because I could not stay away. I saw too much to give me any peace elsewhere. I must go back, even though I risk my life for it. The cause of scholarship demands it as well as the cause of humanity."
"Is that a' the news ye hae?" he said. "Weel, I've mair to tell ye. Three weeks syne my sister Margit was lost, and I've never seen her mair."
My jaw279 fell, and I could only stare at him.
"I cam hame from the hill at nightfa' and she was gone. I lookit for her up hill and doun, but I couldna find her. Syne I think I went daft. I went to the Scarts and huntit them up and doun, but no sign could I see. The Folk can bide quiet enough when they want. Syne I went to Allermuir and drank mysel' blind,—me, that's a God-fearing man and a saved soul; but the Lord help me, I didna ken what I was at. That's my news, and day and night I wander thae hills, seekin' for what I canna find."
"But, man, are you mad?" I cried. "Surely there are neighbours to help you. There is a law in the land, and you had only to find the nearest police-office and compel them to assist you."
"What guid can man dae?" he asked. "An army o' sodgers couldna find that hidy-hole. Forby, when I went into Allermuir wi' my story the folk thocht me daft. It was that set me drinking, for—the Lord forgive me!—I wasna my ain maister. I threepit till I was hairse, but the bodies just lauch'd." And he lay back on the bed like a man mortally tired.
Grim though the tidings were, I can only say that my chief feeling was of comfort. Pity for the new tragedy had swallowed up my fear. I had now a purpose, and a purpose, too, not of curiosity but of mercy.
"I go to-morrow morning to the Muneraw. But first I want to give you something to do." And I drew roughly a chart of the place on the back of a letter. "Go into Allermuir to-morrow, and give this paper to the landlord at the inn. The letter will tell him what to do. He is to raise at once all the men he can get, and come to the place on the chart marked with a cross. Tell him life depends on his hurry."
The shepherd nodded. "D'ye ken the Folk are watching for you? They let me pass without trouble, for they've nae use for me, but I see fine they're seeking you. Ye'll no gang half a mile the morn afore they grip ye."
"So much the better," I said. "That will take me quicker to the place I want to be at."
"And I'm to gang to Allermuir the morn," he repeated, with the air of a child conning384 a lesson. "But what if they'll no believe me?"
"They'll believe the letter."
"Maybe," he said, and relapsed into a doze193.
I set myself to put that house in order, to rouse the fire, and prepare some food. It was dismal work; and meantime outside the night darkened, and a great wind rose, which howled round the walls and lashed194 the rain on the windows.
VII: IN TUAS MANUS, DOMINE!
I had not gone twenty yards from the cottage door ere I knew I was watched. I had left the shepherd still dozing385, in the half-conscious state of a dazed and broken man. All night the wind had wakened me at intervals386, and now in the half-light of morn the weather seemed more vicious than ever. The wind cut my ears, the whole firmament387 was full of the rendings and[Pg 82] thunders of the storm. Rain fell in blinding sheets, the heath was a marsh204, and it was the most I could do to struggle against the hurricane which stopped my breath. And all the while I knew I was not alone in the desert.
All men know—in imagination or in experience—the sensation of being spied on. The nerves tingle389, the skin grows hot and prickly, and there is a queer sinking of the heart. Intensify390 this common feeling a hundredfold, and you get a tenth part of what I suffered. I am telling a plain tale, and record bare physical facts. My lips stood out from my teeth as I heard, or felt, a rustle in the heather, a scraping among stones. Some subtle magnetic link seemed established between my body and the mysterious world around. I became sick—acutely sick—with the ceaseless apprehension391.
My fright became so complete that when I turned a corner of rock, or stepped in deep heather, I seemed to feel a body rub against mine. This continued all the way up the Farawa water, and then up its feeder to the little lonely loch. It kept me from looking forward; but it likewise kept me in such a sweat of fright that I was ready to faint. Then the motion came upon me to test this fancy of mine. If I was tracked thus closely, clearly the trackers would bar my way if I turned back. So I wheeled round and walked a dozen paces down the glen.
Nothing stopped me. I was about to turn again, when something made me take six more paces. At the fourth something rustled392 in the heather, and my neck was gripped as in a vice133. I had already made up my mind on what I would do. I would be perfectly393 still, I would conquer my fear, and let them do as they pleased with me so long as they took me to their dwelling. But at the touch of the hands my resolutions fled. I struggled and screamed. Then something was clapped on my mouth, speech and strength went from me, and once more I was back in the maudlin394 childhood of terror.
In the cave it was always a dusky twilight395. I seemed to be lying in the same place, with the same dull glare of firelight far off, and the same close stupefying smell. One of the creatures was standing131 silently at my side, and I asked him some trivial question. He turned and shambled down the passage, leaving me alone.
Then he returned with another, and they talked their guttural talk to me. I scarcely listened till I remembered that in a sense I was[Pg 84] here of my own accord, and on a definite mission. The purport396 of their speech seemed to be that, now I had returned, I must beware of a second flight. Once I had been spared; a second time I should be killed without mercy.
I assented397 gladly. The Folk then, had some use for me. I felt my errand prospering398.
Then the old creature which I had seen before crept out of some corner and squatted beside me. He put a claw on my shoulder, a horrible, corrugated399, skeleton thing, hairy to the finger-tips and nailless. He grinned, too, with toothless gums, and his hideous old voice was like a file on sandstone.
I asked questions, but he would only grin and jabber, looking now and then furtively400 over his shoulder towards the fire.
I coaxed401 and humoured him, till he launched into a narrative of which I could make nothing. It seemed a mere string of names, with certain words repeated at fixed intervals. Then it flashed on me that this might be a religious incantation. I had discovered remnants of a ritual and a mythology among them. It was possible that these were sacred days, and that I had stumbled upon some rude celebration.
I caught a word or two and repeated them.[Pg 85] He looked at me curiously402. Then I asked him some leading question, and he replied with clearness. My guess was right. The midsummer week was the holy season of the year, when sacrifices were offered to the gods.
The notion of sacrifices disquieted403 me, and I would fain have asked further. But the creature would speak no more. He hobbled off, and left me alone in the rock-chamber to listen to a strange sound which hung ceaselessly about me. It must be the storm without, like a park of artillery404 rattling405 among the crags. A storm of storms surely, for the place echoed and hummed, and to my unquiet eye the very rock of the roof seemed to shake!
Apparently my existence was forgotten, for I lay long before any one returned. Then it was merely one who brought food, the same strange meal as before, and left hastily. When I had eaten I rose and stretched myself. My hands and knees still quivered nervously; but I was strong and perfectly well in body. The empty, desolate406, tomb-like place was eerie enough to scare any one; but its emptiness was comfort when I thought of its inmates. Then I wandered down the passage towards the fire which was burning in loneliness. Where had[Pg 86] the Folk gone? I puzzled over their disappearance.
Suddenly sounds began to break on my ear, coming from some inner chamber at the end of that in which the fire burned. I could scarcely see for the smoke; but I began to make my way towards the noise, feeling along the sides of rock. Then a second gleam of light seemed to rise before me, and I came to an aperture407 in the wall which gave entrance to another room.
This in turn was full of smoke and glow—a murky408 orange glow, as if from some strange flame of roots. There were the squat moving figures, running in wild antics round the fire. I crouched409 in the entrance, terrified and yet curious, till I saw something beyond the blaze which held me dumb. Apart from the others and tied to some stake in the wall was a woman's figure, and the face was the face of the shepherd's sister.
My first impulse was flight. I must get away and think,—plan, achieve some desperate way of escape. I sped back to the silent chamber as if the gang were at my heels. It was still empty, and I stood helplessly in the centre, looking at the impassable walls of rock as a wearied beast may look at the walls of its cage. I bethought me of the way I had escaped before and[Pg 87] rushed thither, only to find it blocked by a huge contrivance of stone. Yards and yards of solid rock were between me and the upper air, and yet through it all came the crash and whistle of the storm. If I were at my wits' end in this inner darkness, there was also high commotion410 among the powers of the air in that upper world.
As I stood I heard the soft steps of my tormentors. They seemed to think I was meditating411 escape, for they flung themselves on me and bore me to the ground. I did not struggle, and when they saw me quiet, they squatted round and began to speak. They told me of the holy season and its sacrifices. At first I could not follow them; then when I caught familiar words I found some clue, and they became intelligible412. They spoke of a woman, and I asked, "What woman?" With all frankness they told me of the custom which prevailed—how every twentieth summer a woman was sacrificed to some devilish god, and by the hand of one of the stranger race. I said nothing, but my whitening face must have told them a tale, though I strove hard to keep my composure. I asked if they had found the victims. "She is in this place," they said; "and as for the man, thou art he." And with this they left me.
I had still some hours; so much I gathered from their talk, for the sacrifice was at sunset. Escape was cut off for ever. I have always been something of a fatalist, and at the prospect of the irrevocable end my cheerfulness returned. I had my pistol, for they had taken nothing from me. I took out the little weapon and fingered it lovingly. Hope of the lost, refuge of the vanquished413, ease to the coward,—blessed be he who first conceived it!
The time dragged on, the minutes grew to hours, and still I was left solitary414. Only the mad violence of the storm broke the quiet. It had increased in fury, for the stones at the mouth of the exit by which I had formerly escaped seemed to rock with some external pressure, and cutting shafts of wind slipped past and cleft the heat of the passage. What a sight the ravine outside must be, I thought, set in the forehead of a great hill, and swept clean by every breeze! Then came a crashing, and the long hollow echo of a fall. The rocks are splitting, said I; the road down the corrie will be impassable now and for evermore.
I began to grow weak with the nervousness of the waiting, and by-and-by I lay down and fell into a sort of doze. When I next knew [Pg 89]consciousness I was being roused by two of the Folk, and bidden get ready. I stumbled to my feet, felt for the pistol in the hollow of my sleeve, and prepared to follow.
When we came out into the wider chamber the noise of the storm was deafening415. The roof rang like a shield which has been struck. I noticed, perturbed416 as I was, that my guards cast anxious eyes around them, alarmed, like myself, at the murderous din14. Nor was the world quieter when we entered the last chamber, where the fire burned and the remnant of the Folk waited. Wind had found an entrance from somewhere or other, and the flames blew here and there, and the smoke gyrated in odd circles. At the back, and apart from the rest, I saw the dazed eyes and the white old drawn face of the woman.
They led me up beside her to a place where there was a rude flat stone, hollowed in the centre, and on it a rusty iron knife, which seemed once to have formed part of a scythe417-blade. Then I saw the ceremonial which was marked out for me. It was the very rite176 which I had dimly figured as current among a rude people, and even in that moment of horror I had something of the scholar's satisfaction.
The oldest of the Folk, who seemed to be a sort of priest, came to my side and mumbled418 a form of words. His fetid breath sickened me; his dull eyes, glassy like a brute's with age, brought my knees together. He put the knife in my hands, dragged the terror-stricken woman forward to the altar, and bade me begin.
I began by sawing her bonds through. When she felt herself free she would have fled back, but stopped when I bade her. At that moment there came a noise of rending388 and crashing as if the hills were falling, and for one second the eyes of the Folk were averted419 from the frustrated420 sacrifice.
Only for a moment. The next they saw what I had done, and with one impulse rushed towards me. Then began the last scene in the play. I sent a bullet through the right eye of the first thing that came on. The second shot went wide; but the third shattered the hand of an elderly ruffian with a club. Never for an instant did they stop, and now they were clutching at me. I pushed the woman behind, and fired three rapid shots in blind panic, and then, clutching the scythe, I struck right and left like a madman.
Suddenly I saw the foreground sink before my eyes. The roof sloped down, and with a[Pg 91] sickening hiss421 a mountain of rock and earth seemed to precipitate235 itself on the foremost of my assailants. One, nipped in the middle by a rock, caught my eye by his hideous writhings. Two only remained in what was now a little suffocating422 chamber, with embers from the fire still smoking on the floor.
The woman caught me by the hand and drew me with her, while the two seemed mute with fear. "There's a road at the back," she screamed. "I ken it. I fand it out." And she pulled me up a narrow hole in the rock.
How long we climbed I do not know. We were both fighting for air, with the tightness of throat and chest, and the craziness of limb which mean suffocation423. I cannot tell when we first came to the surface, but I remember the woman, who seemed to have the strength of extreme terror, pulling me from the edge of a crevasse424 and laying me on a flat rock. It seemed to be the depth of winter, with sheer-falling rain and a wind that shook the hills.
Then I was once more myself and could look about me. From my feet yawned a sheer abyss, where once had been a hill-shoulder. Some great mass of rock on the brow of the mountain[Pg 92] had been loosened by the storm, and in its fall had caught the lips of the ravine and blocked the upper outlet425 from the nest of dwellings. For a moment, I feared that all had been destroyed.
My feeling—Heaven help me!—was not thankfulness for God's mercy and my escape, but a bitter mad regret. I rushed frantically426 to the edge, and when I saw only the blackness of darkness I wept weak tears. All the time the storm was tearing at my body, and I had to grip hard by hand and foot to keep my place.
Suddenly on the brink427 of the ravine I saw a third figure. We two were not the only fugitives428. One of the Folk had escaped.
I ran to it, and to my surprise the thing as soon as it saw me rushed to meet me. At first I thought it was with some instinct of self-preservation, but when I saw its eyes I knew the purpose of fight. Clearly one or other should go no more from the place.
We were some ten yards from the brink when I grappled with it. Dimly I heard the woman scream with fright, and saw her scramble375 across the hillside. Then we were tugging429 in a death-throe, the hideous smell of the thing in my face, its red eyes burning into mine, and its hoarse430 voice muttering. Its strength seemed incredible; but I, too, am no weakling. We tugged431 and strained, its nails biting into my flesh, while I choked its throat unsparingly. Every second I dreaded432 lest we should plunge433 together over the ledge316, for it was thither my adversary434 tried to draw me. I caught my heel in a nick of rock, and pulled madly against it.
And then, while I was beginning to glory with the pride of conquest, my hope was dashed in pieces. The thing seemed to break from my arms, and, as if in despair, cast itself headlong into the impenetrable darkness. I stumbled blindly after it, saved myself on the brink, and fell back, sick and ill, into a merciful swoon.
VIII: NOTE IN CONCLUSION BY THE EDITOR
At this point the narrative of my unfortunate friend, Mr Graves of St Chad's, breaks off abruptly. He wrote it shortly before his death, and was prevented from completing it by the attack of heart failure which carried him off. In accordance with the instructions in his will, I have prepared it for publication, and now in much fear and hesitation, give it to the world. First, however, I must supplement it by such facts as fall within my knowledge.
The shepherd seems to have gone to Allermuir and by the help of the letter convinced the inhabitants. A body of men was collected under the landlord, and during the afternoon set out for the hills. But unfortunately the great midsummer storm—the most terrible of recent climatic disturbances—had filled the mosses and streams, and they found themselves unable to proceed by any direct road. Ultimately late in the evening they arrived at the cottage of Farawa, only to find there a raving435 woman, the shepherd's sister, who seemed crazy with brain-fever. She told some rambling299 story about her escape, but her narrative said nothing of Mr Graves. So they treated her with what skill they possessed, and sheltered for the night in and around the cottage. The next morning the storm had abated436 a little, and the woman had recovered something of her wits. From her they learned that Mr Graves was lying in a ravine on the side of the Muneraw in imminent437 danger of his life. A body set out to find him; but so immense was the landslip, and so dangerous the whole mountain, that it was nearly evening when they recovered him from the ledge of rock. He was alive, but unconscious, and on bringing him back to the cottage it was clear that he was, indeed,[Pg 95] very ill. There he lay for three months, while the best skill that could be got was procured438 for him. By dint439 of an uncommon toughness of constitution he survived; but it was an old and feeble man who returned to Oxford in the early winter.
The shepherd and his sister immediately left the countryside, and were never more heard of, unless they are the pair of unfortunates who are at present in a Scottish pauper440 asylum441, incapable of remembering even their names. The people who last spoke with them declared that their minds seemed weakened by a great shock, and that it was hopeless to try to get any connected or rational statement.
The career of my poor friend from that hour was little short of a tragedy. He awoke from his illness to find the world incredulous; even the country-folk of Allermuir set down the story to the shepherd's craziness and my friend's credulity. In Oxford, his argument was received with polite scorn. An account of his experiences which he drew up for the 'Times' was refused by the editor; and an article on "Primitive Peoples of the North," embodying442 what he believed to be the result of his discoveries, was unanimously rejected by every responsible journal in[Pg 96] Europe. At first, he bore the treatment bravely. Reflection convinced him that the colony had not been destroyed. Proofs were still awaiting his hand, and with courage and caution he might yet triumph over his enemies. But unfortunately, though the ardour of the scholar burned more fiercely than ever and all fear seemed to have been purged443 from his soul, the last adventure had grievously sapped his bodily strength. In the spring following his accident he made an effort to reach the spot—alone, for no one could be persuaded to follow him in what was regarded as a childish madness. He slept at the now deserted444 cottage of Farawa, but in the morning found himself unable to continue, and with difficulty struggled back to the shepherd's cottage at Allercleuch, where he was confined to bed for a fortnight. Then it became necessary for him to seek health abroad, and it was not till the following autumn that he attempted the journey again. He fell sick a second time at the inn of Allermuir, and during his convalescence445 had himself carried to a knoll446 in the inn garden, whence a glimpse can be obtained of the shoulder of the Muneraw. There he would sit for hours with his eyes fixed on the horizon, and at times he would be found weeping with weakness and[Pg 97] vexation. The last attempt was made but two months before his last illness. On this occasion he got no farther than Carlisle, where he was taken ill with what proved to be a premonition of death. After that he shut his lips tightly, as though recognising the futility447 of his hopes. Whether he had been soured by the treatment he received, or whether his brain had already been weakened, he had become a morose silent man, and for the two years before his death had few friends and no society. From the obituary448 notice in the 'Times' I take the following paragraph, which shows in what light the world had come to look upon him:—
"At the outset of his career he was regarded as a rising scholar in one department of arch?ology, and his Taffert lectures were a real contribution to an obscure subject. But in afterlife he was led into fantastic speculations449; and when he found himself unable to convince his colleagues, he gradually retired450 into himself, and lived practically a hermit's life till his death. His career, thus broken short, is a sad instance of the fascination which the recondite and the quack451 can exercise even over men of approved ability."
And now his own narrative is published, and[Pg 98] the world can judge as it pleases about the amazing romance. The view which will doubtless find general acceptance is that the whole is a figment of the brain, begotten452 of some harmless moorland adventure and the company of such religious maniacs453 as the shepherd and his sister. But some who knew the former sobriety and calmness of my friend's mind may be disposed timorously454 and with deep hesitation to another verdict. They may accept the narrative, and believe that somewhere in those moorlands he met with a horrible primitive survival, passed through the strangest adventure, and had his fingers on an epoch-making discovery. In this case they will be inclined to sympathise with the loneliness and misunderstanding of his latter days. It is not for me to decide the question. Though a fellow-historian, the Picts are outside my period, and I dare not advance an opinion on a matter with which I am not fully179 familiar. But I would point out that the means of settling the question are still extant, and I would call upon some young arch?ologist, with a reputation to make, to seize upon the chance of the century. Most of the expresses for the North stop at Allerfoot; a ten-miles' drive will bring him to Allermuir; and then with a fifteen-miles'[Pg 99] walk he is at Farawa and on the threshold of discovery. Let him follow the burn and cross the ridge and ascend455 the Scarts of the Muneraw, and, if he return at all, it may be with a more charitable judgment of my unfortunate friend.
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1 kinsman | |
n.男亲属 | |
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2 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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3 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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4 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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5 moorish | |
adj.沼地的,荒野的,生[住]在沼地的 | |
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6 moor | |
n.荒野,沼泽;vt.(使)停泊;vi.停泊 | |
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7 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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8 mania | |
n.疯狂;躁狂症,狂热,癖好 | |
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9 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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10 dabbled | |
v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 );涉足;浅尝;少量投资 | |
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11 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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12 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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13 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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14 din | |
n.喧闹声,嘈杂声 | |
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15 vocation | |
n.职业,行业 | |
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16 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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17 monograph | |
n.专题文章,专题著作 | |
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18 antiquities | |
n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 );古迹;古人们;古代的风俗习惯 | |
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19 Oxford | |
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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20 isle | |
n.小岛,岛 | |
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21 isles | |
岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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22 ken | |
n.视野,知识领域 | |
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23 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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24 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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25 tract | |
n.传单,小册子,大片(土地或森林) | |
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26 bog | |
n.沼泽;室...陷入泥淖 | |
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27 mosses | |
n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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28 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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29 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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30 gashed | |
v.划伤,割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31 mica | |
n.云母 | |
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32 granite | |
adj.花岗岩,花岗石 | |
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33 salmon | |
n.鲑,大马哈鱼,橙红色的 | |
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34 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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35 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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36 thrall | |
n.奴隶;奴隶制 | |
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37 boulders | |
n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 );巨砾;(受水或天气侵蚀而成的)巨石;漂砾 | |
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38 mires | |
n.泥潭( mire的名词复数 ) | |
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39 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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40 stony | |
adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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41 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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42 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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43 savagery | |
n.野性 | |
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44 weird | |
adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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45 lurk | |
n.潜伏,潜行;v.潜藏,潜伏,埋伏 | |
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46 lurking | |
潜在 | |
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47 molested | |
v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 );干扰;调戏;猥亵 | |
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48 outlaws | |
歹徒,亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 ); 逃犯 | |
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49 mythology | |
n.神话,神话学,神话集 | |
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50 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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51 authentic | |
a.真的,真正的;可靠的,可信的,有根据的 | |
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52 rococo | |
n.洛可可;adj.过分修饰的 | |
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53 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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54 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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55 moors | |
v.停泊,系泊(船只)( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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57 disappearance | |
n.消失,消散,失踪 | |
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58 herds | |
兽群( herd的名词复数 ); 牧群; 人群; 群众 | |
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59 disappearances | |
n.消失( disappearance的名词复数 );丢失;失踪;失踪案 | |
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60 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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61 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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62 dwindled | |
v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63 revival | |
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
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64 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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65 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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66 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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67 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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68 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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69 scruple | |
n./v.顾忌,迟疑 | |
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70 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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71 quad | |
n.四方院;四胞胎之一;v.在…填补空铅 | |
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72 banal | |
adj.陈腐的,平庸的 | |
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73 quotation | |
n.引文,引语,语录;报价,牌价,行情 | |
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74 watershed | |
n.转折点,分水岭,分界线 | |
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75 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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76 slabs | |
n.厚板,平板,厚片( slab的名词复数 );厚胶片 | |
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77 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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78 boisterous | |
adj.喧闹的,欢闹的 | |
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79 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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80 hilarity | |
n.欢乐;热闹 | |
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81 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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82 bide | |
v.忍耐;等候;住 | |
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83 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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84 extraordinarily | |
adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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85 skilful | |
(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
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86 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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87 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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88 exegesis | |
n.注释,解释 | |
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89 thatch | |
vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部;n.茅草(屋) | |
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90 dwellings | |
n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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91 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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92 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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93 lithograph | |
n.平板印刷,平板画;v.用平版印刷 | |
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94 crooks | |
n.骗子( crook的名词复数 );罪犯;弯曲部分;(牧羊人或主教用的)弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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96 detest | |
vt.痛恨,憎恶 | |
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97 prospered | |
成功,兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98 mightily | |
ad.强烈地;非常地 | |
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99 trout | |
n.鳟鱼;鲑鱼(属) | |
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100 lashing | |
n.鞭打;痛斥;大量;许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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101 bondage | |
n.奴役,束缚 | |
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102 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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103 numb | |
adj.麻木的,失去感觉的;v.使麻木 | |
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104 savagely | |
adv. 野蛮地,残酷地 | |
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105 sullenly | |
不高兴地,绷着脸,忧郁地 | |
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106 thawed | |
解冻 | |
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107 numbed | |
v.使麻木,使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108 grunted | |
(猪等)作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 ); (指人)发出类似的哼声; 咕哝着说 | |
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109 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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110 shrilly | |
尖声的; 光亮的,耀眼的 | |
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111 moodily | |
adv.喜怒无常地;情绪多变地;心情不稳地;易生气地 | |
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112 vex | |
vt.使烦恼,使苦恼 | |
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113 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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114 lighting | |
n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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115 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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116 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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117 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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118 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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119 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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120 jotting | |
n.简短的笔记,略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 );草草记下,匆匆记下 | |
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121 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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122 bides | |
v.等待,停留( bide的第三人称单数 );居住;(过去式用bided)等待;面临 | |
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123 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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124 maniac | |
n.精神癫狂的人;疯子 | |
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125 reassured | |
adj.使消除疑虑的;使放心的v.再保证,恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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126 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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127 inquisitive | |
adj.求知欲强的,好奇的,好寻根究底的 | |
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128 relic | |
n.神圣的遗物,遗迹,纪念物 | |
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129 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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130 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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131 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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132 gaily | |
adv.欢乐地,高兴地 | |
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133 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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134 meddle | |
v.干预,干涉,插手 | |
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135 wager | |
n.赌注;vt.押注,打赌 | |
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136 temperate | |
adj.温和的,温带的,自我克制的,不过分的 | |
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137 barb | |
n.(鱼钩等的)倒钩,倒刺 | |
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138 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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139 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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140 overdone | |
v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 );太夸张;把…煮得太久;(工作等)过度 | |
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141 implement | |
n.(pl.)工具,器具;vt.实行,实施,执行 | |
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142 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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143 pouch | |
n.小袋,小包,囊状袋;vt.装...入袋中,用袋运输;vi.用袋送信件 | |
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144 slaughter | |
n.屠杀,屠宰;vt.屠杀,宰杀 | |
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145 pricking | |
刺,刺痕,刺痛感 | |
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146 prosaic | |
adj.单调的,无趣的 | |
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147 spoke | |
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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148 kenned | |
v.知道( ken的过去式和过去分词 );懂得;看到;认出 | |
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149 herding | |
中畜群 | |
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150 intermittent | |
adj.间歇的,断断续续的 | |
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151 deceptive | |
adj.骗人的,造成假象的,靠不住的 | |
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152 boded | |
v.预示,预告,预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 );等待,停留( bide的过去分词 );居住;(过去式用bided)等待 | |
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153 tarn | |
n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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154 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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155 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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156 syne | |
adv.自彼时至此时,曾经 | |
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157 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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158 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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159 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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160 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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161 sluggish | |
adj.懒惰的,迟钝的,无精打采的 | |
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162 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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163 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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164 upwards | |
adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
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165 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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166 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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167 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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168 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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169 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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170 repented | |
对(自己的所为)感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171 landmark | |
n.陆标,划时代的事,地界标 | |
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172 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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173 wading | |
(从水、泥等)蹚,走过,跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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174 backwards | |
adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
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175 slough | |
v.蜕皮,脱落,抛弃 | |
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176 rite | |
n.典礼,惯例,习俗 | |
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177 ascent | |
n.(声望或地位)提高;上升,升高;登高 | |
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178 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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179 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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180 retrace | |
v.折回;追溯,探源 | |
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181 dangling | |
悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 ); 摆动不定; 用某事物诱惑…; 吊胃口 | |
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182 precipice | |
n.悬崖,危急的处境 | |
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183 warily | |
adv.留心地 | |
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184 battered | |
adj.磨损的;v.连续猛击;磨损 | |
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185 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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186 spine | |
n.脊柱,脊椎;(动植物的)刺;书脊 | |
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187 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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188 mumbling | |
含糊地说某事,叽咕,咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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189 timorous | |
adj.胆怯的,胆小的 | |
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190 jumble | |
vt.使混乱,混杂;n.混乱;杂乱的一堆 | |
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191 vowels | |
n.元音,元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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192 consonants | |
n.辅音,子音( consonant的名词复数 );辅音字母 | |
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193 doze | |
v.打瞌睡;n.打盹,假寐 | |
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194 lashed | |
adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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195 jabber | |
v.快而不清楚地说;n.吱吱喳喳 | |
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196 squat | |
v.蹲坐,蹲下;n.蹲下;adj.矮胖的,粗矮的 | |
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197 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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198 shrieking | |
v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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199 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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200 maker | |
n.制造者,制造商 | |
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201 accredited | |
adj.可接受的;可信任的;公认的;质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 );委托;委任;把…归结于 | |
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202 gasps | |
v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 );喘息;倒抽气;很想要 | |
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203 inhuman | |
adj.残忍的,不人道的,无人性的 | |
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204 marsh | |
n.沼泽,湿地 | |
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205 marshy | |
adj.沼泽的 | |
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206 hemmed | |
缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 ); 包围 | |
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207 wrenched | |
v.(猛力地)扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 );扭伤;使感到痛苦;使悲痛 | |
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208 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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209 vigour | |
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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210 numbly | |
adv.失去知觉,麻木 | |
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211 Flared | |
adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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212 spate | |
n.泛滥,洪水,突然的一阵 | |
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213 glistening | |
adj.闪耀的,反光的v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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214 cleft | |
n.裂缝;adj.裂开的 | |
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215 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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216 subsided | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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217 tinge | |
vt.(较淡)着色于,染色;使带有…气息;n.淡淡色彩,些微的气息 | |
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218 flask | |
n.瓶,火药筒,砂箱 | |
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219 civilisation | |
n.文明,文化,开化,教化 | |
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220 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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221 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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222 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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223 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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224 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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225 blurred | |
v.(使)变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 );(使)难以区分;模模糊糊;迷离 | |
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226 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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227 badger | |
v.一再烦扰,一再要求,纠缠 | |
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228 stump | |
n.残株,烟蒂,讲演台;v.砍断,蹒跚而走 | |
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229 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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230 squatted | |
v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 );非法擅自占用(土地或房屋);为获得其所有权;而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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231 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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232 lengthened | |
(时间或空间)延长,伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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233 impure | |
adj.不纯净的,不洁的;不道德的,下流的 | |
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234 precipitated | |
v.(突如其来地)使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 );促成;猛然摔下;使沉淀 | |
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235 precipitate | |
adj.突如其来的;vt.使突然发生;n.沉淀物 | |
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236 invaders | |
入侵者,侵略者,侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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237 hatreds | |
n.仇恨,憎恶( hatred的名词复数 );厌恶的事 | |
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238 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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239 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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240 riddles | |
n.谜(语)( riddle的名词复数 );猜不透的难题,难解之谜 | |
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241 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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242 feverishly | |
adv. 兴奋地 | |
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243 morose | |
adj.脾气坏的,不高兴的 | |
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244 lust | |
n.性(淫)欲;渴(欲)望;vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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245 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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246 plunder | |
vt.劫掠财物,掠夺;n.劫掠物,赃物;劫掠 | |
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247 bestial | |
adj.残忍的;野蛮的 | |
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248 exuberance | |
n.丰富;繁荣 | |
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249 slaying | |
杀戮。 | |
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250 quailed | |
害怕,发抖,畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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251 morsels | |
n.一口( morsel的名词复数 );(尤指食物)小块,碎屑 | |
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252 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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253 sniffed | |
v.以鼻吸气,嗅,闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 );抽鼻子(尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气);抱怨,不以为然地说 | |
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254 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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255 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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256 pillage | |
v.抢劫;掠夺;n.抢劫,掠夺;掠夺物 | |
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257 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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258 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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259 dozed | |
v.打盹儿,打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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260 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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261 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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262 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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263 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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264 glazed | |
adj.光滑的,像玻璃的;上过釉的;呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式);上釉于,上光;(目光)变得呆滞无神 | |
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265 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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266 tottering | |
adj.蹒跚的,动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 );踉跄;蹒跚;摇摇欲坠 | |
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267 undo | |
vt.解开,松开;取消,撤销 | |
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268 fetters | |
n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 );束缚v.给…上脚镣,束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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269 abreast | |
adv.并排地;跟上(时代)的步伐,与…并进地 | |
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270 singe | |
v.(轻微地)烧焦;烫焦;烤焦 | |
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271 warped | |
adj.反常的;乖戾的;(变)弯曲的;变形的v.弄弯,变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 );使(行为等)不合情理,使乖戾, | |
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272 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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273 untying | |
untie的现在分词 | |
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274 cramped | |
a.狭窄的 | |
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275 chasm | |
n.深坑,断层,裂口,大分岐,利害冲突 | |
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276 fowls | |
鸟( fowl的名词复数 ); 禽肉; 既不是这; 非驴非马 | |
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277 intoxication | |
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
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278 charred | |
v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式);烧焦 | |
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279 jaw | |
n.颚,颌,说教,流言蜚语;v.喋喋不休,教训 | |
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280 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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281 spout | |
v.喷出,涌出;滔滔不绝地讲;n.喷管;水柱 | |
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282 spouts | |
n.管口( spout的名词复数 );(喷出的)水柱;(容器的)嘴;在困难中v.(指液体)喷出( spout的第三人称单数 );滔滔不绝地讲;喋喋不休地说;喷水 | |
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283 downwards | |
adj./adv.向下的(地),下行的(地) | |
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284 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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285 boggy | |
adj.沼泽多的 | |
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286 shingle | |
n.木瓦板;小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌);v.用木瓦板盖(屋顶);把(女子头发)剪短 | |
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287 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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288 aboriginal | |
adj.(指动植物)土生的,原产地的,土著的 | |
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289 phantoms | |
n.鬼怪,幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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290 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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291 cascades | |
倾泻( cascade的名词复数 ); 小瀑布(尤指一连串瀑布中的一支); 瀑布状物; 倾泻(或涌出)的东西 | |
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292 speck | |
n.微粒,小污点,小斑点 | |
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293 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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294 rustle | |
v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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295 chatter | |
vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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296 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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297 eerie | |
adj.怪诞的;奇异的;可怕的;胆怯的 | |
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298 scrambling | |
v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
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299 rambling | |
adj.[建]凌乱的,杂乱的 | |
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300 loomed | |
v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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301 battering | |
n.用坏,损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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302 gulp | |
vt.吞咽,大口地吸(气);vi.哽住;n.吞咽 | |
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303 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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304 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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305 toiling | |
长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 ); 艰难缓慢地移动,跋涉 | |
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306 ointment | |
n.药膏,油膏,软膏 | |
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307 covert | |
adj.隐藏的;暗地里的 | |
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308 shaft | |
n.(工具的)柄,杆状物 | |
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309 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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310 bustling | |
adj.喧闹的 | |
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311 belongings | |
n.私人物品,私人财物 | |
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312 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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313 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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314 treacherous | |
adj.不可靠的,有暗藏的危险的;adj.背叛的,背信弃义的 | |
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315 fretted | |
焦躁的,附有弦马的,腐蚀的 | |
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316 ledge | |
n.壁架,架状突出物;岩架,岩礁 | |
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317 vista | |
n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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318 reverent | |
adj.恭敬的,虔诚的 | |
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319 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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320 besought | |
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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321 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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322 beseech | |
v.祈求,恳求 | |
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323 shafts | |
n.轴( shaft的名词复数 );(箭、高尔夫球棒等的)杆;通风井;一阵(疼痛、害怕等) | |
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324 pedants | |
n.卖弄学问的人,学究,书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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325 narrate | |
v.讲,叙述 | |
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326 yearned | |
渴望,切盼,向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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327 craved | |
渴望,热望( crave的过去式 ); 恳求,请求 | |
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328 raved | |
v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 );愤怒地说;咆哮;痴心地说 | |
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329 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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330 treatises | |
n.专题著作,专题论文,专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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331 second-hand | |
adj.用过的,旧的,二手的 | |
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332 sketches | |
n.草图( sketch的名词复数 );素描;速写;梗概 | |
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333 ransacked | |
v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 );抢劫,掠夺 | |
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334 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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335 solicitors | |
初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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336 clamorous | |
adj.吵闹的,喧哗的 | |
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337 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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338 recondite | |
adj.深奥的,难解的 | |
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339 cursorily | |
adv.粗糙地,疏忽地,马虎地 | |
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340 virulence | |
n.毒力,毒性;病毒性;致病力 | |
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341 abstruse | |
adj.深奥的,难解的 | |
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342 tangibility | |
n.确切性 | |
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343 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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344 detested | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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345 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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346 pedantic | |
adj.卖弄学问的;迂腐的 | |
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347 embarked | |
乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 ); 装载; 从事 | |
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348 disconsolately | |
adv.悲伤地,愁闷地;哭丧着脸 | |
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349 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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350 sane | |
adj.心智健全的,神志清醒的,明智的,稳健的 | |
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351 valiantly | |
adv.勇敢地,英勇地;雄赳赳 | |
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352 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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353 dispel | |
vt.驱走,驱散,消除 | |
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354 efface | |
v.擦掉,抹去 | |
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355 miserably | |
adv.痛苦地;悲惨地;糟糕地;极度地 | |
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356 millennium | |
n.一千年,千禧年;太平盛世 | |
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357 anthropology | |
n.人类学 | |
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358 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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359 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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360 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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361 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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362 codicil | |
n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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363 marvel | |
vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异;n.令人惊异的事 | |
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364 drearier | |
使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 ); 阴沉的; 令人厌烦的; 单调的 | |
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365 voraciously | |
adv.贪婪地 | |
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366 botanist | |
n.植物学家 | |
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367 sociably | |
adv.成群地 | |
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368 deftness | |
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369 beguiled | |
v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 );使陶醉;使高兴;消磨(时间等) | |
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370 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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371 trepidation | |
n.惊恐,惶恐 | |
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372 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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373 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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374 scrambled | |
v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
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375 scramble | |
v.爬行,攀爬,杂乱蔓延,碎片,片段,废料 | |
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376 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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377 inmates | |
n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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378 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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379 barricaded | |
设路障于,以障碍物阻塞( barricade的过去式和过去分词 ); 设路障[防御工事]保卫或固守 | |
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380 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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381 joyfully | |
adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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382 latch | |
n.门闩,窗闩;弹簧锁 | |
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383 stolidly | |
adv.迟钝地,神经麻木地 | |
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384 conning | |
v.诈骗,哄骗( con的现在分词 );指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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385 dozing | |
v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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386 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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387 firmament | |
n.苍穹;最高层 | |
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388 rending | |
v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 );分裂;(因愤怒、痛苦等而)揪扯(衣服或头发等);(声音等)刺破 | |
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389 tingle | |
vi.感到刺痛,感到激动;n.刺痛,激动 | |
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390 intensify | |
vt.加强;变强;加剧 | |
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391 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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392 rustled | |
v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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393 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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394 maudlin | |
adj.感情脆弱的,爱哭的 | |
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395 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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396 purport | |
n.意义,要旨,大要;v.意味著,做为...要旨,要领是... | |
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397 assented | |
同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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398 prospering | |
成功,兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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399 corrugated | |
adj.波纹的;缩成皱纹的;波纹面的;波纹状的v.(使某物)起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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400 furtively | |
adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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401 coaxed | |
v.哄,用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 );巧言骗取;哄劝,劝诱 | |
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402 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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403 disquieted | |
v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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404 artillery | |
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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405 rattling | |
adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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406 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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407 aperture | |
n.孔,隙,窄的缺口 | |
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408 murky | |
adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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409 crouched | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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410 commotion | |
n.骚动,动乱 | |
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411 meditating | |
a.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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412 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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413 vanquished | |
v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 );战胜;克服;抑制 | |
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414 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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415 deafening | |
adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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416 perturbed | |
adj.烦燥不安的v.使(某人)烦恼,不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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417 scythe | |
n. 长柄的大镰刀,战车镰; v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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418 mumbled | |
含糊地说某事,叽咕,咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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419 averted | |
防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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420 frustrated | |
adj.挫败的,失意的,泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 );挫败;使受挫折;令人沮丧 | |
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421 hiss | |
v.发出嘶嘶声;发嘘声表示不满 | |
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422 suffocating | |
a.使人窒息的 | |
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423 suffocation | |
n.窒息 | |
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424 crevasse | |
n. 裂缝,破口;v.使有裂缝 | |
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425 outlet | |
n.出口/路;销路;批发商店;通风口;发泄 | |
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426 frantically | |
ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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427 brink | |
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
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428 fugitives | |
n.亡命者,逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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429 tugging | |
n.牵引感v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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430 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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431 tugged | |
v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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432 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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433 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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434 adversary | |
adj.敌手,对手 | |
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435 raving | |
adj.说胡话的;疯狂的,怒吼的;非常漂亮的;令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话;疯话adv.胡言乱语地;疯狂地 | |
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436 abated | |
减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 ); 减去; 降价; 撤消(诉讼) | |
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437 imminent | |
adj.即将发生的,临近的,逼近的 | |
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438 procured | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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439 dint | |
n.由于,靠;凹坑 | |
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440 pauper | |
n.贫民,被救济者,穷人 | |
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441 asylum | |
n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
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442 embodying | |
v.表现( embody的现在分词 );象征;包括;包含 | |
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443 purged | |
清除(政敌等)( purge的过去式和过去分词 ); 涤除(罪恶等); 净化(心灵、风气等); 消除(错事等)的不良影响 | |
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444 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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445 convalescence | |
n.病后康复期 | |
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446 knoll | |
n.小山,小丘 | |
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447 futility | |
n.无用 | |
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448 obituary | |
n.讣告,死亡公告;adj.死亡的 | |
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449 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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450 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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451 quack | |
n.庸医;江湖医生;冒充内行的人;骗子 | |
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452 begotten | |
v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 );产生,引起 | |
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453 maniacs | |
n.疯子(maniac的复数形式) | |
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454 timorously | |
adv.胆怯地,羞怯地 | |
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455 ascend | |
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
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