The O’Mahony had hung in meditative7 solitude8 over the tiller for hours, watching the squatting9 groups of retainers playing silently at “spoil-five” on the forward deck, and revolving10 in his mind the thousand and one confused and clashing thoughts which this queer new situation suggested. As the sun went down he called to Jerry, and the two, standing11 together at the stern, looked upon the great ball of fire descending12 behind the gray expanse of trackless waters, without a word. Rude and untutored as they were, both were conscious, in some vague way, that when this sun should rise again their world would be a different thing.
“Well, pard,” said the master, when only a bar of flaming orange marked where the day had gone, “it’ll be a considerable spell, I reckon, afore I see that sort o’ thing in these waters again.”
“Is it l’avin’ the country we are, thin?” asked Jerry, in a sympathetic voice.
“No, not exactly. You’ll stay here. But I cut sticks to-morrow.”
“Sure, then, it’s not alone ye’ll be goin’. Egor! man, didn’t I take me Bible-oath niver to l’ave yeh, the longest day ye lived? Ah—now, don’t be talkin’!”
“That’s all right, Jerry—but it’s got to be that way,” replied The O’Mahony, in low regretful tones. “I’ve figured it all out. It’ll be mighty13 tough to go off by myself without you, pard, but I can’t leave the thing without somebody to run it for me, and you are the only one that fills the bill. Now don’t kick about it, or make a fuss, or think I’m using you bad. Jest say to yourself—‘Now he’s my friend, an’ I’m his’n, and if he says I can be of most use to him here, why that settles it.’ Take the helm for a minute, Jerry. I want to go for’ard an’ say a word to the men.”
The O’Mahony looked down upon the unintelligible15 game being played with cards so dirty that he could not tell them apart, and worn by years of use to the shape of an egg, and waited with a musing16 smile on his face till the deal was exhausted17. The players and onlookers18 formed a compact group at his knees, and they still sat or knelt or lounged on the deck as they listened to his words.
“Boys,” he said, in the gravely gentle tone which somehow he had learned in speaking to these men of Muirisc, “I’ve been tellin’ Jerry somethin’ that you’ve got a right to know, too. I’m goin’ to light out to-morrow—that is, quit Ireland for a spell. It may be for a good while—maybe not. That depends. I hate like the very devil to go—but it’s better for me to skip than to be lugged19 off to jail, and then to state’s prison—better for me an’ better for you. If I get out, the rest of you won’t be bothered. Now—hold on a minute till I git through!—now between us we’ve fixed20 up Muirisc so that it’s a good deal easier to live there than it used to be. There’ll be more mines opened up soon, an’ the lobster21 fact’ry an’ the fishin’ are on a good footin’ now. I’m goin’ to leave Jerry to keep track o’ things, along with O’Daly, an’ they’ll let me know regular how matters are workin’, so you won’t suffer by my not bein’ here.”
“Ah—thin—it’s our hearts ’ll be broken entirely22 wid the grief,” wailed23 Dominic, and the others, seizing this note of woe24 as their key, broke forth25 in a chorus of lamentation26.
They scrambled27 to their feet with uncovered heads, and clustered about him, jostling one another for possession of his hands, and affectionately patting his shoulders and stroking his sleeves, the while they strove to express in their own tongue, or in the poetic28 phrases they had fashioned for themselves out of a practical foreign language, the sincerity29 of their sorrow. But the Irish peasant has been schooled through many generations to face the necessity of exile, and to view the breaking of households, the separation of kinsmen30, the recurring31 miseries32 attendant upon an endless exodus33 across the seas, with the philosophy of the inevitable34. None of these men dreamed of attempting to dissuade35 The O’Mahony from his purpose, and they listened with melancholy36 nods of comprehension when he had secured silence, and spoke37 again:
“You can all see that it’s got to be,” he said, in conclusion. “And now I want you to promise me this: I don’t expect you’ll have trouble with the police. They won’t get over from Balleydehob for another day or two—and by that time I shall be gone, and the Hen Hawk, too—an’ if they bring over the dingey I gave the Englishman to land in, why, of course there won’t be a man, woman or child in Muirisc that ever laid eyes on it before.”
“Sure, Heaven ’u’d blast the eyes that ’u’d recognize that same boat,” said one, and the others murmured their confidence in the hypothetical miracle.
“Well, then, what I want you to promise is this: That you’ll go on as you have been doin’, workin’ hard, keepin’ sober, an’ behavin’ yourselves, an’ that you’ll mind what Jerry says, same as if I said it myself. An’ more than that—an’ now this is a thing I’m specially38 sot on—that you’ll look upon that little gal39, Kate O’Mahony, as if she was a daughter of mine, an’ watch over her, an’ make things pleasant for her, an’—an’ treat her like the apple of your eye.”
If there was an apple in The O’Mahony’s eye, it was for the moment hidden in a vail of moisture. The faces of the men and their words alike responded to his emotion.
Then one of them, a lean and unkempt old mariner40, who even in this keen February air kept his hairy breast and corded, sunburnt throat exposed, and whose hawk-like eyes had flashed through fifty years of taciturnity over heaven knows what wild and fantastic dreams born of the sea, spoke up:
“Sir, by your l’ave, I’ll mesilf be her bodyguard41 and her servant, and tache her the wather as befits her blood, and keep the very sole of her fut from harrum.”
“Right you are, Murphy,” said The O’Mahony. “Make that your job.”
No one remembered ever having heard Murphy speak so much at one time before. To the surprise of the group, he had still more to say.
“And, sir—I’m not askin’ it be way of ricompinse,” the fierce-faced old boatman went on—“but w’u’d your honor grant us wan14 requist?”
“You’ve only got to spit ’er out,” was the hearty42 response.
“Thin, sir, give us over the man ye ’ve got down stairs.”
The O’Mahony’s face changed its expression. He thought for a moment; then asked:
“What to do?”
“To dale wid this night!” said Murphy, solemnly.
There was a pause of silence, and then the clamor of a dozen eager voices clashing one against the other in the cold wintry twilight43:
“Give him over, O’Mahony!” “L’ave him to us!” “Don’t be soilin’ yer own hands wid the likes of him!” “Oh, l’ave him to us!” these voices pleaded.
The O’Mahony hesitated for a minute, then slowly shook his head.
“No, boys, don’t ask it,” he said. “I’d like to oblige you, but I can’t. He’s my meat—I can’t give him up!”
“W’u’d yer honor be for sparin’ him, thin?” asked one, with incredulity and surprise.
The O’Mahony of Muirisc looked over the excited group which surrounded him, dimly recognizing the strangeness of the weirdly44 interwoven qualities which run in the blood of Heber—the soft tenderness of nature which through tears would swear loyalty45 unto death to a little child, shifting on the instant to the ferocity of the wolf-hound burying its jowl in the throat of its quarry46. Beyond them were gathering47 the sea mists, as by enchantment48 they had gathered ages before with vain intent to baffle the sons of Milesius, and faintly in the halflight lowered the beetling49 cliffs whereon The O’Mahonys, true sons of those sea-rovers, had crouched50 watching for their prey51 this thousand of years. He could almost feel the ancestral taste of blood in his mouth as he looked, and thought upon his answer.
“No, don’t worry about his gitting off,” he said, at last. “I ’ll take care of that. You’ll never see him again—no one on top of this earth ’ll ever lay eyes on him again.”
With visible reluctance52 the men forced themselves to accept this compromise. The Hen Hawk plunged53 doggedly54 along up the bay.
Three hours later, The O’Mahony and Jerry, not without much stumbling and difficulty, reached the strange subterranean55 chamber56 where they had found the mummy of the monk57. They bore between them the inert58 body of a man, whose head was enveloped59 in bandages, and whose hands, hanging limp at arm’s length, were discolored with the grime and mold from the stony60 path over which they had dragged. They threw this burden on the mediaeval bed, and, drawing long breaths of relief, turned to light some candles in addition to the lantern Jerry had borne, and to kindle61 a fire on the hearth62.
They talked in low murmurs63 meanwhile. The O’Mahony had told Jerry something of what part Linsky had played in his life. Jerry, without being informed with more than the general outlines of the story, was able swiftly to comprehend his master’s attitude toward the man—an attitude compounded of hatred64 for his treachery of to-day and gratitude65 of the services which he had unconsciously performed in the past. He understood to a nicety, too, what possibilities there were in the plan which The O’Mahony now unfolded to him, as the fire began crackling up the chimney.
“I can answer for his gittin’ over that crack in the head,” said The O’Mahony, heating and stirring a tin cup full of balsam over the flame. “Once I’ve fixed this bandage on, we can bring him to with ammonia and whisky, an’ give him some broth66. He’ll live all right—an’ he’ll live right here, d’ye mind. Whatever else happens, he’s never to git outside, an’ he’s never to know where he is. Nobody but you is to so much as dream of his bein’ down here—be as mum as an oyster67 about it, won’t you? You’re to have sole charge of him, d’ye see—the only human being he ever lays eyes on.”
“Egor! I’ll improve his moind wid grand discourses68 on trayson and informin’ an’ betrayin’ his oath, and the like o’ that, till he’ll be fit to die wid shame.”
“No—I dunno—p’r’aps it’d be better not to let him know we know—jest make him think we’re his friends, hidin’ him away from the police. However, that can take care of itself. Say whatever you like to him, only—”
“Only don’t lay a hand on him—is it that ye were thinkin’?” broke in Jerry.
“Yes, don’t lick him,” said The O’Mahony. “He’s had about the worst bat on the head I ever saw a a man git an’ live, to start with. No—be decent with him, an’ give him enough to eat. Might let him have a moderate amount o’ drink, too.”
“I suppose there’ll be a great talk about his vanishin’ out o’ sight all at wance among the Brotherhood69,” suggested Jerry.
“That don’t matter a darn,” said the other. “Jest you go ahead, an’ tend to your own knittin’, an’ let the Brotherhood whistle. We’ve paid a good stiff price to learn what Fenianism is worth, and we’ve learned enough. Not any more on my plate, thankee! Jest give the boys the word that the jig70 is up—that there won’t be any more drillin’ or meanderin’ round generally. And speakin’ o’ drink—”
A noise from the curtained bed in the alcove72 interrupted The O’Mahony’s remarks upon this important subject. Turning, the two men saw that Linsky had risen on the couch to a half-sitting posture73, and, with a tremulous hand, drawing aside the felt-like draperies, was staring wildly at them out of blood-shot eyes.
“For the love of God, what is it?” he asked, in a faint and moaning voice.
“Lay down there!—quick!” called out The O’Mahony, sternly; and Linsky fell back prone74 without a protest.
The O’Mahony had finished melting his gum, and he spread it now salve-like upon a cloth. Then he walked over to where the wounded man lay, with marvel-stricken eyes wandering over the archaic75 vaulted76 ceiling.
“Is it dead I am?” he groaned77, with a vacuous78 glance at the new-comer.
“No, you’ve been badly hurt in battle,” said the other, in curt71 tones. “We can pull you through, perhaps; but you’ve got to shut up an’ lay still. Hold your head this way a little more—that’s it.”
The injured man submitted to the operation, for the most part, with apparently79 closed eyes, but his next remark showed that he had been gathering his wits together.
“And how’s the battle gone, Captain Harrier?” he suddenly asked. “Is Oireland free from the oppressor at last?”
“No!” said The O’Mahony, with dry brevity—“but she’ll be free from you for a spell, or I miss my guess most consumedly.”
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收听单词发音
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1
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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3
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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7
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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9
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；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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10
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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14
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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scrambled
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| 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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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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46
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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48
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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49
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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52
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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53
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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54
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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55
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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56
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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57
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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58
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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61
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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66
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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68
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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69
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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70
jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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71
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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72
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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73
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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74
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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75
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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76
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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77
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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78
vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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79
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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