Thus, at last, anxious morning broke, and the cawing of the rooks in the branches close to Hugh's window roused the boy from his sleep. At a bound he was on his feet, forgetting even to rub his eyes, and glad that, having slept in his clothes, he might fare forth12 without loss of time. His dreams had been all of archery—how that the best bows were of Spanish yew13, and he had tried to cut down the English yews14 in the churchyard to make new weapons, and had been haled before the King's justices because of the law to preserve the yews for the King's armies—and the thread of this dream ran through his mind even as he knelt and muttered his prayer.
It was full daylight when Hugh found himself outside the Abbey walls and on the footpath15 leading over the brook up to the Vineyards. Behind him the matin chimes were sounding from the belfry. Before him rose the dismantled16 walls of Holme Castle, once the abiding17 place of the great Earls of Gloster, but now long since grown over with ivy18, and a harbor for owls19 and bats. When he had come to the top of the knoll20, at the front of these ruins, the sight spread out before his eyes was one to well quicken breath and set veins21 tingling22.
A vast host of armed men seemed to cover the earth as far as he could see. The boy had not known before that the whole world contained so many soldiers. One company was in the rough meadow close at hand. In the bright light he could discern them clearly—strong men of war, with battered23 steel breastplates, half blue, half red with rust24, and iron caps upon their heads. Some of these were leading a score of horses back and down to the brook whence he had come. Others toiled25 at levelling some half-dozen camp-tents of white cloth, with crimson26 stripes, while still others crowded about the place where sparks crackled and black smoke curled about huge caldrons wherein food was cooking. At the peak of the largest tent, high upon the staff, floated gently in the early breeze an emblazoned standard, bearing the blood-red three roundels of the Courtenays.
For a moment Hugh's thoughts stopped at the memory of the strange Knight29 and his letter; somewhere among this band of brawny30 fighting men would be the four caitiffs who were here to slay31 that unknown Devon gentleman, Sir Hereward. He glanced at his little finger, whereon the signet ring of the three fishes glittered unwontedly,—and marvelled32 to find his base-born skin touched by such a trinket, for he had resisted Peter's desire to take it over to the Abbey treasury,—and then the glance lifted itself to still more marvellous things.
Away in the distance, on the topmost point to the left hand of the highroad, Hugh had already noted33 a brave pavilion, guarded by banks of earth raised since last he saw that familiar horizon, and overhung by what he saw now to be the royal standard of England's Kings. A blare of trumpets34, rolling in sharp echoes from mound36 to mound across the field, proceeded now from this point, and as he looked Hugh saw upon the highway, setting forth in his direction, a little cavalcade38 of knights39 and ladies whose dress and trappings sparkled in the morning sun, even thus afar, like the lights on the High Altar beneath the painted windows.
Onward40 this group of riders came—and the boy, creeping under the cover of the hedge, stole forward with no other thought than to see them close at hand. And so it was that he crouched41 in listening silence, not more than twenty paces removed, when this thing happened.
The tall, grave-faced, golden-haired noble whom Hugh knew to be John, Earl of Devon, clad all in burnished42 steel, and bearing a great lion-crested tilting43 helmet upon his arm, strode forth from the company near the ruins to the highway, and stood thus, with bare head erect44 in the sunlight, until the riders, cantering lightly over the dew-laid road, drew rein27 before him. Then he advanced, and bending with one knee to earth, kissed the hand of a lady who, with a single knight, rode at the head of the little train.
"He advanced and kissed the Lady's Hand."
"He advanced and kissed the Lady's Hand."
This lady, then,—she with the bold, beautiful face, pale now as an ivory missal-cover, and drawn45 with stern lines, she with the burning brown-black eyes, and proudly upright carriage,—was the Frenchwoman, the Queen, the great Margaret of Anjou!
Hugh held his breath and stared out of fixed46 eyes at this terrible foreign woman, whose hates had fastened war upon his country, had killed even his own father, had drenched47 the land with blood—and listened with all his ears.
"We have given you, out of our grace, the lands and titles which your recreant48 brother Henry forfeited49, and lost along with his head, when he played fast and loose with the usurper," this Queen said, in loud, cold tones, when the Courtenay stood upright again. "This day will test our wisdom in the thing."
"Madame," the Earl made answer, holding her eye with his, "our house has given three lives for you. If mine goes to-day I shall die sorrowing chiefly for this—that there are no more of us to die for our King."
The knight who rode beside the Queen—Hugh through the bushes saw only that he was tall and lean, with a delicately handsome young face and reddish-brown hair under his beaver50, and wore a silver swan on his breast—spoke52 now:—
"My Lord of Devon, my mother rides now with the Lady Anne and her tiring women to a place of safety on t'other side of Avon, there to wait upon the good tidings we shall presently bring her. The place is at Bushley, the Lady Anne being acquainted with it from childhood. From this, I return to lead our centre, with the Prior and the Lord Wenlock. My Lord Duke holds the front, beyond where our standard hangs. To you, my lord, the rear is given, to swing across this field, with your back against the ridge54. The men from Somerset march to join you, even now. God stead you, honest Courtenay, and bring us victory!"
The Prince at this threw himself off his horse and into his mother's arms, his face buried upon her knees, his hands holding hers. The Queen, with marble face, swept her agonized55 glance high into the morning sky, and wept not, neither spoke, but bit her lips, and with her eyes invoked56 the saints.
Then, like some dissolving mist before Hugh's gaze, everything was altered. The Queen with her escort was ambling57 one way, toward the gray Abbey walls and the passage at the mill; her gallant58 young son was galloping59 with his group of knights back whence he came; the Courtenay company, close at hand, was gathering60 itself into ranks, with knights clambering heavily into saddles, and men-at-arms striking their pikes together. The whole broad field was, as by some magic hand, set in motion; everywhere troops were marching, standards fluttering forward, trumpets calling shrill61-voiced to one another.
The boy, lifting his head now above the hedge, looked upon this vast shifting picture with but a dazed comprehension. The beauty of it all was so great that its grim meaning missed his mind. As far as eye could reach, armed bodies of men, with banners and harness glittering in the sunlight, met the vision. And now, of a sudden, all movement ceased. The birds in the ivy on the ruin behind him sang into the morning air, and no trumpet35 answered them. The landscape stood still.
Suddenly the boy clapped hands to ears, and stared affrightedly about him. A demon-like roaring sound had burst, as out of the very earth, which rocked and quivered under the shock. A thousand thunder-claps in one, out from the clear sky! Quailing62 with fright, as lesser63 belching64 noises succeeded, shaking the ground and confounding all senses and wits, Hugh backed out of the ditch, and felt, rather than made, his way rearward to the shadow of the ruins. Creeping up upon a ragged65 heap of tumbled stones, he ventured to look forth again.
A broadened veil of smoke—curious, thin, bluish smoke—all unlike that from burning thatches66 or stubble refuse—hung now upon the horizon where the royal standard had been. Was it still there? Hugh could not tell. Flashes of fire leaped swiftly for an instant here and there from this veil of smoky haze67, and after each dart68 of flame there burst this deafening69, thunderous roar which had so appalled70 him. Then it broke upon his brain that these were cannon71, of which all men had long since heard, but few had ever seen on English soil. More than this it was not easy to grasp of what was going forward. Along the line of smoke, where sky ought to meet earth, could be seen confused masses of horse and footmen struggling together, but whither moving or how faring in their conflict could not be told. The men under Courtenay's banner had marched westward72 toward the windmill, and were not in sight.
All at once Hugh's gaze was diverted from this distant prospect73 to a strange apparition74 nearer at hand—a brownish-gray sort of globe, like a full moon, which, low to earth, stood between him and the smoke, and seemed to wax in bigness visibly as he looked. There was not time for thought before this ball, singing to itself as it came, swelled75 to giant size in the lad's vision—then smashed into the vine-clad wall beside him with a huge scattering76 of stones and mortar77. The wall quivered for a moment, then fell outward, prone78 to the sward.
Without hesitation79, Hugh slid down from his perch80, and half-choked with dust and lime ran toward Swilgate Brook as fast as ever his legs would carry him. He made no pause, nor cast any glance backward, until he stumbled, panting and aflame with fright, into the cool shadow of the Abbey's big west gate. Not till its ponderous81 doors had clanged shut behind him, did he venture to draw breath.
Only the slowest and stoutest82 of the lay servitors in the kitchen lingered yet over their morning meal when the boy, his hunger led forward by keenest smelling sense, found his way thither83. Within this low-vaulted84 chamber85 it was as if the confusion of tongues had fallen again. There were some hardier86 spirits who had, from sundry87 distant points of vantage, seen a tithe88 of what Hugh had witnessed. These told their tales to gaping89, awe-stricken groups with much bold embroidery90 and emblazoning of fancy, peopling the field with mailed giants, and imputing91 to magic the mystery of the cannons92, whose dire37 bellowings gave even these stony93 kitchen walls a throbbing94 pulse. Worse still was what the village vagabonds—permitted for the once to enter freely and mix with their betters before the fires—related with rolling eyes and quaking voices, to wile95 further victuals96 from the frightened cooks.
Into such riot ran this babel of loose tongues that not even the Precentor's entrance stilled it. This gentle, soft-eyed old monk3 had, indeed, no thought to govern aught or any, and gazed about over the motley throng97 as one abashed98, until his glance fell upon Hugh. To him he beckoned99, and, when the two were without upon the stairs, made hurried explanation:—
"His Lordship will himself sing the early Mass, with pontifical100 procession, and full chapter ceremonial. Get thee with all speed into thy surplice, comb out thy locks—shalt bear the cross!"
A brief while later, paced slowly from the cloisters101 the long devotional line, Hugh, all aglow102 with pride in his new office, advancing at its head, with the jewelled cross upheld aloft. After him were singing boys in surplices and singing men with added copes; then two score monks in ebon black with lighted tapers103, the secular104 canons, the priests of the Abbey, the priors, the deacons attired105 for the altar, and last the venerable Abbot, John Strensham, bent106 with age and infirmities, and wearing over his vestments an almuce with hood53 of ermine, because his blood was cold. Into the choir107 the procession filed with measured step and solemn chant—and then, as by some sudden stroke of universal palsy, foot halted and song died on lips.
Such a scene as never monk or abbot had dreamt of in Tewkesbury lay before them.
The doors of the rood screen hung wide, so that vision swept from the choir down through the nave108 and its outer parts, where the simple and base-born heard the Mass, straight to the great north porch. Here, too, the doors were open, for daylight streamed therefrom transversely across the nave. And in this light the amazed monks saw a mired109, blood-stained, bedraggled swarm110 of armed men struggling fiercely for entrance before their fellows, and among these some who smote111 and felled the others with their swords or battle-axes—amid clamor of shrieks113 and violent curses, rising above the ground-note of a deep wild shouting as from a multitude without, and the furious clash of steel on steel. The wrath114 of hell raged here and tore itself before them on the consecrated115 floor of heaven.
While yet this spell of bewilderment lay upon the astounded116 spectators in the choir, Hugh felt himself clutched by the shoulder and pushed forward down the steps and into the aisle117 by a strong though trembling hand. It was the old Abbot, who in the moment of horror at this sacrilege forgot his years. Raising himself to his full height, and snatching the great beryl monstrance from the altar, he hurried now down the nave at such a pace that the cross-bearer, whom he dragged at his side, and the wondering monks and choristers who followed, were fain almost to run if they would not let him reach the porch alone.
The western end of the nave held now a closely-packed mass of fugitives118, with scarce a weapon among them—gilded and blazoned28 knight huddled120 against unkempt billman, lord and varlet jammed together—all crowding backward in despair from the open porch where, bestriding corpses121 on the blood-wet flags, a dozen mailed ruffians with naked swords and axes bent ferocious122, hungry scowls123 upon them.
Helpless and dazed, as in an evil dream, the boy felt himself thrust forward into the very front of these war-wolves; and as he stood there, holding the cross as steadily124 as might be, within a cloth-yard shaft's length of their ravening125 jaws126 and flame-lit eyes, his foolish knees knocked together, and he had liked to swoon.
But then—lo! these fierce men put down their blades, and, bowing first, with ill-will slunk backwards127 to the sides of the porch; and the foremost, still doggedly128, even fell upon their knees. Then, the way being clear, Hugh saw that where the churchyard graves had been was now, underfoot, a slaughter129 pen, and above a wilderness130 of wild faces and dripping pike-heads. And in the forefront of this awful array, with one mailed foot on the threshold of the porch itself, stood the noblest figure of a man the boy's eyes had ever compassed—a youngish man of uncommon131 stature132 and great girth of shoulders, girt with polished steel armor picked in gold, and having on its breast a silver sun with flaring133 jewelled rays. He too grasped a huge naked sword, and sank its point before the cross Hugh held—the while two esquires made loose the rivets134 of his towering helmet and lifted it from him. Then he, not too humbly135, bowed his head—a shapely head, with reddish-golden curls—and lifting it, looked into the church with the flushed face and glance of a very god of war.
The Abbot, tottering136 as he came, pushed Hugh aside and reared himself proudly in the porch, holding the monstrance with shaken hand above his head, and crying out:—
"Where thou standest, my liege, thou art not King, but only Edward Plantagenet, a sinner even as the meanest of us, and with the blood of God's children on thy hands. Therefore abase137 thyself. It is the Host!"
The King dropped to his knees for the counting of ten, then rose and made a step within the porch, still searching sharply with restless eyes into the shadows of the nave.
"My Lord Abbot," he said, in a soft, full voice of stately measure which belied138 his glance, "I and my brothers and our trusty friends have desire to forthwith enter this holy edifice139, and with thee offer reverent140 thanks for this our resplendent victory." As the Abbot held his silence, the King added, "I had not looked to find a Strensham lifting himself between the saints and my piety141."
The Abbot found his voice: "I am stricken in years, my liege. My life has been thine as long as has thy crown; take it now if needs be. But while it lasts me, into this consecrated house thou may'st not enter to ravish or mete142 punishment. Pledge me thy royal faith that no man within these walls shall feel thy wrath—that all shall be suffered to go forth in peace!"
"Since what time, my Lord Abbot," asked the King, dryly, "hath the privilege of sanctuary143 descended144 upon the black monks of Tewkesbury?"
"Where God's flesh and blood are, there is sanctuary!" shrilled145 the Abbot. "By the pains of Calvary, thou shalt not enter unpledged—save over my old bones!"
While the King's answer hung yet in doubt, an old monk slipped past the Abbot, and, thrusting his shaven gray poll in obeisance146 close before Edward, mumbled147 a request which none behind him might hear. It was Peter, the Brother Sacristan—and the King, so far from buffeting148 the audacious shaveling with his gauntlet, thought for a moment, then smiled, and waved Peter aside.
"On my kingly honor, I promise," he said firmly, with a glance ranging from Peter to the Abbot, and the half-smile playing on his handsome, ruddy face. "Before God, I promise! And for this sacrilegious bloodshed here, will I do penance149!"
The Abbot's withered150 old lips formed a mute thanksgiving. "My liege," he faltered151, "some forewarning of your triumph of a surety brought me from my bed to the altar this day. Praise God thy enemies are put under thy feet! Pray God for humility152 and a gentle spirit, these to stay thee from trampling153 them! Wilt154 follow, and hear the Mass?"
Thus strangely, the broken procession was reformed, and Hugh, aweary now under the weight of the cross, sick with the smell of blood and the sight of hewn corpses at his feet, stumbled back again up the aisle, past the rood screen, into the choir, the singers chanting the solemn Te Deum Laudamus behind him, and King, princes, nobles and knights and monks and soldiers following the Abbot to the High Altar. Here, out of pity at his white face, another took his office on him, and Hugh, escaping from the incense-laden air of the choir, staggered into the ambulatory, faint and distressed155. He had too little wit left to note that the side aisles156 and transepts held scores of skulking157 fugitive119 soldiers, and that others of a like kidney were hiding in the shrine158 chapels about him.
Not even when one of these came forth from the enclosure dedicated159 to St. Edmund the Martyr160, and laid hand upon his shoulder, was he startled, but only looked up with wan51 indifference161 on his chalk-like face.
"Where had ye that ring?" a deep voice asked, with tightened162 grip upon his shoulder to point the query163.
Hugh saw now that it was a stalwart young man who questioned him—and one of quality, despite the miry disorder164 of his dress and armor, and his dust-stained face. What could be discerned of this face was pleasing enough, too—but the lad's head was whirling and his tongue numbed165 at its roots. For his life he could not speak.
"That ring!" the stranger went on excitedly. "I saw it on your hand whilst you held the cross—the which, now I think on't, saved our lives. Fear nothing, lad! Tell me, how came you by it? Perchance I am beholden to you for the letter last night—if so—will ye not speak, I say!"
Hugh, with a despairing effort, gathered his wits, and asked faintly: "Are you the Sir Hereward, then, to whom 'twas writ166?"
"Aye, none other—what there is left of me. And writ ye the letter? And at whose behest?"
The boy opened his mouth to answer, looked blankly up into his questioner's face—then, as the swelling167 chant ceased suddenly in the choir beyond, rolled supinely on the stones at Sir Hereward's feet, in a deadly swoon.
Through what remained of this awful Saturday, and through the startled hush168 of the Sunday following it, the boy kept his bed in a faint, drowsing languor169, broken by fits of shuddering170 under the terror of evil dreams. Oft and again, the writing monks came in compassion171 to his bedside, but his shaken wits made of these visitors only black figures in the background of an endless scared vision of stark172 corpses, bearing blood-stained heraldic shields along the pages of his book.
The second night came, and, lagging desperately173 through the long watches, stole off by a trick at last while the lad slept—so that he woke crowned as he lay with sunlight. The neglected book was in his thoughts first of all—and then came consciousness that he was better—and then, as he opened his eyes and blinked against the full light, he saw that Peter was in the room, bearing a steaming dish of broth7.
"Art fit for great news?" the Sacristan asked, roughly enough, but looking down upon the boy with a kindly174 light shining from under his gray, shaggy brows. "The Prince Richard—my Lord Duke of Gloster—hath sent hither for our best scrivener to attend him at the Tolzey, and Brother Thomas, conferring with the Abbot, hath nominated thee. Not that thou art our best, nor near it, but thy masters are in cowls and gowns, and since Saturday's sacrilege no monk may stir forth to serve the Princes or the King. Art fit for it?"
Hugh sat up in bed, and put hand to brow, and smiled wistfully. "Aye, save for a foolish little wandering here," he made answer, "naught175 ails176 me now!" And for proof he seized the dish and buried his jowl in it.
Peter strode up and down before the narrow casement177, grumbling178 as his gown flapped about his heels.
"Sacrilege! Sacrilege!" he sneered179. "Well may the King laugh us to scorn as witless loons! For what is 'sacrilege' but a weapon forged by Holy Church to use against the laity180, to our great profit and their uplifting? Yet here are we, turning its point upon our own throats! Because a little paltry181 blood was spattered in the porch—lo! for a full month now the Church must lie in penitential darkness, no matins, no masses, no vespers—until it be purified and newly consecrated. Was ever such madness? Here with mine own eyes have I seen the son of a king, he that was born Prince of Wales, shovelled182 into a grave in the choir without so much as a rush-light. The flags are all up for burials—the Earl of Devon, the Lord Wenlock, the Lord John Beaufort, and scores of knights and brave gentlemen brought to us by God's own hand—and yet we may not harvest so much as a penny for it all! Oh! senseless chapter, to decree such folly183!"
Hugh had in swift silence dressed himself the while the old monk babbled184, and stood now in all readiness. "I will to the scriptorium, good Peter," he said eagerly, "to bring ink and pens and paper, and then take orders from Brother Thomas for my going."
"Thomas thou may'st not see, nor any other," said the Sacristan; "each is in his cell, upon his knees, because of this same sacrilege, and there must stick for days!"
"But thou art here!"
"Oh, aye!" the old monk growled185. "Belike I took the habit overlate in life to learn the trick of good, thick, solid praying. They set me now and again at small, light supplications, but when great things are besought186, my help seems never needful. Moreover, I have the burials to order. A sweet task, truly! To be laying the bones of princes and lords in consecrated ground as thick together as rogues187 in the stocks at fair-time, and not the purchase of so much as a gum-wreath to show for it!"
The two walked through the long deserted188 corridor overhanging the cloisters, and entered the tenantless189 writing room. Naught had been touched since that fateful Friday night, when Hugh had written the letter for the strange knight. He recalled this now, as he took his inkhorn from the dusty table.
"Oh—tell me, Peter," he said, "saw you aught of the Devon gentleman—him to whom that letter was writ—he was in the Abbey when——"
"Aye, more than once. He was holding you in his arms when Thomas and I found you. A goodly youngster—a thought too hasty, it may be, but sound at heart. He hath promised a year's masses for the dead Earl of Devon, when things come right again. They were in some sort kinsmen190. And I have sown in his mind pious191 thoughts of, moreover, rearing an altar-tomb in the Lady Chapel9, with effigy192 and sculptured sides. Oh, aye—he had food from me yestere'en here in this very room, and so hotly pressed payment on me that——"
Even as the Sacristan spoke the veil of silence hanging like a pall11 over the Abbey was rent by a shrill, piercing shriek112 from the cloister-green below! Clambering to the table, and peering forth, Hugh saw the figures of men running along the vaulted walks, and of others, mailed, and with weapons, chasing them. From the church beyond proceeded a great tumult193, with angry shouts, and the clashing of steel.
The King's word was broken. The fugitives were being dragged from sanctuary!
Above the noises of search and despairing flight which now filled the air, there rose suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps near at hand. Then the further door was flung open, and Sir Hereward Thayer, breathless, bareheaded, and without his corselet, made hasty entrance. His eyes brightened as they fell upon Peter.
"The wolves are on us," he said, "and we have not so much as a stick to fend194 them off. It is no shame to hide. Where shall I find security, good brother?"
"Alack! there will be none here!" cried Peter. "If they are in the church itself, think you they will spare mere195 cells and offices?"
"Whither leads this room?" asked Sir Hereward, opening the middle door, and looking in upon Peter's array of candles, banners, wreaths, and palls196. "Here, under these, I can make myself secret till the search be done!"
Without further words, he lifted from the darkest corner a pile of disordered linen197 stuffs, loose shrouds198, and grave-cloths, and coverings for coffins199. The Sacristan, as he looked from the doorway200, noted with shrewd swiftness the gay colors of the morris-dresses underneath201, and, stepping forward, laid his hand upon them. Then Hugh, hurriedly, and with faltering202 lips, told Peter what they were, and the story of their guilty presence—and lo! the old monk laughed aloud.
Then suddenly—as the clamor of the chase deepened outside—Peter hissed203 commands into Sir Hereward's ear.
"Get you into this motley in all haste! Lose no moment! Thus only can you win outside and pass the gates, and go unquestioned through the town!"
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1
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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26
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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27
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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28
blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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29
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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30
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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31
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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32
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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34
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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35
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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36
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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37
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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38
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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39
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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40
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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41
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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43
tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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44
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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45
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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46
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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47
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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48
recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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49
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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51
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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52
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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53
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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54
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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55
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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56
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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57
ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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58
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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59
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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60
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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61
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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62
quailing
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的现在分词 ) | |
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63
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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64
belching
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| n. 喷出，打嗝 动词belch的现在分词形式 | |
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65
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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66
thatches
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| n.（稻草、芦苇等盖的）茅草屋顶( thatch的名词复数 )；乱蓬蓬的头发，又脏又乱的头发 | |
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67
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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68
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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69
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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70
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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71
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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72
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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73
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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74
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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75
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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76
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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77
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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78
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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79
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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80
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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81
ponderous
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|
| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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82
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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83
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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84
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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85
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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86
hardier
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的比较级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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87
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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88
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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89
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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90
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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91
imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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92
cannons
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| n.加农炮，大炮，火炮( cannon的名词复数 ) | |
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93
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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94
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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95
wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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96
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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97
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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98
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
pontifical
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| adj.自以为是的，武断的 | |
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101
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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103
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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104
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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105
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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107
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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108
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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109
mired
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| abbr.microreciprocal degree 迈尔德（色温单位）v.深陷( mire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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111
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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112
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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113
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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115
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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116
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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117
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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118
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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119
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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120
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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121
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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122
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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123
scowls
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| 不悦之色，怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
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124
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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125
ravening
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| a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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126
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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127
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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128
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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129
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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130
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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131
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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132
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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133
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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134
rivets
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| 铆钉( rivet的名词复数 ) | |
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135
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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136
tottering
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| 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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137
abase
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| v.降低，贬抑 | |
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138
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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139
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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140
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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141
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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142
mete
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| v.分配；给予 | |
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143
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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144
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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145
shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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147
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
buffeting
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| 振动 | |
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149
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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150
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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151
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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152
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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153
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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154
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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155
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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156
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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157
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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158
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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159
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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160
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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161
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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162
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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163
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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164
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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165
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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167
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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168
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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169
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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170
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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171
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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172
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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173
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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174
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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175
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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176
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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177
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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178
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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179
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
laity
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| n.俗人；门外汉 | |
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181
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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182
shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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183
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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184
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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185
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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186
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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187
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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188
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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189
tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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190
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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191
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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192
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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193
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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194
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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195
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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196
palls
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| n.柩衣( pall的名词复数 )；墓衣；棺罩；深色或厚重的覆盖物v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的第三人称单数 ) | |
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197
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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198
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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199
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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200
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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201
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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202
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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203
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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