The room was not ornamented5, save by a crucifix, a pleasant pencil-drawing of Bishop6 Laval, a gun, a pair of snow-shoes, a sword, and a little shrine7 in one corner, wherein were relics8 of a saint. Of necessaries even there were few. They were unremarkable, save in the case of two tall silver candlesticks, which, with their candles at an angle from the musician, gave his face strange lights and shadows.
The priest was powerfully made; so powerful indeed, so tall was he, that when, in one of the changes of the music, a kind of exaltation filled him, and he came to his feet, his head almost touched the ceiling. His shoulders were broad and strong, and though his limbs were hid by his cassock, his arms showed almost huge, and the violin lay tucked under his chin like a mere9 toy. In the eye was a penetrating10 but abstracted look, and the countenance11 had the gravity of a priest lighted by a cheerful soul within. It had been said of Dollier de Casson that once, attacked by two renegade Frenchmen, he had broken the leg of one and the back of the other, and had then picked them up and carried them for miles to shelter and nursing. And it was also declared by the romantic that the man with the broken back recovered, while he with the shattered leg, recovering also, found that his foot, pointing backwards12, “made a fool of his nose.”
The Abbe de Casson’s life had one affection, which had taken the place of others, now almost lost in the distance of youth, absence, and indifference13. For France lay far from Montreal, and the priest-musician was infinitely14 farther off: the miles which the Church measures between the priest and his lay boyhood are not easily reckoned. But such as Dollier de Casson must have a field for affection to enrich. You cannot drive the sap of the tree in upon itself. It must come out or the tree must die-burst with the very misery15 of its richness.
This night he was crowding into the music four years of events: of memory, hope, pride, patience, and affection. He was waiting for some one whom he had not seen for these four years. Time passed. More and more did the broad sonorous16 notes fill the room. At length they ceased, and with a sigh he pressed the violin once, twice, thrice to his lips.
“My good Stradivarius,” he said, “my peerless one!” Once again he kissed it, and then, drawing his hand across his eyes, he slowly wrapped the violin in a velvet17 cloth, put it away in an iron box, and locked it up. But presently he changed his mind, took it out again, and put it on the table, shaking his head musingly18.
“He will wish to see it, maybe to hear it,” he said half aloud.
Then he turned and went into another room. Here there was a prie-dieu in a corner, and above it a crucifix. He knelt and was soon absorbed.
For a time there was silence. At last there was a crunching19 of moccasined feet upon the crisp snow, then a slight tap at the outer door, and immediately it was opened. A stalwart young man stepped inside. He looked round, pleased, astonished, and glanced at the violin, then meaningly towards the nearly closed door of the other room. After which he pulled off his gloves, threw his cap down, and with a significant toss of the head, picked up the violin.
He was a strong, handsome man of about twenty-two, with a face at once open and inscrutable: the mouth with a trick of smiling, the eyes fearless, convincing, but having at the same time a look behind this—an alert, profound speculation20, which gave his face singular force. He was not so tall as the priest in the next room, but still he was very tall, and every movement had a lithe21, supple22 strength. His body was so firm that, as he bent23 or turned, it seemed as of soft flexible metal.
Despite his fine manliness24, he looked very boylike as he picked up the violin, and with a silent eager laugh put it under his chin, nodding gaily25, as he did so, towards the other room. He bent his cheek to the instrument—almost as brown as the wood itself—and made a pass or two in the air with the bow, as if to recall a former touch and tune1. A satisfied look shot up in his face, and then with an almost impossible softness he drew the bow across the strings26, getting a distant delicate note, which seemed to float and tenderly multiply upon itself—a variation, indeed, of the tune which De Casson had played. A rapt look came into his eyes. And all that look behind the general look of his face—the look which has to do with a man’s past or future—deepened and spread, till you saw, for once in a way, a strong soldier turned artist, yet only what was masculine and strong. The music deepened also, and, as the priest opened the door, swept against him like a wind so warm that a moisture came to his eyes. “Iberville!” he said, in a glad voice. “Pierre!”
The violin was down on the instant. “My dear abbe!” he cried. And then the two embraced.
“How do you like my entrance?” said the young man. “But I had to provide my own music!” He laughed, and ran his hands affectionately down the arms of the priest.
“I had been playing the same old chansonette—”
“With your original variations?”
“With my poor variations, just before you came in; and that done—”
“Yes, yes, abbe, I know the rest: prayers for the safe return of the sailor, who for four years or nearly has been learning war in King Louis’s ships, and forgetting the good old way of fighting by land, at which he once served his prentice time—with your blessing27, my old tutor, my good fighting abbe! Do you remember when we stopped those Dutchmen on the Richelieu, and you—”
The priest interrupted with a laugh. “But, my dear Iberville—”
“It was ‘Pierre’ a minute gone; ‘twill be ‘Monsieur Pierre le Moyne of Iberville’ next,” the other said in mock reproach, as he went to the fire.
“No, no; I merely—”
“I understand. Pardon the wild youth who plagues his old friend and teacher, as he did long ago—so much has happened since.”
His face became grave and a look of trouble came. Presently the priest said: “I never had a pupil whose teasing was so pleasant, poor humourist that I am. But now, Pierre, tell me all, while I lay out what the pantry holds.”
The gay look came back into Iberville’s face. “Ahem,” he said—which is the way to begin a wonderful story: “Once upon a time a young man, longing28 to fight for his king by land alone, and with special fighting of his own to do hard by”—(here De Casson looked at him keenly and a singular light came into his eyes)—“was wheedled29 away upon the king’s ships to France, and so
‘Left the song of the spinning-wheel,
The hawk30 and the lady fair,
And sailed away—‘”
“But the song is old and so is the story, abbe; so here’s the brief note of it. After years of play and work,—play in France and stout31 work in the Spaniards’ country,—he was shipped away to
‘Those battle heights,
Quebec heights, our own heights,
The citadel32 our golden lily bears,
And Frontenac—’
“But I babble33 again. And at Quebec he finds the old song changed. The heights and the lilies are there, but Frontenac, the great, brave Frontenac, is gone: confusion lives where only conquest and honest quarrelling were—”
“Frontenac will return—there is no other way!” interposed De Casson.
“Perhaps. And the young man looked round and lo! old faces and places had changed. Children had grown into women, with children at their breasts; young wives had become matronly; and the middle-aged34 were slaving servants and apothecaries35 to make them young again. And the young man turned from the world he used to know, and said: ‘There are but three things in the world worth doing—loving, roaming, and fighting.’ Therefore, after one day, he turned from the poor little Court-game at Quebec, travelled to Montreal, spent a few hours with his father and his brothers, Bienville, Longueil, Maricourt, and Sainte-Helene, and then, having sent word to his dearest friend, came to see him, and found him—his voice got softer—the same as of old: ready with music and wine and aves for the prodigal36.”
He paused. The priest had placed meat and wine on the table, and now he came and put his hand on Iberville’s shoulder. “Pierre,” he said, “I welcome you as one brother might another, the elder foolishly fond.” Then he added: “I was glad you remembered our music.”
“My dear De Casson, as if I could forget! I have yet the Maggini you gave me. It was of the things for remembering. If we can’t be loyal to our first loves, why to anything?”
“Even so, Pierre; but few at your age arrive at that. Most people learn it when they have bartered37 away every dream. It is enough to have a few honest emotions—very few—and stand by them till all be done.”
“Even hating?” Iberville’s eyes were eager.
“There is such a thing as a noble hate.”
“How every inch of you is man!” answered the other, clasping the priest’s arms. Then he added: “Abbe, you know what I long to hear. You have been to New York twice; you were there within these three months—”
“And was asked to leave within these three months—banished, as it were.”
“I know. You said in your letter that you had news. You were kind to go—”
“Perrot went too.”
“My faithful Perrot! I was about to ask of him. I had a birch-bark letter from him, and he said he would come—Ah, here he is!”
He listened. There was a man’s voice singing near by. They could even hear the words:
“‘O the young seigneur! O the young seigneur!
A hundred bucks38 in a day he slew39;
And the lady gave him a ribbon to wear,
And a shred40 of gold from her golden hair
O the way of a maid was the way he knew;
O the young seigneur! O the young seigneur!’”
“Shall we speak freely before him?” said the priest. “As freely as you will. Perrot is true. He was with me, too, at the beginning.”
At that moment there came a knock, and in an instant the coureur du bois had caught the hands of the young man, and was laughing up in his face.
“By the good Sainte Anne, but you make Nick Perrot a dwarf41, dear monsieur!”
“Well, well, little man, I’ll wager42 neither the great abbe here nor myself could bring you lower than you stand, for all that. Comrade, ‘tis kind of you to come so prompt.”
“What is there so good as the face of an old friend!” said Perrot, with a little laugh. “You will drink with a new, and eat with a coming friend, and quarrel with either; but ‘tis only the old friend that knows the old trail, and there’s nothing to a man like the way he has come in the world.”
“The trail of the good comrade,” said the priest softly.
“Ah!” responded Perrot, “I remember, abbe, when we were at the Portneuf you made some verses of that—eh! eh! but they were good!”
“No fitter time,” said Iberville; “come, abbe, the verses!”
“No, no; another day,” answered the priest.
It was an interesting scene. Perrot, short, broad, swarthy, dressed in rude buckskin gaudily43 ornamented, bandoleer and belt garnished44 with silver,—a recent gift of some grateful merchant, standing45 between the powerful black-robed priest and this gallant46 sailor-soldier, richly dressed in fine skins and furs, with long waving hair, more like a Viking than a man of fashion, and carrying a courtly and yet sportive look, as though he could laugh at the miseries47 of the sinful world. Three strange comrades were these, who knew each other so far as one man can know another, yet each knowing from a different stand-point. Perrot knew certain traits of Iberville of which De Casson was ignorant, and the abbe knew many depths which Perrot never even vaguely48 plumbed49. And yet all could meet and be free in speech, as though each read the other thoroughly50.
“Let us begin,” said Iberville. “I want news of New York.”
“Let us eat as we talk,” urged the abbe.
They all sat and were soon eating and drinking with great relish51.
Presently the abbe began:
“Of my first journey you know by the letter I sent you: how I found that Mademoiselle Leveret was gone to England with her father. That was a year after you left, now about three years gone. Monsieur Gering entered the navy of the English king, and went to England also.”
Iberville nodded. “Yes, yes, in the English navy I know very well of that.”
The abbe looked up surprised. “From my letter?”
“I saw him once in the Spaniards’ country,” said Iberville, “when we swore to love each other less and less.”
“What was the trouble?” asked the priest.
“Pirates’ booty, which he, with a large force, seized as a few of my men were carrying it to the coast. With his own hand he cut down my servant, who had been with me since from the first. Afterwards in a parley52 I saw him, and we exchanged—compliments. The sordid53 gentleman thought I was fretting54 about the booty. Good God, what are some thousand pistoles to the blood of one honest friend!”
“And in your mind another leaven55 worked,” ventured the priest.
“Another leaven, as you say,” responded Iberville. “So, for your story, abbe.”
“Of the first journey there is nothing more to tell, save that the English governor said you were as brave a gentleman as ever played ambassador—which was, you remember, much in Count Frontenac’s vein56.”
Iberville nodded and smiled. “Frontenac railed at my impertinence also.”
“But gave you a sword when you told him the news of Radisson,” interjected Perrot. “And by and by I’ve things to say of him.”
The abbe continued: “For my second visit, but a few months ago. We priests have gone much among the Iroquois, even in the English country, and, as I promised you, I went to New York. There I was summoned to the governor. He commanded me to go back to Quebec. I was about to ask him of Mademoiselle when there came a tap at the door. The governor looked at me a little sharply. ‘You are,’ said he, ‘a friend of Monsieur Iberville. You shall know one who keeps him in remembrance.’ Then he let the lady enter. She had heard that I was there, having seen Perrot first.”
Here Perrot, with a chuckle57, broke in: “I chanced that way, and I had a wish to see what was for seeing; for here was our good abbe alone among the wolves, and there were Radisson and the immortal58 Bucklaw, of whom there was news.”
De Casson still continued: “When I was presented she took my hand and said: ‘Monsieur l’Abbe, I am glad to meet a friend—an old friend—of Monsieur Iberville. I hear that he has been in France and elsewhere.’”
Here the abbe paused, smiling as if in retrospect59, and kept looking into the fire and turning about in his hand his cassock-cord.
Iberville had sat very still, his face ruled to quietness; only his eyes showing the great interest he felt. He waited, and presently said: “Yes, and then?”
The abbe withdrew his eyes from the fire and turned them upon Iberville.
“And then,” he said, “the governor left the room. When he had gone she came to me, and, laying her hand upon my arm, said: ‘Monsieur, I know you are to be trusted. You are the friend of a brave man.’”
The abbe paused, and smiled over at Iberville. “You see,” he said, “her trust was in your friend, not in my office. Well, presently she added: ‘I know that Monsieur Iberville and Mr. Gering, for a foolish quarrel of years ago, still are cherished foes60. I wish your help to make them both happier; for no man can be happy and hate.’ And I gave my word to do so.” Here Perrot chuckled61 to himself and interjected softly: “Mon Dieu! she could make a man say anything at all. I would have sworn to her that while I lived I never should fight. Eh, that’s so!”
“Allons!” said Iberville impatiently, yet grasping the arm of the woodsman kindly62.
The abbe once more went on: “When she had ended questioning I said to her: ‘And what message shall I give from you?’ ‘Tell him,’ she answered, ‘by the right of lifelong debt I ask for peace.’ ‘Is that all?’ said I. ‘Tell him,’ she added, ‘I hope we may meet again.’ ‘For whose sake,’ said I, ‘do you ask for peace?’ ‘I am a woman,’ she answered, ‘I am selfish—for my own sake.’”
Again the priest paused, and again Iberville urged him.
“I asked if she had no token. There was a flame in her eye, and she begged me to excuse her. When she came back she handed me a little packet. ‘Give it to Monsieur Iberville,’ she said, ‘for it is his. He lent it to me years ago. No doubt he has forgotten.’”
At that the priest drew from his cassock a tiny packet, and Iberville, taking, opened it. It held a silver buckle63 tied by a velvet ribbon. A flush crept slowly up Iberville’s face from his chin to his hair, then he sighed, and presently, out of all reason, laughed.
“Indeed, yes; it is mine,” he said. “I very well remember when I found it.”
Here Perrot spoke64. “I very well remember, monsieur, when she took it from your doublet; but it was on a slipper65 then.”
Iberville did not answer, but held the buckle, rubbing it on his sleeve as though to brighten it. “So much for the lady,” he said at last; “what more?”
“I learned,” answered the abbe, “that Monsieur Gering was in Boston, and that he was to go to Fort Albany at Hudson’s Bay, where, on our territory, the English have set forts.”
Here Perrot spoke. “Do you know, monsieur, who are the poachers? No? Eh? No? Well, it is that Radisson.”
Iberville turned sharply upon Perrot. “Are you sure of that?” he said. “Are you sure, Nick?”
“As sure as I’ve a head. And I will tell you more: Radisson was with Bucklaw at the kidnapping. I had the pleasure to kill a fellow of Bucklaw, and he told me that before he died. He also told how Bucklaw went with Radisson to the Spaniards’ country treasure-hunting. Ah! there are many fools in the world. They did not get the treasure. They quarreled, and Radisson went to the far north, Bucklaw to the far south. The treasure is where it was. Eh bien, such is the way of asses66.”
Iberville was about to speak.
“But wait,” said Perrot, with a slow, tantalising smile; “it is not wise to hurry. I have a mind to know; so while I am at New York I go to Boston. It makes a man’s mind great to travel. I have been east to Boston; I have been west beyond the Ottawa and the Michilimackinac, out to the Mississippi. Yes. Well, what did I find in Boston? Peste! I found that they were all like men in purgatory—sober and grave. Truly. And so dull! Never a saint-day, never a feast, never a grand council when the wine, the rum, flow so free, and you shall eat till you choke. Nothing. Everything is stupid; they do not smile. And so the Indians make war! Well, I have found this. There is a great man from the Kennebec called William Phips. He has traded in the Indies. Once while he was there he heard of that treasure. Ha! ha! There have been so many fools on that trail. The governor of New York was a fool when Bucklaw played his game; he would have been a greater if he had gone with Bucklaw.”
Here Iberville would have spoken, but Perrot waved his hand. “De grace, a minute only. Monsieur Gering, the brave English lieutenant67, is at Hudson’s Bay, and next summer he will go with the great William Phips—Tonnerre, what a name—William Phips! Like a pot of herring! He will go with him after the same old treasure. Boston is a big place, but I hear these things.”
Usually a man of few words, Perrot had bursts of eloquence68, and this was one of them. But having made his speech, he settled back to his tobacco and into the orator’s earned repose69.
Iberville looked up from the fire and said: “Perrot, you saw her in New York. What speech was there between you?”
Perrot’s eyes twinkled. “There was not much said.
“I put myself in her way. When she saw me her cheek came like a peach-blossom. ‘A very good morning, ma’m’selle,’ said I, in English. She smiled and said the same. ‘And your master, where is he?’ she asked with a fine smile. ‘My friend Monsieur Iberville?’ I said; ‘ah! he will be in Quebec soon.’ Then I told her of the abbe, and she took from a chain a little medallion and gave it me in memory of the time we saved her. And before I could say Thank you, she had gone—Well, that is all—except this.”
He drew from his breast a chain of silver, from which hung the gold medallion, and shook his head at it with good-humour. But presently a hard look came on his face, and he was changed from the cheerful woodsman into the chief of bushrangers. Iberville read the look, and presently said:
“Perrot, men have fought for less than gold from a woman’s chain and a buckle from her shoe.”
“I have fought from Trois Pistoles to Michilimackinac for the toss of a louis-d’or.”
“As you say. Well, what think you—”
He paused, rose, walked up and down the room, caught his moustache between his teeth once or twice, and seemed buried in thought. Once or twice he was about to speak, but changed his mind. He was calculating many things: planning, counting chances, marshalling his resources. Presently he glanced round the room. His eyes fell on a map. That was it. It was a mere outline, but enough. Putting his finger on it, he sent it up, up, up, till it settled on the shores of Hudson’s Bay. Again he ran the finger from the St. Lawrence up the coast and through Hudson’s Straits, but shook his head in negation70. Then he stood, looked at the map steadily71, and presently, still absorbed, turned to the table. He saw the violin, picked it up, and handed it to De Casson:
“Something with a smack72 of war,” he said. “And a woman for me,” added Perrot.
The abbe shook his head musingly at Perrot, took the violin, and gathered it to his chin. At first he played as if in wait of something that eluded73 him. But all at once he floated into a powerful melody, as a stream creeps softly through a weir74, and after many wanderings broadens suddenly into a great stream. He had found his theme. Its effect was striking. Through Iberville’s mind there ran a hundred incidents of his life, one chasing upon the other without sequence—phantasmagoria out of the scene—house of memory:
The light upon the arms of De Tracy’s soldiers when they marched up Mountain Street many years before—The frozen figure of a man standing upright in the plains—A procession of canoes winding75 down past Two Mountains, the wild chant of the Indians joining with the romantic songs of the voyageurs—A girl flashing upon the drawn76 swords of two lads—King Louis giving his hand to one of these lads to kiss—A lady of the Court for whom he might easily have torn his soul to rags, but for a fair-faced English girl, ever like a delicate medallion in his eye—A fight with the English in the Spaniards’ country—His father blessing him as he went forth77 to France—A dark figure taking a hundred shapes, and yet always meaning the same as when he—Iberville—said over the governor’s table in New York, “Foolish boy!”—A vast stretch of lonely forest, in the white coverlet of winter, through which sounded now and then the boom-boom of a bursting tree—A few score men upon a desolate78 northern track, silent, desperate, courageous79; a forlorn hope on the edge of the Arctic circle, with the joy of conquest in their bones, and at their thighs80 the swords of men.
These are a few of the pictures, but the last of them had not to do with the past: a dream grown into a fact, shaped by the music, become at once an emotion and a purpose.
Iberville had now driven home the first tent-peg of a wonderful adventure. Under the spell of that music his body seemed to grow larger. He fingered his sword, and presently caught Perrot by the shoulder and said “We will do it, Perrot.”
Perrot got to his feet. He understood. He nodded and seized Iberville’s hand. “Bravo! There was nothing else to do,” he replied.
De Casson lowered his violin. “What do you intend?” he asked gravely.
Iberville took his great hand and pressed it. “To do what you will commend, abbe: at Hudson’s Bay to win back forts the English have taken, and get those they have built.”
“You have another purpose,” added De Casson softly.
“Abbe, that is between me and my conscience. I go for my king and country against our foes.”
“Who will go with you? You will lead?”
“Not I to lead—that involves me.” Iberville’s face darkened. “I wish more freedom, but still to lead in fact.”
“But who will lead? And who will go?”
“De Troyes, perhaps, to lead. To go, my brothers Sainte-Helene and Maricourt, Perrot and a stout company of his men; and then I fear not treble as many English.”
The priest did not seem satisfied. Presently Iberville, with a winning smile, ran an arm over his shoulder and added: “We cannot go without you, Dollier.”
The priest’s face cleared, and a moment afterwards the three comrades shook hands together.
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收听单词发音
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1
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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2
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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3
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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5
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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7
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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8
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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9
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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10
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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11
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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12
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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13
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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14
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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16
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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17
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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18
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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19
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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21
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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23
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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27
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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apothecaries
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| n.药剂师，药店( apothecary的名词复数 ) | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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42
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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gaudily
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| adv.俗丽地 | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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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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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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plumbed
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| v.经历( plumb的过去式和过去分词 )；探究；用铅垂线校正；用铅锤测量 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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relish
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| 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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parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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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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slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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72
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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76
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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78
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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