If he might not return to Beaulieu within the year, and if his brother's dogs were to be set upon him if he showed face upon Minstead land, then indeed he was adrift upon earth. North, south, east, and west—he might turn where he would, but all was equally chill and cheerless. The Abbot had rolled ten silver crowns in a lettuce-leaf and hid them away in the bottom of his scrip, but that would be a sorry support for twelve long months. In all the darkness there was but the one bright spot of the sturdy comrades whom he had left that morning; if he could find them again all would be well. The afternoon was not very advanced, for all that had befallen him. When a man is afoot at cock-crow much may be done in the day. If he walked fast he might yet overtake his friends ere they reached their destination. He pushed on therefore, now walking and now running. As he journeyed he bit into a crust which remained from his Beaulieu bread, and he washed it down by a draught1 from a woodland stream.
It was no easy or light thing to journey through this great forest, which was some twenty miles from east to west and a good sixteen from Bramshaw Woods in the north to Lymington in the south. Alleyne, however, had the good fortune to fall in with a woodman, axe2 upon shoulder, trudging3 along in the very direction that he wished to go. With his guidance he passed the fringe of Bolderwood Walk, famous for old ash and yew4, through Mark Ash with its giant beech-trees, and on through the Knightwood groves6, where the giant oak was already a great tree, but only one of many comely7 brothers. They plodded8 along together, the woodman and Alleyne, with little talk on either side, for their thoughts were as far asunder9 as the poles. The peasant's gossip had been of the hunt, of the bracken, of the gray-headed kites that had nested in Wood Fidley, and of the great catch of herring brought back by the boats of Pitt's Deep. The clerk's mind was on his brother, on his future—above all on this strange, fierce, melting, beautiful woman who had broken so suddenly into his life, and as suddenly passed out of it again. So distrait10 was he and so random11 his answers, that the woodman took to whistling, and soon branched off upon the track to Burley, leaving Alleyne upon the main Christchurch road.
Down this he pushed as fast as he might, hoping at every turn and rise to catch sight of his companions of the morning. From Vinney Ridge12 to Rhinefield Walk the woods grow thick and dense13 up to the very edges of the track, but beyond the country opens up into broad dun-colored moors14, flecked with clumps15 of trees, and topping each other in long, low curves up to the dark lines of forest in the furthest distance. Clouds of insects danced and buzzed in the golden autumn light, and the air was full of the piping of the song-birds. Long, glinting dragonflies shot across the path, or hung tremulous with gauzy wings and gleaming bodies. Once a white-necked sea eagle soared screaming high over the traveller's head, and again a flock of brown bustards popped up from among the bracken, and blundered away in their clumsy fashion, half running, half flying, with strident cry and whirr of wings.
There were folk, too, to be met upon the road—beggars and couriers, chapmen and tinkers—cheery fellows for the most part, with a rough jest and homely16 greeting for each other and for Alleyne. Near Shotwood he came upon five seamen17, on their way from Poole to Southampton—rude red-faced men, who shouted at him in a jargon18 which he could scarce understand, and held out to him a great pot from which they had been drinking—nor would they let him pass until he had dipped pannikin in and taken a mouthful, which set him coughing and choking, with the tears running down his cheeks. Further on he met a sturdy black-bearded man, mounted on a brown horse, with a rosary in his right hand and a long two-handed sword jangling against his stirrup-iron. By his black robe and the eight-pointed19 cross upon his sleeve, Alleyne recognized him as one of the Knights20 Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem, whose presbytery was at Baddesley. He held up two fingers as he passed, with a “Benedic, fili mi!” whereat Alleyne doffed21 hat and bent22 knee, looking with much reverence23 at one who had devoted24 his life to the overthrow25 of the infidel. Poor simple lad! he had not learned yet that what men are and what men profess26 to be are very wide asunder, and that the Knights of St. John, having come into large part of the riches of the ill-fated Templars, were very much too comfortable to think of exchanging their palace for a tent, or the cellars of England for the thirsty deserts of Syria. Yet ignorance may be more precious than wisdom, for Alleyne as he walked on braced27 himself to a higher life by the thought of this other's sacrifice, and strengthened himself by his example which he could scarce have done had he known that the Hospitaller's mind ran more upon malmsey than on Mamelukes, and on venison rather than victories.
As he pressed on the plain turned to woods once more in the region of Wilverley Walk, and a cloud swept up from the south with the sun shining through the chinks of it. A few great drops came pattering loudly down, and then in a moment the steady swish of a brisk shower, with the dripping and dropping of the leaves. Alleyne, glancing round for shelter, saw a thick and lofty holly-bush, so hollowed out beneath that no house could have been drier. Under this canopy29 of green two men were already squatted30, who waved their hands to Alleyne that he should join them. As he approached he saw that they had five dried herrings laid out in front of them, with a great hunch31 of wheaten bread and a leathern flask32 full of milk, but instead of setting to at their food they appeared to have forgot all about it, and were disputing together with flushed faces and angry gestures. It was easy to see by their dress and manner that they were two of those wandering students who formed about this time so enormous a multitude in every country in Europe. The one was long and thin, with melancholy33 features, while the other was fat and sleek34, with a loud voice and the air of a man who is not to be gainsaid35.
“Come hither, good youth,” he cried, “come hither! Vultus ingenui puer. Heed36 not the face of my good coz here. Foenum habet in cornu, as Don Horace has it; but I warrant him harmless for all that.”
“Stint your bull's bellowing38!” exclaimed the other. “If it come to Horace, I have a line in my mind: Loquaces si sapiat——How doth it run? The English o't being that a man of sense should ever avoid a great talker. That being so, if all were men of sense then thou wouldst be a lonesome man, coz.”
“Alas! Dicon, I fear that your logic39 is as bad as your philosophy or your divinity—and God wot it would be hard to say a worse word than that for it. For, hark ye: granting, propter argumentum, that I am a talker, then the true reasoning runs that since all men of sense should avoid me, and thou hast not avoided me, but art at the present moment eating herrings with me under a holly-bush, ergo you are no man of sense, which is exactly what I have been dinning40 into your long ears ever since I first clapped eyes on your sunken chops.”
“Tut, tut!” cried the other. “Your tongue goes like the clapper of a mill-wheel. Sit down here, friend, and partake of this herring. Understand first, however, that there are certain conditions attached to it.”
“I had hoped,” said Alleyne, falling into the humor of the twain, “that a tranchoir of bread and a draught of milk might be attached to it.”
“Hark to him, hark to him!” cried the little fat man. “It is even thus, Dicon! Wit, lad, is a catching41 thing, like the itch42 or the sweating sickness. I exude43 it round me; it is an aura. I tell you, coz, that no man can come within seventeen feet of me without catching a spark. Look at your own case. A duller man never stepped, and yet within the week you have said three things which might pass, and one thing the day we left Fordingbridge which I should not have been ashamed of myself.”
“Enough, rattle-pate44, enough!” said the other. “The milk you shall have and the bread also, friend, together with the herring, but you must hold the scales between us.”
“If he hold the herring he holds the scales, my sapient45 brother,” cried the fat man. “But I pray you, good youth, to tell us whether you are a learned clerk, and, if so, whether you have studied at Oxenford or at Paris.”
“I have some small stock of learning,” Alleyne answered, picking at his herring, “but I have been at neither of these places. I was bred amongst the Cistercian monks46 at Beaulieu Abbey.”
“Pooh, pooh!” they cried both together. “What sort of an upbringing is that?”
“Non cuivis contingit adire Corinthum,” quoth Alleyne.
“Come, brother Stephen, he hath some tincture of letters,” said the melancholy man more hopefully. “He may be the better judge, since he hath no call to side with either of us. Now, attention, friend, and let your ears work as well as your nether47 jaw48. Judex damnatur—you know the old saw. Here am I upholding the good fame of the learned Duns Scotus against the foolish quibblings and poor silly reasonings of Willie Ockham.”
“While I,” quoth the other loudly, “do maintain the good sense and extraordinary wisdom of that most learned William against the crack-brained fantasies of the muddy Scotchman, who hath hid such little wit as he has under so vast a pile of words, that it is like one drop of Gascony in a firkin of ditch-water. Solomon his wisdom would not suffice to say what the rogue49 means.”
“Certes, Stephen Hapgood, his wisdom doth not suffice,” cried the other. “It is as though a mole50 cried out against the morning star, because he could not see it. But our dispute, friend, is concerning the nature of that subtle essence which we call thought. For I hold with the learned Scotus that thought is in very truth a thing, even as vapor51 or fumes52, or many other substances which our gross bodily eyes are blind to. For, look you, that which produces a thing must be itself a thing, and if a man's thought may produce a written book, then must thought itself be a material thing, even as the book is. Have I expressed it? Do I make it plain?”
“Whereas I hold,” shouted the other, “with my revered53 preceptor, doctor, praeclarus et excellentissimus, that all things are but thought; for when thought is gone I prythee where are the things then? Here are trees about us, and I see them because I think I see them, but if I have swooned, or sleep, or am in wine, then, my thought having gone forth54 from me, lo the trees go forth also. How now, coz, have I touched thee on the raw?”
Alleyne sat between them munching55 his bread, while the twain disputed across his knees, leaning forward with flushed faces and darting56 hands, in all the heat of argument. Never had he heard such jargon of scholastic57 philosophy, such fine-drawn58 distinctions, such cross-fire of major and minor59, proposition, syllogism60, attack and refutation. Question clattered61 upon answer like a sword on a buckler. The ancients, the fathers of the Church, the moderns, the Scriptures63, the Arabians, were each sent hurtling against the other, while the rain still dripped and the dark holly-leaves glistened64 with the moisture. At last the fat man seemed to weary of it, for he set to work quietly upon his meal, while his opponent, as proud as the rooster who is left unchallenged upon the midden, crowed away in a last long burst of quotation65 and deduction66. Suddenly, however, his eyes dropped upon his food, and he gave a howl of dismay.
“You double thief!” he cried, “you have eaten my herrings, and I without bite or sup since morning.”
“That,” quoth the other complacently68, “was my final argument, my crowning effort, or peroratio, as the orators69 have it. For, coz, since all thoughts are things, you have but to think a pair of herrings, and then conjure70 up a pottle of milk wherewith to wash them down.”
“A brave piece of reasoning,” cried the other, “and I know of but one reply to it.” On which, leaning forward, he caught his comrade a rousing smack71 across his rosy72 cheek. “Nay, take it not amiss,” he said, “since all things are but thoughts, then that also is but a thought and may be disregarded.”
This last argument, however, by no means commended itself to the pupil of Ockham, who plucked a great stick from the ground and signified his dissent73 by smiting74 the realist over the pate with it. By good fortune, the wood was so light and rotten that it went to a thousand splinters, but Alleyne thought it best to leave the twain to settle the matter at their leisure, the more so as the sun was shining brightly once more. Looking back down the pool-strewn road, he saw the two excited philosophers waving their hands and shouting at each other, but their babble75 soon became a mere76 drone in the distance, and a turn in the road hid them from his sight.
And now after passing Holmesley Walk and the Wooton Heath, the forest began to shred77 out into scattered78 belts of trees, with gleam of corn-field and stretch of pasture-land between. Here and there by the wayside stood little knots of wattle-and-daub huts with shock-haired laborers79 lounging by the doors and red-cheeked children sprawling80 in the roadway. Back among the groves he could see the high gable ends and thatched roofs of the franklins' houses, on whose fields these men found employment, or more often a thick dark column of smoke marked their position and hinted at the coarse plenty within. By these signs Alleyne knew that he was on the very fringe of the forest, and therefore no great way from Christchurch. The sun was lying low in the west and shooting its level rays across the long sweep of rich green country, glinting on the white-fleeced sheep and throwing long shadows from the red kine who waded81 knee-deep in the juicy clover. Right glad was the traveller to see the high tower of Christchurch Priory gleaming in the mellow82 evening light, and gladder still when, on rounding a corner, he came upon his comrades of the morning seated astraddle upon a fallen tree. They had a flat space before them, on which they alternately threw little square pieces of bone, and were so intent upon their occupation that they never raised eye as he approached them. He observed with astonishment83, as he drew near, that the archer84's bow was on John's back, the archer's sword by John's side, and the steel cap laid upon the tree-trunk between them.
“Mort de ma vie!” Aylward shouted, looking down at the dice85. “Never had I such cursed luck. A murrain on the bones! I have not thrown a good main since I left Navarre. A one and a three! En avant, camarade!”
“Four and three,” cried Hordle John, counting on his great fingers, “that makes seven. Ho, archer, I have thy cap! Now have at thee for thy jerkin!”
“Mon Dieu!” he growled86, “I am like to reach Christchurch in my shirt.” Then suddenly glancing up, “Hola, by the splendor87 of heaven, here is our cher petit! Now, by my ten finger bones! this is a rare sight to mine eyes.” He sprang up and threw his arms round Alleyne's neck, while John, no less pleased, but more backward and Saxon in his habits, stood grinning and bobbing by the wayside, with his newly won steel cap stuck wrong side foremost upon his tangle88 of red hair.
“Hast come to stop?” cried the bowman, patting Alleyne all over in his delight. “Shall not get away from us again!”
“I wish no better,” said he, with a pringling in the eyes at this hearty89 greeting.
“Well said, lad!” cried big John. “We three shall to the wars together, and the devil may fly away with the Abbot of Beaulieu! But your feet and hosen are all besmudged. Hast been in the water, or I am the more mistaken.”
“I have in good sooth,” Alleyne answered, and then as they journeyed on their way he told them the many things that had befallen him, his meeting with the villein, his sight of the king, his coming upon his brother, with all the tale of the black welcome and of the fair damsel. They strode on either side, each with an ear slanting90 towards him, but ere he had come to the end of his story the bowman had spun91 round upon his heel, and was hastening back the way they had come, breathing loudly through his nose.
“What then?” asked Alleyne, trotting92 after him and gripping at his jerkin.
“I am back for Minstead, lad.”
“And why, in the name of sense?”
“To thrust a handful of steel into the Socman. What! hale a demoiselle against her will, and then loose dogs at his own brother! Let me go!”
“Nenny, nenny!” cried Alleyne, laughing. “There was no scath done. Come back, friend”—and so, by mingled93 pushing and entreaties94, they got his head round for Christchurch once more. Yet he walked with his chin upon his shoulder, until, catching sight of a maiden95 by a wayside well, the smiles came back to his face and peace to his heart.
“But you,” said Alleyne, “there have been changes with you also. Why should not the workman carry his tools? Where are bow and sword and cap—and why so warlike, John?”
“It is a game which friend Aylward hath been a-teaching of me.”
“And I found him an over-apt pupil,” grumbled96 the bowman. “He hath stripped me as though I had fallen into the hands of the tardvenus. But, by my hilt! you must render them back to me, camarade, lest you bring discredit98 upon my mission, and I will pay you for them at armorers' prices.”
“Take them back, man, and never heed the pay,” said John. “I did but wish to learn the feel of them, since I am like to have such trinkets hung to my own girdle for some years to come.”
“Ma foi, he was born for a free companion!” cried Aylward, “He hath the very trick of speech and turn of thought. I take them back then, and indeed it gives me unease not to feel my yew-stave tapping against my leg bone. But see, mes garcons, on this side of the church rises the square and darkling tower of Earl Salisbury's castle, and even from here I seem to see on yonder banner the red roebuck of the Montacutes.”
“Red upon white,” said Alleyne, shading his eyes; “but whether roebuck or no is more than I could vouch99. How black is the great tower, and how bright the gleam of arms upon the wall! See below the flag, how it twinkles like a star!”
“Aye, it is the steel head-piece of the watchman,” remarked the archer. “But we must on, if we are to be there before the drawbridge rises at the vespers bugle100; for it is likely that Sir Nigel, being so renowned101 a soldier, may keep hard discipline within the walls, and let no man enter after sundown.” So saying, he quickened his pace, and the three comrades were soon close to the straggling and broad-spread town which centered round the noble church and the frowning castle.
It chanced on that very evening that Sir Nigel Loring, having supped before sunset, as was his custom, and having himself seen that Pommers and Cadsand, his two war-horses, with the thirteen hacks103, the five jennets, my lady's three palfreys, and the great dapple-gray roussin, had all their needs supplied, had taken his dogs for an evening breather. Sixty or seventy of them, large and small, smooth and shaggy—deer-hound, boar-hound, blood-hound, wolf-hound, mastiff, alaun, talbot, lurcher, terrier, spaniel—snapping, yelling and whining104, with score of lolling tongues and waving tails, came surging down the narrow lane which leads from the Twynham kennels106 to the bank of Avon. Two russet-clad varlets, with loud halloo and cracking whips, walked thigh-deep amid the swarm108, guiding, controlling, and urging. Behind came Sir Nigel himself, with Lady Loring upon his arm, the pair walking slowly and sedately109, as befitted both their age and their condition, while they watched with a smile in their eyes the scrambling110 crowd in front of them. They paused, however, at the bridge, and, leaning their elbows upon the stonework, they stood looking down at their own faces in the glassy stream, and at the swift flash of speckled trout111 against the tawny112 gravel113.
Sir Nigel was a slight man of poor stature114, with soft lisping voice and gentle ways. So short was he that his wife, who was no very tall woman, had the better of him by the breadth of three fingers. His sight having been injured in his early wars by a basketful of lime which had been emptied over him when he led the Earl of Derby's stormers up the breach115 at Bergerac, he had contracted something of a stoop, with a blinking, peering expression of face. His age was six and forty, but the constant practice of arms, together with a cleanly life, had preserved his activity and endurance unimpaired, so that from a distance he seemed to have the slight limbs and swift grace of a boy. His face, however, was tanned of a dull yellow tint37, with a leathery, poreless look, which spoke116 of rough outdoor doings, and the little pointed beard which he wore, in deference117 to the prevailing118 fashion, was streaked119 and shot with gray. His features were small, delicate, and regular, with clear-cut, curving nose, and eyes which jutted120 forward from the lids. His dress was simple and yet spruce. A Flandrish hat of beevor, bearing in the band the token of Our Lady of Embrun, was drawn low upon the left side to hide that ear which had been partly shorn from his head by a Flemish man-at-arms in a camp broil121 before Tournay. His cote-hardie, or tunic122, and trunk-hosen were of a purple plum color, with long weepers which hung from either sleeve to below his knees. His shoes were of red leather, daintily pointed at the toes, but not yet prolonged to the extravagant123 lengths which the succeeding reign124 was to bring into fashion. A gold-embroidered belt of knighthood encircled his loins, with his arms, five roses gules on a field argent, cunningly worked upon the clasp. So stood Sir Nigel Loring upon the bridge of Avon, and talked lightly with his lady.
And, certes, had the two visages alone been seen, and the stranger been asked which were the more likely to belong to the bold warrior125 whose name was loved by the roughest soldiery of Europe, he had assuredly selected the lady's. Her face was large and square and red, with fierce, thick brows, and the eyes of one who was accustomed to rule. Taller and broader than her husband, her flowing gown of sendall, and fur-lined tippet, could not conceal126 the gaunt and ungraceful outlines of her figure. It was the age of martial127 women. The deeds of black Agnes of Dunbar, of Lady Salisbury and of the Countess of Montfort, were still fresh in the public minds. With such examples before them the wives of the English captains had become as warlike as their mates, and ordered their castles in their absence with the prudence128 and discipline of veteran seneschals. Right easy were the Montacutes of their Castle of Twynham, and little had they to dread129 from roving galley130 or French squadron, while Lady Mary Loring had the ordering of it. Yet even in that age it was thought that, though a lady might have a soldier's heart, it was scarce as well that she should have a soldier's face. There were men who said that of all the stern passages and daring deeds by which Sir Nigel Loring had proved the true temper of his courage, not the least was his wooing and winning of so forbidding a dame131.
“I tell you, my fair lord,” she was saying, “that it is no fit training for a demoiselle: hawks132 and hounds, rotes and citoles singing a French rondel, or reading the Gestes de Doon de Mayence, as I found her yesternight, pretending sleep, the artful, with the corner of the scroll133 thrusting forth from under her pillow. Lent her by Father Christopher of the priory, forsooth—that is ever her answer. How shall all this help her when she has castle of her own to keep, with a hundred mouths all agape for beef and beer?”
“True, my sweet bird, true,” answered the knight5, picking a comfit from his gold drageoir. “The maid is like the young filly, which kicks heels and plunges134 for very lust135 of life. Give her time, dame, give her time.”
“Well, I know that my father would have given me, not time, but a good hazel-stick across my shoulders. Ma foi! I know not what the world is coming to, when young maids may flout136 their elders. I wonder that you do not correct her, my fair lord.”
“Nay, my heart's comfort, I never raised hand to woman yet, and it would be a passing strange thing if I began on my own flesh and blood. It was a woman's hand which cast this lime into mine eyes, and though I saw her stoop, and might well have stopped her ere she threw, I deemed it unworthy of my knighthood to hinder or balk137 one of her sex.”
“The hussy!” cried Lady Loring clenching138 her broad right hand. “I would I had been at the side of her!”
“And so would I, since you would have been the nearer me my own. But I doubt not that you are right, and that Maude's wings need clipping, which I may leave in your hands when I am gone, for, in sooth, this peaceful life is not for me, and were it not for your gracious kindness and loving care I could not abide139 it a week. I hear that there is talk of warlike muster140 at Bordeaux once more, and by St. Paul! it would be a new thing if the lions of England and the red pile of Chandos were to be seen in the field, and the roses of Loring were not waving by their side.”
“Now woe141 worth me but I feared it!” cried she, with the color all struck from her face. “I have noted142 your absent mind, your kindling143 eye, your trying and riveting144 of old harness. Consider my sweet lord, that you have already won much honor, that we have seen but little of each other, that you bear upon your body the scar of over twenty wounds received in I know not how many bloody145 encounters. Have you not done enough for honor and the public cause?”
“My lady, when our liege lord, the king, at three score years, and my Lord Chandos at three-score and ten, are blithe146 and ready to lay lance in rest for England's cause, it would ill be-seem me to prate147 of service done. It is sooth that I have received seven and twenty wounds. There is the more reason that I should be thankful that I am still long of breath and sound in limb. I have also seen some bickering148 and scuffling. Six great land battles I count, with four upon sea, and seven and fifty onfalls, skirmishes and bushments. I have held two and twenty towns, and I have been at the intaking of thirty-one. Surely then it would be bitter shame to me, and also to you, since my fame is yours, that I should now hold back if a man's work is to be done. Besides, bethink you how low is our purse, with bailiff and reeve ever croaking149 of empty farms and wasting lands. Were it not for this constableship which the Earl of Salisbury hath bestowed150 upon us we could scarce uphold the state which is fitting to our degree. Therefore, my sweeting, there is the more need that I should turn to where there is good pay to be earned and brave ransoms151 to be won.”
“Ah, my dear lord,” quoth she, with sad, weary eyes. “I thought that at last I had you to mine own self, even though your youth had been spent afar from my side. Yet my voice, as I know well, should speed you on to glory and renown102, not hold you back when fame is to be won. Yet what can I say, for all men know that your valor152 needs the curb153 and not the spur. It goes to my heart that you should ride forth now a mere knight bachelor, when there is no noble in the land who hath so good a claim to the square pennon, save only that you have not the money to uphold it.”
“And whose fault that, my sweet bird?” said he.
“No fault, my fair lord, but a virtue154: for how many rich ransoms have you won, and yet have scattered the crowns among page and archer and varlet, until in a week you had not as much as would buy food and forage155. It is a most knightly156 largesse157, and yet withouten money how can man rise?”
“Dirt and dross158!” cried he.
“What matter rise or fall, so that duty be done and honor gained. Banneret or bachelor, square pennon or forked, I would not give a denier for the difference, and the less since Sir John Chandos, chosen flower of English chivalry159, is himself but a humble160 knight. But meanwhile fret161 not thyself, my heart's dove, for it is like that there may be no war waged, and we must await the news. But here are three strangers, and one, as I take it, a soldier fresh from service. It is likely that he may give us word of what is stirring over the water.”
Lady Loring, glancing up, saw in the fading light three companions walking abreast162 down the road, all gray with dust, and stained with travel, yet chattering163 merrily between themselves. He in the midst was young and comely, with boyish open face and bright gray eyes, which glanced from right to left as though he found the world around him both new and pleasing. To his right walked a huge red-headed man, with broad smile and merry twinkle, whose clothes seemed to be bursting and splitting at every seam, as though he were some lusty chick who was breaking bravely from his shell. On the other side, with his knotted hand upon the young man's shoulder, came a stout164 and burly archer, brown and fierce eyed, with sword at belt and long yellow yew-stave peeping over his shoulder. Hard face, battered165 head piece, dinted brigandine, with faded red lion of St. George ramping166 on a discolored ground, all proclaimed as plainly as words that he was indeed from the land of war. He looked keenly at Sir Nigel as he approached, and then, plunging167 his hand under his breastplate, he stepped up to him with a rough, uncouth168 bow to the lady.
“Your pardon, fair sir,” said he, “but I know you the moment I clap eyes on you, though in sooth I have seen you oftener in steel than in velvet169. I have drawn string besides you at La Roche-d'Errien, Romorantin, Maupertuis, Nogent, Auray, and other places.”
“Then, good archer, I am right glad to welcome you to Twynham Castle, and in the steward's room you will find provant for yourself and comrades. To me also your face is known, though mine eyes play such tricks with me that I can scarce be sure of my own squire170. Rest awhile, and you shall come to the hall anon and tell us what is passing in France, for I have heard that it is likely that our pennons may flutter to the south of the great Spanish mountains ere another year be passed.”
“There was talk of it in Bordeaux,” answered the archer, “and I saw myself that the armorers and smiths were as busy as rats in a wheat-rick. But I bring you this letter from the valiant171 Gascon knight, Sir Claude Latour. And to you, Lady,” he added after a pause, “I bring from him this box of red sugar of Narbonne, with every courteous172 and knightly greeting which a gallant173 cavalier may make to a fair and noble dame.”
This little speech had cost the blunt bowman much pains and planning; but he might have spared his breath, for the lady was quite as much absorbed as her lord in the letter, which they held between them, a hand on either corner, spelling it out very slowly, with drawn brows and muttering lips. As they read it, Alleyne, who stood with Hordle John a few paces back from their comrade, saw the lady catch her breath, while the knight laughed softly to himself.
“You see, dear heart,” said he, “that they will not leave the old dog in his kennel107 when the game is afoot. And what of this White Company, archer?”
“Ah, sir, you speak of dogs,” cried Aylward; “but there are a pack of lusty hounds who are ready for any quarry174, if they have but a good huntsman to halloo them on. Sir, we have been in the wars together, and I have seen many a brave following but never such a set of woodland boys as this. They do but want you at their head, and who will bar the way to them!”
“Pardieu!” said Sir Nigel, “if they are all like their messenger, they are indeed men of whom a leader may be proud. Your name, good archer?”
“Sam Aylward, sir, of the Hundred of Easebourne and the Rape175 of Chichester.”
“And this giant behind you?”
“He is big John, of Hordle, a forest man, who hath now taken service in the Company.”
“A proper figure of a man at-arms,” said the little knight. “Why, man, you are no chicken, yet I warrant him the stronger man. See to that great stone from the coping which hath fallen upon the bridge. Four of my lazy varlets strove this day to carry it hence. I would that you two could put them to shame by budging176 it, though I fear that I overtask you, for it is of a grievous weight.”
He pointed as he spoke to a huge rough-hewn block which lay by the roadside, deep sunken from its own weight in the reddish earth. The archer approached it, rolling back the sleeves of his jerkin, but with no very hopeful countenance177, for indeed it was a mighty178 rock. John, however, put him aside with his left hand, and, stooping over the stone, he plucked it single-handed from its soft bed and swung it far into the stream. There it fell with mighty splash, one jagged end peaking out above the surface, while the waters bubbled and foamed179 with far-circling eddy180.
“Good lack!” cried Sir Nigel, and “Good lack!” cried his lady, while John stood laughing and wiping the caked dirt from his fingers.
“I have felt his arms round my ribs,” said the bowman, “and they crackle yet at the thought of it. This other comrade of mine is a right learned clerk, for all that he is so young, hight Alleyne, the son of Edric, brother to the Socman of Minstead.”
“Young man,” quoth Sir Nigel, sternly, “if you are of the same way of thought as your brother, you may not pass under portcullis of mine.”
“Nay, fair sir,” cried Aylward hastily, “I will be pledge for it that they have no thought in common; for this very day his brother hath set his dogs upon him, and driven him from his lands.”
“And are you, too, of the White Company?” asked Sir Nigel. “Hast had small experience of war, if I may judge by your looks and bearing.”
“I would fain to France with my friends here,” Alleyne answered; “but I am a man of peace—a reader, exorcist, acolyte181, and clerk.”
“That need not hinder,” quoth Sir Nigel.
“No, fair sir,” cried the bowman joyously182. “Why, I myself have served two terms with Arnold de Cervolles, he whom they called the archpriest. By my hilt! I have seen him ere now, with monk's gown trussed to his knees, over his sandals in blood in the fore-front of the battle. Yet, ere the last string had twanged, he would be down on his four bones among the stricken, and have them all houseled and shriven, as quick as shelling peas. Ma foi! there were those who wished that he would have less care for their souls and a little more for their bodies!”
“It is well to have a learned clerk in every troop,” said Sir Nigel. “By St. Paul, there are men so caitiff that they think more of a scrivener's pen than of their lady's smile, and do their devoir in hopes that they may fill a line in a chronicle or make a tag to a jongleur's romance. I remember well that, at the siege of Retters, there was a little, sleek, fat clerk of the name of Chaucer, who was so apt at rondel, sirvente, or tonson, that no man dare give back a foot from the walls, lest he find it all set down in his rhymes and sung by every underling and varlet in the camp. But, my soul's bird, you hear me prate as though all were decided183, when I have not yet taken counsel either with you or with my lady mother. Let us to the chamber184, while these strangers find such fare as pantry and cellar may furnish.”
“The night air strikes chill,” said the lady, and turned down the road with her hand upon her lord's arm. The three comrades dropped behind and followed: Aylward much the lighter185 for having accomplished186 his mission, Alleyne full of wonderment at the humble bearing of so renowned a captain, and John loud with snorts and sneers187, which spoke his disappointment and contempt.
“What ails105 the man?” asked Aylward in surprise.
“I have been cozened and bejaped,” quoth he gruffly.
“By whom, Sir Samson the strong?”
“By thee, Sir Balaam the false prophet.”
“By my hilt!” cried the archer, “though I be not Balaam, yet I hold converse188 with the very creature that spake to him. What is amiss, then, and how have I played you false?”
“Why, marry, did you not say, and Alleyne here will be my witness, that, if I would hie to the wars with you, you would place me under a leader who was second to none in all England for valor? Yet here you bring me to a shred of a man, peaky and ill-nourished, with eyes like a moulting owl67, who must needs, forsooth, take counsel with his mother ere he buckle62 sword to girdle.”
“Is that where the shoe galls189?” cried the bowman, and laughed aloud. “I will ask you what you think of him three months hence, if we be all alive; for sure I am that——”
Aylward's words were interrupted by an extraordinary hubbub190 which broke out that instant some little way down the street in the direction of the Priory. There was deep-mouthed shouting of men, frightened shrieks191 of women, howling and barking of curs, and over all a sullen192, thunderous rumble97, indescribably menacing and terrible. Round the corner of the narrow street there came rushing a brace28 of whining dogs with tails tucked under their legs, and after them a white-faced burgher, with outstretched hands and wide-spread fingers, his hair all abristle and his eyes glinting back from one shoulder to the other, as though some great terror were at his very heels. “Fly, my lady, fly!” he screeched193, and whizzed past them like bolt from bow; while close behind came lumbering194 a huge black bear, with red tongue lolling from his mouth, and a broken chain jangling behind him. To right and left the folk flew for arch and doorway195. Hordle John caught up the Lady Loring as though she had been a feather, and sprang with her into an open porch; while Aylward, with a whirl of French oaths, plucked at his quiver and tried to unsling his bow. Alleyne, all unnerved at so strange and unwonted a sight, shrunk up against the wall with his eyes fixed196 upon the frenzied197 creature, which came bounding along with ungainly speed, looking the larger in the uncertain light, its huge jaws198 agape, with blood and slaver trickling199 to the ground. Sir Nigel alone, unconscious to all appearance of the universal panic, walked with unfaltering step up the centre of the road, a silken handkerchief in one hand and his gold comfit-box in the other. It sent the blood cold through Alleyne's veins200 to see that as they came together—the man and the beast—the creature reared up, with eyes ablaze201 with fear and hate, and whirled its great paws above the knight to smite202 him to the earth. He, however, blinking with puckered203 eyes, reached up his kerchief, and flicked204 the beast twice across the snout with it. “Ah, saucy205! saucy,” quoth he, with gentle chiding206; on which the bear, uncertain and puzzled, dropped its four legs to earth again, and, waddling207 back, was soon swathed in ropes by the bear-ward and a crowd of peasants who had been in close pursuit.
A scared man was the keeper; for, having chained the brute208 to a stake while he drank a stoup of ale at the inn, it had been baited by stray curs, until, in wrath209 and madness, it had plucked loose the chain, and smitten210 or bitten all who came in its path. Most scared of all was he to find that the creature had come nigh to harm the Lord and Lady of the castle, who had power to place him in the stretch-neck or to have the skin scourged211 from his shoulders. Yet, when he came with bowed head and humble entreaty212 for forgiveness, he was met with a handful of small silver from Sir Nigel, whose dame, however, was less charitably disposed, being much ruffled213 in her dignity by the manner in which she had been hustled214 from her lord's side.
As they passed through the castle gate, John plucked at Aylward's sleeve, and the two fell behind.
“I must crave215 your pardon, comrade,” said he, bluntly. “I was a fool not to know that a little rooster may be the gamest. I believe that this man is indeed a leader whom we may follow.”
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1
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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3
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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12
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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15
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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18
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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21
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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23
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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24
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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25
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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27
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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28
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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30
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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37
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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38
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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39
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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40
dinning
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| vt.喧闹（din的现在分词形式） | |
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41
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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42
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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43
exude
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| v.(使)流出，(使)渗出 | |
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44
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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45
sapient
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| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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46
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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47
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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48
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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49
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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50
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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51
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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52
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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53
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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55
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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56
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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57
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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58
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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60
syllogism
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| n.演绎法，三段论法 | |
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61
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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62
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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63
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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64
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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66
deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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67
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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68
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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70
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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71
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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72
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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73
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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74
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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75
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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76
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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77
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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78
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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79
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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80
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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81
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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83
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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84
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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85
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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86
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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87
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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88
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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89
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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90
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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91
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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92
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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93
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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94
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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95
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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96
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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97
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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98
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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99
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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100
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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101
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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102
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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103
hacks
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| 黑客 | |
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104
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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105
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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106
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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107
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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108
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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109
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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110
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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111
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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112
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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113
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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114
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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115
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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116
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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117
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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118
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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119
streaked
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|
| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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120
jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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121
broil
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| v.烤，烧，争吵，怒骂；n.烤，烧，争吵，怒骂 | |
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122
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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123
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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124
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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125
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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126
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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127
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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128
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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129
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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130
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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131
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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132
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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133
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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134
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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135
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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136
flout
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| v./n.嘲弄，愚弄，轻视 | |
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137
balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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138
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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139
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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140
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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141
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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142
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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143
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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144
riveting
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| adj.动听的，令人着迷的，完全吸引某人注意力的；n.铆接（法） | |
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145
bloody
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|
| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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146
blithe
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|
| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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147
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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148
bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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149
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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150
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
ransoms
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| 付赎金救人，赎金( ransom的名词复数 ) | |
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152
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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153
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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154
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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155
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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156
knightly
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|
| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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157
largesse
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| n.慷慨援助，施舍 | |
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158
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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159
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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160
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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161
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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162
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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163
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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165
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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166
ramping
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| 土堤斜坡( ramp的现在分词 )； 斜道； 斜路； （装车或上下飞机的）活动梯 | |
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167
plunging
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|
| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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168
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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169
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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170
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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171
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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172
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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173
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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174
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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175
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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176
budging
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| v.（使）稍微移动( budge的现在分词 )；（使）改变主意，（使）让步 | |
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177
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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178
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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179
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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180
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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181
acolyte
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| n.助手，侍僧 | |
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182
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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183
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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184
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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185
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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186
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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187
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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188
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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189
galls
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的第三人称单数 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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190
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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191
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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192
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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193
screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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194
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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195
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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196
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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197
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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198
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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199
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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200
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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201
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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202
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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203
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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205
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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206
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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207
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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208
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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209
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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210
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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211
scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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212
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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213
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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214
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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215
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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