And now there came a time of stir and bustle1, of furbishing of arms and clang of hammer from all the southland counties. Fast spread the tidings from thorpe to thorpe and from castle to castle, that the old game was afoot once more, and the lions and lilies to be in the field with the early spring. Great news this for that fierce old country, whose trade for a generation had been war, her exports archers3 and her imports prisoners. For six years her sons had chafed4 under an unwonted peace. Now they flew to their arms as to their birthright. The old soldiers of Crecy, of Nogent, and of Poictiers were glad to think that they might hear the war-trumpet6 once more, and gladder still were the hot youth who had chafed for years under the martial7 tales of their sires. To pierce the great mountains of the south, to fight the tamers of the fiery8 Moors9, to follow the greatest captain of the age, to find sunny cornfields and vineyards, when the marches of Picardy and Normandy were as rare and bleak10 as the Jedburgh forests—here was a golden prospect11 for a race of warriors12. From sea to sea there was stringing of bows in the cottage and clang of steel in the castle.
Nor did it take long for every stronghold to pour forth13 its cavalry14, and every hamlet its footmen. Through the late autumn and the early winter every road and country lane resounded15 with nakir and trumpet, with the neigh of the war-horse and the clatter16 of marching men. From the Wrekin in the Welsh marches to the Cotswolds in the west or Butser in the south, there was no hill-top from which the peasant might not have seen the bright shimmer17 of arms, the toss and flutter of plume18 and of pensil. From bye-path, from woodland clearing, or from winding19 moor-side track these little rivulets20 of steel united in the larger roads to form a broader stream, growing ever fuller and larger as it approached the nearest or most commodious21 seaport22. And there all day, and day after day, there was bustle and crowding and labor23, while the great ships loaded up, and one after the other spread their white pinions24 and darted26 off to the open sea, amid the clash of cymbals27 and rolling of drums and lusty shouts of those who went and of those who waited. From Orwell to the Dart25 there was no port which did not send forth its little fleet, gay with streamer and bunting, as for a joyous29 festival. Thus in the season of the waning30 days the might of England put forth on to the waters.
In the ancient and populous31 county of Hampshire there was no lack of leaders or of soldiers for a service which promised either honor or profit. In the north the Saracen's head of the Brocas and the scarlet32 fish of the De Roches were waving over a strong body of archers from Holt, Woolmer, and Harewood forests. De Borhunte was up in the east, and Sir John de Montague in the west. Sir Luke de Ponynges, Sir Thomas West, Sir Maurice de Bruin, Sir Arthur Lipscombe, Sir Walter Ramsey, and stout33 Sir Oliver Buttesthorn were all marching south with levies34 from Andover, Arlesford, Odiham and Winchester, while from Sussex came Sir John Clinton, Sir Thomas Cheyne, and Sir John Fallislee, with a troop of picked men-at-arms, making for their port at Southampton. Greatest of all the musters37, however, was that of Twynham Castle, for the name and the fame of Sir Nigel Loring drew towards him the keenest and boldest spirits, all eager to serve under so valiant38 a leader. Archers from the New Forest and the Forest of Bere, billmen from the pleasant country which is watered by the Stour, the Avon, and the Itchen, young cavaliers from the ancient Hampshire houses, all were pushing for Christchurch to take service under the banner of the five scarlet roses.
And now, could Sir Nigel have shown the bachelles of land which the laws of rank required, he might well have cut his forked pennon into a square banner, and taken such a following into the field as would have supported the dignity of a banneret. But poverty was heavy upon him, his land was scant39, his coffers empty, and the very castle which covered him the holding of another. Sore was his heart when he saw rare bowmen and war-hardened spearmen turned away from his gates, for the lack of the money which might equip and pay them. Yet the letter which Aylward had brought him gave him powers which he was not slow to use. In it Sir Claude Latour, the Gascon lieutenant40 of the White Company, assured him that there remained in his keeping enough to fit out a hundred archers and twenty men-at-arms, which, joined to the three hundred veteran companions already in France, would make a force which any leader might be proud to command. Carefully and sagaciously the veteran knight42 chose out his men from the swarm43 of volunteers. Many an anxious consultation44 he held with Black Simon, Sam Aylward, and other of his more experienced followers45, as to who should come and who should stay. By All Saints' day, however ere the last leaves had fluttered to earth in the Wilverley and Holmesley glades46, he had filled up his full numbers, and mustered47 under his banner as stout a following of Hampshire foresters as ever twanged their war-bows. Twenty men-at-arms, too, well mounted and equipped, formed the cavalry of the party, while young Peter Terlake of Fareham, and Walter Ford35 of Botley, the martial sons of martial sires, came at their own cost to wait upon Sir Nigel and to share with Alleyne Edricson the duties of his squireship49.
Yet, even after the enrolment, there was much to be done ere the party could proceed upon its way. For armor, swords, and lances, there was no need to take much forethought, for they were to be had both better and cheaper in Bordeaux than in England. With the long-bow, however, it was different. Yew51 staves indeed might be got in Spain, but it was well to take enough and to spare with them. Then three spare cords should be carried for each bow, with a great store of arrow-heads, besides the brigandines of chain mail, the wadded steel caps, and the brassarts or arm-guards, which were the proper equipment of the archer2. Above all, the women for miles round were hard at work cutting the white surcoats which were the badge of the Company, and adorning52 them with the red lion of St. George upon the centre of the breast. When all was completed and the muster36 called in the castle yard the oldest soldier of the French wars was fain to confess that he had never looked upon a better equipped or more warlike body of men, from the old knight with his silk jupon, sitting his great black war-horse in the front of them, to Hordle John, the giant recruit, who leaned carelessly upon a huge black bow-stave in the rear. Of the six score, fully41 half had seen service before, while a fair sprinkling were men who had followed the wars all their lives, and had a hand in those battles which had made the whole world ring with the fame and the wonder of the island infantry53.
Six long weeks were taken in these preparations, and it was close on Martinmas ere all was ready for a start. Nigh two months had Alleyne Edricson been in Castle Twynham—months which were fated to turn the whole current of his life, to divert it from that dark and lonely bourne towards which it tended, and to guide it into freer and more sunlit channels. Already he had learned to bless his father for that wise provision which had made him seek to know the world ere he had ventured to renounce55 it.
For it was a different place from that which he had pictured—very different from that which he had heard described when the master of the novices56 held forth to his charges upon the ravening57 wolves who lurked58 for them beyond the peaceful folds of Beaulieu. There was cruelty in it, doubtless, and lust28 and sin and sorrow; but were there not virtues59 to atone60, robust61 positive virtues which did not shrink from temptation, which held their own in all the rough blasts of the work-a-day world? How colorless by contrast appeared the sinlessness which came from inability to sin, the conquest which was attained62 by flying from the enemy! Monk-bred as he was, Alleyne had native shrewdness and a mind which was young enough to form new conclusions and to outgrow63 old ones. He could not fail to see that the men with whom he was thrown in contact, rough-tongued, fierce and quarrelsome as they were, were yet of deeper nature and of more service in the world than the ox-eyed brethren who rose and ate and slept from year's end to year's end in their own narrow, stagnant64 circle of existence. Abbot Berghersh was a good man, but how was he better than this kindly65 knight, who lived as simple a life, held as lofty and inflexible66 an ideal of duty, and did with all his fearless heart whatever came to his hand to do? In turning from the service of the one to that of the other, Alleyne could not feel that he was lowering his aims in life. True that his gentle and thoughtful nature recoiled67 from the grim work of war, yet in those days of martial orders and militant68 brotherhoods69 there was no gulf70 fixed71 betwixt the priest and the soldier. The man of God and the man of the sword might without scandal be united in the same individual. Why then should he, a mere72 clerk, have scruples73 when so fair a chance lay in his way of carrying out the spirit as well as the letter of his father's provision. Much struggle it cost him, anxious spirit-questionings and midnight prayings, with many a doubt and a misgiving74; but the issue was that ere he had been three days in Castle Twynham he had taken service under Sir Nigel, and had accepted horse and harness, the same to be paid for out of his share of the profits of the expedition. Henceforth for seven hours a day he strove in the tilt-yard to qualify himself to be a worthy75 squire48 to so worthy a knight. Young, supple76 and active, with all the pent energies from years of pure and healthy living, it was not long before he could manage his horse and his weapon well enough to earn an approving nod from critical men-at-arms, or to hold his own against Terlake and Ford, his fellow-servitors.
But were there no other considerations which swayed him from the cloisters78 towards the world? So complex is the human spirit that it can itself scarce discern the deep springs which impel79 it to action. Yet to Alleyne had been opened now a side of life of which he had been as innocent as a child, but one which was of such deep import that it could not fail to influence him in choosing his path. A woman, in monkish80 precepts81, had been the embodiment and concentration of what was dangerous and evil—a focus whence spread all that was to be dreaded82 and avoided. So defiling83 was their presence that a true Cistercian might not raise his eyes to their face or touch their finger-tips under ban of church and fear of deadly sin. Yet here, day after day for an hour after nones, and for an hour before vespers, he found himself in close communion with three maidens84, all young, all fair, and all therefore doubly dangerous from the monkish standpoint. Yet he found that in their presence he was conscious of a quick sympathy, a pleasant ease, a ready response to all that was most gentle and best in himself, which filled his soul with a vague and new-found joy.
And yet the Lady Maude Loring was no easy pupil to handle. An older and more world-wise man might have been puzzled by her varying moods, her sudden prejudices, her quick resentment85 at all constraint86 and authority. Did a subject interest her, was there space in it for either romance or imagination, she would fly through it with her subtle, active mind, leaving her two fellow-students and even her teacher toiling88 behind her. On the other hand, were there dull patience needed with steady toil87 and strain of memory, no single fact could by any driving be fixed in her mind. Alleyne might talk to her of the stories of old gods and heroes, of gallant89 deeds and lofty aims, or he might hold forth upon moon and stars, and let his fancy wander over the hidden secrets of the universe, and he would have a rapt listener with flushed cheeks and eloquent90 eyes, who could repeat after him the very words which had fallen from his lips. But when it came to almagest and astrolabe, the counting of figures and reckoning of epicycles, away would go her thoughts to horse and hound, and a vacant eye and listless face would warn the teacher that he had lost his hold upon his scholar. Then he had but to bring out the old romance book from the priory, with befingered cover of sheepskin and gold letters upon a purple ground, to entice91 her wayward mind back to the paths of learning.
At times, too, when the wild fit was upon her, she would break into pertness and rebel openly against Alleyne's gentle firmness. Yet he would jog quietly on with his teachings, taking no heed92 to her mutiny, until suddenly she would be conquered by his patience, and break into self-revilings a hundred times stronger than her fault demanded. It chanced however that, on one of these mornings when the evil mood was upon her, Agatha the young tire-woman, thinking to please her mistress, began also to toss her head and make tart54 rejoinder to the teacher's questions. In an instant the Lady Maude had turned upon her two blazing eyes and a face which was blanched93 with anger.
“You would dare!” said she. “You would dare!” The frightened tire-woman tried to excuse herself. “But my fair lady,” she stammered94, “what have I done? I have said no more than I heard.”
“You would dare!” repeated the lady in a choking voice. “You, a graceless baggage, a foolish lack-brain, with no thought above the hemming95 of shifts. And he so kindly and hendy and long-suffering! You would—ha, you may well flee the room!”
She had spoken with a rising voice, and a clasping and opening of her long white fingers, so that it was no marvel97 that ere the speech was over the skirts of Agatha were whisking round the door and the click of her sobs98 to be heard dying swiftly away down the corridor.
Alleyne stared open-eyed at this tigress who had sprung so suddenly to his rescue. “There is no need for such anger,” he said mildly. “The maid's words have done me no scath. It is you yourself who have erred99.”
“I know it,” she cried, “I am a most wicked woman. But it is bad enough that one should misuse100 you. Ma foi! I will see that there is not a second one.”
“Nay101, nay, no one has misused102 me,” he answered. “But the fault lies in your hot and bitter words. You have called her a baggage and a lack-brain, and I know not what.”
“And you are he who taught me to speak the truth,” she cried. “Now I have spoken it, and yet I cannot please you. Lack-brain she is, and lack-brain I shall call her.”
Such was a sample of the sudden janglings which marred103 the peace of that little class. As the weeks passed, however, they became fewer and less violent, as Alleyne's firm and constant nature gained sway and influence over the Lady Maude. And yet, sooth to say, there were times when he had to ask himself whether it was not the Lady Maude who was gaining sway and influence over him. If she were changing, so was he. In drawing her up from the world, he was day by day being himself dragged down towards it. In vain he strove and reasoned with himself as to the madness of letting his mind rest upon Sir Nigel's daughter. What was he—a younger son, a penniless clerk, a squire unable to pay for his own harness—that he should dare to raise his eyes to the fairest maid in Hampshire? So spake reason; but, in spite of all, her voice was ever in his ears and her image in his heart. Stronger than reason, stronger than cloister77 teachings, stronger than all that might hold him back, was that old, old tyrant104 who will brook105 no rival in the kingdom of youth.
And yet it was a surprise and a shock to himself to find how deeply she had entered into his life; how completely those vague ambitions and yearnings which had filled his spiritual nature centred themselves now upon this thing of earth. He had scarce dared to face the change which had come upon him, when a few sudden chance words showed it all up hard and clear, like a lightning flash in the darkness.
He had ridden over to Poole, one November day, with his fellow-squire, Peter Terlake, in quest of certain yew-staves from Wat Swathling, the Dorsetshire armorer. The day for their departure had almost come, and the two youths spurred it over the lonely downs at the top of their speed on their homeward course, for evening had fallen and there was much to be done. Peter was a hard, wiry, brown faced, country-bred lad who looked on the coming war as the schoolboy looks on his holidays. This day, however, he had been sombre and mute, with scarce a word a mile to bestow106 upon his comrade.
“Tell me Alleyne Edricson,” he broke out, suddenly, as they clattered107 along the winding track which leads over the Bournemouth hills, “has it not seemed to you that of late the Lady Maude is paler and more silent than is her wont5?”
“It may be so,” the other answered shortly.
“And would rather sit distrait108 by her oriel than ride gayly to the chase as of old. Methinks, Alleyne, it is this learning which you have taught her that has taken all the life and sap from her. It is more than she can master, like a heavy spear to a light rider.”
“Her lady-mother has so ordered it,” said Alleyne.
“By our Lady! and withouten disrespect,” quoth Terlake, “it is in my mind that her lady-mother is more fitted to lead a company to a storming than to have the upbringing of this tender and milk-white maid. Hark ye, lad Alleyne, to what I never told man or woman yet. I love the fair Lady Maude, and would give the last drop of my heart's blood to serve her.” He spoke96 with a gasping109 voice, and his face flushed crimson110 in the moonlight.
Alleyne said nothing, but his heart seemed to turn to a lump of ice in his bosom111.
“My father has broad acres,” the other continued, “from Fareham Creek112 to the slope of the Portsdown Hill. There is filling of granges, hewing113 of wood, malting of grain, and herding114 of sheep as much as heart could wish, and I the only son. Sure am I that Sir Nigel would be blithe115 at such a match.”
“But how of the lady?” asked Alleyne, with dry lips.
“Ah, lad, there lies my trouble. It is a toss of the head and a droop116 of the eyes if I say one word of what is in my mind. 'Twere as easy to woo the snow-dame that we shaped last winter in our castle yard. I did but ask her yesternight for her green veil, that I might bear it as a token or lambrequin upon my helm; but she flashed out at me that she kept it for a better man, and then all in a breath asked pardon for that she had spoke so rudely. Yet she would not take back the words either, nor would she grant the veil. Has it seemed to thee, Alleyne, that she loves any one?”
“Nay, I cannot say,” said Alleyne, with a wild throb117 of sudden hope in his heart.
“I have thought so, and yet I cannot name the man. Indeed, save myself, and Walter Ford, and you, who are half a clerk, and Father Christopher of the Priory, and Bertrand the page, who is there whom she sees?”
“I cannot tell,” quoth Alleyne shortly; and the two squires50 rode on again, each intent upon his own thoughts.
Next day at morning lesson the teacher observed that his pupil was indeed looking pale and jaded118, with listless eyes and a weary manner. He was heavy-hearted to note the grievous change in her.
“Your mistress, I fear, is ill, Agatha,” he said to the tire-woman, when the Lady Maude had sought her chamber119.
The maid looked aslant120 at him with laughing eyes. “It is not an illness that kills,” quoth she.
“Pray God not!” he cried. “But tell me, Agatha, what it is that ails121 her?”
“Methinks that I could lay my hand upon another who is smitten122 with the same trouble,” said she, with the same sidelong look. “Canst not give a name to it, and thou so skilled in leech-craft?”
“Nay, save that she seems aweary.”
“Well, bethink you that it is but three days ere you will all be gone, and Castle Twynham be as dull as the Priory. Is there not enough there to cloud a lady's brow?”
“In sooth, yes,” he answered; “I had forgot that she is about to lose her father.”
“Her father!” cried the tire-woman, with a little trill of laughter. “Oh simple, simple!” And she was off down the passage like arrow from bow, while Alleyne stood gazing after her, betwixt hope and doubt, scarce daring to put faith in the meaning which seemed to underlie123 her words.
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1
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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4
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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7
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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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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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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cymbals
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| pl.铙钹 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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levies
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| （部队）征兵( levy的名词复数 )； 募捐； 被征募的军队 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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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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musters
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的第三人称单数 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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43
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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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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46
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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48
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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49
squireship
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| 乡绅髋关节 | |
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50
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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51
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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52
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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53
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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54
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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55
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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56
novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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57
ravening
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| a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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58
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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59
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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60
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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61
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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62
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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63
outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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64
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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65
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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66
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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67
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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68
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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69
brotherhoods
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| 兄弟关系( brotherhood的名词复数 )； （总称）同行； （宗教性的）兄弟会； 同业公会 | |
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70
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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71
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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72
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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73
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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75
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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76
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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77
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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78
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
impel
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| v.推动；激励，迫使 | |
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80
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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81
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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82
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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83
defiling
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| v.玷污( defile的现在分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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84
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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85
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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86
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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87
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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88
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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89
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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90
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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91
entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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92
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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93
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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94
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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96
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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97
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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98
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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99
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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101
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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102
misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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103
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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104
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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105
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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106
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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107
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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108
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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109
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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110
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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111
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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112
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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113
hewing
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的现在分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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114
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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115
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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116
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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117
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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118
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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119
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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120
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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121
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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122
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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123
underlie
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| v.位于...之下，成为...的基础 | |
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