Cummiskey had a private and comfortable room of his own, to which he and the cannie Scotchman proceeded, after having ordered from the butler a tankard of strong ale. There was a cheerful fire in the grate, and when the tankard and glasses were placed upon the table the Scotchman observed:
“De'il be frae my saul, maisther Cummiskey, but ye're vera comfortable here.”
“Why, in troth, I can't complain, Mr. Malcomson; here's your health, sir, and after that we must drink another.”
“Mony thanks, Andrew.”
“Hang it, I'm not Andrew: that sounds like Scotch1; I'm Andy, man alive.”
“Wfiel mony thanks, Andy; but for the maitter o' that, what the de'il waur wad it be gin it were Scotch?”
“Bekaise I wouldn't like to be considered a Scotchman, somehow.”
“Weel, Andrew—Andy—I do just suppose as muckle; gin ye war considered Scotch, muckle more might be expeck' frae you than, being an Irisher as you are, you could be prepared to answer to; whereas—”
“Why, hang it, man alive, we can give three answers for your one.”
“Weel, but how is that now, Andy? Here's to ye in the meantime; and 'am no savin' but this yill is just richt gude drink; it warms the pit o' the stamach, man.”
“You mane by that the pit o' the stomach, I suppose.”
“Ay, just that.”
“Troth, Mr. Malcomson, you Scotchers bring everything to the pit o' the stomach—no, begad, I ax your pardon, for although you take care of the pratie bag, you don't forget the pocket.”
“And what for no, Andy? why the de'il war pockets made, gin they wanna to be filled? but how hae ye Irishers three answers for our ane?”
“Why, first with our tongue; and even with that we bate2 ye—flog you hollow. You Scotchmen take so much time in givin' an answer that an Irishman could say his pattherin aves before you spake. You think first and spake aftherwards, and come out in sich a way that one would suppose you say grace for every word you do spake; but it isn't 'for what we are to receive' you ought to say 'may the Lord make us thankful, but for what we are to lose'—that is, your Scotch nonsense; and, in troth, we ought to be thankful for losin' it.”
“Weel, man, here's to ye, Andy—ou, man, but this yill is extraordinar' gude.”
“Why,” replied Andy, who, by the way, seldom went sober to bed, and who was even now nearly three sheets in the wind, “it is. Mr. Malcomson, the right stuff. But, as I was sayin', you Scotchmen think first and spake afther—one of the most unlucky practices that ever anybody had. Now, don't you see the advantage that the Irishman has over you; he spakes first and thinks aftherwards, and then, you know, it gives him plenty of time to think—here's God bless us all, anyhow—but that's the way an Irishman bates a Scotchman in givin' an answer; for if he fails by word o' mouth, why, whatever he's deficient3 in he makes up by the fist or cudgel; and there's our three Irish answers for one Scotch.”
“Weel, man, a' richt—a' richt—we winna quarrel aboot it; but I thocht ye promised to gie us another toast—de'il be frae my; saul, man, but I'll drink as mony as you like wisiccan liquor as this.”
“Ay, troth, I did say so, and devil a thing but your Scotch nonsense put it out o' my head. And now, Mr. Malcomson, let me advise you, as a friend, never to attempt to have the whole conversation to yourself; it I isn't daicent.
“Weel, but the toast, man?”
“Oh, ay; troth, your nonsense would put any thing out of a man's head. Well, you see this comfortable room?”
“Ou, ay; an vara comfortable it is; ma faith, I wuss I had ane like it. The auld4 squire5, however, talks o' buildin' a new gertlen-hoose.”
“Well, then, fill your bumper6. Here's to her that got me this room, and had it furnished as you see, in order that I might be at my aise in it for the remaindher o' my life—I mane the Cooleen Bawn—the Lily of the Plains of Boyle. Come, now, off with it; and if you take it from your lantern jaws7! till it's finished, divil a wet lip ever I'll give you.”
The Scotchman was not indisposed to honor the toast; first, because the ale was both strong and mellow8, and secondly9, because the Cooleen Bawn was a great favorite of his, in consequence of the deference10 she paid to him as a botanist11.
“Eh, sirs,” he exclaimed, after finishing | his bumper, “but she's a bonnie lassie that, and as gude as she's bonnie—and de'il a higher compliment she could get, I think. But, Andy, man, don't they talk some clash and havers anent her predilection12 for that weel-farrant callan, Reilly?”
“All, my poor girl,” replied Cummiskey, shaking his head sorrowfully; “I pity her there; but the thing's impossible—they can't be married—the law is against them.”
“Weel, Andy, they must e'en thole it; but 'am thinkin' they'll just break bounds at last, an' tak' the law, as you Irish do, into their am hands.”
“What do you mane by that?” asked Andy, whose temper began to get warm by the observation.
“Ah, man,” replied the Scotchman, “dinna let your birses rise at that gate. Noo, there's the filbert trees, ma friend, of whilk ane is male and the tither female; and the upshot e'en is, Andy, that de'il a pickle13 o' fruit ever the female produces until there's a braw halesome male tree planted in the same gerden. But, ou, man, Andy, wasna yon she and that bonnie jaud, Connor, that we met the noo? De'il be frae my laul, but I jalouse she's aff wi' him this vara nicht.”
“Oh, dear, no!” replied Cummiskey, starting; “that would kill her father; and yet there must be something in it, or what would bring them there at such an hour? He and she may love one another as much as they like, but I must think of my mas-ther.”
“In that case, then, our best plan is to gie the alarm.”
“Hould,” replied Andy; “let us be cautious. They wouldn't go on foot, I think; and before we rise a ruction in the house, let us find out whether she has made off or not. Sit you here, and I'll try to see Connor, her maid.”
“Ah, but, Andy, man, it's no just that pleasant to sit hei-e dry-lipped; the tankard's, oot, ye ken14.”
“Divil tankard the Scotch sowl o'you—who do you suppose could think of a tankard, or any thing else, if what we suspect has happened? It will kill him.”
He then proceeded to look for Connor, whom he met in tears, which she was utterly15 unable to conceal16.
“Well, Miss Connor,” he asked, “what's the matther? You're cryin', I persave.”
“All, Cummiskey, my mistress is unwell.”
“Unwell! why she wasn't unwell a while ago, when the gardener and I met her and you on your way to the back o' the garden.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Connor; “I forced her to come out, to try what a little cool air-might do for her.”
“Ay, but, Connor, did you force her to come in again?”
“Force! there was no force necessary, Cummiskey. She's now in her own room, quite ill.”
“Oh, then, if she's quite ill, it's right that her father should know it, in ordher that a docther may be sent for.”
“Ah, but she's now asleep, Cummiskey—that sleep may set her to rights; she may waken quite recovered; but you know it might be dangerous to disturb her.”
“Ah, I believe you,” he replied, dissembling; for he saw at once, by Connor's agitated17 manner, that every word she uttered was a lie; “the sleep will be good for her, the darlin'; but take care of her, Connor, for the masther's sake; for what would become of him if any thing happened her? You know that if she died he wouldn't live a week.”
“That's true, indeed,” she replied; “and if she get's worse, Cummiskey, I'll let the master know.”
“That's a good girl; ma gragal that you! war—good-by, acushla,” and he immediately! returned to his own room, after having observed that Connor went down to the kitchen.
“Now, Mr. Malcomson,” said he, “there is a good fire before you. I ax your pardon—just sit in the light of it for a minute or so; I want this candle.”
“'Am sayin', Andy, gin ye haud awa to the kitchen, it wadna be a crime to send up anither tankard o' that yill.”
To this the other made no reply, but walked out of the room, and very deliberately19 proceeded to that of Helen. The door was open, the bed unslept upon, the window-curtains undrawn; in fact, the room was tenantless21, Connor a liar22 and an accomplice23, and the suspicions of himself and Malcomson well founded. He then followed Connor to the kitchen; but she too had disappeared, or at least hid herself from him. He then desired the other female servants to ascertain24 whether Miss Folliard was within or not, giving it as his opinion that she had eloped with Willy Reilly. The uproar25 then commenced, the house was searched, but no Cooleen Bawn was found. Cummiskey himself remained comparatively tranquil26, but his tranquillity27 was neither more nor less than an inexpressible sorrow for what he knew the affectionate old man must suffer for the idol28 of his heart, upon whom he doted with such unexampled tenderness and affection. On ascertaining29 that she was not in the house, he went upstairs to his master's bedroom, having the candlestick in his hand, and tapped at the door. There was no reply from within, and on his entering he found the old man asleep. The case, however, was one that admitted of no delay; but he felt that to communicate the melancholy30 tidings was a fearful task, and he scarcely knew in what words to shape the event which had occurred. At length he stirred him gently, and the old man, half asleep, exclaimed:
“Good-night, Helen—good-night, darling! I am not well; I had something to tell you about the discovery of—but I will let you know it to-morrow at breakfast. For your sake I shall let him escape: there now, go to bed, my love.”
“Sir,” said Cummiskey, “I hope you'll excuse me for disturbing you.”
“What? who? who's there? I thought it was my daughter.”
“No, sir, I wish it was; I'm come to tell you that Miss Folliard can't be found: we have searched every nook and corner of the house to no purpose: wherever she is, she's not undher this roof. I came to tell you, and to bid you get up, that we may see what's to be done.”
“What,” he exclaimed, starting up, “my child!—my child—my child gone! God of heaven! God of heaven, support me!—my darling! my treasure! my delight!—Oh, Cummiskey!—but it can't be—to desert me!—to leave me in misery31 and sorrow, brokenhearted, distracted!—she that was the prop32 of my age, that loved me as never child loved a, father! Begone, Cummiskey, it is not so, it can't be, I say: search again; she is somewhere in the house; you don't know, sirra, how she loved me: why, it was only this night that, on taking her good-night kiss, she—ha—what? what?—she wept, she wept bitterly, and bade me farewell! and said—Here, Cummiskey, assist me to dress. Oh, I see it, Cummiskey, I see it! she is gone! she is gone! yes, she bade me farewell; but I was unsteady and unsettled after too much drink, and did not comprehend her meaning.”
It is impossible to describe the almost frantic33 distraction34 of that loving father, who, as he said, had no prop to lean upon but his Cooleen Bawn, for he himself often loved to call her by that appellation35.
“Cummiskey,” he proceeded, “we will pursue them—we must have my darling back: yes, and I will forgive her, for what is she but a child, Cummiskey, not yet twenty. But in the meantime I will shoot him dead—dead—dead—if he had a thousand lives; and from this night out I shall pursue Popery, in all its shapes and disguises; I will imprison36 it, transport it, hang it—hang it, Cummiskey, as round as a hoop37. Ring the bell, and let Lanigan unload, and then reload my pistols; he always does it; his father was my grandfather's gamekeeper, and he understands fire-arms. Here, though, help me on with my boots first, and then I will be dressed immediately. After giving the pistols to Lanigan, desire the grooms38 and hostlers to saddle all the horses in the stables. We must set out and pursue them. It is possible we may overtake them yet. I will not level a pistol against my child; but, by the great Boyne! if we meet them, come up with them, overtake them, his guilty spirit will stand before the throne of judgment39 this night. Go now, give the pistols to Lanigan, and tell him to reload them steadily40.”
We leave them now, in order that we may follow the sheriff and his party, who went to secure the body of the Red Rapparee. This worthy41 person, not at all aware of the friendly office which his patron, Sir Robert, intended to discharge towards him, felt himself quite safe, and consequently took very little pains to secure his concealment42. Indeed, it could hardly be expected that he should, inasmuch as Whitecraft had led him to understand, as we have said, that Government had pardoned him his social trangressions, as a per contra for those political ones which they still expected from him. Such was his own view of the case, although he was not altogether free from misgiving43, and a certain vague apprehension44. Be this as it may, he had yet to learn a lesson which his employer was not disposed to teach him by any other means than handing him over to the authorities on the following day. How matters might have terminated between him and the baronet it is out of our power to detail. The man was at all times desperate and dreadful, where either revenge or anger was excited, especially as he labored45 under the superstitious46 impression that he was never to be hanged or perish by a violent death, a sentiment then by no means uncommon47 among persons of his outrageous48 and desperate life. It has been observed, and with truth, that the Irish Rapparees seldom indulged in the habit of intoxication49 or intemperance50, and this is not at all to be wondered at. The meshes51 of authority were always spread for them, and the very consciousness of this fact sharpened their wits, and kept them perpetually on their guard against the possibility of arrest. Nor was this all. The very nature of the lawless and outrageous life they led, and their frequent exposure to danger, rendered habits of caution necessary—and those were altogether incompatible52 with habits of intemperance. Self-preservation rendered this policy necessary, and we believe there are but few instances on record of a Rapparee having been arrested in a state of intoxication. Their laws, in fact, however barbarous they were in other matters, rendered three cases of drunkenness a cause of expulsion from the gang. O'Donnel, however, had now relaxed from the rigid53 observation of his own rules, principally for the reasons we have already stated—by which we mean, a conviction of his own impunity54, as falsely communicated to him by Sir Robert Whitecraft. The sheriff had not at first intended to be personally present at his capture; but upon second consideration he came to the determination of heading the party who were authorized55 to secure him. This resolution of Oxley's had, as will presently be seen, a serious effect upon the fate and fortunes of the Cooleen Bawn and her lover. The party, who were guided by Tom Steeple, did not go to Mary Mahon's, but to a neighboring cottage, which was inhabited by a distant relative of O'Donnel. A quarrel had taken place between the fortune-teller and him, arising from his jealousy56 of Sir Robert, which caused such an estrangement57 as prevented him for some time from visiting her house. Tom Steeple, however, had haunted him as his shadow, without ever coming in contact with him personally, and on this night he had him set as a soho man has a hare in her form. Guided, therefore, by the intelligent idiot and Fergus, the party readied the cottage in which the Rapparee resided. The house was instantly surrounded and the door knocked at, for the party knew that the man was inside.
“Who is there?” asked the old woman who kept the cottage.
“Open the door instantly,” said the sheriff, “or we shall smash it in.”
“No, I won't,” she replied; “no, I won't, you bosthoon, whoever you are. I never did nothin' agin the laws, bad luck to them, and I won't open my door to any strolling vagabone like you.”
“Produce the man we want,” said the sheriff, “or we shall arrest you for harboring an outlaw58 and a murderer. Your house is now surrounded by military, acting59 under the king's orders.”
“Give me time,” said the crone; “I was at my prayers when you came to disturb me, and I'll finish them before I open the door, if you were to burn the house over my head, and myself in it. Up,” said she to the Rapparee, “through the roof—get that ould table undher your feet—the thatch60 is thin—slip out and lie on the roof till they go, and then let them whistle jigs61 to the larks62 if they like.”
The habits of escape peculiar63 to the Rapparees were well known to Fergus, who cautioned those who surrounded the house to watch the roof. It was well they did so, for in less-time than we have taken to describe it the body of the Rapparee was seen projecting itself upwards64 through the thin thatch, and in an instant several muskets65 were levelled at him, accompanied by instant orders to surrender on pain of being shot. Under such circumstances there was no alternative, and in a few minutes he was handcuffed and a prisoner. The party then proceeded along the road on which some of the adventures already recorded in this narrative66 had taken place, when they were met, at a sharp angle of it, by Reilly and his Cooleen Bawn, both of whom were almost instantly recognized by the sheriff and his party. Their arrest was immediate18.
“Mr. Reilly,” said the sheriff, “I am sorry for this. You must feel aware that I neither am or ever was disposed to be your enemy; but I now find you carrying away a Protestant heiress, the daughter of my friend, contrary to the laws of the land, a fact which in itself gives me the power and authority to take you into custody67, which I accordingly do in his Majesty's name. I owe you no ill will, but in the meantime you must return with me to Squire Folliard's house. Miss Folliard, you must, as you know me to be your father's friend, consider that I feel it my duty to restore you to him.”
“I am not without means of defence,” replied Reilly, “but the exercise of such means would be useless. Two of your lives I might take; but yours, Mr. Sheriff, could not be one of them, and that you must feel.”
“I feel, Mr. Reilly, that you are a man of honor; and, in point of fact, there is ample apology for your conduct in the exquisite68 beauty of the young lady who accompanies you; but I must also feel for her father, whose bereavement69, occasioned by her loss, would most assuredly break his heart.”
Here a deep panting of the bosom70, accompanied by violent sobs71, was heard by the party, and Cooleen Bawn whispered to Reilly, in a voice nearly stifled72 by grief and excitement:
“Dear Reilly, I love you; but it was madness in us to take this step; let me return to my father—only let me see him safe?”
“But Whitecraft?”
“Death sooner. Reilly, I am ill, I am ill; this struggle is too much for me. What shall I do? My head is swimming.”
Page 140-- Discharged a Pistol at Our Hero
She had scarcely uttered these words when her father, accompanied by his servants, dashed rapidly up, and Cummiskey, the old huntsman, instantly seized Reilly, exclaiming, “Mr. Reilly, we have you now;” and whilst he spoke73, his impetuous old master dashed his horse to one side, and discharged a pistol at our hero, and this failing, he discharged another. Thanks to Lanigan, however, they were both harmless, that worthy man having forgotten to put in bullets, or even as much powder as would singe74 an ordinary whisker.
“Forbear, sir,” exclaimed the sheriff, addressing Cummiskey; “unhand Mr. Reilly. He is already in custody, and you, Mr. Folliard, may thank God that you are not a murderer this night. As a father, I grant that an apology may be made for your resentment75, but not to the shedding of blood.”
“Lanigan! villain76! treacherous77 and deceitful villain!” shouted the squire, “it was your perfidy78 that deprived me of my revenge. Begone, you sneaking79 old profligate80, and never let me see your face again. You did not load my pistols as you ought.”
“No, sir,” replied Lanigan, “and I thank God that I did not. It wasn't my intention to see your honor hanged for murder.”
“Mr. Folliard,” observed the sheriff, you ought to bless God that gave you a prudent81 servant, who had too much conscience to become the instrument of your vengeance82. Restrain your resentment for the present, and leave Mr. Reilly to the laws of his country. We shall now proceed to your house, where, as a magistrate83, you can commit him to prison, and I will see the warrant executed this night. We have also another prisoner of some celebrity84, the Red Rapparee.”
“By sun and moon, I'll go bail85 for him,” replied the infuriated squire. “I like that fellow because Reilly does not. Sir Robert spoke to me in his favor. Yes, I shall go bail for him, to any amount.”
“His offence is not a bailable86 one,” said the cool sheriff; “nor, if the thing were possible, would it be creditable in you, as a magistrate, to offer yourself as bail for a common robber, one of the most notorious highwaymen of the day.”
“Well, but come along,” replied the squire; “I have changed my mind; we shall hang them both; Sir Robert will assist and support me. I could overlook the offence of a man who only took my purse; yes, I could overlook that, but the man who would rob me of my child—of the solace87 and prop of my heart and life—of—of—of—”
Here the tears came down his cheeks so copiously88 that his sobs prevented him from proceeding89. He recovered himself, however, for indeed he was yet scarcely sober after the evening's indulgence, and the two parties returned to his house, where, after having two or three glasses of Burgundy to make his hand steady, he prepared himself to take the sheriff's informations and sign unfortunate Reilly's committal to Sligo jail. The vindictive90 tenacity91 of resentment by which the heart of the ruffian Rapparee was animated92 against that young man was evinced, on this occasion, by a satanic ingenuity93 of malice94 that was completely in keeping with the ruffian's character. It was quite clear, from the circumstances we are about to relate, that the red miscreant95 had intended to rob Folliard's house on the night of his attack upon it, in addition to the violent abduction of his daughter. We must premise96 here that Reilly and the Rapparee were each strongly guarded in different rooms, and the first thing the latter did was to get some one to inform Mr. Folliard that he had a matter of importance concerning Reilly to mention to him. This was immediately on their return, and before the informations against Reilly were drawn20 up. Folliard, who knew not what to think, paused for some time, and at! last, taking the sheriff along with him, went! to hear what O'Donnel had to say.
“Is that ruffian safe?” he asked, before entering the room; “have you so secured him that he can't be mischievous97?”
“Quite safe, your honor, and as harmless as a lamb.”
He and the sheriff then entered, and found the huge savage98 champing his teeth and churning with his jaws, until a line of white froth encircled his mouth, rendering99 him a hideous100 and fearful object to look at.
“What is this you want with me, you misbegotten villain,” said the squire. “Stand between the ruffian and me, fellows, in the meantime—what is it, sirra?”
“Who's the robber now, Mr. Folliard?” he asked, with something, however, of a doubtful triumph in his red glaring eye. “Your daughter had jewels in a black cabinet, and I'd have secured the same jewels and your daughter along with them, on a certain night, only for Reilly; and it was very natural he should out-general me, which he did; but it was only to get both for himself. Let him be searched at wanst, and, although I don't say he has them, yet I'd give a hundred to one he has; she would never carry them while he was with her.”
The old squire, who would now, with peculiar pleasure, have acted in the capacity of hangman in Reilly's case, had that unfortunate young man been doomed101 to undergo the penalty of the law, and that no person in the shape of Jack102 Ketch was forthcoming—he, we say—the squire—started at once to the room where Reilly was secured, accompanied also by the sheriff, and, after rushing in with a countenance103 inflamed104 by passion, shouted out:
“Seize and examine that villain; he has robbed me—examine him instantly: he has stolen the family jewels.”
Reilly's countenance fell, for he knew his Fearful position; but that which weighed heaviest upon his heart was a consciousness of the misinterpretations which the world might put upon the motives105 of his conduct in this elopement, imputing106 it to selfishness and a mercenary spirit. When about to be searched, he said:
“You need not; I will not submit to the indignity107 of such an examination. I have and hold the jewels for Miss Folliard, whose individual property I believe they are; nay108, I am certain of it, because she told me so, and requested me to keep them For her. Let her be sent for, and I shall hand them back to her at once, but to no other person without violence.”
“But she is not in a condition to receive them,” replied the sheriff (which was a fact); “I pledge my honor she, is not.”
“Well, then, Mr. Sheriff, I place them in your hands; you can do with them as you wish—that is, either return them to Miss Folliard, the legal owner of them, or to her father.”
The sheriff received the caske't which contained them, and immediately handed it to Mr. Folliard, who put it in his pocket, exclaiming:
“Now, Reilly, if we can hang you for nothing else, we can hang you for this; and we will, sir.”
“You, sir,” said Reilly, with melancholy indignation, “are privileged to insult me; so, alas109! is every man now; but I can retire into the integrity of my own heart and find a consolation110 there of which you cannot deprive me. My life is now a consideration of no importance to myself since I shall die with the consciousness that your daughter loved me. You do not hear this for the first time, for that daughter avowed111 it to yourself! and if I had been mean and unprincipled enough to have abandoned my religion, and that of my persecuted112 forefathers113, I might ere this have been her husband.”
“Come,” said Folliard, who was not prepared with an answer to this, “come,” said he, addressing the sheriff, “come, till we make out his mittimus, and give him the first shove to the gallows114.” They then left him.
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1
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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bate
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| v.压制；减弱；n.（制革用的）软化剂 | |
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3
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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6
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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7
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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11
botanist
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| n.植物学家 | |
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12
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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15
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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18
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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21
tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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22
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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23
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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24
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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25
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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26
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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27
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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28
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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29
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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30
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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31
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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32
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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33
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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34
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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35
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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36
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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37
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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38
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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39
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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40
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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41
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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42
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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43
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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44
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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45
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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46
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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47
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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48
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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49
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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50
intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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51
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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52
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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53
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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54
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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55
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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56
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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57
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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58
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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59
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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60
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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61
jigs
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| n.快步舞（曲）极快地( jig的名词复数 )；夹具v.（使）上下急动( jig的第三人称单数 ) | |
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62
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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63
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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64
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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65
muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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66
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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67
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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68
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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69
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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70
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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71
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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72
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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73
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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74
singe
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| v.(轻微地)烧焦；烫焦；烤焦 | |
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75
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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76
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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77
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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78
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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79
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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80
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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81
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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82
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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83
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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84
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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85
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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86
bailable
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| adj.可保释的，可交保的 | |
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87
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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88
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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89
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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90
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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91
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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92
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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93
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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94
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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95
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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96
premise
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| n.前提；v.提论，预述 | |
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97
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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98
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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99
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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100
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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101
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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102
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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103
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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104
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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106
imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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107
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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108
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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109
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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110
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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111
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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112
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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113
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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114
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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