“I wish to see Mr. Reilly; lead me to his cell.”
“Reilly, sir!” exclaimed the man in astonishment2. “Are you sure, sir, it's not Sir Robert Whitecraft you want?”
“Are you sure, sir, that it's not a cut of my whip about the ears you want? Conduct me to where Reilly is, you rascal3; do you pretend to know the individual I wish to see better than I do myself? Push along, sirra.”
The turnkey accordingly conducted him to Reilly's cell, which, considerably4 to his surprise, was a much more comfortable one than had been assigned to the baronet. When they had reached the corridor in which it was situated5, Folliard said, “Knock at the door, and when he appears tell him that I wish to see him.”
“I will, your honor.”
“Say I won't detain him long.”
“I will, your honor.”
“Hang your honor, go and do what I desire you.”
“I will, your honor.”
Reilly's astonishment was beyond belief on learning that his vindictive6 prosecutor7 had called upon him; but on more mature reflection, and comparing what had happened before with the only motive9 which he could assign for such a visit, he felt pretty certain that the squire came to revive, in his own person, a subject which he had before proposed to him through his daughter. There was no other earthly object to which he could attribute his visit; but of course he made up his mind to receive him with every courtesy. At length Folliard entered, and, before Reilly had time to utter a syllable10, commenced:
“Reilly,” said he, “you are astonished to see me here?”
“I am, sir,” replied Reilly, “very much.”
“Yes, I thought you would; and very few persons, except myself, would come upon such an errand to the man that has disgraced my daughter, myself, and my family; you have stained our name, sir—a name that was never associated with any thing but honor and purity until you came among us.”
“If you have paid me this visit, sir, only for the purpose of uttering language which you know must be very painful to me, I would rather you had declined to call upon me at all. I perceive no object you can have in it, unless to gratify a feeling of enmity on your part, and excite one of sorrow on mine. I say sorrow, because, on considering our relative positions, and knowing the impetuosity of your temper, I am sorry to see you here; it is scarcely generous in you to come, for the purpose of indulging in a poor, and what, after all, may be an equivocal and premature11 triumph over a man whose love for your daughter, you must know, will seal his lips against the expression of one offensive word towards you.”
“But how, let me ask, sir, do you know what brought me here? I didn't come to scold you, nor to triumph over you; and I have already said the worst I shall say. I know very well that you and Whitecraft will be hanged, probably from the same rope too, but, in the meantime, I would save you both if I could. I fear indeed that to save him is out of the question, because it appears that there's a cart-load of indictments12 against him.”
“How could you doubt it, sir, when you know the incredible extent of his villany, both private and public? and yet this is the man to whom you would have married your daughter!”
“No; when I found Helen reduced to such a state the morning on which they were to be married, I told her at once that as she felt so bitterly against him I would never suffer him to become her husband. Neither will I; if he were acquitted13 tomorrow I would tell him so; but you, Reilly, love my daughter for her own sake.”
“For her own sake, sir, as you have said, I love her. If she had millions, it could not increase my affection, and if she had not a penny, it would not diminish it.”
“Well, but you can have her if you wish, notwithstanding.”
Reilly first looked at him with amazement14; but he was so thoroughly15 acquainted with his character, both from what he had seen and heard of it, that his amazement passed away, and he simply replied:
“Pray how, sir?”
“Why, I'll tell you what, Reilly; except with respect to political principles, I don't think, after all, that there's the difference of a a rush between the Papist and the Protestant Churches, as mere16 religions. My own opinion is, that there's neither of them any great shakes, as to any effect they have on society, unless to disturb it. I have known as good Papists as ever I did Protestants, and indeed I don't know why a Papist should not be as good a man as a Protestant; nor why a Protestant should not be as good a man as a Papist, on the other hand. Now, do you see what I'm driving at?”
“Well, I can't exactly say that I do,” replied Reilly.
Page 157-- There is Not a Toss-up Between Them
“Then the upshot of the argument is this, that there is not a toss-up between them, and any man getting into a scrape, and who could get out of it by changing from one to the other—of course I mean from Popery to Protestantism—would prove himself a man of good sound sense, and above the prejudices of the world.”
The truth is, Reilly saw ere this what Folliard was approaching, and, as he determined17 to allow him full scope, his reply was brief:
“You seem fond of indulging in speculation18, sir,” replied Reilly, with a smile; “but I should be glad to know why you introduce this subject to me?”
“To you?” replied Folliard; “why, who the devil else should or could I introduce it to with such propriety19? Here now are two religions; one's not sixpence better nor worse than the other. Now, you belong to one of them, and because you do you're here snug20 and fast. I say, then, I have a proposal to make to you: you are yourself in a difficulty—you have placed me in a difficulty—and you have placed poor Helen in a difficulty—which, if any thing happens you, I think will break her heart, poor child. Now you can take her, yourself, and me, out of all our difficulties, if you have only sense enough to shove over from the old P—— to the young P——. As a Protestant, you can marry Helen, Reilly—but as a Papist, never! and you know the rest; for if you are obstinate21, and blind to your own interests, I must do my duty.”
“Will you allow me to ask, sir, whether Miss Folliard is aware of this mission of yours to me?”
“She aware! She never dreamt of it; but I have promised to tell her the result after dinner to-day.”
“Well, sir,” replied Reilly, “will you allow me to state to you a few facts?”
“Certainly; go on.”
“In the first place, then, such is your daughter's high and exquisite22 sense of integrity and honor that, if I consented to the terms you propose, she would reject me with indignation and scorn, as she ought to do. There, then, is your project for accomplishing my selfish and dishonest apostacy given to the winds. Your daughter, sir, is too pure in all her moral feelings, and too noble-minded, to take to her arms a renegade husband—a renegade, too, not from conviction, but from selfish and mercenary purposes.”
“Confound the thing, this is but splitting hairs, Reilly, and talking big for effect. Speak, however, for yourself; as for Helen, I know very well that, in spite of your heroics and her's, she'd be devilish glad you'd become a Protestant and marry her.”
“I am sorry to say, sir, that you don't know your own daughter; but as for me, Mr. Folliard, if one word of your's, or of her's, could place me on the British throne, I would not abandon my religion. Under no circumstances would I abandon it; but least of all, now that it is so barbarously persecuted23 by its enemies. This, sir, is my final determination.”
“But do you know the alternative?”
“No, sir, nor do you.”
“Don't I, faith? Why, the alternative is simply this—either marriage or hanging!”
“Be it so; in that case I will die like a man of honor and a true Christian24 and Catholic, as I hope I am.”
“As a true fool, Reilly—as a true fool. I took this step privately25, out of respect for your character. See how many of your creed26 become Protestants for the sake of mere property; think how many of them join our Church for the purpose of ousting27 their own fathers and relatives from their estates; and what is it all, on their parts, but the consequence of an enlightened judgment28 that shows them the errors of their old creed, and the truth of ours? I think, Reilly, you are loose about the brains.”
“That may be, sir, but you will never find me loose about my principles.”
“Are you aware, sir, that Helen is to appear against you as an evidence?”
“No, sir, I am not, neither do I believe it. But now, sir, I beg you to terminate this useless and unpleasant interview. I can look into my own conscience with satisfaction, and am prepared for the worst. If the scaffold is to be my fate, I cannot but remember that many a noble spirit has closed the cares of an unhappy life upon it. I wish you good-day, Mr. Folliard.”
“By the Boyne! you are the most obstinate blockhead that ever lived; but I've done; I did all in my power to save you—yet to no purpose. Upon my soul, I'll come to your execution.”
“And if you do, you will see me die like a man and a gentleman; may I humbly29 add, like a Christian!”
The squire, on his way home, kept up a long, low whistle, broken only by occasional soliloquies, in which Reilly's want of common-sense, and neglect not only of his temporal interests, but of his life itself, were the prevailing30 sentiments. He regretted his want of success, which he imputed31 altogether to Reilly's obstinacy32, instead of his integrity, firmness, and honor.
This train of reflection threw him into one of those capricious fits of resentment33 so peculiar34 to his unsteady temper, and as he went along he kept lashing35 himself up into a red heat of indignation and vengeance36 against that unfortunate gentleman. After dinner that day he felt somewhat puzzled as to whether he ought to communicate to his daughter the result of his interview with Reilly or not. Upon consideration, however, he deemed it more prudent37 to avoid the subject altogether, for he felt apprehensive38 that, however she might approve of her lover's conduct, the knowledge of his fate, which depended on it, would only plunge39 her into deeper distress40. The evening consequently passed without any allusion41 to the subject, unless a peculiar tendency to melody, on his part, might be taken to mean something; to this we might add short abrupt42 ejaculations unconsciously uttered—such as—“Whew, whew, whew—o—whew—o—hang the fellow! Whew, whew—o—whew—he's a cursed goose, but an obstinate—whew, whew—o—whew—o. Ay, but no matter—well—whew, whew—o, whew, whew! Helen, a cup of tea. Now, Helen, do you know a discovery I have made—but how could you? No, you don't, of course; but listen and pay attention to me, because it deeply affects myself.”
The poor girl, apprehensive that he was about to divulge43 some painful secret, became pale and a good deal agitated44; she gave him a long, inquiring look, but said nothing.
“Yes, Helen, and the discovery is this: I find from experience that tea and Burgundy—or, indeed, tea and any kind of wine—don't agree with my constitution: curse the fel—whew, whew, whew, whew—o—whew; no, the confounded mixture turns my stomach into nothing more nor less than a bag of aquafortis—if he had but common—whew—”
“Well, but, papa, why do you take tea, then?”
“Because I'm an old fool, Helen; and if I am, there are some young ones besides; but it can't be helped now—whew, whew—it was done for the best.”
In this manner he went on for a considerable time, ejaculating mysteries and enigmas45, until he finished the second bottle, after which he went to bed.
It may be necessary to state here that, notwithstanding the incredible force and tenderness of his affection for his daughter, he had, ever since her elopement with Reilly, kept her under the strictest surveillance, and in the greatest seclusion—that is to say, as the proverb has it, “he locked the stable door when the steed was stolen;” or if he did not realize the aphorism46, he came very near it.
Time, however, passes, and the assizes were at hand, a fearful Avatar of judicial47 power to the guilty. The struggle between the parties who were interested in the fate of Whitecraft, and those who felt the extent of his unparalleled guilt48, and the necessity not merely of making him an example but of punishing him for his enormous crimes, was dreadful. The infatuation of political rancor49 on one side, an infatuation which could perceive nothing but the virtue50 of high and resolute51 Protestantism in his conduct, blinded his supporters to the enormity of his conduct, and, as a matter of course, they left no stone unturned to save his life. As we said, however, they were outnumbered; but still they did not despair. Reilly's friends had been early in the legal market, and succeeded in retaining some of the ablest men at the bar, his leading counsel being the celebrated52 advocate Fox, who was at that time one of the most distinguished53 men at the Irish bar. Helen, as the assizes approached, broke down so completely in her health that it was felt, if she remained in that state, that she would be unable to attend; and although Reilly's trial was first on the list, his opposing counsel succeeded in getting it postponed54 for a day or two in order that an important witness, then ill, he said, might be able to appear on their part.
It is not our intention to go through the details of the trial of the Red Rapparee. The evidence of Mary Mahon, Fergus O'Reilly, and the sheriff, was complete; the chain was unbroken; the change of apparel—the dialogue in Mary Mahon's cabin, in which he; avowed55 the fact of his having robbed the sheriff—the identification of his person by the said sheriff in the farmer's house, as before stated, left nothing for the jury to do I but to bring in a verdict of guilty. Mercy was out of the question. The hardened ruffian—the treacherous56 ruffian—who had lent himself to the bloodthirsty schemes of Whitecraft—and all this came out upon his trial, not certainly to the advantage of the baronet—this hardened and treacherous ruffian, we say, who had been a scourge57 to that part of the country for years, now felt, when the verdict of guilty was brought in against him, just as a smith's anvil58 might feel when struck by a feather. On hearing it, he growled59 a hideous60 laugh, and exclaimed:
“To the divil I pitch you all; I wish, though, that I had Tom Bradley, the prophecy man, here, who tould me that I'd never be hanged, and that the rope was never born for me.”
“If the rope was not born for you,” observed the judge, “I fear I shall be obliged to inform you that you were born for the rope. Your life has been an outrage,upon civilized61 society.”
“Why, you ould dog!” said the Rapparee, “you can't hang me; haven't I a pardon? didn't Sir Robert Whitecraft get me a pardon from the Government for turnin' against the Catholics, and tellin' him where to find the priests? Why, you joulter-headed ould dog, you can't hang me, or, if you do, I'll leave them behind me that will put such a half ounce pill into your guts62 as will make you turn up the whites of your eyes like a duck in thundher. You'll hang me for robbery, you ould sinner! But what is one half the world doin' but robbin' the other half? and what is the other half doin' but robbin' them? As for Sir Robert Whitecraft, if he desaved me by lies and falsehoods, as I'm afraid he did, all I say is, that if I had him here for one minute I'd show him a trick he'd never tell to mortal. Now go on, bigwig.”
Notwithstanding the solemnity of the position in which this obdurate63 ruffian was placed, the judge found it nearly impossible to silence the laughter of the audience and preserve order in the court. At length he succeeded, and continued his brief address to the Rapparee:
“Hardened and impenitent64 reprobate66, in the course of my judicial duties, onerous67 and often painful as they are and have been, I must say that, although it has fallen to my lot to pronounce the awful sentence of death upon many an unfeeling felon68, I am bound to say that a public malefactor69 so utterly70 devoid71 of all the feelings which belong to man, and so strongly impregnated with those of the savage72 animal as you are, has never stood in a dock before me, nor probably before any other judge, living or dead. Would it be a waste of language to enforce upon you the necessity of repentance73? I fear it would; but it matters not; the guilt of impenitence74 be on your own head, still I must do my duty; try, then, and think of death, and a far more awful judgment than mine. Think of the necessity you have for; supplicating75 mercy at the throne of your Redeemer, who himself died for you, and for all of us, between two thieves.”
“That has nothing to do with my case; I never was a thief; I robbed like an honest man on the king's highways; but as for thievin', why, you ould sinner, I never stole a farthing's worth in my life. Don't, then, pitch such beggarly comparisons into my teeth. I never did what you and your class often did; I never robbed the poor in the name of the blessed laws of the land; I never oppressed the widow or the orphan76; and for all that I took from those that did oppress them, the divil a grain of sorrow or repentance I feel for it, nor ever will feel for it. Oh! mother of Moses! if I had a glass of whiskey!”
The judge was obliged to enforce silence a second time; for, to-tell the truth, there was something so ludicrously impenitent in the conduct of this hardened convict that the audience could not resist it, especially when it is remembered that the sympathies of the lower Irish are always with such culprits.
“Well,” continued the judge, when silence was again restored, “your unparalleled obduracy77 has gained one point; it was my intention to have ordered you for execution tomorrow at the hour of twelve o'clock; but, as a Christian man, I could not think for a moment of hurrying you into eternity78 in your present state. The sentence of the court then is that you be taken from the dock in which you now stand to the prison from whence you came, and that from thence you be brought to the place of execution on next Saturday, and there be hanged by the neck until you be dead, and may God have mercy on your soul!”
The Rapparee gazed at him with a look of the most hardened effrontery79, and exclaimed, “Is it in earnest you are?” after which he was once mor|e committed to his cell, loaded with heavy chains, which he wore, by the I way, during his trial.
Now, in order to account for his outrageous80 conduct, we must make a disclosure to the reader. There is in and about all jails a certain officer yclept a hangman—an officer who is permitted a freer ingress and egress81 than almost any other person connected with those gloomy establishments. This hangman, who resided in the prison, had a brother whom Sir Robert Whitecraft had hanged, and, it was thought, innocently. Be this as it may, the man in question was heard to utter strong threats of vengeance against Sir Robert for having his brother, whose innocence82 he asserted, brought to execution. In some time after this a pistol was fired one night at Sir Robert from behind a hedge, which missed him; but as his myrmidons were with him, and the night was light, a pursuit took place, and the guilty wretch83 was taken prisoner, with the pistol on his person, still warm after having been discharged. The consequence was that he was condemned84 to death. But it so happened that at this period, although there were five or six executions to take place, yet there was no hangman to be had, that officer having died suddenly, after a fit of liquor, and the sheriff would have been obliged to discharge the office with his own hands unless a finisher of the law could be found. In brief, he was found, and in the person of the individual alluded85 to, who, in consequence of his consenting to accept the office, got a pardon from the Crown. Now this man and the Rapparee had been old acquaintances, and renewed their friendship in prison. Through the means of the hangman O'Donnel got in as much whiskey as he pleased, and we need scarcely say that they often got intoxicated86 together. The secret, therefore, which we had to disclose to the reader, in explanation of the Rapparee's conduct at his trial, was simply this, that the man was three-quarters drunk.
After trial he was placed in a darker dungeon87 than before; but such was the influence of the worthy88 executioner with every officer of the jail, that he was permitted to go either in or out without search, and as he often gave a “slug,” as he called it, to the turnkeys, they consequently allowed him, in this respect, whatever privileges he wished. Even the Rapparee's dungeon was not impenetrable to him, especially as he put the matter on a religious footing, to wit, that as the unfortunate robber was not allowed the spiritual aid of his own clergy89, he himself was the only person left to prepare him for death, which he did with the whiskey-bottle.
The assizes on that occasion were protracted90 to an unusual length. The country was in a most excited state, and party feeling ran fearfully high. Nothing was talked of but the two trials, par8 excellence91, to wit, that of Whitecraft and Reilly; and scarcely a fair or market, for a considerable time previous, ever came round in which there waa not a battle on the subject of either one or the other of them, and not unfrequently of both. Nobody was surprised at the conviction of the Red Rapparee; but, on the contrary, every one was glad that the country had at last got rid of him.
Poor Helen, however, was not permitted to remain quiet, as she had expected. When Mr. Doldrum had furnished the leading counsel with his brief and a list of the witnesses, the other gentleman was surprised to see the name of Helen Folliard among them.
“How is this?” he inquired; “is not this the celebrated beauty who eloped with him?”
“It is, sir,” replied Doldrum.
“But,” proceeded the other, “you have not instructed me in the nature of the evidence she is prepared to give.”
“She is deeply penitent65, sir, and in a very feeble state of health; so much so that we were obliged to leave the tendency of her evidence to be brought out on the trial.”
“Have you subpoenaed92 her?”
“No, sir.”
“And why not, Mr. Doldrum? Don't you know that there is no understanding the caprices of women. You ought to have subpoenaed her, because, if she be a leading evidence, she may still change her mind and leave us in the lurch94.”
“I certainly did not subpoena93 her,” replied Doldrum, “because, when I mentioned it to her father, he told me that if I attempted it he would break my head. It was enough, he said, that she had given her promise—a thing, he added, which she was never known to break.”
“Go to her again, Doldrum; for unless we know what she can prove we will be only working in the dark. Try her, at all events, and glean95 what you can out of her. Her father tells me she is somewhat better, so I don't apprehend96 you will have much difficulty in seeing her.”
Doldrum did see her, and was astonished at the striking change which had, in so short a time, taken place in her appearance. She was pale, and exhibited all the symptoms of an invalid97, with the exception of her eyes, which were not merely brilliant, but dazzling, and full of a fire that flashed from them with something like triumph whenever her attention was directed to the purport98 of her testimony99. On this subject they saw that it; would be quite useless, and probably worse than useless, to press her, and they did not, consequently, put her to the necessity of specifying100 the purport of her evidence.
“I have already stated,” said she, “that I shall attend the trial; that ought, and must be, sufficient for you. I beg, then, you will withdraw, sir. My improved health will enable me to attend, and you may rest assured that if I have life I shall be there, as I have already told you; but, I say, that if you wish to press me for the nature of my evidence, you shall have it, and, as she spoke101, her eyes flashed fearfully, as they were in the habit of doing whenever she felt deeply excited. Folliard himself became apprehensive of the danger which might result from the discussion of any subject calculated to disturb her, and insisted that she should be allowed to take her own way. In the meantime, after they had left her, at her own request, her father informed the attorney that she was getting both strong and cheerful, in spite of her looks.
“To be sure,” said he, “she is pale! but that's only natural, after her recent slight attack, and all the excitement and agitation102 she has for some time past undergone. She sings and plays now, although I have heard neither a song nor a tune103 from her for a long time past. In the evening, too, she is exceedingly cheerful when we sit together in the drawing-room; and she often laughs more heartily104 than I ever knew her to do before in my life. Now, do you think, Doldrum, if she was breaking her heart about Reilly that she would be in such spirits?”
“No, sir; she would be melancholy105 and silent, and would neither sing, nor laugh, nor play; at least I felt, so when I was in love with Miss Swithers, who kept me in a state of equilibrium106 for better than two years;—but that wasn't the worst of it, for she knocked the loyalty107 clean out of me besides—indeed, so decidedly so that I never once sang 'Lillibullero' during the whole period of my attachment108, and be hanged to her.”
“And what became of her?”
“Why, she married my clerk, who used to serve my love-letters upon her; and when I expected to come in by execution—that is, by marriage—that cursed little sheriff, Cupid, made a return of nulla bona. She and Sam Snivel—a kind of half Puritan—entered a disappearance109, and I never saw them since; but I am told they are in America. From what you tell me, sir, I have no doubt but Miss Folliard will make a capital witness. In fact, Reilly ought to feel proud of the honor of being hanged by her evidence; she will be a host in herself.”
We have already stated that the leading counsel against Reilly had succeeded in getting his trial postponed until Miss Folliard should arrive at a sufficient state of health to appear against him. In the meantime, the baronet's trial, which was in a political, indeed, we might say, a national point of view, of far more importance than Reilly's, was to come on next day. In the general extent of notoriety or fame, Reilly had got in advance—though not much—of his implacable rival. The two trials were, in fact, so closely united by the relative position of the parties that public opinion was strangely and strongly divided between them. Reilly and his Cooleen Bawn had, by the unhappy peculiarity110 of their fate, excited the interest of all the youthful and loving part of society—an interest which was necessarily reflected upon Whitecraft, as Reilly's rival, independently of the hold which his forthcoming fate had upon grave and serious politicians. Reilly's leading counsel, Fox, a man of great judgment and ability, gave it as his opinion that in consequence of the exacerbated111 state of feeling produced against the Catholics by the prosecution112 of Whitecraft—to appease113 whom, the opinion went that it was instituted—it seemed unlikely that Reilly had a single chance. Had his trial, he said, taken place previous to that of Whitecraft's, he might have escaped many of the consequences of Whitecraft's conviction; but now, should the latter be convicted, the opposing party would die in the jury-box rather than let Reilly escape.
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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syllable
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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indictments
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| n.（制度、社会等的）衰败迹象( indictment的名词复数 )；刑事起诉书；公诉书；控告 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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thoroughly
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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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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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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ousting
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| 驱逐( oust的现在分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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33
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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34
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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35
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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36
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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37
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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38
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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39
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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41
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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42
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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43
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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44
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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45
enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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46
aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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47
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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48
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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49
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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50
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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51
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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52
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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53
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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54
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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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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56
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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57
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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58
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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59
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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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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impenitent
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| adj.不悔悟的，顽固的 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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68
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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69
malefactor
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| n.罪犯 | |
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70
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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72
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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73
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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74
impenitence
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| n.不知悔改，顽固 | |
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75
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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76
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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77
obduracy
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| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
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78
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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80
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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81
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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82
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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83
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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84
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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85
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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87
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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88
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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89
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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90
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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92
subpoenaed
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| v.（用传票）传唤（某人）( subpoena的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
subpoena
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| n.（法律）传票；v.传讯 | |
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94
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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95
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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96
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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97
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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98
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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99
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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100
specifying
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| v.指定( specify的现在分词 )；详述；提出…的条件；使具有特性 | |
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101
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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102
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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103
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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104
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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105
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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106
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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107
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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108
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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109
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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110
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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111
exacerbated
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| v.使恶化，使加重( exacerbate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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113
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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