And honoured for my queene;
With thee I meane to lead my life,
As shortly shall be seene.'"
Far away in an interminable vista1 of rock and forest, which lay behind the King's hunting-tower, like the littered ruins of a world, stretched out the wilderness2. Silent lay the piles of desolation, rank after rank, and voiceless save for the tales which none could understand of the ages that were gone. And wildest of all, and more silent and full of inarticulate eloquence3, was the rift4 where the Ca?on of the Hermits5 split the waste in two.
Deep into the bowels7 of the stony8 land a soft, little, laughing river had licked its way; and now in a cool channel, flanked with perpendicular9 walls, it ran on, hundreds of feet below the level of the wilderness, and seemed to rejoice to think how unenduring beside itself was the everlasting10 rock.
Once or twice in a century a man might find the spot as he followed a trail or sought the riches that lay hidden in the hills. And[Pg 276] there, as he stood upon the brink12 of that Titanic13 trench14, he could not but feel the overpowering presence of the ages which were young when the foundations of the world were laid. He could not but feel, when he listened to the river far below, singing over its never-ending task, what a paltry15 scratching was the greatest work a man could do between the cradle and the grave.
Perhaps it was this that made the hermits choose it for a resting-place, and its utter solitude16 as well. Whatever was the cause, here they had settled, where the perpendicular walls were grimmest and highest; and here, far up in the face of the gaunt cliffs, they had hewn out caves to dwell in. Visibly there was no approach to them; but he who found his way to the little meadows at the foot, and pierced the luxuriant shrubs17, that from which the mighty18 ramparts sprung, would have discovered on either hand a larger cave, which served at once as entrance-hall and corral to the monastery19. From the inmost recess20 of these a rude spiral stair, cut in the solid rock, led upwards21 to a maze22 of crooked23 and inclined galleries communicating with the cells.
Strange as was the hermitage, the hermits were stranger still. Their order was probably without parallel in the history of Christian24 monasticism. For here in each cell lived monk25 and nun26 as man and wife.
[Pg 277]
The origin of the order was lost in obscurity and unknown. The literature on the subject was consequently prodigious27. It is hardly too much to say that Oneirian arch?ology lived on it. The accessible data were, however, confined to two rubbings of symbols, said to be carved on the walls of all the cells. The younger members of the Royal Society were prepared to prove from these that the order was Pagan in its origin, and, further, that it was the original unreformed Oriental predecessor28 of the Eleusinian mysteries. Smart scientific and literary society took this view to a man; but plain people, such as local antiquaries, believed it to be a very ancient heresy29 of the Carthaginian Church. Both, perhaps, were right. The gloomy pessimism30 of African Christianity took many fantastic forms; and this, the most fantastic of all, may well have been a Montanist modification31 of some pre-existing Pagan brotherhood32.
At any rate, it is certain that the order was in existence when Kophetua's ancestor founded his colony. At that time it was an isolated33 print of the Cross in a waste of heathendom; and, as soon as it was discovered, the old knight34 took it under his protection. He found a place for it in his absorptive community, along with all the other ruins of peoples and social systems with which the country was littered. He affiliated36 it to his beggar-guild37. The order[Pg 278] was thereafter regularly subsidised; the hermits were registered; and, though amongst themselves they were all equal, they were placed under an abbot, who represented them in their relation to the state.
In those days the community had been numerous, but now its numbers had greatly fallen off. All children that were born to the hermits were taken away in infancy38, to be brought up at a hospital of the order in a neighbouring town; and, though formerly39 many re-entered the hermitage, most of them now preferred the licence of the beggars' guild, of which they were free. Penelophon herself had been born in the monastery; but her father, on the death of his wife, had claimed his children in a fit of insane anger at Heaven, and taken to the Liberties of St. Lazarus.
The abbot had now scarce half a score of brethren and sisters to be responsible for; but he regularly made his report, and went to receive his subsidy40. It was during one of these expeditions that Kophetua had encountered him out hunting. He was a pale man, with a red, ragged41 beard, and grey eyes, which glistened42 under their white lashes43 with an unhealthy restlessness. His spare figure, too, stooped forward with an air half feeble, half eager, so that his whole aspect was one of aimless intensity44. The eagerness of the man had so struck Kophetua that he had accosted45 him; and, interested in his wild[Pg 279] talk, had accompanied him, without revealing his identity, as far as his cell.
Besides the hermits, Kophetua was probably the only man who knew where the rocky monastery was; and it was his first thought, after he had left Penelophon, that it was there he would be able to find a safe refuge for her. So, with the first glimmer46 of dawn, he had summoned her from her prison, and silently stolen out to the stables. Here he had saddled his horse, and, strapping47 a cushion across its withers48, had ridden away, with Penelophon before him.
They spoke49 little as they went; she was too happy, and he half afraid. For, in the soiled and shabby gown she wore, and with her hair knotted loosely up as best she could, she seemed once more the same strange thing that first had fascinated him in its rags and filth50. Presently she grew tired, and her head gradually fell upon his breast. Then, as she nestled close to him, a sense of peace came into his heart. Even as he had gone to fetch her from the turret51 he knew the desire of finding her a refuge was not the only reason for what he did. Another lay whispering deep down in the bottom of his thoughts. At first he would not own it; but now, as he neared the monastery, and the beggar-maid nestled still closer in her weariness, the little voice spoke louder, the fancy seemed less wild, and throne and crown and people grew faint and far away.
[Pg 280]
The abbot was getting water from the stream as, having descended52 the difficult bridle-way by which the hermitage was reached, they approached it along the meadows. He looked up in great surprise to see riding towards him a young man in a plain hunting dress, with a girl in a grey gown, old and patched, on the saddle before him. It was many years now since a pair had come to join the hermit6 community, and they were younger than any novices53 he himself could remember. So he set down his gourd54, and came forward eagerly to meet them.
"Welcome! welcome, my children!" he cried. "Even so should ye come to the holy place, riding upon one horse, even as one thought shall henceforth bear you both through life till the end. Come, my son, trust thy wife a moment to me, that I may lift her down. Then take her to thy breast for ever."
A faint flush overspread Penelophon's wan55 face as the hermit held up his arms to take her. And as for Kophetua, he felt his heart leap in a kind of reckless ecstasy56; the blood rushed tingling57 through his veins58, and the whispering thought that had lain so quiet seemed to spring up and speak aloud.
The moments flew by, and Kophetua let them go with never a word. Penelophon gazed with wide eyes upon him, in shy wonder that he still held back the truth.[Pg 281] But Kophetua could not speak. The long romantic ride, the almost unearthly scene about him, and the abbot's unexpected welcome had strangely affected59 him. That plain little word "wife" was full of magic. It seemed to have transformed his life into an old tale and himself into its unreal hero. An excitement of a delicacy60 he had never known took possession of him. It was like playing in a masquerade, where the audience believed what they saw was real. It was play with all the spice of earnest, and he could not bring himself to break the spell. It would be time enough to explain to-morrow, he thought. To-night, at any rate, the hermit's mistake would assure them of shelter, which it was possible he might deny if he knew the truth.
So Kophetua put his horse in the great cave on the abbot's side of the stream, and then they all went together up to his cell, where his wife prepared a frugal61 meal. Long they sat together, listening to the anchorites as they talked of the blessedness of the married state; and each time they spoke of them as man and wife Kophetua's heart beat with fresh delight, and the beggar-maid blushed anew.
Night fell at last, and the hermit led them further up the long winding63 stair, all dark and slippery with the dripping moisture, to the cell that was to be theirs. There he placed a flickering64 lamp in a little recess,[Pg 282] and then, with his blessing65, left them alone in the heart of the living rock.
For a little while they occupied themselves examining the gloomy abode66. But the feeling of oppression, from the vast masses of rock that encompassed67 them, grew insupportable to the King, and he led the beggar-maid to the mouth of the cave. There they stood in silence, side by side, looking out upon the night. Before them was the giant wall of grey rock, pierced here and there with dark holes, that were caves like their own. In one glimmered68 a feeble light, and from it crept a weird69, low sound, as of a man and a woman monotonously70 chanting a weary prayer. Then it ceased; the light died out with the chant, and, save for the voice of the heedless river, as it hurried on far below them, all was hushed in the majesty71 of the night.
The sense of perfect solitude that fell upon Kophetua then was strangely sweet. Far beyond the dark fringe of jungle that crowned the cliff rolled the solemn stars, but even they seemed nearer than the world he had left. As the last sign of life disappeared, he turned instinctively72 to the companion of his place. He saw her dimly in the faint starlight gazing wistfully at him. As their eyes met she leaned earnestly towards him, and half put out her hand in an unfinished gesture of supplication73.
"Trecenito!" she said, and then stopped[Pg 283] abruptly74; but into the one word was gathered such intense emotion, such a world of inarticulate entreaty75, that it made him start, and his breath came fast. For some moments they stood looking at each other, each deeply moved, and it was Penelophon who braved the evil silence and spoke first.
"Trecenito," she said again, "why did you let them call us man and wife? Tell me, am I—am I indeed your wife?"
Once more her voice seemed to shed around the dim figure an inviolable holiness, and make him suddenly calm. Without a word he quietly stepped towards her, and deliberately76 put his signet ring upon her finger. Then, taking the grey form in his arms, he gently kissed the pure, pale face. In another moment she heard his firm step on the rocky stairs, and he was gone.
In the morning, when the abbot came to milk his cow, he found Kophetua fast asleep on a heap of rushes beside his horse. Immediately he roused him.
"My son, my son," he cried, "what do you here? Why are you not beside your wife?"
The King sprang up, and rubbed his eyes. Then he stared a while hard at the hermit's eager face, till he could remember where he was.
"I have no wife," he said abruptly; and, striding past the hermit, he walked rapidly to the river, and, casting off his clothes, he leaped into the cool and sparkling water.
[Pg 284]
But even the heedless river could not bring back to him the cynical77 calm he had lost. The ancient mystery of the place hung on him still like a spell, and the river ran by behind him, laughing in lofty contempt, as he took his way back. No longer could he think as was his wont78. The grim cliffs seemed to bar him from his old philosophy; and out of the dark holes in their face, which marked the deserted79 cells, seemed to come whisperings of thoughts long dead. The ghosts of all the sharp griefs and insane dreaming that had wafted80 men and women hither, age after age, in search of peace, streamed out like some unseen miasma81, and compassed him about. How many had been whirled into this silent eddy82 in the great river of time before him to find or wait for the telling of the great secret that vexed83 their soul! It was all he could bring his thoughts to rest on. He felt about him, like a living presence, the spirit of a mysticism long since dead, and he could reason no more.
Suddenly he started to find himself face to face with the red-bearded hermit.
"What is this sin, my son? What is this lie?" cried the man, with unsteady anger in his eye and voice.
"It is no sin. It is no lie," answered Kophetua sharply. "She is not my wife. Last night she was, if ever man had wife. You yourself called her so, and I was sure[Pg 285] you spoke a sudden truth; but to-day it is changed. You lied. She is not my wife. She shall not be my wife!"
He was conscious of speaking like a madman, but it was all he could find to say. The hermit was in no way troubled at his wild speech. It seemed the language he best understood.
"And why not, my son?" he answered quietly, though his eyes glittered restlessly still.
"Because it was not for that I brought her here," said the King, trying to bring back clearly the events and thoughts of yesterday. "I brought her hither for refuge. She is wronged, foully84 wronged and persecuted85, and you must give her sanctuary86."
"'Tis not my office," said the hermit. "You should take her to the King."
"Nay87," cried Kophetua, "her wrongs are more than a King can redress88. It is you who must give her shelter."
"It is impossible," said the abbot. "By the eternal laws, which no one can break, none but man and wife may abide89 with us. Stay thou with her, and all will be well."
"It cannot be," answered the King. "The voice of duty calls too loud elsewhere."
"What duty is it speaks so big?" said the hermit, smiling, as though he spoke with a child, to humour it from its wilfulness90.
"I am one in high place," answered [Pg 286]Kophetua. "I am master of wide lands, and the well-being91 of the people calls me back."
"Ah, thou art like them all, my son," said the hermit sadly; "and yet there is better than that in thee. I was even so myself long years ago. Far away to the northward92, by the blue waters of the Mediterranean93, I had authority over men. I had struggled for it from boyhood, for I knew there was no peace save in breeding happiness for the world; so I sought and won high place that I might teach men virtue94 and wisdom, and make laws to force them to it."
"And that is my life too," cried Kophetua. "It is the life it is cowardice95 to leave."
"Nay, hear me," continued the hermit. "There are worse sins than cowardice; and those are they which men commit in the life I led. For, mark me, however thou shalt ponder and prune96 and assay97, yet every law thou shalt make to uproot98 an abuse shall sow the seed of twenty more. What law was ever proclaimed that did not bring evil in its train? I saw my choicest measures, that had cost me all the wisdom and strength that was in me, imperfect, always imperfect. As I passed by the ruins of the evil I had smitten99, lo! I saw on all hands new crimes for men to commit. Look forward, I tell thee, as far as thou wilt100, and look again and again in thy diligence to foresee the results for good or evil of what thou art about to do;[Pg 287] strain thine eyes each time further into the unborn time, till men shall wonder at thy foresight101; yet never, never shalt thou see the end. Even close in front of where thy vision reached at furthest may slumber102 an evil tenfold more pestilent than that thou wouldst destroy, and the forces thou hast started shall waken it at last. If man will meddle103 with God's work, evil will come in the end. If he shall try to drive the chariot of the sun, he will only scorch104 the earth. God planted His laws in the beginning of the world that they might grow in His strength. It is only because men, in the vanity of their false wisdom, have cut and pruned105 and forced them to unnatural106 growth that there is evil in the world. Leave them alone, I say, and sin not."
"Nay, rather," cried Kophetua, "leave them and sin perforce. For how shall a man find the path of virtue if he cease to try and better his neighbours' lot."
"God has shown us the way," exclaimed the abbot, as one inspired; "join us, and thou shalt see it too. To this end woman was given to man, and man to woman. Take thou a woman to thyself, and find in her food to feed thy yearning107. Take one soul, and live for it. To desire more is but vanity and ambition. Men will think themselves so great that one is not enough for their devotion; but God meant otherwise. Man and woman He made to be together, one [Pg 288]perfect being. To cement this unity35 He gave us the noble yearning of unselfishness, which has gone so wide astray. In their pride men let it dissipate itself in ambitious philanthropy. Love for the race is a dream. It is love of man and wife that is the only truth."
Kophetua could not but be moved by the man's earnestness, so strangely unhinged as he was by his surroundings and his troubles. The evils that the old knight's grandest fancy had bred came vividly108 before him. Did this hermit give the key of the mystery why his own life had been as great a failure as the beggar-guild? The hermit's solution of the great problem was easy; and sweet as it was easy.
"But I have no wife," objected the King, as he felt himself yielding.
"Ay, but there is one within thy reach," said the abbot. "Take her whom thou broughtest hither last night."
"But there is none to wed11 us here," answered Kophetua, still seeking an escape from the influence around him; "we will depart, and come again as man and wife."
"There is no need," said the hermit. "It is not ceremonies that unite two half-souls into one. Stay here the period of probation109. Consecrate110 thy life to her; sacrifice thine every hour to her greater comfort; offer to her thine every thought and every action till the months of thy noviciate be expired. By[Pg 289] such ennobling service shalt thou find thyself more truly wed to her than by the grandest and most solemn rites62 that ever priests devised. Why, thou knowest it is true! Didst thou not feel it last night, when thou couldst not deny she was thy wife?"
Then the King could answer nothing; he wandered away without a word, and talked with other hermits. All had the same doctrine111 to preach, and each time its truth sank deeper into Kophetua's heart. Day after day went by, and still he did not depart. All day long the King and the beggar-maid wandered by the side of the busy river like lovers, and never were parted, save when the night fell and the abbess came to call Penelophon to the cell beside her own, or when Kophetua climbed up into the hanging woods to trap a deer and snare112 her a bird.
Hours they spent fishing, and took but little; for the King had no eye for his float, let it bob how it would. The most part of the time he would lie upon the flowery meadow, gazing like one bewitched at that for which he lived; and that was Penelophon, sitting before him and wreathing flowers and singing a low song, that mingled113 harmoniously114 with the happy hum of the little lives of which the air was full. Ever and again she ceased, and the King crept to her to put his arm about her lovingly, and gently[Pg 290] kiss the delicate face, as though he sipped115 honey from a flower. Between each kiss she looked at him, still in shy wonder, not able to believe such happiness was real. So they would sit a little space, till the King was minded of his fishing, and rose to cast his line anew. That business done, he stretched himself upon the grass again to watch his float, and never watched it. For the maid began another garland and another song, as one that dreamed, and the King must feed his eyes again till his lips grew envious116 once more.
So the two worshipped one the other, and with idyllic117 ritual dallied118 through the long marriage service which the hermits had enjoined119.
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1
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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5
hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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6
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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7
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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8
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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9
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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11
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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12
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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14
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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18
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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32
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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affiliated
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| adj. 附属的, 有关连的 | |
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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subsidy
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| n.补助金，津贴 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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44
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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45
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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46
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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47
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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48
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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49
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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50
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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51
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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52
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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53
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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54
gourd
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| n.葫芦 | |
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55
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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56
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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57
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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58
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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59
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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60
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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63
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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64
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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68
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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71
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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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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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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prune
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| n.酶干；vt.修剪，砍掉，削减；vi.删除 | |
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assay
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| n.试验，测定 | |
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98
uproot
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| v.连根拔起，拔除；根除，灭绝；赶出家园，被迫移开 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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100
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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101
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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102
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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103
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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104
scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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105
pruned
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| v.修剪（树木等）( prune的过去式和过去分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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106
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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107
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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108
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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109
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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110
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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111
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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112
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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113
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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114
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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115
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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117
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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118
dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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119
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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