I had already made all my arrangements, and though I had no reason for any doubt as to my personal security during the trip, I did not feel altogether satisfied with them. I intended to take a French guide, or dragoman, who had been with me for some days, and to put myself under the peculiar7 guardianship8 of two Bedouin Arabs, who were to accompany me as long as I should remain east of Jerusalem. This travelling through the desert under the protection of Bedouins was, in idea, pleasant enough; and I must here declare that I did not at all begrudge9 the forty shillings which I was told by our British consul10 that I must pay them for their trouble, in accordance with the established tariff11. But I did begrudge the fact of the tariff. I would rather have fallen in with my friendly Arabs, as it were by chance, and have rewarded their fidelity12 at the end of our joint13 journeyings by a donation of piastres to be settled by myself, and which, under such circumstances, would certainly have been as agreeable to them as the stipulated14 sum. In the same way I dislike having waiters put down in my bill. I find that I pay them twice over, and thus lose money; and as they do not expect to be so treated, I never have the advantage of their civility. The world, I fear, is becoming too fond of tariffs15.
“A tariff!” said I to the consul, feeling that the whole romance of my expedition would be dissipated by such an arrangement. “Then I’ll go alone; I’ll take a revolver with me.”
“You can’t do it, sir,” said the consul, in a dry and somewhat angry tone. “You have no more right to ride through that country without paying the regular price for protection, than you have to stop in Z—’s hotel without settling the bill.”
I could not contest the point, so I ordered my Bedouins for the appointed day, exactly as I would send for a ticket-porter at home, and determined16 to make the best of it. The wild unlimited17 sands, the desolation of the Dead Sea, the rushing waters of Jordan, the outlines of the mountains of Moab;—those things the consular18 tariff could not alter, nor deprive them of the glories of their association.
I had submitted, and the arrangements had been made. Joseph, my dragoman, was to come to me with the horses and an Arab groom19 at five in the morning, and we were to encounter our Bedouins outside the gate of St. Stephen, down the hill, where the road turns, close to the tomb of the Virgin20.
I was sitting alone in the public room at the hotel, filling my flask21 with brandy,—for matters of primary importance I never leave to servant, dragoman, or guide,—when the waiter entered, and said that a gentleman wished to speak with me. The gentleman had not sent in his card or name; but any gentleman was welcome to me in my solitude, and I requested that the gentleman might enter. In appearance the gentleman certainly was a gentleman, for I thought that I had never before seen a young man whose looks were more in his favour, or whose face and gait and outward bearing seemed to betoken22 better breeding. He might be some twenty or twenty-one years of age, was slight and well made, with very black hair, which he wore rather long, very dark long bright eyes, a straight nose, and teeth that were perfectly23 white. He was dressed throughout in grey tweed clothing, having coat, waistcoat, and trousers of the same; and in his hand he carried a very broad-brimmed straw hat.
“Mr. Jones, I believe,” he said, as he bowed to me. Jones is a good travelling name, and, if the reader will allow me, I will call myself Jones on the present occasion.
“Yes,” I said, pausing with the brandy-bottle in one hand, and the flask in the other. “That’s my name; I’m Jones. Can I do anything for you, sir?”
“Why, yes, you can,” said he. “My name is Smith,—John Smith.”
“Pray sit down, Mr. Smith,” I said, pointing to a chair. “Will you do anything in this way?” and I proposed to hand the bottle to him. “As far as I can judge from a short stay, you won’t find much like that in Jerusalem.”
He declined the Cognac, however, and immediately began his story. “I hear, Mr. Jones,” said he, “that you are going to Moab to-morrow.”
“Well,” I replied, “I don’t know whether I shall cross the water. It’s not very easy, I take it, at all times; but I shall certainly get as far as Jordan. Can I do anything for you in those parts?”
And then he explained to me what was the object of his visit. He was quite alone in Jerusalem, as I was myself; and was staying at H—’s hotel. He had heard that I was starting for the Dead Sea, and had called to ask if I objected to his joining me. He had found himself, he said, very lonely; and as he had heard that I also was alone, he had ventured to call and make his proposition. He seemed to be very bashful, and half ashamed of what he was doing; and when he had done speaking he declared himself conscious that he was intruding24, and expressed a hope that I would not hesitate to say so if his suggestion were from any cause disagreeable to me.
As a rule I am rather shy of chance travelling English friends. It has so frequently happened to me that I have had to blush for the acquaintances whom I have selected, that I seldom indulge in any close intimacies25 of this kind. But, nevertheless, I was taken with John Smith, in spite of his name. There was so much about him that was pleasant, both to the eye and to the understanding! One meets constantly with men from contact with whom one revolts without knowing the cause of such dislike. The cut of their beard is displeasing27, or the mode in which they walk or speak. But, on the other hand, there are men who are attractive, and I must confess that I was attracted by John Smith at first sight. I hesitated, however, for a minute; for there are sundry28 things of which it behoves a traveller to think before he can join a companion for such a journey as that which I was about to make. Could the young man rise early, and remain in the saddle for ten hours together? Could he live upon hard-boiled eggs and brandy-and-water? Could he take his chance of a tent under which to sleep, and make himself happy with the bare fact of being in the desert? He saw my hesitation29, and attributed it to a cause which was not present in my mind at the moment, though the subject was one of the greatest importance when strangers consent to join themselves together for a time, and agree to become no strangers on the spur of the moment.
“Of course I will take half the expense,” said he, absolutely blushing as he mentioned the matter.
“As to that there will be very little. You have your own horse, of course?”
“Oh, yes.”
“My dragoman and groom-boy will do for both. But you’ll have to pay forty shillings to the Arabs! There’s no getting over that. The consul won’t even look after your dead body, if you get murdered, without going through that ceremony.”
Mr. Smith immediately produced his purse, which he tendered to me. “If you will manage it all,” said he, “it will make it so much the easier, and I shall be infinitely30 obliged to you.” This of course I declined to do. I had no business with his purse, and explained to him that if we went together we could settle that on our return to Jerusalem. “But could he go through really hard work?” I asked. He answered me with an assurance that he would and could do anything in that way that it was possible for man to perform. As for eating and drinking he cared nothing about it, and would undertake to be astir at any hour of the morning that might be named. As for sleeping accommodation, he did not care if he kept his clothes on for a week together. He looked slight and weak; but he spoke31 so well, and that without boasting, that I ultimately agreed to his proposal, and in a few minutes he took his leave of me, promising32 to be at Z—’s door with his horse at five o’clock on the following morning.
“I wish you’d allow me to leave my purse with you,” he said again.
“I cannot think of it. There is no possible occasion for it,” I said again. “If there is anything to pay, I’ll ask you for it when the journey is over. That forty shillings you must fork out. It’s a law of the Medes and Persians.”
“I’d better give it you at once,” he said again, offering me money. But I would not have it. It would be quite time enough for that when the Arabs were leaving us.
“Because,” he added, “strangers, I know, are sometimes suspicious about money; and I would not, for worlds, have you think that I would put you to expense.” I assured him that I did not think so, and then the subject was dropped.
He was, at any rate, up to his time, for when I came down on the following morning I found him in the narrow street, the first on horseback. Joseph, the Frenchman, was strapping33 on to a rough pony34 our belongings35, and was staring at Mr. Smith. My new friend, unfortunately, could not speak a word of French, and therefore I had to explain to the dragoman how it had come to pass that our party was to be enlarged.
“But the Bedouins will expect full pay for both,” said he, alarmed. Men in that class, and especially Orientals, always think that every arrangement of life, let it be made in what way it will, is made with the intention of saving some expense, or cheating somebody out of some money. They do not understand that men can have any other object, and are ever on their guard lest the saving should be made at their cost, or lest they should be the victims of the fraud.
“All right,” said I.
“I shall be responsible, Monsieur,” said the dragoman, piteously.
“It shall be all right,” said I, again. “If that does not satisfy you, you may remain behind.”
“If Monsieur says it is all right, of course it is so;” and then he completed his strapping. We took blankets with us, of which I had to borrow two out of the hotel for my friend Smith, a small hamper36 of provisions, a sack containing forage37 for the horses, and a large empty jar, so that we might supply ourselves with water when leaving the neighbourhood of wells for any considerable time.
“I ought to have brought these things for myself,” said Smith, quite unhappy at finding that he had thrown on me the necessity of catering38 for him. But I laughed at him, saying that it was nothing; he should do as much for me another time. I am prepared to own that I do not willingly rush up-stairs and load myself with blankets out of strange rooms for men whom I do not know; nor, as a rule, do I make all the Smiths of the world free of my canteen. But, with reference to this fellow I did feel more than ordinarily good-natured and unselfish. There was something in the tone of his voice which was satisfactory; and I should really have felt vexed39 had anything occurred at the last moment to prevent his going with me.
Let it be a rule with every man to carry an English saddle with him when travelling in the East. Of what material is formed the nether40 man of a Turk I have never been informed, but I am sure that it is not flesh and blood. No flesh and blood,—simply flesh and blood,—could withstand the wear and tear of a Turkish saddle. This being the case, and the consequences being well known to me, I was grieved to find that Smith was not properly provided. He was seated on one of those hard, red, high-pointed machines, in which the shovels41 intended to act as stirrups are attached in such a manner, and hang at such an angle, as to be absolutely destructive to the leg of a Christian42. There is no part of the Christian body with which the Turkish saddle comes in contact that does not become more or less macerated. I have sat in one for days, but I left it a flayed43 man; and, therefore, I was sorry for Smith.
I explained this to him, taking hold of his leg by the calf44 to show how the leather would chafe45 him; but it seemed to me that he did not quite like my interference. “Never mind,” said he, twitching46 his leg away, “I have ridden in this way before.”
“Only a little, and I shall be used to it now. You will not hear me complain.”
“By heavens, you might have heard me complain a mile off when I came to the end of a journey I once took. I roared like a bull when I began to cool. Joseph, could you not get a European saddle for Mr. Smith?” But Joseph did not seem to like Mr. Smith, and declared such a thing to be impossible. No European in Jerusalem would think of lending so precious an article, except to a very dear friend. Joseph himself was on an English saddle, and I made up my mind that after the first stage, we would bribe48 him to make an exchange. And then we started.
The Bedouins were not with us, but we were to meet them, as I have said before, outside St. Stephen’s gate. “And if they are not there,” said Joseph, “we shall be sure to come across them on the road.”
“Not there!” said I. “How about the consul’s tariff, if they don’t keep their part of the engagement?” But Joseph explained to me that their part of the engagement really amounted to this,—that we should ride into their country without molestation49, provided that such and such payments were made.
It was the period of Easter, and Jerusalem was full of pilgrims. Even at that early hour of the morning we could hardly make our way through the narrow streets. It must be understood that there is no accommodation in the town for the fourteen or fifteen thousand strangers who flock to the Holy Sepulchre at this period of the year. Many of them sleep out in the open air, lying on low benches which run along the outside walls of the houses, or even on the ground, wrapped in their thick hoods50 and cloaks. Slumberers such as these are easily disturbed, nor are they detained long at their toilets. They shake themselves like dogs, and growl52 and stretch themselves, and then they are ready for the day.
We rode out of the town in a long file. First went the groom-boy; I forget his proper Syrian appellation53, but we used to call him Mucherry, that sound being in some sort like the name. Then followed the horse with the forage and blankets, and next to him my friend Smith in the Turkish saddle. I was behind him, and Joseph brought up the rear. We moved slowly down the Via Dolorosa, noting the spot at which our Saviour is said to have fallen while bearing his cross; we passed by Pilate’s house, and paused at the gate of the Temple,—the gate which once was beautiful,—looking down into the hole of the pool in which the maimed and halt were healed whenever the waters moved. What names they are! And yet there at Jerusalem they are bandied to and fro with as little reverence54 as are the fanciful appellations55 given by guides to rocks and stones and little lakes in all countries overrun by tourists.
“For those who would still fain believe,—let them stay at home,” said my friend Smith.
“For those who cannot divide the wheat from the chaff56, let them stay at home,” I answered. And then we rode out through St. Stephen’s gate, having the mountain of the men of Galilee directly before us, and the Mount of Olives a little to our right, and the Valley of Jehoshaphat lying between us and it. “Of course you know all these places now?” said Smith. I answered that I did know them well.
“No, by Jove,” said I. “The mountains stand where they ever stood. The same valleys are still green with the morning dew, and the water-courses are unchanged. The children of Mahomet may build their tawdry temple on the threshing-floor which David bought that there might stand the Lord’s house. Man may undo58 what man did, even though the doer was Solomon. But here we have God’s handiwork and His own evidences.”
At the bottom of the steep descent from the city gate we came to the tomb of the Virgin; and by special agreement made with Joseph we left our horses here for a few moments, in order that we might descend59 into the subterranean60 chapel61 under the tomb, in which mass was at this moment being said. There is something awful in that chapel, when, as at the present moment, it is crowded with Eastern worshippers from the very altar up to the top of the dark steps by which the descent is made. It must be remembered that Eastern worshippers are not like the churchgoers of London, or even of Rome or Cologne. They are wild men of various nations and races,—Maronites from Lebanon, Roumelians, Candiotes, Copts from Upper Egypt, Russians from the Crimea, Armenians and Abyssinians. They savour strongly of Oriental life and of Oriental dirt. They are clad in skins or hairy cloaks with huge hoods. Their heads are shaved, and their faces covered with short, grisly, fierce beards. They are silent mostly, looking out of their eyes ferociously63, as though murder were in their thoughts, and rapine. But they never slouch, or cringe in their bodies, or shuffle64 in their gait. Dirty, fierce-looking, uncouth65, repellent as they are, there is always about them a something of personal dignity which is not compatible with an Englishman’s ordinary hat and pantaloons.
As we were about to descend, preparing to make our way through the crowd, Smith took hold of my arm. “That will never do, my dear fellow,” said I, “the job will be tough enough for a single file, but we should never cut our way two and two. I’m broad-shouldered and will go first.” So I did, and gradually we worked our way into the body of the chapel. How is it that Englishmen can push themselves anywhere? These men were fierce-looking, and had murder and rapine, as I have said, almost in their eyes. One would have supposed that they were not lambs or doves, capable of being thrust here or there without anger on their part; and they, too, were all anxious to descend and approach the altar. Yet we did win our way through them, and apparently66 no man was angry with us. I doubt, after all, whether a ferocious62 eye and a strong smell and dirt are so efficacious in creating awe67 and obedience68 in others, as an open brow and traces of soap and water. I know this, at least,—that a dirty Maronite would make very little progress, if he attempted to shove his way unfairly through a crowd of Englishmen at the door of a London theatre. We did shove unfairly, and we did make progress, till we found ourselves in the centre of the dense69 crowd collected in the body of the chapel.
Having got so far, our next object was to get out again. The place was dark, mysterious, and full of strange odours; but darkness, mystery, and strange odours soon lose their charms when men have much work before them. Joseph had made a point of being allowed to attend mass before the altar of the Virgin, but a very few minutes sufficed for his prayers. So we again turned round and pushed our way back again, Smith still following in my wake. The men who had let us pass once let us pass again without opposition70 or show of anger. To them the occasion was very holy. They were stretching out their hands in every direction, with long tapers71, in order that they might obtain a spark of the sacred fire which was burning on one of the altars. As we made our way out we passed many who, with dumb motions, begged us to assist them in their object. And we did assist them, getting lights for their tapers, handing them to and fro, and using the authority with which we seemed to be invested. But Smith, I observed, was much more courteous72 in this way to the women than to the men, as I did not forget to remind him when we were afterwards on our road together.
Remounting our horses we rode slowly up the winding73 ascent74 of the Mount of Olives, turning round at the brow of the hill to look back over Jerusalem. Sometimes I think that of all spots in the world this one should be the spot most cherished in the memory of Christians75. It was there that He stood when He wept over the city. So much we do know, though we are ignorant, and ever shall be so, of the site of His cross and of the tomb. And then we descended76 on the eastern side of the hill, passing through Bethany, the town of Lazarus and his sisters, and turned our faces steadily77 towards the mountains of Moab.
Hitherto we had met no Bedouins, and I interrogated78 my dragoman about them more than once; but he always told me that it did not signify; we should meet them, he said, before any danger could arise. “As for danger,” said I, “I think more of this than I do of the Arabs,” and I put my hand on my revolver. “But as they agreed to be here, here they ought to be. Don’t you carry a revolver, Smith?”
Smith said that he never had done so, but that he would take the charge of mine if I liked. To this, however, I demurred79. “I never part with my pistol to any one,” I said, rather drily. But he explained that he only intended to signify that if there were danger to be encountered, he would be glad to encounter it; and I fully80 believed him. “We shan’t have much fighting,” I replied; “but if there be any, the tool will come readiest to the hand of its master. But if you mean to remain here long I would advise you to get one. These Orientals are a people with whom appearances go a long way, and, as a rule, fear and respect mean the same thing with them. A pistol hanging over your loins is no great trouble to you, and looks as though you could bite. Many a dog goes through the world well by merely showing his teeth.”
And then my companion began to talk of himself. “He did not,” he said, “mean to remain in Syria very long.”
“Nor I either,” said I. “I have done with this part of the world for the present, and shall take the next steamer from Jaffa for Alexandria. I shall only have one night in Jerusalem on my return.”
After this he remained silent for a few moments and then declared that that also had been his intention. He was almost ashamed to say so, however, because it looked as though he had resolved to hook himself on to me. So he answered, expressing almost regret at the circumstance.
“Don’t let that trouble you,” said I; “I shall be delighted to have your company. When you know me better, as I hope you will do, you will find that if such were not the case I should tell you so as frankly81. I shall remain in Cairo some little time; so that beyond our arrival in Egypt, I can answer for nothing.”
He said that he expected letters at Alexandria which would govern his future movements. I thought he seemed sad as he said so, and imagined, from his manner, that he did not expect very happy tidings. Indeed I had made up my mind that he was by no means free from care or sorrow. He had not the air of a man who could say of himself that he was “totus teres atque rotundus.” But I had no wish to inquire, and the matter would have dropped had he not himself added—“I fear that I shall meet acquaintances in Egypt whom it will give me no pleasure to see.”
“Then,” said I, “if I were you, I would go to Constantinople instead;—indeed, anywhere rather than fall among friends who are not friendly. And the nearer the friend is, the more one feels that sort of thing. To my way of thinking, there is nothing on earth so pleasant as a pleasant wife; but then, what is there so damnable as one that is unpleasant?”
“Are you a married man?” he inquired. All his questions were put in a low tone of voice which seemed to give to them an air of special interest, and made one almost feel that they were asked with some special view to one’s individual welfare. Now the fact is, that I am a married man with a family; but I am not much given to talk to strangers about my domestic concerns, and, therefore, though I had no particular object in view, I denied my obligations in this respect. “No,” said I; “I have not come to that promotion82 yet. I am too frequently on the move to write myself down as Paterfamilias.”
“Then you know nothing about that pleasantness of which you spoke just now?”
“Nor of the unpleasantness, thank God; my personal experiences are all to come,—as also are yours, I presume?”
It was possible that he had hampered83 himself with some woman, and that she was to meet him at Alexandria. Poor fellow! thought I. But his unhappiness was not of that kind. “No,” said he; “I am not married; I am all alone in the world.”
“Then I certainly would not allow myself to be troubled by unpleasant acquaintances.”
It was now four hours since we had left Jerusalem, and we had arrived at the place at which it was proposed that we should breakfast. There was a large well there, and shade afforded by a rock under which the water sprung; and the Arabs had constructed a tank out of which the horses could drink, so that the place was ordinarily known as the first stage out of Jerusalem.
Smith had said not a word about his saddle, or complained in any way of discomfort84, so that I had in truth forgotten the subject. Other matters had continually presented themselves, and I had never even asked him how he had fared. I now jumped from my horse, but I perceived at once that he was unable to do so. He smiled faintly, as his eye caught mine, but I knew that he wanted assistance. “Ah,” said I, “that confounded Turkish saddle has already galled85 your skin. I see how it is; I shall have to doctor you with a little brandy,—externally applied86, my friend.” But I lent him my shoulder, and with that assistance he got down, very gently and slowly.
We ate our breakfast with a good will; bread and cold fowl87 and brandy-and-water, with a hard-boiled egg by way of a final delicacy88; and then I began to bargain with Joseph for the loan of his English saddle. I saw that Smith could not get through the journey with that monstrous89 Turkish affair, and that he would go on without complaining till he fainted or came to some other signal grief. But the Frenchman, seeing the plight90 in which we were, was disposed to drive a very hard bargain. He wanted forty shillings, the price of a pair of live Bedouins, for the accommodation, and declared that, even then, he should make the sacrifice only out of consideration to me.
“Very well,” said I. “I’m tolerably tough myself; and I’ll change with the gentleman. The chances are that I shall not be in a very liberal humour when I reach Jaffa with stiff limbs and a sore skin. I have a very good memory, Joseph.”
“I’ll take thirty shillings, Mr. Jones; though I shall have to groan91 all the way like a condemned92 devil.”
I struck a bargain with him at last for five-and-twenty, and set him to work to make the necessary change on the horses. “It will be just the same thing to him,” I said to Smith. “I find that he is as much used to one as to the other.”
“But how much money are you to pay him?” he asked. “Oh, nothing,” I replied. “Give him a few piastres when you part with him at Jaffa.” I do not know why I should have felt thus inclined to pay money out of my pocket for this Smith,—a man whom I had only seen for the first time on the preceding evening, and whose temperament93 was so essentially94 different from my own; but so I did. I would have done almost anything in reason for his comfort; and yet he was a melancholy95 fellow, with good inward pluck as I believed, but without that outward show of dash and hardihood which I confess I love to see. “Pray tell him that I’ll pay him for it,” said he. “We’ll make that all right,” I answered; and then we remounted,—not without some difficulty on his part. “You should have let me rub in that brandy,” I said. “You can’t conceive how efficaciously I would have done it.” But he made me no answer.
At noon we met a caravan96 of pilgrims coming up from Jordan. There might be some three or four hundred, but the number seemed to be treble that, from the loose and straggling line in which they journeyed. It was a very singular sight, as they moved slowly along the narrow path through the sand, coming out of a defile97 among the hills, which was perhaps a quarter of a mile in front of us, passing us as we stood still by the wayside, and then winding again out of sight on the track over which we had come. Some rode on camels,—a whole family, in many cases, being perched on the same animal. I observed a very old man and a very old woman slung98 in panniers over a camel’s back,—not such panniers as might be befitting such a purpose, but square baskets, so that the heads and heels of each of the old couple hung out of the rear and front. “Surely the journey will be their death,” I said to Joseph. “Yes it will,” he replied, quite coolly; “but what matter how soon they die now that they have bathed in Jordan?” Very many rode on donkeys; two, generally, on each donkey; others, who had command of money, on horses; but the greater number walked, toiling99 painfully from Jerusalem to Jericho on the first day, sleeping there in tents and going to bathe on the second day, and then returning from Jericho to Jerusalem on the third. The pilgrimage is made throughout in accordance with fixed100 rules, and there is a tariff for the tent accommodation at Jericho,—so much per head per night, including the use of hot water.
Standing26 there, close by the wayside, we could see not only the garments and faces of these strange people, but we could watch their gestures and form some opinion of what was going on within their thoughts. They were much quieter,—tamer, as it were,—than Englishmen would be under such circumstances. Those who were carried seemed to sit on their beasts in passive tranquillity101, neither enjoying nor suffering anything. Their object had been to wash in Jordan,—to do that once in their lives;—and they had washed in Jordan. The benefit expected was not to be immediately spiritual. No earnest prayerfulness was considered necessary after the ceremony. To these members of the Greek Christian Church it had been handed down from father to son that washing in Jordan once during life was efficacious towards salvation102. And therefore the journey had been made at terrible cost and terrible risk; for these people had come from afar, and were from their habits but little capable of long journeys. Many die under the toil51; but this matters not if they do not die before they have reached Jordan. Some few there are, undoubtedly103, more ecstatic in this great deed of their religion. One man I especially noticed on this day. He had bound himself to make the pilgrimage from Jerusalem to the river with one foot bare. He was of a better class, and was even nobly dressed, as though it were a part of his vow104 to show to all men that he did this deed, wealthy and great though he was. He was a fine man, perhaps thirty years of age, with a well-grown beard descending105 on his breast, and at his girdle he carried a brace106 of pistols.
But never in my life had I seen bodily pain so plainly written in a man’s face. The sweat was falling from his brow, and his eyes were strained and bloodshot with agony. He had no stick, his vow, I presume, debarring him from such assistance, and he limped along, putting to the ground the heel of the unprotected foot. I could see it, and it was a mass of blood, and sores, and broken skin. An Irish girl would walk from Jerusalem to Jericho without shoes, and be not a penny the worse for it. This poor fellow clearly suffered so much that I was almost inclined to think that in the performance of his penance107 he had done something to aggravate108 his pain. Those around him paid no attention to him, and the dragoman seemed to think nothing of the affair whatever. “Those fools of Greeks do not understand the Christian religion,” he said, being himself a Latin or Roman Catholic.
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1
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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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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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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begrudge
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| vt.吝啬，羡慕 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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tariffs
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| 关税制度； 关税( tariff的名词复数 )； 关税表； （旅馆或饭店等的）收费表； 量刑标准 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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18
consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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19
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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21
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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22
betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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23
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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24
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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25
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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27
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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28
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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29
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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30
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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31
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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32
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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33
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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34
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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35
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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36
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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37
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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38
catering
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| n. 给养 | |
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39
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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40
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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41
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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42
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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43
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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44
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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45
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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46
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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47
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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48
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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49
molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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50
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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51
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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52
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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53
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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54
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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55
appellations
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| n.名称，称号( appellation的名词复数 ) | |
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56
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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57
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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58
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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59
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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60
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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61
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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62
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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63
ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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64
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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65
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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66
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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67
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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68
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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69
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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70
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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71
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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72
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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73
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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74
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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75
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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76
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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77
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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78
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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79
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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81
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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82
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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83
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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85
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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86
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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87
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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88
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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89
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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90
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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91
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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92
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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93
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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94
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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95
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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96
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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97
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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98
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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99
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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100
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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101
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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102
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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103
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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104
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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105
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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106
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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107
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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108
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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