The Arab was an old acquaintance whose hospitality Carew had enjoyed on several occasions and an interchange of visits was both necessary and advantageous12. But it was not to listen to the querulous outpourings of a chief with a perpetual grievance13 that he had fled from General Sanois’ importunity14, and foiled in his purpose, he had set out alone this morning an hour or so before the dawn to return to Algiers, leaving Hosein to follow later in the day when he had completed some arrangements in the camp.
But in spite of the tedious interruptions which the old sheik’s demands on his time had made the two days had proved beneficial to him. Away from Algiers he had in a measure conquered the agitation15 of mind that had possessed16 him since the night he had rescued Lady Geradine from Abdul el Dhib.
And it was of the frustrated17 horse-thief and his unfulfilled threat that he was thinking as he drew Suliman to a standstill on the crest18 of a hill, a few miles outside the town, to watch the glory of the sunrise that was to him a never-failing pleasure.
Abdul had so far made no attempt to put his murderous intention into practise and, still sceptical himself as to the real truth of the warnings he had received, Carew would never have given him a second thought but for the behaviour of his attendants whose continual and obvious watchfulness19 was a constant reminder20 of the menace hanging over him. Hosein was still anxious—there had been difficulty in persuading him to remain behind at the camp this morning so loath22 was he to let his master ride alone—and Saba was still unhappy, a pathetic little figure of misery24 who clung to his protector refusing to be comforted. And daily the revolver that Carew wore naturally thrust in the waistcloth of his Arab dress sagged25 uncomfortably in the pocket of his serge jacket until he laughed at himself for carrying it. Clad in the native robes he preferred for the last two days he had forgotten it, but as he glanced now around the little hillock on which he stood he pushed it further into the silken folds of his embroidered26 shawl with a slight smile of amusement. The locality was reminiscent. It was here, after leaving Lady Geradine on the outskirts28 of Algiers, that he had chanced across Abdul and forced him to reveal the whereabouts of the stolen horse. But the smile passed quickly and his face clouded as his thoughts swung from the recovered stallion to the girl who had ridden him. Since the night of the opera he had not seen her but the memory of her was present with him always. The intolerant anger she had once roused in him was gone and he was at a loss to actually define the feeling he now felt towards her. It was not interest, he told himself almost angrily, he had no interest in her, no wish to think of her, and he fought against the perpetual remembrance that never left him. Unable to combat what seemed to him a veritable obsession29 he resented the deep impression she had made, resented the humiliating breakdown30 of the will he had trained to obey him. More than ever was he determined to get out of Algiers at the first possible opportunity. He had come to hate the town and the disturbing associations that would always be connected with it. The call of the desert, the lure2 of the legendary31 City of Stones was urging him powerfully as he sat with slackened reins33 looking dreamily at the golden sunrise, cursing the half promise he had made to General Sanois. But he had promised, or as good as promised, and facing his decision squarely for the first time he knew that the City of Stones must wait. With a little sigh of regret he searched for a cigarette in the folds of his waistcloth as he watched the glowing disc of the sun rise higher in the crimson34 flecked sky until the full light came with a sudden rush and the distinct city stood out before him clear and distinct in every detail. He scowled35 at it with sudden irritation36 and tightening37 his grip on the bridle38, turned Suliman in the direction of the little village of Birmandreis. It was still very early. But for an occasional goatherd stalking gravely at the head of his flock, he had seen no sign of human life since he left the cross-country track he had taken from the camp and joined the plane-bordered highway that led to the village. Too early to return to the villa, he decided39 as he rode slowly along the well laid road listening to the sharp clip clop of his horse’s hoofs40 and breathing in the fragrance41 of the fresh morning air that was blowing against his face. There was no need to hurry. Time enough this afternoon to see Sanois and give him his long delayed answer. Until then he could forget it.
Birmandreis was awake and stirring as he cantered through its miniature square and headed in the direction of El Biar. A short distance beyond the village he left the main road and turned down a narrow pathway in search of a tiny Arab café that was known to him. The picturesque42 little building, almost hidden by a wide spreading fig23 tree, was at this early hour of the morning silent and apparently43 deserted44, but the clatter45 of hoofs and Carew’s shout produced a sleepy and yawning proprietor46 who awoke into sudden and obsequious47 activity at the sight of this visitor. Slipping Suliman’s bridle through a ring in the wall Carew sat on a bench in the shadow of the fig tree while he waited for the Arab coffee for which the place was famous. It was brought at length by the half-caste aubergist who hovered48 about his early guest with eager loquaciousness49. He had heard that his excellency had returned from the desert, he had hoped before this to have seen him at the Café Meduse. He trusted that the protracted50 journey had been propitious51. Monsieur was pleased to return to civilization? Monsieur was not pleased! Hélas! and yet Algiers was gay this season—fuller than it had been for many years. Trade was good. For himself he had nothing to complain of, the café prospered52 and the visitors, the English visitors in particular, paid well—to Allah the praise!
Undeterred by Carew’s monosyllabic replies he rambled53 on half in French half in Arabic discussing the district and the crops and the government taxes with fine impartiality54, but with due regard to his listener’s well-known intimacy55 with the administrators56 of the country. But under his seemingly careless manner there was a suggestion of uneasiness that was very apparent. He moved restlessly as he talked, from time to time glancing almost furtively57 about him, and once or twice it seemed as if he were on the point of imparting some confidence that nearly reached utterance58 but which died away in mumbled59 ambiguity60 before it was spoken.
But when Carew had paid his modest score and was once more in the saddle the man appeared to come to a sudden decision. Pressing close up to the restless horse he stooped down under pretence62 of tightening a loosened girth, his fingers fumbling63 nervously64 at the scarlet65 leather straps66. “There is venom67 in the jackal’s bite, O Sidi,” he muttered in the vernacular68, pure Arab in his agitation, and drew back hastily as if already repenting69 the words he had nerved himself to say. And Carew, glancing down at his twitching70 face, knew that to question him would be useless, so he made no sign of understanding but with a careless nod and a perfunctory, “Go with God,” reined72 his horse back into the little lane and held him, sidling and catching73 at his bit, to a walk until a bend in the road hid them from the prying74 eyes that were doubtless watching from behind the dense75 foliage76 of the fig tree. Then he gave Suliman his head wondering, as the spirited creature broke into a headlong gallop77, how near to attempted assassination79 he had been during the last half hour. That Abdul el Dhib, biding80 his time with oriental pertinacity81, was somewhere in the vicinity, seemed beyond all question. But why he risked his rascally82 neck so near to Algiers or what were his relations with the half-caste owner of the café Carew was at a loss to conjecture83. Sufficient that once again he had been warned and that the warning had been given reluctantly and under stress of great personal fear. It spoke61 volumes that the fellow had found courage to say what he had said.
With a muttered word of impatience84 Carew bent85 forward and ran his fingers soothingly86 over Suliman’s glossy87 neck. Abdul was becoming a nuisance, and he found himself almost wishing that the difference between them could have been settled definitely once and for all at the Café Meduse that morning. Half tempted78 to retrace88 his steps and force the affair to an immediate89 conclusion he pulled up suddenly, turning in the saddle to scan the road behind him. But what was the good! Abdul had had his chance and for reasons of his own had neglected it. There was nothing to be gained and probably a good deal to be risked by putting temptation in his way a second time. After all, the quarrel was Abdul’s, not his. Let Abdul then make the first move—if, indeed, he intended to move at all. To Carew it seemed almost that his enemy had talked too much to be really dangerous. Babblers were seldom doers, he reflected, and dismissing the outlaw90 from his mind he rode on, leaving the road for a rough mule91 track by which he could skirt El Biar and reach Bouzaréa from where he meant to return to Mustapha.
Already the fresh morning wind had dropped and the day began to give promise of great heat unusual for the time of year. But to Carew, accustomed to the fierce sun of the desert, the warmth was welcome and, more at peace within himself than he had been for weeks, he turned his whole attention to the district through which he was riding, a district known to him from boyhood but which he had not lately visited. The intervening years seemed to drop away as he noted92 and recognised each succeeding landmark93. There was little change to be seen in the fruit groves94 and vineyards he was passing and gradually he fell into a reverie, leaving Suliman to choose his own way along the stony95 track.
Influenced by his surroundings he let himself dwell on early memories; memories of the handsome brilliantly clever father who had given up a public career of great promise to devote himself to the delicate wife who was his idol96; and memories of the beautiful fragile mother whose influence, had she lived, might have made so great a difference in his own life. With all the strength of his boyish heart he had adored her and the memory of her had made him very tender with the wife who had repaid his devotion with coldness and deceit. But with the tragic97 ending of his own short married life he had closed his heart to the softening98 influences of memory and in the drawing room of the villa, a room he never entered, the portrait of his mother was veiled by heavy curtains that for the last twelve years had never been drawn99. Twelve years! Twelve years of self-banishment and loneliness. At first it had been little short of hell, there had been times when the temptation to end it all had been almost overpowering, when only his strong will had kept him from self-destruction. But now he could think of it calmly—except for the one aching memory that never left him. Despite himself his thoughts turned to the child he had lost, the little son in whom so many hopes had been centered, and a passion of longing100 and regret filled him. If only the boy had been left to him! A look of intense pain swept across his face and his firm lips quivered as he tried to visualise the boy as he might have been now, a lad of fourteen, on the threshold of manhood. His son! God, how he wanted him still! And from the child of his body who was lost to him his thoughts veered101 with sudden compassion102 to the child of his adoption103, the little Arab waif he had saved from death to assuage104 his own loneliness, who was in his blindness and helplessness so utterly105 dependent on him. Poor little dreamer of dreams, besieging106 Allah hourly with prayers for the safety of the beloved protector who was all his world, he too was longing for the desert, for the freer, wilder life to which he had been born.
Carew’s mind leaped forward to the coming interview with General Sanois. His promise given today, he would move heaven and earth to expedite matters and get away from Algiers as soon as possible. A speedy departure should be a sine qua non of his acceptance.
With a little laugh he bent forward to ease his weight off Suliman as the horse started to climb a steep ascent107 that led to the woods behind Bouzaréa. The mule track was little used, rough and boulder108 strewn and in places almost overgrown with cactus109 among which the stallion picked his steps with careful precision born of experience. Carew let him take his own way and sat with slackened rein32 as the big bay, straining and heaving, breasted the last hundred yards of sharp incline, his powerful muscles rippling110 against his rider’s knees. With a final effort, the loose stones flying from under his heels, he reached the summit and stood breathing deeply and whinnying in response to the caressing111 hand laid on his sweat drenched112 neck. Then he moved slowly forward with pricked113 ears and nervous gait along the track that had dwindled114 to a narrow hardly perceptible path. Desert bred, to Suliman the dense silent wood was a place of lurking115 unknown terror to which he had never become accustomed and, snorting and starting, he evidenced now his disapproval116 of a route that was highly distasteful to him. But wrapped in his own thoughts and used to his horse’s moods Carew did not heed117 his uneasiness. Like the district through which he had just passed the wood was alive with memories, a favourite haunt of childhood where he had roamed for hours at a time with Hosein as companion and playmate. Then the wood had been a region of mystery and enchantment118, peopled with the malevolent119 djinns and horrible afreets that loomed120 so large in the Arab’s creed121 and of whom he discoursed122 with all the fluency123 and imagination of his race—tales to which the English boy, already deeply imbued124 with the spirit of the country, listened half credulous125, half unbelieving but always interested, wriggling126 for sheer joy even when his hair crisped on his head and he peered involuntarily into the depths of the thick undergrowth for the monstrous127 shapes and fiery128 eyes that Hosein’s eloquence129 made so real. Carew looked about him with an eagerness that brought a smile to his lips. Near here there had been a tiny clearing, always connected in his mind with a tale of especial weirdness130 that had been Hosein’s masterpiece—a tale of necromancers and demons131, of beauty in distress132, and the extravagant133 adventures of a sultan’s son whose heroic exploits had transcended134 all human possibility. How he had revelled135 in it, listening wide eyed and absorbed to Hosein’s sing-song intonations136. Here, so went the story, the sorrowful princess, escaping from the enchanter who held her captive, had met the wandering knight137 whom fate had sent to rescue her; here, more beautiful than all the houris of paradise, sitting patiently upon the ground and veiled in her night black hair she had waited for her lover.
The old tale was running through his head as a sharp curve in the path brought him to the entrance of the little clearing. Smaller it seemed than when his boyish eyes had looked upon it, and robbed somehow of the mystery that had been associated with it. To the man’s eyes now just an ordinary glade138 in an ordinary wood.
But it was not the well remembered spot that held his attention. His gaze was rivetted on a figure sitting, like the princess of the story, motionless upon the ground at the foot of a gnarled cork139 oak. Not swathed in shimmering140 eastern silks nor veiled in a cloud of dusky hair, but clad in the close fitting boyish riding suit in which he had first seen her she leant back comfortably against the tree, her bare head resting on the crinkly bark, her arms wrapped round her updrawn knees, whistling softly to a small green lizard141 palpitating on the moss142 beside her. The tiny creature with swelling143 throat and languorous144 swaying head was listening fascinated to the clear sweet trills charming it into immobility. Suliman’s neat feet made no sound on the soft earth and the girl was obviously unaware145 of the increase to her audience. To back his horse silently and slip away before she noticed his presence was Carew’s first impulse, but despite his every inclination146 something stayed him in undecided hesitation147. And the opportunity neglected he was given no second chance. Resenting the tight grip on his mouth and the sudden convulsive pressure of his rider’s knees Suliman, with a display of temper that was unusual, bounded high on his hind21 legs snorting his indignation. Submitting to the inevitable148 with the best grace he could muster149 Carew dragged him down and swung to the ground, raising his hand to his forehead in the graceful150 salute151 that was in accordance with his Arab dress.
“Good morning, Lady Geradine.”
The lizard had fled but Marny had neither moved nor altered her position. She responded to his greeting with a faint smile, her eyes sweeping152 him frankly153 from head to foot as he stood, a picturesque commanding-looking figure, leaning against his horse whose muzzle154 was thrust contritely155 into his hand.
“Good morning—desert man.”
There was the least possible pause before the last two words and Carew’s tanned face flushed dully. “My name’s Carew,” he said gruffly. She nodded, looking at him with wide grave eyes and hunching156 her knees up closer to her chin.
“I know,” she said, “Mrs. Chalmers told me before she left Algiers. You are Sir Gervas Carew—and you hate women. Why did you do it?”
“Do what—” he asked, failing to grasp the context of her question.
“Why did you trouble to interfere158 that night near Blidah?” she said quietly, but the quick blood sprang to her face as she spoke.
He was silent for a few moments then, with a slow shrug159: “Because you were English,” he answered tersely160. She shook her head with a little smile of amusement.
“But I’m not. Sure it’s Irish I am—glory be to God.” The brogue was unmistakable and despite himself Carew’s grave face relaxed.
“It’s the same thing,” he said with indifference161. But she negatived his assertion with a scornful wave of the hand.
“Not to us,” she said laughingly. Then she grew grave again, looking at him with undisguised interest. “Do you mean it, really?” she said with deliberation. “Do you mean that if I had been an Arab or a Frenchwoman you would have done—nothing?”
“And because I was English, or you thought I was English, you set your prejudice on one side and did what you did—just to satisfy your esprit-de-race?”
“Yes.”
She looked away with an odd little laugh. “You are very refreshing163.”
Carew scowled at the hint of mockery in her voice.
“How so?” he asked stiffly. But she laughed again and shook her head, refusing to enlighten him. Then with a sudden change of manner she turned to him again, eyeing him almost wistfully.
“You refused to shake hands with me—twice, Sir Gervas,” she said slowly, flushing slightly, “and I cut you dead at the opera. Shall we call quits—just for this morning—your prejudice against my rudeness? Can’t you forget, just for once, that you are talking to one of the sex you despise—I can’t help being a woman, I would much rather have been a man—and tell me the things you know so well, the things that nobody I meet with in Algiers seems to care about—the Arabs, the desert, and all this wonderful country. Not the desert the tourists go to but the real desert, far away in the south there,” she added eagerly, kneeling up suddenly to point with unexpected precision towards the region of which she spoke. Mechanically his eyes followed her outstretched hand. He was trying to understand his own strange hesitation. It would have been easy to excuse himself, alleging164 any plausible165 excuse that offered, and go as he had come leaving her to the solitude166 he had interrupted. But he did not want to go. The astounding167 truth came to him suddenly and his lips curved in cynical168 self-scorn. What sort of a fool was he, what strength of purpose had he that, professing169 to hate all women, he should surrender to the charm of this one woman? And wherein lay the charms he reluctantly admitted? Her beauty? He smiled more bitterly than before—he had learnt the worthlessness of outward loveliness. Was it then the diversity of mood she displayed? He glanced at her covertly170 as she sat leaning against the cork tree, apparently indifferent to his silence, her eyes fixed171 not on him but on the tips of her neat riding boots, whistling as she had whistled to the lizard. A boyish graceful figure, pulsing with life and health, bearing this morning no kind of resemblance to the white-faced fainting girl he had carried in his arms or the proud weary-looking woman he had seen at the opera. Which was the real woman? And what was her present motive173? Was it really a disinterested174 and genuine desire to learn something of the real life of the country that had led her to endeavour to detain him at her side—or was she merely amusing herself at his expense, flattered at having claimed the attention of a man known as a determined misogynist176? His face darkened and meditated177 refusal sprang to his lips. But the words died away unspoken. Flight was tantamount to a confession178 of weakness against which his pride rebelled. If she was playing with him—so much the worse for her. If, on the other hand, she was sincere in the request she had made—with a shrug he turned and led his horse to the further side of the little clearing, tethering him with no show of haste to the branch of a tree.
And as he went Marny Geradine’s eyes followed him with a look of yearning179 sadness, and a deep sigh that was almost a sob180 escaped her. What had she done! What right had she to intrude181 herself upon him? Why add to her own unhappiness by prolonging an interview that would only bring her further sorrow. The joy of seeing him, of speaking with him, could lead to nothing but greater misery and regret. But the temptation had been stronger than she could withstand. She loved him so. And what harm could there be when his own indifference was so great! Why did he hate women? Mrs. Chalmers’ information had not gone beyond the bare fact and, herself reserved almost to fastidiousness, she had not sought to probe the reason of his hatred182. What, after all, did it matter? The secrets of his past, if there were any secrets, were not her affair. Enough for her that he was a man who had devoted183 his life to relieving the suffering of the desert people amongst whom he lived. From the doctor’s warm-hearted wife she had learned the significance of the title by which he had called himself that night of terrible memory. So would she have him—the ideal she would treasure in her heart, a man magnificent in his singleness of purpose.
He came back to her slowly, his face inscrutable as the people whose dress he wore, and sat down leisurely, Arab fashion, on the ground near her. Taking her literally184 at her word and prompted by her eager questions he found that speech was easier than he had anticipated. It was a subject on which he was well qualified185 to speak, a subject that lay very close to his heart, and gradually his attitude of barely concealed186 hostility187 wore away and he talked as, weeks ago, he had talked in his tent to Micky Meredith. But not of himself and his own work. Of these he said nothing, speaking only of the desert and its nomad188 inhabitants, of the charm and cruelty of the vast sandy wastes, of the petty wars and feuds189 that raged perpetually amongst the savage190 and belligerent191 tribes. His low even voice ran smoothly192 on, drawing no fanciful picture but relating faithfully the things that were the things he had himself seen, the life he had shared. While he dwelt on the glamour193 and fascination194 of the desert wilds he spared her nothing of the squalor and misery, the ghastly needless suffering that was bound up inextricably with the scenes he depicted195.
Eagerly she listened to him, happy with just the fact of his nearness, enthralled196 by the story he told so graphically197 and which held her spellbound. Her eyes fixed on the sunburnt face that was turned persistently198 away from her, she was no longer in the little clearing or even near to the Algiers that had proved so great a disappointment to her. She was far away in the burning south, riding beside him over the undulating sweeps of the restless sand, camping under the argent stars and living the life of which she had dreamed—a life that with all its savagery199 and primitive200 violence was yet cleaner than the one to which she was condemned201. To be with him there, far from the artificial existence that sickened her, to live out her life beside him aiding him in the work of which he would not speak and serving him with all the strength of the love that was consuming her! She clenched202 her hands with the pain of her own imagining. A dream that could never be realised. There was no room for a woman’s love in the life he led. Alone, and always alone, he would follow the course he had set himself, a solitary203 dweller204 in the wilderness205 pitting his individual strength against the pain and suffering he sought to minimise. And, bound, what would be her loneliness when he rode for the last time out of her life leaving her to a misery that would be greater even than she had known before?
A gasping206 sob escaped her and horrified207 at her lack of control she hid her burning face in her hands. But to Carew her agitation seemed only the natural consequence of the grim tale of ruthless Arab ferocity he had just concluded.
“It is cruel, of course,” he said with a slow shrug, “but it is the way of life the whole world over—the strong preying208 on the weak, the eternal battle for existence, and a callousness209 that is born of necessity. And Arabs are only children, as all men at heart are children, fighting for what they want and often, from mere175 perversity210, for what they do not want.”
She nodded assent, not trusting her voice to answer him and furtively brushing away the tears of which she was ashamed. And he too fell silent, playing absently with a length of creeper he twined and retwined between his long strong fingers, wondering at the interest she had evinced, wondering at the ease with which he had spoken to her.
At last, through the silence that neither seemed able to break, came the trampling211 of horses’ hoofs. He looked up with a start and leapt to his feet, his hand reaching instinctively212 for the revolver in his waistcloth. For himself he did not care, but if Abdul had tracked him here what of the girl beside him? Alone he would have been content to give his enemy the benefit of the doubt—but because of her he could take no chances. He would have to shoot at sight, or be shot himself. He moved quickly, screening her where she sat, and slid the heavy weapon from its resting place. But the next moment he jerked it back with a smothered214 ejaculation of relief. It was not Abdul el Dhib who rounded the bend in the narrow path but a neat typically English little man straddling with a jockey’s gait between the two horses he led. Only when he turned to find Marny close at his elbows did Carew realise that his face was wet with perspiration215. With a gesture of impatience he brushed his hand across his forehead but he did not vouchsafe216 any explanation. She must have seen the revolver in his hand—explanations could wait. And standing71 quietly beside him, she did not seem in any hurry to ask but remained silent until the arrival of the groom217. The little man brought the horses to a stand with no sign of surprise at the sight of the tall Arab-clad figure towering behind his mistress.
Marny laughed as she placed her foot in the stirrup Carew moved forward to hold.
“Tanner is my timekeeper,” she explained, swinging easily into the saddle, “he always has a watch, and I lose mine as fast as I buy them,” she added, gathering up the reins and settling herself comfortably.
Carew patted the neck of her horse for a moment without answering, then he looked up slowly and at sight of his face the laughter died out of her eyes.
“Keep your man in sight when you come to the woods again, Lady Geradine,” he said gravely. She looked at him questioningly.
“Do you mean it—seriously? I thought that so close to Algiers—”
“You were close to Algiers before, and I would not warn you if I did not mean it seriously,” he interrupted with a touch of irritation in his voice, and stepped back with a salaam219 that she felt to be almost a dismissal. And it was without waiting to watch her ride away that he strode across the clearing to his own horse. He had no intention of accompanying her back to Algiers, he had outraged220 his principles sufficiently221 for one morning he assured himself with a smile that was not mirthful.
Nor did he feel inclined to return immediately to the villa.
During these last few weeks he had grown almost to hate it. He would go on to Bouzaréa, telephone to Sanois and spend the rest of the day at the little suburb with a French doctor of his acquaintance. Perhaps in Morel’s laboratory he would be able to forget the unrest that this morning’s meeting had revived so poignantly222.
It was late in the afternoon when he rode into Algiers to keep the appointment made over the telephone that morning.
At the moment General Sanois was living in barracks and Carew found him in his private room sitting alone before a huge desk that was heaped with a mass of papers. At his entrance the general rose and held out a welcoming hand.
“Well,” he said eagerly, “you have decided?” and sank back into his chair with a little exclamation223 of satisfaction as Carew nodded affirmatively.
“You relieve me of a difficulty, mon cher,” he went on, pushing papers and telephone on one side to make room for the map he spread out with almost affectionate care. “I was at my wits’ end to find a substitute. My own men are no use, an officer would never get past the frontier. And the same applies to the accredited224 agents—those, that is to say, whom I have at my disposal. Remains225 you. And I think I shall not be wrong in saying that you will not fail,” he added confidently.
Carew smiled faintly at the implied compliment which he knew to be no idle one but a genuine expression of opinion.
“I’ll do my best,” he said briefly226, with a slight shrug of embarrassment227, “but I am not infallible,” he added, “and if I fail—”
“You will at least have had a charming excursion,” cut in Sanois laughingly. “You will have broken new ground. You will probably have found a new disease and we shall have to send an expensively equipped medical mission to follow up your discovery, and you will end by costing us the deuce and all of a lot of money. But that’s not my affair,” he added, tapping the gold lace on his sleeve significantly, and turned once more to the large scale map he had laid out.
Carew hitched228 the folds of his heavy burnous closer round him and drew his chair nearer to the table.
“I am ready to start almost at once. My own preparations can be concluded in a week. I am anxious to get out of Algiers, and if you keep me waiting indefinitely—well, then, I can’t promise that when you want me you will find me.” He smiled at Sanois’ whistle of dismay for there had been an undertone of peremptoriness229 in his voice that the general recognised.
“A week?” he said rather doubtfully. “You don’t give us much time, my friend. It will take longer than a week to settle this affair. But I’ll do what I can. And now to business.”
When the details of the expedition had been discussed in every particular and Carew rose at last to go night had fallen. He refused the general’s invitation to dine with the mess and found himself obliged to repeat his refusal more than once before he reached the barrack yard. Usually he was glad to accept the hospitality of the officers with whom he was a frequent and popular guest but tonight he wanted to be alone.
Riding through the crowded streets Suliman occupied his exclusive attention, but when the town had been left behind and the ascent to Mustapha begun he let his thoughts range forward to the coming journey. Regretfully he put away from him the temptation of the City of Stones. It would have to be for another time. He was pledged to Sanois now and, the general himself bound down to a promise, he had at last something definite to go on. Not that there was much for him, personally, to arrange. The change of route called for little alteration230 in the preparations he had already made for an extended tour in the desert. And the boy would go in either case. He had spent most of his young life in the saddle and his apparently frail231 little body was capable of astonishing endurance. To leave him behind would be to break his heart—and Carew could not do without him. Tonight the air was strangely soft, heavy with the scent27 of flowers, and a brooding silence that was reminiscent of the solemn hush232 of the desert seemed to have closed down over all nature. Not a tree moved, not a dog barked, and Carew had the curious feeling that he was riding through a place of the dead. Amongst the Arabs it was an omen157 of death, a sure and certain sign that for some human soul the wings of Azrael were beating downward from the realms of the blessed. For his? With a philosophical233 shrug he turned in the saddle to look back at the newly risen moon, a crescent slip of silver in the sky, and then sent Suliman flying in the direction of the villa.
The door of the wall was open, and Hosein, ghostlike in his white draperies, emerged from the deep shadows of the entrance as Carew dismounted. He took the horse in silence, still evidently nursing his grievance of the morning, and half amused, half annoyed by his servant’s tacit expression of disapproval Carew omitted his own customary greeting and swinging on his heel walked up to the house.
In the Moorish234 hall, brilliantly lit by three large hanging lamps of beaten silver, Saba was waiting. And as his sensitive ears caught the almost imperceptible sound of soft leather against the marble pavement he darted235 forward with a wild cry of joy and fell, laughing and sobbing236 together, into the arms stretched out to catch him. Tossing him up on his shoulder, Carew carried him, chattering238 with excitement, through the jasmine scented239 courtyard to the big bedroom at the back of the house, there to cope with a flow of endless questions which ceased not but penetrated240 shrilly241 even to the distant bathroom. And standing beside the dressing242 table, his slim fingers straying caressingly243 among the orderly arranged toilet appointments, he was still talking when Carew came back from his tub. Then the questions gave place to a detailed244 description of his own small doings during the last three days and he rambled on discoursively, while Carew changed into the fresh robes laid out for him, carrying his listener through endless imaginary adventures and concluding with the grave announcement that Derar, the fat butler, had assuredly incurred245 the wrath246 of Allah for his wife had presented him that morning with yet another unwelcome daughter “—which, as your lordship knows, is the fifth,” he added with fine scorn.
And glad that for the moment the boy appeared to have forgotten his fears, Carew let him talk and finally took him with him to the dining room where, perched cross-legged on a cushion beside the table and made happy with a plate of fruit and sweetmeats, he continued to chatter237 throughout the formal dinner served by a dejected, tearful-looking Derar and Hosein, who had recovered his accustomed serenity247.
Though preferring the simplicity248 of camp life, Carew, in his town house, followed early traditions and maintained a certain state and ceremony. Many of the servants were old retainers, and Derar had been butler to the late Sir Mark Carew. And the elderly survivor249, conservative to the backbone250 and highly endowed with a sense of his own importance, was largely responsible for the continuance of the old régime that still prevailed at the villa. And so it was that, even when he was alone, Carew dined nightly in the huge room where the table seemed a tiny island set in the midst of a vast marble sea. But this evening he had glanced about him once or twice during the protracted meal with a faintly puzzled look in his sombre eyes. What made the room tonight appear so empty—so chill and lifeless? It was not the lack of guests that troubled him, he was used to being alone, but a strange yearning for something he was at a loss to define. Was it the preliminary warnings of middle age that, urging a remembrance of his forty years, had induced the unaccustomed feeling of lassitude and melancholy251 that seemed to have taken hold of him? He almost laughed at the thought. For some it might be the beginning of a gradual decline of force and ability, but for himself, he had never felt fitter or stronger. It was just Algiers, he told himself as he lingered over the cup of thick, sweet coffee that had become as indispensable to him as to any native of the country, Algiers—and a consciousness of intense and profound boredom252. Thank heaven it wouldn’t last much longer. Life on the march was too strenuous253 to admit of ennui254.
Calling to Saba he went to the study adjoining his bedroom and from there out on to the wide verandah that overlooked the garden.
For a while he smoked in silence that was punctuated255 at intervals256 by the blind boy’s fitful remarks to which he replied briefly with an inattention that was not lost upon his small companion, for gradually he, too, fell silent.
The night was very still. Directly before the verandah a broad streak257 of moonlight stretching like a path of silver to the distant boundary wall made blacker the darkness that enveloped258 the rest of the garden where trees and flowering shrubs259 loomed large and fantastic in the murky260 gloom. The heavy scent of flowers was almost overpowering, languorous and sleep-inducing as the smell of incense261. And the brooding hush that Carew had noticed earlier in the evening seemed now even more penetrating262 and intense. There was in the air a feeling of unnatural263 suspense264, a breathless sensation of expectancy265 like the deep hush that precedes a storm. In the desert Carew would have known what it portended266, but here in Algiers he could not account for it. Was it perhaps only his own imagination magnifying the quiet of an ordinary evening into something that approached the abnormal? He was not given to imagination, but he could not rid himself of the impression of a coming calamity267 that momentarily made him more wide awake and alert. And with the sense of waiting there came again the feeling of depression and melancholy he had experienced during dinner. How empty and lonely the house had seemed! He had never noticed it before. Why did he notice it now? And as he pondered it there seemed to rise before him the semblance172 of a figure standing in the brilliant strip of moonlight, a slender, graceful figure whose boyish riding dress no longer moved him to intolerant disgust. For an instant he stared with almost fear at the delicate oval face that appeared so strangely close to his, looking straight into the pain-filled haunting eyes that seemed to be tearing the very heart out of him. Then a terrible oath broke from his rigid268 lips and in the revulsion of feeling that swept over him he wrenched269 his gaze away, cursing with bitter rage the day he had ever seen her. Not her nor any other woman—so help him God!
A stifled270 whimper and a tiny hand slid tremblingly into his, made him realise the passionate271 utterance that had been forced from him. He caught the boy in his arms and soothed272 him with remorseful273 tenderness. “Angry with thee—when am I ever angry with thee, thou little foolish one?” he murmured gently in response to the sobbing question that came muffled274 from the folds of his robes in which Saba’s head was buried. Content with his answer the child lay still. And the clinging touch of his fingers, the soft warm weight of his slim little body brought a measure of consolation275 to the lonely man who held him.
For a long time Carew sat without moving, staring into the shadowy garden. Save for the shrilling276 of a cicada in the grass near by the deep silence was unbroken. And soon even the insect ceased its monotonous277 chirp278, abruptly279 as it had begun.
Carew had been up since before daybreak, and lulled280 by the intense quiet and the heaviness of the night, he began to be aware that drowsiness281 was stealing over him. He was almost asleep when the vague impression of a distant sound, a curious slithering sound that ended in a faint thud, penetrated to his only half conscious mind and roused him to sudden and complete wakefulness. The noise seemed to have come from the further end of the garden. Who was abroad in the garden at this time of night? As he stared keen-eyed into the darkness his brain was working rapidly. He had thought the child to be asleep, but from a slight movement in his arms he knew that Saba too was awake and listening intently, as he himself was listening. To get the boy away before the happening he believed inevitable was his first care. Without altering his own position he slid him silently behind his chair with a low breathed injunction to go. But with a passionate gesture of refusal Saba clung to him and Carew was obliged to use unwilling283 force to unclasp the slender fingers twined desperately284 in his thick burnous.
“Go!” he whispered again peremptorily285. And as the boy crept slowly away he leant forward in his chair once more, waiting with braced286 muscles and straining ears for any further sound that should betray his nocturnal visitor’s whereabouts. But the few moments’ attention given to Saba had been moments used by another to advantage. The attack came with unexpected and noiseless suddenness, from a quarter he least expected, and it was only his acute sense of smell that saved him. With the rank, animal-like odour of the desert man reeking287 in his nostrils288 he leaped to his feet, swerving289 as he turned. And his quick, instinctive213 movement saved his life, for the driving knife thrust aimed at his heart failed in its objective and glanced off his arm gashing290 it deeply. With a snarl291 of rage el Dhib thrust again. And, his right hand temporarily numbed292 and unable to draw the revolver at which his blood drenched fingers fumbled293 nervelessly, Carew caught the swinging arm with his left hand and flung his whole weight forward against his opponent. They fell with a crash, the Arab undermost, and grappled in the darkness twisting and heaving with straining limbs and labouring breath.
Crippled, Carew at first could do little more than retain his hold, but as the numbness294 passed from his wounded arm he managed with a desperate effort to jerk himself upward until his knees were pressing with crushing force on Abdul’s chest and rigid forearm and, rolling sideways, he tore the knife from the fingers that clung to it tenaciously295. But the man?uvre cost him the advantage he had gained. With a lithe282 panther-like movement of his sinewy296 body the Arab slipped uppermost, his hands at the other’s throat. And conscious that he was fighting for his life, Carew put forward his utmost power to meet the strength he knew to be equal to his own. Locked in a mortal embrace that seemed to admit of only one ending they struggled with deadly purpose, writhing297 to and fro on the floor of the verandah until a sidelong jerk from one of them sent them over the edge and they rolled, still gripping fiercely, into the garden beneath. The drop was a short one, but in falling Carew’s head struck against the abutment of the marble stairway and for a moment he lay stunned298. And Abdul who had fallen on top of him was not able to complete the work he had begun. Warned by the lights that flashed up in the villa, unable to recover the knife he had lost, with a parting curse he turned and ran for the shelter of the shadowy trees, doubling like a hare as he sped across the strip of brilliant moonlight. And still dazed from the blow on his head Carew staggered to his feet and stood staring stupidly after him, swaying dizzily as he strove to think collectedly. But as the flying figure almost reached the friendly darkness that would cover his flight the momentary299 cloud lifted from Carew’s brain and he wrenched the revolver from his waistband. Yet with his finger pressing on the trigger he paused irresolute300. Not at an unarmed man—not in the back! That was murder—no matter how great the provocation301. With a smothered exclamation he dropped his arm to his side. But the screaming whine302 of a bullet tearing past his head and a sharp crack behind him told him that Hosein was troubled by no such scruples303. And with mingled304 feelings he watched Abdul el Dhib, caught at the moment he thought himself safe, plunge305 forward on his face and lie twisting in the agony of death.
When Carew reached him and lifting him with practised hands supported him against his knee, the dying man’s eyes rolled upward to the grave face bending over him and his contorted features relaxed in a grin of ghastly amusement.
“This was ordained306, lord,” he gasped307 painfully, a pinkish foam308 gathering on his lips, “thou or I—and Allah has chosen. To Him the praise,” he added mockingly, and choked his life away on the crimson tide that poured from his mouth.
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1
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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2
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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23
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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28
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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33
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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34
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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42
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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43
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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45
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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46
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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47
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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48
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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49
loquaciousness
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| n.loquacious（多话的）的变形 | |
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50
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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51
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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52
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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54
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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56
administrators
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| n.管理者( administrator的名词复数 )；有管理（或行政）才能的人；（由遗嘱检验法庭指定的）遗产管理人；奉派暂管主教教区的牧师 | |
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57
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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58
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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59
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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61
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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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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71
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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72
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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73
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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74
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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75
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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76
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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77
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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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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79
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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80
biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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81
pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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82
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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83
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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84
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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85
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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86
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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87
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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88
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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89
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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90
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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91
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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92
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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93
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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94
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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95
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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96
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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97
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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98
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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99
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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100
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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101
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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102
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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103
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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104
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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105
utterly
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|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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106
besieging
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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107
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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108
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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109
cactus
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| n.仙人掌 | |
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110
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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111
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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112
drenched
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|
| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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113
pricked
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|
| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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114
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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116
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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117
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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118
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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119
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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120
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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121
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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122
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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123
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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124
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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125
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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126
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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127
monstrous
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|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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128
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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129
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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130
weirdness
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| n.古怪，离奇，不可思议 | |
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131
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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132
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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133
extravagant
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|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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134
transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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135
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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136
intonations
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|
| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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137
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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138
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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139
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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140
shimmering
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|
| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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141
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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142
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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143
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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144
languorous
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|
| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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145
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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146
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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147
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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148
inevitable
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|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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149
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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150
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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151
salute
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|
| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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152
sweeping
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|
| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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153
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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154
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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155
contritely
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156
hunching
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| 隆起（hunch的现在分词形式） | |
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157
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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158
interfere
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|
| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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159
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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160
tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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161
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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162
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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163
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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164
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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165
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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166
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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167
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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168
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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169
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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170
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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171
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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172
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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173
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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174
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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175
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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176
misogynist
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| n.厌恶女人的人 | |
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177
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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178
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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179
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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180
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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181
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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182
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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183
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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184
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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185
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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186
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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187
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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188
nomad
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| n.游牧部落的人，流浪者，游牧民 | |
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189
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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190
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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191
belligerent
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|
| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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192
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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193
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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194
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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195
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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196
enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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197
graphically
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| adv.通过图表；生动地，轮廓分明地 | |
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198
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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199
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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200
primitive
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|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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201
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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202
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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204
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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205
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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206
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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207
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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208
preying
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| v.掠食( prey的现在分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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209
callousness
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210
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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211
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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212
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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213
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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214
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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215
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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216
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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217
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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218
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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219
salaam
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| n.额手之礼，问安，敬礼；v.行额手礼 | |
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220
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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221
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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222
poignantly
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223
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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224
accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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225
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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226
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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227
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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228
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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229
peremptoriness
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| n.专横，强制，武断 | |
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230
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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231
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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232
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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233
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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234
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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235
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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236
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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237
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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238
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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239
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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240
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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241
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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242
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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243
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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244
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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245
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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246
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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247
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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248
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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249
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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250
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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251
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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252
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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253
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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254
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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255
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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256
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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257
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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258
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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259
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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260
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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261
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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262
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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263
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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264
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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265
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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266
portended
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| v.预示( portend的过去式和过去分词 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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267
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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268
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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269
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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270
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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271
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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272
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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273
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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274
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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275
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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276
shrilling
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的现在分词 )； 凄厉 | |
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277
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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278
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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279
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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280
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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281
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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282
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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283
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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284
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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285
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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286
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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287
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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288
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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289
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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290
gashing
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的现在分词 ) | |
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291
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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292
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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293
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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294
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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295
tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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296
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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297
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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298
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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299
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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300
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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301
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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302
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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303
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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304
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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305
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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306
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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307
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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308
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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