Over the door was placed a sign representing a fat Cupid with an inverted7 torch in his hand and bearing this inscription8: "Plain and coloured coffins sold and lined here; coffins also let out on hire, and old ones repaired."
The girls retired9 to their bedroom; Adrian made a tour of inspection10 of his quarters, and then sat down by the window and ordered the tea-urn to be prepared.
The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott have both represented their grave-diggers as merry and facetious11 individuals, in order that the contrast might more forcibly strike our imagination. Out of respect for the truth, we cannot follow their example, and we are compelled to confess that the disposition12 of our coffin-maker was in perfect harmony with his gloomy occupation. Adrian Prokhoroff was usually gloomy and thoughtful. He rarely opened his mouth, except to scold his daughters when he found them standing13 idle and gazing out of the window at the passers by, or to demand for his wares14 an exorbitant15 price from those who had the misfortune—and sometimes the good fortune—to need them. Hence it was that Adrian, sitting near the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was immersed as usual in melancholy16 reflections. He thought of the pouring rain which, just a week before, had commenced to beat down during the funeral of the retired brigadier. Many of the cloaks had shrunk in consequence of the downpour, and many of the hats had been put quite out of shape. He foresaw unavoidable expenses, for his old stock of funeral dresses was in a pitiable condition. He hoped to compensate17 himself for his losses by the burial of old Trukhina, the shopkeeper's wife, who for more than a year had been upon the point of death. But Trukhina lay dying at Rasgouliai, and Prokhoroff was afraid that her heirs, in spite of their promise, would not take the trouble to send so far for him, but would make arrangements with the nearest undertaker.
These reflections were suddenly interrupted by three masonic knocks at the door.
"Who is there?" asked the coffin-maker.
The door opened, and a man, who at the first glance could be recognized as a German artisan, entered the room, and with a jovial18 air advanced towards the coffin-maker.
"Pardon me, respected neighbour," said he in that Russian dialect which to this day we cannot hear without a smile: "pardon me for disturbing you.... I wished to make your acquaintance as soon as possible. I am a shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz, and I live across the street, in that little house just facing your windows. To-morrow I am going to celebrate my silver wedding, and I have come to invite you and your daughters to dine with us."
The invitation was cordially accepted. The coffin-maker asked the shoemaker to seat himself and take a cup of tea, and thanks to the open-hearted disposition of Gottlieb Schultz, they were soon engaged in friendly conversation.
"How is business with you?" asked Adrian.
"Just so so," replied Schultz; "I cannot complain. My wares are not like yours: the living can do without shoes, but the dead cannot do without coffins."
"Very true," observed Adrian; "but if a living person hasn't anything to buy shoes with, you cannot find fault with him, he goes about barefooted; but a dead beggar gets his coffin for nothing."
In this manner the conversation was carried on between them for some time; at last the shoemaker rose and took leave of the coffin-maker, renewing his invitation.
The next day, exactly at twelve o'clock, the coffin-maker and his daughters issued from the doorway19 of their newly-purchased residence, and directed their steps towards the abode of their neighbour. I will not stop to describe the Russian caftan of Adrian Prokhoroff, nor the European toilettes of Akoulina and Daria, deviating20 in this respect from the usual custom of modern novelists. But I do not think it superfluous21 to observe that they both had on the yellow cloaks and red shoes, which they were accustomed to don on solemn occasions only.
The shoemaker's little dwelling22 was filled with guests, consisting chiefly of German artisans with their wives and foremen. Of the Russian officials there was present but one, Yourko the Finn, a watchman, who, in spite of his humble23 calling, was the special object of the host's attention. For twenty-five years he had faithfully discharged the duties of postilion of Pogorelsky. The conflagration24 of 1812, which destroyed the ancient capital, destroyed also his little yellow watch-house. But immediately after the expulsion of the enemy, a new one appeared in its place, painted grey and with white Doric columns, and Yourko began again to pace to and fro before it, with his axe25 and grey coat of mail. He was known to the greater part of the Germans who lived near the Nikitskaia Gate, and some of them had even spent the night from Sunday to Monday beneath his roof.
Adrian immediately made himself acquainted with him, as with a man whom, sooner or later, he might have need of, and when the guests took their places at the table, they sat down beside each other. Herr Schultz and his wife, and their daughter Lotchen, a young girl of seventeen, did the honours of the table and helped the cook to serve. The beer flowed in streams; Yourko ate like four, and Adrian in no way yielded to him; his daughters, however, stood upon their dignity. The conversation, which was carried on in German, gradually grew more and more boisterous26. Suddenly the host requested a moment's attention, and uncorking a sealed bottle, he said with a loud voice in Russian:
"To the health of my good Louise!"
The champagne27 foamed28. The host tenderly kissed the fresh face of his partner, and the guests drank noisily to the health of the good Louise.
"To the health of my amiable29 guests!" exclaimed the i host, uncorking a second bottle; and the guests thanked him by draining their glasses once more.
Then followed a succession of toasts. The health of each I individual guest was drunk; they drank to the health of Moscow and to quite a dozen little German towns; they drank to the health of all corporations in general and of each in particular; they drank to the health of the masters and foremen. Adrian drank with enthusiasm and became so merry, that he proposed a facetious toast to himself. Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker30, raised his glass and exclaimed:
"To the health of those for whom we work, our customers!"
This proposal, like all the others, was joyously31 and unanimously received. The guests began to salute32 each other; the tailor bowed to the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both, the whole company to the baker, and so on. In the midst of these mutual33 congratulations, Yourko exclaimed, turning to his neighbour:
Everybody laughed, but the coffin-maker considered himself insulted, and frowned. Nobody noticed it, the guests continued to drink, and the bell had already rung for vespers when they rose from the table.
The guests dispersed36 at a late hour, the greater part of them in a very merry mood. The fat baker and the bookbinder, whose face seemed as if bound in red morocco, linked their arms in those of Yourko and conducted him back to his little watch-house, thus observing the proverb: "One good turn deserves another."
The coffin-maker returned home drunk and angry.
"Why is it," he exclaimed aloud, "why is it that my trade is not as honest as any other? Is a coffin-maker brother to the hangman? Why did those heathens laugh? Is a coffin-maker a buffoon37? I wanted to invite them to my new dwelling and give them a feast, but now I'll do nothing of the kind. Instead of inviting38 them, I will invite those for whom I work: the orthodox dead."
"What is the matter, little father?" said the servant, who was engaged at that moment in taking off his boots: "why do you talk such nonsense? Make the sign of the cross! Invite the dead to your new house! What folly39!"
"Yes, by the Lord! I will invite them," continued Adrian, "and that, too, for to-morrow!... Do me the favour, my benefactors40, to come and feast with me to-morrow evening; I will regale41 you with what God has sent me."
With these words the coffin-maker turned into bed and soon began to snore.
It was still dark when Adrian was awakened42 out of his sleep. Trukhina, the shopkeeper's wife, had died during the course of that very night, and a special messenger was sent off on horseback by her bailiff to carry the news to Adrian. The coffin-maker gave him ten copecks to buy brandy with, dressed himself as hastily as possible, took a droshky and set out for Rasgouliai. Before the door of the house in which the deceased lay, the police had already taken their stand, and the trades-people were passing backwards43 and forwards, like ravens44 that smell a dead body. The deceased lay upon a table, yellow as wax, but not yet disfigured by decomposition45. Around her stood her relatives, neighbours and domestic servants. All the windows were open; tapers46 were burning; and the priests were reading the prayers for the dead. Adrian went up to the nephew of Trukhina, a young shopman in a fashionable surtout, and informed him that the coffin, wax candles, pall47, and the other funeral accessories would be immediately delivered with all possible exactitude. The heir thanked him in an absent-minded manner, saying that he would not bargain about the price, but would rely upon him acting48 in everything according to his conscience. The coffin-maker, in accordance with his usual custom, vowed49 that he would not charge him too much, exchanged significant glances with the bailiff, and then departed to commence operations.
The whole day was spent in passing to and fro between Rasgouliai and the Nikitskaia Gate. Towards evening everything was finished, and he returned home on foot, after having dismissed his driver. It was a moonlight night. The coffin-maker reached the Nikitskaia Gate in safety. Near the Church of the Ascension he was hailed by our acquaintance Yourko, who, recognizing the coffin-maker, wished him good-night. It was late. The coffin-maker was just approaching his house, when suddenly he fancied he saw some one approach his gate, open the wicket, and disappear within.
"What does that mean?" thought Adrian. "Who can be wanting me again? Can it be a thief come to rob me? Or have my foolish girls got lovers coming after them? It means no good, I fear!"
And the coffin-maker thought of calling his friend Yourko to his assistance. But at that moment, another person approached the wicket and was about to enter, but seeing the master of the house hastening towards him, he stopped and took off his three-cornered hat. His face seemed familiar to Adrian, but in his hurry he had not been able to examine it closely.
"You are favouring me with a visit," said Adrian, out of breath. "Walk in, I beg of you."
"Don't stand on ceremony, little father," replied the other, in a hollow voice; "you go first, and show your guests the way."
Adrian had no time to spend upon ceremony. The wicket was open; he ascended50 the steps followed by the other. Adrian thought he could hear people walking about in his rooms.
"What the devil does all this mean!" he thought to himself, and he hastened to enter. But the sight that met his eyes caused his legs to give way beneath him.
The room was full of corpses. The moon, shining through the windows, lit up their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, dim, half-closed eyes, and protruding51 noses. Adrian, with horror, recognized in them people that he himself had buried, and in the guest who entered with him, the brigadier who had been buried during the pouring rain. They all, men and women, surrounded the coffin-maker, with bowings and salutations, except one poor fellow lately buried gratis52, who, conscious and ashamed of his rags, did not venture to approach, but meekly53 kept aloof54 in a corner. All the others were decently dressed: the female corpses in caps and ribbons, the officials in uniforms, but with their beards unshaven, the tradesmen in their holiday caftans.
"You see, Prokhoroff," said the brigadier in the name of all the honourable55 company, "we have all risen in response to your invitation. Only those have stopped at home who were unable to come, who have crumbled56 to pieces and have nothing left but fleshless bones. But even of these there was one who hadn't the patience to remain behind—so much did he want to come and see you...."
At this moment a little skeleton pushed his way through the crowd and approached Adrian. His fleshless face smiled affably at the coffin-maker. Shreds57 of green and red cloth and rotten linen58 hung on him here and there as on a pole, and the bones of his feet rattled59 inside his big jack-boots, like pestles60 in mortars61.
"You do not recognize me, Prokhoroff," said the skeleton. "Don't you remember the retired sergeant62 of the Guards, Peter Petrovitch Kourilkin, the same to whom, in the year 1799, you sold your first coffin, and that, too, of deal instead of oak?"
With these words the corpse35 stretched out his bony arms towards him; but Adrian, collecting all his strength, shrieked63 and pushed him from him. Peter Petrovitch staggered, fell, and crumbled all to pieces. Among the corpses arose a murmur64 of indignation; all stood up for the honour of their companion, and they overwhelmed Adrian with such threats and imprecations, that the poor host, deafened65 by their shrieks66 and almost crushed to death, lost his presence of mind, fell upon the bones of the retired sergeant of the Guards, and swooned away.
For some time the sun had been shining upon the bed on which lay the coffin-maker. At last he opened his eyes and saw before him the servant attending to the tea-urn. With horror, Adrian recalled all the incidents of the previous day. Trukhina, the brigadier, and the sergeant, Kourilkin, rose vaguely67 before his imagination. He waited in silence for the servant to open the conversation and inform him of the events of the night.
"How you have slept, little father Adrian Prokhorovitch!" said Aksinia, handing him his dressing-gown. "Your neighbour, the tailor, has been here, and the watchman also called to inform you that to-day is his name-day; but you were so sound asleep, that we did not wish to wake you." "Did anyone come for me from the late Trukhina?"
"The late? Is she dead, then?"
"What a fool you are! Didn't you yourself help me yesterday to prepare the things for her funeral?"
"Have you taken leave of your senses, little father, or have you not yet recovered from the effects of yesterday's drinking-bout? What funeral was there yesterday? You spent the whole day feasting at the German's, and then came home drunk and threw yourself upon the bed, and have slept till this hour, when the bells have already rung for mass."
"Really!" said the coffin-maker, greatly relieved.
"Yes, indeed," replied the servant.
"Well, since that is the case, make the tea as quickly as possible and call my daughters."
KIRDJALI.
Kirdjali was by birth a Bulgarian. Kirdjali, in the Turkish language, signifies a knight-errant, a bold fellow. His real name I do not know.
Kirdjali with his acts of brigandage68 brought terror upon the whole of Moldavia. In order to give some idea of him, I will relate one of his exploits. One night he and the Arnout Mikhaelaki fell together upon a Bulgarian village. They set it on fire at both ends, and began to go from hut to hut. Kirdjali dispatched the inmates70, and Mikhaelaki carried off the booty. Both cried: "Kirdjali! Kirdjali!" The whole village took to flight.
When Alexander Ipsilanti[1] proclaimed the revolt and began to collect his army, Kirdjali brought to him some of his old companions. The real object of the revolt was but ill understood by them, but war presented an opportunity for getting rich at the expense of the Turks, and perhaps of the Moldavians, and that was object enough in their eyes.
Alexander Ipsilanti was personally brave, but he did not possess the qualities necessary for the r?le which he had assumed with such ardour and such a want of caution. He did not know how to manage the people over whom he was obliged to exercise control. They had neither respect for him nor confidence in him. After the unfortunate battle, in which perished the flower of Greek youth, Iordaki Olimbioti persuaded him to retire, and he himself took his place. Ipsilanti escaped to the borders of Austria, and thence sent his curses to the people whom he termed traitors71, cowards and scoundrels. These cowards and scoundrels for the most part perished within the walls of the monastery72 of Seko, or on the banks of the Pruth, desperately73 defending themselves against an enemy ten times their number.
Kirdjali found himself in the detachment of George Kantakuzin, of whom might be repeated the same that has been said of Ipsilanti. On the eve of the battle near Skoulana, Kantakuzin asked permission of the Russian authorities to enter our lines. The detachment remained without a leader, but Kirdjali, Saphianos, Kantagoni, and others stood in no need whatever of a leader.
The battle near Skoulana does not seem to have been described by anybody in all its affecting reality. Imagine seven hundred men—Arnouts, Albanians, Greeks, Bulgarians and rabble74 of every kind—with no idea of military art, retreating in sight of fifteen thousand Turkish cavalry75. This detachment hugged the bank of the Pruth, and placed in front of themselves two small cannons76, found at Jassy, in the courtyard of the Governor, and from which salutes77 used to be fired on occasions of rejoicing. The Turks would have been glad to make use of their cartridges78, but they dared not without the permission of the Russian authorities: the shots would infallibly have flown over to our shore. The commander of our lines (now deceased), although he had served forty years in the army, had never in his life heard the whistle of a bullet, but Heaven ordained79 that he should hear it then. Several of them whizzed past his ears. The old man became terribly angry, and abused the major of the Okhotsky infantry80 regiment81, who happened to be in advance of the lines. The major, not knowing what to do, ran towards the river, beyond which some of the mounted insurgents82 were caracoling about, and threatened them with his finger. The insurgents, seeing this, turned round and galloped83 off, with the whole Turkish detachment after them. The major, who had threatened them with his finger, was called Khortcheffsky. I do not know what became of him.
The next day, however, the Turks attacked the Hetairists. Not daring to use bullets or cannon-balls, they resolved, contrary to their usual custom, to employ cold steel. The battle was a fiercely-contested one. Yataghans[2] were freely used. On the side of the Turks were seen lances, which had never been employed by them till then; these lances were Russian: Nekrassovists fought in their ranks. The Hetairists, by permission of our Emperor, were allowed to cross the Pruth and take refuge within our lines. They began to cross over. Kantagoni and Saphianos remained last upon the Turkish bank. Kirdjali, wounded the evening before, was already lying within our lines. Saphianos was killed. Kantagoni, a very stout84 man, was wounded in the stomach by a lance. With one hand he raised his sword, with the other he seized the hostile lance, thrust it further into himself, and in that manner was able to reach his murderer with his sword, when both fell together.
All was over. The Turks remained victorious85. Moldavia was swept clear of insurrectionary bands. About six hundred Arnouts were dispersed throughout Bessarabia; and though not knowing how to support themselves, they were yet grateful to Russia for her protection. They led an idle life, but not a licentious86 one. They could always be seen in the coffee-houses of half Turkish Bessarabia, with long pipes in their mouths, sipping87 coffee grounds out of small cups. Their figured jackets and red pointed88 slippers89 were already beginning to wear out, but their tufted skullcaps were still worn on the side of the head, and yataghans and pistols still protruded90 from under their broad sashes. Nobody complained of them. It was impossible to imagine that these poor, peaceably-disposed men were the notorious insurgents of Moldavia, the companions of the ferocious91 Kirdjali, and that he himself was among them.
The Pasha in command at Jassy became informed of this, and in virtue92 of treaty stipulations, requested the Russian authorities to deliver up the brigand69.
The police instituted a search. They discovered that Kirdjali was really in Kishineff. They captured him in the house of a fugitive93 monk94 in the evening, when he was having supper, sitting in the dark with seven companions.
Kirdjali was placed under arrest. He did not try to conceal95 the truth; he acknowledged that he was Kirdjali.
"But," he added, "since I crossed the Pruth, I have not touched a hair of other people's property, nor imposed upon even a gipsy. To the Turks, to the Moldavians and to the Wallachians I am undoubtedly96 a brigand, but to the Russians I am a guest. When Saphianos, having fired off all his cartridges, came over into these lines, collecting from the wounded, for the last discharge, buttons, nails, watch-chains and the knobs of yataghans, I gave him twenty beshliks, and was left without money. God knows that I, Kirdjali, lived by alms. Why then do the Russians now deliver me into the hands of my enemies?"
After that, Kirdjali was silent, and tranquilly97 awaited the decision that was to determine his fate. He did not wait long. The authorities, not being bound to look upon brigands98 from their romantic side, and being convinced of the justice of the demand, ordered Kirdjali to be sent to Jassy.
A man of heart and intellect, at that time a young and unknown official, but now occupying an important post, vividly99 described to me his departure.
At the gate of the prison stood a karoutsa.... Perhaps you do not know what a karouisa is. It is a low, wicker vehicle, to which, not very long since, used generally to be yoked100 six or eight sorry jades. A Moldavian, with a moustache and a sheepskin cap, sitting astride one of them, incessantly101 shouted and cracked his whip, and his wretched animals ran on at a fairly sharp trot102. If one of them began to slacken its pace, he unharnessed it with terrible oaths and left it upon the road, little caring what might be its fate. On the return journey he was sure to find it in the same place, quietly grazing upon the green steppe. It not unfrequently happened that a traveller, starting from one station with eight horses, arrived at the next with a pair only. It used to be so about fifteen years ago. Nowadays in Russianized Bessarabia they have adopted Russian harness and Russian telegas.
Such a karoutsa stood at the gate of the prison in the year 1821, towards the end of the month of September. Jewesses in loose sleeves and slippers down at heel, Arnouts in their ragged3 and picturesque103 attire104, well-proportioned Moldavian women with black-eyed children in their arms, surrounded the karoutsa. The men preserved silence, the women were eagerly expecting something.
The gate opened, and several police officers stepped out into the street; behind them came two soldiers leading the fettered105 Kirdjali.
He seemed about thirty years of age. The features of his swarthy face were regular and harsh. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and seemed endowed with unusual physical strength. A variegated106 turban covered the side of his head, and a broad sash encircled his slender waist. A dolman of thick, dark-blue cloth, the broad folds of his shirt falling below the knee, and handsome slippers composed the remainder of his costume. His look was proud and calm....
One of the officials, a red-faced old man in a threadbare uniform, three buttons of which were dangling107 down, with a pair of pewter spectacles pinching the purple knob that served him for a nose, unrolled a paper and, in a snuffling tone, began to read in the Moldavian tongue. From time to time he glanced haughtily108 at the fettered Kirdjali, to whom apparently109 the paper referred. Kirdjali listened to him attentively110. The official finished his reading, folded up the paper and shouted sternly at the people, ordering them to give way and the karoutsa to be driven up. Then Kirdjali turned to him and said a few words to him in Moldavian; his voice trembled, his countenance111 changed, he burst into tears and fell at the feet of the police official, clanking his fetters112. The police official, terrified, started back; the soldiers were about to raise Kirdjali, but he rose up himself, gathered up his chains, stepped into the karoutsa and cried: "Drive on!" A gendarme113 took a seat beside him, the Moldavian cracked his whip, and the karoutsa rolled away.
"What did Kirdjali say to you?" asked the young official of the police officer.
"He asked me," replied the police officer, smiling, "to look after his wife and child, who lived not far from Kilia, in a Bulgarian village: he is afraid that they may suffer through him. The mob is so stupid!"
The young official's story affected114 me deeply. I was sorry for poor Kirdjali. For a long time I knew nothing of his fate. Some years later I met the young official. We began to talk about the past.
"What about your friend Kirdjali?" I asked. "Do you know what became of him?"
"To be sure I do," replied he, and he related to me the following.
Kirdjali, having been taken to Jassy, was brought before the Pasha, who condemned115 him to be impaled116. The execution was deferred117 till some holiday. In the meantime he was confined in jail.
The prisoner was guarded by seven Turks (common people, and in their hearts as much brigands as Kirdjali himself); they respected him and, like all Orientals, listened with avidity to his strange stories.
Between the guards and the prisoner an intimate acquaintance sprang up. One day Kirdjali said to them: "Brothers! my hour is near. Nobody can escape his fate. I shall soon take leave of you. I should like to leave you something in remembrance of me."
"Brothers," continued Kirdjali, "three years ago, when I was engaged in plundering119 along with the late Mikhaelaki, we buried on the steppes, not from Jassy, a kettle filled with money. Evidently, neither I nor he will make use of the hoard120. Be it so; take it for yourselves and divide it in a friendly manner."
The Turks almost took leave of their senses. The question was, how were they to find the blessed spot? They thought and thought and finally resolved that Kirdjali himself should conduct them to the place.
Night came on. The Turks removed the irons from the feet of the prisoner, tied his hands with a rope, and, leaving the town, set out with him for the steppe.
Kirdjali led them, keeping on in one direction from one mound121 to another. They walked on for a long time. At last Kirdjali stopped near a broad stone, measured twelve paces towards the south, stamped and said: "Here."
The Turks began to make their arrangements. Four of them took out their yataghans and commenced digging the earth. Three remained on guard. Kirdjali sat down upon the stone and watched them at their work.
"Well, how much longer are you going to be?" he asked; "haven't you come to it?"
"Not yet," replied the Turks, and they worked away with such ardour, that the perspiration122 rolled from them like hail.
Kirdjali began to show signs of impatience123.
"What people!" he exclaimed: "they do not even know how to dig decently. I should have finished the whole business in a couple of minutes. Children! untie124 my hands and give me a yataghan."
The Turks reflected and began to take counsel together. "What harm would there be?" reasoned they. "Let us untie his hands and give him a yataghan. He is only one, we are seven."
At last Kirdjali was free and armed. What must he have felt at that moment!... He began digging quickly, the guard helping126 him.... Suddenly he plunged127 his yataghan into one of them, and, leaving the blade in his breast, he snatched from his belt a couple of pistols.
The remaining six, seeing Kirdjali armed with two pistols, ran off.
Kirdjali is now carrying on the profession of brigand near Jassy. Not long ago he wrote to the Governor, demanding from him five thousand levs,[3] and threatening, in the event of the money not being paid, to set fire to Jassy and to reach the Governor himself. The five thousand levs were handed over to him!
Such is Kirdjali!
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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jades
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| n.玉，翡翠（jade的复数形式）v.（使）疲（jade的第三人称单数形式） | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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inverted
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inscription
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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inspection
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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disposition
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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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wares
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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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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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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deviating
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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22
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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23
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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24
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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25
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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26
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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27
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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28
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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29
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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30
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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31
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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32
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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33
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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34
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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35
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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36
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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37
buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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38
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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39
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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40
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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41
regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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42
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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43
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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44
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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45
decomposition
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| n. 分解, 腐烂, 崩溃 | |
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46
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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47
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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48
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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49
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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50
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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52
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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53
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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54
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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55
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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56
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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57
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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58
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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59
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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60
pestles
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| n.（捣碎或碾磨用的）杵( pestle的名词复数 ) | |
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61
mortars
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| n.迫击炮( mortar的名词复数 )；砂浆；房产；研钵 | |
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62
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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63
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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65
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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66
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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68
brigandage
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| n.抢劫；盗窃；土匪；强盗 | |
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69
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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70
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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71
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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72
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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73
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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74
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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75
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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76
cannons
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| n.加农炮，大炮，火炮( cannon的名词复数 ) | |
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77
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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78
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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79
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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80
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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81
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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82
insurgents
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| n.起义，暴动，造反( insurgent的名词复数 ) | |
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83
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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85
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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86
licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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87
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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88
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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89
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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90
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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92
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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93
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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94
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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95
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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96
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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97
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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98
brigands
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| n.土匪，强盗( brigand的名词复数 ) | |
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99
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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100
yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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101
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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102
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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103
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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104
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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105
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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107
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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108
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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109
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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110
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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111
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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112
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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114
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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115
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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116
impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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118
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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119
plundering
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的现在分词 ) | |
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120
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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121
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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122
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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123
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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124
untie
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| vt.解开，松开；解放 | |
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125
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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126
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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127
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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