Nan returned frequently along the road on the top of the dyke1, on the red and gray February evenings, when the stillness was absolute; on either side of the dyke the floods lay, placid2 and flat as mirrors, over broad miles of country, reflecting the crimson3 sun up a path of roughened and reddened splendour. The water-filled ruts along the road glowed with the same light; long narrow lines of fire. How dismal4 that flooded land would have been without that light; gray, only gray, without the red! All the most dismal elements were present: a few isolated5 and half-submerged trees stuck up here and there out of the water, and at intervals6 the upper half of a gate and gate-posts protruded7, the entrance to some now invisible field; useless, ridiculous, and woebegone. But that red light, cold and fiery8, scored its bar of blood across the gray lagoons9.
90The village lay in front of her, at the end of the road, and behind the village rose the three high chimneys of the factory, black amongst the gray waters, the gray sky, threatening and desolate10 in the midst of desolation. The three black plumes11 of smoke drifted upwards12, converged13 into a large leisurely14 volume, and dispersed15; already in the dusk the red glow at their base was becoming visible, and a single star appeared high above them, as though a spark that had floated out from the heart of the factory now hung suspended in supercilious16 vigil. The abbey on the farther side lay heaped in a mass as dark as the mass of the factory. Nan would shift to the other hand the basket she was carrying home from the market-town of Spalding; walking along the elevation17 of the dyke, she made a tiny, upright figure in the great circle of the flat country, for here the disc of the horizon was as apparent as it is at sea. The group of village, factory, and church, emerged like an island loaded with strange and sombre piles of architecture, adrift from all other encampments of men. Abbot’s Etchery lay before her, against that formidable foundry of the heavens, that swarthy splendour of smoke and sunset, and as she continued to advance she thought 91that she re-entered an angry prison, too barbarous, too inimical, for her to dwell beneath it, and live.
II
The calm, cold weather broke late in February; a gale18 swept for two nights and a day across the country, beating up the waters into little jostling peaks and breaking from the forlorn trees branches that were jerked hither and thither19 upon the waves, now coming to rest upon a tussock of higher ground, now taken again by the shallow storm of the floods, or tossed to lie against the bulwark20 of the dykes21. The smoke from the factory chimneys was snatched by the wind, and swirled22 wildly away in coils and streamers, black smoke mingled23 with the dark masses of cloud that drove across the disordered sky. Gulls24 from the Wash flew inland,—the gulls, that more than any other bird attune25 themselves to the season, in summer gleaming white, lovely and marbled, on the wing, but in times of tempest matching the clouds, iron-gray, the most desolate of birds.
It became unsafe for carts to travel along the road on the top of the dyke, since one farm-cart, swaying already under an excessive load of fodder26, 92was caught by a gust27 of wind and overturned. After one moment of perilous28 balance, it crashed down the embankment, dragging after it the two frenzied29 horses, falling in a welter of broken limbs, tangled30 harness, and splintered woodwork, while the trusses of hay broke from their lashings and scattered31 into the borders of the flood.
The storm of wind and water raged round this disaster, and folk from the village collected on the top of the dyke to gape32 down at the carter busy amongst the wreckage33, and surreptitiously at Malleson, the owner, who stood alone, more in sorrow for his valiant34 horses than in regret over his material loss. There was no hope of saving the horses,—they were shire horses, stately and monumental,—by the time the crowd had assembled their tragic35 struggle had already ceased. The carter was sullenly36 bending down, unbuckling the harness; he would speak to no one. On the top of the dyke the gale buffeted37 the little crowd, so that the men (their hands buried in their pockets, their overcoats blown against their legs as they stood with their backs to the winds, and their mufflers streaming) stamped their feet to keep themselves warm, and the women with pinched faces drew their black shawls more 93closely round their heads and whispered dolefully together.
III
The accident greatly excited Silas Dene; it occurred on a Saturday afternoon, and Nan, who was sewing in her own kitchen, heard upon the wall the three thumps38 that were Silas’s usual summons. She found him with Linnet Morgan, Hambley, and Donnithorne, one of his mates, who had stopped on his way down the street to bring the news.
Silas wanted Nan to go to the scene of the accident and to bring him back a first-hand report. She cried out in dismay, appealing with her eyes to both Morgan and Donnithorne. Hambley she ignored; his very presence made her shudder40, and she knew he would side with Silas.
“But, Silas, I wouldn’t for the world! Those poor horses—what are you asking me to do? to go and gloat over them?”
“Sentiment!” said Silas, who was angry. “Linnet says the same. God, if I had eyes to use.... There’s violence and destruction half a mile down the road, and you won’t go to see it. It maddens me, the way you folk neglect the gifts and the opportunities 94God offers you. Sentimentalists! A fine rough smash-up ... the wind’s a poet. A poet, I say, wasting food and life for the mischief42 of it. The food of beasts, and the life of beasts; wasted! There’s twenty trusses of hay in the floods, so Donnithorne here tells me,—twenty trusses spoilt for dainty-feeding cows,—and two fine horses smashed, and a big wagon43. They’re lying heaped at the bottom of the dyke. There’s blood spilt, as red as the heat of the sun. No man would dare to bring all that about for the sake of the mischief; but the wind’s a poet, I say—I like the wind—he tears up in a minute trees that have persevered44 inch by inch for a thousand years, and sends to the bottom ships full of a merchant’s careful cargo45. Well, you won’t go down the road and tell a blind man about the smash?”
“Guts spilt, Mrs. Dene!” said Hambley, rubbing his hands together and provoking her. She turned away from him with repulsion.
“Ye’re morbid46, Silas,” said Donnithorne in disgust, his hand on the latch47. He was a red-headed, red-bearded man, with pale but lascivious48 blue eyes that once had leered at Hannah, Silas’s wife.
“Morbid, am I? no, it’s you squeamish ones that 95are morbid, and I that have the stout49 fancy. If Heaven had given me eyes! I wouldn’t be such a one as you. I’d sooner be a fool playing with a bit of string, and crooning mumble-jumble, or taking off my hat to a scarecrow in the dusk.”
With that he bundled them all out, and slammed the door.
IV
Linnet Morgan followed Nan back into her own kitchen.
“Oh, Mr. Morgan, is Silas mad?” she said, turning to him at once.
“I sometimes don’t know what to make of him.”
“Would he go to look at the accident, do you think, if he could see?”
“Not he!” said Morgan, “not he! But he’s safe to say so. He turned pale when Donnithorne told him about it, but next minute he was pretending to be all eager, like you heard him.”
They remained standing50, occupied with their own thoughts. Gregory glanced up from his drawings as they came in, but otherwise took no notice of them. Morgan sat down before the range, and began prodding51 a piece of firewood between the small open bars.
96“I lose my bearings, living with Silas,” he said presently; “amongst all his manias53, he’s got this mania52 for destruction. Perhaps the long and short of it is, that he likes talking loud about big noisy things, when he’s certain they won’t come near him to hurt him. Being blind keeps him safe.... Mrs. Dene, come for a turn with me. You look right white and scared. Come out, and let the wind blow away bad thoughts?”
“I’ll ask Gregory to come with us.” She went over to her husband, touched him on the arm to attract his attention, and spoke54 to him on her fingers. “He says he’s busy with his drawings, but will we go without him.”
V
They took the road that led in the opposite direction from the accident, and uncharitable eyes watched them go past the windows of the houses in the village. But they walked all unconscious, feeling relieved and with a gay sense of holiday, almost a sense of truancy55; and when the wind caught them as they left the shelter of the village, and forced them to a breathless standstill, they laughed, and struggled on again, exhilarated by their fight against so clean and natural a foe56. They were soon in the 97open country, having left the village behind; they breasted the wind, and breathed it deeply, tasting, or fancying that they tasted, upon their lips the salt of the flying spray. The road which they followed lost the monotony of its straightness when they conquered it yard by yard, and remembered that, did they but follow it far enough, it would lead them eventually to the sea.
There was indeed a regal splendour about the day, about the embattled sky and driven clouds. The northern forces had been recklessly unleashed57. The sea would be beaten into a tumult58 full of angry majesty59. How wild a day, how arrogant60 a storm!
VI
Coming back, the wind almost forced them into a run, and they yielded, racing61 along the road, impelled62 as by a strong hand. They could not speak to one another in the midst of the turmoil63, but they smiled from time to time in happy understanding. As they neared the village Nan checked herself, and, leaning breathless against one of the telegraph-posts that bordered the road, tried to re-order her hair, but the wind took her shawl and blew it streaming from her hand, also the strands64 of her hair in little 98wild fluttering pennons. Nevertheless, she was in such high good humour that she only laughed at what might have been an annoyance65, turning herself this way and that to gain the best advantage over the wind. Morgan stood by, laughing himself, and watching her. She wore a dark red shirt, and the wind had blown two patches on to her cheeks, which were usually so pale they looked fragile and transparent66. They continued more soberly towards the village, still without speaking, even when they reached the shelter of the street, because it seemed unnecessary.
They saw Silas standing on his own doorstep, hatless, in a strange attitude, holding his hands stretched out before him, the fingers wide apart. Nan ran up and caught one of his hands; Morgan was surprised, for she never treated Silas with levity67. She seemed to have shaken off the years of repression68, to have forgotten totally the conscientious69 lesson.
“What are you doing standing there, Silas?” She was very gay.
“Letting the wind whistle in my fingers. Hark! Bend down your head.”
“I can’t hear it, Silas.”
99“No, you’ve coarse ears; eyes! eyes! yes! but coarse ears. Where have you been?”
“Along the dyke....”
“Seen the accident?”
“Hush, Silas; you shan’t dwell on that.” Morgan had never seen her so brave, so radiant, with the blind man. She took his arm now, leading him back into his cottage. “Sit down by the fire, Silas; it’s warm and sheltered in here. The kettle’s singing.”
“I’d sooner stay in the wind,” he said, striving against the light pressure of her hands on his shoulders as she held him down.
“The wind’s too rough; I’ve had enough of it.”
“Then let me stay on the doorstep alone. You stop in the shelter with Linnet.”
“No, Silas, we’ll all three stop in here together. I’ll sing to you a bit, shall I?” Morgan observed her firmness with a surprised admiration70.
She got her zither from the cupboard where she kept it, laid it on the table, and tried the chords with a little tortoiseshell clip that she slipped over her thumb. The thin notes quivered through the bluster71 of the wind and the harshness of Silas’s voice. She bent72 intently over her tuning73, trying the 100notes with her voice, adjusting the wires with the key she held between her fingers.
“Now!” she said, looking up and smiling.
She sang her little sentimental41 songs, “Annie Laurie,” and “My boy Jo,” her voice as clear and natural as the accompaniment was painstaking74. She struck the wires bravely with her tortoiseshell clip. Morgan applauded.
“It’s grand, Mrs. Dene.”
“Why do you choose to-day for your zither?” Silas asked in his most rasping tone.
“It’s Sunday, Silas,—a home day.”
“But you’re not home; you’re in my cottage; your home is with Gregory, next door. You’re here with me and Linnet.”
“Gregory can’t hear me sing,” she said pitifully.
“Then why don’t you dance? he could see you dance.”
“I asked him to come for a walk,” she said, her brightness dimmed by tears.
“And he wouldn’t go? with you and Linnet?”
“No, he was drawing.”
“Ah?” said Silas. “But Linnet went with you? Linnet wasn’t busy?”
“What’ll I sing that pleases you?” she said, 101maintaining her endeavour; “‘Loch Lomond?’ You used to like ‘Loch Lomond.’”
“Silas!” she said in despair, dropping her hands on to her zither, which gave forth76 a jangle of sounds.
“If you want home, as you say, stop here with Linnet; I’ll lend you my cottage,” said Silas, rising and groping for his cap. “Play at home for a bit. Draw the curtains, light the lamp, make tea for yourselves, put the kettle back to sing on the hob, and you, Nan, sing to your zither to your heart’s content. It’s a pleasant, warm room, for pleasant, warm people. Home of a Sunday, with the wind shut out! Oh yes, I’ll lend you my cottage. Gregory’s lost in his drawings till supper-time. Stay here and talk and smoke and sing, while the room grows warmer, and you forget the wind and the two dead horses and spoilt fodder lying down the road. Spend your evenings in forgetfulness. Ask no questions of sorrow. Kill darkness with your little candle of content.”
“You’re crazy; where are you going?” cried Morgan.
102“Only to the Abbey,—not into the floods,” Silas replied with a laugh.
“To the Abbey? alone?”
“One of my haunts, you know.”
VII
Silas found his way along the village street by following the outer edge of the pavement with his stick; as he went he snorted and muttered. “I’ll have nothing to do with Nan’s kindness,” he said to himself several times. “She’s easily satisfied; she’s comfortable; she’s grateful. She shuts the eyes that she might see with.” This thought made him very angry, and he strode recklessly along, knocking against the few folk that were abroad on that inclement77 evening. One or two of them stopped him with a “Why, Dene! give you a hand on your way anywhere?” but he rejected them, as he was determined78 to reject all comfort and patience that Nan might offer him. He liked the wind, that opposed him and made his progress difficult; he struck out against it, the struggle deluding79 him into a reassuring80 illusion of his own courage. He welcomed the wind for the sake of that tortuous81 flattery....
103He would have made his way to Lady Malleson, but he was afraid to venture under the trees in the park, where a bough82 might be blown down upon him.
VIII
At the end of a side-street the Norman abbey rose, black and humped and semi-ruined, the huge dark clouds of the evening sky sailing swiftly past the ogive of its broken arches. The village had retreated from the abbey, because the abbey’s furthermost walls were lapped by the floods, so that it remained, the outer bulwark of man’s encampment upon the inviolate83 mound84 in the midst of the inundations; it remained like some great dark derelict vessel85, half beached upon dry land, half straining still towards the waters. The street which led to it was a survival of the ancient town, gabled and narrow, with cobbled ground; Silas tapped his way over the cobbles. He could not see the enormous mass of tower and buttress86 and great doorway87, that blocked the end of the street before him, but he heard the scattered peal39 of bells, and the deep gloom of the abbey lost nothing in passing through the enchantment88 of his blind fancy. He entered, and 104was swallowed up in shadows. The roof was lost in a sombre and indistinguishable vault89. The aisles90 became dim colonnades91, stretching away into uncertain distance. The pillars with their bulk and gravity of naked stone dwarfed92 the worshippers that rustled93 around their base. The organ rumbled94 in the transept. Silas moved among the aisles, handing himself on from pillar to pillar; he imagined that he moved in a forest, touching95 his way from tree-trunk to tree-trunk; he conceived the abbey as illimitable, and relished96 it the more because ruin had impaired97 the intention of the architecture.
The organ from its rumbling98 broke out into its full volume, a giant treading in wrath99 through the forest, a storm rolling among the echoes of the hills. Night came, and the clouds moved invisibly past overhead, over the abbey and the floods. Nothing but the dark flats of water lay between the abbey and the sea; its bells gave their music to the wind, and the great voice of its organ was more than a man-made thing. The black shape of the abbey on the edge of the desolate floods bulked like a natural growth rooted in old centuries, harmonious100 and consonant101 with nature. To the vision of Silas Dene, on which no human limitations were imposed, and 105whose mind was fed on sound and thought alone, the abbey was not less vast than night itself, only a night within the night, an abode102 of ordered sound within the gale of sound. In his fancy he was not clear as to whether it were roofed over, or lay open to the sky; he could vary his decision according to the vagary103 of the moment, alternately picturing the rafters high above his head, or the scudding104 moonlit heavens of ragged105 black and silver. He put his hands upon the pillars with no thought of man’s construction; they seemed monolithic106. He caressed107 them, moving between them, leaning against them, and listening to the organ. He was in a large, dim, mysterious place, that had a kindred with the floods and with the storm. He knew that all around him were shadows which, while making no difference to the perpetual shadow he himself lived in, obscured and hampered108 the free coming and going of other men. Darkness was to him a confederate and an affinity109; he would smile when people spoke of nightfall or of an impenetrable fog. He searched now with his hand until it touched the shoulder of a kneeling woman.
“Are there any lights in the church?” he whispered.
106“Why, surely!” she said, startled, “candles upon the altar.”
He was displeased110; he moved behind a column where he knew the shadows would be deeper. The organ had ceased, and he heard prayers. He shook with inward mockery, confident that the abbey, which he had endowed with a personality and had adopted into his own alliance, would reject the prayers as contemptuously as he himself rejected them. It would await the renewed majesty of the organ.... To Silas the organ represented no hymn111 of praise; it represented only the accompaniment of storm; he was not even troubled, because he did not notice them, by the infantile words which the congregation fitted to its chords. It had never occurred to him to think of the abbey as a holy temple until he came by chance upon a thing to which his imagination made a kindled112 and ravenous113 response.
For once he had not made for himself the discovery of this new theme in the course of his reading. He owed it, a resented debt, to the conversation of his mates in the shops. Silas, listening, had felt his ever-ready contempt surging within him; it angered him to learn from illiterate114 men of a subject that he alone amongst them was fitted to understand. 107They skirted round it; but he grasped it avidly115, adopting it, as though a niche116 in his mind had been always waiting for it. He took it with him to the abbey, like a man carrying something secret and deadly under his cloak. Black Mass....
He scarcely knew what it meant. He took it principally as a symbol of distortion and mockery. It seemed to be one of the phrases and summings up he had always been searching for, he who liked to condense a large vague district of imaginings into a final phrase.
When he remembered Black Mass in the ordinary way, he smiled in satisfaction, and stowed it away as a secret; but when he thought of it in the abbey he hunched117 himself as though he were in the throes of some physical pleasure. In bringing that thought with him into the abbey he was taunting118 a tremendous God, a revengeful God; and he exalted119 fearfully in the latent implication of his own daring. Surely courage could go no further than the defiance120 of God! His ready ecstasy121 swept him away. The world he lived in was a reversed world, where darkness held the place of light; in the world of his soul a similar order should prevail. Taut-strung, he cast around for some piece of blasphemy122, some monstrous123 108thing that he could do,—he did not know what. He only knew that now he was brave, though it might be with the courage of hysteria; presently he would be again afraid. He dreaded124 the return of his cowardice125. He had not been a coward the day he had killed Hannah; only afterwards; he must not dwell upon the afterwards.
He had no weapon with him in the church except his voice, and a penknife in his pocket.
He must achieve something; something! anything!
In the midst of his excitement he took it into his head that a piece of the ruined masonry126, detached by the wind, might fall in upon him and crush him. Still chattering127 under his breath to himself, his hands nervously128 working, he moved closer to the shelter of the pillar. Here he felt more secure, but still the gusts129 of storm sent waves of physical anxiety through him. He was torn between that small anxiety and the illimitable defiance.
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1
dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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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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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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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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lagoons
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| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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converged
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| v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的过去式 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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attune
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| v.使调和 | |
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fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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40
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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41
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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42
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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43
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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44
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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46
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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47
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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48
lascivious
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| adj.淫荡的，好色的 | |
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50
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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51
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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52
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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53
manias
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| n.（mania的复数形式） | |
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54
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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55
truancy
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| n.逃学，旷课 | |
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56
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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57
unleashed
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| v.把（感情、力量等）释放出来，发泄( unleash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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59
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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60
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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61
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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62
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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64
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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66
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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67
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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68
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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69
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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70
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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71
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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72
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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73
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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74
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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75
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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76
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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77
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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78
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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79
deluding
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的现在分词 ) | |
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80
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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81
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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82
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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83
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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84
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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85
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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86
buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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87
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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88
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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89
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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90
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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91
colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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92
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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93
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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95
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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96
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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97
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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99
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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100
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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101
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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102
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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103
vagary
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| n.妄想，不可测之事，异想天开 | |
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104
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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105
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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106
monolithic
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| adj.似独块巨石的；整体的 | |
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107
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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110
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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111
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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112
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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113
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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114
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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115
avidly
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| adv.渴望地，热心地 | |
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116
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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117
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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118
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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119
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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120
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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121
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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122
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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123
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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124
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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125
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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126
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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127
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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128
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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129
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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130
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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