Had there been any likelihood of his deception6 being found out, the case would have been different; but his death had been accepted absolutely, and he did not suppose that there would be any penetrating7 inquiries8 or investigations9 by the police now that the innkeeper had made his lying confession10. He was completely “dead,” nor would he ever have to come back to earth again, thereby11 upsetting any future arrangement of her life which his “widow” might make; for even if he were one day recognized by some English acquaintances he could always put any inquirer in the wrong by showing that he had been none other than “Jim Easton” these many years.
[179]
Yet the fear of detection, and the indefinite sense that he was acting12 in a manner violently opposed to those legalities which he did not understand, but whose existence he realized, kept him in a state of nervous tension and temporarily banished13 all peace from his mind. He was convinced that Dolly would not grieve for him; yet the manner of his death would be a shock to her, and there were two other persons—Mrs. Darling and Smiley-face—who would feel his loss. They would soon forget him, however.
He recalled Mrs. Spooner’s angry words to him after that day when he had inadvertently interrupted her bicycle-ride: “You haven’t much idea of obligation, have you?” This irresponsibility, of which people complained, was evidently growing upon him, he thought to himself; yet, viewing the matter from another angle, was he not now deliberately14 acting for the good of everybody concerned, in ending his unfortunate marriage and abandoning his inheritance?
His equanimity15, however, gradually returned to him in some measure; and when at length he went back to Rome, and there settled himself comfortably in the obscure little hotel in the Trastevere quarter, he was already beginning at moments to feel a tremendous joy in his recovered liberty.
He knew that he was a deserter, and he was well aware that so he would be called by all nice-minded people. Yet that thought in itself did not trouble him; for the mental standpoint of the wanderer commands an outlook very different from that of the stout16 citizen. He saw clearly that he had not in[180] him the stuff of which a constitutional state or a model household is made. He could not be a party to so many of the hypocrisies17 of social life. He was not a good disciple18 of the Great Sham19, and was so often inclined to “give the show away” when most the illusion ought to have been maintained. He was not a respectable member of the community, nor was he gifted with those methodical and enduring qualities which shape wedlock20 into a salubrious routine. Perhaps it was that he had too much imagination to be a good citizen, too much finesse21 to be a good husband. In any case he knew that he would never have been of use to his country, except, perhaps, as a pioneer in a small way (for the world-power of the Anglo-Saxon has been established by the rover and the free lance); or possibly as a sort of intellectual bagman, unconsciously exhibiting the lighter22 side of the race to foreign and critical eyes.
As the days passed he gave ever less consideration to his attitude, and soon his thoughts of Dolly and his English life had become sporadic23 and fleeting24. Once, as he loitered in the sunny Piazza25 di Spagna upon a certain Sunday morning, and watched the good folk mounting the hot steps to the church of the Trinita de’ Monti, he irritably26 argued the matter to himself as though anxious to exorcise it by arriving at some sort of finality. “Dolly will be far happier without me,” he mused27. “If I had left her, and was known to be alive, I should harm her by placing upon her the stigma28 most hateful to her sex—that of the unsuccessful wife. But since I am supposed to be dead, she will benefit trebly: she is rid of a bad husband; she will have the pleasure, very[181] real to her, of wearing mourning and nursing a fictitious29 sorrow; and she may set about the management of her life with a house and a comfortable fortune to add to her attractions. And then, again, from a public point of view, I have avoided the inevitable30 scandal of my married life by dying before I was driven to drink and debauchery. My memorial tablet in the church will be worth reading!”
His cogitations did not carry him further than this on the present occasion; for a number of white pigeons rose suddenly from the ground near his feet, and circled round the Egyptian obelisk31 which stands in front of the church, thereby directing his thoughts to the land of the Nile and to the life which he had led before he inherited Eversfield.
On another day, while he was seated in the shade of the trees in the Pincian Gardens, the passing carriages, in which the polite families of Rome were taking the air, led his thoughts back once more to these fading arguments and memories. “Now that I am dead,” he reflected, “Dolly will at last be able to have the carriage-and-pair I had always refused to give her. She will be able to play the part of the little widow in the big carriage: yes!—that will please her far more than the presence of an untidy-looking husband.”
It is to be understood, and perhaps it is to his credit, that he had given the loss of his inheritance never a thought, nor had cared how his money would be spent. He had nearly two thousand pounds in the bank, which was sufficient to provide for his modest needs for three or four years, and further than that he had no power to look. He did not[182] grudge32 Dolly the estate; and, indeed, so heartily33 had he come to dislike Eversfield and all it meant, that he could have wished his worst enemy no greater punishment than to be established there at the manor34.
He gazed out through the arch of the trees to the dome35 of St. Peter’s, rising above the distant houses on the far side of an open space of blazing sunlight; and he breathed a sigh of profound relief that a means of escape had been found from the cage of matrimony and domesticity in which he had been confined. “I used to think,” he mused, “that it would be a wonderful thing to have a wife who would be my refuge and my sanctuary36; but I see now that that was a delusion37 and a weakness. It is far better for a man to stand on his own two legs, and to make his own heart his place of comfort, and what he looks out on through its windows his entertainment.” Yet even so, he was aware that this statement of the case did not cover the whole ground; for there certainly were times when he suffered from a sense of tremendous loneliness.
Then came the trial of the innkeeper, and for a short time he was obliged to return to the past; yet now he viewed matters with complete detachment: it was as though he were in no way identical with James Tundering-West, nor ever had been. He read in the papers, without a tremor38, how his wife had identified the walking-stick, handkerchief, and postcard, which had been sent to England for the purpose of that formality. He was mildly relieved to find that his dealings with the diamonds had not been traced, and that his movements in France, and[183] his subsequent visit to Genoa and Pisa, were but roughly sketched39 in as having no bearing upon the actual crime. The innkeeper’s declarations quite amused him, and he was hardly indignant to find that the man had become a popular figure, and that his sentence was wholly inadequate40.
The close of the trial marked Jim’s complete emancipation41. With a wide mental gesture, which was very inadequately42 expressed by his twisted smile and the shrug43 of his shoulders, he dismissed the tale of his marriage from the history of his life, and turned his attention wholly to that all-embracing present, which is the true wanderer’s domain44. The “I was” and the “I shall be” of the citizen’s domestic life was lost in the great “I am” of the vagabond. He was no longer the lord of a compact little estate, bounded by grey stone walls and green hedges. He was the squire45 vagrant46; he was enfeoffed of the whole wide world.
In the first exultation47 of his final freedom he decided48 to leave Rome. The true vagrant does not move from place to place in conscious search of knowledge or experience: he has no purpose in his movements. He travels onwards merely to satisfy an undefined appetite for life. The difference between the real nomad49 and the ordinary traveller is this, that the latter passes with definite intent from one stopping-place to the next, and the intervening road is but the means of approach to a desired goal; but the nomad has no goal, or it might be said that the road itself is his goal.
In Jim’s case—to use an illustrative exaggeration—if he were moving south, and the dust were to[184] blow in his face, he would turn and travel north. Thus, when he made his departure from Rome he took his direction almost at random50. He had no ties, no duties, no cares. A knapsack upon his shoulders, and some loose change jingling51 in his pocket, a roll of notes stuffed into his wallet, and at least three languages ready to his tongue, he set out to range over his new estate, the world, having the feeling in his heart that he had come back to the freedom of youth from a misty52 prison of premature53 age which was already fast fading from his memory.
His route would be difficult to record and puzzling to follow. For days together he lingered at little inns where a few francs procured54 him excellent fare; now he passed on by road or rail, by river or lake, to new districts, and new settings for the comedy of his life; and now he came to rest under the awnings56 of some small hotel in the heart of a sun-bathed city.
During a spell of particularly hot weather he went north to Lake Maggiore, where, on the cool slopes of Mergozzolo, he spent a number of dreamy days at a little whitewashed57 inn, from whose terrace he could look down upon the lake and beyond it to the blue and hazy58 plains of Lombardy and Piedmont. He worked here on the polishing of his verses, writing also a longish poem upon the subject of freedom; and in the evenings he sat for hours under the stars, talking to the proprietor59 and his wife, or playing his guitar, and smoking the little cigarettes in which the Italian Government so wisely specializes.
One incident which occurred at this time may be[185] recorded. He was making a journey by train one piping-hot day, and was seated alone in a smoking compartment60, which was connected by a door with another compartment where smoking was not permitted. During a long run between two stations this door was opened and another traveller entered, carrying a small portmanteau and a bundle of rugs. He was a stout, florid, prosperous-looking business man, whose English nationality was entirely61 obvious, and when he explained in very bad Italian that he was changing his seat in order to smoke a pipe, Jim answered him in his mother tongue, and soon they passed into casual conversation.
“People on these Italian railways,” the stranger said, “seem to smoke in any carriage; but I, personally, feel that one ought to stick to the rules, and only do so in the compartments62 specially63 provided for the purpose.”
“Quite right, I’m sure,” Jim replied, having no pronounced views on the subject, but wishing to be polite.
“That is what these foreigners lack—a sense of neighborly duty,” the man went on. “Don’t you think so? I always feel that England is what she is because our people always consider the other fellow. We pull together and help each other.”
He enlarged upon this subject, and was still citing instances in support of his argument, when the train pulled up at a small station, where a halt of ten minutes or so was announced by an official upon the platform. Thereupon a number of passengers alighted from the train and made their way through the blazing sunlight to a refreshment64 stall which[186] stood in the cool shade of a dusty tree in the station yard, just beyond the barriers.
Jim was in lazy mood, and did not join this throng65 of thirsty humanity; but his companion, who was feeling the heat, left his seat and followed the hurrying crowd.
At length the bell rang, and the guard blew his horn; and Jim, suddenly awakening66 from a reverie, became aware that his fellow traveller had not returned, and hastily leaned out of the window to see what had become of him. The driver sounded his whistle, and set the engine in motion; and at the same moment Jim saw a fat and frantic67 figure struggling to pass the barrier, and being held back by excited officials, who, it seemed, were refusing to allow him to attempt to board the moving train.
Jim waved his arm and received some sort of answering signal of distress68. Instantly the thought flashed into his mind that here was an opportunity to display that sense of obligation of which they had spoken, and to aid a fellow creature in trouble. The man’s baggage! He must throw it out of the train, so that, at any rate, the owner in his dilemma69 should not be separated from his belongings70.
Snatching the portmanteau and the rugs from the seat where they rested, he pushed them through the window, and had the satisfaction of seeing them roll to safety upon the platform at the feet of a bewildered porter. Again he waved to the struggling man, and pointed71 repeatedly to the baggage with downward jabbing finger; then, having thus performed what he considered to be a most neighbourly act of quick-witted succour, he sank back into his[187] corner seat and laughed to himself at the incident.
A smile still suffused72 his face when, several minutes later, the door from the next compartment opened and the portly Englishman made his appearance.
“Warm lemonade,” he remarked; “but it was better than nothing. A dam’ pretty woman in the next carriage. I’ve been trying to talk to her, but it was no good: we can’t understand each other.”
Jim stared at him in horror, as at a ghost. “Then it wasn’t you at the barrier?” he gasped74 in awe75.
“What d’you mean?” the other asked. “Hullo, where’s my baggage?”
“I thought,” Jim stammered78, “it was the most neighbourly thing to do; you see, I....” But the remainder of the sentence failed upon his dry lips, as the corpulent stranger rose up before him in the crimson79 fullness of his fury.
Never had Jim, in all his vicissitudes80, been subjected to so overwhelming a bombardment of abuse; and though he managed at length to explain the mistake he had made, he failed thereby to check the passionate81 maledictions which spluttered and burst about his devoted82 head like fireworks. At last he could stand it no longer, and, rising slowly to his feet, he smote83 the stranger a blow upon the jaw84 which sent him reeling across the compartment, as the train came to a standstill at another station.
The man staggered to the door, and, tumbling out[188] on to the platform, shouted for help in a frenzied85 admixture of English, French, and Italian; but while a crowd of uncomprehending passengers and officials gathered around him, Jim opened the door at the opposite end of the carriage, and descended86 on to the deserted87 track. A moment later he had disappeared behind the wall of an adjacent shed, and soon was out on the high road, heading for his destination, which was yet some ten miles distant.
“That’s enough of neighbourly duty for one day,” he muttered, as he lit a cigarette.
A great part of August he spent amidst the woods of Monte Adamello, and in the Val Camonica; but, suddenly feeling a little bored, and having a desire for the sea, he made the long train-journey to Venice, and crossed the water to the Lido, where he bought himself a mad red-and-white bathing suit, and went daily into the sea with a crowd of merry Venetians.
The delights of the Stabilimento dei Bagni, however, did not long hold him in thrall88. There was too much splashing and spitting; and, when the bathing hours were over for the day, the concert-hall and the open-air theatre offered a kind of entertainment which, owing to an unaccountable mood of discontent, soon began to pall89. He therefore took ship across the Gulf90 of Venice to Trieste, and stayed for some days at a small hotel on the hillside towards Boschetto.
Here, one evening at dinner, he made the acquaintance of a ship’s officer, who told him that on the morrow the steamer on which he was employed was sailing for Cyprus; and, without a[189] moment’s hesitation91, Jim decided to take passage by it to that island of romance. It was September, and the weather was cooling fast. He had had some vague idea of crossing the sea to the Levant; but now this new suggestion came to him with a surprisingly definite appeal.
“Of Course, Cyprus!” he exclaimed. “The very place I have always wanted to visit. I had forgotten all about it.”
He had read books, and had heard travellers’ tales, about this wonderful land which rises from the blue waters of the eastern Mediterranean92 like a phantom93 isle94 of enchantment95. Here the remains96 of temples dedicated97 to the old gods of Greece are to be seen: the mountain streams still resound98 at noon with the pipes of Pan; at sunset upon the seashore one may picture Aphrodite rising in her glory from the waves; and at midnight the barking of the dogs of Diana may be heard over the hills. The Crusaders endeavoured to establish a kingdom here on Frankish lines, and the place is full of the ruins of their efforts. The headlands are crested99 with crumbling100 baronial castles, and in the towns there still stand the walls of Gothic churches, wherein, at dead of night, they say that the ghostly chanting of hymns101 to the Blessed Virgin102 may be heard. Then came the Moslems; and to this day the call to prayer in the name of Allah synchronizes103 with the tolling104 of convent bells summoning the worshippers in the name of the Mother of Jesus, while the peasants, inwardly heedless of both, still make their little offerings at the traditional holy places of the gods of Olympus.
[190]
It is a land in which the movement of Time is forgotten, and in part it is a living remnant of the dead ages; and as such it had for long appealed to Jim’s imagination. Straightway, therefore, he wrote a letter to his bankers in Rome telling them to forward him some money to the Post Office at Nicosia, the capital city; and twenty hours later he was standing105 on the deck of the small coasting steamer, watching the land receding106 from sight in a haze107 of afternoon heat.
On the sixth morning, as the sun was rising, the anchor rattled108 into the blue waters of the roadstead before Larnaca, the chief port of Cyprus; and, after an early breakfast, Jim was rowed in a small boat, manned by a Greek and a negro, towards the little town which stood white and resplendent in the sunshine, its cupolas, minarets110, and flat-roofed houses backed by the vivid green of the palms and the saffron of the hills. He knew a few words of Greek, and a considerable amount of Arabic; and, with the aid of his friend the ship’s officer, he had soon chartered the two-horse carriage in which he was to make the thirty-mile journey to Nicosia, the inland capital of the island.
The road passed across the bare, sunburnt uplands, and was flanked by scattered111 rocks, from which the basking112 lizards113 scampered114 as the carriage approached. Occasionally they passed a cart drawn115 by two long-horned bullocks, led by a scarlet-capped peasant; or a solitary116 shepherd driving his flock; or some cloaked and bearded rider upon a mule117, jingling down to the coast. The glare of the road was great; but under the shelter of the dusty awning55 of[191] the carriage Jim was cool enough, and there was a refreshing118 following-wind blowing up from the sea, which tempered the autumn heat.
The time passed quickly, and it did not seem long before they lurched, with a great cracking of the driver’s whip, into the half-way village of Dali. The second stage of the journey was more tedious, for now the novelty of the rugged119 scenery was gone, and the jolting120 of the rickety carriage was more noticeable. Jim was thankful, therefore, when, in the late afternoon, Nicosia came suddenly into sight, and the carriage presently rattled through the tunnelled gateway121 in the medi?val ramparts, and passed into the narrow and echoing streets of the city.
Here Greeks and Armenians, Arabs and Turks thronged122 the intricate thoroughfares; and as the driver made his way towards the Greek hotel, to which Jim had been recommended, there was much pulling at the mouths of the weary horses and much hoarse123 shouting. Now their passage was obstructed124 by an oxen-drawn cart, piled high with earthenware125 jars; now they seemed to be about to unseat a turbaned Oriental from his white steed; and now a group of Greek girls bearing pitchers126 upon their heads was scattered to right and left as the carriage lumbered127 round a corner. Here was a priest entering a Gothic doorway128 dating from the days of Richard C?ur-de-Lion, and upon the wall above him were carved the arms of some forgotten knight129 of Normandy; here a sheikh in flowing silks stood kicking off his shoes before the tiled entrance of a mosque130. Here were noisy Turkish children playing before a building which recalled the age of the Venetian Republic;[192] and here wild-eyed Cypriot peasants wrangled131 and argued as they had argued since those far-off days when Cleopatra’s sister was queen of the island, and, ages earlier, when Ph?nician seamen132 and the warriors133 of ancient Greece had held them in subjection.
At last the carriage pulled up in front of the white archway which led through a high, blank wall into the hotel; and presently Jim found himself in a quiet courtyard, where a tinkling134 fountain played amongst the orange-trees. The building was erected135 around the four sides of this secluded136 yard, the rooms leading off a red-tiled balcony, supported on a series of whitewashed arches, and approached by a flight of worn stone steps.
Up to this covered balcony he was led by the genial137 proprietor, a man with a fierce grey moustache which belied138 a fat and kindly139 face; and a room was assigned to him, from the door of which he could look down upon the fountain and the oranges, while from the window at the opposite end he commanded a short view across a jumble140 of flat housetops to a group of tall dark cypress141 trees, where the sparrows were chattering142 as they gathered to roost.
The walls of the room were whitewashed and were pleasantly devoid143 of pictures. It might have been a chamber144 in an ancient palace, and as Jim sat himself down upon the wooden bench he had the feeling that he had passed from the twentieth century into some period of the far past.
For some time there had been a vague kind of discontent in his mind. It was as though his life were incomplete. He seemed to be seeking for[193] something, the nature of which he could not define. At times he had thought that this was due to a desire for romance, a natural urge of sex; but, on the other hand, his reason told him that he had had enough of women, and that his present emancipation was in essence very largely a freedom from them.
Now, however, in the dusk of this quiet room, his heart seemed of a sudden to be at rest; and when from a distant minaret109 there came to his ears the evening call to prayer, a sense of inevitability145, a kind of acknowledgment of Kismet, or Fate, passed over him and soothed146 him into a hopeful and expectant peacefulness.
He was still in this tranquil147 mood when the summons to the evening meal brought him down the stone steps and across the courtyard, where the ripe oranges hung from the trees, and the fountain splashed. It was with quiet, dawdling148 steps, too, that he strolled out, hatless, into the narrow street after the meal was finished. The night was warm and close, with the moon at full; and the pale deserted thoroughfare was hushed as though it were concealing149 some secret. The barred windows and shut doors of the houses seemed to hide unspoken things, and the two or three passers-by, moving like shadows near to the wall, gave the impression that they were bent150 upon some mysterious mission.
Here and there between the houses on either side small gardens were hidden away behind high whitewashed walls, above which the tops of the trees could be seen. The door of one of these stood open, and Jim, standing in the middle of the empty street,[194] paused to gaze through the white archway into the shadows and sprinkled moonlight beyond.
Then, quietly into the frame of the doorway there came the figure of a woman, peering out into the street, the moon shining upon her face and upon her white hand, which held the door as though she were about to shut it for the night. On the instant, and with a leap of his heart, Jim recognized her.
“Monimé!” he cried out in amazement, running forward to her. He saw her raise her arm to her forehead and step back into the shadow: he could hear her gasp73 of surprise. A moment later he had taken her hand in his, and her startled eyes had met his own.
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1
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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7
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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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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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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13
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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equanimity
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hypocrisies
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| n.伪善，虚伪( hypocrisy的名词复数 ) | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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wedlock
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finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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sporadic
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fleeting
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piazza
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irritably
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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obelisk
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grudge
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heartily
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manor
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dome
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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delusion
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tremor
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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40
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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41
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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42
inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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43
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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44
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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45
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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46
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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47
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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48
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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49
nomad
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| n.游牧部落的人，流浪者，游牧民 | |
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50
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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51
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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52
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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53
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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54
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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55
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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56
awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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57
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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59
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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60
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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61
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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62
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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63
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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64
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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65
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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66
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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67
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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68
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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69
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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70
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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71
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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72
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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74
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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75
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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76
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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77
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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78
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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80
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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81
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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82
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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83
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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84
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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85
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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86
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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87
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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88
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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89
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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90
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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91
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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92
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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93
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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94
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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95
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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96
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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97
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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98
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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99
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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100
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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101
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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102
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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103
synchronizes
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| n.同步器( synchronize的名词复数 ) | |
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104
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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105
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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106
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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107
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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108
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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109
minaret
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| n.（回教寺院的）尖塔 | |
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110
minarets
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| n.（清真寺旁由报告祈祷时刻的人使用的）光塔( minaret的名词复数 ) | |
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111
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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112
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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113
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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114
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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116
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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117
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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118
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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119
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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120
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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121
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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122
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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124
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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125
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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126
pitchers
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| 大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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127
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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128
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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129
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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130
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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131
wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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133
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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134
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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135
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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136
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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137
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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138
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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139
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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140
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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141
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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142
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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143
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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144
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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145
inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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146
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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147
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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148
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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149
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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150
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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