In the high passion of love there is no peace of mind and little satisfaction. The lover can never believe that he is loved, yet his happiness seems to him to depend on that assurance. His anxiety haunts him, fevers him, and lays siege as it were to his very soul.
The true lover makes more abundant acquaintance with hell than with heaven. So sensitive is his condition that every moment not rich with his lady’s obvious adoration9 is a moment impoverished10 by doubts and fears. She is not so interested in him as she was, he thinks; she is bored; she is cold to-day; she is thinking of something else; she does not surrender herself impetuously as she would if she really[207] cared. So says the wretched lover in his heart, and so he gives himself over to the legion of ten thousand devils.
Monimé maintained towards Jim a quiet and tantalizing11 reserve. Mentally she seemed to be upon the mountain-top, and he in the valley below. When he visited her at her house she kept him waiting before she made her appearance: it was as though she were not eager to see him. Women have this in common with the feline12 race: they seem so often to be intent upon some hidden pursuit. They go their own way, bide13 their own time, and no man may know the secret of their doings. No man may be initiated14 into their mysteries; and that which occupies them upstairs before they descend15 to greet him is beyond his ken16.
Like a number of men, Jim’s character was marked by a certain simplicity17. He made no secret of his love: it was apparent in his every gesture. The only secret which he maintained was that of his marriage, lest he should lose her, and in this regard he lied to an extent which brought misery18 to his heart. He gave her to understand that the property he had inherited had proved to be of no great value, and that the little money he now possessed19 was all that remained of its proceeds.
He desired to forget the years at Eversfield utterly20, and to live only in the present. To Monimé he had always been Jim Easton, and the fact that she had not so much as heard the names Tundering-West or Eversfield aided him in his deception21. Yet in his own heart his marriage to Dolly and the change of identity by which he had effected his[208] escape were become the two appalling23 mistakes which shut him off from Monimé and their son.
The little boy proved to be all that he could wish. He was about three and a-half years of age, and was in the midst of that first great phase of inquiry24 which is the introduction to the school of life. He used the word “why” a hundred times a day; his large eyes stared in wondering contemplation at every object which newly came into his ken; and his fingers were ever busy with experiment.
It is a trying age for the “grown-up”; but Jim, not having too much of it, enjoyed it, and enjoyed watching Monimé’s handling of the situation.
Her attitude towards himself during the first days, however, was the cause of many a heartache. There was a curious expression on her face as she watched him playing with the boy: it was at first as though she did not recognize his parental25 position, nor regard him as being in any way essential to the domestic alliance. She seemed to be anxious as to his influence upon the child, and when once he made the jesting assertion that parents should not try to be a good example to their offspring, but rather an awful warning, she did not laugh.
The possession of a son was the source of the most intense satisfaction to him; but Monimé seemed at first to be endeavouring to check his belated enthusiasm. Sometimes she appeared to him, indeed, as a lioness protecting her cub26 from an interfering27 lion, and cuffing28 the intruder over the head with a not too gentle paw. She seemed to claim the boy as her own exclusive property, and she allowed Jim no free access to the nursery, nor[209] indeed to the house. There were days upon which the door was closed to him on one pretext29 or another; and at such times he experienced a variety of emotions, all of which were violent and passionate30.
“People will talk,” she would say, “if you come here so often, Jim. I am not independent of the world as I used to be: I have the boy to consider.”
She had called the child Ian, which, she said, was the name of her father; and the fact that she had thus excluded him from a nomenclatural identity with the boy was a source to him of recurrent mortification31. His son should have been James, or Stephen, or Mark, like his ancestors before him: it filled his heart with bitter remorse32 that the little chap should be merely “Ian Smith.”
Gradually, however, Monimé became more accustomed to his association with the boy; and at length there came a memorable33 occasion on which they sat together beside his cot for the best part of the night and nursed him through an alarming feverish34 attack. It was then that Jim saw in her face an expression of tenderness towards him which was like water to the thirsty.
“You know,” he said to her, as they walked in the garden together in the cool of the daybreak, “this is the first time you have let me feel that I have anything to do with Ian. I have been very hurt.”
She turned on him vehemently35. “Oh, don’t you understand,” she said, “that your coming back into my life like this is very hard for me to bear? I don’t want you to feel yourself tied down. I am perfectly36 capable of looking after myself and my[210] boy without your help. You have set a struggle going in my mind that is distracting me. There is one side of me which resents your interference, because you are just a wanderer, perfectly capable of walking off once more with hardly a farewell. There is another side which finds a sort of sneaking37 comfort in your presence, and endows you with virtues38 you probably don’t possess. I was self-reliant until you came. Now I am swayed this way and that. At one moment I think I was wrong, and that we ought to be married and ought to go to some country where we are unknown, so that we can explain our child by pretending our marriage took place secretly four years ago. At another moment I remember that you have not suggested marriage to me, and that therefore you probably realize as well as I do your unfittedness for the r?le of husband. And then there’s the constant feeling of the unfairness of making you share, at this stage, the responsibilities I undertook of my own free will at Alexandria.”
“It was my doing as much as yours,” he replied.
“No,” she answered, with a smile. “Any woman worth her salt handles those sorts of situations, and makes up her own mind. Man proposes, woman disposes. The whole thing is in the woman’s hands: to think otherwise is to insult my sex. Men and women are both pieces in Nature’s game; but Nature is a woman, and she works out her plans through her own sex.”
She sat down upon the stone bench, and, with hands folded, gazed up to the dawning glory of the sunrise. It was as though she were a conscious[211] daughter of Hathor, Mother of all things, looking for guidance in her perplexity. Jim seated himself by her side, and for some time there was silence between them, though his brain seemed to him to be full of the clamour of shackled40 words and incarcerated41 emotions.
Her reference to their marriage had pierced his heart as with a sharp sword. He desired to make her his wife more intensely than ever he had desired anything in his life before; yet he was unable to do so. He wanted to possess her, to have the right to protect her, to be able to dedicate his whole entity22 to her service; yet he was tied hand and foot, and could make no such proposal.
He felt ashamed, exasperated42, and thwarted43; and suddenly springing to his feet, he swung about on his heel, kicked viciously at the bushes, and swore a round, hearty44 oath.
“What’s the matter?” she asked in surprise. “Has something stung you?”
He laughed crazily. “Yes, I’m stung all over,” he cried. “There are a hundred serpents with all their flaming fangs45 in me. I think I’m going mad.”
He paced to and fro, tearing at his hair; and when at length he resumed his seat he seized both her hands in his, and frenziedly kissed her every finger.
“I’m on fire,” he gasped46. “I believe my heart is a roaring furnace. I must be full of blazing light inside; and in a few minutes I think I shall drop down dead with longing47 for you, Monimé. Then you’ll have to bury me; but I tell you there’ll be a volcanic48 eruption49 above my grave, and flames will[212] issue forth4 from my bare bones. I don’t believe Death itself could extinguish me: my love will burst out in fearful torrents50 of lava51, and the whole earth will tremble at my convulsions. I shall come to you again in earthquakes and tidal waves and a falling rain of comets. I shall blow the whole blasted world to smithereens before I go roaring into hell.... That’s how I feel! That’s what you’ve done to me!”
He took her in his arms, and, holding her crushed and powerless to resist, poured out his love for her in wild desperate words, his face close to hers. The sun was rising, and the first rays of golden light were flung upon the tops of the surrounding houses and trees while yet the garden was blue with the shadow of the vanishing night.
“Don’t Jim,” she whispered. “For God’s sake, don’t! We’ve got to be sensible. We’ve got to think what’s best for Ian. Give me a chance to think.”
“I want you,” he cried. “I want you more than any man has ever wanted anything. You belong to me: you’re my wife in the eyes of God. I want you to marry me....”
He had said it!—he had uttered the impossible thing; and his heart stood still with anguish52. His arms loosened their hold upon her, and they faced one another in silence, while a thousand sparrows in the tree-tops chattered53 their merry morning salutation to the sun.
“Cad! Cad! Cad!” said the voice of his outraged54 conscience to him. “Bigamist and thief!”[213] And his heart responded with the one reiterated55 excuse: “I love her, I love her!”
“You must give me time to think,” she said at length. “Go now, Jim. You must have some sleep, and I must see to Ian.”
For two days after this she would not see him, but on the third day, at mid-morning, he found himself once more in her drawing-room. It was a charming room, cool and airy; and it had a distinction which his own drawing-room at Eversfield had lamentably56 lacked. Dolly had been a victim of the nepotistic57 practice of loading the tables, piano-top, and shelves with photographs of herself, her friends, and her relatives. Pictures of this kind are well enough in a man’s study or a woman’s boudoir; but in the more public rooms they are only to be tolerated, if at all, in the smallest quantity. Monimé, however, whether by design or by force of circumstances, was free of this habit; and the more subtle essence of her personality was thus able to be enjoyed without distraction58.
The walls were whitewashed59 and panelled with old Persian textiles; carpets of Karamania and Smyrna lay upon the stone-paved floors; the light furniture was covered with fine fabrics60 of local manufacture; and in Cyprian vases a mass of flowers greeted the eye with a hundred chromatic61 gradations and scented63 the air with the fragrance64 of summer.
Monimé, upon this occasion, had reverted65 to her accustomed serenity66 of manner; and as she refreshed her distracted lover with sandwiches of goat’s-milk cheese and the wine of the island poured[214] from a Cyprian jug67, she talked to him quietly of practical things.
She argued frankly68 for and against their marriage, and reviewed the financial aspect of the question without embarrassment69. She told him that she had just received a proposal from her salesman in London that she should go over to Egypt at once and paint him a dozen desert subjects, there being a readier market for these than for pictures of little-known Cyprus. This, therefore, she intended to do; and, in view of Ian’s health, she proposed to send the boy and his nurse to England, there to await her return in four or five months’ time.
Jim moved restlessly in his chair as she spoke70, for the thought of revisiting England was terrifying to him; yet if she went there he could hardly resist the temptation to follow. He knew that it was preposterous71 enough to think of a bigamous marriage to her, even here in the East, but in England such a union would be madness.
“I thought,” he said gloomily, “that you did not want to risk meeting your former friends.”
“What does it matter now?” she replied. “The scandal of my leaving my husband is forgotten, and he, poor man, is dead. I have never told you his name, have I? He was Richard Furnice, the banker.”
Jim glanced up quickly. “I know the name,” he said, with simplicity, for who did not? “But I don’t remember ever reading of his domestic troubles.”
“No,” she replied. “The scandal was kept out of the papers. He was as successful in explaining[215] away my absence as he had been in explaining away the presence of his mistress. Yes,” she added, in answer to his look of inquiry, “he led the usual double life.”
“Very rich, wasn’t he?” Jim asked.
“Yes, very,” she answered. “But I have never cared much about money. I have always agreed with the man who said ‘Wealth is acquired by over-reaching our neighbors, and is spent in insulting them.’”
“I like money well enough,” said Jim, “but I’ve never been much good at earning it.”
She asked him why he did not send some of his verses to a publisher in England, and talked to him so persuasively72 in this regard that he promised to consider doing so.
“But if you return to England,” he said, returning to the problem before him, “are there none of your relations who will make it awkward for you and Ian?”
She shook her head. “My father died several years ago, and I was the only child. We have no close relations. You now may as well know his name, too. He was Sir Ian Valory, the African explorer.”
Jim looked at her in surprise. “Why, he was one of my heroes as a boy,” he declared. “I read his books over and over again. This is wonderful!—tell me more.”
But as she did so, there arose a new clamour in his brain. He longed to be able to tell her that his own blood was fit to match with hers. The Tundering-Wests stood high in the annals of exploration[216] and adventure: his ancestors had roamed the world, as Knights73 of the Cross, as King’s Envoys74, as Constables75 of frontier castles, as Admirals of England. He himself was blood of their blood, and bone of their bone; and his son combined this high heritage with that of Valory.
Yet the secret must be kept. Bitter was his regret that so it must be, thrice bitter his remorse that this son of his was a bastard76. A Tundering-West and a Valory!—and the issue of that illustrious union a child without a name, hidden away in the Island of Forgetfulness!!
He went back to the hotel that day cursing Fate for its irony77, hating himself for a fool. Then, of a sudden, there came a possible solution into his bewildered thoughts. Monimé was going to Egypt for some months: could he not return to England, reveal the fact of his existence to his wife, and oblige her to divorce him? The proceedings78 could be conducted quietly, and Monimé, unaware79 of his real name, would not identify him with them. He could return to her a free man, able to marry her, and in later years he could tell her the whole story.
Yet how could he bear the long absence from her, how could he face the terror that she might find out and reject him? “O God,” he cried in his heart, “I am punished for my foolishness! You have belaboured me enough: You, Whom they call merciful, have mercy!”
During the next few days Jim made a final arrangement of his poems, and, adding a title-page: Songs of the Highroad, by James Easton, posted them off to a well-known publisher in London, giving[217] his bank in Rome as his address. While reading through these collected manuscripts he had come to the conclusion that the poems were rather good. “There’s quite a swing about some of the stuff,” he said to Monimé. “In fact I almost believe I could have shown you one or two of them without feeling an ass8. But I suppose the thoughts in them, and the melancholy80 speculations81 about what is one’s ‘duty’ and all that sort of thing, are rather rot.”
As time passed, the idea of returning to England and obtaining a divorce developed in his mind. He was reluctant, however, to make a final decision, and his plans remained fluid long after those of Monimé had crystallized. This was due mainly to the suspense82 he was experiencing in regard to his relations with her. He avoided any pressing of the question of their marriage, for he shunned83 the thought of involving her in a possible bigamy case; yet he could see that so long as he maintained this inconclusive attitude he gave her no cause for confidence in him.
Matters came to a head one day at the end of October. Monimé had arranged with him to make the excursion to the mountain castle of St. Hilarion; and it is probable that both he and she had decided84 to talk things out during the hours they would be together. So far as he was concerned, at any rate, the situation as it stood was impossible.
The carriage in which they were to make this fifteen-mile journey resembled a barouche, but a kind of awning39 was stretched above it on four iron rods, and from this depended some dusty-looking curtains looped back by faded red cords and tassels,[218] which might have been purloined85 from old men’s dressing-gowns. Four lean and crazily harnessed horses were attached to this vehicle, which looked somewhat like a four-poster bed on wheels; and a red-capped and baggy-trousered driver, apparently86 of Turkish nationality, sat high upon the box, Monimé’s man-servant being perched beside him.
Rattling87 down the narrow streets of the city and through the tunnel in the ramparts, they soon passed out into the open country, and, with loudly cracking whip, bowled along the sun-bathed road at a very fair pace, the sparkling morning air seeming to put vigour88 even into the emaciated89 horses.
At length they came to the foot-hills, and saw far above them, against the intense blue of the sky, the pass which leads through the mountains to the port of Kyrenia and the sea. Here their pace grew slower, and from time to time they walked beside the labouring vehicle as it crunched90 its way through soft gravel91 and sand, or lurched over half-buried boulders92.
Reaching level ground once more they went with a fine flourish through a village where the dogs barked at them and the children stared or ran begging at their side. Now the slopes and ledges93 of rock were green with young pines, whose aromatic94 scent62 filled the warm air; and, as they slowly wound their way upwards95, the size of these trees increased until they attained96 truly majestic97 proportions.
Towards noon they entered the pass, and Jim and Monimé were afoot once more, whilst the tired horses rested. Behind them the gorges98 and valleys carried the eye down into the hazy99 distances, and[219] they could see Nicosia lying like a white cameo upon the velvet100 of the plains. Before them a cleft101 in the towering rocks revealed the azure102 expanse of the Mediterranean103, and beyond it the far-off coasts of Asia Minor104, rising like the vision of a dream from the placid105 ocean.
Monimé shaded her eyes as she gazed over the sea. “There is Phrygia,” she exclaimed, “where Monimé lived, and Cappadocia and Cilicia! And away behind them is Pontus, the land her husband took her to....”
“I have no home to take you to, Monimé,” he said, unable to eschew106 the hazardous107 subject of their marriage.
“That’s just as well,” she answered, “because in the story, you remember, he involved her in his domestic troubles, which led to his suicide, and her own death followed.”
She smiled as she spoke, but to him her words were dark with portentous108 meaning. He felt like a criminal.
Entering the carriage once more, they descended109 from the pass for some distance, as though making for Kyrenia, which they could see far below them; but presently a rough track led them through the pines, and brought them at last to the foot of a tremendous bluff110 of rock, upon the summit of which stood the ruined walls and towers of the castle of St. Hilarion. Here the carriage was abandoned, and hand-in-hand they clambered up the track, the servant following with the luncheon111 basket.
Soon they passed within the ruinous walls of the castle, and, having rested in the shade and eaten[220] their picnic meal, made their way amongst fallen stones and a profusion112 of weeds and grasses towards the main buildings, which mounted up the cliffs in front of them in a confused array of walls and turrets113, roofs and chimneys, battlements and bastions, standing114 silent and withered115 in a blaze of sunlight.
Through a crumbling116 door they went, and up a flight of broken steps; through the ruined chapel117, on the walls of which the faded frescoes118 could still be seen; along a shadowed passage, and up again by a rock-hewn stairway; until at last they reached a roofless chamber119 locally known as the Queen’s Apartment.
This side of the castle, which was built at the edge of an appalling precipice120, seemed to be clinging perilously121 to the summit of the mountain; and through the broken tracery of the Gothic windows they looked down in awe122 to the pine forests two thousand feet below. All about them the bold mountain peaks rose up from the shadowed and mysterious valleys near the coastline; and before them the purple and azure sea was spread, divided from the cloudless sky by the hazy hills of Asia Minor.
From these valleys there rose to their ears the frail123 and far-off tinkle124 of goats’ bells, and sometimes the song of a shepherd was lifted up to them upon the tender wings of the breeze. All visible things seemed to be motionless in the warmth of the afternoon, with the exception only of two vultures, which slowly circled in mid-air with tranquil125 pinions126 extended. It was as though the crumbling[221] stones of the castle, and the forests and valleys they surmounted127, were deep in an enchanted128 slumber129, from which they would never again awake.
Here at these walls Richard C?ur de Lion, King of England, with trumpets130 had summoned the garrison131 to surrender; but the walls remembered it no more. Here the Kings and Queens of Cyprus, of the House of Lusignan, had held their court in that strange admixture of Western chivalry132 and Eastern splendour which had characterized the dynasty; but the glamour133 of those days was passed into oblivion. Here the soldiers of Venice had looted and plundered134; but the ruin they left behind them had steeped its wounds in the balm of forgetfulness.
Only Monimé and her lover were awake in this place of dreams. Seated here, as it were, upon a throne rising in the very centre of the ancient world, she seemed to Jim to be one with all the dim, forgotten queens of the past; all the romance of all the pages of history was focussed and brought again to life in her person; and in her face there was the mystery of regnant womanhood throughout the ages.
Just as now she sat with her chin resting upon her hand, gazing over the summer seas to the adventurous135 coasts of the ancient kingdoms of the Mediterranean, so Arsinoe had gazed, perhaps upon this very mountain-top; so Cleopatra, her sister, had gazed, over there in her Alexandrian palace; so Helen had gazed yonder from the casements136 of Troy; so the Queen of Sheba, camping upon Lebanon, had gazed as she travelled from Jerusalem. The past was forgotten; but, all unknowing, it lived again in Monimé, enticing137 him with her lips, looking[222] tenderly upon him with her eyes, beckoning138 him with her smiles, repulsing139 him with her indifference140, bewildering him with her serenity, maddening him with her unfathomable heart.
“Monimé, I can’t go on like this,” he said, taking her hands in his. “You must tell me here and now that you love me, or that I am to go out of your life.”
“The future lies in your hands, Jim,” she answered, quietly and with deep sincerity141. “Surely you can understand my attitude. I will not bind142 myself to a man who will not be bound, even though I were to love him with all my soul.”
“I have asked you to marry me,” he told her.
“Your words carried no conviction,” she replied.
“I ask you again,” he said, daring all.
“You do not know what you are saying,” she answered. “Go away to England, or to Italy, Jim, and think it over. Stay away from me for some months; and if you find that your feelings do not change, if I remain a vital thing in your life and do not fade into a memory, then you can come back to me, knowing that I will not fail you. We have had enough of Bedouin love. If I were to be honest with myself I would tell you that long ago circumstances made me realize that we did wrong at Alexandria, because we were unfair to the unborn generation. I set myself in opposition143 to accepted custom, and I have been beaten by just one thing—my anxiety for the welfare of the child my emancipation144 brought me, my terror in case there should be a slur145 upon his name. There must be no more playing with vital things.”
[223]
Her suggestion that he should go away from her for some months, while she worked in Egypt on her desert pictures, came to him like the voice of Providence146, offering to him the opportunity to carry out his plan for ridding himself once and for all of Dolly by divorce; and his mind was made up on the instant.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll go away—though not because I feel the slightest doubt about my love for you. I’ll go to Larnaca to-morrow: some people from the hotel are going then, so as to catch the steamer the day after....”
She interrupted him. “Oh Jim, must it be to-morrow?”
He looked up quickly at her. “Do you care?” he asked, eagerly.
She had begun to reply, and he was hanging upon her words, when the native servant made his appearance. Jim clapped his hand to his head in a frenzy of exasperation147. “Confound you!—what do you want?” he shouted to the man.
“I suppose he’s come to tell us it’s high time to be going,” said Monimé, laughing in his face.
Jim picked up a stone and hurled148 it viciously over the wall into the void beyond. He would willingly have leapt upon the inoffensive servant and throttled149 him where he stood.
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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stimulated
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fiery
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forth
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acceleration
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vehemence
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frenzy
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ass
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adoration
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impoverished
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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feline
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bide
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initiated
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descend
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ken
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simplicity
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misery
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possessed
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utterly
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deception
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entity
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appalling
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inquiry
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parental
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cub
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interfering
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cuffing
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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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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31
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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32
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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34
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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36
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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37
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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38
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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39
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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40
shackled
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| 给（某人）带上手铐或脚镣( shackle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
incarcerated
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| 钳闭的 | |
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42
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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43
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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44
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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45
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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46
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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47
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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48
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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49
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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50
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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51
lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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52
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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53
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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54
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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55
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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57
nepotistic
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| adj.重用亲属的；袒护亲戚的；任人唯亲的；裙带关系的 | |
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58
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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59
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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60
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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61
chromatic
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| adj.色彩的，颜色的 | |
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62
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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63
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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64
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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65
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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66
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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67
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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68
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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69
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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70
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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71
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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72
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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73
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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74
envoys
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| 使节( envoy的名词复数 )； 公使； 谈判代表； 使节身份 | |
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75
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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76
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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77
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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78
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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79
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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80
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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81
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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82
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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83
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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85
purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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87
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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88
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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89
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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90
crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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91
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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92
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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93
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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94
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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95
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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96
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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97
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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98
gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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99
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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100
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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101
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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102
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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103
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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104
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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105
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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106
eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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107
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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108
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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109
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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110
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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111
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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112
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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113
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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114
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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115
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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116
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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117
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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118
frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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119
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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120
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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121
perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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122
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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123
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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124
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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125
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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126
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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127
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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128
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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129
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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130
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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131
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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132
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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133
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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134
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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136
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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137
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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138
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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139
repulsing
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| v.击退( repulse的现在分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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140
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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141
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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142
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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143
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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144
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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145
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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146
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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147
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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148
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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149
throttled
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| v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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