As soon as he could gather sufficient physical energy he rose to a sitting posture15, supporting himself on his hands, and gazed spellbound and stupefied on a scene of unimaginable disaster. Where once stretched the familiar long-lying homestead, there was nothing but an inchoate16 mass of stones, from the midst of which eddied17 and swirled18 columns of black smoke. And the wind blew the smoke towards him. Looking down, he found himself begrimed by it. He sat forward, staring, and, secure of balance, withdrew his hands and put them up to his brow, seeking a clue to the mystery. Memory, stage after stage, returned. He had been sitting at night with Quong Ho. They had heard a strange noise. They had gone out to discover what it was. Then——? What had happened then? Just a terror of Hell opening—and nothingness. Yes, he remembered. It was dense19 mist when they went out. Now it was clear, beautifully clear. The sun was shining; but it was low on the horizon; so it must be early morning.
What could have happened? A thunderstorm? The place struck by lightning? He gripped his temples. He had never heard of a thunderstorm in a dense fog. Besides, thunder never occurred in the long, continuous, rhythmical20 acceleration21 of volume of sound. Yet what else but thunder and lightning could account for the blasted homestead that reeked22 before his eyes?
He looked around. The stone enclosure was strewn with unspeakable wreckage23; great blocks of masonry24, unrecognizable shafts25 of timber, bits of twisted iron railing, ashes, charred26 wood. . . . He rose dizzily to his feet. His head was one agony. He felt something wet on his neck, and realized that the wound evidently caused by the concussion27 of his head against a stone, had begun to bleed afresh. Before he could tie around his brows the handkerchief which he mechanically drew out, he saw, close by, the dead body of the dog Brutus, and he returned the handkerchief to his pocket. The dog seemed to have been killed outright28 by a great piece of granite that had been hurled29 upon him. Then for the first time his mind grew quite clear. The unknown convulsion had dealt not only destruction but death. Where was Quong Ho?
He started forthwith on an agonized31 search. They had been standing32 together a few paces away from the front door. Thither33 he went, but could find no trace of him among the wreckage. From the roofless enclosure of granite and through the windows poured black volumes of smoke. It was useless, even impossible, to look inside. Baltazar called out loudly the Chinaman’s name, as he made a circuit of the devastated34 house, only to find fresh evidences of complete catastrophe35. Here and there lay fragments of iron, unfamiliar36 to him, which in his anxiety for Quong Ho’s safety he did not speculate on or examine. He nearly tripped over something by the burned-down stable. Looking down, to his sickening horror, he found it to be the head of the old grey mare37. He went on. No sign of Quong Ho. In the little enclosed grass patch, now foul38 with rubbish, the very goats lay dead, mostly dismembered. He stared at them stupidly. A sudden shrill39 noise caused him to jump aside in terror. A second later he realized that it came from a solitary40 cockerel, strutting41 about in the sunshine, the sole survivor42 of the poultry-run, cynically43 proclaiming his lust44 of life.
Wherever he turned was ruin utter and final. But where was Quong Ho? Had he not, after all, remained outside, but re-entered the house? If so—he shuddered45. Creeping back, he peered through the windows on the windward side, as long as the smart in his eyes would allow him. There was nothing there but fragments of stone and smouldering, indistinguishable ash that mounted nearly to the sill. Whatever had been the cause, the dry thatch46 had been set alight—the roof had fallen in, and nothing of the interior remained save a few charred books on the upper shelves of blackened and crazily precarious47 sections of bookcase. He strode away, came to the front of the house again, and continued his search there, with horror in his soul. The front door had been blown out. On his first inspection48 he had passed it by. Now he stood wondering at the supernatural explosion that could have burst it from its hinges and thrown its great oaken weight bodily forth30; and, looking at it, suddenly became conscious of a foot, shod in a Chinese shoe, protruding49 from beneath it. He bent50 down swiftly and touched the foot. Shouted “Quong Ho!” But there was no reply. He rose, remained for a moment with the horror of the old mare’s head, and other things he had seen in the goats’ enclosure, racking his nerves. Then he braced51 himself, bent and lifted the door, and under it lay the body of Quong Ho. To lever the heavy mass and set it upright without treading on the motionless man, taxed all his strength. At last he got a footing on the further side of Quong Ho, which enabled him to set the door on edge, and a push sent it clattering52 clear. Then he saw that the corner had rested on a stone by Quong Ho’s head and so had not crushed his face.
He bent down, made a rapid examination; then sank back on his heels, and thanked God that Quong Ho was still alive. There was a wound on his head, somewhat like his own, which until then he had all but forgotten. As far as he could make out the leg was broken in one or two places. Possibly ribs53. He did not know. He took off his grey flannel54 jacket, the back of which was drenched55 in blood, and, rolling it up, put it beneath Quong Ho’s head. The obvious thing to do next was to fetch water, bandages, stimulant56—there was a medicine-chest and brandy in the house. After a few impulsive57 strides he stopped short. There were no bandages, no brandy. What remained of them lay in the burning filth58 within the house walls. But water? He prayed God there might be some in the scullery. He found the pump that worked the well broken, but the blessed stream ran from the tap, showing that there was still some reserve in the fortunately undamaged cistern59. As best he might he cleaned out and filled a pail; found an unbroken yellow bowl, and took them out to where Quong Ho lay. He went back to search for linen60 or rag; but in that welter of destruction he could find nothing. His own handkerchief was absurdly inadequate61. Luckily, the day before being warm, he had changed before lunch into a thin undervest and a linen shirt. The latter he removed and tore into strips, and so he bathed and bandaged Quong Ho’s head. He also ripped up the man’s trousers and cut shoes and socks from the swollen62 feet, and with the remainder of the shirt made compresses. And all the time Quong Ho showed no sign of returning consciousness. Evidently he was suffering from severe concussion.
It was only when he had finished his rough dressings63 that the ghastliness of his isolation64 smote65 him. He must leave Quong Ho there alone, uncared for, and go across the moor66 in search of help. Suppose his own leg had been broken. The sweat stood on his forehead. They would have lain there and starved to death, like stricken animals in a wilderness67. Meanwhile the sun was rising higher in the sky and was beating down upon Quong Ho. With a mighty68 effort he raised him in his arms and staggered with him to the other side of the house, where there would be shade for some hours: where, too, the evil smoke could not eddy69 over him. Placing the jacket again beneath his head and the bowl filled with fresh water by his side, on the off chance of his recovering consciousness, he left the scene of desolation and horror.
About a mile away he realized that he had not tended his own wounded head, which, without any covering from the sun, was throbbing70 in exquisite71 agony. His handkerchief he had left with the remainder of the shirt. He also realized that he was bare-armed, clad only in the summer undervest and flannel trousers and the light gym shoes in which he used to fence. He reeked all over, hands and arms and body, with soot72 and blood. All this soon passed from his mind. Things whirred in his brain, so that he feared lest he were growing lightheaded. Also, although he had drunk a little water before starting, he began to be tormented73 with a burning thirst. He lost sense of the vastness of the calamity74 that had befallen him, lost the power, too, of speculating on its cause. All his mind was concentrated on battling against tortured nerves and reeling brain, in order to achieve one object. He kept on repeating to himself what he should say to the first human being he should meet; fortified75 himself with the reflection: “Three miles to the road; three-quarters of an hour.” But only having traversed the barely distinguishable track thrice before, once when he made the return journey from Water-End to view the hermitage, and on the other occasion when he drove thither to take up residence, he missed it and strayed diagonally across the moor. At last, after a couple of hours wandering, he reached a ditch beyond which stretched the dazzling white ribbon of road. He fell into the ditch like a drunken man, managed to clamber out and, on the further side, stumbled and lay exhausted76, unable to move. After a few minutes he staggered to his feet, and swayed down the road, which was as lonely as the moorland.
Suddenly he became aware of a difference; of trees and laurels77 and verdure on his left; and in the midst of them stood a couple of tall granite pillars with a gateway78 between. It was a house. He had won through. Inside was human aid. He made his way to the gate and clutched the top bar to steady himself and looked down a well-ordered drive. As he looked a man appeared from a side path, who, after regarding the haggard apparition79 grotesquely80 clad, covered with grime and blood, for a few gasping81 seconds, rushed up.
“Hello! Hello! What’s the matter? Why—I’m jiggered! It’s Mr. Baltazar!”
“My Chinese friend is over there, dying. There’s been an accident. Explosion or something. He’s dying. You must send men and doctors at once.”
“Good Lord!” cried the man. “Of course I will. Come inside and tell me all about it. You don’t mean to say those bombs got you? You look in a damn fine old mess too.”
He opened the gate, clasped Baltazar round the waist, and supported him down the drive. Soon an old gardener came up and lent a hand, and between them they carried the half-fainting Baltazar into the house and laid him on a couch in the dining-room. The host poured out a stiff brandy and soda84.
“Here, drink this.”
The cool bubbling liquid was a draught85 of Paradise to Baltazar’s parched86 throat. The unaccustomed stimulant, after a few moments, had its bracing87 effect.
“Now, what’s it all about? You remember me, don’t you? Pillivant’s my name. Came to call about eighteen months ago, and you turned me down. Anyhow that’s forgotten. I don’t bear malice88, especially when a chap seems down and out. What can I do for you?”
Baltazar said: “There was an explosion last night. It knocked me out. I woke up this morning to find my house burned to the ground. My Chinese friend is there unconscious, with concussion of the brain and broken legs. I had to come for assistance. You must send at once.”
“All right,” said Pillivant. “You stay there. I’ll do some telephoning. Meanwhile I’ll send the wife to look after you. You want a wash and a change, and a doctor and bed.”
“Bed!” cried Baltazar. “I must go back to Quong Ho.”
He rose to his feet, as Pillivant left the room, and tottered89 after him. But he found himself foolishly lying on the floor. He said to himself: “He has given me brandy. He’s sending his wife. She’ll think I’m drunk.” And with a great effort he re-established himself on the couch.
In a few minutes Mrs. Pillivant entered. She was a faded, fair woman in the late thirties, wearing a cloth skirt and tartan silk low-cut blouse, and a string of pearls around a bony neck.
“So you’ve been Zepped, I hear,” she said. “No, don’t get up. Stay where you are. If you haven’t heard it already, you’ll be glad to know it came down in flames on the moor about twenty miles away, and all the brutes90 were burned alive.”
Baltazar set his teeth, monstrously91 striving to get his brain to work.
“Brutes? What brutes? What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”
“Why, the crew of the Zeppelin. Where it came from or what it was doing about here, we don’t know—we’ll have to wait until news comes from London. It must have been badly damaged, and lost its way in the mist. They must have got rid of their bombs before trying to land, so my husband says—but before they had time to land the Zeppelin came to grief. We heard the bombs, but thought they had dropped on the moor. We’d no idea they had got anybody.”
“Zeppelin! Zeppelin!” murmured Baltazar. “I seem to have heard the name——”
“It’s pretty familiar, I should think,” said Mrs. Pillivant. “Don’t you think the best thing to do is to let us put you to bed, until the doctor comes?”
“The doctor must go to Quong Ho, at once. He’s dying,” said Baltazar.
“Then I’m sure I don’t know what to do,” said Mrs. Pillivant.
Baltazar closed his eyes. “I’ll be all right in a minute. It’s the knock on the head, and the long walk on an empty stomach.”
“Oh, I’ll get you something to, eat. What would you like?”
“Nothing,” said Baltazar. “Nothing. A bit of a rest and I must go back to Quong Ho. He’s the only creature I care about in the world. He was just alive when I left him.”
She said in a helpless sort of way: “I hope you’re not seriously hurt?”
He opened his eyes. “No, no. My head’s pretty thick. But I’m not as young as I was. By the way, you were talking of a Zeppelin. That’s a German airship, isn’t it?”
“Why—of course——”
He raised himself on his elbow, and his eyes flashed beneath his knit brows.
“Why should German airships be dropping bombs on the moor?”
Mrs. Pillivant regarded him uncomprehendingly.
“I’ve told you. They had to get rid of their bombs before they landed.”
“But what were they carrying bombs for?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that now,” she replied rather nervously92. “I don’t think you realize how very ill you are.”
“I’m not ill—not out of my mind, at any rate. I want to know. Why should they carry bombs? Wait a bit. I’m all right now. My mind’s clear. You said the airship came down in flames and the brutes were killed. Tell me what it means.”
“Surely you’ve heard of the air raids? Read about them in the papers?”
“I see no newspapers,” said Baltazar. “Air raids? For God’s sake tell me what you mean?”
She glanced round to see that access to the door was clear. His aspect—his shaggy hair clotted93 with blood and dirt—his eyes gleaming from a haggard, grimed and bloody94 face—the filth of his half-nakedness—alone would have frightened a timorous95 woman. And his words were those of a madman. She giggled96 hysterically97.
“I suppose you’ve heard there’s a European war on?”
He sat up. “War! What war?”
Mrs. Pillivant fled from the room. Baltazar rose to his feet.
War? War with Germany? Naturally Germany, because Zeppelins were German airships. A European war, the woman had said. His glance for the first time fell upon a newspaper on the dining-room table, open at the middle page. Forgetful of pain and exhaustion98, he strode and seized it—and the headlines held him spellbound by their bewildering revelation.
Great Britain, France, Italy, Russia, Germany, Austria, Bulgaria . . . all Europe at war. The basic facts stood out in great capital letters.
He was staring at the print, absorbed as never had he been in his life before, when a heavy hand on his shoulder aroused him. He turned to meet the fat and smiling face of Pillivant.
“I’ve fixed99 it all up—doctor, police, ambulance. I’ll take some in the Rolls-Royce, the doctor the others in his car. We’ll have the Chink back in no time.”
“The what?” asked Baltazar, with a swift glance.
“The Chink—the Chinaman——”
“Oh, yes. My friend, Mr. Quong Ho. If you don’t mind, I’ll come with you.”
“My dear fellow, that’s impossible. You must go to bed. It’s no trouble. There are fifteen bedrooms in the house. You can take your choice. Hasn’t Mrs. Pillivant been in to see you?”
“She did me that honour.”
“Then why the dickens didn’t she have you attended to? I’ll see about it.”
He was already at the door when Baltazar checked him.
“Stop. Don’t worry about me. Tell me one thing.” He smote the open newspaper with the palm of his hand. “How long has this been going on?”
“How long has what been going on?” asked Pillivant, returning.
“This war.”
“I don’t quite see what you’re driving at,” said Pillivant, puzzled.
“I want to know how long this war I’m reading about in the newspaper has been going on.”
Pillivant regarded him askance out of his little furtive100 eyes. He entertained the same suspicion as his wife.
“Look here, old man,” he said, taking him by the arm, “that knock on the head’s more serious than you think.” At the noise of a halting car he glanced out of window. “Ah! there’s Dr. Rewsby.”
“Never mind the doctor or my head,” cried Baltazar desperately101. “Answer my question. How long have we been at war with Germany?”
“Why, since August, 1914.”
“For the last two years?”
“Do you mean to say you’ve been living eight or ten miles off and never heard of the war?” Pillivant stood bewildered.
“I never heard of it,” Baltazar answered mechanically, staring past Pillivant at terrifying things.
“Well, I’m damned!” said Pillivant, recovering his breath. “I’m just damned. Here, Doctor”—as a spare, grey-headed man was shown into the room—“here is a chap who has never heard of the war.”
Baltazar stepped forward. “That’s beside the question, Doctor. All that matters for the moment is my Chinese friend. I had to leave him at the farm unconscious, with, I should think, concussion. And his legs are fractured. We must go at once.”
“Excuse me,” said the doctor, “but that wound in your own head wants seeing to. Just a matter of cleaning and strapping102. Only five minutes. Please let me have a look at it.”
“You can do that afterwards,” said Baltazar. “For God’s sake let us go.”
Said Baltazar, with the hard gleam in his eyes, “I’m going. It’s my responsibility, not yours. I don’t care what happens to me. But I swear to God I neither wash nor eat nor drink until my friend Quong Ho is brought back, alive or dead. And it’s much better I should go with you than remain here and frighten your excellent wife, Mr. Pillivant, out of her wits.”
There was a moment’s silence. The grey-haired doctor glanced at Baltazar out of the corner of a shrewd eye and diagnosed an adamantine obstinacy104.
“If you refuse to take me with you,” Baltazar added, “I’ll follow you on foot.”
“As you will. But if anything happens—tetanus, blood-poisoning, collapse—I wash my hands of responsibility. Mr. Pillivant will bear me out. Let us go.”
“You don’t mind sticking on these, do you?” he said to Baltazar. “You’ll need them motoring, and besides, I don’t mind telling you, you’re not looking exactly like a candidate for a beauty show.”
They started. The doctor, Sergeant109 Doubleday and a constable110, with a stretcher, in one car; Pillivant, Baltazar, and a chauffeur111 at the wheel, in the great Rolls-Royce.
“To carry through this,” said Pillivant, hauling out a thick gold watch, “in twenty minutes, shows what we English can do when we set our minds to it.”
“Twenty minutes?” said Baltazar. “It has seemed like three hours.”
“Twenty minutes since I went to the telephone,” Pillivant asserted triumphantly112.
The cars raced on. For some moments Baltazar, huddled113 together in the comfort of the back seat, maintained a brooding silence, which Pillivant, glaring at him from time to time, did not care to disturb. There was something uncanny about this man who had to be bombed nearly to death in order to hear of the war.
They turned off the road on to the rough track across the moor along which Quong Ho had so often bumped his way in the old cart. The weather had been dry and the track was at its best. But the cars jolted114 alarmingly and at every quivering descent from a larger hummock115 than usual, Pillivant cried out in fear for the springs of his Rolls-Royce.
“Why?” asked Baltazar.
“Because there’s a war on, old man. You don’t seem to understand.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Baltazar. “You must grant me your kind indulgence. I can’t immediately realize what is happening.”
They climbed the rise that brought them into view of the Farm. Pillivant pointed117 to the smoking ruins.
“That’ll help you to realize it. That’s what Belgium and the northern part of France look like.”
“When I have found my friend Quong Ho alive,” said Baltazar, “I may be able to think of things.”
They worked their way, Dr. Rewsby’s lighter118 car following, almost to the low enclosing wall, and drew to a halt. Viewed on the approach, the havoc119 loomed120 before Baltazar’s eyes even more appalling121 than when he had stood dazed and sick in the midst of it. The battered122 granite shell of the house stood absurdly low, and the rough gaping123 apertures124 of door and windows stared like maimed features hideously125 human. The wall of the scullery had been thrown down by the explosion, and the pump and cistern and a shelf or two of broken crockery were grimly exposed. He wondered why he had not noticed this when he went to fetch water for Quong Ho. The byre by the wrecked126 stable no longer existed. The white Wyandotte cockerel, the sole living thing visible, pecked about the ground in jaunty127 unconcern.
As soon as they dismounted the party followed Baltazar, who strode ahead with the air of a man about to denounce a ghost. At the turn of the ruined house they came in sight of Quong Ho, lying as Baltazar had left him, the bowl of water untouched. The sun had gradually encroached upon him, and now the shadow of the wall cut his body in a long vertical128 line. His yellow face looked pinched and ghastly beneath the pink and white cotton of his bandaged head.
Baltazar’s face was almost as ghastly, and horrible fear dwelt in his eyes. He pointed.
“There!” he said, and drew the doctor forward and motioned to the others to remain.
Together they bent down over Quong Ho. “If he’s dead,” Baltazar whispered in a hoarse82 voice, “it’s I who have murdered him.”
“He’s not dead yet,” replied the doctor.
“Thank God!” said Baltazar.
Sergeant Doubleday, surveying the scene of ruin with the eye of the policeman and the Briton, turned to Mr. Pillivant.
“This sort of thing oughtn’t to be allowed,” said he.
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1
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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7
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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glutinous
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| adj.粘的，胶状的 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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eddied
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| 起漩涡，旋转( eddy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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acceleration
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| n.加速，加速度 | |
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reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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35
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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36
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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37
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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38
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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39
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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40
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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41
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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42
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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43
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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44
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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45
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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46
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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47
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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48
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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49
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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50
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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51
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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52
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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53
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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54
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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55
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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56
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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57
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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58
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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59
cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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60
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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61
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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62
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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63
dressings
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| n.敷料剂；穿衣( dressing的名词复数 )；穿戴；（拌制色拉的）调料；（保护伤口的）敷料 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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65
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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66
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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69
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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72
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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73
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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74
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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75
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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76
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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77
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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78
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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79
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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80
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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81
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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82
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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83
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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84
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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85
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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86
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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87
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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88
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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89
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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90
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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monstrously
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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93
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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96
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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98
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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100
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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101
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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102
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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103
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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104
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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105
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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106
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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107
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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108
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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110
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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111
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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112
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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113
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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114
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
hummock
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| n.小丘 | |
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116
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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117
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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118
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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119
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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120
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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121
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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122
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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123
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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124
apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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125
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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126
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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127
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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128
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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