"Wind's shifted!" cried Hank vigorously, watching Simpson and his guide already loading the small canoe. "It's across the lake—dead right for you fellers. And the snow'll make bully1 trails! If there's any moose mussing around up thar, they'll not get so much as a tail-end scent2 of you with the wind as it is. Good luck, Monsieur Défago!" he added, facetiously3 giving the name its French pronunciation for once, "bonne chance!"
Défago returned the good wishes, apparently4 in the best of spirits, the silent mood gone. Before eight o'clock old Punk had the camp to himself, Cathcart and Hank were far along the trail that led westwards, while the canoe that carried Défago and Simpson, with silk tent and grub for two days, was already a dark speck5 bobbing on the bosom7 of the lake, going due east.
The wintry sharpness of the air was tempered now by a sun that topped the wooded ridges8 and blazed with a luxurious9 warmth upon the world of lake and forest below; loons flew skimming through the sparkling spray that the wind lifted; divers10 shook their dripping heads to the sun and popped smartly out of sight again; and as far as eye could reach rose the leagues of endless, crowding Bush, desolate11 in its lonely sweep and grandeur12, untrodden by foot of man, and stretching its mighty13 and unbroken carpet right up to the frozen shores of Hudson Bay.
Simpson, who saw it all for the first time as he paddled hard in the bows of the dancing canoe, was enchanted14 by its austere15 beauty. His heart drank in the sense of freedom and great spaces just as his lungs drank in the cool and perfumed wind. Behind him in the stern seat, singing fragments of his native chanties, Défago steered16 the craft of birch bark like a thing of life, answering cheerfully all his companion's questions. Both were gay and light-hearted. On such occasions men lose the superficial, worldly distinctions; they become human beings working together for a common end. Simpson, the employer, and Défago the employed, among these primitive18 forces, were simply—two men, the "guider" and the "guided." Superior knowledge, of course, assumed control, and the younger man fell without a second thought into the quasi-subordinate position. He never dreamed of objecting when Défago dropped the "Mr.," and addressed him as "Say, Simpson," or "Simpson, boss," which was invariably the case before they reached the farther shore after a stiff paddle of twelve miles against a head wind. He only laughed, and liked it; then ceased to notice it at all.
For this "divinity student" was a young man of parts and character, though as yet, of course, untraveled; and on this trip—the first time he had seen any country but his own and little Switzerland—the huge scale of things somewhat bewildered him. It was one thing, he realized, to hear about primeval forests, but quite another to see them. While to dwell in them and seek acquaintance with their wild life was, again, an initiation19 that no intelligent man could undergo without a certain shifting of personal values hitherto held for permanent and sacred.
Simpson knew the first faint indication of this emotion when he held the new .303 rifle in his hands and looked along its pair of faultless, gleaming barrels. The three days' journey to their headquarters, by lake and portage, had carried the process a stage farther. And now that he was about to plunge20 beyond even the fringe of wilderness21 where they were camped into the virgin22 heart of uninhabited regions as vast as Europe itself, the true nature of the situation stole upon him with an effect of delight and awe23 that his imagination was fully17 capable of appreciating. It was himself and Défago against a multitude—at least, against a Titan!
The bleak24 splendors25 of these remote and lonely forests rather overwhelmed him with the sense of his own littleness. That stern quality of the tangled26 backwoods which can only be described as merciless and terrible, rose out of these far blue woods swimming upon the horizon, and revealed itself. He understood the silent warning. He realized his own utter helplessness. Only Défago, as a symbol of a distant civilization where man was master, stood between him and a pitiless death by exhaustion27 and starvation.
It was thrilling to him, therefore, to watch Défago turn over the canoe upon the shore, pack the paddles carefully underneath28, and then proceed to "blaze" the spruce stems for some distance on either side of an almost invisible trail, with the careless remark thrown in, "Say, Simpson, if anything happens to me, you'll find the canoe all correc' by these marks;—then strike doo west into the sun to hit the home camp agin, see?"
It was the most natural thing in the world to say, and he said it without any noticeable inflexion of the voice, only it happened to express the youth's emotions at the moment with an utterance29 that was symbolic30 of the situation and of his own helplessness as a factor in it. He was alone with Défago in a primitive world: that was all. The canoe, another symbol of man's ascendancy31, was now to be left behind. Those small yellow patches, made on the trees by the axe32, were the only indications of its hiding place.
Meanwhile, shouldering the packs between them, each man carrying his own rifle, they followed the slender trail over rocks and fallen trunks and across half-frozen swamps; skirting numerous lakes that fairly gemmed33 the forest, their borders fringed with mist; and towards five o'clock found themselves suddenly on the edge of the woods, looking out across a large sheet of water in front of them, dotted with pine-clad islands of all describable shapes and sizes.
"Fifty Island Water," announced Défago wearily, "and the sun jest goin' to dip his bald old head into it!" he added, with unconscious poetry; and immediately they set about pitching camp for the night.
In a very few minutes, under those skilful35 hands that never made a movement too much or a movement too little, the silk tent stood taut36 and cozy37, the beds of balsam boughs38 ready laid, and a brisk cooking fire burned with the minimum of smoke. While the young Scotchman cleaned the fish they had caught trolling behind the canoe, Défago "guessed" he would "jest as soon" take a turn through the Bush for indications of moose. "May come across a trunk where they bin6 and rubbed horns," he said, as he moved off, "or feedin' on the last of the maple40 leaves"—and he was gone.
His small figure melted away like a shadow in the dusk, while Simpson noted41 with a kind of admiration42 how easily the forest absorbed him into herself. A few steps, it seemed, and he was no longer visible.
Yet there was little underbrush hereabouts; the trees stood somewhat apart, well spaced; and in the clearings grew silver birch and maple, spearlike and slender, against the immense stems of spruce and hemlock43. But for occasional prostrate44 monsters, and the boulders45 of grey rock that thrust uncouth46 shoulders here and there out of the ground, it might well have been a bit of park in the Old Country. Almost, one might have seen in it the hand of man. A little to the right, however, began the great burnt section, miles in extent, proclaiming its real character—brulé, as it is called, where the fires of the previous year had raged for weeks, and the blackened stumps47 now rose gaunt and ugly, bereft48 of branches, like gigantic match heads stuck into the ground, savage49 and desolate beyond words. The perfume of charcoal50 and rain-soaked ashes still hung faintly about it.
The dusk rapidly deepened; the glades51 grew dark; the crackling of the fire and the wash of little waves along the rocky lake shore were the only sounds audible. The wind had dropped with the sun, and in all that vast world of branches nothing stirred. Any moment, it seemed, the woodland gods, who are to be worshipped in silence and loneliness, might stretch their mighty and terrific outlines among the trees. In front, through doorways52 pillared by huge straight stems, lay the stretch of Fifty Island Water, a crescent-shaped lake some fifteen miles from tip to tip, and perhaps five miles across where they were camped. A sky of rose and saffron, more clear than any atmosphere Simpson had ever known, still dropped its pale streaming fires across the waves, where the islands—a hundred, surely, rather than fifty—floated like the fairy barques of some enchanted fleet. Fringed with pines, whose crests53 fingered most delicately the sky, they almost seemed to move upwards54 as the light faded—about to weigh anchor and navigate55 the pathways of the heavens instead of the currents of their native and desolate lake.
The beauty of the scene was strangely uplifting. Simpson smoked the fish and burnt his fingers into the bargain in his efforts to enjoy it and at the same time tend the frying pan and the fire. Yet, ever at the back of his thoughts, lay that other aspect of the wilderness: the indifference57 to human life, the merciless spirit of desolation which took no note of man. The sense of his utter loneliness, now that even Défago had gone, came close as he looked about him and listened for the sound of his companion's returning footsteps.
There was pleasure in the sensation, yet with it a perfectly58 comprehensible alarm. And instinctively59 the thought stirred in him: "What should I—could I, do—if anything happened and he did not come back—?"
They enjoyed their well-earned supper, eating untold60 quantities of fish, and drinking unmilked tea strong enough to kill men who had not covered thirty miles of hard "going," eating little on the way. And when it was over, they smoked and told stories round the blazing fire, laughing, stretching weary limbs, and discussing plans for the morrow. Défago was in excellent spirits, though disappointed at having no signs of moose to report. But it was dark and he had not gone far. The brulé, too, was bad. His clothes and hands were smeared61 with charcoal. Simpson, watching him, realized with renewed vividness their position—alone together in the wilderness.
"Défago," he said presently, "these woods, you know, are a bit too big to feel quite at home in—to feel comfortable in, I mean!... Eh?" He merely gave expression to the mood of the moment; he was hardly prepared for the earnestness, the solemnity even, with which the guide took him up.
"You've hit it right, Simpson, boss," he replied, fixing his searching brown eyes on his face, "and that's the truth, sure. There's no end to 'em—no end at all." Then he added in a lowered tone as if to himself, "There's lots found out that, and gone plumb63 to pieces!"
But the man's gravity of manner was not quite to the other's liking64; it was a little too suggestive for this scenery and setting; he was sorry he had broached65 the subject. He remembered suddenly how his uncle had told him that men were sometimes stricken with a strange fever of the wilderness, when the seduction of the uninhabited wastes caught them so fiercely that they went forth66, half fascinated, half deluded67, to their death. And he had a shrewd idea that his companion held something in sympathy with that queer type. He led the conversation on to other topics, on to Hank and the doctor, for instance, and the natural rivalry68 as to who should get the first sight of moose.
"If they went doo west," observed Défago carelessly, "there's sixty miles between us now—with ole Punk at halfway69 house eatin' himself full to bustin' with fish and coffee." They laughed together over the picture. But the casual mention of those sixty miles again made Simpson realize the prodigious70 scale of this land where they hunted; sixty miles was a mere62 step; two hundred little more than a step. Stories of lost hunters rose persistently71 before his memory. The passion and mystery of homeless and wandering men, seduced72 by the beauty of great forests, swept his soul in a way too vivid to be quite pleasant. He wondered vaguely73 whether it was the mood of his companion that invited the unwelcome suggestion with such persistence74.
"Sing us a song, Défago, if you're not too tired," he asked; "one of those old voyageur songs you sang the other night." He handed his tobacco pouch75 to the guide and then filled his own pipe, while the Canadian, nothing loth, sent his light voice across the lake in one of those plaintive76, almost melancholy77 chanties with which lumbermen and trappers lessen79 the burden of their labor80. There was an appealing and romantic flavor about it, something that recalled the atmosphere of the old pioneer days when Indians and wilderness were leagued together, battles frequent, and the Old Country farther off than it is today. The sound traveled pleasantly over the water, but the forest at their backs seemed to swallow it down with a single gulp81 that permitted neither echo nor resonance82.
It was in the middle of the third verse that Simpson noticed something unusual—something that brought his thoughts back with a rush from faraway scenes. A curious change had come into the man's voice. Even before he knew what it was, uneasiness caught him, and looking up quickly, he saw that Défago, though still singing, was peering about him into the Bush, as though he heard or saw something. His voice grew fainter—dropped to a hush—then ceased altogether. The same instant, with a movement amazingly alert, he started to his feet and stood upright—sniffing83 the air. Like a dog scenting84 game, he drew the air into his nostrils85 in short, sharp breaths, turning quickly as he did so in all directions, and finally "pointing" down the lake shore, eastwards86. It was a performance unpleasantly suggestive and at the same time singularly dramatic. Simpson's heart fluttered disagreeably as he watched it.
"Lord, man! How you made me jump!" he exclaimed, on his feet beside him the same instant, and peering over his shoulder into the sea of darkness. "What's up? Are you frightened—?"
Even before the question was out of his mouth he knew it was foolish, for any man with a pair of eyes in his head could see that the Canadian had turned white down to his very gills. Not even sunburn and the glare of the fire could hide that.
The student felt himself trembling a little, weakish in the knees. "What's up?" he repeated quickly. "D'you smell moose? Or anything queer, anything—wrong?" He lowered his voice instinctively.
The forest pressed round them with its encircling wall; the nearer tree stems gleamed like bronze in the firelight; beyond that—blackness, and, so far as he could tell, a silence of death. Just behind them a passing puff87 of wind lifted a single leaf, looked at it, then laid it softly down again without disturbing the rest of the covey. It seemed as if a million invisible causes had combined just to produce that single visible effect. Other life pulsed about them—and was gone.
"I never said I heered—or smelt90—nuthin'," he said slowly and emphatically, in an oddly altered voice that conveyed somehow a touch of defiance91. "I was only—takin' a look round—so to speak. It's always a mistake to be too previous with yer questions." Then he added suddenly with obvious effort, in his more natural voice, "Have you got the matches, Boss Simpson?" and proceeded to light the pipe he had half filled just before he began to sing.
Without speaking another word they sat down again by the fire. Défago changing his side so that he could face the direction the wind came from. For even a tenderfoot could tell that. Défago changed his position in order to hear and smell—all there was to be heard and smelt. And, since he now faced the lake with his back to the trees it was evidently nothing in the forest that had sent so strange and sudden a warning to his marvelously trained nerves.
"Guess now I don't feel like singing any," he explained presently of his own accord. "That song kinder brings back memories that's troublesome to me; I never oughter've begun it. It sets me on t' imagining things, see?"
Clearly the man was still fighting with some profoundly moving emotion. He wished to excuse himself in the eyes of the other. But the explanation, in that it was only a part of the truth, was a lie, and he knew perfectly well that Simpson was not deceived by it. For nothing could explain away the livid terror that had dropped over his face while he stood there sniffing the air. And nothing—no amount of blazing fire, or chatting on ordinary subjects—could make that camp exactly as it had been before. The shadow of an unknown horror, naked if unguessed, that had flashed for an instant in the face and gestures of the guide, had also communicated itself, vaguely and therefore more potently92, to his companion. The guide's visible efforts to dissemble the truth only made things worse. Moreover, to add to the younger man's uneasiness, was the difficulty, nay93, the impossibility he felt of asking questions, and also his complete ignorance as to the cause ...Indians, wild animals, forest fires—all these, he knew, were wholly out of the question. His imagination searched vigorously, but in vain....
Yet, somehow or other, after another long spell of smoking, talking and roasting themselves before the great fire, the shadow that had so suddenly invaded their peaceful camp began to shift. Perhaps Défago's efforts, or the return of his quiet and normal attitude accomplished94 this; perhaps Simpson himself had exaggerated the affair out of all proportion to the truth; or possibly the vigorous air of the wilderness brought its own powers of healing. Whatever the cause, the feeling of immediate34 horror seemed to have passed away as mysteriously as it had come, for nothing occurred to feed it. Simpson began to feel that he had permitted himself the unreasoning terror of a child. He put it down partly to a certain subconscious95 excitement that this wild and immense scenery generated in his blood, partly to the spell of solitude96, and partly to overfatigue. That pallor in the guide's face was, of course, uncommonly97 hard to explain, yet it might have been due in some way to an effect of firelight, or his own imagination ...He gave it the benefit of the doubt; he was Scotch39.
When a somewhat unordinary emotion has disappeared, the mind always finds a dozen ways of explaining away its causes ...Simpson lit a last pipe and tried to laugh to himself. On getting home to Scotland it would make quite a good story. He did not realize that this laughter was a sign that terror still lurked98 in the recesses99 of his soul—that, in fact, it was merely one of the conventional signs by which a man, seriously alarmed, tries to persuade himself that he is not so.
Défago, however, heard that low laughter and looked up with surprise on his face. The two men stood, side by side, kicking the embers about before going to bed. It was ten o'clock—a late hour for hunters to be still awake.
"What's ticklin' yer?" he asked in his ordinary tone, yet gravely.
"I—I was thinking of our little toy woods at home, just at that moment," stammered100 Simpson, coming back to what really dominated his mind, and startled by the question, "and comparing them to—to all this," and he swept his arm round to indicate the Bush.
A pause followed in which neither of them said anything.
"All the same I wouldn't laugh about it, if I was you," Défago added, looking over Simpson's shoulder into the shadows. "There's places in there nobody won't never see into—nobody knows what lives in there either."
"Too big—too far off?" The suggestion in the guide's manner was immense and horrible.
Défago nodded. The expression on his face was dark. He, too, felt uneasy. The younger man understood that in a hinterland of this size there might well be depths of wood that would never in the life of the world be known or trodden. The thought was not exactly the sort he welcomed. In a loud voice, cheerfully, he suggested that it was time for bed. But the guide lingered, tinkering with the fire, arranging the stones needlessly, doing a dozen things that did not really need doing. Evidently there was something he wanted to say, yet found it difficult to "get at."
"Say, you, Boss Simpson," he began suddenly, as the last shower of sparks went up into the air, "you don't—smell nothing, do you—nothing pertickler, I mean?" The commonplace question, Simpson realized, veiled a dreadfully serious thought in his mind. A shiver ran down his back.
"Nothing but burning wood," he replied firmly, kicking again at the embers. The sound of his own foot made him start.
"And all the evenin' you ain't smelt—nothing?" persisted the guide, peering at him through the gloom; "nothing extrordiny, and different to anything else you ever smelt before?"
"No, no, man; nothing at all!" he replied aggressively, half angrily.
Défago's face cleared. "That's good!" he exclaimed with evident relief. "That's good to hear."
"Have you?" asked Simpson sharply, and the same instant regretted the question.
The Canadian came closer in the darkness. He shook his head. "I guess not," he said, though without overwhelming conviction. "It must've been just that song of mine that did it. It's the song they sing in lumber78 camps and godforsaken places like that, when they're skeered the Wendigo's somewhere around, doin' a bit of swift traveling.—"
"And what's the Wendigo, pray?" Simpson asked quickly, irritated because again he could not prevent that sudden shiver of the nerves. He knew that he was close upon the man's terror and the cause of it. Yet a rushing passionate101 curiosity overcame his better judgment102, and his fear.
Défago turned swiftly and looked at him as though he were suddenly about to shriek103. His eyes shone, but his mouth was wide open. Yet all he said, or whispered rather, for his voice sank very low, was: "It's nuthin'—nuthin' but what those lousy fellers believe when they've bin hittin' the bottle too long—a sort of great animal that lives up yonder," he jerked his head northwards, "quick as lightning in its tracks, an' bigger'n anything else in the Bush, an' ain't supposed to be very good to look at—that's all!"
"A backwoods superstition—" began Simpson, moving hastily toward the tent in order to shake off the hand of the guide that clutched his arm. "Come, come, hurry up for God's sake, and get the lantern going! It's time we were in bed and asleep if we're going to be up with the sun tomorrow...."
The guide was close on his heels. "I'm coming," he answered out of the darkness, "I'm coming." And after a slight delay he appeared with the lantern and hung it from a nail in the front pole of the tent. The shadows of a hundred trees shifted their places quickly as he did so, and when he stumbled over the rope, diving swiftly inside, the whole tent trembled as though a gust104 of wind struck it.
The two men lay down, without undressing, upon their beds of soft balsam boughs, cunningly arranged. Inside, all was warm and cozy, but outside the world of crowding trees pressed close about them, marshalling their million shadows, and smothering105 the little tent that stood there like a wee white shell facing the ocean of tremendous forest.
Between the two lonely figures within, however, there pressed another shadow that was not a shadow from the night. It was the Shadow cast by the strange Fear, never wholly exorcised, that had leaped suddenly upon Défago in the middle of his singing. And Simpson, as he lay there, watching the darkness through the open flap of the tent, ready to plunge into the fragrant106 abyss of sleep, knew first that unique and profound stillness of a primeval forest when no wind stirs ... and when the night has weight and substance that enters into the soul to bind107 a veil about it.... Then sleep took him....
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1
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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2
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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3
facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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4
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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5
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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6
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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7
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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8
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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10
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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11
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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12
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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14
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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15
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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16
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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17
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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18
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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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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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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23
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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24
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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25
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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26
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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27
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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28
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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30
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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31
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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32
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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33
gemmed
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| 点缀（gem的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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35
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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36
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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37
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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38
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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39
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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40
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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41
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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42
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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43
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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44
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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45
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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46
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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47
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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48
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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49
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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50
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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51
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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52
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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53
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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54
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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55
navigate
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| v.航行，飞行；导航，领航 | |
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56
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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57
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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58
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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59
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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60
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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61
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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63
plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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65
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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71
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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72
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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73
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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74
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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75
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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79
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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80
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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81
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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82
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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83
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；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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84
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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85
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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86
eastwards
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| adj.向东方（的），朝东（的）；n.向东的方向 | |
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87
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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88
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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89
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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90
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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91
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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92
potently
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93
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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94
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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95
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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96
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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97
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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98
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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99
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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100
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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101
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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102
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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103
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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104
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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105
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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106
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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107
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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