“Now I saw in my dream, that by this time the pilgrims were entering into the country of Beulah.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.
The painful incident recorded in the last chapter had been to Ernest one of the most instructive events of his life, and the young lord felt that it was so. He recognized the parental1 care of his heavenly Father, in openly rebuking2 his pride; and was now so well aware of the peculiar3 dangers that attended his position, and how much they were increased by the weak indulgence of his preceptor, that he heard almost without regret, on the following day, that having come into some property by the will of a relative, Mr. Sligo was about to resign his present charge.
Oh, how gladly would Fontonore have recalled his first friend, him whose love was too sincere for flattery! This, however, was a thing quite beyond his hopes, and the boys tried to content themselves with the thought that they might soon have the pleasure of seeing their late tutor. Mr. Searle had told Ernest, when he met
[254]
him at the castle, that he expected Mr. Ewart on a visit; and though the young peer knew that the clergyman would not come to Fontonore, as such a step might be displeasing4 to his uncle, he determined5 to go over himself to Silvermere, as soon as he should hear that his friend had arrived there.
One bright, lovely spring morning, with this idea on his mind, Ernest sauntered forth7 in the direction of Mr. Searle’s house. Very beautiful was the scenery which lay between—so beautiful that the spot was often visited by strangers, who came from many miles round to see it.
A small lake, so small that we might better term it a pool, lay embosomed in high rocks, that hung over it as though to look at their rough crags reflected in its mirror. From this beautiful little piece of water, sleeping in their dark shadow, was fed a rapid stream, that, rushing onward8, as if weary of its tranquil9 repose10, made its way for some short distance through an opening in the rocks, and then flinging aloft showers of spray, fell with a bold leap over some lower crags into a wider lake in the valley below. There was a wooden bridge over this stream, some way above the cascade11, and on this bridge Ernest had often delighted to take his station, where, on the right hand, he could see the quiet upper lake, so carefully sheltered and guarded from the wind by the tall rocks that towered around it; on the left, the wider sheet which lay outspread far below to receive
[255]
the rivulet12 which flowed beneath his feet. It was a lovely spot, and a favourite haunt of one who loved to look up through nature unto nature’s God. Ernest thought of the current of human life as he watched the waters bursting forth from the secluded13, shady pool, rolling for some brief minutes through a narrow, darkened chasm14; then, as they emerged into the sunny light, plunging15 with a deep and sudden fall to mix and lose themselves in the brighter waters that lay glittering in the vale.
It was some time now since Ernest had visited this scene, and this morning he felt inclined to bend his steps thither16. He feared that his constant round of occupations—his studies, even his charitable pursuits—had made him of late too much neglect that quiet communing with God and his own heart, which should be a pilgrim’s privilege and delight. Ernest, therefore, did not ask even Charles to accompany him; peaceful meditation17 on the highest subjects that can engage the mind is best enjoyed, is perhaps only enjoyed, in solitude18 and seclusion19.
Ernest was tranquilly20, but deeply happy. His discovery of his infirmity had served rather to humble21 than to depress him. If he had less confidence now in himself, he had more than ever in his Saviour22; and what sweet security came with the thought that it was on no arm of flesh that he rested! He who had loved him
[256]
would love to the end. This God is our God for ever and ever, He will be our guide unto death.
With holy and happy thoughts for his companions, Fontonore wandered to the little bridge. It struck him, before he set his foot upon it, that it looked decayed and injured by the weather. He stooped down to examine the rough timber, between the chinks of which he could see the stream flowing darkly and rapidly by. A very brief survey strengthened his suspicion that the bridge was in a dangerous state.
“I will not attempt to cross it,” said Ernest to himself, “though it is the nearest way to Silvermere. I must speak to Mr. Searle, and have it repaired. I think that the property belongs to him. The long winter has made the wood decay; and yet, from a little distance, it looks safe and beautiful as ever. To rest our hopes of heaven upon our works, however fair in man’s eyes they might appear, would be like trusting our safety to that frail23 timber, and first learning our danger by our fall.”
Before he quitted the spot, Ernest wished to climb to the top of the highest crag that rose above the cataract24, as he from thence would command a view over Silvermere: perhaps he might even see Mr. Ewart in the distance. The path which led to the height was very narrow and winding25, encumbered26 with thicket27 and difficult of access, but the prospect28 from the summit more than repaid all the trouble of the ascent29. An expanse
[257]
of beautiful country spread around: here cattle were grazing in hedge-bordered fields of emerald velvet30 spangled with buttercups and daisies; there stretched woods, clad in the light garb31 of spring, whence the note of the cuckoo rose musical and soft; hills, blue in the distance, were seen to the north; and pretty hamlets, or farm-houses, embosomed in trees, with a little church spire32 pointing towards heaven, gave the interest of life to the scene.
Ernest looked down from his lofty crag, clothed with shrubs33 and wild rock-creepers almost to its summit, upon the fair prospect below. The Castle of Fontonore looked so small in the distance that it was almost hidden from view by a hovel that stood on a hill between. The banner on the flag-staff seemed a mere6 blue speck34 which the eye could hardly distinguish.
“’Tis thus,” thought its possessor, “that, from the heights of heaven, we may look down upon what we most prize below. How small will our honours appear to us then! how little all that here we most valued!” He gazed down on the churchyard, which was not far from the rocks, and thought how glorious a scene would that quiet green spot present, when the seeds there sown in corruption35 should spring forth into life, and the Lord come to gather in the harvest of His redeemed36.
Presently Ernest saw beneath him some one approaching the bridge. His elevation37, though considerable, was not so great but that he recognized the face and figure
[258]
of Jack38 Lawless. It would take some time to reach him by descending39 the path. Ernest adopted a shorter way of warning him of danger, and, leaning over the crag, shouted loudly and repeatedly, “Do not try the bridge; it is not safe!” Jack could not help hearing the voice, and looked up;—his only reply was his own audacious smile. Ernest had warned him before of dangers of another kind: he had disregarded the warning then, he disregarded it now. As if he wished to show that he despised any caution given to him by one whom he hated, or, perhaps, led only by the foolish daring of a boy, he set his foot upon the rotten plank40, and the next moment was precipitated41 into the water!
Ernest heard the sharp cry, saw the sudden fall; he knew that the wretched boy could not swim, and that in a few moments he must be hurried over the cataract, and dashed to pieces on the rocks below! Ernest never paused to consider how slight was the chance of saving him—how great that of losing his own life in the attempt; still less did he stop to recollect42 that the miserable43 Lawless was one who had treated him with insult and hate; he only saw that a fellow-creature was perishing before him, on the brink44 of destruction, and unprepared! If he descended45 by the path, his aid must come too late: Ernest took a shorter and more perilous46 way. Springing from the edge of the crag, swinging himself down by the shrubs that grew on the rock, clinging,
[259]
leaping, clambering, falling, he descended from the height as never human being had descended before. Twice he dashed himself against the crags in his desperate descent; a thrill of sharp agony shot across his frame, but now it was impossible to stop. Down he plunged47 into the water, almost at the head of the fall, at the moment that the current was carrying Lawless over the edge. The left hand of Ernest still grasped the bough48 of a willow49 which he had caught as he first struck the stream; the right, hastily extended, grasped the hair of the drowning boy, and held him back from the fatal brink. But the fearful effort could not last, though it was an effort for life. Ernest felt both his strength and his senses failing him—the exhausted50 fingers must relax their clasp—both must perish! No! no! there is a loud shout heard—help is near, an eager hand is stretched out to save—a firm hold is laid on the arm of Fontonore—he is dragged to the shore in a senseless state, his livid hand still unconsciously wreathed in the locks of the boy whom he has saved!
“Thank God! oh, thank God!” exclaimed Mr. Ewart, as he laid the two boys side by side on the turf, dripping, ghastly, insensible, but living still. He hastened for the aid which was speedily afforded. Ernest and Lawless were removed to the nearest cottage, where every means was used to restore them. A messenger was hastily despatched for a doctor, but before he arrived
[260]
both of the sufferers had sufficiently51 recovered to be taken back to the castle. Lawless felt no further effect from his accident than a slight chill and a sense of exhaustion52; but it was far otherwise with his youthful preserver, who had sustained very severe injury in his dangerous descent, and who awoke to consciousness in a state of such suffering as excited alarm in the minds of his friends.
THE RESCUE.
[261]
The doctor arrived after some delay, and examined the injured boy, who shrank from his touch in uncontrollable pain. Dr. Mansell looked grave, and drew Mr. Hope aside.
“I should wish, for my own satisfaction,” he said, “that other advice should be called in. The case is, I fear, of a serious nature—could not a messenger be despatched upon horseback at once to bring Dr. Ashby?” a surgeon of great eminence53, who resided in a town at some distance.
“One shall be sent directly,” replied Mr. Hope. “You do not apprehend54 any danger?” he added, speaking in a low, earnest tone.
“We will say nothing till Dr. Ashby’s opinion is given. I hope that there is no cause for alarm;” but the manner of the medical man contradicted his words.
Intense was the anxiety with which Charles and Mr. Ewart awaited the coming of the surgeon. How many, alas55, have known that terrible period of waiting for the arrival of the doctor, when minutes seem lengthening56 into hours—for the life of a loved one is at stake! Charles was in such a state of feverish57 excitement, that Mr. Hope positively58 forbade his entering the apartment where the poor sufferer lay. Long before any one else could hear them, he caught the sound of carriage-wheels, and was ready at the bridge to receive the surgeon, whose lips would decide the fate of his brother.
[262]
Dr. Ashby was a stout59, bald-headed man, with a quick, penetrating60 eye, and a manner which inspired confidence; decided61, without being harsh. Charles could hardly have been prevented from following him into Ernest’s room, in which Mr. Ewart and Dr. Mansell now were, but Mrs. Hope kept him back with the words, “Stay here in the corridor, Charles; the sight of your agitated62 face would be enough to kill him at once.” She entered in, and closed the door gently behind her.
How long, oh, how long appeared the interval63! With what different feelings Charles now stood at the door of that room which he had once entered in such grief and resentment64 on the day of his return from Marshdale! He then hated the sounds which showed him where his brother was moving through the castle; now his ear was painfully strained to catch any accent of that brother’s voice: he was then almost inclined to murmur65 at the loss of the broad lands which he had once possessed66; now, had they been his, he would have given them all to have had Ernest by his side once more.
At length the door opened, and the two doctors came out, followed by Mrs. Hope. Charles looked the question which his voice could not utter—his aunt laid her finger upon her lips.
“They will consult together in another room,” she whispered; “wait here, and I will bring you the result.”
[263]
With a sickening heart Charles leaned back on the wall opposite the door of Ernest’s apartment: he tried to pray, but his mind could scarcely form a prayer—the suspense67 seemed to paralyze all its energies. After the lapse68 of some minutes, he heard the rustle69 of his aunt’s dress again: she came close to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and in a low voice uttered but one sentence: “Charles, you will be Lord of Fontonore!”
Oh, how gladly would Fontonore have recalled his first friend, him whose love was too sincere for flattery! This, however, was a thing quite beyond his hopes, and the boys tried to content themselves with the thought that they might soon have the pleasure of seeing their late tutor. Mr. Searle had told Ernest, when he met
[254]
him at the castle, that he expected Mr. Ewart on a visit; and though the young peer knew that the clergyman would not come to Fontonore, as such a step might be displeasing4 to his uncle, he determined5 to go over himself to Silvermere, as soon as he should hear that his friend had arrived there.
One bright, lovely spring morning, with this idea on his mind, Ernest sauntered forth7 in the direction of Mr. Searle’s house. Very beautiful was the scenery which lay between—so beautiful that the spot was often visited by strangers, who came from many miles round to see it.
A small lake, so small that we might better term it a pool, lay embosomed in high rocks, that hung over it as though to look at their rough crags reflected in its mirror. From this beautiful little piece of water, sleeping in their dark shadow, was fed a rapid stream, that, rushing onward8, as if weary of its tranquil9 repose10, made its way for some short distance through an opening in the rocks, and then flinging aloft showers of spray, fell with a bold leap over some lower crags into a wider lake in the valley below. There was a wooden bridge over this stream, some way above the cascade11, and on this bridge Ernest had often delighted to take his station, where, on the right hand, he could see the quiet upper lake, so carefully sheltered and guarded from the wind by the tall rocks that towered around it; on the left, the wider sheet which lay outspread far below to receive
[255]
the rivulet12 which flowed beneath his feet. It was a lovely spot, and a favourite haunt of one who loved to look up through nature unto nature’s God. Ernest thought of the current of human life as he watched the waters bursting forth from the secluded13, shady pool, rolling for some brief minutes through a narrow, darkened chasm14; then, as they emerged into the sunny light, plunging15 with a deep and sudden fall to mix and lose themselves in the brighter waters that lay glittering in the vale.
It was some time now since Ernest had visited this scene, and this morning he felt inclined to bend his steps thither16. He feared that his constant round of occupations—his studies, even his charitable pursuits—had made him of late too much neglect that quiet communing with God and his own heart, which should be a pilgrim’s privilege and delight. Ernest, therefore, did not ask even Charles to accompany him; peaceful meditation17 on the highest subjects that can engage the mind is best enjoyed, is perhaps only enjoyed, in solitude18 and seclusion19.
Ernest was tranquilly20, but deeply happy. His discovery of his infirmity had served rather to humble21 than to depress him. If he had less confidence now in himself, he had more than ever in his Saviour22; and what sweet security came with the thought that it was on no arm of flesh that he rested! He who had loved him
[256]
would love to the end. This God is our God for ever and ever, He will be our guide unto death.
With holy and happy thoughts for his companions, Fontonore wandered to the little bridge. It struck him, before he set his foot upon it, that it looked decayed and injured by the weather. He stooped down to examine the rough timber, between the chinks of which he could see the stream flowing darkly and rapidly by. A very brief survey strengthened his suspicion that the bridge was in a dangerous state.
“I will not attempt to cross it,” said Ernest to himself, “though it is the nearest way to Silvermere. I must speak to Mr. Searle, and have it repaired. I think that the property belongs to him. The long winter has made the wood decay; and yet, from a little distance, it looks safe and beautiful as ever. To rest our hopes of heaven upon our works, however fair in man’s eyes they might appear, would be like trusting our safety to that frail23 timber, and first learning our danger by our fall.”
Before he quitted the spot, Ernest wished to climb to the top of the highest crag that rose above the cataract24, as he from thence would command a view over Silvermere: perhaps he might even see Mr. Ewart in the distance. The path which led to the height was very narrow and winding25, encumbered26 with thicket27 and difficult of access, but the prospect28 from the summit more than repaid all the trouble of the ascent29. An expanse
[257]
of beautiful country spread around: here cattle were grazing in hedge-bordered fields of emerald velvet30 spangled with buttercups and daisies; there stretched woods, clad in the light garb31 of spring, whence the note of the cuckoo rose musical and soft; hills, blue in the distance, were seen to the north; and pretty hamlets, or farm-houses, embosomed in trees, with a little church spire32 pointing towards heaven, gave the interest of life to the scene.
Ernest looked down from his lofty crag, clothed with shrubs33 and wild rock-creepers almost to its summit, upon the fair prospect below. The Castle of Fontonore looked so small in the distance that it was almost hidden from view by a hovel that stood on a hill between. The banner on the flag-staff seemed a mere6 blue speck34 which the eye could hardly distinguish.
“’Tis thus,” thought its possessor, “that, from the heights of heaven, we may look down upon what we most prize below. How small will our honours appear to us then! how little all that here we most valued!” He gazed down on the churchyard, which was not far from the rocks, and thought how glorious a scene would that quiet green spot present, when the seeds there sown in corruption35 should spring forth into life, and the Lord come to gather in the harvest of His redeemed36.
Presently Ernest saw beneath him some one approaching the bridge. His elevation37, though considerable, was not so great but that he recognized the face and figure
[258]
of Jack38 Lawless. It would take some time to reach him by descending39 the path. Ernest adopted a shorter way of warning him of danger, and, leaning over the crag, shouted loudly and repeatedly, “Do not try the bridge; it is not safe!” Jack could not help hearing the voice, and looked up;—his only reply was his own audacious smile. Ernest had warned him before of dangers of another kind: he had disregarded the warning then, he disregarded it now. As if he wished to show that he despised any caution given to him by one whom he hated, or, perhaps, led only by the foolish daring of a boy, he set his foot upon the rotten plank40, and the next moment was precipitated41 into the water!
Ernest heard the sharp cry, saw the sudden fall; he knew that the wretched boy could not swim, and that in a few moments he must be hurried over the cataract, and dashed to pieces on the rocks below! Ernest never paused to consider how slight was the chance of saving him—how great that of losing his own life in the attempt; still less did he stop to recollect42 that the miserable43 Lawless was one who had treated him with insult and hate; he only saw that a fellow-creature was perishing before him, on the brink44 of destruction, and unprepared! If he descended45 by the path, his aid must come too late: Ernest took a shorter and more perilous46 way. Springing from the edge of the crag, swinging himself down by the shrubs that grew on the rock, clinging,
[259]
leaping, clambering, falling, he descended from the height as never human being had descended before. Twice he dashed himself against the crags in his desperate descent; a thrill of sharp agony shot across his frame, but now it was impossible to stop. Down he plunged47 into the water, almost at the head of the fall, at the moment that the current was carrying Lawless over the edge. The left hand of Ernest still grasped the bough48 of a willow49 which he had caught as he first struck the stream; the right, hastily extended, grasped the hair of the drowning boy, and held him back from the fatal brink. But the fearful effort could not last, though it was an effort for life. Ernest felt both his strength and his senses failing him—the exhausted50 fingers must relax their clasp—both must perish! No! no! there is a loud shout heard—help is near, an eager hand is stretched out to save—a firm hold is laid on the arm of Fontonore—he is dragged to the shore in a senseless state, his livid hand still unconsciously wreathed in the locks of the boy whom he has saved!
“Thank God! oh, thank God!” exclaimed Mr. Ewart, as he laid the two boys side by side on the turf, dripping, ghastly, insensible, but living still. He hastened for the aid which was speedily afforded. Ernest and Lawless were removed to the nearest cottage, where every means was used to restore them. A messenger was hastily despatched for a doctor, but before he arrived
[260]
both of the sufferers had sufficiently51 recovered to be taken back to the castle. Lawless felt no further effect from his accident than a slight chill and a sense of exhaustion52; but it was far otherwise with his youthful preserver, who had sustained very severe injury in his dangerous descent, and who awoke to consciousness in a state of such suffering as excited alarm in the minds of his friends.
THE RESCUE.
[261]
The doctor arrived after some delay, and examined the injured boy, who shrank from his touch in uncontrollable pain. Dr. Mansell looked grave, and drew Mr. Hope aside.
“I should wish, for my own satisfaction,” he said, “that other advice should be called in. The case is, I fear, of a serious nature—could not a messenger be despatched upon horseback at once to bring Dr. Ashby?” a surgeon of great eminence53, who resided in a town at some distance.
“One shall be sent directly,” replied Mr. Hope. “You do not apprehend54 any danger?” he added, speaking in a low, earnest tone.
“We will say nothing till Dr. Ashby’s opinion is given. I hope that there is no cause for alarm;” but the manner of the medical man contradicted his words.
Intense was the anxiety with which Charles and Mr. Ewart awaited the coming of the surgeon. How many, alas55, have known that terrible period of waiting for the arrival of the doctor, when minutes seem lengthening56 into hours—for the life of a loved one is at stake! Charles was in such a state of feverish57 excitement, that Mr. Hope positively58 forbade his entering the apartment where the poor sufferer lay. Long before any one else could hear them, he caught the sound of carriage-wheels, and was ready at the bridge to receive the surgeon, whose lips would decide the fate of his brother.
[262]
Dr. Ashby was a stout59, bald-headed man, with a quick, penetrating60 eye, and a manner which inspired confidence; decided61, without being harsh. Charles could hardly have been prevented from following him into Ernest’s room, in which Mr. Ewart and Dr. Mansell now were, but Mrs. Hope kept him back with the words, “Stay here in the corridor, Charles; the sight of your agitated62 face would be enough to kill him at once.” She entered in, and closed the door gently behind her.
How long, oh, how long appeared the interval63! With what different feelings Charles now stood at the door of that room which he had once entered in such grief and resentment64 on the day of his return from Marshdale! He then hated the sounds which showed him where his brother was moving through the castle; now his ear was painfully strained to catch any accent of that brother’s voice: he was then almost inclined to murmur65 at the loss of the broad lands which he had once possessed66; now, had they been his, he would have given them all to have had Ernest by his side once more.
At length the door opened, and the two doctors came out, followed by Mrs. Hope. Charles looked the question which his voice could not utter—his aunt laid her finger upon her lips.
“They will consult together in another room,” she whispered; “wait here, and I will bring you the result.”
[263]
With a sickening heart Charles leaned back on the wall opposite the door of Ernest’s apartment: he tried to pray, but his mind could scarcely form a prayer—the suspense67 seemed to paralyze all its energies. After the lapse68 of some minutes, he heard the rustle69 of his aunt’s dress again: she came close to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and in a low voice uttered but one sentence: “Charles, you will be Lord of Fontonore!”
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1
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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2
rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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3
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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4
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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5
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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6
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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7
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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8
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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9
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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11
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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12
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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13
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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15
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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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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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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25
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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33
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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34
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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35
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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