Edwin Bentham and Grace Bentham were waifs; they were also tailing along behind, for the Klondike rush of '97 had long since swept down the great river and subsided3 into the famine-stricken city of Dawson. When the Yukon shut up shop and went to sleep under a three-foot ice-sheet, this peripatetic4 couple found themselves at the Five Finger Rapids, with the City of Gold still a journey of many sleeps to the north.
Many cattle had been butchered at this place in the fall of the year, and the offal made a goodly heap. The three fellow-voyagers of Edwin Bentham and wife gazed upon this deposit, did a little mental arithmetic, caught a certain glimpse of a bonanza5, and decided6 to remain. And all winter they sold sacks of bones and frozen hides to the famished7 dog-teams. It was a modest price they asked, a dollar a pound, just as it came. Six months later, when the sun came back and the Yukon awoke, they buckled8 on their heavy moneybelts and journeyed back to the Southland, where they yet live and lie mightily9 about the Klondike they never saw.
But Edwin Bentham—he was an indolent fellow, and had he not been possessed10 of a wife, would have gladly joined issued in the dog-meat speculation11. As it was, she played upon his vanity, told him how great and strong he was, how a man such as he certainly was could overcome all obstacles and of a surety obtain the Golden Fleece. So he squared his jaw12, sold his share in the bones and hides for a sled and one dog, and turned his snowshoes to the north. Needless to state, Grace Bentham's snowshoes never allowed his tracks to grow cold. Nay13, ere their tribulations14 had seen three days, it was the man who followed in the rear, and the woman who broke trail in advance. Of course, if anybody hove in sight, the position was instantly reversed. Thus did his manhood remain virgin15 to the travelers who passed like ghosts on the silent trail. There are such men in this world.
How such a man and such a woman came to take each other for better and for worse is unimportant to this narrative16. These things are familiar to us all, and those people who do them, or even question them too closely, are apt to lose a beautiful faith which is known as Eternal Fitness.
Edwin Bentham was a boy, thrust by mischance into a man's body,—a boy who could complacently17 pluck a butterfly, wing from wing, or cower18 in abject19 terror before a lean, nervy fellow, not half his size. He was a selfish cry-baby, hidden behind a man's mustache and stature21, and glossed22 over with a skin-deep veneer23 of culture and conventionality. Yes; he was a clubman and a society man, the sort that grace social functions and utter inanities24 with a charm and unction which is indescribable; the sort that talk big, and cry over a toothache; the sort that put more hell into a woman's life by marrying her than can the most graceless libertine25 that ever browsed26 in forbidden pastures. We meet these men every day, but we rarely know them for what they are. Second to marrying them, the best way to get this knowledge is to eat out of the same pot and crawl under the same blanket with them for—well, say a week; no greater margin27 is necessary.
To see Grace Bentham, was to see a slender, girlish creature; to know her, was to know a soul which dwarfed28 your own, yet retained all the elements of the eternal feminine. This was the woman who urged and encouraged her husband in his Northland quest, who broke trail for him when no one was looking, and cried in secret over her weakling woman's body.
So journeyed this strangely assorted29 couple down to old Fort Selkirk, then through fivescore miles of dismal30 wilderness31 to Stuart River. And when the short day left them, and the man lay down in the snow and blubbered, it was the woman who lashed32 him to the sled, bit her lips with the pain of her aching limbs, and helped the dog haul him to Malemute Kid's cabin. Malemute Kid was not at home, but Meyers, the German trader, cooked great moose-steaks and shook up a bed of fresh pine boughs34. Lake, Langham, and Parker, were excited, and not unduly35 so when the cause was taken into account.
'Oh, Sandy! Say, can you tell a porterhouse from a round? Come out and lend us a hand, anyway!' This appeal emanated36 from the cache, where Langham was vainly struggling with divers37 quarters of frozen moose.
'I say, Sandy; there's a good fellow—just run down to the Missouri Camp and borrow some cinnamon,' begged Lake.
'Oh! oh! hurry up! Why don't—' But the crash of meat and boxes, in the cache, abruptly39 quenched40 this peremptory41 summons.
'Come now, Sandy; it won't take a minute to go down to the Missouri—'
'You leave him alone,' interrupted Parker. 'How am I to mix the biscuits if the table isn't cleared off?'
Sandy paused in indecision, till suddenly the fact that he was Langham's 'man' dawned upon him. Then he apologetically threw down the greasy42 dishcloth, and went to his master's rescue.
These promising43 scions44 of wealthy progenitors45 had come to the Northland in search of laurels46, with much money to burn, and a 'man' apiece. Luckily for their souls, the other two men were up the White River in search of a mythical47 quartz48-ledge; so Sandy had to grin under the responsibility of three healthy masters, each of whom was possessed of peculiar49 cookery ideas. Twice that morning had a disruption of the whole camp been imminent50, only averted51 by immense concessions53 from one or the other of these knights54 of the chafing-dish. But at last their mutual55 creation, a really dainty dinner, was completed.
Then they sat down to a three-cornered game of 'cut-throat,'—a proceeding56 which did away with all casus belli for future hostilities57, and permitted the victor to depart on a most important mission.
This fortune fell to Parker, who parted his hair in the middle, put on his mittens58 and bearskin cap, and stepped over to Malemute Kid's cabin. And when he returned, it was in the company of Grace Bentham and Malemute Kid,—the former very sorry her husband could not share with her their hospitality, for he had gone up to look at the Henderson Creek59 mines, and the latter still a trifle stiff from breaking trail down the Stuart River.
Meyers had been asked, but had declined, being deeply engrossed60 in an experiment of raising bread from hops61.
Well, they could do without the husband; but a woman—why they had not seen one all winter, and the presence of this one promised a new era in their lives.
They were college men and gentlemen, these three young fellows, yearning62 for the flesh-pots they had been so long denied. Probably Grace Bentham suffered from a similar hunger; at least, it meant much to her, the first bright hour in many weeks of darkness.
But that wonderful first course, which claimed the versatile63 Lake for its parent, had no sooner been served than there came a loud knock at the door.
'Oh! Ah! Won't you come in, Mr. Bentham?' said Parker, who had stepped to see who the newcomer might be.
'Why, yes. We left word with Mr. Meyers.' Parker was exerting his most dulcet65 tones, inwardly wondering what the deuce it all meant. 'Won't you come in? Expecting you at any moment, we reserved a place. And just in time for the first course, too.' 'Come in, Edwin, dear,' chirped66 Grace Bentham from her seat at the table.
Parker naturally stood aside.
'I want my wife,' reiterated67 Bentham hoarsely68, the intonation69 savoring70 disagreeably of ownership.
Parker gasped71, was within an ace2 of driving his fist into the face of his boorish72 visitor, but held himself awkwardly in check. Everybody rose. Lake lost his head and caught himself on the verge73 of saying, 'Must you go?' Then began the farrago of leave-taking. 'So nice of you—' 'I am awfully74 sorry' 'By Jove! how things did brighten—' 'Really now, you—'
'Thank you ever so much—' 'Nice trip to Dawson—' etc., etc.
In this wise the lamb was helped into her jacket and led to the slaughter75. Then the door slammed, and they gazed woefully upon the deserted76 table.
'Damn!' Langham had suffered disadvantages in his early training, and his oaths were weak and monotonous77. 'Damn!' he repeated, vaguely78 conscious of the incompleteness and vainly struggling for a more virile79 term. It is a clever woman who can fill out the many weak places in an inefficient80 man, by her own indomitability, re-enforce his vacillating nature, infuse her ambitious soul into his, and spur him on to great achievements. And it is indeed a very clever and tactful woman who can do all this, and do it so subtly that the man receives all the credit and believes in his inmost heart that everything is due to him and him alone.
This is what Grace Bentham proceeded to do. Arriving in Dawson with a few pounds of flour and several letters of introduction, she at once applied81 herself to the task of pushing her big baby to the fore20. It was she who melted the stony82 heart and wrung83 credit from the rude barbarian84 who presided over the destiny of the P. C. Company; yet it was Edwin Bentham to whom the concession52 was ostensibly granted. It was she who dragged her baby up and down creeks85, over benches and divides, and on a dozen wild stampedes; yet everybody remarked what an energetic fellow that Bentham was. It was she who studied maps, and catechised miners, and hammered geography and locations into his hollow head, till everybody marveled at his broad grasp of the country and knowledge of its conditions. Of course, they said the wife was a brick, and only a few wise ones appreciated and pitied the brave little woman.
She did the work; he got the credit and reward. In the Northwest Territory a married woman cannot stake or record a creek, bench, or quartz claim; so Edwin Bentham went down to the Gold Commissioner86 and filed on Bench Claim 23, second tier, of French Hill. And when April came they were washing out a thousand dollars a day, with many, many such days in prospect87.
At the base of French Hill lay Eldorado Creek, and on a creek claim stood the cabin of Clyde Wharton. At present he was not washing out a diurnal88 thousand dollars; but his dumps grew, shift by shift, and there would come a time when those dumps would pass through his sluice-boxes, depositing in the riffles, in the course of half a dozen days, several hundred thousand dollars. He often sat in that cabin, smoked his pipe, and dreamed beautiful little dreams,—dreams in which neither the dumps nor the half-ton of dust in the P. C. Company's big safe, played a part.
And Grace Bentham, as she washed tin dishes in her hillside cabin, often glanced down into Eldorado Creek, and dreamed,—not of dumps nor dust, however. They met frequently, as the trail to the one claim crossed the other, and there is much to talk about in the Northland spring; but never once, by the light of an eye nor the slip of a tongue, did they speak their hearts.
This is as it was at first. But one day Edwin Bentham was brutal89. All boys are thus; besides, being a French Hill king now, he began to think a great deal of himself and to forget all he owed to his wife. On this day, Wharton heard of it, and waylaid90 Grace Bentham, and talked wildly. This made her very happy, though she would not listen, and made him promise to not say such things again. Her hour had not come.
But the sun swept back on its northern journey, the black of midnight changed to the steely color of dawn, the snow slipped away, the water dashed again over the glacial drift, and the wash-up began. Day and night the yellow clay and scraped bedrock hurried through the swift sluices91, yielding up its ransom92 to the strong men from the Southland.
To all of us such hours at some time come,—that is, to us who are not too phlegmatic94.
Some people are good, not from inherent love of virtue95, but from sheer laziness. But those of us who know weak moments may understand.
Edwin Bentham was weighing dust over the bar of the saloon at the Forks—altogether too much of his dust went over that pine board—when his wife came down the hill and slipped into Clyde Wharton's cabin. Wharton was not expecting her, but that did not alter the case. And much subsequent misery96 and idle waiting might have been avoided, had not Father Roubeau seen this and turned aside from the main creek trail. 'My child,—' 'Hold on, Father Roubeau! Though I'm not of your faith, I respect you; but you can't come in between this woman and me!' 'You know what you are doing?' 'Know! Were you God Almighty97, ready to fling me into eternal fire, I'd bank my will against yours in this matter.' Wharton had placed Grace on a stool and stood belligerently98 before her.
'You sit down on that chair and keep quiet,' he continued, addressing the Jesuit. 'I'll take my innings now. You can have yours after.'
Father Roubeau bowed courteously99 and obeyed. He was an easy-going man and had learned to bide100 his time. Wharton pulled a stool alongside the woman's, smothering101 her hand in his.
'Then you do care for me, and will take me away?' Her face seemed to reflect the peace of this man, against whom she might draw close for shelter.
'Dear, don't you remember what I said before? Of course I-' 'But how can you?—the wash-up?' 'Do you think that worries? Anyway, I'll give the job to Father Roubeau, here.
'I can trust him to safely bank the dust with the company.' 'To think of it!—I'll never see him again.' 'A blessing102!' 'And to go—O, Clyde, I can't! I can't!' 'There, there; of course you can, just let me plan it.—You see, as soon as we get a few traps together, we'll start, and-' 'Suppose he comes back?' 'I'll break every-' 'No, no! No fighting, Clyde! Promise me that.' 'All right! I'll just tell the men to throw him off the claim. They've seen how he's treated you, and haven't much love for him.'
'You mustn't do that. You mustn't hurt him.' 'What then? Let him come right in here and take you away before my eyes?' 'No-o,' she half whispered, stroking his hand softly.
'Then let me run it, and don't worry. I'll see he doesn't get hurt. Precious lot he cared whether you got hurt or not! We won't go back to Dawson. I'll send word down for a couple of the boys to outfit103 and pole a boat up the Yukon. We'll cross the divide and raft down the Indian River to meet them. Then—' 'And then?' Her head was on his shoulder.
'And then?' she repeated.
'Why we'll pole up, and up, and up, and portage the White Horse Rapids and the Box Canon.' 'Yes?' 'And the Sixty-Mile River; then the lakes, Chilcoot, Dyea, and Salt Water.' 'But, dear, I can't pole a boat.' 'You little goose! I'll get Sitka Charley; he knows all the good water and best camps, and he is the best traveler I ever met, if he is an Indian. All you'll have to do, is to sit in the middle of the boat, and sing songs, and play Cleopatra, and fight—no, we're in luck; too early for mosquitoes.'
'And then, O my Antony?' 'And then a steamer, San Francisco, and the world! Never to come back to this cursed hole again. Think of it! The world, and ours to choose from! I'll sell out. Why, we're rich! The Waldworth Syndicate will give me half a million for what's left in the ground, and I've got twice as much in the dumps and with the P. C. Company. We'll go to the Fair in Paris in 1900. We'll go to Jerusalem, if you say so.
'We'll buy an Italian palace, and you can play Cleopatra to your heart's content. No, you shall be Lucretia, Acte, or anybody your little heart sees fit to become. But you mustn't, you really mustn't-' 'The wife of Caesar shall be above reproach.' 'Of course, but—' 'But I won't be your wife, will I, dear?' 'I didn't mean that.' 'But you'll love me just as much, and never even think—oh! I know you'll be like other men; you'll grow tired, and—and-'
'How can you? I—' 'Promise me.' 'Yes, yes; I do promise.' 'You say it so easily, dear; but how do you know?—or I know? I have so little to give, yet it is so much, and all I have. O, Clyde! promise me you won't?'
'There, there! You mustn't begin to doubt already. Till death do us part, you know.'
'Think! I once said that to—to him, and now?' 'And now, little sweetheart, you're not to bother about such things any more.
Of course, I never, never will, and—' And for the first time, lips trembled against lips.
Father Roubeau had been watching the main trail through the window, but could stand the strain no longer.
He cleared his throat and turned around.
'Your turn now, Father!' Wharton's face was flushed with the fire of his first embrace.
There was an exultant107 ring to his voice as he abdicated108 in the other's favor. He had no doubt as to the result. Neither had Grace, for a smile played about her mouth as she faced the priest.
'My child,' he began, 'my heart bleeds for you. It is a pretty dream, but it cannot be.'
'And why, Father? I have said yes.' 'You knew not what you did. You did not think of the oath you took, before your God, to that man who is your husband. It remains109 for me to make you realize the sanctity of such a pledge.' 'And if I do realize, and yet refuse?'
'Then God'
'Which God? My husband has a God which I care not to worship. There must be many such.' 'Child! unsay those words! Ah! you do not mean them. I understand. I, too, have had such moments.' For an instant he was back in his native France, and a wistful, sad-eyed face came as a mist between him and the woman before him.
'Then, Father, has my God forsaken110 me? I am not wicked above women. My misery with him has been great. Why should it be greater? Why shall I not grasp at happiness? I cannot, will not, go back to him!' 'Rather is your God forsaken. Return. Throw your burden upon Him, and the darkness shall be lifted. O my child,—' 'No; it is useless; I have made my bed and so shall I lie. I will go on. And if God punishes me, I shall bear it somehow. You do not understand. You are not a woman.' 'My mother was a woman.'
'But—' 'And Christ was born of a woman.' She did not answer. A silence fell. Wharton pulled his mustache impatiently and kept an eye on the trail. Grace leaned her elbow on the table, her face set with resolve. The smile had died away. Father Roubeau shifted his ground.
'You have children?'
'At one time I wished—but now—no. And I am thankful.' 'And a mother?' 'Yes.' 'She loves you?' 'Yes.' Her replies were whispers.
'And a brother?—no matter, he is a man. But a sister?' Her head drooped111 a quavering 'Yes.' 'Younger? Very much?' 'Seven years.' 'And you have thought well about this matter? About them? About your mother? And your sister? She stands on the threshold of her woman's life, and this wildness of yours may mean much to her. Could you go before her, look upon her fresh young face, hold her hand in yours, or touch your cheek to hers?'
To his words, her brain formed vivid images, till she cried out, 'Don't! don't!' and shrank away as do the wolf-dogs from the lash33.
'But you must face all this; and better it is to do it now.' In his eyes, which she could not see, there was a great compassion112, but his face, tense and quivering, showed no relenting.
She raised her head from the table, forced back the tears, struggled for control.
'I shall go away. They will never see me, and come to forget me. I shall be to them as dead. And—and I will go with Clyde—today.' It seemed final. Wharton stepped forward, but the priest waved him back.
'You have wished for children?' A silent 'Yes.' 'And prayed for them?' 'Often.' 'And have you thought, if you should have children?' Father Roubeau's eyes rested for a moment on the man by the window.
A quick light shot across her face. Then the full import dawned upon her. She raised her hand appealingly, but he went on.
'Can you picture an innocent babe in your arms? A boy? The world is not so hard upon a girl. Why, your very breast would turn to gall113! And you could be proud and happy of your boy, as you looked on other children?—' 'O, have pity! Hush114!' 'A scapegoat—'
'Don't! don't! I will go back!' She was at his feet.
'A child to grow up with no thought of evil, and one day the world to fling a tender name in his face. A child to look back and curse you from whose loins he sprang!'
'O my God! my God!' She groveled on the floor. The priest sighed and raised her to her feet.
Wharton pressed forward, but she motioned him away.
'Don't come near me, Clyde! I am going back!' The tears were coursing pitifully down her face, but she made no effort to wipe them away.
'After all this? You cannot! I will not let you!' 'Don't touch me!' She shivered and drew back.
'I will! You are mine! Do you hear? You are mine!' Then he whirled upon the priest. 'O what a fool I was to ever let you wag your silly tongue! Thank your God you are not a common man, for I'd—but the priestly prerogative115 must be exercised, eh? Well, you have exercised it. Now get out of my house, or I'll forget who and what you are!' Father Roubeau bowed, took her hand, and started for the door. But Wharton cut them off.
'Grace! You said you loved me?' 'I did.' 'And you do now?' 'I do.' 'Say it again.'
'I do love you, Clyde; I do.' 'There, you priest!' he cried. 'You have heard it, and with those words on her lips you would send her back to live a lie and a hell with that man?'
But Father Roubeau whisked the woman into the inner room and closed the door. 'No words!' he whispered to Wharton, as he struck a casual posture116 on a stool. 'Remember, for her sake,' he added.
'Seen anything of my wife?' he asked as soon as salutations had been exchanged.
Two heads nodded negatively.
'I saw her tracks down from the cabin,' he continued tentatively, 'and they broke off, just opposite here, on the main trail.' His listeners looked bored.
'And I—I thought—'
'She was here!' thundered Wharton.
The priest silenced him with a look. 'Did you see her tracks leading up to this cabin, my son?' Wily Father Roubeau—he had taken good care to obliterate118 them as he came up the same path an hour before.
'I didn't stop to look, I—' His eyes rested suspiciously on the door to the other room, then interrogated119 the priest. The latter shook his head; but the doubt seemed to linger.
Father Roubeau breathed a swift, silent prayer, and rose to his feet. 'If you doubt me, why—' He made as though to open the door.
A priest could not lie. Edwin Bentham had heard this often, and believed it.
'Of course not, Father,' he interposed hurriedly. 'I was only wondering where my wife had gone, and thought maybe—I guess she's up at Mrs. Stanton's on French Gulch120. Nice weather, isn't it? Heard the news? Flour's gone down to forty dollars a hundred, and they say the che-cha-quas are flocking down the river in droves.
'But I must be going; so good-by.' The door slammed, and from the window they watched him take his guest up French Gulch. A few weeks later, just after the June high-water, two men shot a canoe into mid-stream and made fast to a derelict pine. This tightened121 the painter and jerked the frail122 craft along as would a tow-boat. Father Roubeau had been directed to leave the Upper Country and return to his swarthy children at Minook. The white men had come among them, and they were devoting too little time to fishing, and too much to a certain deity123 whose transient habitat was in countless124 black bottles.
Malemute Kid also had business in the Lower Country, so they journeyed together.
But one, in all the Northland, knew the man Paul Roubeau, and that man was Malemute Kid. Before him alone did the priest cast off the sacerdotal garb125 and stand naked. And why not? These two men knew each other. Had they not shared the last morsel126 of fish, the last pinch of tobacco, the last and inmost thought, on the barren stretches of Bering Sea, in the heartbreaking mazes127 of the Great Delta128, on the terrible winter journey from Point Barrow to the Porcupine129? Father Roubeau puffed130 heavily at his trail-worn pipe, and gazed on the reddisked sun, poised131 somberly on the edge of the northern horizon.
Malemute Kid wound up his watch. It was midnight.
'God surely will forgive such a lie. Let me give you the word of a man who strikes a true note: If She have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed, And the brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed.
If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear, Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.'
Father Roubeau removed his pipe and reflected. 'The man speaks true, but my soul is not vexed133 with that. The lie and the penance134 stand with God; but—but—'
'What then? Your hands are clean.' 'Not so. Kid, I have thought much, and yet the thing remains. I knew, and made her go back.' The clear note of a robin135 rang out from the wooden bank, a partridge drummed the call in the distance, a moose lunged noisily in the eddy136; but the twain smoked on in silence.
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1
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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bonanza
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| n.富矿带，幸运，带来好运的事 | |
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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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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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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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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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22
glossed
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| v.注解( gloss的过去式和过去分词 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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inanities
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| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
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libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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browsed
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| v.吃草( browse的过去式和过去分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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27
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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29
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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30
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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31
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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32
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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33
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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34
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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35
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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36
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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37
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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38
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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39
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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40
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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41
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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42
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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43
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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44
scions
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| n.接穗，幼枝( scion的名词复数 )；（尤指富家）子孙 | |
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45
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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46
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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47
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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48
quartz
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| n.石英 | |
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49
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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50
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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51
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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52
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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53
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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54
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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55
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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56
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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57
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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58
mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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59
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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60
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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61
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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62
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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63
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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64
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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65
dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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66
chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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67
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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69
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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71
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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72
boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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73
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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74
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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75
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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76
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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77
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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78
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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79
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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80
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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81
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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82
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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83
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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84
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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85
creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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86
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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87
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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88
diurnal
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| adj.白天的，每日的 | |
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89
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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90
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
sluices
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| n.水闸( sluice的名词复数 )；（用水闸控制的）水；有闸人工水道；漂洗处v.冲洗( sluice的第三人称单数 )；（指水）喷涌而出；漂净；给…安装水闸 | |
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92
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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93
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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94
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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95
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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96
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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97
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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98
belligerently
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99
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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100
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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101
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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102
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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103
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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104
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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105
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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106
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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107
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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108
abdicated
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的过去式和过去分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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109
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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110
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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111
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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113
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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114
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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115
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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116
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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117
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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118
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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119
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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120
gulch
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| n.深谷，峡谷 | |
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121
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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122
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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123
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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124
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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125
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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126
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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127
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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128
delta
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| n.（流的）角洲 | |
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129
porcupine
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| n.豪猪， 箭猪 | |
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130
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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131
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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132
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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133
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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134
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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135
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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136
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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