The candidate and his company were due one night at Grayville, a brisk Colorado town, dwelling1 snugly2 in the shadow of high mountains and hopeful of a brilliant future, based upon the mines within its limits and the great pastoral country beyond, as any of its inhabitants, asked or unasked, would readily have told you. Hence there was joy in the train, from Jimmy Grayson down, because the next day was to be Sunday, a period of rest, no speeches to be made, nothing to write, but just rest, sleeping, eating, idling, bathing, talking--whatever one chose to do. Only those who have been on arduous3 campaigns can appreciate the luxury of such a day now and then, cutting like a sweep of green grass across the long and dusty road.
There was also quite a little group of women on the train, the wives of several Colorado political leaders having joined Sylvia and Mrs. Grayson for a while, and they, too, looked forward to a day of rest and the restoration of their toilets.
"They tell me that Grayville has one of the best hotels in the mountains," said Barton to Harley, his brother correspondent. "That you can get a dinner in a dozen courses, if you want it, and every course good; that it has real porcelain-lined bath-tubs, and beds sure to cure the worst case of insomnia4 on earth. Do you think this improbable, this extravagant5 but most fascinating tale can be true, Harley?"
"I live in hope," replied Harley.
"Jimmy Grayson has been here before," interrupted Hobart, "and he says it's true, every word of it; if Jimmy Grayson vouches6 for a thing, that settles it; and here is a copy of the Grayville _Argus_; it has to be a pretty good town that can publish as smart a daily as this."
He handed a neat sheet to Barton, who laughed.
"There speaks the great detective," he said. "You know, Harley, how Hobart is always arguing from the effect back to the cause."
Hobart, in fact, was not a political writer, but a "murder mystery" man, and the best of his kind in New York, but the regular staff correspondent of his paper, the _Leader_, being ill, he had been sent in his place. He was a Harvard graduate and a gentleman with a taste for poetry, but he had a peculiar7 mind, upon which a murder mystery acted as an irritant--he could not rest until he had solved it--and his paper always put him on the great cases, such as those in which a vast metropolis8 like New York abounds9. Now he was restless and discontented; the tour seemed to him the mere10 reporting of speeches and obvious incidents that everybody saw; there was nothing to unravel11, nothing that called for the keen edge of a fine intellect.
"Grayville, with all its advantages as a place of rest, is sure to be like the other mountain towns," he said, somewhat sourly--"the same houses, the same streets, the same people, I might almost say the same mountains. There will be nothing unusual, nothing out of the way."
Harley had taken the paper from Barton's hands and was reading it.
"At any rate, if Grayville is not unusual, it is to have an unusual time," he interrupted.
"How so?"
"It is to hear Jimmy Grayson speak Monday, and it is going to hang a man Tuesday. See, the two events get equal advance space, two columns each, on the front page."
He handed the paper to Hobart, who looked at it a little while and then dropped it with an air of increasing discontent.
"That may mean something to the natives," he said; "it may be an indication to them that their place is becoming important--a metropolis in which things happen--but it is nothing to me. This hanging case is stale and commonplace; it is perfectly12 clear; a young fellow named Boyd is to be hanged for killing13 his partner, another miner; no doubt about his guilt14, plenty of witnesses against him, his own denial weak and halting--in fact, half a confession15; jury out only five minutes; whole thing as bald and flat as this plain through which we are running."
He tapped with his finger on the dusty car-window, and his expression was so gloomy that the others could not restrain a laugh.
"Cheer up, old man," said Barton. "Four more hours and we are in Grayville; just think of that wonderful hotel, with its more wonderful beds and its yet more wonderful kitchen."
The hotel was all that they either expected or hoped, and the dawn brought a beautiful Sunday, disclosing a pretty little frontier city with its green, irrigated16 valley on one side and the brown mountains, like a protecting wall, on the other. Harley slept late, and after breakfast came out upon the veranda17 to enjoy the luxury of a rocking-chair, with the soft October air around him and the majesty18 of the mountains before him. He hoped to find Sylvia there, but neither she nor any of the ladies was present. Instead, there was a persistent19, inquiring spirit abroad which would not let him rest, and this spirit belonged to Hobart, the "mystery" man.
Harley had not been enjoying the swinging ease of the rocking-chair five minutes before Hobart, the light of interest in his eyes, pounced20 upon him.
"Harley, old fellow," he exclaimed, "this is the first place we've struck in which Jimmy Grayson is not the overwhelming attraction."
"The hanging, I suppose," said Harley, carelessly.
"Of course. What else could there be? It occurred to me last night, when I was reading the paper, that I might scare up a feature or two in the case, and I was out of my bed early this morning to try. It was a forlorn hope, I'll admit, but anything was better than nothing, and I've had my reward. I've had my reward, old fellow!"
He chuckled21 outright22 in his glee. Harley smiled. Hobart always interested and amused him. The instinctive23 way in which he unfailingly rose to a "case" showed his natural genius for that sort of thing.
"I haven't seen Boyd yet," continued Hobart, excitedly, "but I've found out this much already--there are people in Grayville who believe Boyd innocent. It is true that he and Wofford--the murdered man--had been quarrelling in Grayville, and Boyd was taken at the shanty24 with the blood-stained knife in his hand; but that doesn't settle it."
Harley could not restrain an incredulous laugh. "It seems to me those two circumstances, omitting the other proof, are pretty convincing," he said.
Hobart flushed. "You just wait until I finish," he said, somewhat defiantly25. "Now Boyd, as I have learned, was a good-hearted, generous young fellow. The quarrel amounted to very little, and probably had been patched up before they reached their shack27."
"That is a view which the jury evidently could not take."
"Juries are often wooden-headed."
"Of course--in the eyes of superior people."
"Now don't you try to be satirical--it's not your specialty28. I mean to finish the tale. If you read the paper, you will recall that the shanty where the murder occurred was only a short distance from the mountain-road, and there were three witnesses--Bill Metzger, a dissolute cowboy who was passing, and who, attracted by Wofford's death-cry, ran to the cabin and found Boyd, blood-stained knife in hand, bending over the murdered man; Ed Thorpe, a tramp miner, who heard the same cry and who came up two or three minutes later; and, finally, Tim Williams, a town idler, who was on the mountain-side, hunting. The other two heard him fire his gun a few hundred yards away, and called to him. When he arrived, Boyd was still dazed and muttering to himself, as if overpowered by the horror of his crime."
"If that isn't conclusive29, then nothing is," said Harley, decisively.
"To whom did the knife belong?"
"It was a long bread-knife that the two used at the cabin."
"There you are! Proof on proof!"
"Now, you keep silent, Harley, and come with me, like a good fellow, and see Boyd in the jail. If you don't, I swear I'll pester31 the life out of you for a week."
Harley rose reluctantly, as he knew that Hobart would keep his word. He believed it the idlest of errands, but the jail was only a short distance from them, and the business would not take long. On the way Hobart talked to him about the three witnesses. Metzger, the cowboy, on the day of the murder, had been riding in from a ranch32 farther down the valley; the other two had been about the town until a short time before the departure of Boyd and Wofford for their cabin.
They reached the jail, a conspicuous33 stone building in the centre of the town, and were shown into the condemned34 man's cell. The jailer announced them with the statement:
"Tim, here's two newspaper fellers from the East wants to see you."
The prisoner was lying on a pallet in the corner of his cell, and he raised himself on his elbow when Harley and Hobart entered.
"You are writers for the papers?" he said.
"Yes, clean from New York; they are with Jimmy Grayson," the jailer answered for them.
"I don't know as I've got anythin' to say to you," continued the prisoner. "I 'ain't got no picture to give you, an' if I had one I wouldn't give it. I don't want my hangin' to be all wrote up in the papers, with pictures an' things, too, jest to please the people in the East. If I've got to die, I'd rather do it quiet and peaceful, among the boys I know. I ain't no free circus."
"We did not come to write you up; it was for another purpose," Harley hastened to say.
He was surprised at the youth of the prisoner, who obviously was not over twenty-one, a mere boy, with good features and a look half defiant26, half appealing.
"Well, what did you come for, then?" asked the boy.
Harley was unable to answer this question, and he looked at Hobart as if to indicate the one who would reply. The "mystery" man did not seek to evade35 his responsibility in the least, and promptly36 said:
"Mr. Boyd, I think you will acquit37 us of any intention to intrude38 upon you. It was the best of motives39 that brought us to you. I have always had an interest in cases of this sort, and when I heard of yours in the train, coming here, I received an impression then which has been strengthened on my arrival in Grayville. I believe you are innocent."
"I am!" he cried. "God knows I didn't kill Bill Wofford. He wuz my partner and we wuz like brothers. We did quarrel that mornin'--I don't deny it--and we both had been liquorin'; but I'd never hev struck him a blow of any kind, least of all a foul41 one."
"Was it not true that you were found with the bloody42 knife in your hand, standing43 over his yet warm body?" asked Hobart.
"It's so, but it was somebody else that used the knife. Bill went on ahead, and when I come into the place I saw him on the floor an' the knife in 'im. I was struck all a-heap, but I did what anybody else would 'a' done--I pulled the knife out. And then the fellers come in on me. I was rushed into a trial right away. Of course, I couldn't tell a straight tale; the horror of it was still in my brain, and the effect o' the liquor, too. I got all mixed up--but before God, gen'lemen, I didn't do it."
His tone was strong with sincerity44, and his expression was rather that of grief than remorse45. Harley, who had had a long experience with all kinds of men in all kinds of situations, did not believe that he was either bad or guilty. Hobart spoke46 his thoughts aloud.
"I don't think you did it," he said.
"Everybody believes I did," said Boyd, with pathetic resignation, "and I am to be hanged for it. So what does it matter now?"
"I am going to look for the guilty man," said Hobart, decidedly.
Boyd shook his head and lay back on his pallet. The others, with a few words of hope, withdrew, and, when they were outside, Harley said:
"Hobart, were you not wrong to sow the seed of hope in that man's mind when there is no hope?"
"There is hope," replied Hobart; "I have a plan. Don't ask me anything about it--it's vague yet--but I may work it."
Harley glanced at him, and, seeing that he was intense and eager, with his mind concentrated upon this single problem, resolved to leave him to his own course; so he spent part of the day, a wonderful autumn Sunday, in a rocking-chair on the piazza47 of the hotel, and another part walking with Sylvia. He told her of the murder case and Hobart's action, and her prompt sympathy was aroused.
"Suppose he should really be innocent?" she said. "It would be an awful thing to hang an innocent man."
"So it would. He certainly does not look like a bad fellow, but you know that those who are not bad are sometimes guilty. In any event I fail to see what Hobart can do."
After the walk, which was all too brief, he returned to his rocking-chair on the piazza, but Grayville, being a small place, he knew everything that was going on within it, by means of a sort of mental telepathy that the born correspondent acquires. He knew, for instance, that Hobart was all the time with one or the other of the three witnesses--Metzger, Thorpe, or Williams--for the moment the most important persons in Grayville by reason of their conspicuous connection with the great case.
When Hobart returned, the edge of the sun was behind the highest mountains; but he took no notice of Harley, walking past him without a word and burying himself somewhere in the interior of the hotel. Harley learned subsequently that he went directly to Jimmy Grayson's room, and remained there at least half an hour, in close conference with the candidate himself.
The next day was a break in the great campaign. Owing to train connections, which are not trifles in the Far West, it was necessary, in order to complete the schedule, to spend an idle day at some place, and Grayville had been selected as the most comfortable and therefore the most suitable. And so the luxurious48 rest of the group was continued for twenty-four hours for all--save Hobart.
Harley had never before seen the "mystery" man so eager and so full of suppressed excitement. He frequently passed his comrades, but he rarely spoke to them, or even noticed them; his mind was concentrated now upon a great affair in which they would be of no avail. Harley learned, however, that he was still much in the company of the three witnesses, although he asked him no questions. Late in the afternoon he saw him alone and walking rapidly towards the hotel. It seemed to Harley that Hobart's head was borne somewhat high and in a manner exultantly49, as if he were overcoming obstacles, and he was about to ask him again in regard to his progress, but Hobart once more sped by without a word and went into the hotel. Harley learned later that he held a secret conference with Jimmy Grayson.
In the evening everybody went to the opera-house to hear the candidate, but on the way Hobart said, casually50, to Harley: "Old man, I don't think I'll sit in front to-night. I wish you would let me have your notes afterwards." "Of course," replied Harley, as he passed down the aisle51 and found his chair at the correspondents' table on the stage.
There Harley watched the fine Western audience come into the theatre and find seats, with some noise but no disorder52, a noise merely of men calling each other by name, and commenting in advance on what Jimmy Grayson would say. The other correspondents entered one by one--all except Hobart, and took their seats on the stage. Sylvia and Mrs. Grayson were with some ladies in a box. Harley looked for Hobart, and two or three times he saw him near the main entrance of the building. Once he was talking with a brown and longish-haired youth, and Harley, by casual inquiry53, learned that it was Metzger, the cowboy. A man not greatly different in appearance, to whom Hobart spoke occasionally, was Thorpe, the tramp miner, and yet another, a tall fellow with a bulging54 underlip, Harley learned, was Williams, the third witness.
Evidently the witnesses would attend Jimmy Grayson's meeting, which was natural, however, as every body in Grayville was sure to come, and Harley also surmised55 that Hobart had taken upon himself the task of instructing them as to the methods, the manner, and the greatness of the candidate. He had done such a thing himself, upon occasion, the Western interest in Jimmy Grayson being so great that often appeals were made to the correspondents for information about him more detailed56 than the newspapers gave.
Harley studied the faces of the three witnesses as attentively57 as the distance and the light would admit, but they remained near the door, evidently intending to stand there, back to the wall, a plan sometimes adopted by those who may wish to slip out quietly before a speech is finished. Harley, the trained observer, saw that Hobart, without their knowledge, was shepherding them as the shepherd gently makes his sheep converge58 upon a common spot.
The correspondent could draw no inference from the faces of the three men, which were all of usual Western types, without anything special to distinguish them, and his attention turned to the audience. He had received an intimation that Jimmy Grayson intended to deliver that evening a speech of unusual edge and weight. He would indict59 the other party in the most direct and forcible manner, pointing out that its sins were moral as well as political, but that a day of reckoning would come, when those who profited by such evil courses must pay the forfeit60; it was a part of the law of nature, which was also the law of retribution.
The candidate was a little late, and the opera-house was filled to the last seat, with many people standing in the aisles61 and about the doors. Harley, glancing again at the rows and rows of faces, saw the three witnesses almost together, and just to the right of the main entrance, where they leaned against the wall, facing the stage. Hobart fluttered about them, holding them in occasional talk, and Harley was just about to look again, and with increasing attention, but at that instant the great audience, with a common impulse and a kind of rushing sound, like the slide of an avalanche62, rose to its feet. The candidate, coming from the wings, had just appeared upon the stage, and the welcome was spontaneous and overwhelming. Jimmy Grayson was always a serious man, but Harley noticed that evening, when he first appeared before the footlights, that his face looked tense and eager, as if he felt that a great task which he must assume lay just before him.
He wasted no time, but went at once to the heart of his subject, the crime of a great party, the wicked ways by which it had attained63 its wicked ends, and from the opening sentence he had his big audience with him, heart and soul.
The indictment64 was terrible: in a masterly way he summed up the charges and the proof, as a general marshals his forces for battle, and the crowd, so clear were his words and so strong his statements, could see them all marching in unison65, like the battalions66 and brigades, towards the common point, the exposed centre of the enemy. The faces of Sylvia and Mrs. Grayson, in the box, glowed with pride.
Again and again, at the pauses between sentences, the cheers of the audience rose and echoed, and then Harley would glance once more towards the door; there, always, he saw Hobart with the three witnesses, gathered under his wing, as it were, all looking raptly and intently at Jimmy Grayson.
The candidate, by-and-by, seemed to concentrate his attention upon the four men at the door, and spoke directly to them. Harley saw one of the group move as if about to leave, but the hand of Hobart fell upon his arm and he stayed. Harley, too, was conscious presently of an unusual effect having the quality of weirdness67. The lights seemed to go down in the whole opera-house, except near the door. Jimmy Grayson and the correspondents were in a semi-darkness, but Hobart and his three new friends beside the door stood in a light that was almost dazzling through contrast. The three witnesses now seemed to be fixed69 in that spot, and their eyes never wandered from Jimmy Grayson's face.
Familiar as he was with the candidate's oratorical70 powers, Harley was surprised at his strength of invective71 that evening. He had proved the guilt, the overwhelming guilt, of the opposition72 party, and he was describing the punishment, a punishment sure to come, although many might deem it impossible:
"But there would be a day of judgment73; justice might sleep for a while, but she must awake at last, and, the longer vengeance74 was delayed, the more terrible it became. Then woe75 to the guilty."
The audience was deeply impressed by the eloquence76 of Jimmy Grayson, coinciding so well with their own views. Harley saw a look of awe77 appear upon the faces of many--Sylvia's face was pale--and the house, save for the voice of Jimmy Grayson, was as still as death. Harley felt the effect himself, and the weird68, unreal quality that he observed before increased. Once, when he went over to make some notes, he noticed that the words written a half-hour before were scarcely visible, but, when he glanced at the opposite end of the theatre, there stood Hobart and the three witnesses, gathered about him, in the very heart of a dazzling light that showed every changing look on the faces of the four. Harley's gaze lingered upon them, and again he tried to find something peculiar, something distinctive78 in at least one of the three witnesses, but, as before, he failed; they were to him just ordinary Westerners following with rapt attention every word and gesture of Jimmy Grayson.
The candidate went on with his story of the consequences; the crime had been committed; the profits had been reaped and enjoyed, but slumbering79 justice, awake at last, was at hand; it was time for the wicked to tremble, the price must be repaid, doubly, trebly, fivefold. Now he personified the guilty party, the opposition, which he treated as an individual; he compared it to a man who had committed a deed of horror, but who long had hidden his crime from the world; others might be suspected of it, others might be punished for it, but he could never forget that he himself was guilty; though he walked before the world innocent, the sense of it would always be there, it would not leave him night or day; every moment, even, before the full exposure it would be inflicting80 its punishment upon him; it would be useless to seek escape or to think of it, because the longer the guilty victim struggled the more crushing his punishment would be. The correspondents forgot to write, and, like the audience, hung upon every word and gesture of Jimmy Grayson, as he made his great denunciatory speech; they felt that he was stirred by something unusual, that some great and extraordinary motive was impelling81 him, and they followed eagerly where he led them.
Harley saw the look of awe on the faces of the audience grow and deepen. With their overwhelming admiration82 of Jimmy Grayson, they seemed to have conceived, too, a sudden fear of him. His long, accusing finger was shaken in their faces, he was not alone denouncing a guilty man, but he was seeking out their own hidden sins, and presently he would point at them his revealing finger.
Hobart stood with the three witnesses beside the door, still in the dazzling light. Harley was sure that not one of the four had moved in the last half-hour, and Jimmy Grayson still held them all with his gaze. Harley suddenly saw something like a flash of light, a signal glance, as it were, pass between him and Hobart, and the next instant the voice of the candidate swelled83 into greater and more accusing volume.
"Now you behold84 the guilty man!" said Jimmy Grayson. "I have shown him to you. He seems to the world full of pride and power, but he knows that justice is pursuing him, and that it will overtake him; he trembles, he cowers85, he flees, but the avenging86 footsteps are behind him, and the sound of them rings in his frightened ears like a death-knell to his soul. A wall rises across his way. He can flee no farther; he turns back from the wall, raises his terror-stricken eyes, and there before him the hand of fate is raised; its finger points at him, and a terrible voice proclaims, 'Thou art the guilty man!"
The form of Jimmy Grayson swelled and towered, his hand was raised, the long forefinger87 pointed88 directly at the four who stood in the dazzling light, and the hall resounded89 with the tremendous echoes of his cry, "Thou art the guilty man!"
As if lifted by a common impulse, the great audience rose with an indescribable sound and faced about, following Jimmy Grayson's long, accusing finger.
The man Williams threw his arm before his face, as if to protect himself, and, with a terrible cry, "Yes, I did it!" fell in a faint on the floor.
They were all on the train the next day, and Harley was reading from a copy of the Grayville _Argus_ an account of Boyd's release and the ovation90 that the people had given him.
"How did you trace the crime to Williams, Hobart?" asked Harley.
"I didn't trace it; it was Jimmy Grayson who brought it out by giving him 'the third degree,'" replied Hobart, though there was a quiet tone of satisfied pride in his voice. "You know that in New York, when they expose a man at Police Headquarters to some such supreme91 test, they call it giving him 'the third degree,' and that's what we did here. It seems that Williams was in the saloon when Boyd and his partner quarrelled, and he knew they had a lot of gold from the claim in their cabin. His object was robbery. When he saw Wofford go on ahead, he followed him quickly to the cabin, and killed him with the knife which lay on a table. He expected to have time to get the gold before Boyd came, but Boyd arrived so soon that he was barely able to slip out. Then Williams, cunning and bold enough, came back as if he were a chance passer-by, and had been called by Metzger and Thorpe. The other two were as innocent as you or I.
"I could not make up my mind which of the three was guilty, and I induced Jimmy Grayson to help me. It was right in line with his speech--no harm done even if the test had failed--and then the man who managed the lights at the opera-house, a friend of Boyd's, helped me with the stage effects. Jimmy Grayson, of course, knew nothing about that. I borrowed the idea. I have read somewhere that Aaron Burr by just such a device once convicted a guilty man who was present in court as a witness when another was being tried for the crime."
"Well, you have saved his life to an innocent man," said Harley.
"And I have cost a guilty one his." And then, after a moment's pause, Hobart added, with a little shiver:
"But I wouldn't go through such an ordeal92 again at any price. When Jimmy Grayson thundered out, 'Thou art the guilty man,' it was all I could do to keep from crying, 'Yes, I am, I am!'"
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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vouches
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| v.保证( vouch的第三人称单数 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mere
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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perfectly
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killing
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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confession
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irrigated
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veranda
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majesty
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persistent
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pounced
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chuckled
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outright
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instinctive
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shanty
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defiantly
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defiant
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shack
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specialty
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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converge
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| vi.会合；聚集，集中；(思想、观点等)趋近 | |
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indict
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| v.起诉，控告，指控 | |
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forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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weirdness
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| n.古怪，离奇，不可思议 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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oratorical
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| adj.演说的，雄辩的 | |
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invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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cowers
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的第三人称单数 ) | |
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avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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