The special train now entered one of the most mountainous portions of Utah, and, as the strenuous1 nature of the campaign continued, its exigencies2 permitted little time for other things. Personal feelings, fears, and hopes had to be buried, or at least hidden for the time, and Harley, like all the rest, was absorbed in work. Nevertheless, his feeling of confidence, even exhilaration, remained. He believed that he would yet discover a way.
He found this part of the campaign pleasant, physically3 as well as mentally. The alternation of huge mountain and fertile valley was grateful to the eye, and, however severe the day's journey might be, they knew there would be good rest at the end.
It had been nearly a week since the episode of the dead city, when Hobart bustled4 back to Harley and said:
"Harley, we shall have the noble red man to hear us to-night. We stop just at the edge of the Indian reservation, and a lot of the braves, with their squaws, too, I suppose, will attend. Of course they will be duly impressed by Jimmy Grayson's oratory5."
Sylvia Morgan was present when this news was announced, and Hobart suddenly stopped short and glanced at her. She had turned pale, and then, remembering that old tragedy in her life when she was a little child, he ascribed her pallor to her horror at the mention of Indians. But Hobart did not know that they were approaching the scene of the memorable6 massacre7.
The train now curved southward and entered a fertile valley lying like a bowl among the high mountains. They saw here fields that had been golden with wheat, ripe fruit yet hung from the trees, and the touch of green was still visible, although autumn had come. By the railway track a clear mountain stream flowed, sparkling in the thin, pure air, and there was more than one full-grown man in the candidate's party who, with memories of his youth before him, longed to pull off shoes and socks and wade8 in it with bare feet.
The sight was most refreshing9 after so much mountain and arid10 expanse, and the tired travellers brightened up visibly.
"One of the states has the motto, 'Here we rest'--I've forgotten which it is--but it ought to be Utah," said Hobart, "and now's the time."
He was not disappointed. They came before noon to Belleville, the metropolis12 of the valley, the place where the candidate was going to speak, one of the prettiest little towns that ever built its nest in the Rocky Mountains. They were all enthusiastic over it, with its trim houses, its well-paved streets, the clear water flowing beside the curbs13, and its air of completion. The people, too, had all the Western courage and energy, without its roughness and undue14 expression, and so the candidate and his party luxuriated.
"You wouldn't think that this gem15 of a town was harried16 more by Indians in its infancy17 than perhaps any other place in the West, would you?" said Hobart to Harley.
"Hobart, what a nuisance you are!" replied Harley; "you are always prowling around in search of useless facts. Now, I don't want to hear anything about bloodshed and massacre, when Belleville is the picture of neatness and comfort that it is to-day. Look at that little opera-house over there! You couldn't find anything handsomer in a city of fifty thousand in the East."
"Harley," said Hobart, with emphasis, "I wouldn't have your lack of curiosity for anything in the world," and he wandered away in disgust to pour his ancient history into the ears of a more willing listener.
At twilight18 they ate an admirable dinner, and then Harley, Hobart, who had returned from his explorations, Blaisdell, and two or three others, after their custom, filled in the interval19 between supper and the speeches with a stroll through the village, Mr. Plummer going along as a sort of mentor20. The keeper of the hotel informed them that many of the Indians already were in town and were "tanking up." Harley found this to be true, and the red men failed to arouse in him either respect or admiration22. If they had ever had any nobility of the wilderness23, it was gone now, and they seemed to him a sodden24, depressed25, and repellent race. A half-dozen or so, in various stages of drunkenness, through whiskey surreptitiously obtained, increased the feeling of aversion.
In the dusk they stumbled over a figure lying squarely across the path, and Harley drew back with a word of disgust. An old Indian, dilapidated and in the last stages of intoxication26, was stretched out on his face. A local resident named Walker, who had joined them, laughed.
"That," said he, "is a chief, a great man, or at least he was once. It's old Flying Cloud--poetical27 name, though he don't look poetical now by a long shot. Here, get out of this; you're blocking up the road!"
With true Western directness he administered a kick to the prostrate28 form, but the old chief, buried in a sodden dream, only stirred and muttered; then the resident opened up a battery of kicks, and presently the Indian rose to his feet and slunk off, muttering, in the darkness.
"They're no good at all," said Walker. "Only a lot of sots, whenever they get the chance."
But Harley was thinking of the contrast between what he had just seen and what he had imagined might be the freedom and nobility of the wilderness.
It was a beautiful autumn night, and the candidate spoke29 in the open, in the village square, with the mountains that circled about him as his background. Sylvia Morgan was not among the listeners. Usually she enjoyed these speeches in the evening, with the crowds, the enthusiasm, and the encircling darkness. But to-night she would not come, nor would she tell the reason to Harley or any of his friends. She merely said that she wished to stay in her room at the hotel.
The audience was quiet and attentive30, and Harley noticed here and there on the outskirts31 the dark faces of the Indians. They interested him so much that he left the platform presently to watch them. He was wondering if they had any conception at all of Jimmy Grayson's words or of a Presidential campaign. Nor did he gain any knowledge by his examination. They listened gravely, and their faces were without expression.
The nearest of them all to the stand Harley recognized as the old chief, Flying Cloud, whom Walker had kicked off the sidewalk. He seemed to have recovered physical command of himself, and stood erect32. There was a red feather in his felt hat, and a shawl in brilliant stripes was drawn33 across his shoulders.
The candidate spoke in a specially34 happy vein35 that night, and the background of the mountains added impressiveness to his words. To Harley, again the analyst36, and seeking to put himself in the Indian's place, there was a rhythm and power in what Jimmy Grayson said, although he, as an Indian, might not understand a word. He could interpret it as a chant of battle or victory, and such, he had no doubt, was the view of Flying Cloud.
The chief, so Harley judged, was still half under the influence of drink, but he was paying close attention to the speaker, and the correspondent at last saw in his eyes what he took to be the stir of some emotion. It was a light, as of memories of his own triumphs, and the chief's figure began to sway gently to the music of Jimmy Grayson's voice. They had built a bonfire near the speaker's stand, and by its flare37 Harley clearly saw old Flying Cloud smile.
Hobart came up at that moment, and, Harley pointed11 out to him the transformation38 in the old chief's appearance. Hobart's opinion agreed with Harley's.
"It's a battle-song that Flying Cloud is hearing," he said. "It's Jimmy Grayson that's stirring him up, though maybe the old fellow doesn't understand it that way."
The speeches ended after a while, and the people began to leave. Presently only a few were left in the square, and among them was Harley, who felt no touch of sleepiness. He looked at the quiet town, then up at the ridges39 and peaks, crested41 with snow and silhouetted42 against the moonlit sky, and thought again of that little girl, alone with her dead and in the night among the vast mountains.
The next moment he believed that it was a telepathic feeling, because at his elbow was Sylvia Morgan herself, a red-striped shawl over her head to protect her from the cold, and "King" Plummer, who had evidently brought her from the hotel, not far away.
"Are they all gone?" she asked.
"No," replied Harley; "the Indians and a few more are left."
Harley, in the moonlight, clearly saw her shiver.
"I was restless, and I could not sleep," she said. "I came out for the sake of the air. But I'll go back."
"No," said Harley, "don't go. Stay with us, please. Now what can that mean?"
A wild, barbaric chant arose near the bonfire behind them.
"Come!" exclaimed Harley, keen to see and hear. "I think it's old Flying Cloud, and he's ready to turn himself loose. We can't miss this!"
Sylvia was about to turn away, but as "King" Plummer came up on the other side of her, and seemed to have a curiosity like Harley's, she yielded at last, though with reluctance43, and the three walked towards the fire.
Harley's surmise44 was correct, as old Flying Cloud, jumping back and forth45, was singing some kind of war-song. There was a group about him, and in it was Hobart, who Harley guessed had been a moving spirit in this scene. Jimmy Grayson's fire and eloquence46 had done the rest.
The flames burned down a little, but they cast a weird47 light on the old chief's face, bringing out like brown carving48 the high cheek-bones, the great, hooked nose, and the seamed cheeks. The thin lips fell away from long, yellow teeth, and heightened the effect of cruelty which his whole expression gave.
Hobart came over to them, and said: "See how the old fellow is changing! We've got him to sing one of his ancient war-songs, and I guess he thinks he's beating Jimmy Grayson now!"
Sylvia Morgan shuddered49, but she said nothing. She seemed to be held by the fascination50 of the serpent.
The chief continued to make his queer little jumps back and forth, and went on with his chant. As he had begun in English for his auditors51, so he continued, although he was now oblivious52 of their presence. Harley, watching him, knew it, and he knew, too, that the chief's mind was far back in the past. His was not the song of the broken derelict, but of the barbarous and triumphant53 warrior54, and as he sang he gathered fire and strength.
The circle of white faces grew around the old chief. Every loiterer was there, and others came back. Not one spoke. All were fascinated by the singular and weird scene. The moon, low down on the mountain's crest40, still shed a pallid55, grayish light that mingled56 with the fitful red glare from the glowing coals, the two together casting an unearthly tinge57. But Harley's eyes never left the chief, as he saw his figure continue to expand and grow with ancient memories of prowess, and the eyes of Sylvia beside him, as she too listened, expressed many and strong emotions.
Flying Cloud told of hunting triumphs, of the slaughter58 of the buffalo59, of fierce encounters with the mountain-lion, of hand-to-hand combat with the grizzly60 bear, and then he glided61 into war. Now his voice rose, full and prolonged, without any of the tremor62 or shrillness63 of age, and his eccentric dancing grew more violent. His emotions, too, were shown on his face in all their savagery64 as he told of the foray and the fight.
At first it was Indian against Indian, and never was any mercy shown--always woe66 to the conquered; then it was the whites. An emigrant67 train was coming over the mountains--men, women, and children. There was danger in their path; a Ute war-band was abroad, but the fools knew it not. They travelled on, and at night the children played and laughed by the camp-fire, but the shadow of the Utes was always there. Flying Cloud led the war-band, but held them back until the time should come. He was waiting for a place that he knew. At last they reached it, a deep canon with bushes on either side, and the train entered the defile68.
Harley suddenly felt a hand upon his arm. It was the fingers of Sylvia grasping him, but unconscious of the act. He looked up and saw her face as white as death, and a yard away the eyes of "King" Plummer were burning like two coals.
Flying Cloud's figure swayed, and his voice trembled with a curious joy at the old memories. He was approaching the great moment of triumph. He told how the warriors69 lay among the bushes, watching the foolish train come on, how they looked at each other and rejoiced in advance over an easy victory. Some would have fired too soon, but Flying Cloud would not let them. His was the cunning mind, as well as the bold heart, and he omitted nothing. The trap was perfect. The fools never suspected. They stopped to make a camp, and still they did not know that a ring of death was about them. They built their fires, and again the children laughed and played by the coals. It was the last time.
The old chief was now wholly the wilderness slayer70, the Indian of an earlier time. His glittering eyes at times swept the circle of white faces about him, but he did not see them, only that old massacre.
The narrative71 went on. Flying Cloud told each of his warriors to select a victim, and fire true when he gave the word. He chose for himself a large man who stood by one of the wagons73, a man who had with him a woman and a little boy and a little girl, and the little girl had long curls.
A groan74 burst from Plummer, and Harley saw his great figure gather as if for a spring. But Harley, quick as lightning, seized the man in a powerful grasp, and cried in his ear: "Not now, Mr. Plummer, not now, for God's sake! Wait until the end!"
Harley felt the "King" quiver in his hands, and then cease to struggle. Sylvia stood by, still as white as death and absolutely motionless. The others, held by the old chief's song, did not see nor hear.
Flying Cloud's eyes were glittering with cruel triumph as he continued his chant. The rifles were raised, the white fools yet suspected nothing, but laughed and jested with each other as if there would be a to-morrow.
Then he gave the word, and all the rifles were fired at once. The canon was filled with smoke and the whistling of bullets. Most of the men in the train were killed at once, and then the warriors sprang among those who were left. Flying Cloud had shot the tall man by the wagon72, and then he sought the woman and the two children. He slew75 the woman and the little boy, and he scalped them both. Then he sprang at the girl, but the child of the Evil Spirit slipped among the bushes, and he could not find her.
The old chief stopped a moment, and once more his glittering eyes swept the circle of white faces, but saw them not. Then that fierce cry burst again from Plummer. Suddenly he threw off Harley as if he had been a child, and sprang through the ring of white faces into the circle of the firelight. The tall, pale girl, still not saying a word, stood by, like an avenging76 goddess.
"Murderer!" cried the "King." "It is not too late to punish you!"
He seized the old chief by the throat, but the white men threw themselves upon him and tore him off.
Flying Cloud reeled back, gazed a moment at Plummer, and then drew a knife.
"It was when there was war between us, and I will not swing at the end of the white man's rope," he said.
So speaking, he plunged77 the blade into his own heart and fell dead, almost at the feet of the woman whose kin21 he had slain78.
"Whatever the red scoundrel was," said Hobart, later, "I shall always use the old text for him, and say that nothing in this life became him like the leaving of it."
But there were no such feelings in the heart of Sylvia Morgan. When "King" Plummer sprang upon Flying Cloud, Harley turned involuntarily to Sylvia, and he saw the pallor replaced by a sudden flush; then, when the chief slew himself with his own knife, the flush passed, and whiter than ever she sank down gently. But Harley caught her in his arms before she fell, and in a moment or two she revived. It seemed to be her first thought that she was held by him, and she struggled a little.
"Let me go," she said; "I can stand. I assure you I can. It was just a passing weakness."
But Harley wished to make certain that it was not more than that before he released her, and the friendly darkness and the interest of the crowd centred on Flying Cloud aided him. A minute later Mrs. Grayson and the wife of a local political leader, Mrs. Meadows, took her from him and carried her to the hotel. Mrs. Grayson, who had heard the chief's chant, understood the story, but Mrs. Meadows, who knew nothing of Sylvia's relation to it, but who guessed something from the talk of the others, was devoured79 by curiosity. However, she prevailed over it, for the time, and was silent as she went with Sylvia back to the hotel, although she made a vow80 which she kept--that she would find out the full truth in the morning.
Harley lingered a little by the firelight and joined Hobart and the crowd. The tragedy had cut deep into his thoughts--and he did not care to talk, but the others had plenty to say.
"What a singular coincidence," said Tremaine, stroking his fine, white, pointed mustache, of which he was very proud. "I call it very remarkable81 that this savage65 should have told the story of that old tragedy the very night when the only survivor82 of it was present."
"I do not call it remarkable at all," said Hobart. "It is not even a coincidence in the usual meaning of the word. It came about naturally, each chapter in the story being the logical sequence of the chapter that preceded it."
"It may all be very clear to a man like you, one who makes a study of crime and mysteries," said Tremaine, ironically, as he gave his mustache an impatient tug83, "but it is far from being so to me. I still call it a coincidence."
"That is because you haven't taken time to think about it, Tremaine. Your mind is entirely84 too good to accept such a theory as coincidence. In the first place, Mr. Grayson is making a thorough tour of the West, all the more thorough because these are supposed to be doubtful states. Now what more natural than his coming to Belleville, which is one of the most important towns in northern Utah, and, having come, what more probable than the presence of the Indians at his speech, because such attractions are rare in Belleville, and the Indian would come to see what it is that stirs up so much his white friend and brother. Of course, the Indian in his degenerate85 days, would take the chance to get drunk, and, being in a whiskey stupor86, he naturally supposed that Mr. Grayson was chanting a chant of victory, and quite as naturally he chanted in return his own chant, and also quite as naturally this chant was about the deed that he considered the greatest of his life. So, there you are; the chain is complete, the result is natural; any other result would have been unnatural87."
Tremaine laughed.
"You have worked it out pretty well, Hobart," he said, "but I have my own opinion."
"You are entitled to it," rejoined Hobart, briskly, "but be sure you keep it to yourself, and then you won't suffer from the criticisms of the intelligent."
Tremaine laughed good-naturedly, and then avowed88 his concern about that beautiful girl, Miss Morgan, who suddenly and under such peculiar89 circumstances had been brought face to face with the slayer of her people; he had perceived from the first her noble qualities, and he felt for her the deepest sympathy. Tremaine, while a great lover of the ladies, had in reality less perception than any of the others in affairs of the heart. He was, perhaps, the only one in the group who did not know what was going on, and for that reason he talked at length of Sylvia, no one being able to stop him. He thought it a pity that Sylvia should be wasted on "King" Plummer, who was a good man, a fine old Roman soul, but then he had his doubts about Sylvia's love for him--that is, as a husband. Mr. Plummer was too old for her. Tremaine, by a curious inconsistency, never looked upon himself as old, and thought it perfectly90 natural that he should carry on a mild flirtation91 with any girl, provided she be handsome, although young enough to be his daughter.
Harley was uneasy, and would have left them had not the act called attention to himself too pointedly92, and he was forced to listen to Tremaine's rambling93 comment, knowing that all the others had him in their thoughts as they heard. Fortunately, Tremaine did not require any comment from others, preferring an unbroken stream of his own talk, and Harley was able to regain94 his hotel in silence.
They were confronted the next morning by an announcement that sent sorrow through the whole group. Mrs. Grayson felt that the events of the night before were too much for a young girl, and unless she were removed for a time to quieter scenes and a less arduous95 life they would leave lasting96 effects. Moreover, the campaign was about to enter upon a phase in which women would prove burdensome, hence she and Sylvia were going to Salt Lake City for a stay of two weeks, and then they would rejoin the party at some point in the Northwest.
It was with no counterfeit97 grief that they heard this news. The ladies had added brightness and variety to a most toilsome campaign, and their daily travel would seem very black indeed without them. Even Churchill was loud in his regrets, because Churchill had some of the instincts of a gentleman, and he never failed in what was due to Mrs. Grayson and Sylvia. But he could not keep from making one nasty little stab at Harley.
"Harley," he said, "do you know that they are going to have a very stalwart escort to Salt Lake?"
"I do not," replied Harley, in some surprise. "I think they are quite able to take care of themselves."
"Perhaps they are, but 'King' Plummer is going with them, nevertheless. At his age it is well for a man to keep watch over a young girl whom he expects to marry, or some husky youth may carry her off."
Harley was surprised at the strength of his desire to strike Churchill in the face, and he was also surprised at the fact that he resisted it. He accounted for it by his theory that Churchill could not help being mean at times, and, therefore, was not wholly responsible. So he contented98 himself with saying:
"Churchill, you are a fool now and then, but you never know it."
Then he walked carelessly away before Churchill had made up his mind whether to get angry or to return a sarcastic99 reply. Churchill liked to use sarcasm100, as it made him feel superior.
But Harley was much disturbed by Churchill's statement. Sylvia was going away, and her stay of two weeks might lengthen101 into months or become permanent. And Mr. Plummer was going with her. Harley's own absence would put him at a great disadvantage, and for a moment he suspected that this stop at Salt Lake City was an artful movement on the part of the "King," but reflection made him acquit102 Mr. Plummer, first, because the "King" was too honest to do such a thing, and, second, because he was not subtle enough to think of it.
While he was planning what he would do to face this unforeseen development, a boy from the hotel handed him a note. Harley's heart jumped when he saw that it was in the handwriting of Sylvia Morgan, and it fluttered still further when she asked to see him in the hotel parlor103 for a few minutes. He was apprehensive104, too, because if she had anything good to tell him she certainly would not send for him.
Sylvia was sitting in the parlor beside a window that looked out upon a vast range of snow-covered mountains, rising like the serrated teeth of a saw, and, although she heard his footsteps, she did not turn her face until Harley stood beside her. Then she said, irrelevantly105:
"Isn't that a grand view!"
"You did not send for me to tell me that," said Harley, with a certain protecting tenderness in his tone, because what he took to be the sadness in her face appealed to his manly106 qualities.
"No, I did not. I have been thinking over what we said to each other when we were coming back from Crow's Wing, and I have concluded that it was wrong."
"Why was it wrong? I love you, and I had the right to tell you so."
"No, you did not. You would have had were I free, but I am promised to another. I was wrong to let you speak; I was wrong to listen to you."
"I will not admit it," said Harley, doggedly107, "because Mr. Plummer is going to give you up. He will see that he ought not to hold you to this promise."
She smiled sadly.
"I must be loyal to him," she said, "and before starting for Salt Lake City I want to tell you that you must not again speak to me of this."
"But I shall write to you in Salt Lake."
"You must not write of this. If you do, I will not open another one of your letters."
"I promise not to write to you of love, but I make no promise after that. You are not going from Salt Lake to Idaho? This is not an excuse to leave us for good?"
Her eyes wavered before his. It may be that she had intended to abandon the campaign permanently108, but, with his straight and masterful glance demanding an honest answer, she could not say it.
"Yes, I will come back," she said, and then, with a sudden burst of feeling: "Oh, I like your group; I like all of you. This great journey has been something fresh and wonderful to me, and I do not want to leave it!"
"I thought not," said Harley, with returning confidence, "and I am glad that you sent for me here, because it has given me a chance to tell you that, while you mean to keep your promise, I also mean to keep mine. Mr. Plummer will yet yield you up. You are mine, not his, you know you are!"
He bent109 suddenly and kissed her lightly on the forehead, and every nerve in her tingled110 at the first touch of the lips of the man whom she loved. Yet with the sense of right, of loyalty111 to another, strong within her, she was about to protest, but he was gone, and the first kiss still tingled on her forehead. She felt as if he had put there an invisible seal, and that now in very truth she belonged to him.
The two ladies under the escort of Mr. Plummer left an hour later for Salt Lake City, and everybody was at the station to see them go. Mrs. Grayson was quiet as usual, and Sylvia was noticeably subdued112, a fact which most of them ascribed to the tragedy of Flying Cloud and her coming absence of two weeks from a most interesting campaign.
"You ought to cheer up, Miss Sylvia," said Hobart, "because you are not half as unlucky as we are. You can spare us much more easily than we can spare you."
"I am really sorry that I must go," she said, sincerely.
"But you will come back to us?"
"I have promised to do so."
"That is enough; we know that you will keep a promise, Miss Sylvia."
Sylvia at first would not look at Harley. His kiss still burned upon her brow, and she yet felt that it was his seal, his claim upon her. And her conscience hurt her for it, because there was "King" Plummer, strong, protecting, and overflowing113 with love for her and faith in her. But as she was telling them all good-bye she was forced to say it to Harley, too, in his turn, and when he took her hand he pressed it ever so little, and said, for her ear only:
"I am still hoping. I refuse to give you up."
She retreated quickly into the Salt Lake car to hide her blush.
When they saw the last smoke of the train melting into the blue sky, Harley and Mr. Heathcote walked back to the hotel together. A strong friendship had grown up between these two, and each valued the other's opinion.
"A fine woman," said Mr. Heathcote, looking towards the silky blue of the sky where the smoke had been.
"Yes, Mrs. Grayson has always impressed me as a woman of great dignity and strength," said Harley, purposely misunderstanding him.
"That is apparent, but I was not speaking of her. I meant Miss Morgan; she seems to me to be of a rare and noble type. The man who gets her, whoever he may be, ought to think himself lucky."
Harley noticed that Mr. Heathcote did not take it for granted that "King" Plummer would get her, but he said nothing in reply.
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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curbs
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的第三人称单数 ) | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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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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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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22
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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26
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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28
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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29
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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30
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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31
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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32
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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33
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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34
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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35
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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36
analyst
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| n.分析家，化验员；心理分析学家 | |
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37
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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38
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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39
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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40
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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41
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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42
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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43
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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44
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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45
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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46
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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47
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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48
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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49
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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50
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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51
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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52
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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54
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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55
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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56
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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57
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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58
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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59
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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60
grizzly
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| adj.略为灰色的，呈灰色的；n.灰色大熊 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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62
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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63
shrillness
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| 尖锐刺耳 | |
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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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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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67
emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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68
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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69
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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70
slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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71
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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72
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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73
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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74
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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75
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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76
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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77
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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78
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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79
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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80
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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81
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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82
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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83
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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84
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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85
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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86
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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87
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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88
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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89
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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90
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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91
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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92
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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93
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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94
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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95
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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96
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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97
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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98
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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99
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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100
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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101
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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102
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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103
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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104
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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105
irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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106
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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107
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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108
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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109
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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110
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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112
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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113
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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