The state of affairs in Ireland was not quite so bad as it might have been. After the disaster on the Blackwater, rebellion had sprung up sporadically1 all over the island; the outlying regions were everywhere in open revolt; but Tyrone had not made the most of his opportunity, had not advanced on Dublin, but had frittered away the months during which he had been left undisturbed by his enemies in idleness and indecision. He was a man who was more proficient2 in the dilatory3 arts of negotiation4 — sly bargaining, prolonged manoeuvring, the judicious5 making and breaking of promises — than in the vigorous activities of war. Of Irish birth and English breeding, half savage6 and half gentleman, half Catholic and half sceptic, a schemer, a lounger, an adventurer, and a visionary, he had come at last, somehow or other, after years of diffused7 cunning, to be the leader of a nation and one of the pivots8 upon which the politics of Europe turned. A quiet life was what he longed for — so he declared; a quiet life, free alike from the intolerance of Protestantism and the barbarism of war; and a quiet life, curiously9 enough, was what in the end he was to be given. But the end was not yet, and in the meantime all was disturbance10 and uncertainty11. It had been impossible for him to assimilate his English Earldom with the chieftainship of the O’Neils. His hesitating attempts to be a loyal vassal12 of the Saxons had yielded to the pressure of local patriotism13; he had intrigued15 and rebelled; he had become the client of Philip of Spain. More than once the English had held him at their mercy, had accepted his submission16, and had reinstated him in his honours and his lands. More than once, after trading on their fluctuating policies of severity and moderation, he had treacherously17 turned against them the power and the influence which their protection had enabled him to acquire. Personal animosities had been added to public feuds18. He had seduced19 the sister of Sir Henry Bagenal, had carried her off and married her, in spite of her brother’s teeth; she had died in misery20; and Sir Henry, advancing with his army to meet the rebel at the Blackwater, had been defeated and killed. After such a catastrophe21, it seemed certain that the only possible issue was an extreme one. This time the English Government would admit no compromise, and Tyrone must be finally crushed. But Tyrone’s own view was very different; he was averse22 from extremity23; he lingered vaguely24 in Ulster; the old system of resistance, bargaining, compromise, submission, and reconciliation25, which had served him so often, might very well prove useful once again.
But one thing was clear: if the English Government desired the speedy destruction of Tyrone, it could have chosen no one more anxious to second its purposes than the new Lord Deputy. For Essex, it was obvious, an Irish victory was vital. Would he achieve one? Francis Bacon was not the only observer at Court to be pessimistic on that subject. A foreboding gloom was in the air. When John Harington was about to follow his patron to Ireland with a command in the Cavalry26, he received from his kinsman27, Robert Markham, who had an office about the Court, a weighty letter of advice and instruction. Harington was bidden to be most careful in his conduct; there would be spies in the Irish army, who would report everything to high-placed ill-wishers at home. “Obey the Lord Deputy in all things,” wrote Markham, “but give not your opinion; it may be heard in England.” The general situation, Markham thought, was menacing. “Observe,” he said, “the man who commandeth, and yet is commanded himself; he goeth not forth28 to serve the Queen’s realm, but to humour his own revenge.” . . . “If the Lord Deputy,” he went on, “performs in the field what he hath promised in the Council, all will be well; but, though the Queen hath granted forgiveness for his late demeanour in her presence, we know not what to think hereof. She hath, in all outward semblance29, placed confidence in the man who so lately sought other treatment at her hands; we do sometime think one way, and sometime another; what betideth the Lord Deputy is known to Him only who knoweth all; but when a man hath so many shewing friends and so many unshewing enemies, who learneth his end below? . . . Sir William Knollys is not well pleased, the Queen is not well pleased, the Lord Deputy may be pleased now, but I sore fear what may happen hereafter.”
To such warnings, no doubt, Harington — a gay spark, who had translated Ariosto into English verse and written a Rabelaisian panegyric30 on water closets — paid no great heed31; but in fact they expressed, with an exactness that was prophetic, the gist32 of the situation. The expedition was a gamble. If Essex won in Ireland, he won in England too; but the dice33 were loaded against him; and if he failed . . . From the very first, the signs were unpropitious. The force of sixteen thousand foot and fifteen hundred horse, which had been collected for the expedition, was, for an Elizabethan army, a well-equipped and efficient one; but that was the beginning and the end of the Lord Deputy’s advantages. His relations with the Home Governments were far from satisfactory. Elizabeth distrusted him — distrusted his capacity and even, perhaps, his intentions; and the Secretary, who now dominated the Council, was his rival, if not his enemy. His wishes were constantly thwarted34, and his decisions overruled. A serious quarrel broke out before he had left England. He had appointed Sir Christopher Blount to be one of his Council, and Lord Southampton his General of the Horse; both appointments were cancelled by Elizabeth. Her objections to Sir Christopher are unknown — possibly she considered his Catholicism a bar to high position in Ireland; but Southampton, who had incurred36 her supreme37 displeasure by carrying on an intrigue14 with Elizabeth Vernon, one of her ladies-in-waiting, and then daring to marry her — Southampton, whom, in her fury, she had put into prison together with his bride — that Essex should have ventured to name this young reprobate38 for a high command seemed to her little short of a deliberate impertinence. There was some fierce correspondence; but she held firm; the two men followed Essex as private friends only; and the Lord Deputy arrived in Dublin — it was April 1599 — in a gloomy mood and a fretted39 temper.
He was immediately faced with a strategical question of crucial importance. Should he at once proceed to Ulster and dispose of Tyrone, or should he first suppress the smouldering disaffection in the other parts of the island? The English Council in Dublin recommended the latter course, and Essex agreed with them. It would be easier, he thought, to deal with the main forces of the rebellion when its subsidiary supports had been demolished40. Possibly he was right; but the decision implied a swift and determined41 execution; to waste too much time and too much energy on minor42 operations would be worse than useless. That was obvious, and the subduing43 of a few recalcitrant44 chiefs with a powerful English army seemed a simple enough affair. Essex marched into Leinster, confident that nothing could resist him — and nothing could. But he was encountered by something more dangerous than resistance — by the soft, insidious45, undermining atmosphere of that paradoxical country which, a quarter of a century earlier, had brought his father to despair and death.
The strange air engulfed46 him. The strange land — charming, savage, mythical48 — lured49 him on with indulgent ease. He moved, triumphant50, through a new peculiar51 universe of the unimagined and the unreal. Who or what were these people, with their mantles52 and their nakedness, their long locks of hair hanging over their faces, their wild battle-cries and gruesome wailings, their kerns and their gallowglas, their jesters and their bards53? Who were their ancestors? Scythians? Or Spaniards? Or Gauls? What state of society was this, where chiefs jostled with gypsies, where ragged54 women lay all day long laughing in the hedgerows, where ragged men gambled away among each other their very rags, their very forelocks, the very . . . parts more precious still, where wizards flew on whirlwinds, and rats were rhymed into dissolution? All was vague, contradictory55, and unaccountable; and the Lord Deputy, advancing further and further into the green wilderness56, began — like so many others before and after him — to catch the surrounding infection, to lose the solid sense of things, and to grow confused over what was fancy and what was fact.
His conquering army was welcomed everywhere by the English settlers. The towns threw open their gates to him, and he was harangued57 in Latin by delighted Mayors. He passed from Leinster into Munster — still victorious58. But time was slipping away. Days and days were spent over the reduction of unimportant castles. Essex had never shown any military genius — only a military taste; and his taste was gratified now, as it had never been before, by successful skirmishes, romantic escapades, noble gestures, and personal glory. The cost was serious. He had lost sight of his main purpose in a tangle59 of insignificant60 incidents. And while he was playing with time his strength was dwindling61. Under the combined influences of casualties, desertions, disease, and the garrisoning62 of distant outposts, his army was melting away. At last, in July, he found himself back in Dublin, having spent nearly three months in dubious63 operations far from the real force of the enemy, and with the numbers of the men under his command diminished by one-half.
Then the mist of illusion melted, and he was faced with the deplorable truth. At this late hour, with his weakened army, was it possible any longer to make sure of crushing Tyrone? In extreme agitation64 he counted up the chances, and knew not which way to turn. Wherever he looked, a gulf47 seemed to open at his feet. If he failed against Tyrone, how fatal! If he did nothing, what a derision! Unable to bring himself to admit that he had muddled65 away his opportunity, he sought relief in random66 rage and wild accusations67, in fits of miserable68 despair, and passionate69 letters to Elizabeth. A detachment of some hundreds of men had shown cowardice70 in the field; he cashiered and imprisoned71 all the officers, he executed a lieutenant72, and he had every tenth man in the rank and file put to death. He fell ill, and death seemed to come near to him too; he would welcome it. He rose from his couch to write a long letter to the Queen, of exposition and expostulation. “But why do I talk of victory or success? Is it not known that from England I receive nothing but discomfort73 and soul’s wounds? Is it not spoken in the army that your Majesty75’s favour is diverted from me, and that already you do bode76 ill both to me and it? . . . Is it not lamented77 of your Majesty’s faithfullest subjects, both there and here, that a Cobham or a Raleigh — I will forbear others for their places’ sakes — should have such credit and favour with your Majesty when they wish the ill-success of your Majesty’s most important action? . . . Let me honestly and zealously78 end a wearisome life. Let others live in deceitful and inconstant pleasures. Let me bear the brunt, and die meritoriously79 . . . Till then, I protest before God and His Angels, I am a true votary80, that is sequestered81 from all things but my duty and my charge . . . This is the hand of him that did live your dearest, and will die your Majesty’s faithfullest servant.”
There was a sudden rising in Connaught which had to be put down; the rebels were defeated by Sir Christopher Blount; but by now July was over, and the Lord Deputy was still in Dublin. Meanwhile, at home, as time flowed by, and no news of any decisive action came from Ireland, men’s minds were divided between doubt and expectation. At Court the tone was cynical82. “Men marvel,” a gossip wrote on August 1, “Essex hath done so little; he tarries yet at Dublin.” The decimation of the soldiers was “not greatly liked,” and when news came that the Lord Deputy had used the powers specially83 given him by the Queen to make no fewer than fifty-nine knights84, there was much laughter and shrugging of shoulders. But elsewhere the feeling was different. The people of London still had high hopes for their favourite — hopes which were voiced by Shakespeare in a play which he produced at this moment at the Globe Theatre. Southampton was the friend and patron of the rising dramatist, who took this opportunity of making a graceful86 public allusion87 to Southampton’s own patron and friend.
“How London doth pour out her citizens!”
So spoke74 the Chorus in “Henry V,” describing the victorious return of the King from France —
“As, by a lower but by loving likelihood,
Were now the general of our gracious Empress,
As in good time he may, from Ireland coming,
Bringing rebellion broached88 on his sword,
How many would the peaceful city quit
To welcome him!”
The passage was no doubt applauded, and yet it is possible to perceive even here, through the swelling89 optimism of the lines, a trace or two of uneasiness.
Elizabeth, waiting anxiously for a despatch90 announcing Tyrone’s defeat, and receiving instead nothing but letter after letter of angry complaints and despairing ejaculations, began to grow impatient. She did not restrain her comments to those about her. She liked nothing, she said, that was done in Ireland. “I give the Lord Deputy a thousand pounds a day to go on progress.” She wrote to him complaining bitterly of the delay, and ordering him to march forthwith into Ulster. The reply came that the army was fatally depleted91 — that only 4000 men were left of the 16,000 that had gone from England. She sent a reinforcement of 2000; but the expense cut her to the quick. What was the meaning of this waste and this procrastination92? Sinister93 thoughts came floating back into her head. Why, for instance, had he made so many knights? She wrote, peremptorily94 ordering Essex to attack Tyrone, and not to leave Ireland till he had done so. “After you shall have certified95 us to what form you have reduced things in the North . . . you shall with all speed receive our warrant, without which we do charge you, as you tender our pleasure, that you adventure not to come out of that kingdom by virtue96 of any former license97 whatever.”
Her agitation deepened. One day at Nonesuch she met Francis Bacon, and drew him aside. She knew him as a clever man, a friend of Essex, and possibly she could extract something from him which would throw a light on the situation. What was his opinion, she asked, of the state of affairs in Ireland, and — she flashed a searching glance on him — the proceedings98 of the Lord Deputy? It was an exciting moment for Bacon. The honour was great and unexpected — he felt himself swept upward. With no official standing99 whatever, he was being consulted in this highly confidential100 way. What was he to answer? He knew all the gossip, and had reason to believe that, in the Queen’s opinion, Essex was acting101 in a manner that was not only unfortunate and without judgment102, but “contemptuous and not without some private end of his own.” With this knowledge, he made a reply that was remarkable103. “Madam,” he said, “if you had my Lord of Essex here with a white staff in his hand, as my Lord of Leicester had, and continued him still about you for society to yourself, and for an honour and ornament104 to your attendance and Court in the eyes of your people, and in the eyes of foreign ambassadors, then were he in his right element. For to discontent him as you do, and yet to put arms and power into his hands, may be a kind of temptation to make him prove cumbersome105 and unruly. And therefore if you would send for him, and satisfy him with honour here near you, if your affairs — which I am not acquainted with — will permit it, I think were the best way.” She thanked him, and passed onwards. So that was how the land lay! “Arms and power . . . temptation . . . cumbersome and unruly”! He had blown upon her smouldering suspicions, and now they were red hot.
Shortly afterwards Henry Cuffe arrived from Ireland, with letters and messages for the Queen from the Lord Deputy. The tale he had to tell was by no means reassuring107. The army, weakened still further by disease and desertion, was in an unsatisfactory condition; the bad weather made movement difficult; and the Dublin Council had once more pronounced strongly against an attack upon Ulster. Elizabeth wrote a scathing108 letter to her “right trusty and well beloved cousin,” in which she no longer gave command, but merely desired to be informed what he was going to do next. She could not imagine, she said, what could be the explanation of his conduct. Why had nothing been done? “If sickness of the army be the reason, why was not the action undertaken when the army was in better state? If winter’s approach, why were the summer months of July and August lost? If the spring were too soon, and the summer that followed otherwise spent, and the harvest that succeeded were so neglected as nothing hath been done, then surely we must conclude that none of the four quarters of the year will be in season for you and that Council to agree to Tyrone’s prosecution110, for which all our charge is intended.” Then, into the middle of her long and bitter argumentation, she stuck a phrase well calculated to give a jar to her correspondent. “We require you to consider whether we have not great cause to think that your purpose is not to end the war.” She was determined to make him realise that she was watching him carefully and was prepared for any eventuality.
Meanwhile, in Dublin, the moment of final decision was swiftly approaching. The horns of a fearful dilemma111 were closing in upon the unfortunate Lord Deputy. Was he to obey the Queen, and risk all against his own judgment and the advice of his Council? Or was he to disobey her, and confess himself a failure? Winter was at hand, and, if he were going to fight, he must fight at once. Hysterical112 and distracted, he was still hesitating, when letters were brought to him from England. They told him that Robert Cecil had been appointed to the lucrative113 office, which he himself had hoped to receive, of the Mastership of the Wards106. Then every other feeling was drowned in rage. He rushed to Blount and Southampton. He had made up his mind, he said; he would not go into Ulster; he would go into England, at the head of his army; he would assert his power; he would remove Cecil and his partners; and he would make sure that henceforward the Queen should act as she ought to act and as he wished.
The desperate words were spoken, but that was all. The hectic114 vision faded, and, before the consultation115 was over, calmer counsels had prevailed. Sir Christopher pointed35 out that what the Earl was proposing — to lead his small army, with such a purpose, from Wales to London — meant civil war. It would be wiser, he said, to go over with a bodyguard116 of a few hundred tried followers117, and effect a coup118 d’état at Nonesuch. But this plan too was waved aside. Suddenly veering119, Essex decided120 to carry out the Queen’s instructions and to attack Tyrone in Ulster.
As a preliminary, he ordered Sir Conyers Clifford, at the head of a picked force, to effect a diversion by marching against the rebels from Connaught. He himself was preparing to move, when there was a new catastrophe: Clifford, caught by the enemy on a causeway crossing a bog122, was set upon, defeated, and killed. But it was too late for Essex to draw back, and at the end of August he left Dublin.
At the same time he composed and despatched a short letter to the Queen. Never were his words more gorgeous and his rhythms more moving: never were the notes of anguish123, remonstrance124, and devotion so romantically blended together.
“From a mind delighting in sorrow; from spirits wasted with travail125, care, and grief; from a heart torn in pieces with passion; from a man that hates himself and all things that keep him alive, what service can your Majesty reap? Since my services past deserve no more than banishment126 and proscription127 into the most cursed of all countries, with what expectation and what end shall I live longer? No, no, the rebel’s pride and successes must give me means to ransom128 myself, my soul I mean, out of this hateful prison of my body. And if it happen so, your Majesty may believe that you shall not have cause to mislike the fashion of my death, though the course of my life may not please you. From your Majesty’s exiled servant, Essex.”
It was very fine — thrilling, adorable! But the sequel was less so. If the desperate knight85 had indeed flung himself to death amid the arrows of the barbarians129 . . . but what happened was altogether different. In a few days he was in touch with Tyrone’s army, which, though it outnumbered his own, refused to give battle. There was some manoeuvring, a skirmish, and then Tyrone sent a messenger, demanding a parley130. Essex agreed. The two men met alone, on horseback, at a ford121 in a river, while the armies watched from either bank. Tyrone, repeating his old tactics, offered terms — but only verbally; he preferred, he said, not to commit them to writing. He proposed a truce131, to be concluded for six weeks, to continue by periods of six weeks until May Day, and not to be broken without a fortnight’s warning. Essex again agreed. All was over. The campaign was at an end.
Of all possible conclusions, this surely was the most impotent that could have been imagined. The grand expedition, the noble general, efforts, hopes, vaunting — it had all dwindled132 down at last to a futile133 humiliation134, an indefinite suspension of hostilities135 — the equivocal, accustomed triumph of Tyrone. Essex had played all his cards now — played them as badly as possible, and there was nothing left in his hand. Inevitably136, as the misery of his achievement sank into his consciousness, the mood of desperate resolutions returned. He decided that there was only one thing now that could save the situation — he must see the Queen. But — such was the wild wavering of his spirit — whether he was to come into her presence as a suppliant137 or as a master, he could not tell: he only knew that he could bear to be in Ireland no longer. With Blount’s suggestion of a coup d’état indeterminately hovering138 in his mind, he summoned round him the members of his household, and, accompanied by them and a great number of officers and gentlemen, embarked139 at Dublin on September 24th. Early on the morning of the 28th the troop was galloping140 into London.
The Court was still at Nonesuch, in Surrey, about ten miles southward; the river lay between; and, if an attack were to be made, it would be necessary for the cavalcade141 to ride through the City and cross the Thames at London Bridge. But by this time the notion of deliberate violence had become an unreality — had given place to the one overmastering desire to be with the Queen at the earliest possible moment. The quickest way was to take the ferry from Westminster to Lambeth, and Essex, leaving the bulk of his followers to disperse142 themselves in London, had himself rowed across the river with six of his chosen friends. At Lambeth the weary men seized what horses they could find and rode on. They were soon passed by Lord Grey of Wilton, a member of the Cecil party, who, on a fresher mount, was also riding to Court that morning. Sir Thomas Gerard spurred after him. “My Lord, I beg you will speak with the Earl.”
“No,” was Lord Grey’s reply, “I have business at Court.”
“Then I pray you,” said Sir Thomas, “let my Lord of Essex ride before, that he may bring the first news of his return himself.”
“Doth he desire it?” said Lord Grey.
“No,” said Sir Thomas, “nor I think will desire anything at your hands.”
“Then I have business,” said Lord Grey, and rode on with greater speed than ever. When Gerard told his friends what had occurred, Sir Christopher Saint Lawrence cried out with an oath that he would press on and kill Lord Grey, and after him the Secretary. The possibility of a swift, dramatic, irretrievable solution hovered143 in the air for a moment amid the group of angry gentlemen. But Essex forbade it; it would be mere109 assassination144; he must take his chance.
Directly Lord Grey reached Nonesuch he went to Cecil, and told him the astounding145 news. The Secretary was calm; he did nothing — sent no word to the Queen, who was dressing146 in her upper chamber147 — but waited quietly in his chair. A quarter of an hour later — it was ten o’clock — the Earl was at the gate. He hurried forward, without a second’s hesitation148; he ran up the stairs, and so — oh! he knew the way well enough — into the presence chamber, and thence into the privy149 chamber; the Queen’s bedroom lay beyond. He was muddy and disordered from his long journey, in rough clothes and riding boots; but he was utterly150 unaware151 of any of that, as he burst open the door in front of him. And there, quite close to him, was Elizabeth among her ladies, in a dressing-gown, unpainted, without her wig152, her grey hair hanging in wisps about her face, and her eyes starting from her head.
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sporadically
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| adv.偶发地，零星地 | |
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proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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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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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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pivots
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| n.枢( pivot的名词复数 )；最重要的人（或事物）；中心；核心v.（似）在枢轴上转动( pivot的第三人称单数 )；把…放在枢轴上；以…为核心，围绕（主旨）展开 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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14
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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vaguely
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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forth
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semblance
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panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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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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38
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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39
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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41
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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42
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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43
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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44
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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45
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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46
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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48
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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49
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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50
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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51
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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52
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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53
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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54
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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55
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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56
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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57
harangued
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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59
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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60
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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61
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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62
garrisoning
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| 卫戍部队守备( garrison的现在分词 )； 派部队驻防 | |
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63
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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64
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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65
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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66
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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67
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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68
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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69
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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70
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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71
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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73
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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74
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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75
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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76
bode
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| v.预示 | |
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77
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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79
meritoriously
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80
votary
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| n.崇拜者；爱好者；adj.誓约的，立誓任圣职的 | |
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81
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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82
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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83
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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84
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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85
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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86
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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87
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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88
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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89
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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90
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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91
depleted
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| adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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92
procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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93
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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94
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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95
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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96
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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97
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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98
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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99
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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100
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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101
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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102
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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103
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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104
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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105
cumbersome
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| adj.笨重的，不便携带的 | |
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106
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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107
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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108
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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109
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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110
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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111
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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112
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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113
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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114
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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115
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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116
bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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117
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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118
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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119
veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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120
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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121
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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122
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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123
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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124
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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125
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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126
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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127
proscription
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| n.禁止，剥夺权利 | |
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128
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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129
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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130
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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131
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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132
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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134
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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135
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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136
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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137
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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138
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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139
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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140
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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141
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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142
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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143
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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144
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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145
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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146
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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147
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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148
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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149
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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150
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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151
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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152
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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