“At length, he cries, behold1 the fated spring!
Yon rugged2 cliff conceals3 the fountain blest,
Dark rocks its crystal source o’ershadowing.”
The tale now returns to Fanshawe, who, as will be recollected5, after being overtaken by Edward Walcott, was left with little apparent prospect7 of aiding in the deliverance of Ellen Langton.
It would be difficult to analyze8 the feelings with which the student pursued the chase, or to decide whether he was influenced and animated9 by the same hopes of successful love that cheered his rival. That he was conscious of such hopes, there is little reason to suppose; for the most powerful minds are not always the best acquainted with their own feelings. Had Fanshawe, moreover, acknowledged to himself the possibility of gaining Ellen’s affections, his generosity10 would have induced him to refrain from her society before it was too late. He had read her character with accuracy, and had seen how fit she was to love, and to be loved, by a man who could find his happiness in the common occupations of the world; and Fanshawe never deceived himself so far as to suppose that this would be the case with him. Indeed, he often wondered at the passion with which Ellen’s simple loveliness of mind and person had inspired him, and which seemed to be founded on the principle of contrariety, rather than of sympathy. It was the yearning11 of a soul, formed by Nature in a peculiar12 mould, for communion with those to whom it bore a resemblance, yet of whom it was not. But there was no reason to suppose that Ellen, who differed from the multitude only as being purer and better, would cast away her affections on the one, of all who surrounded her, least fitted to make her happy. Thus Fanshawe reasoned with himself, and of this he believed that he was convinced. Yet ever and anon he found himself involved in a dream of bliss13, of which Ellen was to be the giver and the sharer. Then would he rouse himself, and press upon his mind the chilling consciousness that it was and could be but a dream. There was also another feeling, apparently14 discordant15 with those which have been enumerated16. It was a longing17 for rest, for his old retirement18, that came at intervals19 so powerfully upon him, as he rode on, that his heart sickened of the active exertion20 on which fate had thrust him.
After being overtaken by Edward Walcott, Fanshawe continued his journey with as much speed as was attainable21 by his wearied horse, but at a pace infinitely22 too slow for his earnest thoughts. These had carried him far away, leaving him only such a consciousness of his present situation as to make diligent23 use of the spur, when a horse’s tread at no great distance struck upon his ear. He looked forward and behind; but, though a considerable extent of the narrow, rocky, and grass-grown road was visible, he was the only traveller there. Yet again he heard the sound, which, he now discovered, proceeded from among the trees that lined the roadside. Alighting, he entered the forest, with the intention, if the steed proved to be disengaged, and superior to his own, of appropriating him to his own use. He soon gained a view of the object he sought; but the animal rendered a closer acquaintance unattainable, by immediately taking to his heels. Fanshawe had, however, made a most interesting discovery; for the horse was accoutred with a side-saddle; and who but Ellen Langton could have been his rider? At this conclusion, though his perplexity was thereby25 in no degree diminished, the student immediately arrived. Returning to the road, and perceiving on the summit of the hill a cottage, which he recognized as the one he had entered with Ellen and Edward Walcott, he determined26 there to make inquiry27 respecting the objects of his pursuit.
On reaching the door of the poverty-stricken dwelling28, he saw that it was not now so desolate29 of inmates30 as on his previous visit. In the single inhabitable apartment were several elderly women, clad evidently in their well-worn and well-saved Sunday clothes, and all wearing a deep grievous expression of countenance31. Fanshawe was not long in deciding that death was within the cottage, and that these aged24 females were of the class who love the house of mourning, because to them it is a house of feasting. It is a fact, disgusting and lamentable32, that the disposition33 which Heaven, for the best of purposes, has implanted in the female breast — to watch by the sick and comfort the afflicted34 — frequently becomes depraved into an odious35 love of scenes of pain and death and sorrow. Such women are like the Ghouls of the Arabian Tales, whose feasting was among tombstones and upon dead carcasses.
(It is sometimes, though less frequently, the case, that this disposition to make a “joy of grief” extends to individuals of the other sex. But in us it is even less excusable and more disgusting, because it is our nature to shun36 the sick and afflicted; and, unless restrained by principles other than we bring into the world with us, men might follow the example of many animals in destroying the infirm of their own species. Indeed, instances of this nature might be adduced among savage37 nations.) Sometimes, however, from an original lusus naturae, or from the influence of circumstances, a man becomes a haunter of death-beds, a tormentor38 of afflicted hearts, and a follower39 of funerals. Such an abomination now appeared before Fanshawe, and beckoned40 him into the cottage. He was considerably41 beyond the middle age, rather corpulent, with a broad, fat, tallow-complexioned countenance. The student obeyed his silent call, and entered the room, through the open door of which he had been gazing.
He now beheld42, stretched out upon the bed where she had so lately lain in life, though dying, the yet uncoffined corpse44 of the aged woman, whose death has been described. How frightful45 it seemed!— that fixed46 countenance of ashy paleness, amid its decorations of muslin and fine linen47, as if a bride were decked for the marriage-chamber, as if death were a bridegroom, and the coffin43 a bridal bed. Alas48 that the vanity of dress should extend even to the grave!
The female who, as being the near and only relative of the deceased, was supposed to stand in need of comfort, was surrounded by five or six of her own sex. These continually poured into her ear the stale, trite49 maxims50 which, where consolation51 is actually required, add torture insupportable to the wounded heart. Their present object, however, conducted herself with all due decorum, holding her handkerchief to her tearless eyes, and answering with very grievous groans53 to the words of her comforters. Who could have imagined that there was joy in her heart, because, since her sister’s death, there was but one remaining obstacle between herself and the sole property of that wretched cottage?
While Fanshawe stood silently observing this scene, a low, monotonous54 voice was uttering some words in his ear, of the meaning of which his mind did not immediately take note. He turned, and saw that the speaker was the person who had invited him to enter.
“What is your pleasure with me, sir?” demanded the student.
“I make bold to ask,” replied the man, “whether you would choose to partake of some creature comfort, before joining in prayer with the family and friends of our deceased sister?” As he spoke55, he pointed56 to a table, on which was a moderate-sized stone jug57 and two or three broken glasses; for then, as now, there were few occasions of joy or grief on which ardent58 spirits were not considered indispensable, to heighten the one or to alleviate59 the other.
“I stand in no need of refreshment,” answered Fanshawe; “and it is not my intention to pray at present.”
“I pray your pardon, reverend sir,” rejoined the other; “but your face is pale, and you look wearied. A drop from yonder vessel60 is needful to recruit the outward man. And for the prayer, the sisters will expect it; and their souls are longing for the outpouring of the Spirit. I was intending to open my own mouth with such words as are given to my poor ignorance, but”—
Fanshawe was here about to interrupt this address, which proceeded on the supposition, arising from his black dress and thoughtful countenance, that he was a clergyman. But one of the females now approached him, and intimated that the sister of the deceased was desirous of the benefit of his conversation. He would have returned a negative to this request, but, looking towards the afflicted woman, he saw her withdraw her handkerchief from her eyes, and cast a brief but penetrating61 and most intelligent glance upon him. He immediately expressed his readiness to offer such consolation as might be in his power.
“And in the mean time,” observed the lay-preacher, “I will give the sisters to expect a word of prayer and exhortation62, either from you or from myself.”
These words were lost upon the supposed clergyman, who was already at the side of the mourner. The females withdrew out of ear-shot to give place to a more legitimate63 comforter than themselves.
“What know you respecting my purpose?” inquired Fanshawe, bending towards her.
The woman gave a groan52 — the usual result of all efforts at consolation — for the edification of the company, and then replied in a whisper, which reached only the ear for which it was intended. “I know whom you come to seek: I can direct you to them. Speak low, for God’s sake!” she continued, observing that Fanshawe was about to utter an exclamation64. She then resumed her groans with greater zeal65 than before.
“Where — where are they?” asked the student, in a whisper which all his efforts could scarcely keep below his breath. “I adjure66 you to tell me.”
“And, if I should, how am I like to be bettered by it?” inquired the old woman, her speech still preceded and followed by a groan.
“O God! The auri sacra fames!” thought Fanshawe with, a sickening heart, looking at the motionless corpse upon the bed, and then at the wretched being, whom the course of nature, in comparatively a moment of time, would reduce to the same condition.
He whispered again, however, putting his purse into the hag’s hand. “Take this. Make your own terms when they are discovered. Only tell me where I must seek them — and speedily, or it may be too late.”
“I am a poor woman, and am afflicted,” said she, taking the purse, unseen by any who were in the room. “It is little that worldly goods can do for me, and not long can I enjoy them.” And here she was delivered of a louder and a more heartfelt groan than ever. She then continued: “Follow the path behind the cottage, that leads to the river-side. Walk along the foot of the rock, and search for them near the water-spout. Keep a slow pace till you are out of sight,” she added, as the student started to his feet. The guests of the cottage did not attempt to oppose Fanshawe’s progress, when they saw him take the path towards the forest, imagining, probably, that he was retiring for the purpose of secret prayer. But the old woman laughed behind the handkerchief with which she veiled her face.
“Take heed67 to your steps, boy,” she muttered; “for they are leading you whence you will not return. Death, too, for the slayer68. Be it so.”
Fanshawe, in the mean while, contrived69 to discover, and for a while to retain, the narrow and winding70 path that led to the river-side. But it was originally no more than a track, by which the cattle belonging to the cottage went down to their watering-place, and by these four-footed passengers it had long been deserted71.
The fern-bushes, therefore, had grown over it; and in several places trees of considerable size had shot up in the midst. These difficulties could scarcely have been surmounted72 by the utmost caution; and as Fanshawe’s thoughts were too deeply fixed upon the end to pay a due regard to the means, he soon became desperately73 bewildered both as to the locality of the river and of the cottage. Had he known, however, in which direction to seek the latter, he would not, probably, have turned back; not that he was infected by any chivalrous74 desire to finish the adventure alone, but because he would expect little assistance from those he had left there. Yet he could not but wonder — though he had not in his first eagerness taken notice of it — at the anxiety of the old woman that he should proceed singly, and without the knowledge of her guests, on the search. He nevertheless continued to wander on,— pausing often to listen for the rush of the river, and then starting forward with fresh rapidity, to rid himself of the sting of his own thoughts, which became painfully intense when undisturbed by bodily motion. His way was now frequently interrupted by rocks, that thrust their huge gray heads from the ground, compelling him to turn aside, and thus depriving him, fortunately, perhaps, of all remaining idea of the direction he had intended to pursue.
Thus he went on, his head turned back, and taking little heed to his footsteps, when, perceiving that he trod upon a smooth, level rock, he looked forward, and found himself almost on the utmost verge75 of a precipice76.
After the throbbing77 of the heart that followed this narrow escape had subsided78, he stood gazing down where the sunbeams slept so pleasantly at the roots of the tall old trees, with whose highest tops he was upon a level. Suddenly he seemed to hear voices — one well-remembered voice — ascending80 from beneath; and, approaching to the edge of the cliff, he saw at its base the two whom he sought.
He saw and interpreted Ellen’s look and attitude of entreaty81, though the words with which she sought to soften82 the ruthless heart of her guide became inaudible ere they reached the height where Fanshawe stood. He felt that Heaven had sent him thither83, at the moment of her utmost need, to be the preserver of all that was dear to him; and he paused only to consider the mode in which her deliverance was to be effected. Life he would have laid down willingly, exultingly84: his only care was, that the sacrifice should not be in vain.
At length, when Ellen fell upon her knees, he lifted a small fragment of rock, and threw it down the cliff. It struck so near the pair, that it immediately drew the attention of both.
When the betrayer, at the instant in which he had almost defied the power of the Omnipotent85 to bring help to Ellen, became aware of Fanshawe’s presence, his hardihood failed him for a time, and his knees actually tottered86 beneath him. There was something awful, to his apprehension87, in the slight form that stood so far above him, like a being from another sphere, looking down upon his wickedness. But his half-superstitious dread88 endured only a moment’s space; and then, mustering89 the courage that in a thousand dangers had not deserted him, he prepared to revenge the intrusion by which Fanshawe had a second time interrupted his designs.
“By Heaven, I will cast him down at her feet!” he muttered through his closed teeth. “There shall be no form nor likeness90 of man left in him. Then let him rise up, if he is able, and defend her.”
Thus resolving, and overlooking all hazard in his eager hatred91 and desire for vengeance92, he began a desperate attempt to ascend79 the cliff. The space which only had hitherto been deemed accessible was quickly passed; and in a moment more he was half-way up the precipice, clinging to trees, shrubs93, and projecting portions of the rock, and escaping through hazards which seemed to menace inevitable94 destruction.
Fanshawe, as he watched his upward progress, deemed that every step would be his last; but when he perceived that more than half, and apparently the most difficult part, of the ascent95 was surmounted, his opinion changed. His courage, however, did not fail him as the moment of need drew nigh. His spirits rose buoyantly; his limbs seemed to grow firm and strong; and he stood on the edge of the precipice, prepared for the death-struggle which would follow the success of his enemy’s attempt.
But that attempt was not successful. When within a few feet of the summit, the adventurer grasped at a twig96 too slenderly rooted to sustain his weight. It gave way in his hand, and he fell backward down the precipice. His head struck against the less perpendicular97 part of the rock, whence the body rolled heavily down to the detached fragment, of which mention has heretofore been made. There was no life left in him. With all the passions of hell alive in his heart, he had met the fate that he intended for Fanshawe.
The student paused not then to shudder98 at the sudden and awful overthrow99 of his enemy; for he saw that Ellen lay motionless at the foot of the cliff. She had indeed fainted at the moment she became aware of her deliverer’s presence; and no stronger proof could she have given of her firm reliance upon his protection.
Fanshawe was not deterred100 by the danger, of which he had just received so fearful an evidence, from attempting to descend101 to her assistance; and, whether owing to his advantage in lightness of frame, or to superior caution, he arrived safely at the base of the precipice.
He lifted the motionless form of Ellen in his arms, and, resting her head against his shoulder, gazed on her cheek of lily paleness with a joy, a triumph, that rose almost to madness. It contained no mixture of hope; it had no reference to the future: it was the perfect bliss of a moment,— an insulated point of happiness. He bent102 over her, and pressed a kiss — the first, and he knew it would be the last — on her pale lips; then, bearing her to the fountain, he sprinkled its waters profusely103 over her face, neck, and bosom104. She at length opened her eyes, slowly and heavily; but her mind was evidently wandering, till Fanshawe spoke.
“Fear not, Ellen. You are safe,” he said.
At the sound of his voice, her arm, which was thrown over his shoulder, involuntarily tightened105 its embrace, telling him, by that mute motion, with how firm a trust she confided106 in him. But, as a fuller sense of her situation returned, she raised herself to her feet, though still retaining the support of his arm. It was singular, that, although her insensibility had commenced before the fall of her guide, she turned away her eyes, as if instinctively107, from the spot where the mangled108 body lay; nor did she inquire of Fanshawe the manner of her deliverance.
“Let us begone from this place,” she said in faint, low accents, and with an inward shudder.
They walked along the precipice, seeking some passage by which they might gain its summit, and at length arrived at that by which Ellen and her guide had descended109. Chance — for neither Ellen nor Fanshawe could have discovered the path — led them, after but little wandering, to the cottage. A messenger was sent forward to the town to inform Dr. Melmoth of the recovery of his ward6; and the intelligence thus received had interrupted Edward Walcott’s conversation with the seaman110.
It would have been impossible, in the mangled remains111 of Ellen’s guide, to discover the son of the Widow Butler, except from the evidence of her sister, who became, by his death, the sole inheritrix of the cottage. The history of this evil and unfortunate man must be comprised within very narrow limits. A harsh father, and his own untamable disposition, had driven him from home in his boyhood; and chance had made him the temporary companion of Hugh Crombie. After two years of wandering, when in a foreign country and in circumstances of utmost need, he attracted the notice of Mr. Langton. The merchant took his young countryman under his protection, afforded him advantages of education, and, as his capacity was above mediocrity, gradually trusted him in many affairs of importance. During this period, there was no evidence of dishonesty on his part. On the contrary, he manifested a zeal for Mr. Langton’s interest, and a respect for his person, that proved his strong sense of the benefits he had received. But he unfortunately fell into certain youthful indiscretions, which, if not entirely112 pardonable, might have been palliated by many considerations that would have occurred to a merciful man. Mr. Langton’s justice, however, was seldom tempered by mercy; and, on this occasion, he shut the door of repentance113 against his erring114 protégé, and left him in a situation not less desperate than that from which he had relieved him. The goodness and the nobleness, of which his heart was not destitute115, turned, from that time, wholly to evil; and he became irrecoverably ruined and irreclaimably depraved. His wandering life had led him, shortly before the period of this tale, to his native country. Here the erroneous intelligence of Mr. Langton’s death had reached him, and suggested the scheme, which circumstances seemed to render practicable, but the fatal termination of which has been related.
The body was buried where it had fallen, close by the huge, gray, moss-grown fragment of rock,— a monument on which centuries can work little change. The eighty years that have elapsed since the death of the widow’s son have, however, been sufficient to obliterate116 an inscription117, which some one was at the pains to cut in the smooth surface of the stone. Traces of letters are still discernible; but the writer’s many efforts could never discover a connected meaning. The grave, also, is overgrown with fern-bushes, and sunk to a level with the surrounding soil. But the legend, though my version of it may be forgotten, will long be traditionary in that lonely spot, and give to the rock and the precipice and the fountain an interest thrilling to the bosom of the romantic wanderer.
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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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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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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thereby
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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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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tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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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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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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53
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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102
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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104
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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108
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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109
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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111
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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112
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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113
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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114
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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115
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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