Tunstall hamlet at that period, in the reign3 of old King Henry VI., wore much the same appearance as it wears to-day. A score or so of houses, heavily framed with oak, stood scattered4 in a long green valley ascending5 from the river. At the foot, the road crossed a bridge, and mounting on the other side, disappeared into the fringes of the forest on its way to the Moat House, and further forth6 to Holywood Abbey. Half-way up the village, the church stood among yews7. On every side the slopes were crowned and the view bounded by the green elms and greening oak-trees of the forest.
Hard by the bridge, there was a stone cross upon a knoll8, and here the group had collected—half a dozen women and one tall fellow in a russet smock—discussing what the bell betided. An express had gone through the hamlet half an hour before, and drunk a pot of ale in the saddle, not daring to dismount for the hurry of his errand; but he had been ignorant himself of what was forward, and only bore sealed letters from Sir Daniel Brackley to Sir Oliver Oates, the parson, who kept the Moat House in the master’s absence.
But now there was the noise of a horse; and soon, out of the edge of the wood and over the echoing bridge, there rode up young Master Richard Shelton, Sir Daniel’s ward2. He, at the least, would know, and they hailed him and begged him to explain. He drew bridle10 willingly enough—a young fellow not yet eighteen, sun-browned and grey-eyed, in a jacket of deer’s leather, with a black velvet12 collar, a green hood13 upon his head, and a steel cross-bow at his back. The express, it appeared, had brought great news. A battle was impending14. Sir Daniel had sent for every man that could draw a bow or carry a bill to go post-haste to Kettley, under pain of his severe displeasure; but for whom they were to fight, or of where the battle was expected, Dick knew nothing. Sir Oliver would come shortly himself, and Bennet Hatch was arming at that moment, for he it was who should lead the party.
“It is the ruin of this kind land,” a woman said. “If the barons15 live at war, ploughfolk must eat roots.”
“If they live,” returned the woman, “that may very well be; but how if they die, my master?”
“They cannot better die than for their natural lord,” said Dick.
“No natural lord of mine,” said the man in the smock. “I followed the Walsinghams; so we all did down Brierly way, till two years ago, come Candlemas. And now I must side with Brackley! It was the law that did it; call ye that natural? But now, what with Sir Daniel and what with Sir Oliver—that knows more of law than honesty—I have no natural lord but poor King Harry19 the Sixt, God bless him!—the poor innocent that cannot tell his right hand from his left.”
“Ye speak with an ill tongue, friend,” answered Dick, “to miscall your good master and my lord the king in the same libel. But King Harry—praised be the saints!—has come again into his right mind, and will have all things peaceably ordained20. And as for Sir Daniel, y’ are very brave behind his back. But I will be no tale-bearer; and let that suffice.”
“I say no harm of you, Master Richard,” returned the peasant. “Y’ are a lad; but when ye come to a man’s inches, ye will find ye have an empty pocket. I say no more: the saints help Sir Daniel’s neighbours, and the Blessed Maid protect his wards1!”
“Clipsby,” said Richard, “you speak what I cannot hear with honour. Sir Daniel is my good master, and my guardian21.”
“I know not,” said Dick, colouring a little; for his guardian had changed sides continually in the troubles of that period, and every change had brought him some increase of fortune.
“Ay,” returned Clipsby, “you, nor no man. For, indeed, he is one that goes to bed Lancaster and gets up York.”
Just then the bridge rang under horse-shoe iron, and the party turned and saw Bennet Hatch come galloping—a brown-faced, grizzled fellow, heavy of hand and grim of mien23, armed with sword and spear, a steel salet on his head, a leather jack11 upon his body. He was a great man in these parts; Sir Daniel’s right hand in peace and war, and at that time, by his master’s interest, bailiff of the hundred.
“Clipsby,” he shouted, “off to the Moat House, and send all other laggards24 the same gate. Bowyer will give you jack and salet. We must ride before curfew. Look to it: he that is last at the lych-gate Sir Daniel shall reward. Look to it right well! I know you for a man of naught25. Nance,” he added, to one of the women, “is old Appleyard up town?”
“I’ll warrant you,” replied the woman. “In his field, for sure.”
So the group dispersed26, and while Clipsby walked leisurely27 over the bridge, Bennet and young Shelton rode up the road together, through the village and past the church.
“Ye will see the old shrew,” said Bennet. “He will waste more time grumbling28 and prating29 of Harry the Fift than would serve a man to shoe a horse. And all because he has been to the French wars!”
The house to which they were bound was the last in the village, standing30 alone among lilacs; and beyond it, on three sides, there was open meadow rising towards the borders of the wood.
Hatch dismounted, threw his rein31 over the fence, and walked down the field, Dick keeping close at his elbow, to where the old soldier was digging, knee-deep in his cabbages, and now and again, in a cracked voice, singing a snatch of song. He was all dressed in leather, only his hood and tippet were of black frieze32, and tied with scarlet33; his face was like a walnut-shell, both for colour and wrinkles; but his old grey eye was still clear enough, and his sight unabated. Perhaps he was deaf; perhaps he thought it unworthy of an old archer17 of Agincourt to pay any heed34 to such disturbances35; but neither the surly notes of the alarm bell, nor the near approach of Bennet and the lad, appeared at all to move him; and he continued obstinately36 digging, and piped up, very thin and shaky:
“Now, dear lady, if thy will be,
“Nick Appleyard,” said Hatch, “Sir Oliver commends him to you, and bids that ye shall come within this hour to the Moat House, there to take command.”
The old fellow looked up.
“Save you, my masters!” he said, grinning. “And where goeth Master Hatch?”
“Master Hatch is off to Kettley, with every man that we can horse,” returned Bennet. “There is a fight toward, it seems, and my lord stays a reinforcement.”
“I leave you six good men, and Sir Oliver to boot,” answered Hatch.
“It’ll not hold the place,” said Appleyard; “the number sufficeth not. It would take two score to make it good.”
“Why, it’s for that we came to you, old shrew!” replied the other. “Who else is there but you that could do aught in such a house with such a garrison?”
“Ay! when the pinch comes, ye remember the old shoe,” returned Nick. “There is not a man of you can back a horse or hold a bill; and as for archery—St. Michael! if old Harry the Fift were back again, he would stand and let ye shoot at him for a farthen a shoot!”
“Nay, Nick, there’s some can draw a good bow yet,” said Bennet.
“Draw a good bow!” cried Appleyard. “Yes! But who’ll shoot me a good shoot? It’s there the eye comes in, and the head between your shoulders. Now, what might you call a long shoot, Bennet Hatch?”
“Well,” said Bennet, looking about him, “it would be a long shoot from here into the forest.”
“Ay, it would be a longish shoot,” said the old fellow, turning to look over his shoulder; and then he put up his hand over his eyes, and stood staring.
The veteran continued looking up the hill in silence. The sun shone broadly over the shelving meadows; a few white sheep wandered browsing40; all was still but the distant jangle of the bell.
“What is it, Appleyard?” asked Dick.
“Why, the birds,” said Appleyard.
And, sure enough, over the top of the forest, where it ran down in a tongue among the meadows, and ended in a pair of goodly green elms, about a bowshot from the field where they were standing, a flight of birds was skimming to and fro, in evident disorder41.
“What of the birds?” said Bennet.
“Ay!” returned Appleyard, “y’ are a wise man to go to war, Master Bennet. Birds are a good sentry42; in forest places they be the first line of battle. Look you, now, if we lay here in camp, there might be archers skulking43 down to get the wind of us; and here would you be, none the wiser!”
“Why, old shrew,” said Hatch, “there be no men nearer us than Sir Daniel’s, at Kettley; y’ are as safe as in London Tower; and ye raise scares upon a man for a few chaffinches and sparrows!”
“Hear him!” grinned Appleyard. “How many a rogue44 would give his two crop ears to have a shoot at either of us? Saint Michael, man! they hate us like two polecats!”
“Well, sooth it is, they hate Sir Daniel,” answered Hatch, a little sobered.
“Ay, they hate Sir Daniel, and they hate every man that serves with him,” said Appleyard; “and in the first order of hating, they hate Bennet Hatch and old Nicholas the bowman. See ye here: if there was a stout45 fellow yonder in the wood-edge, and you and I stood fair for him—as, by Saint George, we stand!—which, think ye, would he choose?”
“My surcoat to a leather belt, it would be you!” cried the old archer. “Ye burned Grimstone, Bennet—they’ll ne’er forgive you that, my master. And as for me, I’ll soon be in a good place, God grant, and out of bow-shoot—ay, and cannon-shoot—of all their malices. I am an old man, and draw fast to homeward, where the bed is ready. But for you, Bennet, y’ are to remain behind here at your own peril47, and if ye come to my years unhanged, the old true-blue English spirit will be dead.”
“Y’ are the shrewishest old dolt48 in Tunstall Forest,” returned Hatch, visibly ruffled49 by these threats. “Get ye to your arms before Sir Oliver come, and leave prating for one good while. An ye had talked so much with Harry the Fift, his ears would ha’ been richer than his pocket.”
An arrow sang in the air, like a huge hornet; it struck old Appleyard between the shoulder-blades, and pierced him clean through, and he fell forward on his face among the cabbages. Hatch, with a broken cry, leapt into the air; then, stooping double, he ran for the cover of the house. And in the meanwhile Dick Shelton had dropped behind a lilac, and had his crossbow bent50 and shouldered, covering the point of the forest.
Not a leaf stirred. The sheep were patiently browsing; the birds had settled. But there lay the old man, with a cloth-yard arrow standing in his back; and there were Hatch holding to the gable, and Dick crouching51 and ready behind the lilac bush.
“D’ye see aught?” cried Hatch.
“I think shame to leave him lying,” said Bennet, coming forward once more with hesitating steps and a very pale countenance53. “Keep a good eye on the wood, Master Shelton—keep a clear eye on the wood. The saints assoil us! here was a good shoot!”
Bennet raised the old archer on his knee. He was not yet dead; his face worked, and his eyes shut and opened like machinery54, and he had a most horrible, ugly look of one in pain.
“Can ye hear, old Nick?” asked Hatch. “Have ye a last wish before ye wend, old brother?”
“Pluck out the shaft55, and let me pass, a’ Mary’s name!” gasped56 Appleyard. “I be done with Old England. Pluck it out!”
“Master Dick,” said Bennet, “come hither, and pull me a good pull upon the arrow. He would fain pass, the poor sinner.”
Dick laid down his cross-bow, and pulling hard upon the arrow, drew it forth. A gush57 of blood followed; the old archer scrambled58 half upon his feet, called once upon the name of God, and then fell dead. Hatch, upon his knees among the cabbages, prayed fervently59 for the welfare of the passing spirit. But even as he prayed, it was plain that his mind was still divided, and he kept ever an eye upon the corner of the wood from which the shot had come. When he had done, he got to his feet again, drew off one of his mailed gauntlets, and wiped his pale face, which was all wet with terror.
“Ay,” he said, “it’ll be my turn next.”
“Who hath done this, Bennet?” Richard asked, still holding the arrow in his hand.
“Nay, the saints know,” said Hatch. “Here are a good two score Christian60 souls that we have hunted out of house and holding, he and I. He has paid his shot, poor shrew, nor will it be long, mayhap, ere I pay mine. Sir Daniel driveth over-hard.”
“This is a strange shaft,” said the lad, looking at the arrow in his hand.
“Ay, by my faith!” cried Bennet. “Black, and black-feathered. Here is an ill-favoured shaft, by my sooth! for black, they say, bodes61 burial. And here be words written. Wipe the blood away. What read ye?”
“Nay, I like it not,” returned the retainer, shaking his head. “John Amend-All! Here is a rogue’s name for those that be up in the world! But why stand we here to make a mark? Take him by the knees, good Master Shelton, while I lift him by the shoulders, and let us lay him in his house. This will be a rare shog to poor Sir Oliver; he will turn paper colour; he will pray like a windmill.”
They took up the old archer, and carried him between them into his house, where he had dwelt alone. And there they laid him on the floor, out of regard for the mattress63, and sought, as best they might, to straighten and compose his limbs.
Appleyard’s house was clean and bare. There was a bed, with a blue cover, a cupboard, a great chest, a pair of joint-stools, a hinged table in the chimney corner, and hung upon the wall the old soldier’s armoury of bows and defensive65 armour64. Hatch began to look about him curiously66.
“Nick had money,” he said. “He may have had three score pounds put by. I would I could light upon’t! When ye lose an old friend, Master Richard, the best consolation67 is to heir him. See, now, this chest. I would go a mighty68 wager there is a bushel of gold therein. He had a strong hand to get, and a hard hand to keep withal, had Appleyard the archer. Now may God rest his spirit! Near eighty year he was afoot and about, and ever getting; but now he’s on the broad of his back, poor shrew, and no more lacketh; and if his chattels69 came to a good friend, he would be merrier, methinks, in heaven.”
“Come, Hatch,” said Dick, “respect his stone-blind eyes. Would ye rob the man before his body? Nay, he would walk!”
Hatch made several signs of the cross; but by this time his natural complexion70 had returned, and he was not easily to be dashed from any purpose. It would have gone hard with the chest had not the gate sounded, and presently after the door of the house opened and admitted a tall, portly, ruddy, black-eyed man of near fifty, in a surplice and black robe.
“Appleyard”—the newcomer was saying, as he entered; but he stopped dead. “Ave Maria!” he cried. “Saints be our shield! What cheer is this?”
“Cold cheer with Appleyard, sir parson,” answered Hatch, with perfect cheerfulness. “Shot at his own door, and alighteth even now at purgatory71 gates. Ay! there, if tales be true, he shall lack neither coal nor candle.”
Sir Oliver groped his way to a joint-stool, and sat down upon it, sick and white.
“Ay, Bennet,” said the priest, somewhat recovering, “and what may this be? What enemy hath done this?”
“Here, Sir Oliver, is the arrow. See, it is written upon with words,” said Dick.
“Nay,” cried the priest, “this is a foul78 hearing! John Amend-All! A right Lollardy word. And black of hue79, as for an omen9! Sirs, this knave80 arrow likes me not. But it importeth rather to take counsel. Who should this be? Bethink you, Bennet. Of so many black ill-willers, which should he be that doth so hardily81 outface us? Simnel? I do much question it. The Walsinghams? Nay, they are not yet so broken; they still think to have the law over us, when times change. There was Simon Malmesbury, too. How think ye, Bennet?”
“What think ye, sir,” returned Hatch, “of Ellis Duckworth?”
“Nay, Bennet, never. Nay, not he,” said the priest. “There cometh never any rising, Bennet, from below—so all judicious82 chroniclers concord83 in their opinion; but rebellion travelleth ever downward from above; and when Dick, Tom, and Harry take them to their bills, look ever narrowly to see what lord is profited thereby84. Now, Sir Daniel, having once more joined him to the Queen’s party, is in ill odour with the Yorkist lords. Thence, Bennet, comes the blow—by what procuring85, I yet seek; but therein lies the nerve of this discomfiture86.”
“An’t please you, Sir Oliver,” said Bennet, “the axles are so hot in this country that I have long been smelling fire. So did this poor sinner, Appleyard. And, by your leave, men’s spirits are so foully87 inclined to all of us, that it needs neither York nor Lancaster to spur them on. Hear my plain thoughts: You, that are a clerk, and Sir Daniel, that sails on any wind, ye have taken many men’s goods, and beaten and hanged not a few. Y’ are called to count for this; in the end, I wot not how, ye have ever the uppermost at law, and ye think all patched. But give me leave, Sir Oliver: the man that ye have dispossessed and beaten is but the angrier, and some day, when the black devil is by, he will up with his bow and clout88 me a yard of arrow through your inwards.”
“Nay, Bennet, y’ are in the wrong. Bennet, ye should be glad to be corrected,” said Sir Oliver. “Y’ are a prater89, Bennet, a talker, a babbler; your mouth is wider than your two ears. Mend it, Bennet, mend it.”
“Nay, I say no more. Have it as ye list,” said the retainer.
The priest now rose from the stool, and from the writing-case that hung about his neck took forth wax and a taper90, and a flint and steel. With these he sealed up the chest and the cupboard with Sir Daniel’s arms, Hatch looking on disconsolate91; and then the whole party proceeded, somewhat timorously92, to sally from the house and get to horse.
“’Tis time we were on the road, Sir Oliver,” said Hatch, as he held the priest’s stirrup while he mounted.
“Ay; but, Bennet, things are changed,” returned the parson. “There is now no Appleyard—rest his soul!—to keep the garrison. I shall keep you, Bennet. I must have a good man to rest me on in this day of black arrows. ‘The arrow that flieth by day,’ saith the evangel; I have no mind of the context; nay, I am a sluggard93 priest, I am too deep in men’s affairs. Well, let us ride forth, Master Hatch. The jackmen should be at the church by now.”
So they rode forward down the road, with the wind after them, blowing the tails of the parson’s cloak; and behind them, as they went, clouds began to arise and blot94 out the sinking sun. They had passed three of the scattered houses that make up Tunstall hamlet, when, coming to a turn, they saw the church before them. Ten or a dozen houses clustered immediately round it; but to the back the churchyard was next the meadows. At the lych-gate, near a score of men were gathered, some in the saddle, some standing by their horses’ heads. They were variously armed and mounted; some with spears, some with bills, some with bows, and some bestriding plough-horses, still splashed with the mire95 of the furrow96; for these were the very dregs of the country, and all the better men and the fair equipments were already with Sir Daniel in the field.
“We have not done amiss, praised be the cross of Holywood! Sir Daniel will be right well content,” observed the priest, inwardly numbering the troop.
“Who goes? Stand! if ye be true!” shouted Bennet. A man was seen slipping through the churchyard among the yews; and at the sound of this summons he discarded all concealment97, and fairly took to his heels for the forest. The men at the gate, who had been hitherto unaware98 of the stranger’s presence, woke and scattered. Those who had dismounted began scrambling99 into the saddle; the rest rode in pursuit; but they had to make the circuit of the consecrated100 ground, and it was plain their quarry101 would escape them. Hatch, roaring an oath, put his horse at the hedge, to head him off; but the beast refused, and sent his rider sprawling102 in the dust. And though he was up again in a moment, and had caught the bridle, the time had gone by, and the fugitive103 had gained too great a lead for any hope of capture.
The wisest of all had been Dick Shelton. Instead of starting in a vain pursuit, he had whipped his crossbow from his back, bent it, and set a quarrel to the string; and now, when the others had desisted, he turned to Bennet and asked if he should shoot.
“Shoot! shoot!” cried the priest, with sanguinary violence.
“Cover him, Master Dick,” said Bennet. “Bring me him down like a ripe apple.”
The fugitive was now within but a few leaps of safety; but this last part of the meadow ran very steeply uphill; and the man ran slower in proportion. What with the greyness of the falling night, and the uneven104 movements of the runner, it was no easy aim; and as Dick levelled his bow, he felt a kind of pity, and a half desire that he might miss. The quarrel sped.
The man stumbled and fell, and a great cheer arose from Hatch and the pursuers. But they were counting their corn before the harvest. The man fell lightly; he was lightly afoot again, turned and waved his cap in a bravado105, and was out of sight next moment in the margin106 of the wood.
“And the plague go with him!” cried Bennet. “He has thieves’ heels; he can run, by St Banbury! But you touched him, Master Shelton; he has stolen your quarrel, may he never have good I grudge107 him less!”
“Nay, but what made he by the church?” asked Sir Oliver. “I am shrewdly afeared there has been mischief108 here. Clipsby, good fellow, get ye down from your horse, and search thoroughly109 among the yews.”
Clipsby was gone but a little while ere he returned carrying a paper.
“This writing was pinned to the church door,” he said, handing it to the parson. “I found naught else, sir parson.”
“Now, by the power of Mother Church,” cried Sir Oliver, “but this runs hard on sacrilege! For the king’s good pleasure, or the lord of the manor—well! But that every run-the-hedge in a green jerkin should fasten papers to the chancel door—nay, it runs hard on sacrilege, hard; and men have burned for matters of less weight. But what have we here? The light falls apace. Good Master Richard, y’ have young eyes. Read me, I pray, this libel.”
Dick Shelton took the paper in his hand and read it aloud. It contained some lines of very rugged110 doggerel111, hardly even rhyming, written in a gross character, and most uncouthly112 spelt. With the spelling somewhat bettered, this is how they ran:
“I had four blak arrows under my belt,
Four for the greefs that I have felt,
Four for the nomber of ill menne
That have opressid me now and then.
One is gone; one is wele sped;
Old Apulyaird is ded.
One is for Maister Bennet Hatch,
One for Sir Oliver Oates,
That cut Sir Harry Shelton’s throat.
Sir Daniel, ye shull have the fourt;
We shall think it fair sport.
Ye shull each have your own part,
A blak arrow in each blak heart.
Get ye to your knees for to pray:
Ye are ded theeves, by yea and nay!
“Jon Amend-All
of the Green Wood,
And his jolly fellaweship.
“Now, well-a-day for charity and the Christian graces!” cried Sir Oliver, lamentably115. “Sirs, this is an ill world, and groweth daily worse. I will swear upon the cross of Holywood I am as innocent of that good knight’s hurt, whether in act or purpose, as the babe unchristened. Neither was his throat cut; for therein they are again in error, as there still live credible116 witnesses to show.”
“It boots not, sir parson,” said Bennet. “Here is unseasonable talk.”
“Nay, Master Bennet, not so. Keep ye in your due place, good Bennet,” answered the priest. “I shall make mine innocence117 appear. I will, upon no consideration, lose my poor life in error. I take all men to witness that I am clear of this matter. I was not even in the Moat House. I was sent of an errand before nine upon the clock”—
“Sir Oliver,” said Hatch, interrupting, “since it please you not to stop this sermon, I will take other means. Goffe, sound to horse.”
And while the tucket was sounding, Bennet moved close to the bewildered parson, and whispered violently in his ear.
Dick Shelton saw the priest’s eye turned upon him for an instant in a startled glance. He had some cause for thought; for this Sir Harry Shelton was his own natural father. But he said never a word, and kept his countenance unmoved.
Hatch and Sir Oliver discussed together for a while their altered situation; ten men, it was decided118 between them, should be reserved, not only to garrison the Moat House, but to escort the priest across the wood. In the meantime, as Bennet was to remain behind, the command of the reinforcement was given to Master Shelton. Indeed, there was no choice; the men were loutish119 fellows, dull and unskilled in war, while Dick was not only popular, but resolute120 and grave beyond his age. Although his youth had been spent in these rough, country places, the lad had been well taught in letters by Sir Oliver, and Hatch himself had shown him the management of arms and the first principles of command. Bennet had always been kind and helpful; he was one of those who are cruel as the grave to those they call their enemies, but ruggedly121 faithful and well willing to their friends; and now, while Sir Oliver entered the next house to write, in his swift, exquisite122 penmanship, a memorandum123 of the last occurrences to his master, Sir Daniel Brackley, Bennet came up to his pupil to wish him God-speed upon his enterprise.
“Ye must go the long way about, Master Shelton,” he said; “round by the bridge, for your life! Keep a sure man fifty paces afore you, to draw shots; and go softly till y’ are past the wood. If the rogues124 fall upon you, ride for ’t; ye will do naught by standing. And keep ever forward, Master Shelton; turn me not back again, an ye love your life; there is no help in Tunstall, mind ye that. And now, since ye go to the great wars about the king, and I continue to dwell here in extreme jeopardy125 of my life, and the saints alone can certify126 if we shall meet again below, I give you my last counsels now at your riding. Keep an eye on Sir Daniel; he is unsure. Put not your trust in the jack-priest; he intendeth not amiss, but doth the will of others; it is a hand-gun for Sir Daniel! Get your good lordship where ye go; make you strong friends; look to it. And think ever a pater-noster-while on Bennet Hatch. There are worse rogues afoot than Bennet. So, God-speed!”
“And Heaven be with you, Bennet!” returned Dick. “Ye were a good friend to me-ward, and so I shall say ever.”
“And, look ye, master,” added Hatch, with a certain embarrassment127, “if this Amend-All should get a shaft into me, ye might, mayhap, lay out a gold mark or mayhap a pound for my poor soul; for it is like to go stiff with me in purgatory.”
“Ye shall have your will of it, Bennet,” answered Dick. “But, what cheer, man! we shall meet again, where ye shall have more need of ale than masses.”
“The saints so grant it, Master Dick!” returned the other. “But here comes Sir Oliver. An he were as quick with the long-bow as with the pen, he would be a brave man-at-arms.”
Sir Oliver gave Dick a sealed packet, with this superscription: “To my ryght worchypful master, Sir Daniel Brackley, knyght, be thys delyvered in haste.”
And Dick, putting it in the bosom128 of his jacket, gave the word and set forth westward129 up the village.
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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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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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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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ascending
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forth
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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knoll
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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13
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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14
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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15
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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16
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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17
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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18
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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19
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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20
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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21
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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22
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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23
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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24
laggards
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| n.落后者( laggard的名词复数 ) | |
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25
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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26
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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27
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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28
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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29
prating
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| v.（古时用语）唠叨，啰唆( prate的现在分词 ) | |
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30
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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31
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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32
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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33
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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34
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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35
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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36
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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37
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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38
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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39
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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40
browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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41
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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42
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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43
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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44
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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46
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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47
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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48
dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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49
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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51
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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52
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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53
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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54
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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55
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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56
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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57
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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58
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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59
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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60
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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61
bodes
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的第三人称单数 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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62
betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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63
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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64
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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65
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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66
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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67
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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68
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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69
chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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70
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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71
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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72
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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73
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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74
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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75
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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76
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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77
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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79
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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80
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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81
hardily
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| 耐劳地，大胆地，蛮勇地 | |
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82
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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83
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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84
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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85
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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86
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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87
foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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88
clout
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| n.用手猛击；权力，影响力 | |
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89
prater
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| 多嘴的人，空谈者 | |
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90
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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91
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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92
timorously
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| adv.胆怯地，羞怯地 | |
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93
sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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94
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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95
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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96
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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97
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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98
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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99
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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100
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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101
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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102
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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103
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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104
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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105
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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106
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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107
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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108
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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109
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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110
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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111
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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112
uncouthly
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113
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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114
hempen
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| adj. 大麻制的, 大麻的 | |
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115
lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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116
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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117
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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118
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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119
loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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120
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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121
ruggedly
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| 险峻地； 粗暴地； （面容）多皱纹地； 粗线条地 | |
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122
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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123
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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124
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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125
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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126
certify
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| vt.证明，证实；发证书(或执照)给 | |
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127
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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128
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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129
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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