Scarcely had D’Artagnan reentered his apartment with his two friends, when one of the soldiers of the fort came to inform him that the governor was seeking him. The bark which Raoul had perceived at sea, and which appeared so eager to gain the port, came to Sainte–Marguerite with an important dispatch for the captain of the musketeers. On opening it, D’Artagnan recognized the writing of the king: “I should think,” said Louis XIV., “you will have completed the execution of my orders, Monsieur d’Artagnan; return, then, immediately to Paris, and join me at the Louvre.”
“There is the end of my exile!” cried the musketeer with joy; “God be praised, I am no longer a jailer!” And he showed the letter to Athos.
“So, then, you must leave us?” replied the latter, in a melancholy1 tone.
“Yes, but to meet again, dear friend, seeing that Raoul is old enough now to go alone with M. de Beaufort, and will prefer his father going back in company with M. d’Artagnan, to forcing him to travel two hundred leagues solitarily2 to reach home at La Fere; will you not, Raoul?”
“Certainly,” stammered3 the latter, with an expression of tender regret.
“No, no, my friend,” interrupted Athos, “I will never quit Raoul till the day his vessel4 disappears on the horizon. As long as he remains5 in France he shall not be separated from me.”
“As you please, dear friend; but we will, at least, leave Sainte–Marguerite together; take advantage of the bark that will convey me back to Antibes.”
“With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a distance from this fort, and from the spectacle that shocked us so just now.”
The three friends quitted the little isle6, after paying their respects to the governor, and by the last flashes of the departing tempest they took their farewell of the white walls of the fort. D’Artagnan parted from his friend that same night, after having seen fire set to the carriage upon the shore by the orders of Saint–Mars, according to the advice the captain had given him. Before getting on horseback, and after leaving the arms of Athos: “My friends,” said he, “you bear too much resemblance to two soldiers who are abandoning their post. Something warns me that Raoul will require being supported by you in his rank. Will you allow me to ask permission to go over into Africa with a hundred good muskets7? The king will not refuse me, and I will take you with me.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” replied Raoul, pressing his hand with emotion, “thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish, either monsieur le comte or I. I, who am young, stand in need of labor8 of mind and fatigue9 of body; monsieur le comte wants the profoundest repose10. You are his best friend. I recommend him to your care. In watching over him, you are holding both our souls in your hands.”
“I must go; my horse is all in a fret,” said D’Artagnan, with whom the most manifest sign of a lively emotion was the change of ideas in conversation. “Come, comte, how many days longer has Raoul to stay here?”
“Three days at most.”
“And how long will it take you to reach home?”
“Oh! a considerable time,” replied Athos. “I shall not like the idea of being separated too quickly from Raoul. Time will travel too fast of itself to require me to aid it by distance. I shall only make half-stages.”
“And why so, my friend? Nothing is more dull than traveling slowly; and hostelry life does not become a man like you.”
“My friend, I came hither on post-horses; but I wish to purchase two animals of a superior kind. Now, to take them home fresh, it would not be prudent11 to make them travel more than seven or eight leagues a day.”
“Where is Grimaud?”
“He arrived yesterday morning with Raoul’s appointments; and I have left him to sleep.”
“That is, never to come back again,” D’Artagnan suffered to escape him. “Till we meet again, then, dear Athos — and if you are diligent12, I shall embrace you the sooner.” So saying, he put his foot in the stirrup, which Raoul held.
“Farewell!” said the young man, embracing him.
“Farewell!” said D’Artagnan, as he got into his saddle.
His horse made a movement which divided the cavalier from his friends. This scene had taken place in front of the house chosen by Athos, near the gates of Antibes, whither D’Artagnan, after his supper, had ordered his horses to be brought. The road began to branch off there, white and undulating in the vapors13 of the night. The horse eagerly respired the salt, sharp perfume of the marshes14. D’Artagnan put him to a trot15; and Athos and Raoul sadly turned towards the house. All at once they heard the rapid approach of a horse’s steps, and first believed it to be one of those singular repercussions16 which deceive the ear at every turn in a road. But it was really the return of the horseman. They uttered a cry of joyous17 surprise; and the captain, springing to the ground like a young man, seized within his arms the two beloved heads of Athos and Raoul. He held them long embraced thus, without speaking a word, or suffering the sigh which was bursting his breast to escape him. Then, as rapidly as he had come back, he set off again, with a sharp application of his spurs to the sides of his fiery18 horse.
“Alas19!” said the comte, in a low voice, “alas! alas!”
“An evil omen20!” on his side, said D’Artagnan to himself, making up for lost time. “I could not smile upon them. An evil omen!”
The next day Grimaud was on foot again. The service commanded by M. de Beaufort was happily accomplished21. The flotilla, sent to Toulon by the exertions22 of Raoul, had set out, dragging after it in little nutshells, almost invisible, the wives and friends of the fishermen and smugglers put in requisition for the service of the fleet. The time, so short, which remained for father and son to live together, appeared to go by with double rapidity, like some swift stream that flows towards eternity23. Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which began to be filled with the noise of carriages, with the noise of arms, the noise of neighing horses. The trumpeters sounded their spirited marches; the drummers signalized their strength; the streets were overflowing24 with soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was everywhere, superintending the embarkation26 with the zeal27 and interest of a good captain. He encouraged the humblest of his companions; he scolded his lieutenants28, even those of the highest rank. Artillery29, provisions, baggage, he insisted upon seeing all himself. He examined the equipment of every soldier; assured himself of the health and soundness of every horse. It was plain that, light, boastful, egotistical, in his hotel, the gentleman became the soldier again — the high noble, a captain — in face of the responsibility he had accepted. And yet, it must be admitted that, whatever was the care with which he presided over the preparations for departure, it was easy to perceive careless precipitation, and the absence of all the precaution that make the French soldier the first soldier in the world, because, in that world, he is the one most abandoned to his own physical and moral resources. All things having satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the admiral, he paid his compliments to Raoul, and gave the last orders for sailing, which was ordered the next morning at daybreak. He invited the comte had his son to dine with him; but they, under a pretext30 of service, kept themselves apart. Gaining their hostelry, situated31 under the trees of the great Place, they took their repast in haste, and Athos led Raoul to the rocks which dominate the city, vast gray mountains, whence the view is infinite and embraces a liquid horizon which appears, so remote is it, on a level with the rocks themselves. The night was fine, as it always is in these happy climes. The moon, rising behind the rocks, unrolled a silver sheet on the cerulean carpet of the sea. In the roadsteads maneuvered32 silently the vessels33 which had just taken their rank to facilitate the embarkation. The sea, loaded with phosphoric light, opened beneath the hulls34 of the barks that transported the baggage and munitions35; every dip of the prow36 plowed37 up this gulf38 of white flames; from every oar39 dropped liquid diamonds. The sailors, rejoicing in the largesses of the admiral, were heard murmuring their slow and artless songs. Sometimes the grinding of the chains was mixed with the dull noise of shot falling into the holds. Such harmonies, such a spectacle, oppress the heart like fear, and dilate41 it like hope. All this life speaks of death. Athos had seated himself with his son, upon the moss42, among the brambles of the promontory43. Around their heads passed and repassed large bats, carried along by the fearful whirl of their blind chase. The feet of Raoul were over the edge of the cliff, bathed in that void which is peopled by vertigo44, and provokes to self-annihilation. When the moon had risen to its fullest height, caressing45 with light the neighboring peaks, when the watery46 mirror was illumined in its full extent, and the little red fires had made their openings in the black masses of every ship, Athos, collecting all his ideas and all his courage, said:
“God has made all these things that we see, Raoul; He has made us also — poor atoms mixed up with this monstrous47 universe. We shine like those fires and those stars; we sigh like those waves; we suffer like those great ships, which are worn out in plowing48 the waves, in obeying the wind that urges them towards an end, as the breath of God blows us towards a port. Everything likes to live, Raoul; and everything seems beautiful to living things.”
“Monsieur,” said Raoul, “we have before us a beautiful spectacle!”
“How good D’Artagnan is!” interrupted Athos, suddenly, “and what a rare good fortune it is to be supported during a whole life by such a friend as he is! That is what you have missed, Raoul.”
“A friend!” cried Raoul, “I have wanted a friend!”
“M. de Guiche is an agreeable companion,” resumed the comte, coldly, “but I believe, in the times in which you live, men are more engaged in their own interests and their own pleasures than they were in ours. You have sought a secluded49 life; that is a great happiness, but you have lost your strength thereby50. We four, more weaned from those delicate abstractions that constitute your joy, furnished much more resistance when misfortune presented itself.”
“I have not interrupted you, monsieur, to tell you that I had a friend, and that that friend is M. de Guiche. Certes, he is good and generous, and moreover he loves me. But I have lived under the guardianship52 of another friendship, monsieur, as precious and as strong as that of which you speak, since it is yours.”
“I have not been a friend for you, Raoul,” said Athos.
“Eh! monsieur, and in what respect not?”
“Because I have given you reason to think that life has but one face, because, sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you, without, God knows, wishing to do so, the joyous buds that spring incessantly53 from the fair tree of youth; so that at this moment I repent54 of not having made of you a more expansive, dissipated, animated55 man.”
“I know why you say that, monsieur. No, it is not you who have made me what I am; it was love, which took me at the time when children only have inclinations56; it is the constancy natural to my character, which with other creatures is but habit. I believed that I should always be as I was; I thought God had cast me in a path quite clear, quite straight, bordered with fruits and flowers. I had ever watching over me your vigilance and strength. I believed myself to be vigilant58 and strong. Nothing prepared me; I fell once, and that once deprived me of courage for the whole of my life. It is quite true that I wrecked59 myself. Oh, no, monsieur! you are nothing in my past but happiness — in my future but hope! No, I have no reproach to make against life such as you made it for me; I bless you, and I love you ardently60.”
“My dear Raoul, your words do me good. They prove to me that you will act a little for me in the time to come.”
“I shall only act for you, monsieur.”
“Raoul, what I have never hitherto done with respect to you, I will henceforward do. I will be your friend, not your father. We will live in expanding ourselves, instead of living and holding ourselves prisoners, when you come back. And that will be soon, will it not?”
“Certainly, monsieur, for such an expedition cannot last long.”
“Soon, then, Raoul, soon, instead of living moderately on my income, I will give you the capital of my estates. It will suffice for launching you into the world till my death; and you will give me, I hope, before that time, the consolation61 of not seeing my race extinct.”
“I will do all you may command,” said Raoul, much agitated62.
“It is not necessary, Raoul, that your duty as aide-decamp should lead you into too hazardous63 enterprises. You have gone through your ordeal64; you are known to be a true man under fire. Remember that war with Arabs is a war of snares65, ambuscades, and assassinations66.”
“So it is said, monsieur.”
“There is never much glory in falling in an ambuscade. It is a death which always implies a little rashness or want of foresight67. Often, indeed, he who falls in one meets with but little pity. Those who are not pitied, Raoul, have died to little purpose. Still further, the conqueror68 laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow stupid infidels to triumph over our faults. Do you clearly understand what I am saying to you, Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to avoid encounters.”
“I am naturally prudent, monsieur, and I have very good fortune,” said Raoul, with a smile which chilled the heart of his poor father; “for,” the young man hastened to add, “in twenty combats through which I have been, I have only received one scratch.”
“There is in addition,” said Athos, “the climate to be dreaded69: that is an ugly end, to die of fever! King Saint–Louis prayed God to send him an arrow or the plague, rather than the fever.”
“Oh, monsieur! with sobriety, with reasonable exercise —”
“I have already obtained from M. de Beaufort a promise that his dispatches shall be sent off every fortnight to France. You, as his aide-decamp, will be charged with expediting them, and will be sure not to forget me.”
“No, monsieur,” said Raoul, almost choked with emotion.
“Besides, Raoul, as you are a good Christian70, and I am one also, we ought to reckon upon a more special protection of God and His guardian51 angels. Promise me that if anything evil should happen to you, on any occasion, you will think of me at once.”
“First and at once! Oh! yes, monsieur.”
“And will call upon me?”
“Instantly.”
“You dream of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?”
“Every night, monsieur. During my early youth I saw you in my dreams, calm and mild, with one hand stretched out over my head, and that it was which made me sleep so soundly — formerly71.”
“We love each other too dearly,” said the comte, “that from this moment, in which we separate, a portion of both our souls should not travel with one and the other of us, and should not dwell wherever we may dwell. Whenever you may be sad, Raoul, I feel that my heart will be dissolved in sadness; and when you smile on thinking of me, be assured you will send me, from however remote a distance, a vital scintillation of your joy.”
“I will not promise you to be joyous,” replied the young man; “but you may be certain that I will never pass an hour without thinking of you, not one hour, I swear, unless I shall be dead.”
Athos could contain himself no longer; he threw his arm round the neck of his son, and held him embraced with all the power of his heart. The moon began to be now eclipsed by twilight72; a golden band surrounded the horizon, announcing the approach of the day. Athos threw his cloak over the shoulders of Raoul, and led him back to the city, where burdens and porters were already in motion, like a vast ant-hill. At the extremity73 of the plateau which Athos and Bragelonne were quitting, they saw a dark shadow moving uneasily backwards74 and forwards, as if in indecision or ashamed to be seen. It was Grimaud, who in his anxiety had tracked his master, and was there awaiting him.
“Oh! my good Grimaud,” cried Raoul, “what do you want? You are come to tell us it is time to be gone, have you not?”
“Alone?” said Grimaud, addressing Athos and pointing to Raoul in a tone of reproach, which showed to what an extent the old man was troubled.
“Oh! you are right!” cried the comte. “No, Raoul shall not go alone; no, he shall not be left alone in a strange land without some friendly hand to support him, some friendly heart to recall to him all he loved!”
“I?” said Grimaud.
“You, yes, you!” cried Raoul, touched to the inmost heart.
“Alas!” said Athos, “you are very old, my good Grimaud.”
“So much the better,” replied the latter, with an inexpressible depth of feeling and intelligence.
“But the embarkation is begun,” said Raoul, “and you are not prepared.”
“Yes,” said Grimaud, showing the keys of his trunks, mixed with those of his young master.
“But,” again objected Raoul, “you cannot leave monsieur le comte thus alone; monsieur le comte, whom you have never quitted?”
Grimaud turned his diamond eyes upon Athos and Raoul, as if to measure the strength of both. The comte uttered not a word.
“Monsieur le comte prefers my going,” said Grimaud.
“I do,” said Athos, by an inclination57 of the head.
At that moment the drums suddenly rolled, and the clarions filled the air with their inspiring notes. The regiments75 destined76 for the expedition began to debouch77 from the city. They advanced to the number of five, each composed of forty companies. Royals marched first, distinguished78 by their white uniform, faced with blue. The ordonnance colors, quartered cross-wise, violet and dead leaf, with a sprinkling of golden fleurs-delis, left the white-colored flag, with its fleur-delised cross, to dominate the whole. Musketeers at the wings, with their forked sticks and their muskets on their shoulders; pikemen in the center, with their lances, fourteen feet in length, marched gayly towards the transports, which carried them in detail to the ships. The regiments of Picardy, Navarre, Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau, followed after. M. de Beaufort had known well how to select his troops. He himself was seen closing the march with his staff — it would take a full hour before he could reach the sea. Raoul with Athos turned his steps slowly towards the beach, in order to take his place when the prince embarked79. Grimaud, boiling with the ardor80 of a young man, superintended the embarkation of Raoul’s baggage in the admiral’s vessel. Athos, with his arm passed through that of the son he was about to lose, absorbed in melancholy meditation81, was deaf to every noise around him. An officer came quickly towards them to inform Raoul that M. de Beaufort was anxious to have him by his side.
“Have the kindness to tell the prince,” said Raoul, “that I request he will allow me this hour to enjoy the company of my father.”
“No, no,” said Athos, “an aide-decamp ought not thus to quit his general. Please to tell the prince, monsieur, that the vicomte will join him immediately.” The officer set off at a gallop82.
“Whether we part here or part there,” added the comte, “it is no less a separation.” He carefully brushed the dust from his son’s coat, and passed his hand over his hair as they walked along. “But, Raoul,” said he, “you want money. M. de Beaufort’s train will be splendid, and I am certain it will be agreeable to you to purchase horses and arms, which are very dear things in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the service of the king or M. de Beaufort, and are simply a volunteer, you must not reckon upon either pay or largesse40. But I should not like you to want for anything at Gigelli. Here are two hundred pistoles; if you would please me, Raoul, spend them.”
Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and, at the turning of a street, they saw M. de Beaufort, mounted on a magnificent white genet, which responded by graceful83 curvets to the applause of the women of the city. The duke called Raoul, and held out his hand to the comte. He spoke84 to him for some time, with such a kindly85 expression that the heart of the poor father even felt a little comforted. It was, however, evident to both father and son that their walk amounted to nothing less than a punishment. There was a terrible moment — that at which, on quitting the sands of the shore, the soldiers and sailors exchanged the last kisses with their families and friends; a supreme86 moment, in which, notwithstanding the clearness of the heavens, the warmth of the sun, of the perfumes of the air, and the rich life that was circulating in their veins87, everything appeared black, everything bitter, everything created doubts of Providence88, nay89, at the most, of God. It was customary for the admiral and his suite90 to embark25 last; the cannon91 waited to announce, with its formidable voice, that the leader had placed his foot on board his vessel. Athos, forgetful of both the admiral and the fleet, and of his own dignity as a strong man, opened his arms to his son, and pressed him convulsively to his heart.
“Accompany us on board,” said the duke, very much affected92; “you will gain a good half-hour.”
“No,” said Athos, “my farewell has been spoken, I do not wish to voice a second.”
“Then, vicomte, embark — embark quickly!” added the prince, wishing to spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were bursting. And paternally93, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took Raoul in his arms and placed him in the boat, the oars94 of which, at a signal, immediately were dipped in the waves. He himself, forgetful of ceremony, jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a vigorous foot. “Adieu!” cried Raoul.
Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something burning on his hand: it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud — the last farewell of the faithful dog. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the mole95 upon the stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by a chaland served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the mole, stunned96, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the features, one of the shades of the pale face of his son. With his arms hanging down, his eyes fixed97, his mouth open, he remained confounded with Raoul — in one same look, in one same thought, in one same stupor98. The sea, by degrees, carried away boats and faces to that distance at which men become nothing but points — loves, nothing but remembrances. Athos saw his son ascend99 the ladder of the admiral’s ship, he saw him lean upon the rail of the deck, and place himself in such a manner as to be always an object in the eye of his father. In vain the cannon thundered, in vain from the ship sounded the long and lordly tumult100, responded to by immense acclamations from the shore; in vain did the noise deafen101 the ear of the father, the smoke obscured the cherished object of his aspirations102. Raoul appeared to him to the last moment; and the imperceptible atom, passing from black to pale, from pale to white, from white to nothing, disappeared for Athos — disappeared very long after, to all the eyes of the spectators, had disappeared both gallant103 ships and swelling104 sails. Towards midday, when the sun devoured105 space, and scarcely the tops of the masts dominated the incandescent106 limit of the sea, Athos perceived a soft aerial shadow rise, and vanish as soon as seen. This was the smoke of a cannon, which M. de Beaufort ordered to be fired as a last salute107 to the coast of France. The point was buried in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned with slow and painful step to his deserted108 hostelry.
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1
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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solitarily
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| adv.独自一人地，寂寞地 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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8
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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13
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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repercussions
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| n.后果，反响( repercussion的名词复数 )；余波 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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maneuvered
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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34
hulls
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| 船体( hull的名词复数 )； 船身； 外壳； 豆荚 | |
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35
munitions
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| n.军火，弹药；v.供应…军需品 | |
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36
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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37
plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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38
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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39
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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40
largesse
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| n.慷慨援助，施舍 | |
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41
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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42
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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43
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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44
vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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45
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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46
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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47
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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48
plowing
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| v.耕( plow的现在分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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49
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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50
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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51
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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52
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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53
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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54
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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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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56
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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57
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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58
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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59
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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62
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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66
assassinations
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| n.暗杀( assassination的名词复数 ) | |
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67
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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debouch
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| v.流出，进入 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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81
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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82
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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83
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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84
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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85
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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86
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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87
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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89
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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90
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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91
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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93
paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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94
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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96
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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97
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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98
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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99
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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100
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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101
deafen
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| vt.震耳欲聋；使听不清楚 | |
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102
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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103
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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104
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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105
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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106
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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107
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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108
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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