How shall they gather in the straggling flock?
Dumb dogs which bark not — how shall they compel
The loitering vagrants2 to the Master’s fold?
Fitter to bask3 before the blazing fire,
And snuff the mess neat-handed Phillis dresses,
Than on the snow-wreath battle with the wolf.
Reformation.
The health of the Lady of Avenel had been gradually decaying ever since her disaster. It seemed as if the few years which followed her husband’s death had done on her the work of half a century. She lost the fresh elasticity4 of form, the colour and the mien5 of health, and became wasted, wan6, and feeble. She appeared to have no formed complaint; yet it was evident to those who looked on her, that her strength waned7 daily. Her lips at length became blenched8 and her eye dim; yet she spoke9 not of any desire to see a priest, until Elspeth Glendinning in her zeal10 could not refrain from touching11 upon a point which she deemed essential to salvation12. Alice of Avenel received her hint kindly13, and thanked her for it.
“If any good priest would take the trouble of such a journey,” she said, “he should be welcome; for the prayers and lessons of the good must be at all times advantageous14.”
This quiet acquiescence15 was not quite what Elspeth Glendinning wished or expected. She made up, however, by her own enthusiasm, for the lady’s want of eagerness to avail herself of ghostly counsel, and Martin was despatched with such haste as Shagram would make, to pray one of the religious men of Saint Mary’s to come up to administer the last consolations16 to the widow of Walter Avenel.
When the Sacristan had announced to the Lord Abbot, that the Lady of the umquhile Walter de Avenel was in very weak health in the Tower of Glendearg, and desired the assistance of a father confessor, the lordly monk17 paused on the request.
“We do remember Walter de Avenel,” he said; “a good knight18 and a valiant19: he was dispossessed of his lands, and slain20 by the Southron — May not the lady come hither to the sacrament of confession21? the road is distant and painful to travel.”
“The lady is unwell, holy father,” answered the Sacristan, “and unable to bear the journey.”
“True — ay — yes — then must one of our brethren go to her — Knowest thou if she hath aught of a jointure from this Walter de Avenel?”
“Very little, holy father,” said the Sacristan; “she hath resided at Glendearg since her husband’s death, well-nigh on the charity of a poor widow, called Elspeth Glendinning.”
“Why, thou knowest all the widows in the country-side!” said the Abbot. “Ho! ho! ho!” and he shook his portly sides at his own jest.
“Ho! ho! ho!” echoed the Sacristan, in the tone and tune22 in which an inferior applauds the jest of his superior. — Then added, with a hypocritical shuffle23, and a sly twinkle of his eye, “It is our duty, most holy father, to comfort the widow — He! he! he!”
This last laugh was more moderate, until the Abbot should put his sanction on the jest.
“Ho! ho!” said the Abbot; “then, to leave jesting, Father Philip, take thou thy riding gear, and go to confess this Dame24 Avenel.”
“But,” said the Sacristan ——
“Give me no Buts; neither But nor If pass between monk and Abbot, Father Philip; the bands of discipline must not be relaxed — heresy25 gathers force like a snow-ball — the multitude expect confessions26 and preachings from the Benedictine, as they would from so many beggarly friars — and we may not desert the vineyard, though the toil27 be grievous unto us.”
“And with so little advantage to the holy monastery28,” said the Sacristan.
“True, Father Philip; but wot you not that what preventeth harm doth good? This Julian de Avenel lives a light and evil life, and should we neglect the widow of his brother, he might foray our lands, and we never able to show who hurt us — moreover it is our duty to an ancient family, who, in their day, have been benefactors29 to the Abbey. Away with thee instantly, brother; ride night and day, an it be necessary, and let men see how diligent30 Abbot Boniface and his faithful children are in the execution of their spiritual duty — toil not deterring31 them, for the glen is five miles in length — fear not withholding32 them, for it is said to be haunted of spectres — nothing moving them from pursuit of their spiritual calling; to the confusion of calumnious33 heretics, and the comfort and edification of all true and faithful sons of the Catholic Church. I wonder what our brother Eustace will say to this?”
Breathless with his own picture of the dangers and toil which he was to encounter, and the fame which he was to acquire, (both by proxy,) the Abbot moved slowly to finish his luncheon34 in the refectory, and the Sacristan, with no very good will, accompanied old Martin in his return to Glendearg; the greatest impediment in the journey being the trouble of restraining his pampered35 mule36, that she might tread in something like an equal pace with poor jaded37 Shagram.
After remaining an hour in private with his penitent38, the monk returned moody39 and full of thought. Dame Elspeth, who had placed for the honoured guest some refreshment40 in the hall, was struck with the embarrassment41 which appeared in his countenance42. Elspeth watched him with great anxiety. She observed there was that on his brow which rather resembled a person come from hearing the confession of some enormous crime, than the look of a confessor who resigns a reconciled penitent, not to earth, but to heaven. After long hesitating, she could not at length refrain from hazarding a question. She was sure she said, the leddy had made an easy shrift. Five years had they resided together, and she could safely say, no woman lived better.
“Woman,” said the Sacristan, sternly, “thou speakest thou knowest not what — What avails clearing the outside of the platter, if the inside be foul43 with heresy?”
“Our dishes and trenchers are not so clean as they could be wished, holy father,” said Elspeth, but half understanding what he said, and beginning with her apron45 to wipe the dust from the plates, of which she supposed him to complain.
“Forbear, Dame Elspeth” said the monk; “your plates are as clean as wooden trenchers and pewter flagons can well be; the foulness46 of which I speak is of that pestilential heresy which is daily becoming ingrained in this our Holy Church of Scotland, and as a canker-worm in the rose-garland of the Spouse47.”
“Holy Mother of Heaven!” said Dame Elspeth, crossing herself, “have I kept house with a heretic?”
“No, Elspeth, no,” replied the monk; “it were too strong a speech for me to make of this unhappy lady, but I would I could say she is free from heretical opinions. Alas48! they fly about like the pestilence49 by noon-day, and infect even the first and fairest of the flock! For it is easy to see of this dame, that she hath been high in judgment50 as in rank.”
“And she can write and read, I had almost said, as weel as your reverence52” said Elspeth.
“Whom doth she write to, and what doth she read?” said the monk, eagerly.
“Nay,” replied Elspeth, “I cannot say I ever saw her write at all, but her maiden53 that was — she now serves the family — says she can write — And for reading, she has often read to us good things out of a thick black volume with silver clasps.”
“Let me see it,” said the monk, hastily, “on your allegiance as a true vassal54 — on your faith as a Catholic Christian55 — instantly — instantly let me see it.”
The good woman hesitated, alarmed at the tone in which the confessor took up her information; and being moreover of opinion, that what so good a woman as the Lady of Avenel studied so devoutly56, could not be of a tendency actually evil. But borne down by the clamour, exclamations57, and something like threats used by Father Philip, she at length brought him the fatal volume. It was easy to do this without suspicion on the part of the owner, as she lay on her bed exhausted58 with the fatigue59 of a long conference with her confessor, and as the small round, or turret60 closet, in which was the book and her other trifling61 property, was accessible by another door. Of all her effects the book was the last she would have thought of securing, for of what use or interest could it be in a family who neither read themselves, nor were in the habit of seeing any who did? so that Dame Elspeth had no difficulty in possessing herself of the volume, although her heart all the while accused her of an ungenerous and an inhospitable part towards her friend and inmate62. The double power of a landlord and a feudal63 superior was before her eyes; and to say truth, the boldness, with which she might otherwise have resisted this double authority, was, I grieve to say it, much qualified64 by the curiosity she entertained, as a daughter of Eve, to have some explanation respecting the mysterious volume which the lady cherished with so much care, yet whose contents she imparted with such caution. For never had Alice of Avenel read them any passage from the book in question until the iron door of the tower was locked, and all possibility of intrusion prevented. Even then she had shown, by the selection of particular passages, that she was more anxious to impress on their minds the principles which the volume contained, than to introduce them to it as a new rule of faith.
When Elspeth, half curious, half remorseful65, had placed the book in the monk’s hands, he exclaimed, after turning over the leaves, “Now, by mine order, it is as I suspected! — My mule, my mule! — I will abide66 no longer here — well hast thou done, dame, in placing in my hands this perilous67 volume.”
“Is it then witchcraft69 or devil’s work?” said Dame Elspeth, in great agitation70.
“Nay, God forbid!” said the monk, signing himself with the cross, “it is the Holy Scripture71. But it is rendered into the vulgar tongue, and therefore, by the order of the Holy Catholic Church, unfit to be in the hands of any lay person.”
“And yet is the Holy Scripture communicated for our common salvation,” said Elspeth. “Good Father, you must instruct mine ignorance better; but lack of wit cannot be a deadly sin, and truly, to my poor thinking, I should be glad to read the Holy Scripture.”
“I dare say thou wouldst,” said the monk; “and even thus did our mother Eve seek to have knowledge of good and evil, and thus Sin came into the world, and Death by Sin.”
“I am sure, and it is true,” said Elspeth. “Oh, if she had dealt by the counsel of Saint Peter and Saint Paul!”
“If she had reverenced72 the command of Heaven,” said the monk, “which, as it gave her birth, life, and happiness, fixed73 upon the grant such conditions as best corresponded with its holy pleasure. I tell thee, Elspeth, the Word slayeth — that is, the text alone, read with unskilled eye and unhallowed lips, is like those strong medicines which sick men take by the advice of the learned. Such patients recover and thrive; while those dealing75 in them at their own hand, shall perish by their own deed.”
“Nae doubt, nae doubt,” said the poor woman, “your reverence knows best.”
“Not I,” said Father Philip, in a tone as deferential76 as he thought could possibly become the Sacristan of Saint Mary’s — “Not I, but the Holy Father of Christendom, and our own holy father, the Lord Abbot, know best. I, the poor Sacristan of Saint Mary’s, can but repeat what I hear from others my superiors. Yet of this, good woman, be assured — the Word, the mere77 Word, slayetlh. But the church hath her ministers to gloze and to expound78 the same unto her faithful congregation; and this I say, not so much, my beloved brethren — I mean my beloved sister,” (for the Sacristan had got into the end of one of his old sermons,)—“This I speak not so much of the rectors, curates, and secular79 clergy80, so called because they live after the fashion of the seculum or age, unbound by those ties which sequestrate us from the world; neither do I speak this of the mendicant81 friars, whether black or gray, whether crossed or uncrossed; but of the monks82, and especially of the monks Benedictine, reformed on the rule of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, thence called Cistercian, of which monks, Christian brethren — sister, I would say — great is the happiness and glory of the country in possessing the holy ministers of Saint Mary’s, whereof I, though an unworthy brother, may say it hath produced more saints, more bishops84, more popes — may our patrons make us thankful! — than any holy foundation in Scotland. Wherefore — But I see Martin hath my mule in readiness, and I will but salute85 you with the kiss of sisterhood, which maketh not ashamed, and so betake me to my toilsome return, for the glen is of bad reputation for the evil spirits which haunt it. Moreover, I may arrive too late at the bridge, whereby I may be obliged to take to the river, which I observed to be somewhat waxen.”
Accordingly, he took his leave of Dame Elspeth, who was confounded by the rapidity of his utterance86, and the doctrine87 he gave forth88, and by no means easy on the subject of the book, which her conscience told her she should not have communicated to any one, without the knowledge of its owner.
Notwithstanding the haste which the monk as well as the mule made to return to better quarters than they had left at the head of Glendearg; notwithstanding the eager desire Father Philip had to be the very first who should acquaint the Abbot that a copy of the book they most dreaded89 had been found within the Halidome, or patrimony90 of the Abbey; notwithstanding, moreover, certain feelings which induced him to hurry as fast as possible through the gloomy and evil-reputed glen, still the difficulties of the road, and the rider’s want of habitude of quick motion, were such, that twilight91 came upon him ere he had nearly cleared the narrow valley. It was indeed a gloomy ride. The two sides of the vale were so near, that at every double of the river the shadows from the western sky fell upon, and totally obscured, the eastern bank; the thickets92 of copsewood seemed to wave with a portentous93 agitation of boughs94 and leaves, and the very crags and scaurs seemed higher and grimmer than they had appeared to the monk while he was travelling in daylight, and in company. Father Philip was heartily95 rejoiced, when, emerging from the narrow glen, he gained the open valley of the Tweed, which held on its majestic96 course from current to pool, and from pool stretched away to other currents, with a dignity peculiar97 to itself amongst the Scottish rivers; for whatever may have been the drought of the season, the Tweed usually fills up the space between its banks, seldom leaving those extensive sheets of shingle98 which deform99 the margins100 of many of the celebrated101 Scottish streams.
The monk, insensible to beauties which the age had not regarded as deserving of notice, was, nevertheless, like a prudent102 general, pleased to find himself out of the narrow glen in which the enemy might have stolen upon him unperceived. He drew up his bridle103, reduced his mule to her natural and luxurious104 amble105, instead of the agitating106 and broken trot107 at which, to his no small inconvenience, she had hitherto proceeded, and, wiping his brow, gazed forth at leisure on the broad moon, which, now mingling108 with the lights of evening, was rising over field and forest, village and fortalice, and, above all, over the stately Monastery, seen far and dim amid the vellow light.
The worst part of the magnificent view, in the monk’s apprehension109, was, that the Monastery stood on the opposite side of the river, and that of the many fine bridges which have since been built across that classical stream, not one then existed. There was, however, in recompense, a bridge then standing44 which has since disappeared, although its ruins may still be traced by the curious.
It was of a very peculiar form. Two strong abutments were built on either side of the river, at a part where the stream was peculiarly contracted. Upon a rock in the centre of the current was built a solid piece of masonry110, constructed like the pier111 of a bridge, and presenting, like a pier, an angle to the current of the stream. The masonry continued solid until the pier rose to a level with the two abutments upon either side, and from thence the building rose in the form of a tower. The lower story of this tower consisted only of an archway or passage through the building, over either entrance to which hung a drawbridge with counterpoises, either of which, when dropped, connected the archway with the opposite abutment, where the farther end of the drawbridge rested. When both bridges were thus lowered, the passage over the river was complete.
The bridge-keeper, who was the dependant112 of a neighbouring baron113, resided with his family in the second and third stories of the tower, which, when both drawbridges were raised, formed an insulated fortalice in the midst of the river. He was entitled to a small toll114 or custom for the passage, concerning the amount of which disputes sometimes arose between him and the passengers. It is needless to say, that the bridge-ward had usually the better in these questions, since he could at pleasure detain the traveller on the opposite side; or, suffering him to pass half way, might keep him prisoner in his tower till they were agreed on the rate of pontage.25
But it was most frequently with the Monks of Saint Mary’s that the warder had to dispute his perquisites115. These holy men insisted for, and at length obtained, a right of gratuitous116 passage to themselves, greatly to the discontent of the bridge-keeper. But when they demanded the same immunity117 for the numerous pilgrims who visited the shrine118, the bridge-keeper waxed restive119, and was supported by his lord in his resistance. The controversy120 grew animated121 on both sides; the Abbot menaced excommunication, and the keeper of the bridge, though unable to retaliate122 in kind, yet made each individual monk who had to cross and recross the river, endure a sort of purgatory123, ere he would accommodate them with a passage. This was a great inconvenience, and would have proved a more serious one, but that the river was fordable for man and horse in ordinary weather.
It was a fine moonlight night, as we have already said, when Father Philip approached this bridge, the singular construction of which gives a curious idea of the insecurity of the times. The river was not in flood, but it was above its ordinary level — a heavy water, as it is called in that country, through which the monk had no particular inclination125 to ride, if he could manage the matter better.
“Peter, my good friend,” cried the Sacristan, raising his voice; “my very excellent friend, Peter, be so kind as to lower the drawbridge. Peter, I say, dost thou not hear? — it is thy gossip, Father Philip, who calls thee.”
Peter heard him perfectly126 well, and saw him into the bargain; but as he had considered the Sacristan as peculiarly his enemy in his dispute with the convent, he went quietly to bed, after reconnoitring the monk through his loop-hole, observing to his wife, that “riding the water in a moonlight night would do the Sacristan no harm, and would teach him the value of a brig the neist time, on whilk a man might pass high and dry, winter and summer, flood and ebb127.”
After exhausting his voice in entreaties128 and threats, which were equally unattended to by Peter of the Brig, as he was called, Father Philip at length moved down the river to take the ordinary ford124 at the head of the next stream. Cursing the rustic129 obstinacy130 of Peter, he began, nevertheless, to persuade himself that the passage of the river by the ford was not only safe, but pleasant. The banks and scattered131 trees were so beautifully reflected from the bosom132 of the dark stream, the whole cool and delicious picture formed so pleasing a contrast to his late agitation, to the warmth occasioned by his vain endeavours to move the relentless133 porter of the bridge, that the result was rather agreeable than otherwise.
As Father Philip came close to the water’s edge, at the spot where he was to enter it, there sat a female under a large broken scathed134 oak-tree, or rather under the remains135 of such a tree, weeping, wringing136 her hands, and looking earnestly on the current of the river. The monk was struck with astonishment137 to see a female there at that time of night. But he was, in all honest service — and if a step farther, I put it upon his own conscience — a devoted138 squire139 of dames140. After observing the maiden for a moment, although she seemed to take no notice of his presence, he was moved by her distress141, and willing to offer his assistance. “Damsel,” said he, “thou seemest in no ordinary distress; peradventure, like myself, thou hast been refused passage at the bridge by the churlish keeper, and thy crossing may concern thee either for performance of a vow142, or some other weighty charge.”
The maiden uttered some inarticulate sounds, looked at the river, and then in the face of the Sacristan. It struck Father Philip at that instant, that a Highland143 chief of distinction had been for some time expected to pay his vows144 at the shrine of Saint Mary’s; and that possibly this fair maiden might be one of his family, travelling alone for accomplishment145 of a vow, or left behind by some accident, to whom, therefore, it would be but right and prudent to use every civility in his power, especially as she seemed unacquainted with the Lowland tongue. Such at least was the only motive146 the Sacristan was ever known to assign for his courtesy; if there was any other, I once more refer it to his own conscience.
To express himself by signs, the common language of all nations, the cautious Sacristan first pointed147 to the river, then to his mule’s crupper, and then made, as gracefully148 as he could, a sign to induce the fair solitary149 to mount behind him. She seemed to understand his meaning, for she rose up as if to accept his offer; and while the good monk, who, as we have hinted, was no great cavalier, laboured, with the pressure of the right leg and the use of the left rein150, to place his mule with her side to the bank in such a position that the lady might mount with ease, she rose from the ground with rather portentous activity, and at one bound sate151 behind the monk upon the animal, much the firmer rider of the two. The mule by no means seemed to approve of this double burden; she bounded, bolted, and would soon have thrown Father Philip over her head, had not the maiden with a firm hand detained him in the saddle.
At last the restive brute152 changed her humour; and, from refusing to budge153 off the spot, suddenly stretched her nose homeward, and dashed into the ford as fast as she could scamper154. A new terror now invaded the monk’s mind — the ford seemed unusually deep, the water eddied155 off in strong ripple156 from the counter of the mule, and began to rise upon her side. Philip lost his presence of mind — which was at no time his most ready attribute, the mule yielded to the weight of the current, and as the rider was not attentive157 to keep her head turned up the river, she drifted downward, lost the ford and her footing at once, and began to swim with her head down the stream. And what was sufficiently158 strange, at the same moment, notwithstanding the extreme peril68, the damsel began to sing, thereby159 increasing, if anything could increase, the bodily fear of the worthy83 Sacristan.
I.
Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
Both current and ripple are dancing in light.
We have roused the night raven160, I heard him croak161,
As we plashed along beneath the oak
That flings its broad branches so far and so wide,
Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide.
“Who wakens my nestlings,” the raven he said,
“My beak162 shall ere morn in his blood be red.
For a blue swoln corpse163 is a dainty meal.
And I’ll have my share with the pike and the eel51.”
ii.
Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
There’s a golden gleam on the distant height;
There’s a silver shower on the alders164 dank.
And the drooping165 willows166 that wave on the bank.
I see the abbey, both turret and tower,
It is all astir for the vesper hour;
The monks for the chapel167 are leaving each cell.
But Where’s Father Philip, should toll the bell?
iii.
Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
Downward we drift through shadow and light,
Under yon rock the eddies168 sleep,
Calm and silent, dark and deep.
The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless169 pool.
He has lighted his candle of death and of dool.
Look, Father, look, and you’ll laugh to see
How he gapes170 and glares with his eyes on thee.
iv.
Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to-night?
A man of mean, or a man of might?
Is it layman171 or priest that must float in your cove74,
Or lover who crosses to visit his love?
Hark! heard ye the Kelpy reply, as we pass’d —
“God’s blessing172 on the warder, he lock’d the bridge fast!
All that come to my cove are sunk,
Priest or layman, lover or monk.”
How long the damsel might have continued to sing, or where the terrified monk’s journey might have ended, is uncertain. As she sung the last stanza173, they arrived at, or rather in, a broad tranquil174 sheet of water, caused by a strong wear or damhead, running across the river, which dashed in a broad cataract175 over the barrier. The mule, whether from choice, or influenced by the suction of the current, made towards the cut intended to supply the convent mills, and entered it half swimming half wading176, and pitching the unlucky monk to and fro in the saddle at a fearful rate.
As his person flew hither and thither177, his garment became loose, and in an effort to retain it, his hand lighted on the volume of the Lady of Avenel which was in his bosom. No sooner had he grasped it, than his companion pitched him out of the saddle into the stream, where, still keeping her hand on his collar, she gave him two or three good souses in the watery178 fluid, so as to ensure that every other part of him had its share of wetting, and then quitted her hold when he was so near the side that by a slight effort (of a great one he was incapable) he might scramble179 on shore. This accordingly he accomplished180, and turning his eyes to see what had become of his extraordinary companion, she was nowhere to be seen; but still he heard, as if from the surface of the river, and mixing with the noise of the water breaking over the damhead, a fragment of her wild song, which seemed to run thus:—
Landed — landed! the black book hath won.
Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun!
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe181 mot ye be,
For seldom they land that go swimming with me.
The ecstasy182 of the monk’s terror could be endured no longer; his head grew dizzy, and, after staggering a few steps onward183 and running himself against a wall, he sunk down in a state of insensibility.
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收听单词发音
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1
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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vagrants
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| 流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 )； 无业游民； 乞丐； 无赖 | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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6
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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7
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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8
blenched
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| v.（因惊吓而）退缩，惊悸( blench的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变白，（使）变苍白 | |
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9
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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10
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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13
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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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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24
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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25
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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26
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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27
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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28
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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29
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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30
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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31
deterring
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的现在分词 ) | |
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32
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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33
calumnious
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| adj.毁谤的，中伤的 | |
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34
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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35
pampered
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|
| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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37
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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38
penitent
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|
| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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39
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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40
refreshment
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|
| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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41
embarrassment
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|
| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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42
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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43
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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44
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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45
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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46
foulness
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|
| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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47
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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48
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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49
pestilence
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|
| n.瘟疫 | |
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50
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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51
eel
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| n.鳗鲡 | |
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52
reverence
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|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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53
maiden
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|
| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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54
vassal
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|
| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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55
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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56
devoutly
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|
| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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57
exclamations
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|
| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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58
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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59
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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60
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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61
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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62
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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63
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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64
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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65
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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66
abide
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|
| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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67
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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68
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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69
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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70
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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71
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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72
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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73
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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74
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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75
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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76
deferential
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|
| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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77
mere
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|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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78
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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79
secular
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|
| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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80
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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81
mendicant
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|
| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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82
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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83
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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84
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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85
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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86
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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87
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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88
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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89
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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90
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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91
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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92
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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93
portentous
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|
| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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94
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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95
heartily
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|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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96
majestic
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|
| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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97
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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98
shingle
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|
| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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99
deform
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| vt.损坏…的形状；使变形，使变丑；vi.变形 | |
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100
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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101
celebrated
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|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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102
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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103
bridle
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|
| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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104
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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105
amble
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| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
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106
agitating
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|
| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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107
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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108
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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109
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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110
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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111
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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112
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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113
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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114
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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115
perquisites
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| n.（工资以外的）财务补贴( perquisite的名词复数 )；额外收入；（随职位而得到的）好处；利益 | |
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116
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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117
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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118
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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119
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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120
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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121
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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122
retaliate
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| v.报复，反击 | |
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123
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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124
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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125
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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126
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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127
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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128
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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129
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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130
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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131
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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132
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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133
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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134
scathed
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| v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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136
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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137
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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138
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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139
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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140
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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141
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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142
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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143
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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144
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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145
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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146
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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147
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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148
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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149
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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150
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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151
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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eddied
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| 起漩涡，旋转( eddy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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157
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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gapes
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的第三人称单数 )；张开，张大 | |
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layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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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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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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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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181
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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