Though fools are lavish3 on’t — the fatal Fisher
Hooks souls, while we waste moments.
Old play.
A November mist overspread the little valley, up which slowly but steadily4 rode the Monk5 Eustace. He was not insensible to the feeling of melancholy6 inspired by the scene and by the season. The stream seemed to murmur7 with a deep and oppressed note, as if bewailing the departure of autumn. Among the scattered9 copses which here and there fringed its banks, the oak-trees only retained that pallid10 green that precedes their russet hue11. The leaves of the willows12 were most of them stripped from the branches, lay rustling13 at each breath, and disturbed by every step of the mule14; while the foliage15 of other trees, totally withered16, kept still precarious18 possession of the boughs19, waiting the first wind to scatter8 them.
The monk dropped into the natural train of pensive20 thought which these autumnal emblems21 of mortal hopes are peculiarly calculated to inspire. “There,” he said, looking at the leaves which lay strewed22 around, “lie the hopes of early youth, first formed that they may soonest wither17, and loveliest in spring to become most contemptible23 in winter; but you, ye lingerers,” he added, looking to a knot of beeches25 which still bore their withered leaves, “you are the proud plans of adventurous26 manhood, formed later, and still clinging to the mind of age, although it acknowledges their inanity28! None lasts — none endures, save the foliage of the hardy29 oak, which only begins to show itself when that of the rest of the forest has enjoyed half its existence. A pale and decayed hue is all it possesses, but still it retains that symptom of vitality30 to the last. — So be it with Father Eustace! The fairy hopes of my youth I have trodden under foot like those neglected rustlers — to the prouder dreams of my manhood I look back as to lofty chimeras31, of which the pith and essence have long since faded; but my religious vows32, the faithful profession which I have made in my maturer age, shall retain life while aught of Eustace lives. Dangerous it may be — feeble it must be — yet live it shall, the proud determination to serve the Church of which I am a member, and to combat the heresies33 by which she is assailed34.” Thus spoke35, at least thus thought, a man zealous37 according to his imperfect knowledge, confounding the vital interests of Christianity with the extravagant39 and usurped40 claims of the Church of Rome, and defending his cause with an ardour worthy41 of a better.
While moving onward42 in this contemplative mood, he could not help thinking more than once, that he saw in his path the form of a female dressed in white, who appeared in the attitude of lamentation43. But the impression was only momentary44, and whenever he looked steadily to the point where he conceived the figure appeared, it always proved that he had mistaken some natural object, a white crag, or the trunk of a decayed birch-tree with its silver bark, for the appearance in question.
Father Eustace had dwelt too long in Rome to partake the superstitious45 feelings of the more ignorant Scottish clergy46; yet he certainly thought it extraordinary, that so strong an impression should have been made on his mind by the legend of the Sacristan. “It is strange,” he said to himself, “that this story, which doubtless was the invention of Brother Philip to cover his own impropriety of conduct, should run so much in my head, and disturb my more serious thoughts — I am wont47, I think, to have more command over my senses. I will repeat my prayers, and banish48 such folly49 from my recollection.”
The monk accordingly began with devotion to tell his beads50, in pursuance of the prescribed rule of his order, and was not again disturbed by any wanderings of the imagination, until he found himself beneath the little fortalice of Glendearg.
Dame51 Glendinning, who stood at the gate, set up a shout of surprise and joy at seeing the good father. “Martin,” she said, “Jasper, where be a’ the folk? — help the right reverend Sub-Prior to dismount, and take his mule from him. — O father! God has sent you in our need — I was just going to send man and horse to the convent, though I ought to be ashamed to give so much trouble to your reverences52.”
“Our trouble matters not, good dame,” said Father Eustace; “in what can I pleasure you? I came hither to visit the Lady of Avenel.”
“Well-a-day!” said Dame Alice, “and it was on her part that I had the boldness to think of summoning you, for the good lady will never be able to wear over the day! — Would it please you to go to her chamber54?”
“Hath she not been shriven by Father Philip?” said the monk.
“Shriven she was,” said the Dame of Glendearg, “and by Father Philip, as your reverence53 truly says — but — I wish it may have been a clean shrift — Methought Father Philip looked but moody55 upon it — and there was a book which he took away with him, that —” She paused as if unwilling56 to proceed.
“Speak out, Dame Glendinning,” said the Father; “with us it is your duty to have no secrets.”
“Nay, if it please your reverence, it is not that I would keep anything from your reverence’s knowledge, but I fear I should prejudice the lady in your opinion; for she is an excellent lady — months and years has she dwelt in this tower, and none more exemplary than she; but this matter, doubtless, she will explain it herself to your reverence.”
“I desire first to know it from you, Dame Glendinning,” said the monk; “and I again repeat, it is your duty to tell it to me.”
“This book, if it please your reverence, which Father Philip removed from Glendearg, was this morning returned to us in a strange manner,” said the good widow.
“Returned!” said the monk; “how mean you?”
“I mean,” answered Dame Glendinning, “that it was brought back to the tower of Glendearg, the saints best know how — that same book which Father Philip carried with him but yesterday. Old Martin, that is my tasker and the lady’s servant, was driving out the cows to the pasture — for we have three good milk-cows, reverend father, blessed be Saint Waldave, and thanks to the holy Monastery57 —”
The monk groaned58 with impatience59; but he remembered that a woman of the good dame’s condition was like a top, which, if you let it spin on untouched, must at last come to a pause; but, if you interrupt it by flogging, there is no end to its gyrations. “But, to speak no more of the cows, your reverence, though they are likely cattle as ever were tied to a stake, the tasker was driving them out, and the lads, that is my Halbert and my Edward, that your reverence has seen at church on holidays, and especially Halbert — for you patted him on the head and gave him a brooch of Saint Cuthbert, which he wears in his bonnet60 — and little Mary Avenel, that is the lady’s daughter, they ran all after the cattle, and began to play up and down the pasture as young folk will, your reverence. And at length they lost sight of Martin and the cows; and they began to run up a little cleugh which we call Corri-nan-Shian, where there is a wee bit stripe of a burn, and they saw there — Good guide us! — a White Woman sitting on the burnside wringing61 her hands — so the bairns were frighted to see a strange woman sitting there, all but Halbert, who will be sixteen come Whitsuntide; and, besides, he never feared ony thing — and when they went up to her — behold62 she was passed away!”
“For shame, good woman!” said Father Eustace; “a woman of your sense to listen to a tale so idle! — the young folk told you a lie, and that was all.”
“Nay, sir, it was more than that,” said the old dame; “for, besides that they never told me a lie in their lives, I must warn you that on the very ground where the White Woman was sitting, they found the Lady of Avenel’s book, and brought it with them to the tower.”
“That is worthy of mark at least,” said the monk. “Know you no other copy of this volume within these bounds?”
“None, your reverence,” returned Elspeth; “why should there? — no one could read it were there twenty.”
“Then you are sure it is the very same volume which you gave to Father Philip?” said the monk.
“As sure as that I now speak with your reverence.”
“It is most singular!” said the monk; and he walked across the room in a musing63 posture64.
“I have been upon nettles65 to hear what your reverence would say,” continued Dame Glendinning, “respecting this matter — There is nothing I would not do for the Lady of Avenel and her family, and that has been proved, and for her servants to boot, both Martin and Tibb, although Tibb is not so civil sometimes as altogether I have a right to expect; but I cannot think it beseeming to have angels, or ghosts, or fairies, or the like, waiting upon a leddy when she is in another woman’s house, in respect it is no ways creditable. Ony thing she had to do was always done to her hand, without costing her either pains or pence, as a country body says; and besides the discredit66, I cannot but think that there is no safety in having such unchancy creatures about ane. But I have tied red thread round the bairns’s throats,” (so her fondness still called them,) “and given ilka ane of them a riding-wand of rowan-tree, forby sewing up a slip of witch-elm into their doublets; and I wish to know of your reverence if there be ony thing mair that a lone67 woman can do in the matter of ghosts and fairies? — Be here! that I should have named their unlucky names twice ower!”
“Dame Glendinning,” answered the monk, somewhat abruptly68, when the good woman had finished her narrative69, “I pray you, do you know the miller’s daughter?”
“Did I know Kate Happer?” replied the widow; “as well as the beggar knows his dish — a canty quean was Kate, and a special cummer of my ain maybe twenty years syne70.”
“She cannot be the wench I mean,” said Father Eustace; “she after whom I inquire is scarce fifteen, a black-eyed girl — you may have seen her at the kirk.”
“Your reverence must be in the right; and she is my cummer’s nie’ce, doubtless, that you are pleased to speak of: but I thank God I have always been too duteous in attention to the mass, to know whether young wenches have black eyes or green ones.”
The good father had so much of the world about him, that he was unable to avoid smiling, when the dame boasted her absolute resistance to a temptation, which was not quite so liable to beset71 her as those of the other sex.
“Perhaps, then,” he said, “you know her usual dress, Dame Glendinning?”
“Ay, ay, father,” answered the dame readily enough, “a white kirtle the wench wears, to hide the dust of the mill, no doubt — and a blue hood27, that might weel be spared, for pridefulness.”
“Then, may it not be she,” said the father, “who has brought back this book, and stepped out of the way when the children came near her?”
The dame paused — was unwilling to combat the solution suggested by the monk — but was at a loss to conceive why the lass of the mill should come so far from home into so wild a corner merely to leave an old book with three children, from whose observation she wished to conceal72 herself.
Above all, she could not understand why, since she had acquaintances in the family, and since the Dame Glendinning had always paid her multure and knaveship duly, the said lass of the mill had not come in to rest herself and eat a morsel73, and tell her the current news of the water.
These very objections satisfied the monk that his conjectures74 were right. “Dame,” he said, “you must be cautious in what you say. This is an instance — I would it were the sole one — of the power of the Enemy in these days. The matter must be sifted75 — with a curious and a careful hand.”
“Indeed,” said Elspeth, trying to catch and chime in with the ideas of the Sub-Prior, “I have often thought the miller’s folk at the Monastery-mill were far over careless in sifting76 our melder, and in bolting it too — some folk say they will not stick at whiles to put in a handful of ashes amongst Christian38 folk’s corn-meal.”
“That shall be looked after also, dame,” said the Sub-Prior, not displeased77 to see that the good old woman went off on a false scent78; “and now, by your leave, I will see this lady — do you go before, and prepare her to see me.”
Dame Glendinning left the lower apartment accordingly, which the monk paced in anxious reflection, considering how he might best discharge, with humanity as well as with effect, the important duty imposed on him. He resolved to approach the bedside of the sick person with reprimands, mitigated79 only by a feeling for her weak condition — he determined80, in case of her reply, to which late examples of hardened heretics might encourage her, to be prepared with answers to the customary scruples81. High fraught82, also, with zeal36 against her unauthorized intrusion into the priestly function, by study of the Sacred Scriptures83, he imagined to himself the answers which one of the modern school of heresy84 might return to him — the victorious85 refutation which should lay the disputant prostrate86 at the Confessor’s mercy — and the healing, yet awful exhortation87, which, under pain of refusing the last consolations88 of religion, he designed to make to the penitent90, conjuring91 her, as she loved her own soul’s welfare, to disclose to him what she knew of the dark mystery of iniquity92, by which heresies were introduced into the most secluded93 spots of the very patrimony94 of the Church herself — what agents they had who could thus glide95, as it were unseen, from place to place, bring back the volume which the Church had interdicted96 to the spots from which it had been removed under her express auspices97; and, who, by encouraging the daring and profane98 thirst after knowledge forbidden and useless to the laity99, had encouraged the fisher of souls to use with effect his old bait of ambition and vain-glory.
Much of this premeditated disputation escaped the good father, when Elspeth returned, her tears flowing faster than her apron100 could dry them, and made him a signal to follow her. “How,” said the monk, “is she then so near her end? — nay, the Church must not break or bruise101, when comfort is yet possible;” and forgetting his polemics102, the good Sub-Prior hastened to the little apartment, where, on the wretched bed which she had occupied since her misfortunes had driven her to the Tower of Glendearg, the widow of Walter Avenel had rendered up her spirit to her Creator. “My God!” said the Sub-Prior, “and has my unfortunate dallying103 suffered her to depart without the Church’s consolation89! Look to her, dame,” he exclaimed, with eager impatience; “is there not yet a sparkle of the life left? — may she not be recalled — recalled but for a moment? — Oh! would that she could express, but by the most imperfect word — but by the most feeble motion, her acquiescence104 in the needful task of penitential prayer! — Does she not breathe? — Art thou sure she doth not?”
“She will never breathe more,” said the matron. “Oh! the poor fatherless girl — now motherless also — Oh, the kind companion I have had these many years, whom I shall never see again! But she is in heaven for certain, if ever woman went there; for a woman of better life ——”
“Wo to me,” said the good monk, “if indeed she went not hence in good assurance — wo to the reckless shepherd, who suffered the wolf to carry a choice one from the flock, while he busied himself with trimming his sling105 and his staff to give the monster battle! Oh! if in the long Hereafter, aught but weal should that poor spirit share, what has my delay cost? — the value of an immortal106 soul!”
He then approached the body, full of the deep remorse107 natural to a good man of his persuasion108, who devoutly109 believed the doctrines110 of the Catholic Church. “Ay,” said he, gazing on the pallid corpse112, from which the spirit had parted so placidly113 as to leave a smile upon the thin blue lips, which had been so long wasted by decay that they had parted with the last breath of animation114 without the slightest convulsive tremor115 —“Ay,” said Father Eustace, “there lies the faded tree, and, as it fell, so it lies — awful thought for me, should my neglect have left it to descend116 in an evil direction!” He then again and again conjured117 Dame Glendinning to tell him what she knew of the demeanour and ordinary walk of the deceased.
All tended to the high honour of the deceased lady; for her companion, who admired her sufficiently118 while alive, notwithstanding some trifling119 points of jealousy120, now idolized her after her death, and could think of no attribute of praise with which she did not adorn121 her memory.
Indeed, the Lady of Avenel, however she might privately122 doubt some of the doctrines announced by the Church of Rome, and although she had probably tacitly appealed from that corrupted123 system of Christianity to the volume on which Christianity itself is founded, had nevertheless been regular in her attendance on the worship of the Church, not, perhaps, extending her scruples so far as to break off communion. Such indeed was the first sentiment of the earlier reformers, who seemed to have studied, for a time at least, to avoid a schism124, until the violence of the Pope rendered it inevitable125.
Father Eustace, on the present occasion, listened with eagerness to everything which could lead to assure him of the lady’s orthodoxy in the main points of belief; for his conscience reproached him sorely, that, instead of protracting126 conversation with the Dame of Glendearg, he had not instantly hastened where his presence was so necessary. “If,” he said, addressing the dead body, “thou art yet free from the utmost penalty due to the followers128 of false doctrine111 — if thou dost but suffer for a time, to expiate129 faults done in the body, but partaking of mortal frailty130 more than of deadly sin, fear not that thy abode131 shall be long in the penal127 regions to which thou mayest be doomed132 — if vigils — if masses — if penance133 — if maceration134 of my body, till it resembles that extenuated135 form which the soul hath abandoned, may assure thy deliverance. The Holy Church — the godly foundation — our blessed Patroness herself, shall intercede136 for one whose errors were counter-balanced by so many virtues137. — Leave me, dame — here, and by her bed-side, will I perform those duties — which this piteous case demands!”
Elspeth left the monk, who employed himself in fervent138 and sincere, though erroneous prayers, for the weal of the departed spirit. For an hour he remained in the apartment of death, and then returned to the hall, where he found the still weeping friend of the deceased.
But it would be injustice139 to Mrs. Glendinning’s hospitality, if we suppose her to have been weeping during this long interval140, or rather if we suppose her so entirely141 absorbed by the tribute of sorrow which she paid frankly142 and plentifully143 to her deceased friend, as to be incapable144 of attending to the rights of hospitality due to the holy visitor — who was confessor at once, and Sub-Prior — mighty145 in all religious and secular146 considerations, so far as the vassals147 of the Monastery were interested.
Her barley148-bread had been toasted — her choicest cask of home-brewed ale had been broached149 — her best butter had been placed on the hall-table, along with her most savoury ham, and her choicest cheese, ere she abandoned herself to the extremity150 of sorrow; and it was not till she had arranged her little repast neatly151 on the board, that she sat down in the chimney corner, threw her checked apron over her head, and gave way to the current of tears and sobs152. In this there was no grimace153 or affectation. The good dame held the honours of her house to be as essential a duty, especially when a monk was her visitant, as any other pressing call upon her conscience; nor until these were suitably attended to did she find herself at liberty to indulge her sorrow for her departed friend.
When she was conscious of the Sub-Prior’s presence, she rose with the same attention to his reception; but he declined all the offers of hospitality with which she endeavoured to tempt24 him. Not her butter, as yellow as gold, and the best, she assured him, that was made in the patrimony of St. Mary — not the barley scones154, which “the departed saint, God sain her! used to say were so good”— not the ale, nor any other cates which poor Elspeth’s stores afforded, could prevail on the Sub-Prior to break his fast. “This day,” he said, “I must not taste food until the sun go down, happy if, in so doing, I can expiate my own negligence155 — happier still, if my sufferings of this trifling nature, undertaken in pure faith and singleness of heart, may benefit the soul of the deceased. Yet, dame,” he added, I may not so far forget the living in my cares for the dead, as to leave behind me that book, which is to the ignorant what, to our first parents, the tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil unhappily proved-excellent indeed in itself, but fatal because used by those to whom it is prohibited.”
“Oh, blithely156, reverend father,” said the widow of Simon Glendinning, “will I give you the book, if so be I can while it from the bairns; and indeed, poor things, as the case stands with them even now, you might take the heart out of their bodies, and they never find it out, they are sae begrutten.” 26
“Give them this missal instead, good dame,” said the father, drawing from his pocket one which was curiously157 illuminated158 with paintings, “and I will come myself, or send one at a fitting time, and teach them the meaning of these pictures.”
“The bonny images!” said Dame Glendinning, forgetting for an instant her grief in her admiration159, “and weel I wot,” added she, “it is another sort of a book than the poor Lady of Avenel’s; and blessed might we have been this day, if your reverence had found the way up the glen, instead of Father Philip, though the Sacristan is a powerful man too, and speaks as if he would ger the house fly abroad, save that the walls are gey thick. Simon’s forebears (may he and they be blessed!) took care of that.”
The monk ordered his mule, and was about to take his leave; and the good dame was still delaying him with questions about the funeral, when a horseman, armed and accoutred, rode into the little court-yard which surrounded the Keep.
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1
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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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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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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inanity
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| n.无意义，无聊 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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chimeras
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| n.（由几种动物的各部分构成的）假想的怪兽( chimera的名词复数 )；不可能实现的想法；幻想；妄想 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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41
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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42
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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43
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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44
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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45
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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46
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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47
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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48
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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49
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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50
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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51
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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52
reverences
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| n.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的名词复数 )；敬礼 | |
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53
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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54
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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55
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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56
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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57
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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58
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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59
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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60
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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61
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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62
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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63
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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64
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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65
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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66
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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67
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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68
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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69
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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70
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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71
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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72
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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73
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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74
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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75
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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76
sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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77
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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78
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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79
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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81
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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83
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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84
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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85
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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86
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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87
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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88
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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89
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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90
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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91
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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92
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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93
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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94
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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95
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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96
interdicted
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的过去式和过去分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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97
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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98
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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99
laity
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| n.俗人；门外汉 | |
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100
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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101
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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102
polemics
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| n.辩论术，辩论法；争论( polemic的名词复数 )；辩论；辩论术；辩论法 | |
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103
dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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104
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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105
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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106
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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107
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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108
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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109
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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110
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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111
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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112
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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113
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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114
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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115
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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116
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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117
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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118
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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119
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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120
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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121
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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122
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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123
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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124
schism
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| n.分派，派系，分裂 | |
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125
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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126
protracting
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| v.延长，拖延（某事物）( protract的现在分词 ) | |
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127
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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128
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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129
expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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130
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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131
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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132
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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133
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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134
maceration
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| n.泡软，因绝食而衰弱 | |
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135
extenuated
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| v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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136
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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137
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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138
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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139
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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140
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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141
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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142
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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143
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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144
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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145
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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146
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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147
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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148
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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149
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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150
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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151
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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152
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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153
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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154
scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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155
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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156
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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157
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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158
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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159
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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