And gaily1 graithed in their gear then,
Steel bonnets2, pikes, and swords shone clear then
As ony bead3; Now wha sall play before sic weir4 men,
Since Habbie’s dead!
Elegy5 on Habbie Simpson.
The cavalcade6 of horsemen on their road to the little borough7-town were preceded by Niel Blane, the town-piper, mounted on his white galloway, armed with his dirk and broadsword, and bearing a chanter streaming with as many ribbons as would deck out six country belles8 for a fair or preaching. Niel, a clean, tight, well-timbered, long-winded fellow, had gained the official situation of town-piper of — by his merit, with all the emoluments9 thereof; namely, the Piper’s Croft, as it is still called, a field of about an acre in extent, five merks, and a new livery-coat of the town’s colours, yearly; some hopes of a dollar upon the day of the election of magistrates11, providing the provost were able and willing to afford such a gratuity14; and the privilege of paying, at all the respectable houses in the neighbourhood, an annual visit at spring-time, to rejoice their hearts with his music, to comfort his own with their ale and brandy, and to beg from each a modicum15 of seed-corn.
In addition to these inestimable advantages, Niel’s personal, or professional, accomplishments16 won the heart of a jolly widow, who then kept the principal change-house in the borough. Her former husband having been a strict presbyterian, of such note that he usually went among his sect17 by the name of Gaius the publican, many of the more rigid18 were scandalized by the profession of the successor whom his relict had chosen for a second helpmate. As the browst (or brewing) of the Howff retained, nevertheless, its unrivalled reputation, most of the old customers continued to give it a preference. The character of the new landlord, indeed, was of that accommodating kind, which enabled him, by close attention to the helm, to keep his little vessel19 pretty steady amid the contending tides of faction20. He was a good-humoured, shrewd, selfish sort of fellow, indifferent alike to the disputes about church and state, and only anxious to secure the good-will of customers of every description. But his character, as well as the state of the country, will be best understood by giving the reader an account of the instructions which he issued to his daughter, a girl about eighteen, whom he was initiating21 in those cares which had been faithfully discharged by his wife, until about six months before our story commences, when the honest woman had been carried to the kirkyard.
“Jenny,” said Niel Blane, as the girl assisted to disencumber him of his bagpipes22, “this is the first day that ye are to take the place of your worthy23 mother in attending to the public; a douce woman she was, civil to the customers, and had a good name wi’ Whig and Tory, baith up the street and down the street. It will be hard for you to fill her place, especially on sic a thrang day as this; but Heaven’s will maun be obeyed. — Jenny, whatever Milnwood ca’s for, be sure he maun hae’t, for he’s the Captain o’ the Popinjay, and auld24 customs maun be supported; if he canna pay the lawing himsell, as I ken25 he’s keepit unco short by the head, I’ll find a way to shame it out o’ his uncle. — The curate is playing at dice26 wi’ Cornet Grahame. Be eident and civil to them baith — clergy27 and captains can gie an unco deal o’ fash in thae times, where they take an ill-will. — The dragoons will be crying for ale, and they wunna want it, and maunna want it — they are unruly chields, but they pay ane some gate or other. I gat the humle-cow, that’s the best in the byre, frae black Frank Inglis and Sergeant28 Bothwell, for ten pund Scots, and they drank out the price at ae downsitting.”
“But, father,” interrupted Jenny, “they say the twa reiving loons drave the cow frae the gudewife o’ Bell’s-moor, just because she gaed to hear a field-preaching ae Sabbath afternoon.”
“Whisht! ye silly tawpie,” said her father, “we have naething to do how they come by the bestial29 they sell — be that atween them and their consciences. — Aweel — Take notice, Jenny, of that dour30, stour-looking carle that sits by the cheek o’ the ingle, and turns his back on a’ men. He looks like ane o’ the hill-folk, for I saw him start a wee when he saw the red-coats, and I jalouse he wad hae liked to hae ridden by, but his horse (it’s a gude gelding) was ower sair travailed; he behoved to stop whether he wad or no. Serve him cannily31, Jenny, and wi’ little din13, and dinna bring the sodgers on him by speering ony questions at him; but let na him hae a room to himsell, they wad say we were hiding him. — For yoursell, Jenny, ye’ll be civil to a’ the folk, and take nae heed32 o’ ony nonsense and daffing the young lads may say t’ye. Folk in the hostler line maun put up wi’ muckle. Your mither, rest her saul, could pit up wi’ as muckle as maist women — but aff hands is fair play; and if ony body be uncivil ye may gie me a cry — Aweel — when the malt begins to get aboon the meal, they’ll begin to speak about government in kirk and state, and then, Jenny, they are like to quarrel — let them be doing — anger’s a drouthy passion, and the mair they dispute, the mair ale they’ll drink; but ye were best serve them wi’ a pint33 o’ the sma’ browst, it will heat them less, and they’ll never ken the difference.”
“But, father,” said Jenny, “if they come to lounder ilk ither, as they did last time, suldna I cry on you?”
“At no hand, Jenny; the redder gets aye the warst lick in the fray34. If the sodgers draw their swords, ye’ll cry on the corporal and the guard. If the country folk tak the tangs and poker35, ye’ll cry on the bailie and town-officers. But in nae event cry on me, for I am wearied wi’ doudling the bag o’ wind a’ day, and I am gaun to eat my dinner quietly in the spence. — And, now I think on’t, the Laird of Lickitup (that’s him that was the laird) was speering for sma’ drink and a saut herring — gie him a pu’ be the sleeve, and round into his lug36 I wad be blithe37 o’ his company to dine wi’ me; he was a gude customer anes in a day, and wants naething but means to be a gude ane again — he likes drink as weel as e’er he did. And if ye ken ony puir body o’ our acquaintance that’s blate for want o’ siller, and has far to gang hame, ye needna stick to gie them a waught o’ drink and a bannock — we’ll ne’er miss’t, and it looks creditable in a house like ours. And now, hinny, gang awa’, and serve the folk, but first bring me my dinner, and twa chappins o’ yill and the mutchkin stoup o’ brandy.”
Having thus devolved his whole cares on Jenny as prime minister, Niel Blane and the ci-devant laird, once his patron, but now glad to be his trencher-companion, sate38 down to enjoy themselves for the remainder of the evening, remote from the bustle39 of the public room.
All in Jenny’s department was in full activity. The knights40 of the popinjay received and requited41 the hospitable42 entertainment of their captain, who, though he spared the cup himself, took care it should go round with due celerity among the rest, who might not have otherwise deemed themselves handsomely treated. Their numbers melted away by degrees, and were at length diminished to four or five, who began to talk of breaking up their party. At another table, at some distance, sat two of the dragoons, whom Niel Blane had mentioned, a sergeant and a private in the celebrated43 John Grahame of Claverhouse’s regiment44 of Life-Guards. Even the non-commissioned officers and privates in these corps45 were not considered as ordinary mercenaries, but rather approached to the rank of the French mousquetaires, being regarded in the light of cadets, who performed the duties of rank-and-file with the prospect46 of obtaining commissions in case of distinguishing themselves.
Many young men of good families were to be found in the ranks, a circumstance which added to the pride and self-consequence of these troops. A remarkable47 instance of this occurred in the person of the non-commissioned officer in question. His real name was Francis Stewart, but he was universally known by the appellation48 of Bothwell, being lineally descended49 from the last earl of that name; not the infamous50 lover of the unfortunate Queen Mary, but Francis Stewart, Earl of Bothwell, whose turbulence51 and repeated conspiracies52 embarrassed the early part of James Sixth’s reign53, and who at length died in exile in great poverty. The son of this Earl had sued to Charles I. for the restitution54 of part of his father’s forfeited55 estates, but the grasp of the nobles to whom they had been allotted56 was too tenacious57 to be unclenched. The breaking out of the civil wars utterly58 ruined him, by intercepting59 a small pension which Charles I. had allowed him, and he died in the utmost indigence60. His son, after having served as a soldier abroad and in Britain, and passed through several vicissitudes61 of fortune, was fain to content himself with the situation of a non-commissioned officer in the Life-Guards, although lineally descended from the royal family, the father of the forfeited Earl of Bothwell having been a natural son of James VI. 3
Great personal strength, and dexterity62 in the use of his arms, as well as the remarkable circumstances of his descent, had recommended this man to the attention of his officers. But he partook in a great degree of the licentiousness63 and oppressive disposition64, which the habit of acting65 as agents for government in levying66 fines, exacting67 free quarters, and otherwise oppressing the Presbyterian recusants, had rendered too general among these soldiers. They were so much accustomed to such missions, that they conceived themselves at liberty to commit all manner of license68 with impunity69, as if totally exempted70 from all law and authority, excepting the command of their officers. On such occasions Bothwell was usually the most forward.
It is probable that Bothwell and his companions would not so long have remained quiet, but for respect to the presence of their Cornet, who commanded the small party quartered in the borough, and who was engaged in a game at dice with the curate of the place. But both of these being suddenly called from their amusement to speak with the chief magistrate12 upon some urgent business, Bothwell was not long of evincing his contempt for the rest of the company.
“Is it not a strange thing, Halliday,” he said to his comrade, “to see a set of bumpkins sit carousing71 here this whole evening, without having drank the king’s health?”
“They have drank the king’s health,” said Halliday. “I heard that green kail-worm of a lad name his majesty’s health.”
“Did he?” said Bothwell. “Then, Tom, we’ll have them drink the Archbishop of St Andrew’s health, and do it on their knees too.”
“So we will, by G — ” said Halliday; “and he that refuses it, we’ll have him to the guard-house, and teach him to ride the colt foaled of an acorn72, with a brace73 of carabines at each foot to keep him steady.”
“Right, Tom,” continued Bothwell; “and, to do all things in order, I’ll begin with that sulky blue-bonnet in the ingle-nook.”
He rose accordingly, and taking his sheathed74 broadsword under his arm to support the insolence75 which he meditated76, placed himself in front of the stranger noticed by Niel Blane, in his admonitions to his daughter, as being, in all probability, one of the hill-folk, or refractory77 presbyterians.
“I make so bold as to request of your precision, beloved,” said the trooper, in a tone of affected78 solemnity, and assuming the snuffle of a country preacher, “that you will arise from your seat, beloved, and, having bent79 your hams until your knees do rest upon the floor, beloved, that you will turn over this measure (called by the profane80 a gill) of the comfortable creature, which the carnal denominate brandy, to the health and glorification81 of his Grace the Archbishop of St Andrews, the worthy primate82 of all Scotland.”
All waited for the stranger’s answer. — His features, austere83 even to ferocity, with a cast of eye, which, without being actually oblique84, approached nearly to a squint85, and which gave a very sinister86 expression to his countenance87, joined to a frame, square, strong, and muscular, though something under the middle size, seemed to announce a man unlikely to understand rude jesting, or to receive insults with impunity.
“And what is the consequence,” said he, “if I should not be disposed to comply with your uncivil request?”
“The consequence thereof, beloved,” said Bothwell, in the same tone of raillery, “will be, firstly, that I will tweak thy proboscis88 or nose. Secondly89, beloved, that I will administer my fist to thy distorted visual optics; and will conclude, beloved, with a practical application of the flat of my sword to the shoulders of the recusant.”
“Is it even so?” said the stranger; “then give me the cup;” and, taking it in his hand, he said, with a peculiar90 expression of voice and manner, “The Archbishop of St Andrews, and the place he now worthily91 holds; — may each prelate in Scotland soon be as the Right Reverend James Sharpe!”
“He has taken the test,” said Halliday, exultingly92.
“But with a qualification,” said Bothwell; “I don’t understand what the devil the crop-eared whig means.”
“Come, gentlemen,” said Morton, who became impatient of their insolence, “we are here met as good subjects, and on a merry occasion; and we have a right to expect we shall not be troubled with this sort of discussion.”
Bothwell was about to make a surly answer, but Halliday reminded him in a whisper, that there were strict injunctions that the soldiers should give no offence to the men who were sent out to the musters93 agreeably to the council’s orders. So, after honouring Morton with a broad and fierce stare, he said, “Well, Mr Popinjay, I shall not disturb your reign; I reckon it will be out by twelve at night. — Is it not an odd thing, Halliday,” he continued, addressing his companion, “that they should make such a fuss about cracking off their birding-pieces at a mark which any woman or boy could hit at a day’s practice? If Captain Popinjay now, or any of his troop, would try a bout10, either with the broadsword, backsword, single rapier, or rapier and dagger94, for a gold noble, the first-drawn blood, there would be some soul in it — or, zounds, would the bumpkins but wrestle95, or pitch the bar, or putt the stone, or throw the axle-tree, if (touching the end of Morton’s sword scornfully with his toe) they carry things about them that they are afraid to draw.”
Morton’s patience and prudence96 now gave way entirely97, and he was about to make a very angry answer to Bothwell’s insolent98 observations, when the stranger stepped forward.
“This is my quarrel,” he said, “and in the name of the good cause, I will see it out myself. — Hark thee, friend,” (to Bothwell,) “wilt thou wrestle a fall with me?”
“With my whole spirit, beloved,” answered Bothwell; “yea I will strive with thee, to the downfall of one or both.”
“Then, as my trust is in Him that can help,” retorted his antagonist99, “I will forthwith make thee an example to all such railing Rabshakehs”
With that he dropped his coarse grey horseman’s coat from his shoulders, and, extending his strong brawny101 arms with a look of determined102 resolution, he offered himself to the contest. The soldier was nothing abashed103 by the muscular frame, broad chest, square shoulders, and hardy104 look of his antagonist, but, whistling with great composure, unbuckled his belt, and laid aside his military coat. The company stood round them, anxious for the event.
In the first struggle the trooper seemed to have some advantage, and also in the second, though neither could be considered as decisive. But it was plain he had put his whole strength too suddenly forth100, against an antagonist possessed105 of great endurance, skill, vigour106, and length of wind. In the third close, the countryman lifted his opponent fairly from the floor, and hurled107 him to the ground with such violence, that he lay for an instant stunned108 and motionless. His comrade Halliday immediately drew his sword; “You have killed my sergeant,” he exclaimed to the victorious109 wrestler110, “and by all that is sacred you shall answer it!”
“Stand back!” cried Morton and his companions, “it was all fair play; your comrade sought a fall, and he has got it.”
“That is true enough,” said Bothwell, as he slowly rose; “put up your bilbo, Tom. I did not think there was a crop-ear of them all could have laid the best cap and feather in the King’s Life-Guards on the floor of a rascally111 change-house. — Hark ye, friend, give me your hand.” The stranger held out his hand. “I promise you,” said Bothwell, squeezing his hand very hard, “that the time will come when we shall meet again, and try this game over in a more earnest manner.”
“And I’ll promise you,” said the stranger, returning the grasp with equal firmness, “that when we next meet, I will lay your head as low as it lay even now, when you shall lack the power to lift it up again.”
“Well, beloved,” answered Bothwell, “if thou be’st a whig, thou art a stout112 and a brave one, and so good even to thee — Hadst best take thy nag113 before the Cornet makes the round; for, I promise thee, he has stay’d less suspicious-looking persons.”
The stranger seemed to think that the hint was not to be neglected; he flung down his reckoning, and going into the stable, saddled and brought out a powerful black horse, now recruited by rest and forage114, and turning to Morton, observed, “I ride towards Milnwood, which I hear is your home; will you give me the advantage and protection of your company?”
“Certainly,” said Morton; although there was something of gloomy and relentless115 severity in the man’s manner from which his mind recoiled116. His companions, after a courteous117 good-night, broke up and went off in different directions, some keeping them company for about a mile, until they dropped off one by one, and the travellers were left alone.
The company had not long left the Howff, as Blane’s public-house was called, when the trumpets118 and kettle-drums sounded. The troopers got under arms in the market-place at this unexpected summons, while, with faces of anxiety and earnestness, Cornet Grahame, a kinsman119 of Claverhouse, and the Provost of the borough, followed by half-a-dozen soldiers, and town-officers with halberts, entered the apartment of Niel Blane.
“Guard the doors!” were the first words which the Cornet spoke120; “let no man leave the house. — So, Bothwell, how comes this? Did you not hear them sound boot and saddle?”
“He was just going to quarters, sir,” said his comrade; “he has had a bad fall.”
“In a fray, I suppose?” said Grahame. “If you neglect duty in this way, your royal blood will hardly protect you.”
“How have I neglected duty?” said Bothwell, sulkily.
“You should have been at quarters, Sergeant Bothwell,” replied the officer; “you have lost a golden opportunity. Here are news come that the Archbishop of St Andrews has been strangely and foully121 assassinated122 by a body of the rebel whigs, who pursued and stopped his carriage on Magus-Muir, near the town of St Andrews, dragged him out, and dispatched him with their swords and daggers123.” 4
All stood aghast at the intelligence.
“Here are their descriptions,” continued the Cornet, pulling out a proclamation, “the reward of a thousand merks is on each of their heads.”
“The test, the test, and the qualification!” said Bothwell to Halliday; “I know the meaning now — Zounds, that we should not have stopt him! Go saddle our horses, Halliday. — Was there one of the men, Cornet, very stout and square-made, double-chested, thin in the flanks, hawk-nosed?”
“Stay, stay,” said Cornet Grahame, “let me look at the paper. — Hackston of Rathillet, tall, thin, black-haired.”
“That is not my man,” said Bothwell.
“John Balfour, called Burley, aquiline124 nose, red-haired, five feet eight inches in height”—“It is he — it is the very man!” said Bothwell — “skellies fearfully with one eye?”
“Right,” continued Grahame, “rode a strong black horse, taken from the primate at the time of the murder.”
“The very man,” exclaimed Bothwell, “and the very horse! he was in this room not a quarter of an hour since.”
A few hasty enquiries tended still more to confirm the opinion, that the reserved and stern stranger was Balfour of Burley, the actual commander of the band of assassins, who, in the fury of misguided zeal125, had murdered the primate, whom they accidentally met, as they were searching for another person against whom they bore enmity. 5 In their excited imagination the casual rencounter had the appearance of a providential interference, and they put to death the archbishop, with circumstances of great and cold-blooded cruelty, under the belief, that the Lord, as they expressed it, had delivered him into their hands. 6
“Horse, horse, and pursue, my lads!” exclaimed Cornet Grahame; “the murdering dog’s head is worth its weight in gold.”
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1
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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2
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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7
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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initiating
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| v.开始( initiate的现在分词 )；传授；发起；接纳新成员 | |
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bagpipes
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| n.风笛；风笛( bagpipe的名词复数 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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cannily
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| 精明地 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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41
requited
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| v.报答( requite的过去式和过去分词 )；酬谢；回报；报复 | |
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42
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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43
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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45
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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46
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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47
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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48
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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49
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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50
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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51
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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52
conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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53
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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54
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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55
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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58
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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59
intercepting
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| 截取（技术），截接 | |
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60
indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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61
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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62
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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63
licentiousness
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| n.放肆，无法无天 | |
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64
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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65
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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66
levying
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| 征（兵）( levy的现在分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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67
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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68
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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69
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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70
exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
carousing
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的现在分词 ) | |
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72
acorn
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| n.橡实，橡子 | |
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73
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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74
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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75
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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76
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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77
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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79
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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80
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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81
glorification
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| n.赞颂 | |
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82
primate
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| n.灵长类（目）动物，首席主教；adj.首要的 | |
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83
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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84
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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85
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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86
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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87
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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88
proboscis
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| n.（象的）长鼻 | |
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89
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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90
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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91
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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93
musters
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的第三人称单数 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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95
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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96
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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97
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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98
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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99
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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100
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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101
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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102
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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103
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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105
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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106
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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107
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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108
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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109
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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110
wrestler
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| n.摔角选手，扭 | |
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111
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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113
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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114
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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115
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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116
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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117
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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118
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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119
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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120
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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121
foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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122
assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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123
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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124
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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125
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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