Twelfth Night.
It was evening when Mr Henry Morton perceived an old woman, wrapped in her tartan plaid, supported by a stout1, stupid-looking fellow, in hoddin-grey, approach the house of Milnwood. Old Mause made her courtesy, but Cuddie took the lead in addressing Morton. Indeed, he had previously4 stipulated5 with his mother that he was to manage matters his own way; for though he readily allowed his general inferiority of understanding, and filially submitted to the guidance of his mother on most ordinary occasions, yet he said, “For getting a service, or getting forward in the warld, he could somegate gar the wee pickle7 sense he had gang muckle farther than hers, though she could crack like ony minister o’ them a’.”
Accordingly, he thus opened the conversation with young Morton: “A braw night this for the rye, your honour; the west park will be breering bravely this e’en.”
“I do not doubt it, Cuddie; but what can have brought your mother — this is your mother, is it not?” (Cuddie nodded.) “What can have brought your mother and you down the water so late?”
“Troth, stir, just what gars the auld9 wives trot8 — neshessity, stir — I’m seeking for service, stir.”
“For service, Cuddie, and at this time of the year? how comes that?”
Mause could forbear no longer. Proud alike of her cause and her sufferings, she commenced with an affected10 humility11 of tone, “It has pleased Heaven, an it like your honour, to distinguish us by a visitation”—“Deil’s in the wife and nae gude!” whispered Cuddie to his mother, “an ye come out wi’ your whiggery, they’ll no daur open a door to us through the haill country!” Then aloud and addressing Morton, “My mother’s auld, stir, and she has rather forgotten hersell in speaking to my leddy, that canna weel bide12 to be contradickit, (as I ken13 nae-body likes it if they could help themsells,) especially by her ain folk — and Mr Harrison the steward14, and Gudyill the butler, they’re no very fond o’ us, and it’s ill sitting at Rome and striving wi’ the Pope; sae I thought it best to flit before ill came to waur — and here’s a wee bit line to your honour frae a friend will maybe say some mair about it.”
Morton took the billet, and crimsoning15 up to the ears, between joy and surprise, read these words: “If you can serve these poor helpless people, you will oblige E. B.”
It was a few instants before he could attain16 composure enough to ask, “And what is your object, Cuddie? and how can I be of use to you?”
“Wark, stir, wark, and a service, is my object — a bit beild for my mither and mysell — we hae gude plenishing o’ our ain, if we had the cast o’ a cart to bring it down — and milk and meal, and greens enow, for I’m gay gleg at meal-time, and sae is my mither, lang may it be sae — And, for the penny-fee and a’ that, I’ll just leave it to the laird and you. I ken ye’ll no see a poor lad wranged, if ye can help it.”
Morton shook his head. “For the meat and lodging17, Cuddie, I think I can promise something; but the penny-fee will be a hard chapter, I doubt.”
“I’ll tak my chance o’t, stir,” replied the candidate for service, “rather than gang down about Hamilton, or ony sic far country.”
“Well; step into the kitchen, Cuddie, and I’ll do what I can for you.”
The negotiation18 was not without difficulties. Morton had first to bring over the housekeeper19, who made a thousand objections, as usual, in order to have the pleasure of being besought20 and entreated21; but, when she was gained over, it was comparatively easy to induce old Milnwood to accept of a servant, whose wages were to be in his own option. An outhouse was, therefore, assigned to Mause and her son for their habitation, and it was settled that they were for the time to be admitted to eat of the frugal22 fare provided for the family, until their own establishment should be completed. As for Morton, he exhausted23 his own very slender stock of money in order to make Cuddie such a present, under the name of arles, as might show his sense of the value of the recommendation delivered to him.
“And now we’re settled ance mair,” said: Cuddie to his mother, “and if we’re no sae bien and comfortable as we were up yonder, yet life’s life ony gate, and we’re wi’ decent kirk-ganging folk o’ your ain persuasion24, mither; there will be nae quarrelling about that.”
“Of my persuasion, hinnie!” said the too-enlightened Mause; “wae’s me for thy blindness and theirs. O, Cuddie, they are but in the court of the Gentiles, and will ne’er win farther ben, I doubt; they are but little better than the prelatists themsells. They wait on the ministry25 of that blinded man, Peter Poundtext, ance a precious teacher of the Word, but now a backsliding pastor26, that has, for the sake of stipend27 and family maintenance, forsaken28 the strict path, and gane astray after the black Indulgence. O, my son, had ye but profited by the gospel doctrines30 ye hae heard in the Glen of Bengonnar, frae the dear Richard Rumbleberry, that sweet youth, who suffered martyrdom in the Grassmarket, afore Candlemas! Didna ye hear him say, that Erastianism was as bad as Prelacy, and that the Indulgence was as bad as Erastianism?”
“Heard ever ony body the like o’ this!” interrupted Cuddie; “we’ll be driven out o’ house and ha’ again afore we ken where to turn oursells. Weej, mither, I hae just ae word mair — An I hear ony mair o’ your din3 — afore folk, that is, for I dinna mind your clavers mysell, they aye set me sleeping — but if I hear ony mair din afore folk, as I was saying, about Poundtexts and Rumbleberries, and doctrines and malignants, I’se e’en turn a single sodger mysell, or maybe a sergeant32 or a captain, if ye plague me the mair, and let Rumbleberry and you gang to the deil thegither. I ne’er gat ony gude by his doctrine29, as ye ca’t, but a sour fit o’ the batts wi’ sitting amang the wat moss-hags for four hours at a yoking33, and the leddy cured me wi’ some hickery-pickery; mair by token, an she had kend how I came by the disorder34, she wadna hae been in sic a hurry to mend it.”
Although groaning36 in spirit over the obdurate37 and impenitent38 state, as she thought it, of her son Cuddie, Mause durst neither urge him farther on the topic, nor altogether neglect the warning he had given her. She knew the disposition39 of her deceased helpmate, whom this surviving pledge of their union greatly resembled, and remembered, that although submitting implicitly40 in most things to her boast of superior acuteness, he used on certain occasions, when driven to extremity41, to be seized with fits of obstinacy42, which neither remonstrance43, flattery, nor threats, were capable of overpowering. Trembling, therefore, at the very possibility of Cuddie’s fulfilling his threat, she put a guard over her tongue, and even when Poundtext was commended in her presence, as an able and fructifying44 preacher, she had the good sense to suppress the contradiction which thrilled upon her tongue, and to express her sentiments no otherwise than by deep groans45, which the hearers charitably construed46 to flow from a vivid recollection of the more pathetic parts of his homilies. How long she could have repressed her feelings it is difficult to say. An unexpected accident relieved her from the necessity.
The Laird of Milnwood kept up all old fashions which were connected with economy. It was, therefore, still the custom in his house, as it had been universal in Scotland about fifty years before, that the domestics, after having placed the dinner on the table, sate48 down at the lower end of the board, and partook of the share which was assigned to them, in company with their masters. On the day, therefore, after Cuddie’s arrival, being the third from the opening of this narrative49, old Robin50, who was butler, valet-de-chambre, footman, gardener, and what not, in the house of Milnwood, placed on the table an immense charger of broth51, thickened with oatmeal and colewort, in which ocean of liquid was indistinctly discovered, by close observers, two or three short ribs52 of lean mutton sailing to and fro. Two huge baskets, one of bread made of barley53 and pease, and one of oat-cakes, flanked this standing6 dish. A large boiled salmon54 would now-a-days have indicated more liberal house-keeping; but at that period salmon was caught in such plenty in the considerable rivers in Scotland, that instead of being accounted a delicacy55, it was generally applied56 to feed the servants, who are said sometimes to have stipulated that they should not be required to eat a food so luscious57 and surfeiting58 in its quality above five times a-week. The large black jack59, filled with very small beer of Milnwood’s own brewing60, was allowed to the company at discretion61, as were the bannocks, cakes, and broth; but the mutton was reserved for the heads of the family, Mrs Wilson included: and a measure of ale, somewhat deserving the name, was set apart in a silver tankard for their exclusive use. A huge kebbock, (a cheese, that is, made with ewemilk mixed with cow’s milk,) and a jar of salt butter, were in common to the company.
To enjoy this exquisite62 cheer, was placed, at the head of the table, the old Laird himself, with his nephew on the one side, and the favourite housekeeper on the other. At a long interval63, and beneath the salt of course, sate old Robin, a meagre, half-starved serving-man, rendered cross and cripple by rheumatism64, and a dirty drab of a housemaid, whom use had rendered callous65 to the daily exercitations which her temper underwent at the hands of her master and Mrs Wilson. A barnman, a white-headed cow-herd boy, with Cuddie the new ploughman and his mother, completed the party. The other labourers belonging to the property resided in their own houses, happy at least in this, that if their cheer was not more delicate than that which we have described, they could eat their fill, unwatched by the sharp, envious66 grey eyes of Milnwood, which seemed to measure the quantity that each of his dependents swallowed, as closely as if their glances attended each mouthful in its progress from the lips to the stomach. This close inspection67 was unfavourable to Cuddie, who sustained much prejudice in his new master’s opinion, by the silent celerity with which he caused the victuals69 to disappear before him. And ever and anon Milnwood turned his eyes from the huge feeder to cast indignant glances upon his nephew, whose repugnance70 to rustic71 labour was the principal cause of his needing a ploughman, and who had been the direct means of his hiring this very cormorant73.
“Pay thee wages, quotha?” said Milnwood to himself — “Thou wilt74 eat in a week the value of mair than thou canst work for in a month.”
These disagreeable ruminations were interrupted by a loud knocking at the outer-gate. It was a universal custom in Scotland, that, when the family was at dinner, the outer-gate of the courtyard, if there was one, and if not, the door of the house itself, was always shut and locked, and only guests of importance, or persons upon urgent business, sought or received admittance at that time. 11
The family of Milnwood were therefore surprised, and, in the unsettled state of the times, something alarmed, at the earnest and repeated knocking with which the gate was now assailed75. Mrs Wilson ran in person to the door, and, having reconnoitred those who were so clamorous76 for admittance, through some secret aperture77 with which most Scottish door-ways were furnished for the express purpose, she returned wringing78 her hands in great dismay, exclaiming, “The red-coats! the red-coats!”
“Robin — Ploughman — what ca’ they ye? — Barnsman — Nevoy Harry79 — open the door, open the door!” exclaimed old Milnwood, snatching up and slipping into his pocket the two or three silver spoons with which the upper end of the table was garnished80, those beneath the salt being of goodly horn. “Speak them fair, sirs — Lord love ye, speak them fair — they winna bide thrawing — we’re a’ harried81 — we’re a’ harried!”
While the servants admitted the troopers, whose oaths and threats already indicated resentment82 at the delay they had been put to, Cuddie took the opportunity to whisper to his mother, “Now, ye daft auld carline, mak yoursell deaf — ye hae made us a’ deaf ere now — and let me speak for ye. I wad like ill to get my neck raxed for an auld wife’s clashes, though ye be our mither.”
“O, hinny, ay; I’se be silent or thou sall come to ill,” was the corresponding whisper of Mause “but bethink ye, my dear, them that deny the Word, the Word will deny”— Her admonition was cut short by the entrance of the Life-Guardsmen, a party of four troopers, commanded by Bothwell.
In they tramped, making a tremendous clatter83 upon the stone-floor with the iron-shod heels of their large jack-boots, and the clash and clang of their long, heavy, basket-hilted broadswords. Milnwood and his housekeeper trembled, from well-grounded apprehensions84 of the system of exaction85 and plunder86 carried on during these domiciliary visits. Henry Morton was discomposed with more special cause, for he remembered that he stood answerable to the laws for having harboured Burley. The widow Mause Headrigg, between fear for her son’s life and an overstrained and enthusiastic zeal87, which reproached her for consenting even tacitly to belie88 her religious sentiments, was in a strange quandary89. The other servants quaked for they knew not well what. Cuddie alone, with the look of supreme90 indifference91 and stupidity which a Scottish peasant can at times assume as a mask for considerable shrewdness and craft, continued to swallow large spoonfuls of his broth, to command which he had drawn92 within his sphere the large vessel93 that contained it, and helped himself, amid the confusion, to a sevenfold portion.
“What is your pleasure here, gentlemen?” said Milnwood, humbling94 himself before the satellites of power.
“We come in behalf of the king,” answered Bothwell; “why the devil did you keep us so long standing at the door?”
“We were at dinner,” answered Milnwood, “and the door was locked, as is usual in landward towns 12 in this country. I am sure, gentlemen, if I had kend ony servants of our gude king had stood at the door — But wad ye please to drink some ale — or some brandy — or a cup of canary sack, or claret wine?” making a pause between each offer as long as a stingy bidder95 at an auction96, who is loath97 to advance his offer for a favourite lot.
“Claret for me,” said one fellow.
“I like ale better,” said another, “provided it is right juice of John Barleycorn.”
“Better never was malted,” said Milnwood; “I can hardly say sae muckle for the claret. It’s thin and cauld, gentlemen.”
“Brandy will cure that,” said a third fellow; “a glass of brandy to three glasses of wine prevents the curmurring in the stomach.”
“Brandy, ale, sack, and claret? — we’ll try them all,” said Bothwell, “and stick to that which is best. There’s good sense in that, if the damn’dest whig in Scotland had said it.”
Hastily, yet with a reluctant quiver of his muscles, Milnwood lugged98 out two ponderous99 keys, and delivered them to the governante.
“The housekeeper,” said Bothwell, taking a seat, and throwing himself upon it, “is neither so young nor so handsome as to tempt100 a man to follow her to the gauntrees, and devil a one here is there worth sending in her place. — What’s this? — meat?” (searching with a fork among the broth, and fishing up a cutlet of mutton)—“I think I could eat a bit — why, it’s as tough as if the devil’s dam had hatched it.”
“If there is any thing better in the house, sir,” said Milnwood, alarmed at these symptoms of disapprobation —“No, no,” said Bothwell, “it’s not worth while, I must proceed to business. — You attend Poundtext, the presbyterian parson, I understand, Mr Morton?”
Mr Morton hastened to slide in a confession101 and apology.
“By the indulgence of his gracious majesty102 and the government, for I wad do nothing out of law — I hae nae objection whatever to the establishment of a moderate episcopacy, but only that I am a country-bred man, and the ministers are a hamelier kind of folk, and I can follow their doctrine better; and, with reverence103, sir, it’s a mair frugal establishment for the country.”
“Well, I care nothing about that,” said Bothwell; “they are indulged, and there’s an end of it; but, for my part, if I were to give the law, never a crop-ear’d cur of the whole pack should bark in a Scotch104 pulpit. However, I am to obey commands. — There comes the liquor; put it down, my good old lady.”
He decanted105 about one-half of a quart bottle of claret into a wooden quaigh or bicker106, and took it off at a draught107.
“You did your good wine injustice108, my friend; — it’s better than your brandy, though that’s good too. Will you pledge me to the king’s health?”
“With pleasure,” said Milnwood, “in ale — but I never drink claret, and keep only a very little for some honoured friends.”
“Like me, I suppose,” said Bothwell; and then, pushing the bottle to Henry, he said, “Here, young man, pledge you the king’s health.”
Henry filled a moderate glass in silence, regardless of the hints and pushes of his uncle, which seemed to indicate that he ought to have followed his example, in preferring beer to wine.
“Well,” said Bothwell, “have ye all drank the toast? — What is that old wife about? Give her a glass of brandy, she shall drink the king’s health, by”—“If your honour pleases,” said Cuddie, with great stolidity109 of aspect, “this is my mither, stir; and she’s as deaf as Corra-linn; we canna mak her hear day nor door; but if your honour pleases, I am ready to drink the king’s health for her in as mony glasses of brandy as ye think neshessary.”
“I dare swear you are,” answered Bothwell; “you look like a fellow that would stick to brandy — help thyself, man; all’s free where’er I come. — Tom, help the maid to a comfortable cup, though she’s but a dirty jilt neither. Fill round once more — Here’s to our noble commander, Colonel Graham of Claverhouse! — What the devil is the old woman groaning for? She looks as very a whig as ever sate on a hill-side — Do you renounce110 the Covenant111, good woman?”
“Whilk Covenant is your honour meaning? Is it the Covenant of Works, or the Covenant of Grace?” said Cuddie, interposing.
“Any covenant; all covenants112 that ever were hatched,” answered the trooper.
“Mither,” cried Cuddie, affecting to speak as to a deaf person, “the gentleman wants to ken if ye will renunce the Covenant of Works?”
“With all my heart, Cuddie,” said Mause, “and pray that my feet may be delivered from the snare113 thereof.”
“Come,” said Bothwell, “the old dame114 has come more frankly115 off than I expected. Another cup round, and then we’ll proceed to business. — You have all heard, I suppose, of the horrid116 and barbarous murder committed upon the person of the Archbishop of St Andrews, by ten or eleven armed fanatics117?”
All started and looked at each other; at length Milnwood himself answered, “They had heard of some such misfortune, but were in hopes it had not been true.”
“There is the relation published by government, old gentleman; what do you think of it?”
“Think, sir? Wh — wh — whatever the council please to think of it,” stammered118 Milnwood.
“I desire to have your opinion more explicitly119, my friend,” said the dragoon, authoritatively120.
Milnwood’s eyes hastily glanced through the paper to pick out the strongest expressions of censure121 with which it abounded122, in gleaning123 which he was greatly aided by their being printed in italics.
“I think it a — bloody124 and execrable — murder and parricide125 — devised by hellish and implacable cruelty — utterly126 abominable127, and a scandal to the land.”
“Well said, old gentleman!” said the querist —“Here’s to thee, and I wish you joy of your good principles. You owe me a cup of thanks for having taught you them; nay128, thou shalt pledge me in thine own sack — sour ale sits ill upon a loyal stomach. — Now comes your turn, young man; what think you of the matter in hand?”
“I should have little objection to answer you,” said Henry, “if I knew what right you had to put the question.”
“The Lord preserve us!” said the old housekeeper, “to ask the like o’ that at a trooper, when a’ folk ken they do whatever they like through the haill country wi’ man and woman, beast and body.”
The old gentleman exclaimed, in the same horror at his nephew’s audacity129, “Hold your peace, sir, or answer the gentleman discreetly130. Do you mean to affront131 the king’s authority in the person of a sergeant of the Life-Guards?”
“Silence, all of you!” exclaimed Bothwell, striking his hand fiercely on the table —“Silence, every one of you, and hear me! — You ask me for my right to examine you, sir (to Henry); my cockade and my broadsword are my commission, and a better one than ever Old Nol gave to his roundheads; and if you want to know more about it, you may look at the act of council empowering his majesty’s officers and soldiers to search for, examine, and apprehend132 suspicious persons; and, therefore, once more, I ask you your opinion of the death of Archbishop Sharpe — it’s a new touch-stone we have got for trying people’s metal.”
Henry had, by this time, reflected upon the useless risk to which he would expose the family by resisting the tyrannical power which was delegated to such rude hands; he therefore read the narrative over, and replied, composedly, “I have no hesitation133 to say, that the perpetrators of this assassination134 have committed, in my opinion, a rash and wicked action, which I regret the more, as I foresee it will be made the cause of proceedings135 against many who are both innocent of the deed, and as far from approving it as myself.”
While Henry thus expressed himself, Bothwell, who bent136 his eyes keenly upon him, seemed suddenly to recollect47 his features.
“Aha! my friend Captain Popinjay, I think I have seen you before, and in very suspicious company.”
“I saw you once,” answered Henry, “in the public-house of the town of —.”
“And with whom did you leave that public-house, youngster? — Was it not with John Balfour of Burley, one of the murderers of the Archbishop?”
“I did leave the house with the person you have named,” answered Henry, “I scorn to deny it; but, so far from knowing him to be a murderer of the primate137, I did not even know at the time that such a crime had been committed.”
“Lord have mercy on me, I am ruined! — utterly ruined and undone138!” exclaimed Milnwood. “That callant’s tongue will rin the head aff his ain shoulders, and waste my gudes to the very grey cloak on my back!”
“But you knew Burley,” continued Bothwell, still addressing Henry, and regardless of his uncle’s interruption, “to be an intercommuned rebel and traitor139, and you knew the prohibition140 to deal with such persons. You knew, that, as a loyal subject, you were prohibited to reset141, supply, or intercommune with this attainted traitor, to correspond with him by word, writ142, or message, or to supply him with meat, drink, house, harbour, or victual, under the highest pains — you knew all this, and yet you broke the law.” (Henry was silent.) “Where did you part from him?” continued Bothwell; “was it in the highway, or did you give him harbourage in this very house?”
“In this house!” said his uncle; “he dared not for his neck bring ony traitor into a house of mine.”
“Dare he deny that he did so?” said Bothwell.
“As you charge it to me as a crime,” said Henry, “you will excuse my saying any thing that will criminate myself.”
“O, the lands of Milnwood! — the bonny lands of Milnwood, that have been in the name of Morton twa hundred years!” exclaimed his uncle; “they are barking and fleeing, outfield and infield, haugh and holme!”
“No, sir,” said Henry, “you shall not suffer on my account. — I own,” he continued, addressing Bothwell, “I did give this man a night’s lodging, as to an old military comrade of my father. But it was not only without my uncle’s knowledge, but contrary to his express general orders. I trust, if my evidence is considered as good against myself, it will have some weight in proving my uncle’s innocence143.”
“Come, young man,” said the soldier, in a somewhat milder tone, “you’re a smart spark enough, and I am sorry for you; and your uncle here is a fine old Trojan, kinder, I see, to his guests than himself, for he gives us wine and drinks his own thin ale — tell me all you know about this Burley, what he said when you parted from him, where he went, and where he is likely now to be found; and, d — n it, I’ll wink144 as hard on your share of the business as my duty will permit. There’s a thousand merks on the murdering whigamore’s head, an I could but light on it — Come, out with it — where did you part with him?”
“You will excuse my answering that question, sir,” said Morton; “the same cogent145 reasons which induced me to afford him hospitality at considerable risk to myself and my friends, would command me to respect his secret, if, indeed, he had trusted me with any.”
“So you refuse to give me an answer?” said Bothwell.
“I have none to give,” returned Henry.
“Perhaps I could teach you to find one, by tying a piece of lighted match betwixt your fingers,” answered Bothwell.
“O, for pity’s sake, sir,” said old Alison apart to her master, “gie them siller — it’s siller they’re seeking — they’ll murder Mr Henry, and yoursell next!”
Milnwood groaned146 in perplexity and bitterness of spirit, and, with a tone as if he was giving up the ghost, exclaimed, “If twenty p — p — punds would make up this unhappy matter”—“My master,” insinuated147 Alison to the sergeant, “would gie twenty punds sterling148”—“Punds Scotch, ye b — h!” interrupted Milnwood; for the agony of his avarice149 overcame alike his puritanic precision and the habitual150 respect he entertained for his housekeeper.
“Punds sterling,” insisted the housekeeper, “if ye wad hae the gudeness to look ower the lad’s misconduct; he’s that dour151 ye might tear him to pieces, and ye wad ne’er get a word out o’ him; and it wad do ye little gude, I’m sure, to burn his bonny fingerends.”
“Why,” said Bothwell, hesitating, “I don’t know — most of my cloth would have the money, and take off the prisoner too; but I bear a conscience, and if your master will stand to your offer, and enter into a bond to produce his nephew, and if all in the house will take the test-oath, I do not know but”—“O ay, ay, sir,” cried Mrs Wilson, “ony test, ony oaths ye please!” And then aside to her master, “Haste ye away, sir, and get the siller, or they will burn the house about our lugs152.”
Old Milnwood cast a rueful look upon his adviser153, and moved off, like a piece of Dutch clockwork, to set at liberty his imprisoned154 angels in this dire72 emergency. Meanwhile, Sergeant Bothwell began to put the test-oath with such a degree of solemn reverence as might have been expected, being just about the same which is used to this day in his majesty’s custom-house.
“You — what’s your name, woman?”
“Alison Wilson, sir.”
“You, Alison Wilson, solemnly swear, certify155, and declare, that you judge it unlawful for subjects, under pretext156 of reformation, or any other pretext whatsoever157, to enter into Leagues and Covenants”— Here the ceremony was interrupted by a strife158 between Cuddie and his mother, which, long conducted in whispers, now became audible.
“Oh, whisht, mither, whisht! they’re upon a communing — Oh! whisht, and they’ll agree weel eneuch e’enow.”
“I will not whisht, Cuddie,” replied his mother, “I will uplift my voice and spare not — I will confound the man of sin, even the scarlet159 man, and through my voice shall Mr Henry be freed from the net of the fowler.”
“She has her leg ower the harrows now,” said Cuddie, “stop her wha can — I see her cocked up behint a dragoon on her way to the Tolbooth — I find my ain legs tied below a horse’s belly160 — Ay — she has just mustered161 up her sermon, and there — wi’ that grane — out it comes, and we are a’ruined, horse and foot!”
“And div ye think to come here,” said Mause, her withered162 hand shaking in concert with her keen, though wrinkled visage, animated163 by zealous164 wrath165, and emancipated166, by the very mention of the test, from the restraints of her own prudence167, and Cuddie’s admonition —“Div ye think to come here, wi’ your soul-killing, saint-seducing, conscience-confounding oaths, and tests, and bands — your snares168, and your traps, and your gins? — Surely it is in vain that a net is spread in the sight of any bird.”
“Eh! what, good dame?” said the soldier. “Here’s a whig miracle, egad! the old wife has got both her ears and tongue, and we are like to be driven deaf in our turn. — Go to, hold your peace, and remember whom you talk to, you old idiot.”
“Whae do I talk to! Eh, sirs, ower weel may the sorrowing land ken what ye are. Malignant31 adherents169 ye are to the prelates, foul170 props171 to a feeble and filthy172 cause, bloody beasts of prey173, and burdens to the earth.”
“Upon my soul,” said Bothwell, astonished as a mastiff-dog might be should a hen-partridge fly at him in defence of her young, “this is the finest language I ever heard! Can’t you give us some more of it?”
“Gie ye some mair o’t?” said Mause, clearing her voice with a preliminary cough, “I will take up my testimony174 against you ance and again. — Philistines175 ye are, and Edomites — leopards176 are ye, and foxes — evening wolves, that gnaw177 not the bones till the morrow — wicked dogs, that compass about the chosen — thrusting kine, and pushing bulls of Bashan — piercing serpents ye are, and allied178 baith in name and nature with the great Red Dragon; Revelations, twalfth chapter, third and fourth verses.”
Here the old lady stopped, apparently179 much more from lack of breath than of matter.
“Curse the old hag!” said one of the dragoons, “gag her, and take her to head-quarters.”
“For shame, Andrews,” said Bothwell; “remember the good lady belongs to the fair sex, and uses only the privilege of her tongue. — But, hark ye, good woman, every bull of Bashan and Red Dragon will not be so civil as I am, or be contented180 to leave you to the charge of the constable181 and ducking-stool. In the meantime I must necessarily carry off this young man to head-quarters. I cannot answer to my commanding-officer to leave him in a house where I have heard so much treason and fanaticism182.”
“Se now, mither, what ye hae dune183,” whispered Cuddie; “there’s the Philistines, as ye ca’ them, are gaun to whirry awa’ Mr Henry, and a’ wi’ your nash-gab, deil be on’t!”
“Haud yere tongue, ye cowardly loon,” said the mother, “and layna the wyte on me; if you and thae thowless gluttons184, that are sitting staring like cows bursting on clover, wad testify wi’ your hands as I have testified wi’ my tongue, they should never harle the precious young lad awa’ to captivity185.”
While this dialogue passed, the soldiers had already bound and secured their prisoner. Milnwood returned at this instant, and, alarmed at the preparations he beheld186, hastened to proffer187 to Bothwell, though with many a grievous groan35, the purse of gold which he had been obliged to rummage188 out as ransom189 for his nephew. The trooper took the purse with an air of indifference, weighed it in his hand, chucked it up into the air, and caught it as it fell, then shook his head, and said, “There’s many a merry night in this nest of yellow boys, but d — n me if I dare venture for them — that old woman has spoken too loud, and before all the men too. — Hark ye, old gentleman,” to Milnwood, “I must take your nephew to head-quarters, so I cannot, in conscience, keep more than is my due as civility-money;” then opening the purse, he gave a gold piece to each of the soldiers, and took three to himself. “Now,” said he, “you have the comfort to know that your kinsman190, young Captain Popinjay, will be carefully looked after and civilly used; and the rest of the money I return to you.”
Milnwood eagerly extended his hand.
“Only you know,” said Bothwell, still playing with the purse, “that every landholder is answerable for the conformity191 and loyalty192 of his household, and that these fellows of mine are not obliged to be silent on the subject of the fine sermon we have had from that old puritan in the tartan plaid there; and I presume you are aware that the consequences of delation will be a heavy fine before the council.”
“Good sergeant — worthy193 captain!” exclaimed the terrified miser194, “I am sure there is no person in my house, to my knowledge, would give cause of offence.”
“Nay,” answered Bothwell, “you shall hear her give her testimony, as she calls it, herself. — You fellow,” (to Cuddie,) “stand back, and let your mother speak her mind. I see she’s primed and loaded again since her first discharge.”
“Lord! noble sir,” said Cuddie, “an auld wife’s tongue’s but a feckless matter to mak sic a fash about. Neither my father nor me ever minded muckle what our mither said.”
“Hold your peace, my lad, while you are well,” said Bothwell; “I promise you I think you are slyer than you would like to be supposed. — Come, good dame, you see your master will not believe that you can give us so bright a testimony.”
Mause’s zeal did not require this spur to set her again on full career.
“Woe to the compliers and carnal self-seekers,” she said, “that daub over and drown their consciences by complying with wicked exactions, and giving mammon of unrighteousness to the sons of Belial, that it may make their peace with them! It is a sinful compliance195, a base confederacy with the Enemy. It is the evil that Menahem did in the sight of the Lord, when he gave a thousand talents to Pul, King of Assyria, that his hand might be with him; Second Kings, feifteen chapter, nineteen verse. It is the evil deed of Ahab, when he sent money to Tiglath-Peleser; see the saame Second Kings, saxteen and aught. And if it was accounted a backsliding even in godly Hezekiah, that he complied with Sennacherib, giving him money, and offering to bear that which was put upon him, (see the saame Second Kings, aughteen chapter, fourteen and feifteen verses,) even so it is with them that in this contumacious196 and backsliding generation pays localities and fees, and cess and fines, to greedy and unrighteous publicans, and extortions and stipends197 to hireling curates, (dumb dogs which bark not, sleeping, lying down, loving to slumber,) and gives gifts to be helps and hires to our oppressors and destroyers. They are all like the casters of a lot with them — like the preparing of a table for the troop, and the furnishing a drink-offering to the number.”
“There’s a fine sound of doctrine for you, Mr Morton! How like you that?” said Bothwell; “or how do you think the Council will like it? I think we can carry the greatest part of it in our heads without a kylevine pen and a pair of tablets, such as you bring to conventicles. She denies paying cess, I think, Andrews?”
“Yes, by G — ” said Andrews; “and she swore it was a sin to give a trooper a pot of ale, or ask him to sit down to a table.”
“You hear,” said Bothwell, addressing Milnwood; “but it’s your own affair;” and he proffered198 back the purse with its diminished contents, with an air of indifference.
Milnwood, whose head seemed stunned199 by the accumulation of his misfortunes, extended his hand mechanically to take the purse.
“Are ye mad?” said his housekeeper, in a whisper; “tell them to keep it; — they will keep it either by fair means or foul, and it’s our only chance to make them quiet.”
“I canna do it, Ailie — I canna do it,” said Milnwood, in the bitterness of his heart. “I canna part wi’ the siller I hae counted sae often ower, to thae blackguards.”
“Then I maun do it mysell, Milnwood,” said the housekeeper, “or see a’ gang wrang thegither. — My master, sir,” she said, addressing Bothwell, “canna think o’ taking back ony thing at the hand of an honourable200 gentleman like you; he implores201 ye to pit up the siller, and be as kind to his nephew as ye can, and be favourable68 in reporting our dispositions202 to government, and let us tak nae wrang for the daft speeches of an auld jaud,” (here she turned fiercely upon Mause, to indulge herself for the effort which it cost her to assume a mild demeanour to the soldiers,) “a daft auld whig randy, that ne’er was in the house (foul fa’ her) till yesterday afternoon, and that sall ne’er cross the door-stane again an anes I had her out o’t.”
“Ay, ay,” whispered Cuddie to his parent, “e’en sae! I kend we wad be put to our travels again whene’er ye suld get three words spoken to an end. I was sure that wad be the upshot o’t, mither.”
“Whisht, my bairn,” said she, “and dinna murmur203 at the cross — cross their door-stane! weel I wot I’ll ne’er cross their door-stane. There’s nae mark on their threshold for a signal that the destroying angel should pass by. They’ll get a back-cast o’ his hand yet, that think sae muckle o’ the creature and sae little o’ the Creator — sae muckle o’ warld’s gear and sae little o’ a broken covenant — sae muckle about thae wheen pieces o’ yellow muck, and sae little about the pure gold o’ the Scripture204 — sae muckle about their ain friend and kinsman, and sae little about the elect, that are tried wi’ hornings, harassings, huntings, searchings, chasings, catchings, imprisonments, torturings, banishments, headings, hangings, dismemberings, and quarterings quick, forby the hundreds forced from their ain habitations to the deserts, mountains, muirs, mosses205, moss-flows, and peat-hags, there to hear the word like bread eaten in secret.”
“She’s at the Covenant now, sergeant, shall we not have her away?” said one of the soldiers.
“You be d — d!” said Bothwell, aside to him; “cannot you see she’s better where she is, so long as there is a respectable, sponsible, money-broking heritor, like Mr Morton of Milnwood, who has the means of atoning206 her trespasses207? Let the old mother fly to raise another brood, she’s too tough to be made any thing of herself — Here,” he cried, “one other round to Milnwood and his roof-tree, and to our next merry meeting with him! — which I think will not be far distant, if he keeps such a fanatical family.”
He then ordered the party to take their horses, and pressed the best in Milnwood’s stable into the king’s service to carry the prisoner. Mrs Wilson, with weeping eyes, made up a small parcel of necessaries for Henry’s compelled journey, and as she bustled208 about, took an opportunity, unseen by the party, to slip into his hand a small sum of money. Bothwell and his troopers, in other respects, kept their promise, and were civil. They did not bind209 their prisoner, but contented themselves with leading his horse between a file of men. They then mounted, and marched off with much mirth and laughter among themselves, leaving the Milnwood family in great confusion. The old Laird himself, overpowered by the loss of his nephew, and the unavailing outlay210 of twenty pounds sterling, did nothing the whole evening but rock himself backwards211 and forwards in his great leathern easy-chair, repeating the same lamentation212, of “Ruined on a’ sides, ruined on a’ sides — harried and undone — harried and undone — body and gudes, body and gudes!”
Mrs Alison Wilson’s grief was partly indulged and partly relieved by the torrent213 of invectives with which she accompanied Mause and Cuddie’s expulsion from Milnwood.
“Ill luck be in the graning corse o’ thee! the prettiest lad in Clydesdale this day maun be a sufferer, and a’ for you and your daft whiggery!”
“Gae wa’,” replied Mause; “I trow ye are yet in the bonds of sin, and in the gall214 of iniquity215, to grudge216 your bonniest and best in the cause of Him that gave ye a’ ye hae — I promise I hae dune as muckle for Mr Harry as I wad do for my ain; for if Cuddie was found worthy to bear testimony in the Grassmarket”—“And there’s gude hope o’t,” said Alison, “unless you and he change your courses.”
“— And if,” continued Mause, disregarding the interruption, “the bloody Doegs and the flattering Ziphites were to seek to ensnare me with a proffer of his remission upon sinful compliances, I wad persevere217, natheless, in lifting my testimony against popery, prelacy, antinomianism, erastianism, lapsarianism, sublapsarianism, and the sins and snares of the times — I wad cry as a woman in labour against the black Indulgence, that has been a stumbling-block to professors — I wad uplift my voice as a powerful preacher.”
“Hout tout2, mither,” cried Cuddie, interfering218 and dragging her off forcibly, “dinna deave the gentlewoman wi’ your testimony! ye hae preached eneugh for sax days. Ye preached us out o’ our canny219 free-house and gude kale-yard, and out o’ this new city o’ refuge afore our hinder end was weel hafted in it; and ye hae preached Mr Harry awa to the prison; and ye hae preached twenty punds out o’ the Laird’s pocket that he likes as ill to quit wi’; and sae ye may haud sae for ae wee while, without preaching me up a ladder and down a tow. Sae, come awa, come awa; the family hae had eneugh o’ your testimony to mind it for ae while.”
So saying he dragged off Mause, the words, “Testimony — Covenant — malignants — indulgence,” still thrilling upon her tongue, to make preparations for instantly renewing their travels in quest of an asylum220.
“Ill-fard, crazy, crack-brained gowk, that she is!” exclaimed the housekeeper, as she saw them depart, “to set up to be sae muckle better than ither folk, the auld besom, and to bring sae muckle distress221 on a douce quiet family! If it hadna been that I am mair than half a gentlewoman by my station, I wad hae tried my ten nails in the wizen’d hide o’ her!”
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2
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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3
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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4
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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6
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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7
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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8
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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9
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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10
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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11
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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12
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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14
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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15
crimsoning
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| 变为深红色（crimson的现在分词形式） | |
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16
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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17
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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18
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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19
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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20
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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21
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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24
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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29
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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30
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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31
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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32
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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yoking
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| 配轭，矿区的分界 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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35
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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36
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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37
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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38
impenitent
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| adj.不悔悟的，顽固的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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41
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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42
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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43
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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44
fructifying
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| v.结果实( fructify的现在分词 )；使结果实，使多产，使土地肥沃 | |
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45
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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46
construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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47
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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48
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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49
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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50
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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51
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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52
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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53
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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54
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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55
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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56
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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57
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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58
surfeiting
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的现在分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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59
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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60
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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61
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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62
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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63
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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64
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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65
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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66
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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67
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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68
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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69
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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70
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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71
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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72
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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73
cormorant
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| n.鸬鹚，贪婪的人 | |
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74
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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75
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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76
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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77
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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78
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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79
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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80
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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82
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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83
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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84
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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85
exaction
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| n.强求，强征；杂税 | |
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86
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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87
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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88
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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89
quandary
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| n.困惑，进迟两难之境 | |
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90
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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91
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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92
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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93
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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94
humbling
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| adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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95
bidder
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| n.(拍卖时的)出价人，报价人，投标人 | |
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96
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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97
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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98
lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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99
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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100
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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101
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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102
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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103
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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104
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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105
decanted
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| v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
bicker
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| vi.(为小事)吵嘴，争吵 | |
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107
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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108
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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109
stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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110
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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111
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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112
covenants
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| n.（有法律约束的）协议( covenant的名词复数 )；盟约；公约；（向慈善事业、信托基金会等定期捐款的）契约书 | |
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113
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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114
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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115
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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116
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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117
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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118
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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120
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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121
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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122
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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124
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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125
parricide
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| n.杀父母；杀亲罪 | |
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126
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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127
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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128
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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129
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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130
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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131
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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132
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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133
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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134
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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135
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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136
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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137
primate
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| n.灵长类（目）动物，首席主教；adj.首要的 | |
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138
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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139
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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140
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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141
reset
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| v.重新安排，复位；n.重新放置；重放之物 | |
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142
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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143
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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144
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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145
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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146
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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147
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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148
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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149
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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150
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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151
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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152
lugs
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| 钎柄 | |
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153
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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154
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
certify
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| vt.证明，证实；发证书(或执照)给 | |
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156
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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157
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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158
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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159
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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160
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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161
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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162
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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163
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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164
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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165
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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166
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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168
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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169
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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170
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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171
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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172
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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173
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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174
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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175
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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176
leopards
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| n.豹( leopard的名词复数 )；本性难移 | |
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177
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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178
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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179
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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180
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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181
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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182
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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183
dune
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| n.(由风吹积而成的)沙丘 | |
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184
gluttons
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| 贪食者( glutton的名词复数 )； 贪图者； 酷爱…的人； 狼獾 | |
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185
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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186
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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187
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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188
rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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189
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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190
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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191
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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192
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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193
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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194
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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195
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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196
contumacious
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| adj.拒不服从的，违抗的 | |
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197
stipends
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| n.（尤指牧师的）薪俸( stipend的名词复数 ) | |
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198
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
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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200
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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201
implores
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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202
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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203
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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204
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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205
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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206
atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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207
trespasses
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| 罪过( trespass的名词复数 )； 非法进入 | |
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208
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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209
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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210
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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211
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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212
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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213
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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214
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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215
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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216
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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217
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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218
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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219
canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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220
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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221
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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