Rung to the wassail-health — the dancer’s step
Sprung to the chord responsive — the gay gamester
To fate’s disposal flung his heap of gold,
And laugh’d alike when it increased or lessen’d:
Such virtue2 hath court-air to teach us patience
Which schoolmen preach in vain.
WHY COME YE NOT TO COURT?
Upon the afternoon of this eventful day, Charles held his Court in the Queen’s apartments, which were opened at a particular hour to invited guests of a certain lower degree, but accessible without restriction3 to the higher classes of nobility who had from birth, and to the courtiers who held by office the privilege of the entrée.
It was one part of Charles’s character, which unquestionably rendered him personally popular, and postponed5 to a subsequent reign6 the precipitation of his family from the throne, that he banished7 from his Court many of the formal restrictions8 with which it was in other reigns9 surrounded. He was conscious of the good-natured grace of his manners, and trusted to it, often not in vain, to remove evil impressions arising from actions, which he was sensible could not be justified10 on the grounds of liberal or national policy.
In the daytime the King was commonly seen in the public walks alone, or only attended by one or two persons; and his answer to the remonstrance11 of his brother, on the risk of thus exposing his person, is well known:—“Believe me, James,” he said, “no one will murder me, to make you King.”
In the same manner, Charles’s evenings, unless such as were destined12 to more secret pleasures, were frequently spent amongst all who had any pretence13 to approach a courtly circle; and thus it was upon the night which we are treating of. Queen Catherine, reconciled or humbled14 to her fate, had long ceased to express any feelings of jealousy15, nay16, seemed so absolutely dead to such a passion, that she received at her drawing-room, without scruple17, and even with encouragement, the Duchesses of Portsmouth and Cleveland, and others, who enjoyed, though in a less avowed18 character, the credit of having been royal favourites. Constraint19 of every kind was banished from a circle so composed, and which was frequented at the same time, if not by the wisest, at least by the wittiest20 courtiers, who ever assembled round a monarch21, and who, as many of them had shared the wants, and shifts, and frolics of his exile, had then acquired a sort of prescriptive licence, which the good-natured prince, when he attained22 his period of prosperity, could hardly have restrained had it suited his temper to do so. This, however, was the least of Charles’s thoughts. His manners were such as secured him from indelicate obtrusion23; and he sought no other protection from over-familiarity, than what these and his ready wit afforded him.
On the present occasion, he was peculiarly disposed to enjoy the scene of pleasure which had been prepared. The singular death of Major Coleby, which, taking place in his own presence, had proclaimed, with the voice of a passing bell, the ungrateful neglect of the Prince for whom he had sacrificed everything, had given Charles much pain. But, in his own opinion at least, he had completely atoned24 for this negligence25 by the trouble which he had taken for Sir Geoffrey Peveril and his son, whose liberation he looked upon not only as an excellent good deed in itself, but, in spite of the grave rebuke26 of Ormond, as achieved in a very pardonable manner, considering the difficulties with which he was surrounded. He even felt a degree of satisfaction on receiving intelligence from the city that there had been disturbances27 in the streets, and that some of the more violent fanatics28 had betaken themselves to their meeting-houses, upon sudden summons, to inquire, as their preachers phrased it, into the causes of Heaven’s wrath29, and into the backsliding of the Court, lawyers, and jury, by whom the false and bloody30 favourers of the Popish Plot were screened and cloaked from deserved punishment.
The King, we repeat, seemed to hear these accounts with pleasure, even when he was reminded of the dangerous and susceptible31 character of those with whom such suspicions originated. “Will any one now assert,” he said, with self-complacence, “that I am so utterly32 negligent33 of the interest of friends? — You see the peril34 in which I place myself, and even the risk to which I have exposed the public peace, to rescue a man whom I have scarce seen for twenty years, and then only in his buff-coat and bandoleers, with other Train-Band officers who kissed hands upon the Restoration. They say Kings have long hands — I think they have as much occasion for long memories, since they are expected to watch over and reward every man in England, who hath but shown his goodwill35 by crying ‘God save the King!’”
“Nay, the rogues36 are even more unreasonable37 still,” said Sedley; “for every knave38 of them thinks himself entitled to your Majesty39’s protection in a good cause, whether he has cried God save the King or no.”
The King smiled, and turned to another part of the stately hall, where everything was assembled which could, according to the taste of the age, make the time glide40 pleasantly away.
In one place, a group of the young nobility, and of the ladies of the Court, listened to the reader’s acquaintance Empson, who was accompanying with his unrivalled breathings on the flute41, a young siren, who, while her bosom42 palpitated with pride and with fear, warbled to the courtly and august presence the beautiful air beginning —
“Young I am, and yet unskill’d,
How to make a lover yield,” &c.
She performed her task in a manner so corresponding with the strains of the amatory poet, and the voluptuous43 air with which the words had been invested by the celebrated44 Purcel, that the men crowded around in ecstasies45, while most of the ladies thought it proper either to look extremely indifferent to the words she sung, or to withdraw from the circle as quietly as possible. To the song succeeded a concerto46, performed by a select band of most admirable musicians, which the King, whose taste was indisputable, had himself selected.
At other tables in the apartment, the elder courtiers worshipped Fortune, at the various fashionable games of ombre, quadrille, hazard, and the like; while heaps of gold which lay before the players, augmented47 or dwindled48 with every turn of a card or cast of a die. Many a year’s rent of fair estates was ventured upon the main or the odds49; which, spent in the old deserted50 manor-house, had repaired the ravages51 of Cromwell upon its walls, and replaced the sources of good housekeeping and hospitality, that, exhausted52 in the last age by fine and sequestration, were now in a fair way of being annihilated53 by careless prodigality54. Elsewhere, under cover of observing the gamester, or listening to the music, the gallantries of that all-licensed age were practised among the gay and fair, closely watched the whilst by the ugly or the old, who promised themselves at least the pleasure of observing, and it may be that of proclaiming, intrigues55 in which they could not be sharers.
From one table to another glided56 the merry Monarch, exchanging now a glance with a Court beauty, now a jest with a Court wit, now beating time to the music, and anon losing or winning a few pieces of gold on the chance of the game to which he stood nearest; — the most amiable57 of voluptuaries — the gayest and best-natured of companions — the man that would, of all others, have best sustained his character, had life been a continued banquet, and its only end to enjoy the passing hour, and send it away as pleasantly as might be.
But Kings are least of all exempted58 from the ordinary lot of humanity; and Seged of Ethiopia is, amongst monarchs59, no solitary60 example of the vanity of reckoning on a day or an hour of undisturbed serenity61. An attendant on the Court announced suddenly to their Majesties62 that a lady, who would only announce herself as a Peeress of England, desired to be admitted into the presence.
The Queen said, hastily, it was impossible. No peeress, without announcing her title, was entitled to the privilege of her rank.
“I could be sworn,” said a nobleman in attendance, “that it is some whim63 of the Duchess of Newcastle.”
The attendant who brought the message, said that he did indeed believe it to be the Duchess, both from the singularity of the message, and that the lady spoke64 with somewhat a foreign accent.
“In the name of madness, then,” said the King, “let us admit her. Her Grace is an entire raree-show in her own person — a universal masquerade — indeed a sort of private Bedlam-hospital, her whole ideas being like so many patients crazed upon the subjects of love and literature, who act nothing in their vagaries65, save Minerva, Venus, and the nine Muses66.”
“Your Majesty’s pleasure must always supersede67 mine,” said the Queen. “I only hope I shall not be expected to entertain so fantastic a personage. The last time she came to Court, Isabella”—(she spoke to one of her Portuguese68 ladies of honour)—“you had not returned from our lovely Lisbon! — her Grace had the assurance to assume a right to bring a train-bearer into my apartment; and when this was not allowed, what then, think you, she did? — even caused her train to be made so long, that three mortal yards of satin and silver remained in the antechamber, supported by four wenches, while the other end was attached to her Grace’s person, as she paid her duty at the upper end of the presence-room. Full thirty yards of the most beautiful silk did her Grace’s madness employ in this manner.”
“And most beautiful damsels they were who bore this portentous69 train,” said the King —“a train never equalled save by that of the great comet in sixty-six. Sedley and Etherege told us wonders of them; for it is one advantage of this new fashion brought up by the Duchess, that a matron may be totally unconscious of the coquetry of her train and its attendants.”
“Am I to understand, then, your Majesty’s pleasure is, that the lady is to be admitted?” said the usher70.
“Certainly,” said the King; “that is, if the incognita be really entitled to the honour. — It may be as well to inquire her title — there are more madwomen abroad than the Duchess of Newcastle. I will walk into the anteroom myself, and receive your answer.”
But ere Charles had reached the lower end of the apartment in his progress to the anteroom, the usher surprised the assembly by announcing a name which had not for many a year been heard in these courtly halls —“the Countess of Derby!”
Stately and tall, and still, at an advanced period of life, having a person unbroken by years, the noble lady advanced towards her Sovereign, with a step resembling that with which she might have met an equal. There was indeed nothing in her manner that indicated either haughtiness71 or assumption unbecoming that presence; but her consciousness of wrongs, sustained from the administration of Charles, and of the superiority of the injured party over those from whom, or in whose name, the injury had been offered, gave her look dignity, and her step firmness. She was dressed in widow’s weeds, of the same fashion which were worn at the time her husband was brought to the scaffold; and which, in the thirty years subsequent to that event, she had never permitted her tirewoman to alter.
The surprise was no pleasing one to the King; and cursing in his heart the rashness which had allowed the lady entrance on the gay scene in which they were engaged, he saw at the same time the necessity of receiving her in a manner suitable to his own character, and her rank in the British Court. He approached her with an air of welcome, into which he threw all his natural grace, while he began, “Chère Comtesse de Derby, puissante Reine de Man, notre très auguste s?ur —— ”
“Speak English, sire, if I may presume to ask such a favour,” said the Countess. “I am a Peeress of this nation — mother to one English Earl, and widow, alas72, to another! In England I have spent my brief days of happiness, my long years of widowhood and sorrow. France and its language are but to me the dreams of an uninteresting childhood. I know no tongue save that of my husband and my son. Permit me, as the widow and mother of Derby, thus to render my homage73.”
She would have kneeled, but the King gracefully74 prevented her, and, saluting75 her cheek, according to the form, led her towards the Queen, and himself performed the ceremony of introduction. “Your Majesty,” he said, “must be informed that the Countess has imposed a restriction on French — the language of gallantry and compliment. I trust your Majesty will, though a foreigner, like herself, find enough of honest English to assure the Countess of Derby with what pleasure we see her at Court, after the absence of so many years.”
“I will endeavour to do so, at least,” said the Queen, on whom the appearance of the Countess of Derby made a more favourable76 impression than that of many strangers, whom, at the King’s request, she was in the habit of receiving with courtesy.
Charles himself again spoke. “To any other lady of the same rank I might put the question, why she was so long absent from the circle? I fear I can only ask the Countess of Derby, what fortunate cause produces the pleasure of seeing her here?”
“No fortunate cause, my liege, though one most strong and urgent.”
The King augured77 nothing agreeable from this commencement; and in truth, from the Countess’s first entrance, he had anticipated some unpleasant explanation, which he therefore hastened to parry, having first composed his features into an expression of sympathy and interest.
“If,” said he, “the cause is of a nature in which we can render assistance, we cannot expect your ladyship should enter upon it at the present time; but a memorial addressed to our secretary, or, if it is more satisfactory, to ourselves directly, will receive our immediate78, and I trust I need not add, our favourable construction.”
The Countess bowed with some state, and answered, “My business, sire, is indeed important; but so brief, that it need not for more than a few minutes withdraw your ear from what is more pleasing; — yet it is so urgent, that I am afraid to postpone4 it even for a moment.”
“This is unusual,” said Charles. “But you, Countess of Derby, are an unwonted guest, and must command my time. Does the matter require my private ear?”
“For my part,” said the Countess, “the whole Court might listen; but you Majesty may prefer hearing me in the presence of one or two of your counsellors.”
“Ormond,” said the King, looking around, “attend us for an instant — and do you, Arlington, do the same.”
The King led the way into an adjoining cabinet, and, seating himself, requested the Countess would also take a chair. “It needs not, sire,” she replied; then pausing for a moment, as if to collect her spirits, she proceeded with firmness.
“Your Majesty well said that no light cause had drawn79 me from my lonely habitation. I came not hither when the property of my son — that property which descended80 to him from a father who died for your Majesty’s rights — was conjured81 away from him under pretext82 of justice, that it might first feed the avarice83 of the rebel Fairfax, and then supply the prodigality of his son-inlaw, Buckingham.”
“These are over harsh terms, lady,” said the King. “A legal penalty was, as we remember, incurred84 by an act of irregular violence — so our courts and our laws term it, though personally I have no objection to call it, with you, an honourable85 revenge. But admit it were such, in prosecution86 of the laws of honour, bitter legal consequences are often necessarily incurred.”
“I come not to argue for my son’s wasted and forfeited87 inheritance, sire,” said the Countess; “I only take credit for my patience, under that afflicting88 dispensation. I now come to redeem89 the honour of the House of Derby, more dear to me than all the treasures and lands which ever belonged to it.”
“And by whom is the honour of the House of Derby impeached90?” said the King; “for on my word you bring me the first news of it.”
“Has there one Narrative91, as these wild fictions are termed, been printed with regard to the Popish Plot — this pretended Plot as I will call it — in which the honour of our house has not been touched and tainted92? And are there not two noble gentlemen, father and son, allies of the House of Stanley, about to be placed in jeopardy93 of their lives, on account of matters in which we are the parties first impeached?”
The King looked around, and smiled to Arlington and Ormond. “The Countess’s courage, methinks, shames ours. What lips dared have called the immaculate Plot pretended, or the Narrative of the witnesses, our preservers from Popish knives, a wild fiction? — But, madam,” he said, “though I admire the generosity94 of your interference in behalf of the two Peverils, I must acquaint you, that your interference is unnecessary — they are this morning acquitted95.”
“Now may God be praised!” said the Countess, folding her hands. “I have scarce slept since I heard the news of their impeachment96; and have arrived here to surrender myself to your Majesty’s justice, or to the prejudices of the nation, in hopes, by so doing, I might at least save the lives of my noble and generous friends, enveloped97 in suspicion only, or chiefly, by their connection with us. — Are they indeed acquitted?”
“They are, by my honour,” said the King. “I marvel98 you heard it not.”
“I arrived but last night, and remained in the strictest seclusion,” said the Countess, “afraid to make any inquiries99 that might occasion discovery ere I saw your Majesty.”
“And now that we have met,” said the King, taking her hand kindly100 — “a meeting which gives me the greatest pleasure — may I recommend to you speedily to return to your royal island with as little éclat as you came thither101? The world, my dear Countess, has changed since we were young. Men fought in the Civil War with good swords and muskets102; but now we fight with indictments103 and oaths, and such like legal weapons. You are no adept104 in such warfare105; and though I am well aware you know how to hold out a castle, I doubt much if you have the art to parry off an impeachment. This Plot has come upon us like a land storm — there is no steering106 the vessel107 in the teeth of the tempest — we must run for the nearest haven108, and happy if we can reach one.”
“This is cowardice109, my liege,” said the Countess —“Forgive the word! — it is but a woman who speaks it. Call your noble friends around you, and make a stand like your royal father. There is but one right and one wrong — one honourable and forward course; and all others which deviate110 are oblique111 and unworthy.”
“Your language, my venerated112 friend,” said Ormond, who saw the necessity of interfering113 betwixt the dignity of the actual Sovereign and the freedom of the Countess, who was generally accustomed to receive, not to pay observance — “your language is strong and decided114, but it applies not to the times. It might occasion a renewal115 of the Civil War, and of all its miseries116, but could hardly be attended with the effects you sanguinely117 anticipate.”
“You are too rash, my Lady Countess,” said Arlington, “not only to rush upon this danger yourself, but to desire to involve his Majesty. Let me say plainly, that, in this jealous time, you have done but ill to exchange the security of Castle Rushin for the chance of a lodging118 in the Tower of London.”
“And were I to kiss the block there,” said the Countess, “as did my husband at Bolton-on-the-Moors, I would do so willingly, rather than forsake119 a friend! — and one, too, whom, as in the case of the younger Peveril, I have thrust upon danger.”
“But have I not assured you that both of the Peverils, elder and younger, are freed from peril?” said the King; “and, my dear Countess, what can else tempt120 you to thrust yourself on danger, from which, doubtless, you expect to be relieved by my intervention121? Methinks a lady of your judgment122 should not voluntarily throw herself into a river, merely that her friends might have the risk and merit of dragging her out.”
The Countess reiterated123 her intention to claim a fair trial. — The two counsellors again pressed their advice that she should withdraw, though under the charge of absconding124 from justice, and remain in her own feudal125 kingdom.
The King, seeing no termination to the debate, gently reminded the Countess that her Majesty would be jealous if he detained her ladyship longer, and offered her his hand to conduct her back to the company. This she was under the necessity of accepting, and returned accordingly to the apartments of state, where an event occurred immediately afterwards, which must be transferred to the next chapter.
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1
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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2
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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3
restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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4
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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5
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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6
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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7
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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9
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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10
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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12
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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13
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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14
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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15
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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16
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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17
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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18
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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19
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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wittiest
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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obtrusion
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| n.强制，莽撞 | |
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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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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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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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42
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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43
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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45
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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concerto
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| n.协奏曲 | |
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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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51
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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52
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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53
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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54
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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55
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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56
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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57
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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58
exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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60
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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61
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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62
majesties
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| n.雄伟( majesty的名词复数 )；庄严；陛下；王权 | |
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63
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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64
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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65
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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66
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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67
supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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68
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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69
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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70
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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71
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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72
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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73
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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75
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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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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augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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81
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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82
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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83
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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84
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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85
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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87
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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afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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89
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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impeached
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| v.控告（某人）犯罪( impeach的过去式和过去分词 )；弹劾；对（某事物）怀疑；提出异议 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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92
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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93
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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94
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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95
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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96
impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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97
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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99
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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100
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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101
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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102
muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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103
indictments
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| n.（制度、社会等的）衰败迹象( indictment的名词复数 )；刑事起诉书；公诉书；控告 | |
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104
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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105
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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106
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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107
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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108
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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109
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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110
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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111
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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112
venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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114
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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115
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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116
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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117
sanguinely
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| 乐观的，充满希望的； 面色红润的； 血红色的 | |
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118
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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119
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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120
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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121
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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122
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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123
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
absconding
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| v.（尤指逃避逮捕）潜逃，逃跑( abscond的现在分词 ) | |
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125
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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