‘We are fortunate, however,’ said the two women: ‘let us thank Heaven for it. Our goods must go; but, at least, we are out of the way.’
But Don Abbondio could not find so much to rejoice at; even this concourse, and still more the far greater one which he heard was pouring in from the opposite direction, began to throw a gloom over his mind. ‘Oh, what a state of things!’ muttered he to the women, at a moment when there was nobody at hand: ‘oh, what a state of things! Don’t you see, that to collect so many people into one place is just the same thing as to draw all the soldiers here by force? Everybody is hiding, everybody carries off his things! nothing’s left in the houses: so they’ll think there must be some treasures up here. They’ll surely come! Oh poor me! What have I embarked3 in?’
‘What should they have to come here for?’ said Perpetua: ‘they are obliged to go straight on their way. And besides, I’ve always heard say, that it’s better to be a large party when there’s any danger.’
‘A large party? a large party?’ replied Don Abbondio. ‘Foolish woman! Don’t you know that a single German soldier could devour4 a hundred of such as they? And then, if they should take into their heads to play any pranks5, it would be a fine thing, wouldn’t it, to find ourselves in the midst of a battle? Oh poor me! It would have been less dangerous to have gone to the mountains. Why should everybody choose to go to one place? . . . Tiresome6 folks!’ muttered he in a still lower voice. ‘All here: still coming, coming, coming; one after the other, like sheep that have no sense.’
‘In this way,’ said Agnese, ‘they might say the same of us.’
‘Hush7, hush!’ said Don Abbondio, ‘all this talk does no good. What’s done is done: we are here, and now we must stay here. It will be as Providence8 wills: Heaven send it may be good!’
But his horror was greatly increased when, at the entrance of the valley, he saw a large body of armed men, some at the door of a house, and others quartered in the lower rooms. He cast a side glance at them: they were not the same faces which it had been his lot to see on his former melancholy9 entrance, or if there were any of the same, they were strangely altered; but, with all this, it is impossible to say what uneasiness this sight gave him. — Oh poor me! — thought he. — See, now, if they won’t play pranks! It isn’t likely it could be otherwise; I ought to have expected if from a man of this kind. But what will he want to do? Will he make war? will he play the king, eh? Of poor me! In circumstances when one would wish to bury oneself under-ground, and this man seeks every way of making himself known, and attracting attention; it seems as he wished to invite them! —
‘You see now, Signor master,’ said Perpetua, addressing him, ‘there are brave people here who will know how to defend us. Let the soldiers come now: these people are not like our clowns, who are good for nothing but to drag their legs after them.’
‘Hold your tongue,’ said Don Abbondio, in a low and angry tone, ‘hold your tongue; you don’t know what you are talking about. Pray Heaven that the soldiers may make haste, or that they may never come to know what is doing here, and that the place is being fortified10 like a fortress11. Don’t you know it’s the soldiers’ business to take fortresses12? They wish nothing better; to take a place by storm is to them like going to a wedding; because all they find they take to themselves, and the inhabitants they put to the edge of the sword. Oh poor me! Well, I’ll surely see if there’s no way of putting oneself in safety on some of these peaks. They won’t reach me there in a battle! oh, they won’t reach me there!’
‘If you’re afraid, too, of being defended and helped . . . ’ Perpetua was again beginning; but Don Abbondio sharply interrupted her, though still in a suppressed tone: ‘Hold your tongue; and take good care you don’t report what we’ve said: woe13 unto us if you do! Remember that we must always put on a pleasant countenance14 here, and approve all we see.’
At Malanotte they found another watch of armed men, to whom Don Abbondio submissively took off his hat, saying, in the meanwhile, in his heart — Alas15! alas! I’ve certainly come to an encampment! — Here the cart stopped; they dismounted; Don Abbondio hastily paid and dismissed the driver; and with his two companions silently mounted the steep. The sight of those places recalled to his imagination and mingled16 with his present troubles the remembrance of those which he had suffered here once before. And Agnese, who had never seen these scenes, and who had drawn17 to herself an imaginary picture, which presented itself to her mind whenever she thought of the circumstances that had occurred here, on seeing them now as they were in reality, experienced a new and more vivid feeling of these mournful recollections. ‘Oh, Signor Curate!’ exclaimed she, ‘to think that my poor Lucia has passed along this road! . . . ’
‘Will you hold your tongue, you absurd woman?’ cried Don Abbondio in her ear. ‘Are those things to be bringing up here? Don’t you know we are in his place? It was well for us nobody heard you then; but if you talk in this way . . . ’
‘Oh! said Agnese; ‘now that he’s a saint! . . . ’
‘Well, be quiet!’ replied Don Abbondio again in her ear. ‘Do you think one may say without caution, even to saints, all that passes through one’s mind? Think rather of thanking him for his goodness to you.’
‘Oh, I’ve already thought of that: do you think I don’t know even a little civility?’
‘Civility is, not to say things that may be disagreeable to a person, particularly to one who is not accustomed to hear them. And under-stand well, both of you, that this is not a place to go chattering18 about, and saying whatever may happen to come into your heads. It is a great Signor’s house, you know that already: see what a household there is all around: people of all sorts come here: so be prudent19, if you can; weigh your words; and above all, let there be few of them, and only when there is a necessity: one can’t get wrong when one is silent.’
‘You do far worse, with your . . . ‘Perpetua began: but, ‘Hush!’ cried Don Abbondio, in a suppressed voice, at the same time hastily taking off his hat, and making a profound bow: for, on looking up, he had discovered the Unnamed coming down to meet them. He, on his part, had noticed and recognized Don Abbondio, and was now hastening to welcome him.
‘Signor Curate,’ said he, when he had reached him, ‘I should have liked to offer you my house on a pleasanter occasion; but, under any circumstances, I am exceedingly glad to be able to be of some service to you.’
‘Trusting in your illustrious Lordship’s great kindness,’ replied Don Abbondio, ‘I have ventured to come, under these melancholy circumstances, to intrude21 upon you: and, as your illustrious Lordship sees, I have also presumed to bring company with me. This is my housekeeper22 . . . ’
‘She is welcome,’ said the Unnamed.
‘And this,’ continued Don Abbondio, ‘is a woman to whom your Lordship has already been very good: the mother of that . . . of that . . . ’
‘Of Lucia,’ said Agnese.
‘Of Lucia!’ exclaimed the Unnamed, turning with a look of shame towards Agnese. ‘Been very good, I! Immortal24 God! You are very good to me, to come here . . . to me . . . to this house. You are most heartily25 welcome. You bring a blessing26 with you.’
‘Oh, sir,’ said Agnese, ‘I come to give you trouble. I have, too,’ continued she, going very close to his ear, ‘to thank you . . . ’
The Unnamed interrupted these words, by anxiously making inquiries27 about Lucia: and having heard the intelligence they had to give, he turned to accompany his new guests to the castle, and persisted in doing so, in spite of their ceremonious opposition28. Agnese cast a glance at the Curate, which meant to say — You see, now, whether there’s any need for you to interpose between us with your advice! —
‘Have they reached your parish?’ asked the Unnamed, addressing Don Abbondio.
‘No, Signor; for I would not willingly await the arrival of these devils,’ replied he. ‘Heaven knows if I should have been able to escape alive out of their hands, and come to trouble your illustrious Lordship.’
‘Well, well, you may take courage,’ resumed the nobleman, ‘for you are now safe enough. They’ll not come up here; and if they should wish to make the trial, we’re ready to receive them.’
‘We’ll hope they won’t come,’ said Don Abbondio. ‘I hear,’ added he, pointing with his finger towards the mountains which enclosed the valley on the opposite side, ‘I hear that another band of soldiers is wandering about in that quarter too, but . . . but . . . ’
‘True,’ replied the Unnamed; ‘but you need have no fear: we are ready for them also.’— Between two fires; in the mean while said Don Abbondio to himself — exactly between two fires. Where have I suffered myself to be drawn? and by two silly women! And this man seems actually in his element in it all! Oh, what people there are in the world! —
On entering the castle, the Signor had Agnese and Perpetua conducted to an apartment in the quarter assigned to the women, which occupied three of the four sides of the inner court, in the back part of the building, and was situated29 on a jutting30 and isolated31 rock, overhanging a precipice32. The men were lodged33 in the sides of the other court to the right and left, and in that which looked on the esplanade. The central block, which separated the two quadrangles, and afforded a passage from one to the other through a wide archway opposite the principal gate, was partly occupied with provisions, and partly served as a depository for any little property the refugees might wish to secure in this retreat. In the quarters appropriated to the men, was a small apartment destined34 for the use of any clergy35 who might happen to take refuge three. Hither the Unnamed himself conducted Don Abbondio, who was the first to take possession of it.
Three or four and twenty days our fugitives remained at the cas-tle, in a state of continual bustle36, forming a large company, which at first received constant additions, but without any incidents of importance. Perhaps, however, not a single day passed without their resorting to arms. Lansquenets were coming in this direction; cappelletti had been seen in that. Every time this intelligence was brought, the Unnamed sent men to reconnoitre; and, if there were any necessity, took with him some whom he kept in readiness for the purpose, and accompanied them beyond the valley, in the direction of the indicated danger. And it was a singular thing to behold37 a band of brigands38, armed cap-à-pié, and conducted like soldiers by one who was himself unarmed. Generally it proved to be only foragers and disbanded pillagers, who contrived39 to make off before they were taken by surprise. But once, when driving away some of these, to teach them not to come again into that neighbourhood, the Unnamed received intelligence that an adjoining village was invaded and given up to plunder40. They were soldiers of various corps41, who, having loitered behind to hunt for booty, had formed themselves into a band, and made a sudden irruption into the lands surrounding that where the army had taken up its quarters; despoiling42 the inhabitants, and even levying43 contributions from them. The Unnamed made a brief harangue44 to his followers45, and bid them march forward to the invaded village.
They arrived unexpectedly: the plunderers, who had thought of nothing but taking the spoil, abandoned their prey46 in the midst, on seeing men in arms, and ready for battle, coming down upon them, and hastily took to flight, without waiting for one another, in the direction whence they had come. He pursued them a little distance; then, making a halt, waited awhile to see if any fresh object presented itself, and at length returned homewards. It is impossible to describe the shouts of applause and benediction47 which accompanied the troop of deliverers and its leader, on passing through the rescued village.
Among the multitude of refugees assembled in the castle, strangers to each other, and differing in rank, habit, sex, and age, no disturbance48 of any moment occurred. The Unnamed had placed guards in various posts, all of whom endeavoured to ward23 off any un-pleasantness with the care usually exhibited by those who are held accountable for any misdemeanours.
He had also requested the clergy, and others of most authority among those to whom he afforded shelter, to walk round the place, and keep a watch; and, as often as he could, he himself went about to show himself in every direction, while, even in his absence, the remembrance of who was in the house served as a restraint to those who needed it. Besides, they were all people that had fled from danger, and hence generally inclined to peace: while the thoughts of their homes and property, and in some cases, of relatives and friends whom they had left exposed to danger, and the tidings they heard from without, depressed49 their spirits, and thus maintained and constantly increased this disposition50.
There were, however, some unburdened spirits, some men of firmer mould and stronger courage, who tried to pass these days merrily. They had abandoned their homes because they were not strong enough to defend them; but they saw no use in weeping and sighing over things that could not be helped, or in picturing to themselves, and contemplating51 beforehand, in imagination, the havoc52 they would only too soon witness with their own eyes. Families acquainted with each other had left their homes at the same time, and had met with each other again in this retreat; new friendships were formed; and the multitude were divided into parties, according to their several habits and dispositions53. They who had money and consideration went to dine down in the valley, where eating-houses and inns had been hastily run up for the occasion: in some, mouthfuls were interchanged with lamentations, or no subject but their misfortunes was allowed to be discussed; in others, misfortunes were never remembered, unless it were to say that they must not think about them. To those who either could not, or would not, bear part of the expenses, bread, soup, and wine were distributed, in the castle; besides other tables which were laid out daily for those whom the Signor had expressly invited to partake of them; and our acquaintances were among this number.
Agnese and Perpetua, not to eat the bread of idleness, had begged to be employed in the services which, in so large an establishment, must have been required; and in these occupations they spent a great part of the day, while the rest was passed in chatting with some friends, whose acquaintance they had made, or with the unfortunate Don Abbondio. This individual, though he had nothing to do, was, nevertheless, never afflicted55 with ennui56: his fears kept him company. The direct dread57 of an assault had, I believe subsided58: or, if it still remained, it was one which gave him the least uneasiness; because, whenever he bestowed59 upon it the slightest thought, he could not help seeing how unfounded it was. But the idea of the surrounding country, inundated60 on both sides with brutal61 soldiers, the armour62 and armed men he had constantly before his eyes, the remembrance that he was in a castle, together with the thought of the many things that might happen any moment in such a situation, all contributed to keep him in indistinct, general, constant alarm; let alone the anxiety he felt when he thought of his poor home. During the whole time he remained in this asylum63, he never once went more than a stone’s throw from the building, nor ever set foot on the descent: his sole walk was to go out upon the esplanade, and pace up and down, sometimes to one, sometimes to the other side of the castle, there to look down among the cliffs and precipices64, in hopes of discovering some practicable passage, some kind of footpath65, by which he might go in search of a hiding-place, in case of being very closely pressed. On meeting any of his companions in this asylum, he failed not to make a profound bow, or respectful salutation, but he associated with very few; his most frequent conversations were with the two women, as we have related; and to them he poured out all his griefs, at the risk of being sometimes silenced by Perpetua, and completely put to shame even by Agnese. At table, however, where he sat but little, and talked still less, he heard the news of the terrible march which arrived daily at the castle, either reported from village to village, and from mouth to mouth, or brought thither66 by some one who had at first determined67 to remain at home, and had, after all, made his escape, without having been able to save anything, and probably, also, after receiving considerable ill-treatment; and every day brought with it some fresh tale of misfortune. Some, who were newsmongers by profession, diligently68 collected the different rumours69, weighed all the various accounts, and then gave the substance of them to the others. They disputed which were the most destructive regiments71, and whether infantry72 or cavalry73 were the worst; they reported, as well as they could, the names of some of the leaders; related some of their past enterprises, specified74 the places of halting, and the daily marches. That day such a regiment70 would spread over such a district; tomorrow, it would ravage75 such another, where, in the mean while, another had been playing the very devil, and worse. They chiefly, however, sought information and kept count of the regiments which from time to time crossed the bridge of Lecco, because these might be considered as fairly gone, and really out of the territory. The cavalry of Wallenstein passed it, and the infantry of Marradas; the cavalry of Anzlalt, and the infantry under Brandeburgo; the troops of Montecuccoli, then those of Ferrari; then followed Altringer, then Furstenburg, then Colloredo; after them came the Croatians, Torquato Conti, and this, that, and the other leader; and last of all, is Heaven’s good time, came at length Galasso. The flying squadron of Venetians made their final exit; and the whole country, on either hand, was once more set at liberty. Those belonging to the invaded villages which were first cleared of their ravagers, had already begun to evacuate76 the castle, and every day people continued to leave the place: as after an autumnal storm, the birds may be seen issuing on every side from the leafy branches of a great tree, where they had sought a shelter from its fury. Our three refugees were, perhaps, the last to take their departure, owing to Don Abbondio’s extreme reluctance77 to run the risk, if they returned home immediately, of meeting some straggling soldiers who might still be loitering in the rear of the army. It was in vain Perpetua repeated and insisted, that the longer they delayed, the greater opportunities they afforded to the thieves of the neighbourhood to enter the house finish the business: whenever the safety of life was at stake, Don Abbondio invariably gained the day; unless, indeed, the imminence78 of the danger were such as to deprive him of the power of self-defence.
On the day fixed79 for their departure, the Unnamed had a carriage in readiness at Malanotte, in which he had already placed a full supply of clothes for Agnese. Drawing her a little aside, he also forced her to accept a small store of scudi, to compensate80 for the damages she would find at home; although, striking her breast, she kept repeating that she had still some of the first supply left.
‘When you see your poor good Lucia . . . ’ said he, the last thing: ‘I am already convinced she prays for me, because I have done her so much wrong; tell her, then, that I thank her, and trust in God her prayers will return, also, in equal blessings81 upon her own head.’
He then insisted upon accompanying his three guests to the carriage. The obsequious82 and extravagant83 acknowledgments of Don Abbondio, and the complimentary84 speeches of Perpetua, we leave to the reader’s imagination. They set off, made a short stay, according to agreement, at the tailor’s cottage, and there heard a hundred particulars of the march, the usual tale of theft, violence, destruction, and obscenity; but there, fortunately, none of the soldiery had been seen.
‘Ah, Signor Curate!’ said the tailor, as he offered him his arm to assist him again into the carriage, ‘they’ll have matter enough for a printed book in a scene of destruction like this.’
As they advanced a little on their journey, our travellers began to witness, with their own eyes, something of what they had heard described; vineyards despoiled85, not as by the vintager, but as though a storm of wind and hail combined had exerted their utmost energies; branches strewn upon the earth, broken off, and trampled86 under-foot; stakes torn up, the ground trodden and covered with chips, leaves, and twigs87; trees uprooted88, or their branches lopped; hedges broken down; stiles carried away. In the villages, too, doors shivered to pieces, windows destroyed, straw, rags, rubbish of all kinds, lying in heaps, or scattered89 all over the pavement; a close atmosphere, and horrid90 odours of a more revolting nature proceeding91 from the houses; some of the villagers busy in sweeping92 out the accumulation of filth93 within them; others in repairing the doors and windows as they best could; some again weeping in groups, and indulging in lamentations together; and as the carriage drove through, hands stretched out on both sides at the doors of the vehicle imploring94 alms.
With these scenes, now before his eyes, now pictured in their minds, and with the expectation of finding their own houses in just the same state, they at length arrived there, and found that their expectations were indeed realized.
Agnese deposited her bundles in one corner of her little yard, the cleanest spot that remained about the house; she then set herself to sweep it thoroughly95, and collect and rearrange the little furniture which had been left her; she got a carpenter and blacksmith to come and mend the doors and window frames, and then, unpacking96 the linen97 which had been given her, and secretly counting over her fresh store of coins, she exclaimed to herself — I’ve fallen upon my feet! God, and the Madonna, and that good Signor, be thanked! I may indeed say, I’ve fallen upon my feet! —
Don Abbondio and Perpetua entered the house without the aid of keys, and at every step they took in the passage encountered a fetid odour, a poisonous effluvia, which almost drove them back. Holding their noses, they advanced to the kitchen-door; entered on tip-toe, carefully picking their way to avoid the most disgusting parts of the filthy98 straw which covered the ground, and cast a glance around. Nothing was left whole; but relics99 and fragments of what once had been, both here and in other parts of the house, were to be seen in every corner: quills100 and feathers from Perpetua’s fowls101, scraps102 of linen, leaves out of Don Abbondio’s calendars, remnants of kitchen utensils103; all heaped together, or scattered in confusion upon the floor. On the hearth104 might be discovered tokens of a riotous105 scene of destruction, like a multitude of ordinary ideas scattered through a widely diffused106 period by a professional orator107. There were the vestiges108 of extinguished faggots and billets of wood, which showed them to have been once the arm of a chair, a table-foot, the door of a cupboard, a bed-post, or a stave of the little cask which contained the wine, so beneficial to Don Abbondio’s stomach. The rest was cinders109 and coal; and with some of these very coals, the spoilers, by way of recreation, had scrawled110 on the walls distorted figures, doing their best, by the help of sundry111 square caps, shaven crowns, and large bands, to represent priests studiously exhibited in all manner of horrible and ludicrous attitudes: an intention, certainly, in which such artists could not possibly have failed.
‘Ah, the dirty pigs!’ exclaimed Perpetua. ‘Ah, the thieves!’ cried Don Abbondio; and, as if making their escape, they went out by another door, that led into the garden. Once more drawing their breath, they went straight up to the fig-tree; but, even before reaching it, they discovered that the ground had been disturbed, and both together uttered an exclamation112 of dismay, and, on coming up, they found in truth, instead of the dead, only the empty tomb. This gave rise to some disputes. Don Abbondio began to scold Perpetua for having hidden it so badly: it may be imagined whether she would fail to retort: and after indulging in mutual113 recrimination till they were tired, they returned, with many a lingering look cast back at the empty hole, grumbling114 into the house. They found things nearly in the same state everywhere. Long and diligently they worked to cleanse115 and purify the house, the more so as it was then extremely difficult to get any help; and they remained for I know not what length of time, as if in encampment, arranging things as they best could — and bad was the best — and gradually restoring doors, furniture, and utensils, with money lent to them by Agnese.
In addition to these grievances116, this disaster was, for some time afterwards, the source of many other very ticklish117 disputes; for Perpetua, by dint118 of asking, peeping, and hunting out, had come to know for certain that some of her master’s household goods, which were thought to have been carried off or destroyed by the soldiers, were, instead, safe and sound with some people in the neighbourhood; and she was continually tormenting119 her master to make a stir about them, and claim his own. A chord more odious120 to Don Abbondio could not have been touched, considering that his property was in the hands of ruffians, of that species of persons, that is to say, with whom he had it most at heart to remain at peace.
‘But if I don’t want to know about these things . . . ’ said he. ‘How often am I to tell you that what is gone, is gone? Am I to be harassed121 in this way, too, because my house has been robbed?’
‘I tell you,’ replied Perpetua, ‘that you would let the very eyes be eaten out of your head. To rob others is a sin, but with you, it is a sin not to rob you.’
‘Very proper language for you, certainly!’ answered Don Abbondio. ‘Will you hold your tongue?
Perpetua did hold her tongue, but not so directly; and even then everything was a pretext122 for beginning again; so that the poor man was at last reduced to the necessity of suppressing every lamentation54 on the lack of this or that article of furniture, at the moment he most wanted to give vent20 to his regrets; for more than once he had been doomed123 to hear: ‘Go seek it at such a one’s, who has it, and who wouldn’t have kept it till now, if he hadn’t had to deal with such an easy man.’
Another and more vivid cause of disquietude, was the intelligence that soldiers continued daily to be passing in confusion, as he had too well conjectured124; hence he was ever in apprehension125 of seeing a man, or even a band of men, arriving at his door, which he had had repaired in haste the first thing, and which he kept barred with the greatest precaution; but, thank Heaven! this catastrophe126 never occurred. These terrors, however, were not appeased127, when a new one was added to their number.
But here we must leave the poor man on one side: for other matters are now to be treated of than his private apprehensions128, the misfortunes of a few villages, or a transient disaster.
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1
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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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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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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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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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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30
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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31
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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32
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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33
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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34
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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35
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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36
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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37
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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38
brigands
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| n.土匪，强盗( brigand的名词复数 ) | |
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39
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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40
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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41
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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42
despoiling
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的现在分词 ) | |
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43
levying
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| 征（兵）( levy的现在分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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44
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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45
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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46
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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47
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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48
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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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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51
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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52
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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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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54
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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57
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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59
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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62
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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63
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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64
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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65
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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66
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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68
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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69
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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72
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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73
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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74
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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75
ravage
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| vt.使...荒废，破坏...；n.破坏，掠夺，荒废 | |
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76
evacuate
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| v.遣送；搬空；抽出；排泄；大(小)便 | |
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77
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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78
imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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79
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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81
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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82
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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83
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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84
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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87
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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88
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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89
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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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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91
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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92
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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93
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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94
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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95
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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96
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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97
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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98
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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99
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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100
quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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101
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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102
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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103
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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104
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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105
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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106
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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107
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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108
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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109
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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110
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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112
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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113
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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114
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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115
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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116
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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117
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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118
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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119
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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120
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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121
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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122
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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123
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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124
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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126
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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127
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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128
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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