The time had come when the Church was to claim her promise from madame, and her pale cheek and sad eyes showed how vain it had been for her to try and drown the pleadings of her tender heart by the arguments of the bigots around her. She knew the Huguenots of France. Who could know them better, seeing that she was herself from their stock, and had been brought up in their faith? She knew their patience, their nobility, their independence, their tenacity10. What chance was there that they would conform to the king’s wish? A few great nobles might, but the others would laugh at the galleys12, the jail, or even the gallows13 when the faith of their fathers was at stake. If their creed14 were no longer tolerated, then, and if they remained true to it, they must either fly from the country or spend a living death tugging16 at an oar17 or working in a chain-gang upon the roads. It was a dreadful alternative to present to a people who were so numerous that they made a small nation in themselves. And most dreadful of all, that she who was of their own blood should cast her voice against them. And yet her promise had been given, and now the time had come when it must be redeemed18.
The eloquent19 Bishop20 Bossuet was there, with Louvois, the minister of war, and the famous Jesuit, Father la Chaise, each piling argument upon argument to overcome the reluctance21 of the king. Beside them stood another priest, so thin and so pale that he might have risen from his bed of death, but with a fierce light burning in his large dark eyes, and with a terrible resolution in his drawn22 brows and in the set of his grim, lanky23 jaw24. Madame bent25 over her tapestry26 and weaved her coloured silks in silence, while the king leaned upon his hand and listened with the face of a man who knows that he is driven, and yet can hardly turn against the goads27. On the low table lay a paper, with pen and ink beside it. It was the order for the revocation28, and it only needed the king’s signature to make it the law of the land.
“And so, father, you are of opinion that if I stamp out heresy29 in this fashion I shall assure my own salvation30 in the next world?” he asked.
“You will have merited a reward.”
“And you think so too, Monsieur Bishop?”
“Assuredly, sire.”
“And you. Abbe du Chayla?”
The emaciated31 priest spoke32 for the first time, a tinge33 of colour creeping into his corpse-like cheeks, and a more lurid34 light in his deep-set eyes.
“I know not about assuring your salvation, sire. I think it would take very much more to do that. But there cannot be a doubt as to your damnation if you do not do it.”
The king started angrily, and frowned at the speaker.
“Your words are somewhat more curt36 than I am accustomed to,” he remarked.
“In such a matter it were cruel indeed to leave you in doubt. I say again that your soul’s fate hangs upon the balance. Heresy is a mortal sin. Thousands of heretics would turn to the Church if you did but give the word. Therefore these thousands of mortal sins are all upon your soul. What hope for it then, if you do not amend37?”
“My father and my grandfather tolerated them.”
“Then, without some special extension of the grace of God, your father and your grandfather are burning in hell.”
“Insolent!” The king sprang from his seat.
“Sire, I will say what I hold to be the truth were you fifty times a king. What care I for any man when I know that I speak for the King of kings? See; are these the limbs of one who would shrink from testifying to truth?” With a sudden movement he threw back the long sleeves of his gown and shot out his white fleshless arms. The bones were all knotted and bent and screwed into the most fantastic shapes. Even Louvois, the hardened man of the court, and his two brother priests, shuddered39 at the sight of those dreadful limbs. He raised them above his head and turned his burning eyes upwards40.
“Heaven has chosen me to testify for the faith before now,” said he. “I heard that blood was wanted to nourish the young Church of Siam, and so to Siam I journeyed. They tore me open; they crucified me; they wrenched41 and split my bones. I was left as a dead man, yet God has breathed the breath of life back into me that I may help in this great work of the regeneration of France.”
“Your sufferings, father,” said Louis, resuming his seat, “give you every claim, both upon the Church and upon me, who am its special champion and protector. What would you counsel, then, father, in the case of those Huguenots who refuse to change?”
“They would change,” cried Du Chayla, with a drawn smile upon his ghastly face. “They must bend or they must break. What matter if they be ground to powder, if we can but build up a complete Church in the land?” His deep-set eyes glowed with ferocity, and be shook one bony hand in savage42 wrath43 above his head.
“The cruelty with which you have been used, then, has not taught you to be more tender to others.”
“Tender! To heretics! No, sire, my own pains have taught me that the world and the flesh are as nothing, and that the truest charity to another is to capture his soul at all risks to his vile44 body. I should have these Huguenot souls, sire, though I turned France into a shambles45 to gain them.”
Louis was evidently deeply impressed by the fearless words and the wild earnestness of the speaker. He leaned his head upon his hand for a little time, and remained sunk in the deepest thought.
“Besides, sire,” said Pere la Chaise softly, “there would be little need for these stronger measures of which the good abbe speaks. As I have already remarked to you, you are so beloved in your kingdom that the mere46 assurance that you had expressed your will upon the subject would be enough to turn them all to the true faith.”
“I wish that I could think so, father; I wish that I could think so. But what is this?”
It was his valet who had half opened the door.
“Captain de Catinat is here, who desires to see you at once, sire.”
“Ask the captain to enter. Ah!” A happy thought seemed to have struck him. “We shall see what love for me will do in such a matter, for if it is anywhere to be found it must be among my own body-servants.”
The guardsman had arrived that instant from his long ride, and leaving Amos Green with the horses, he had come on at once, all dusty and travel-stained, to carry his message to the king. He entered now, and stood with the quiet ease of a man who is used to such scenes, his hand raised in a salute47.
“What news, captain?”
“Major de Brissac bade me tell you, sire, that he held the Castle of Portillac, that the lady is safe, and that her husband is a prisoner.”
Louis and his wife exchanged a quick glance of relief.
“That is well,” said he. “By the way, captain, you have served me in many ways of late, and always with success. I hear, Louvois, that De la Salle is dead of the small-pox.”
“He died yesterday, sire.”
“Then I desire that you make out the vacant commission of major to Monsieur de Catinat. Let me be the first to congratulate you, major, upon your promotion48, though you will need to exchange the blue coat for the pearl and gray of the mousquetaires. We cannot spare you from the household, you see.”
De Catinat kissed the hand which the monarch49 held out to him.
“May I be worthy50 of your kindness, sire!”
“You would do what you could to serve me, would you not?”
“My life is yours, sire.”
“Very good. Then I shall put your fidelity51 to the proof.”
“I am ready for any proof.”
“It is not a very severe one. You see this paper upon the table. It is an order that all the Huguenots in my dominions52 shall give up their errors, under pain of banishment53 or captivity54. Now I have hopes that there are many of my faithful subjects who are at fault in this matter, but who will abjure55 it when they learn that it is my clearly expressed wish that they should do so. It would be a great joy to me to find that it was so, for it would be a pain to me to use force against any man who bears the name of Frenchman. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, sire.” The young man had turned deadly pale, and he shifted his feet, and opened and clasped his hands. He had faced death a dozen times and under many different forms, but never had he felt such a sinking of the heart as came over him now.
“You are yourself a Huguenot, I understand. I would gladly have you, then, as the first-fruit of this great measure. Let us hear from your own lips that you, for one, are ready to follow the lead of your king in this as in other things.”
The young guardsman still hesitated, though his doubts were rather as to how he should frame his reply than as to what its substance should be. He felt that in an instant Fortune had wiped out all the good turns which she had done him during his past life, and that now, far from being in her debt, he held a heavy score against her. The king arched his eyebrows56 and drummed his fingers impatiently as he glanced at the downcast face and dejected bearing.
“Why all this thought?” he cried. “You are a man whom I have raised and whom I will raise. He who has a major’s epaulettes at thirty may carry a marshal’s baton57 at fifty. Your past is mine, and your future shall be no less so. What other hopes have you?”
“I have none, sire, outside your service.”
“Why this silence, then? Why do you not give the assurance which I demand?”
“I cannot do it, sire.”
“You cannot do it!”
“It is impossible. I should have no more peace in my mind, or respect for myself, if I knew that for the sake of position or wealth I had given up the faith of my fathers.”
“Man, you are surely mad! There is all that a man could covet58 upon one side, and what is there upon the other?”
“There is my honour.”
“And is it, then, a dishonour59 to embrace my religion?”
“It would be a dishonour to me to embrace it for the sake of gain without believing in it.”
“Then believe it.”
“Alas, sire, a man cannot force himself to believe. Belief is a thing which must come to him, not he to it.”
“On my word, father,” said Louis, glancing with a bitter smile at his Jesuit confessor, “I shall have to pick the cadets of the household from your seminary, since my officers have turned casuists and theologians. So, for the last time, you refuse to obey my request?”
“Oh, sire—” De Catinat took a step forward with outstretched hands and tears in his eyes.
But the king checked him with a gesture. “I desire no protestations,” said he. “I judge a man by his acts. Do you abjure or not?”
“I cannot, sire.”
“You see,” said Louis, turning again to the Jesuit, “it will not be as easy as you think.”
“This man is obstinate60, it is true, but many others will be more yielding.”
The king shook his head. “I would that I knew what to do,” said he. “Madame, I know that you, at least, will ever give me the best advice. You have heard all that has been said. What do you recommend?”
She kept her eyes still fixed61 upon her tapestry, but her voice was firm and clear as she answered:—
“You have yourself said that you are the eldest62 son of the Church. If the eldest son desert her, then who will do her bidding? And there is truth, too, in what the holy abbe has said. You may imperil your own soul by condoning63 this sin of heresy. It grows and flourishes, and if it be not rooted out now, it may choke the truth as weeds and briers choke the wheat.”
“There are districts in France now,” said Bossuet, “where a church is not to be seen in a day’s journey, and where all the folk, from the nobles to the peasants, are of the same accursed faith. So it is in the Cevennes, where the people are as fierce and rugged64 as their own mountains. Heaven guard the priests who have to bring them back from their errors.”
“Whom should I send on so perilous65 a task?” asked Louis.
The Abbe du Chayla was down in a instant upon his knees with his gaunt hands outstretched. “Send me, sire! Me!” he cried. “I have never asked a favour of you, and never will again. But I am the man who could break this people. Send me with your message to the people of the Cevennes.”
“God help the people of the Cevennes!” muttered Louis, as he looked with mingled66 respect and loathing67 at the emaciated face and fiery68 eyes of the fanatic69. “Very well, abbe,” he added aloud; “you shall go to the Cevennes.”
Perhaps for an instant there came upon the stern priest some premonition of that dreadful morning when, as he crouched70 in a corner of ‘his burning home, fifty daggers71 were to rasp against each other in his body. He sunk his face in his hands, and a shudder38 passed over his gaunt frame. Then he rose, and folding his arms, he resumed his impassive attitude. Louis took up the pen from the table, and drew the paper towards him.
“I have the same counsel, then, from all of you,” said he,—“from you, bishop; from you, father; from you, madame; from you, abbe; and from you, Louvois. Well, if ill come from it, may it not be visited upon me! But what is this?”
De Catinat had taken a step forward with his hand outstretched. His ardent72, impetuous nature had suddenly broken down all the barriers of caution, and he seemed for the instant to see that countless73 throng74 of men, women, and children of his own faith, all unable to say a word for themselves, and all looking to him as their champion and spokesman. He had thought little of such matters when all was well, but now, when danger threatened, the deeper side of his nature was moved, and he felt how light a thing is life and fortune when weighed against a great abiding75 cause and principle.
“Do not sign it, sire,” he cried. “You will live to wish that your hand had withered76 ere it grasped that pen. I know it, sire. I am sure of it. Consider all these helpless folk—the little children, the young girls, the old and the feeble. Their creed is themselves. As well ask the leaves to change the twigs77 on which they grow. They could not change. At most you could but hope to turn them from honest folk into hypocrites. And why should you do it? They honour you. They love you. They harm none. They are proud to serve in your armies, to fight for you, to work for you, to build up the greatness of your kingdom. I implore78 you, sire, to think again before you sign an order which will bring misery and desolation to so many.”
For a moment the king had hesitated as he listened to the short abrupt79 sentences in which the soldier pleaded for his fellows, but his face hardened again as he remembered how even his own personal entreaty80 had been unable to prevail with this young dandy of the court.
“France’s religion should be that of France’s king,” said he, “and if my own guardsmen thwart81 me in such a matter, I must find others who will be more faithful. That major’s commission in the mousquetaires must go to Captain de Belmont, Louvois.”
“Very good, sire.”
“And De Catinat’s commission may be transferred to Lieutenant82 Labadoyere.”
“Very good, sire.”
“And I am to serve you no longer?”
“You are too dainty for my service.”
De Catinat’s arms fell listlessly to his side, and his head sunk forward upon his breast. Then, as he realised the ruin of all the hopes of his life, and the cruel injustice83 with which he had been treated, he broke into a cry of despair, and rushed from the room with the hot tears of impotent anger running down his face. So, sobbing84, gesticulating, with coat unbuttoned and hat awry85, he burst into the stable where placid86 Amos Green was smoking his pipe and watching with critical eyes the grooming87 of the horses.
“What in thunder is the matter now?” he asked, holding his pipe by the bowl, while the blue wreaths curled up from his lips.
“This sword,” cried the Frenchman—“I have no right to wear it! I shall break it!”
“Well, and I’ll break my knife too if it will hearten you up.”
“And these,” cried De Catinat, tugging at his silver shoulder-straps, “they must go.”
“Ah, you draw ahead of me there, for I never had any. But come, friend, let me know the trouble, that I may see if it may not be mended.”
“To Paris! to Paris!” shouted the guardsman frantically88. “If I am ruined, I may yet be in time to save them. The horses, quick!”
It was clear to the American that some sudden calamity89 had befallen, so he aided his comrade and the grooms90 to saddle and bridle91.
Five minutes later they were flying on their way, and in little more than an hour their steeds, all reeking92 and foam-flecked, were pulled up outside the high house in the Rue15 St. Martin. De Catinat sprang from his saddle and rushed upstairs, while Amos followed in his own leisurely93 fashion.
The old Huguenot and his beautiful daughter were seated at one side of the great fireplace, her hand in his, and they sprang up together, she to throw herself with a glad cry into the arms of her lover, and he to grasp the hand which his nephew held out to him.
At the other side of the fireplace, with a very long pipe in his mouth and a cup of wine upon a settle beside him, sat a strange-looking man, with grizzled hair and beard, a fleshy red projecting nose, and two little gray eyes, which twinkled out from under huge brindled94 brows. His long thin face was laced and seamed with wrinkles, crossing and recrossing everywhere, but fanning out in hundreds from the corners of his eyes. It was set in an unchanging expression, and as it was of the same colour all over, as dark as the darkest walnut95, it might have been some quaint96 figure-head cut out of a coarse-grained wood. He was clad in a blue serge jacket, a pair of red breeches smeared97 at the knees with tar35, clean gray worsted stockings, large steel buckles98 over his coarse square-toed shoes, and beside him, balanced upon the top of a thick oaken cudgel, was a weather-stained silver-laced hat. His gray-shot hair was gathered up behind into a short stiff tail, and a seaman99’s hanger100, with a brass101 handle, was girded to his waist by a tarnished102 leather belt.
De Catinat had been too occupied to take notice of this singular individual, but Amos Green gave a shout of delight at the sight of him, and ran forward to greet him. The other’s wooden face relaxed so far as to show two tobacco-stained fangs103, and, without rising, he held out a great red hand, of the size and shape of a moderate spade.
“Why, Captain Ephraim,” cried Amos in English, “who ever would have thought of finding you here? De Catinat, this is my old friend Ephraim Savage, under whose charge I came here.”
“Anchor’s apeak, lad, and the hatches down,” said the stranger, in the peculiar104 drawling voice which the New Englanders had retained from their ancestors, the English Puritans.
“And when do you sail?”
“As soon as your foot is on her deck, if Providence serve us with wind and tide. And how has all gone with thee, Amos?”
“Right well. I have much to tell you of.”
“I trust that you have held yourself apart from all their popish devilry.”
“Yes, yes, Ephraim.”
“And have had no truck with the scarlet105 woman.”
“No, no; but what is it now?”
The grizzled hair was bristling106 with rage, and the little gray eyes were gleaming from under the heavy tufts. Amos, following their gaze, saw that De Catinat was seated with his arm round Adele, while her head rested upon his shoulder.
“Ah, if I but knew their snip-snap, lippetty-chippetty lingo107! Saw one ever such a sight! Amos, lad, what is the French for ‘a shameless hussy’?”
“Nay108, nay, Ephraim. Surely one may see such a sight, and think no harm of it, on our side of the water.
“Never, Amos. In no godly country.”
“Tut! I have seen folks courting in New York.”
“Ah, New York! I said in no godly country. I cannot answer for New York or Virginia. South of Cape109 Cod110, or of New Haven111 at the furthest, there is no saying what folk will do. Very sure I am that in Boston or Salem or Plymouth she would see the bridewell and he the stocks for half as much. Ah!” He shook his head and bent his brows at the guilty couple.
But they and their old relative were far too engrossed112 with their own affairs to give a thought to the Puritan seaman. De Catinat had told his tale in a few short, bitter sentences, the injustice that had been done to him, his dismissal from the king’s service, and the ruin which had come upon the Huguenots of France. Adele, as is the angel instinct of woman, thought only of her lover and his misfortunes as she listened to his story, but the old merchant tottered113 to his feet when he heard of the revocation of the Edict, and stood with shaking limbs, staring about him in bewilderment.
“What am I to do?” he cried. “What am I to do? I am too old to begin my life again.”
“Never fear, uncle,” said De Catinat heartily114. “There are other lands beyond France.”
“But not for me. No, no; I am too old. Lord, but Thy hand is heavy upon Thy servants. Now is the vial opened, and the carved work of the sanctuary115 thrown down. Ah, what shall I do, and whither shall I turn?” He wrung116 his hands in his perplexity.
“What is amiss with him, then, Amos?” asked the seaman. “Though I know nothing of what he says, yet I can see that he flies a distress117 signal.”
“He and his must leave the country, Ephraim.”
“And why?”
“Because they are Protestants, and the king will not abide118 their creed.”
Ephraim Savage was across the room in an instant, and had enclosed the old merchant’s thin hand in his own great knotted fist. There was a brotherly sympathy in his strong grip and rugged weather-stained face which held up the other’s courage as no words could have done.
“What is the French for ‘the scarlet woman,’ Amos?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “Tell this man that we shall see him through. Tell him that we’ve got a country where he’ll just fit in like a bung in a barrel. Tell him that religion is free to all there, and not a papist nearer than Baltimore or the Capuchins of the Penobscot. Tell him that if he wants to come, the Golden Rod is waiting with her anchor apeak and her cargo119 aboard. Tell him what you like, so long as you make him come.”
“Then we must come at once,” said De Catinat, as he listened to the cordial message which was conveyed to his uncle. “To-night the orders will be out, and tomorrow it may be too late.”
“But my business!” cried the merchant.
“Take what valuables you can, and leave the rest. Better that than lose all, and liberty into the bargain.”
And so at last it was arranged. That very night, within five minutes of the closing of the gates, there passed out of Paris a small party of five, three upon horseback, and two in a closed carriage which bore several weighty boxes upon the top. They were the first leaves flying before the hurricane, the earliest of that great multitude who were within the next few months to stream along every road which led from France, finding their journey’s end too often in galley11, dungeon120 and torture chamber121, and yet flooding over the frontiers in numbers sufficient to change the industries and modify the characters of all the neighbouring peoples. Like the Israelites of old, they had been driven from their homes at the bidding of an angry king, who, even while he exiled them, threw every difficulty in the way of their departure. Like them, too, there were none of them who could hope to reach their promised land without grievous wanderings, penniless, friendless, and destitute122. What passages befell these pilgrims in their travels, what dangers they met, and overcame in the land of the Swiss, on the Rhine, among the Walloons, in England, in Ireland, in Berlin, and even in far-off Russia, has still to be written. This one little group, however, whom we know, we may follow in their venturesome journey, and see the chances which befell them upon that great continent which had lain fallow for so long, sown only with the weeds of humanity, but which was now at last about to quicken into such glorious life.
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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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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lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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goads
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| n.赶牲口的尖棒( goad的名词复数 )v.刺激( goad的第三人称单数 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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revocation
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| n.废止，撤回 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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33
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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34
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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35
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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36
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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37
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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38
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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39
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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40
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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41
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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42
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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43
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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44
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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45
shambles
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| n.混乱之处；废墟 | |
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46
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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47
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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48
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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49
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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50
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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51
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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52
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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53
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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54
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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55
abjure
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| v.发誓放弃 | |
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56
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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57
baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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58
covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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59
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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60
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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61
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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62
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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63
condoning
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的现在分词 ) | |
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64
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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65
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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66
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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67
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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68
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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69
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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70
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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72
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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73
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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74
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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75
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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76
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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77
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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78
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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79
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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80
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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81
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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82
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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83
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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84
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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85
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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86
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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87
grooming
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| n. 修饰, 美容，（动物）梳理毛发 | |
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88
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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89
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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90
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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91
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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92
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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93
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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94
brindled
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| adj.有斑纹的 | |
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95
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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96
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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97
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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98
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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99
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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100
hanger
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| n.吊架，吊轴承；挂钩 | |
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101
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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102
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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103
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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104
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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105
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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106
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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107
lingo
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| n.语言不知所云，外国话，隐语 | |
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108
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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109
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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110
cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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111
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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112
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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113
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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114
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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115
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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116
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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117
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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118
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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119
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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120
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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121
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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122
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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