While walking on the cliffs at some distance from the castle to observe the weather, he met Wallace and Edwin. They had already been across the valley to the haven3, and ordered a boat round, to convey them back to Gourock. “Postpone your flight, for pity’s sake!” cried Murray, “if you would not, by discourtesy, destroy what your gallantry has preserved!” He then told them that Lady Mar5 was preparing a feast in the glen, behind the castle; “and if you do not stay to partake it,” added he, “we may expect all the witches in the isle6 will be bribed7 to sink us before we reach the shore.”
After this the general meeting of the morning was not less cordial than the separation of the night before; and when Lady Mar withdrew to give orders for her rural banquet, that time was seized by the earl for the arrangement of matters of more consequence. In a private conversation with Murray the preceding evening he had learned that, just before the party left Dumbarton, a letter had been sent to Helen at St. Filan’s, informing her of the taking of the castle, and of the safety of her friends. This having satisfied the earl he did not advert8 to her at all in his present discourse9 with Wallace, but rather avoided encumbering10 his occupied mind with anything but the one great theme.
While the earl and his friends were marshaling armies, taking towns, and storming castles, the countess, intent on other conquests, was meaning to beguile11 and destroy that manly12 spirit by soft delights, which a continuance in war’s rugged13 scenes, she thought, was too likely to render invulnerable.
When her lord and his guests were summoned to the feast, she met them at the mouth of the glen. Having tried the effect of splendor14, she now left all to the power of her natural charms, and appeared simply clad in her favorite green. Moraig, the pretty grandchild of the steward15, walked beside her, like the fairy queen of the scene, so gayly was she decorated in all the flowers of spring. “Here is the lady of my elfin revels16, holding her little king in her arms!” As the countess spoke17, Moraig held up the infant to Lady Mar, dressed like herself, in a tissue gathered from the field. The sweet babe laughed and crowed, and made a spring to leap into Wallace’s arms. The chief took him, and with an affectionate smile, pressed his little cheek to his.
Though he had felt the repugnance18 of a delicate mind, and the shuddering19 of a man who held his person consecrated20 to the memory of the only woman he had ever loved; though he had felt these sentiments mingle21 into an abhorrence22 of the countess, when she allowed her head to drop on his breast in the citadel23; charging her to himself with anything designedly immodest), he had certainly avoided her; yet since the wreck24, the danger she had escaped, the general joy of all meeting again, had wiped away even the remembrance of his former cause of dislike; and he now sat by her as by a sister, fondling her child, although at every sweet caress25 it reminded him of what might have been his-of hopes lost to him forever.
The repast over, the piper of the adjacent cottages appeared; and, placing himself on a projecting rock, at the carol of his merry instrument the young peasants of both sexes jocundly26 came forward and began to dance. At this sight Edwin seized the little hand of Moraig, while Lord Andrew called a pretty lass from amongst the rustics27, and joined the group. The happy earl, with many a hearty28 laugh, enjoyed the jollity of his people; and while the steward stood at his lord’s back describing whose sons and daughters passed before him in the reel, Mar remembered their parents-their fathers, once his companions in the chase or on the wave; and their mothers, the pretty maidens29 he used to pursue over the hills in the merry time of shealing.
Lady Mar watched the countenance31 of Wallace as he looked upon the joyous32 group; it was placid33, and a soft complacency illumined his eye. How different was the expression in hers, had he marked it! All within her was in tumult34, and the characters were but too legibly imprinted35 on her face. But he did not look on her; for the child, whom the perfume of the flowers overpowered, began to cry. He rose, and having resigned it to the nurse, turned into a narrow vista36 of trees, where he walked slowly on, unconscious whither he went.
Lady Mar, with an eager, though almost aimless haste, followed him with a light step till she saw him turn out of the vista, and then she lost sight of him. To walk with him undisturbed in so deep a seclusion37; to improve the impression which she was sure she had made upon his heart; to teach him which she was sure she had made upon his heart; to teach him to forget his Marion, in the hope of one day possessing her-all these thoughts ran in this vain woman’s head; and, inwardly rejoicing that the shattered health of her husband promised her a ready freedom to become the wife of the man to whom she would gladly belong, in honor or in dishonor, she hastened forward as if the accomplishment38 of her wishes depended on this meeting. Peeping through the trees, she saw him standing39 with folded arms, looking intently into the bosom40 of a large lake; but the place was so thickly surrounded with willows41, she could only perceive him at intervals42, when the wind tossed aside the branches.
Having stood for some time, he walked on. Several times she essayed to emerge, and join him; but a sudden awe43 of him, a conviction of that saintly purity which would shrink from the guilty vows44 she was meditating45 to pour into his ear, a recollection of the ejaculation with which he had accosted46 her before hovering47 figure, when she haunted his footsteps on the banks of the Cart; these thoughts made her pause. He might again mistake her for the same dear object. This image it was not her interest to recall. And to approach near him, to unveil her heat to him, and to be repulsed-there was madness in the idea, and she retreated.
She had no sooner returned to the scene of festivity than she repented48 of having allowed what she deemed an idle alarm of overstrained delicacy49 to drive her from the lake. She would have hastened back, had not two or three aged50 female peasants almost instantly engaged her, in spite of her struggles for extrication51, to listen to long stories respecting her lord’s youth. She remained thus an unwilling52 auditor53, and by the side of the dancers for nearly an hour, before Wallace reappeared. But then she sprung toward him as if a spell were broken.
“Where, truant54, have you been?”
“In a beautiful solitude,” returned he, “amongst a luxuriant grove55 of willows.”
“Ah!” cried she, “it is called Glenshealeach, and a sad scene was acted there! About ten years ago, a lady of this island drowned herself in the lake they hang over, because the man she loved despised her.”
“Unhappy woman!” observed Wallace.
“Then you would have pitied her?” rejoined Lady Mar.
“He cannot be a man that would not pity a woman under such circumstances.”
“Then you would not have consigned56 her to such a fate?”
Wallace was startled by the peculiar57 tone in which this simple question was asked. It recalled the action in the citadel, and, unconsciously turning a penetrating58 look on her, his eyes met hers. He need not have heard further to have learned more. She hastily looked down, and colored; and he, wishing to misunderstand a language so disgraceful to herself, so dishonoring to her husband, gave some trifling59 answer; then making a slight observation about the earl, he advanced to him. Lord Mar was become tired with so gala a scene, and, taking the arm of Wallace, they returned together into the house.
Edwin soon followed with Murray, gladly arriving in time enough to see their little pinnacle60 draw up under the castle and throw out her moorings. The countess, too, descried61 its streamers, and hastening into the room where she knew the chiefs were yet assembled, though the wearied earl had retired62 to repose63, inquired the reason of that boat having drawn64 so near the castle.
“That it may take us from it, fair aunt,” replied Murray.
The countess fixed65 her eyes with an unequivocal expression upon Wallace. “My gratitude66 is ever due to your kindness, noble lady,” said he, still wishing to be blind to what he could not perceive, “and that we may ever deserve it, we must keep the enemy from your doors.”
“Yes,” added Murray, “and to keep a more insidious67 foe68 from our own! Edwin and I feel it rather dangerous to bask69 too long in these sunny bowers70.”
“But surely your chief is not afraid,” said she, casting a soft glance at Wallace.
“Yet, nevertheless, I must fly,” returned he, bowing to her.
“That you positively71 shall not,” added she, with a fluttering joy at her heart, thinking she was about to succeed; “you stir not this night, else I shall brand you all as a band of cowards.”
“Call us by every name in the poltroon’s calendar,” cried Murray, seeing by the countenance of Wallace that his resolution was not to be moved; “yet I must gallop72 off from your black-eyed Judith, as if chased by the ghost of Holofernes himself.”
“So, dear aunt,” rejoined Edwin, smiling, “if you do not mean to play Circe to our Ulysses, give us leave to go!”
Lady Mar started, confused she knew not how, as he innocently uttered these words. The animated73 boy snatched a kiss from her hand, when he ceased speaking, and darted74 after Murray, who had disappeared, to give some speeding directions respecting the boat.
Left thus alone with the object of her every wish, in the moment when she thought she was going to lose him, perhaps, forever, she forgot all prudence75, all reserve; and laying her hand on her arm, as with a respectful bow he was also moving away, she arrested his steps. She held him fast, but her agitation76 prevented her speaking; she trembled violently, and weeping, dropped her head upon his shoulder. He was motionless. Her tears redoubled. He felt the embarrassment77 of his situation; and at last extricating78 his tongue, which surprise and shame for her had chained, in a gentle voice he inquired the cause of her uneasiness. “If for the safety of your nephews-”
“No, no,” cried she, interrupting him, “read my fate in that of the lady of Glenshealeach!”
Again he was silent; astonished, fearful of too promptly79 understanding so disgraceful a truth, he found no words in which to answer her, and her emotions became so uncontrolled, that he expected she would swoon in his arms.
“Cruel, cruel Wallace!” at last cried she, clinging to him, for he had once or twice attempted to disengage himself, and reseat her on the bench; “your heart is steeled, or it would understand mine. It would at least pity the wretchedness it has created. But I am despised, and I can yet find the watery80 grave from which you rescued me.”
To dissemble longer would have been folly81. Wallace, now resolutely82 seating her, though with gentleness, addressed her: “Your husband, Lady Mar, is my friend; had I even a heart to give a woman, not one sigh should arise in it to his dishonor. But I am lost to all warmer affections than that of friendship. I may regard man as my brother, woman as my sister; but never more can I look on female form with love.”
Lady Mar’s tears now flowed in a more tempered current.
“But were it otherwise,” cried she, “only tell me, that had I not been bound with chains, which my kinsmen83 forced upon me-had I not been made the property of a man who, however estimable, was of too paternal84 years for me to love; ah! tell me, if these tears should now flow in vain?”
Wallace seemed to hesitate what to answer.
Wrought85 up to agony, she threw herself on his breast, exclaiming, “Answer! but drive me not to despair. I never loved man before-and now to be scorned! Oh, kill me, too, dear Wallace, but tell me not that you never could have loved me.”
Wallace was alarmed at her vehemence86. “Lady Mar,” returned he, “I am incapable87 of saying anything to you that is inimical to your duty to the best of men. I will even forget this distressing88 conversation, and continue through life to revere89, equal with himself, the wife of my friend.”
“And I am to be stabbed with this?” she replied, in a voice of indignant anguish90.
“You are to be healed with it, Lady Mar,” returned he, “for it is not a man like the rest of his sex that now addresses you, but a being whose heart is petrified91 to marble. I could feel no throb92 of yours; I should be insensible to all your charms, were I even vile93 enough to see no evil in trampling94 upon your husband’s rights. Yes, were virtue95 lost to me, still memory would speak, still would she urge, that the chaste96 and last kiss, imprinted by my wife on these lips, should live there in unblemished sanctity, till I again meet her angel embraces in the world to come!”
The countess, awed97 by his solemnity, but not put from her suit, exclaimed: “What she was, I would be to thee-thy consoler, thine adorer. Time may set me free. Oh! till then, only give me leave to love thee, and I shall be happy!”
“You dishonor yourself, lady,” returned he, “by these petitions, and for what? You plunge98 your soul in guilty wishes-you sacrifice your peace, and your self-esteem99, to a phantom100; for I repeat, I am dead to woman; and the voice of love sounds like the funeral knell101 of her who will never breathe it to me again.” He arose as he spoke, and the countess, pierced to the heart, and almost despairing of now retaining any part in its esteem, was devising what next to say, when Murray came into the room.
Wallace instantly observed that his countenance was troubled. “What has happened?” inquired he.
“A messenger from the mainland, with bad news from Ayr.”
“Of private or public import?” asked Wallace.
“Of both. There has been a horrid102 massacre103, in which the heads of many noble families have fallen.” As he spoke, the paleness of his countenance revealed to his friend that part of the information he had found himself unable to communicate.
“I comprehend my loss,” cried Wallace; “Sir Ronald Crawford is sacrificed! Bring the messenger in.”
Murray withdrew; and Wallace, seating himself, remained with a fixed and stern countenance, gazing on the ground. Lady Mar durst not breathe for fear of disturbing the horrid stillness which seemed to lock up his grief and indignation.
Lord Andrew re-entered with a stranger, Wallace rose to meet him, and seeing Lady mar-“Countess,” said he, “these bloody104 recitals105 are not for your ears;” and waving her to withdraw, she left the room.
“This gallant4 stranger,” said Murray, “is Sir John Graham. He has just left that new theater of Southron perfidy106.”
“I have hastened hither,” cried the knight107, “to call your victorious108 arm to take a signal vengeance109 on the murderers of your grandfather. He, and eighteen other Scottish chiefs, have been treacherously110 put to death in the Barns of Ayr.”
Graham then gave a brief narration111 of the direful circumstance. He and his father, Lord Dundaff, having crossed the south coast of Scotland on their way homeward, stopped to rest at Ayr. They arrived there the very day that Lord Aymer de Valence had entered it, a fugitive112 from Dumbarton Castle. Much as that earl wished to keep the success of Wallace a secret from the inhabitants of Ayr, he found it impossible. Two or three fugitive soldiers whispered the hard fighting they had endured; and in half an hour after the arrival of the English earl, every one knew that the recovery of Scotland was begun. Elated with this intelligence, the Scots went, under night, from house to house, congratulating each other on so miraculous113 an interference in their favor; and many stole to Sir Ronald Crawford, to felicitate the venerable knight on his glorious grandson.
The good old man listened with meek114 joy to their animated eulogiums on Wallace; and when Lord Dundaff, in offering his congratulations with the rest, said, “But while all Scotland lay in vassalage115, where did he imbibe116 this spirit, to tread down tyrants117?” The venerable patriarch replied, “He was always a noble boy. In infancy118, he became the defender119 of every child he saw oppressed by boys of greater power; he was even the champion of the brute120 creation, and no poor animal was ever attempted to be tortured near him. The old looked on him for comfort, the young for protection. From infancy to manhood, he has been a benefactor121; and though the cruelty of our enemies have widowed his youthful years-though he should go childless to the grave, the brightness of his virtues122 will now spread more glories around the name of Wallace than a thousand posterities.” Other ears than those of Dandaff heard this honest exultation123.
The next morning this venerable old man, and other chiefs of similar consequence, were summoned by Sir Richard Arnuf, the governor, to his palace, there to deliver in a schedule of their estates; “that quiet possession,” the governor said, “might be granted to them, under the great seal of Lord Aymer de Valence, the deputy-warden of Scotland.”
The gray-headed knight, not being so active as his compeers of more juvenile124 years, happened to be the last who went to this tiger’s den30. Wrapped in his plaid, his silver hair covered with a blue bonnet125, and leaning on his staff, he was walking along attended by two domestics, when Sir John Graham met him at the gate of the palace. He smiled on him as he passed, and whispered-“It will not be long before my Wallace makes even the forms of vassalage unnecessary; and then these failing limbs may sit undisturbed at home, under the fig-tree and vine of his planting!”
“God grant it!” returned Graham; and he saw Sir Ronald admitted within the interior gate. The servants were ordered to remain without. Sir John walked there some time, expecting the reappearance of the knight, whom he intended to assist in leading home; but after an hour, finding no signs of egress126 from the palace, and thinking his father might be wondering at his delay, he turned his steps toward his own lodgings127. While passing along he met several Southron detachments hurrying across the streets. In the midst of some of these companies he saw one or two Scottish men of rank, strangers to him, but who, by certain indications, seemed to be prisoners. He did not go far before he met a chieftain in these painful circumstances whom he knew; but as he was hastening toward him, the noble Scot raised his manacled hand and turned away his head. This was a warning to the young knight, who darted into an obscure alley2 which led to the gardens of his father’s lodgings, and was hurrying forward when he met one of his own servants running in quest of him.
Panting with haste, he informed his master that a party of armed men had come, under De Valence’s warrant, to seize Lord Dundaff and bear him to prison; to lie there with others who were charged with having taken part in a conspiracy128 with the grandfather of the insurgent129 Wallace.
The officer of the band who took Lord Dundaff told him, in the most insulting language, that “Sir Ronald, his ringleader, with eighteen nobles, his accomplices130, had already suffered the punishment of their crime, and were lying headless trunks in the judgment131 hall.”
“Haste, therefore,” repeated the man; “my lord bids you haste to Sir William Wallace, and require his hand to avenge132 his kinsman133’s blood, and to free his countrymen from prison! These are your father’s commands; he directed me to seek you and give them to you.”
Alarmed for the life of his father, Graham hesitated how to act on the moment. To leave him seemed to abandon him to the death the others had received; and yet, only by obeying him could he have any hopes of averting134 his threatened fate. Once seeing the path he ought to pursue, he struck immediately into it; and giving his signet to the servant, to assure Lord Dundaff of his obedience135, he mounted a horse, which had been brought to the town end for that purpose, and setting off full speed, allowed nothing to stay him, till he reached Dumbarton Castle. There, hearing that Wallace had gone to Bute, he threw himself into a boat, and plying136 every oar137, reached that island in a shorter space of time than the voyage had ever before been completed.
Being now conducted into the presence of the chief, he narrated138 his dismal139 tale with a simplicity140 and pathos141 which would have instantly drawn the retributive sword of Wallace, had he had no kinsman to avenge, no friend to release from the Southron dungeons142. But as the case stood, his bleeding grandfather lay before his eyes; and the ax hung over the heads of the most virtuous143 nobles of his country.
He heard the chieftain to an end, without speaking or altering the stern attention of his countenance. But at the close, with an augmented144 suffusion145 of blood in his face, and his brows denouncing some tremendous fate, he rose. “Sir John Graham,” said he, “I attend you.”
“Whither?” demanded Murray.
“To Ayr,” answered Wallace; “this moment I will set out for Dumbarton, to bring away the sinews of my strength. God will be our speed! and then this arm shall show how I loved that good old man.”
“Your men,” interrupted Graham, “are already awaiting you on the opposite shore. I presumed to command for you. For on entering Dumbarton, and finding you were absent, after having briefly146 recounted my errand to Lord Lennox, I dared to interpret your mind, and to order Sir Alexander Scrymgeour, and Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, with all your own force, to follow me to the coast of Renfrew.”
“Thank you, my friend!” cried Wallace, grasping his hand; “may I ever have such interpreters! I cannot stay to bid your uncle farewell,” said he, to Lord Andrew; “remain, to tell him to bless me with his prayers; and then, dear Murray, follow me to Ayr.”
Ignorant of what the stranger had imparted, at the sight of the chiefs approaching from the castle gate, Edward hastened with the news, that all was ready for embarkation147. He was hurrying out his information, when the altered countenance of his general checked him. He looked at the stranger; his features were agitated148 and severe. He turned toward his cousin, all there was grave and distressed149. Again he glanced at Wallace; no word was spoken, but every look threatened, and Edwin saw him leap into the boat, followed by the stranger. The astonished boy, though unnoticed, would not be left behind, and stepping in also, sat down beside his chief.
“I shall follow you in a hour,” exclaimed Murray. The seamen150 pushed off; then giving loose to their swelling151 sail, in less than ten minutes, the light vessel152 was wafted153 out of the little harbor, and turning a point, those in the castle saw it no more.
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1
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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advert
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| vi.注意，留意，言及；n.广告 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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encumbering
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的现在分词 ) | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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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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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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jocundly
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| adv.愉快地，快活地 | |
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rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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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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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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39
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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41
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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42
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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43
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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44
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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45
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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46
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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47
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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48
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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50
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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51
extrication
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| n.解脱；救出，解脱 | |
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52
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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53
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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54
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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55
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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56
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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57
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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58
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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59
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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60
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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61
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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62
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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63
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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64
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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65
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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66
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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67
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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68
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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69
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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70
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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71
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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72
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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73
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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74
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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75
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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76
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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77
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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78
extricating
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的现在分词 ) | |
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79
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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80
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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81
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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82
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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83
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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84
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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85
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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86
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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87
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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88
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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89
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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90
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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91
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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92
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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93
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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94
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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95
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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96
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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97
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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99
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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100
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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101
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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102
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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103
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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104
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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105
recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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106
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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107
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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108
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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109
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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110
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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111
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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112
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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113
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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114
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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115
vassalage
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| n.家臣身份，隶属 | |
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116
imbibe
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| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
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117
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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118
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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119
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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120
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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121
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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122
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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123
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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124
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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125
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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126
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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127
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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128
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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129
insurgent
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| adj.叛乱的，起事的；n.叛乱分子 | |
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130
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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131
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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132
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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133
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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134
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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135
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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136
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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137
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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138
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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140
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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141
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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142
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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143
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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144
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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145
suffusion
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| n.充满 | |
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146
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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147
embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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148
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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149
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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150
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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151
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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152
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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153
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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