. . . . . . . . .
The early sunbeams hovered14 cheerfully upon the tree-tops, beneath which two weary and wounded men had stretched their limbs the night before. Their bed of withered15 oak leaves was strewn upon the small level space, at the foot of a rock, situated17 near the summit of one of the gentle swells18 by which the face of the country is there diversified20. The mass of granite21, rearing its smooth, flat surface fifteen or twenty feet above their heads, was not unlike a gigantic gravestone, upon which the veins22 seemed to form an inscription23 in forgotten characters. On a tract24 of several acres around this rock, oaks and other hard-wood trees had supplied the place of the pines, which were the usual growth of the land; and a young and vigorous sapling stood close beside the travellers.
The severe wound of the elder man had probably deprived him of sleep; for, so soon as the first ray of sunshine rested on the top of the highest tree, he reared himself painfully from his recumbent posture27 and sat erect28. The deep lines of his countenance29 and the scattered30 gray of his hair marked him as past the middle age; but his muscular frame would, but for the effect of his wound, have been as capable of sustaining fatigue31 as in the early vigor25 of life. Languor32 and exhaustion33 now sat upon his haggard features; and the despairing glance which he sent forward through the depths of the forest proved his own conviction that his pilgrimage was at an end. He next turned his eyes to the companion who reclined by his side. The youth — for he had scarcely attained35 the years of manhood — lay, with his head upon his arm, in the embrace of an unquiet sleep, which a thrill of pain from his wounds seemed each moment on the point of breaking. His right hand grasped a musket36; and, to judge from the violent action of his features, his slumbers37 were bringing back a vision of the conflict of which he was one of the few survivors39. A shout deep and loud in his dreaming fancy — found its way in an imperfect murmur40 to his lips; and, starting even at the slight sound of his own voice, he suddenly awoke. The first act of reviving recollection was to make anxious inquiries41 respecting the condition of his wounded fellow-traveller. The latter shook his head.
“Reuben, my boy,” said he, “this rock beneath which we sit will serve for an old hunter’s gravestone. There is many and many a long mile of howling wilderness42 before us yet; nor would it avail me anything if the smoke of my own chimney were but on the other side of that swell19 of land. The Indian bullet was deadlier than I thought.”
“You are weary with our three days’ travel,” replied the youth, “and a little longer rest will recruit you. Sit you here while I search the woods for the herbs and roots that must be our sustenance43; and, having eaten, you shall lean on me, and we will turn our faces homeward. I doubt not that, with my help, you can attain34 to some one of the frontier garrisons44.”
“There is not two days’ life in me, Reuben,” said the other, calmly, “and I will no longer burden you with my useless body, when you can scarcely support your own. Your wounds are deep and your strength is failing fast; yet, if you hasten onward45 alone, you may be preserved. For me there is no hope, and I will await death here.”
“If it must be so, I will remain and watch by you,” said Reuben, resolutely46
“No, my son, no,” rejoined his companion. “Let the wish of a dying man have weight with you; give me one grasp of your hand, and get you hence. Think you that my last moments will be eased by the thought that I leave you to die a more lingering death? I have loved you like a father, Reuben; and at a time like this I should have something of a father’s authority. I charge you to be gone that I may die in peace.”
“And because you have been a father to me, should I therefore leave you to perish and to lie unburied in the wilderness?” exclaimed the youth. “No; if your end be in truth approaching, I will watch by you and receive your parting words. I will dig a grave here by the rock, in which, if my weakness overcome me, we will rest together; or, if Heaven gives me strength, I will seek my way home.”
“In the cities and wherever men dwell,” replied the other, “they bury their dead in the earth; they hide them from the sight of the living; but here, where no step may pass perhaps for a hundred years, wherefore should I not rest beneath the open sky, covered only by the oak leaves when the autumn winds shall strew16 them? And for a monument, here is this gray rock, on which my dying hand shall carve the name of Roger Malvin, and the traveller in days to come will know that here sleeps a hunter and a warrior47. Tarry not, then, for a folly48 like this, but hasten away, if not for your own sake, for hers who will else be desolate49.’
Malvin spoke50 the last few words in a faltering51 voice, and their effect upon his companion was strongly visible. They reminded him that there were other and less questionable52 duties than that of sharing the fate of a man whom his death could not benefit. Nor can it be affirmed that no selfish feeling strove to enter Reuben’s heart, though the consciousness made him more earnestly resist his companion’s entreaties53.
“How terrible to wait the slow approach of death in this solitude54!” exclaimed he. “A brave man does not shrink in the battle; and, when friends stand round the bed, even women may die composedly; but here —”
“I shall not shrink even here, Reuben Bourne,” interrupted Malvin. “I am a man of no weak heart, and, if I were, there is a surer support than that of earthly friends. You are young, and life is dear to you. Your last moments will need comfort far more than mine; and when you have laid me in the earth, and are alone, and night is settling on the forest, you will feel all the bitterness of the death that may now be escaped. But I will urge no selfish motive55 to your generous nature. Leave me for my sake, that, having said a prayer for your safety, I may have space to settle my account undisturbed by worldly sorrows.”
“And your daughter — how shall I dare to meet her eye?” exclaimed Reuben. “She will ask the fate of her father, whose life I vowed56 to defend with my own. Must I tell her that he travelled three days’ march with me from the field of battle and that then I left him to perish in the wilderness? Were it not better to lie down and die by your side than to return safe and say this to Dorcas?”
“Tell my daughter,” said Roger Malvin, “that, though yourself sore wounded, and weak, and weary, you led my tottering58 footsteps many a mile, and left me only at my earnest entreaty59, because I would not have your blood upon my soul. Tell her that through pain and danger you were faithful, and that, if your lifeblood could have saved me, it would have flowed to its last drop; and tell her that you will be something dearer than a father, and that my blessing60 is with you both, and that my dying eyes can see a long and pleasant path in which you will journey together.”
As Malvin spoke he almost raised himself from the ground, and the energy of his concluding words seemed to fill the wild and lonely forest with a vision of happiness; but, when he sank exhausted61 upon his bed of oak leaves, the light which had kindled62 in Reuben’s eye was quenched64. He felt as if it were both sin and folly to think of happiness at such a moment. His companion watched his changing countenance, and sought with generous art to wile65 him to his own good.
“Perhaps I deceive myself in regard to the time I have to live,” he resumed. “It may be that, with speedy assistance, I might recover of my wound. The foremost fugitives66 must, ere this, have carried tidings of our fatal battle to the frontiers, and parties will be out to succor67 those in like condition with ourselves. Should you meet one of these and guide them hither, who can tell but that I may sit by my own fireside again?”
A mournful smile strayed across the features of the dying man as he insinuated68 that unfounded hope — which, however, was not without its effect on Reuben. No merely selfish motive, nor even the desolate condition of Dorcas, could have induced him to desert his companion at such a moment — but his wishes seized on the thought that Malvin’s life might be preserved, and his sanguine69 nature heightened almost to certainty the remote possibility of procuring70 human aid.
“Surely there is reason, weighty reason, to hope that friends are not far distant,” he said, half aloud. “There fled one coward, unwounded, in the beginning of the fight, and most probably he made good speed. Every true man on the frontier would shoulder his musket at the news; and, though no party may range so far into the woods as this, I shall perhaps encounter them in one day’s march. Counsel me faithfully,” he added, turning to Malvin, in distrust of his own motives71. “Were your situation mine, would you desert me while life remained?”
“It is now twenty years,” replied Roger Malvin — sighing, however, as he secretly acknowledged the wide dissimilarity between the two cases,–“it is now twenty years since I escaped with one dear friend from Indian captivity72 near Montreal. We journeyed many days through the woods, till at length overcome with hunger and weariness, my friend lay down and besought73 me to leave him; for he knew that, if I remained, we both must perish; and, with but little hope of obtaining succor, I heaped a pillow of dry leaves beneath his head and hastened on.”
“And did you return in time to save him?” asked Reuben, hanging on Malvin’s words as if they were to be prophetic of his own success.
“I did,” answered the other. “I came upon the camp of a hunting party before sunset of the same day. I guided them to the spot where my comrade was expecting death; and he is now a hale and hearty74 man upon his own farm, far within the frontiers, while I lie wounded here in the depths of the wilderness.”
This example, powerful in affecting Reuben’s decision, was aided, unconsciously to himself, by the hidden strength of many another motive. Roger Malvin perceived that the victory was nearly won.
“Now, go, my son, and Heaven prosper75 you!” he said. “Turn not back with your friends when you meet them, lest your wounds and weariness overcome you; but send hitherward two or three, that may be spared, to search for me; and believe me, Reuben, my heart will be lighter76 with every step you take towards home.” Yet there was, perhaps, a change both in his countenance and voice as he spoke thus; for, after all, it was a ghastly fate to be left expiring in the wilderness.
Reuben Bourne, but half convinced that he was acting77 rightly, at length raised himself from the ground and prepared himself for his departure. And first, though contrary to Malvin’s wishes, he collected a stock of roots and herbs, which had been their only food during the last two days. This useless supply he placed within reach of the dying man, for whom, also, he swept together a bed of dry oak leaves. Then climbing to the summit of the rock, which on one side was rough and broken, he bent26 the oak sapling downward, and bound his handkerchief to the topmost branch. This precaution was not unnecessary to direct any who might come in search of Malvin; for every part of the rock, except its broad, smooth front, was concealed78 at a little distance by the dense80 undergrowth of the forest. The handkerchief had been the bandage of a wound upon Reuben’s arm; and, as he bound it to the tree, he vowed by the blood that stained it that he would return, either to save his companion’s life or to lay his body in the grave. He then descended81, and stood, with downcast eyes, to receive Roger Malvin’s parting words.
The experience of the latter suggested much and minute advice respecting the youth’s journey through the trackless forest. Upon this subject he spoke with calm earnestness, as if he were sending Reuben to the battle or the chase while he himself remained secure at home, and not as if the human countenance that was about to leave him were the last he would ever behold82. But his firmness was shaken before he concluded.
“Carry my blessing to Dorcas, and say that my last prayer shall be for her and you. Bid her to have no hard thoughts because you left me here,” — Reuben’s heart smote83 him — “for that your life would not have weighed with you if its sacrifice could have done me good. She will marry you after she has mourned a little while for her father; and Heaven grant you long and happy days, and may your children’s children stand round your death bed! And, Reuben,” added he, as the weakness of mortality made its way at last, “return, when your wounds are healed and your weariness refreshed — return to this wild rock, and lay my bones in the grave, and say a prayer over them.”
An almost superstitious84 regard, arising perhaps from the customs of the Indians, whose war was with the dead as well as the living, was paid by the frontier inhabitants to the rites85 of sepulture; and there are many instances of the sacrifice of life in the attempt to bury those who had fallen by the “sword of the wilderness.” Reuben, therefore, felt the full importance of the promise which he most solemnly made to return and perform Roger Malvin’s obsequies. It was remarkable86 that the latter, speaking his whole heart in his parting words, no longer endeavored to persuade the youth that even the speediest succor might avail to the preservation87 of his life. Reuben was internally convinced that he should see Malvin’s living face no more. His generous nature would fain have delayed him, at whatever risk, till the dying scene were past; but the desire of existence and the hope of happiness had strengthened in his heart, and he was unable to resist them.
“It is enough,” said Roger Malvin, having listened to Reuben’s promise. “Go, and God speed you!”
The youth pressed his hand in silence, turned, and was departing. His slow and faltering steps, however, had borne him but a little way before Malvin’s voice recalled him.
“Reuben, Reuben,” said he, faintly; and Reuben returned and knelt down by the dying man.
“Raise me, and let me lean against the rock,” was his last request. “My face will be turned towards home, and I shall see you a moment longer as you pass among the trees.”
Reuben, having made the desired alteration88 in his companion’s posture, again began his solitary89 pilgrimage. He walked more hastily at first than was consistent with his strength; for a sort of guilty feeling, which sometimes torments91 men in their most justifiable92 acts, caused him to seek concealment93 from Malvin’s eyes; but after he had trodden far upon the rustling94 forest leaves he crept back, impelled95 by a wild and painful curiosity, and, sheltered by the earthy roots of an uptorn tree, gazed earnestly at the desolate man. The morning sun was unclouded, and the trees and shrubs96 imbibed97 the sweet air of the month of May; yet there seemed a gloom on Nature’s face, as if she sympathized with mortal pain and sorrow Roger Malvin’s hands were uplifted in a fervent98 prayer, some of the words of which stole through the stillness of the woods and entered Reuben’s heart, torturing it with an unutterable pang99. They were the broken accents of a petition for his own happiness and that of Dorcas; and, as the youth listened, conscience, or something in its similitude, pleaded strongly with him to return and lie down again by the rock. He felt how hard was the doom100 of the kind and generous being whom he had deserted101 in his extremity102. Death would come like the slow approach of a corpse103, stealing gradually towards him through the forest, and showing its ghastly and motionless features from behind a nearer and yet a nearer tree. But such must have been Reuben’s own fate had he tarried another sunset; and who shall impute104 blame to him if he shrink from so useless a sacrifice? As he gave a parting look, a breeze waved the little banner upon the sapling oak and reminded Reuben of his vow57.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Many circumstances combined to retard105 the wounded traveller in his way to the frontiers. On the second day the clouds, gathering106 densely107 over the sky, precluded108 the possibility of regulating his course by the position of the sun; and he knew not but that every effort of his almost exhausted strength was removing him farther from the home he sought. His scanty109 sustenance was supplied by the berries and other spontaneous products of the forest. Herds110 of deer, it is true, sometimes bounded past him, and partridges frequently whirred up before his footsteps; but his ammunition111 had been expended112 in the fight, and he had no means of slaying113 them. His wounds, irritated by the constant exertion115 in which lay the only hope of life, wore away his strength and at intervals116 confused his reason. But, even in the wanderings of intellect, Reuben’s young heart clung strongly to existence; and it was only through absolute incapacity of motion that he at last sank down beneath a tree, compelled there to await death.
In this situation he was discovered by a party who, upon the first intelligence of the fight, had been despatched to the relief of the survivors. They conveyed him to the nearest settlement, which chanced to be that of his own residence.
Dorcas, in the simplicity118 of the olden time, watched by the bedside of her wounded lover, and administered all those comforts that are in the sole gift of woman’s heart and hand. During several days Reuben’s recollection strayed drowsily119 among the perils120 and hardships through which he had passed, and he was incapable121 of returning definite answers to the inquiries with which many were eager to harass122 him. No authentic123 particulars of the battle had yet been circulated; nor could mothers, wives, and children tell whether their loved ones were detained by captivity or by the stronger chain of death. Dorcas nourished her apprehensions125 in silence till one afternoon when Reuben awoke from an unquiet sleep, and seemed to recognize her more perfectly126 than at any previous time. She saw that his intellect had become composed, and she could no longer restrain her filial anxiety.
“My father, Reuben?” she began; but the change in her lover’s countenance made her pause.
The youth shrank as if with a bitter pain, and the blood gushed127 vividly128 into his wan117 and hollow cheeks. His first impulse was to cover his face; but, apparently129 with a desperate effort, he half raised himself and spoke vehemently130, defending himself against an imaginary accusation131.
“Your father was sore wounded in the battle, Dorcas; and he bade me not burden myself with him, but only to lead him to the lakeside, that he might quench63 his thirst and die. But I would not desert the old man in his extremity, and, though bleeding myself, I supported him; I gave him half my strength, and led him away with me. For three days we journeyed on together, and your father was sustained beyond my hopes, but, awaking at sunrise on the fourth day, I found him faint and exhausted; he was unable to proceed; his life had ebbed132 away fast; and —”
“He died!” exclaimed Dorcas, faintly.
Reuben felt it impossible to acknowledge that his selfish love of life had hurried him away before her father’s fate was decided133. He spoke not; he only bowed his head; and, between shame and exhaustion, sank back and hid his face in the pillow. Dorcas wept when her fears were thus confirmed; but the shock, as it had been long anticipated. was on that account the less violent.
“You dug a grave for my poor father in the wilderness, Reuben?” was the question by which her filial piety134 manifested itself.
“My hands were weak; but I did what I could,” replied the youth in a smothered135 tone. “There stands a noble tombstone above his head; and I would to Heaven I slept as soundly as he!”
Dorcas, perceiving the wildness of his latter words, inquired no further at the time; but her heart found ease in the thought that Roger Malvin had not lacked such funeral rites as it was possible to bestow136. The tale of Reuben’s courage and fidelity137 lost nothing when she communicated it to her friends; and the poor youth, tottering from his sick chamber138 to breathe the sunny air, experienced from every tongue the miserable139 and humiliating torture of unmerited praise. All acknowledged that he might worthily140 demand the hand of the fair maiden141 to whose father he had been “faithful unto death;” and, as my tale is not of love, it shall suffice to say that in the space of a few months Reuben became the husband of Dorcas Malvin. During the marriage ceremony the bride was covered with blushes, but the bridegroom’s face was pale.
There was now in the breast of Reuben Bourne an incommunicable thought — something which he was to conceal79 most heedfully from her whom he most loved and trusted. He regretted, deeply and bitterly, the moral cowardice142 that had restrained his words when he was about to disclose the truth to Dorcas; but pride, the fear of losing her affection, the dread143 of universal scorn, forbade him to rectify144 this falsehood. He felt that for leaving Roger Malvin he deserved no censure145. His presence, the gratuitous146 sacrifice of his own life, would have added only another and a needless agony to the last moments of the dying man; but concealment had imparted to a justifiable act much of the secret effect of guilt90; and Reuben, while reason told him that he had done right, experienced in no small degree the mental horrors which punish the perpetrator of undiscovered crime. By a certain association of ideas, he at times almost imagined himself a murderer. For years, also, a thought would occasionally recur147, which, though he perceived all its folly and extravagance, he had not power to banish148 from his mind. It was a haunting and torturing fancy that his father-in-law was yet sitting at the foot of the rock, on the withered forest leaves, alive, and awaiting his pledged assistance. These mental deceptions149, however, came and went, nor did he ever mistake them for realities: but in the calmest and clearest moods of his mind he was conscious that he had a deep vow unredeemed, and that an unburied corpse was calling to him out of the wilderness. Yet such was the consequence of his prevarication151 that he could not obey the call. It was now too late to require the assistance of Roger Malvin’s friends in performing his long-deferred sepulture; and superstitious fears, of which none were more susceptible than the people of the outward settlements, forbade Reuben to go alone. Neither did he know where in the pathless and illimitable forest to seek that smooth and lettered rock at the base of which the body lay: his remembrance of every portion of his travel thence was indistinct, and the latter part had left no impression upon his mind. There was, however, a continual impulse, a voice audible only to himself, commanding him to go forth152 and redeem150 his vow; and he had a strange impression that, were he to make the trial, he would be led straight to Malvin’s bones. But year after year that summons, unheard but felt, was disobeyed. His one secret thought became like a chain binding153 down his spirit and like a serpent gnawing154 into his heart; and he was transformed into a sad and downcast yet irritable155 man.
In the course of a few years after their marriage changes began to be visible in the external prosperity of Reuben and Dorcas. The only riches of the former had been his stout156 heart and strong arm; but the latter, her father’s sole heiress, had made her husband master of a farm, under older cultivation157, larger, and better stocked than most of the frontier establishments. Reuben Bourne, however, was a neglectful husbandman; and, while the lands of the other settlers became annually158 more fruitful, his deteriorated159 in the same proportion. The discouragements to agriculture were greatly lessened160 by the cessation of Indian war, during which men held the plough in one hand and the musket in the other, and were fortunate if the products of their dangerous labor161 were not destroyed, either in the field or in the barn, by the savage162 enemy. But Reuben did not profit by the altered condition of the country; nor can it be denied that his intervals of industrious163 attention to his affairs were but scantily164 rewarded with success. The irritability165 by which he had recently become distinguished166 was another cause of his declining prosperity, as it occasioned frequent quarrels in his unavoidable intercourse167 with the neighboring settlers. The results of these were innumerable lawsuits168; for the people of New England, in the earliest stages and wildest circumstances of the country, adopted, whenever attainable169, the legal mode of deciding their differences. To be brief, the world did not go well with Reuben Bourne; and, though not till many years after his marriage, he was finally a ruined man, with but one remaining expedient170 against the evil fate that had pursued him. He was to throw sunlight into some deep recess171 of the forest, and seek subsistence from the virgin172 bosom173 of the wilderness.
The only child of Reuben and Dorcas was a son, now arrived at the age of fifteen years, beautiful in youth, and giving promise of a glorious manhood. He was peculiarly qualified175 for, and already began to excel in, the wild accomplishments176 of frontier life. His foot was fleet, his aim true, his apprehension124 quick, his heart glad and high; and all who anticipated the return of Indian war spoke of Cyrus Bourne as a future leader in the land. The boy was loved by his father with a deep and silent strength, as if whatever was good and happy in his own nature had been transferred to his child, carrying his affections with it. Even Dorcas, though loving and beloved, was far less dear to him; for Reuben’s secret thoughts and insulated emotions had gradually made him a selfish man, and he could no longer love deeply except where he saw or imagined some reflection or likeness177 of his own mind. In Cyrus he recognized what he had himself been in other days; and at intervals he seemed to partake of the boy’s spirit, and to be revived with a fresh and happy life. Reuben was accompanied by his son in the expedition, for the purpose of selecting a tract of land and felling and burning the timber, which necessarily preceded the removal of the household gods. Two months of autumn were thus occupied, after which Reuben Bourne and his young hunter returned to spend their last winter in the settlements.
. . . . . . . . . . .
It was early in the month of May that the little family snapped asunder178 whatever tendrils of affections had clung to inanimate objects, and bade farewell to the few who, in the blight179 of fortune, called themselves their friends. The sadness of the parting moment had, to each of the pilgrims, its peculiar174 alleviations. Reuben, a moody180 man, and misanthropic181 because unhappy, strode onward with his usual stern brow and downcast eye, feeling few regrets and disdaining182 to acknowledge any. Dorcas, while she wept abundantly over the broken ties by which her simple and affectionate nature had bound itself to everything, felt that the inhabitants of her inmost heart moved on with her, and that all else would be supplied wherever she might go. And the boy dashed one tear-drop from his eye, and thought of the adventurous183 pleasures of the untrodden forest.
Oh, who, in the enthusiasm of a daydream184, has not wished that he were a wanderer in a world of summer wilderness, with one fair and gentle being hanging lightly on his arm? In youth his free and exulting185 step would know no barrier but the rolling ocean or the snow-topped mountains; calmer manhood would choose a home where Nature had strewn a double wealth in the vale of some transparent186 stream; and when hoary187 age, after long, long years of that pure life, stole on and found him there, it would find him the father of a race, the patriarch of a people, the founder188 of a mighty189 nation yet to be. When death, like the sweet sleep which we welcome after a day of happiness, came over him, his far descendants would mourn over the venerated190 dust. Enveloped191 by tradition in mysterious attributes, the men of future generations would call him godlike; and remote posterity192 would see him standing12, dimly glorious, far up the valley of a hundred centuries.
The tangled193 and gloomy forest through which the personages of my tale were wandering differed widely from the dreamer’s land of fantasy; yet there was something in their way of life that Nature asserted as her own, and the gnawing cares which went with them from the world were all that now obstructed194 their happiness. One stout and shaggy steed, the bearer of all their wealth, did not shrink from the added weight of Dorcas; although her hardy195 breeding sustained her, during the latter part of each day’s journey, by her husband’s side. Reuben and his son, their muskets196 on their shoulders and their axes slung198 behind them, kept an unwearied pace, each watching with a hunter’s eye for the game that supplied their food. When hunger bade, they halted and prepared their meal on the bank of some unpolluted forest brook199, which, as they knelt down with thirsty lips to drink, murmured a sweet unwillingness200, like a maiden at love’s first kiss. They slept beneath a hut of branches, and awoke at peep of light refreshed for the toils201 of another day. Dorcas and the boy went on joyously202, and even Reuben’s spirit shone at intervals with an outward gladness; but inwardly there was a cold cold sorrow, which he compared to the snowdrifts lying deep in the glens and hollows of the rivulets203 while the leaves were brightly green above.
Cyrus Bourne was sufficiently204 skilled in the travel of the woods to observe that his father did not adhere to the course they had pursued in their expedition of the preceding autumn. They were now keeping farther to the north, striking out more directly from the settlements, and into a region of which savage beasts and savage men were as yet the sole possessors. The boy sometimes hinted his opinions upon the subject, and Reuben listened attentively205, and once or twice altered the direction of their march in accordance with his son’s counsel; but, having so done, he seemed ill at ease. His quick and wandering glances were sent forward apparently in search of enemies lurking206 behind the tree trunks, and, seeing nothing there, he would cast his eyes backwards207 as if in fear of some pursuer. Cyrus, perceiving that his father gradually resumed the old direction, forbore to interfere208; nor, though something began to weigh upon his heart, did his adventurous nature permit him to regret the increased length and the mystery of their way.
On the afternoon of the fifth day they halted, and made their simple encampment nearly an hour before sunset. The face of the country, for the last few miles, had been diversified by swells of land resembling huge waves of a petrified209 sea; and in one of the corresponding hollows, a wild and romantic spot, had the family reared their hut and kindled their fire. There is something chilling, and yet heart-warming, in the thought of these three, united by strong bands of love and insulated from all that breathe beside. The dark and gloomy pines looked down upon them, and, as the wind swept through their tops, a pitying sound was heard in the forest; or did those old trees groan210 in fear that men were come to lay the axe197 to their roots at last? Reuben and his son, while Dorcas made ready their meal, proposed to wander out in search of game, of which that day’s march had afforded no supply. The boy, promising211 not to quit the vicinity of the encampment, bounded off with a step as light and elastic212 as that of the deer he hoped to slay114; while his father, feeling a transient happiness as he gazed after him, was about to pursue an opposite direction. Dorcas in the meanwhile, had seated herself near their fire of fallen branches upon the mossgrown and mouldering213 trunk of a tree uprooted214 years before. Her employment, diversified by an occasional glance at the pot, now beginning to simmer over the blaze, was the perusal215 of the current year’s Massachusetts Almanac, which, with the exception of an old black-letter Bible, comprised all the literary wealth of the family. None pay a greater regard to arbitrary divisions of time than those who are excluded from society; and Dorcas mentioned, as if the information were of importance, that it was now the twelfth of May. Her husband started.
“The twelfth of May! I should remember it well,” muttered he, while many thoughts occasioned a momentary216 confusion in his mind. “Where am I? Whither am I wandering? Where did I leave him?”
Dorcas, too well accustomed to her husband’s wayward moods to note any peculiarity217 of demeanor218, now laid aside the almanac and addressed him in that mournful tone which the tender hearted appropriate to griefs long cold and dead.
“It was near this time of the month, eighteen years ago, that my poor father left this world for a better. He had a kind arm to hold his head and a kind voice to cheer him, Reuben, in his last moments; and the thought of the faithful care you took of him has comforted me many a time since. Oh, death would have been awful to a solitary man in a wild place like this!”
“Pray Heaven, Dorcas,” said Reuben, in a broken voice — “pray Heaven that neither of us three dies solitary and lies unburied in this howling wilderness!” And he hastened away, leaving her to watch the fire beneath the gloomy pines.
Reuben Bourne’s rapid pace gradually slackened as the pang, unintentionally inflicted219 by the words of Dorcas, became less acute. Many strange reflections, however, thronged220 upon him; and, straying onward rather like a sleep walker than a hunter, it was attributable to no care of his own that his devious221 course kept him in the vicinity of the encampment. His steps were imperceptibly led almost in a circle; nor did he observe that he was on the verge222 of a tract of land heavily timbered, but not with pine-trees. The place of the latter was here supplied by oaks and other of the harder woods; and around their roots clustered a dense and bushy under-growth, leaving, however, barren spaces between the trees, thick strewn with withered leaves. Whenever the rustling of the branches or the creaking of the trunks made a sound, as if the forest were waking from slumber38, Reuben instinctively223 raised the musket that rested on his arm, and cast a quick, sharp glance on every side; but, convinced by a partial observation that no animal was near, he would again give himself up to his thoughts. He was musing224 on the strange influence that had led him away from his premeditated course, and so far into the depths of the wilderness. Unable to penetrate225 to the secret place of his soul where his motives lay hidden, he believed that a supernatural voice had called him onward, and that a supernatural power had obstructed his retreat. He trusted that it was Heaven’s intent to afford him an opportunity of expiating226 his sin; he hoped that he might find the bones so long unburied; and that, having laid the earth over them, peace would throw its sunlight into the sepulchre of his heart. From these thoughts he was aroused by a rustling in the forest at some distance from the spot to which he had wandered. Perceiving the motion of some object behind a thick veil of undergrowth, he fired, with the instinct of a hunter and the aim of a practised marksman. A low moan, which told his success, and by which even animals cars express their dying agony, was unheeded by Reuben Bourne. What were the recollections now breaking upon him?
The thicket227 into which Reuben had fired was near the summit of a swell of land, and was clustered around the base of a rock, which, in the shape and smoothness of one of its surfaces, was not unlike a gigantic gravestone. As if reflected in a mirror, its likeness was in Reuben’s memory. He even recognized the veins which seemed to form an inscription in forgotten characters: everything remained the same, except that a thick covert228 of bushes shrouded229 the lowerpart of the rock, and would have hidden Roger Malvin had he still been sitting there. Yet in the next moment Reuben’s eye was caught by another change that time had effected since he last stood where he was now standing again behind the earthy roots of the uptorn tree. The sapling to which he had bound the bloodstained symbol of his vow had increased and strengthened into an oak, far indeed from its maturity230, but with no mean spread of shadowy branches. There was one singularity observable in this tree which made Reuben tremble. The middle and lower branches were in luxuriant life, and an excess of vegetation had fringed the trunk almost to the ground; but a blight had apparently stricken the upper part of the oak, and the very topmost bough231 was withered, sapless, and utterly232 dead. Reuben remembered how the little banner had fluttered on that topmost bough, when it was green and lovely, eighteen years before. Whose guilt had blasted it?
. . . . . . . . . . .
Dorcas, after the departure of the two hunters, continued her preparations for their evening repast. Her sylvan233 table was the moss-covered trunk of a large fallen tree, on the broadest part of which she had spread a snow-white cloth and arranged what were left of the bright pewter vessels234 that had been her pride in the settlements. It had a strange aspect that one little spot of homely235 comfort in the desolate heart of Nature. The sunshine yet lingered upon the higher branches of the trees that grew on rising ground; but the shadows of evening had deepened into the hollow where the encampment was made, and the firelight began to redden as it gleamed up the tall trunks of the pines or hovered on the dense and obscure mass of foliage236 that circled round the spot. The heart of Dorcas was not sad; for she felt that it was better to journey in the wilderness with two whom she loved than to be a lonely woman in a crowd that cared not for her. As she busied herself in arranging seats of mouldering wood, covered with leaves, for Reuben and her son, her voice danced through the gloomy forest in the measure of a song that she had learned in youth. The rude melody, the production of a bard237 who won no name, was descriptive of a winter evening in a frontier cottage, when, secured from savage inroad by the high-piled snow-drifts, the family rejoiced by their own fireside. The whole song possessed238 the nameless charm peculiar to unborrowed thought, but four continually-recurring lines shone out from the rest like the blaze of the hearth239 whose joys they celebrated240. Into them, working magic with a few simple words, the poet had instilled241 the very essence of domestic love and household happiness, and they were poetry and picture joined in one. As Dorcas sang, the walls of her forsaken242 home seemed to encircle her; she no longer saw the gloomy pines, nor heard the wind which still, as she began each verse, sent a heavy breath through the branches, and died away in a hollow moan from the burden of the song. She was aroused by the report of a gun in the vicinity of the encampment; and either the sudden sound, or her loneliness by the glowing fire, caused her to tremble violently. The next moment she laughed in the pride of a mother’s heart.
“My beautiful young hunter! My boy has slain243 a deer!” she exclaimed, recollecting244 that in the direction whence the shot proceeded Cyrus had gone to the chase.
She waited a reasonable time to hear her son’s light step bounding over the rustling leaves to tell of his success. But he did not immediately appear; and she sent her cheerful voice among the trees in search of him.
“Cyrus! Cyrus!”
His coming was still delayed; and she determined245, as the report had apparently been very near, to seek for him in person. Her assistance, also, might be necessary in bringing home the venison which she flattered herself he had obtained. She therefore set forward, directing her steps by the long-past sound, and singing as she went, in order that the boy might be aware of her approach and run to meet her. From behind the trunk of every tree, and from every hiding-place in the thick foliage of the undergrowth, she hoped to discover the countenance of her son, laughing with the sportive mischief246 that is born of affection. The sun was now beneath the horizon, and the light that came down among the leaves was sufficiently dim to create many illusions in her expecting fancy. Several times she seemed indistinctly to see his face gazing out from among the leaves; and once she imagined that he stood beckoning247 to her at the base of a craggy rock. Keeping her eyes on this object, however, it proved to be no more than the trunk of an oak fringed to the very ground with little branches, one of which, thrust out farther than the rest, was shaken by the breeze. Making her way round the foot of the rock, she suddenly found herself close to her husband, who had approached in another direction. Leaning upon the butt248 of his gun, the muzzle249 of which rested upon the withered leaves, he was apparently absorbed in the contemplation of some object at his feet.
“How is this, Reuben? Have you slain the deer and fallen asleep over him?” exclaimed Dorcas, laughing cheerfully, on her first slight observation of his posture and appearance.
He stirred not, neither did he turn his eyes towards her; and a cold, shuddering250 fear, indefinite in its source and object, began to creep into her blood. She now perceived that her husband’s face was ghastly pale, and his features were rigid251, as if incapable of assuming any other expression than the strong despair which had hardened upon them. He gave not the slightest evidence that he was aware of her approach.
“For the love of Heaven, Reuben, speak to me!” cried Dorcas; and the strange sound of her own voice affrighted her even more than the dead silence.
Her husband started, stared into her face, drew her to the front of the rock, and pointed252 with his finger.
Oh, there lay the boy, asleep, but dreamless, upon the fallen forest leaves! His cheek rested upon his arm — his curled locks were thrown back from his brow — his limbs were slightly relaxed. Had a sudden weariness overcome the youthful hunter? Would his mother’s voice arouse him? She knew that it was death.
“This broad rock is the gravestone of your near kindred, Dorcas,” said her husband. “Your tears will fall at once over your father and your son.”
She heard him not. With one wild shriek253, that seemed to force its way from the sufferer’s inmost soul, she sank insensible by the side of her dead boy. At that moment the withered topmost bough of the oak loosened itself in the stilly air, and fell in soft, light fragments upon the rock, upon the leaves, upon Reuben, upon his wife and child, and upon Roger Malvin’s bones. Then Reuben’s heart was stricken, and the tears gushed out like water from a rock. The vow that the wounded youth had made the blighted254 man had come to redeem. His sin was expiated255 — the curse was gone from him; and in the hour when he had shed blood dearer to him than his own, a prayer, the first for years, went up to Heaven from the lips of Reuben Bourne.
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1
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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4
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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6
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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8
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
scouting
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| 守候活动，童子军的活动 | |
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10
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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12
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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13
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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14
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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15
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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16
strew
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| vt.撒；使散落；撒在…上，散布于 | |
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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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18
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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19
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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20
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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21
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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22
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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23
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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24
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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25
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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26
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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27
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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28
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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29
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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30
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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31
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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32
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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33
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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34
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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36
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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37
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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38
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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39
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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40
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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41
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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42
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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43
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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44
garrisons
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| 守备部队，卫戍部队( garrison的名词复数 ) | |
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45
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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46
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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47
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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48
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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49
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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50
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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51
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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52
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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53
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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54
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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55
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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56
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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57
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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58
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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59
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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60
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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61
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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62
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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63
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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64
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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65
wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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66
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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67
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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68
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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69
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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70
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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71
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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72
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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73
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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74
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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75
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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76
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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77
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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78
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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79
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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80
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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81
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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82
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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83
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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84
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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85
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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86
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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87
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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88
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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89
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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90
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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91
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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92
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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93
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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94
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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95
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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97
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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98
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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99
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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100
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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101
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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102
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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103
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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104
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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105
retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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106
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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107
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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108
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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109
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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110
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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111
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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112
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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113
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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114
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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115
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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116
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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117
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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118
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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119
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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120
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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121
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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122
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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123
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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124
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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125
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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126
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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127
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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128
vividly
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|
| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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129
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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130
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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131
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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132
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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133
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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134
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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135
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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136
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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137
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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138
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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139
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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140
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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141
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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142
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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143
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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144
rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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145
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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146
gratuitous
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|
| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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147
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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148
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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149
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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150
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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151
prevarication
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| n.支吾；搪塞；说谎；有枝有叶 | |
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152
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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153
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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154
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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155
irritable
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|
| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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157
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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158
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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159
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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161
labor
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|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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162
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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163
industrious
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|
| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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164
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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165
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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166
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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167
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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168
lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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169
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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170
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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171
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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172
virgin
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|
| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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173
bosom
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|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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174
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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175
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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176
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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177
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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178
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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179
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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180
moody
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|
| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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181
misanthropic
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| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
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182
disdaining
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|
| 鄙视( disdain的现在分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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183
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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184
daydream
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| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
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185
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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186
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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187
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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188
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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189
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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190
venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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193
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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194
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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195
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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196
muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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197
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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198
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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199
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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200
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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201
toils
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| 网 | |
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202
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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203
rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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204
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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205
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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206
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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207
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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208
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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209
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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210
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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211
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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212
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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213
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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214
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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215
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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216
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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217
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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218
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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219
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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expiating
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的现在分词 ) | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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241
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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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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251
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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253
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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expiated
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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