“Be silent,” said the hermit7, as the prostrate8 knight9 looked up in surprise; “I have that to say to you which yonder infidel must not hear.”
These words he spoke10 in the French language, and not in the lingua franca, or compound of Eastern and European dialects, which had hitherto been used amongst them.
“Arise,” he continued, “put on thy mantle11; speak not, but tread lightly, and follow me.”
Sir Kenneth arose, and took his sword.
“It needs not,” answered the anchorite, in a whisper; “we are going where spiritual arms avail much, and fleshly weapons are but as the reed and the decayed gourd12.”
The knight deposited his sword by the bedside as before, and, armed only with his dagger13, from which in this perilous14 country he never parted, prepared to attend his mysterious host.
The hermit then moved slowly forwards, and was followed by the knight, still under some uncertainty15 whether the dark form which glided16 on before to show him the path was not, in fact, the creation of a disturbed dream. They passed, like shadows, into the outer apartment, without disturbing the paynim Emir, who lay still buried in repose. Before the cross and altar, in the outward room, a lamp was still burning, a missal was displayed, and on the floor lay a discipline, or penitential scourge18 of small cord and wire, the lashes19 of which were recently stained with blood — a token, no doubt, of the severe penance20 of the recluse21. Here Theodorick kneeled down, and pointed22 to the knight to take his place beside him upon the sharp flints, which seemed placed for the purpose of rendering24 the posture25 of reverential devotion as uneasy as possible. He read many prayers of the Catholic Church, and chanted, in a low but earnest voice, three of the penitential psalms26. These last he intermixed with sighs, and tears, and convulsive throbs27, which bore witness how deeply he felt the divine poetry which he recited. The Scottish knight assisted with profound sincerity28 at these acts of devotion, his opinion of his host beginning, in the meantime, to be so much changed, that he doubted whether, from the severity of his penance and the ardour of his prayers, he ought not to regard him as a saint; and when they arose from the ground, he stood with reverence29 before him, as a pupil before an honoured master. The hermit was, on his side, silent and abstracted for the space of a few minutes.
“Look into yonder recess30, my son,” he said, pointing to the farther corner of the cell; “there thou wilt31 find a veil — bring it hither.”
The knight obeyed, and in a small aperture32 cut out of the wall, and secured with a door of wicker, he found the veil inquired for. When he brought it to the light, he discovered that it was torn, and soiled in some places with some dark substance. The anchorite looked at it with a deep but smothered33 emotion, and ere he could speak to the Scottish knight, was compelled to vent34 his feelings in a convulsive groan35.
“Thou art now about to look upon the richest treasure that the earth possesses,” he at length said; “woe36 is me, that my eyes are unworthy to be lifted towards it! Alas38! I am but the vile39 and despised sign, which points out to the wearied traveller a harbour of rest and security, but must itself remain for ever without doors. In vain have I fled to the very depths of the rocks, and the very bosom40 of the thirsty desert. Mine enemy hath found me — even he whom I have denied has pursued me to my fortresses41.”
He paused again for a moment, and turning to the Scottish knight, said, in a firmer tone of voice, “You bring me a greeting from Richard of England?”
“I come from the Council of Christian42 Princes,” said the knight; “but the King of England being indisposed, I am not honoured with his Majesty’s commands.”
“Your token?” demanded the recluse.
Sir Kenneth hesitated. Former suspicions, and the marks of insanity43 which the hermit had formerly44 exhibited, rushed suddenly on his thoughts; but how suspect a man whose manners were so saintly? “My password,” he said at length, “is this — Kings begged of a beggar.”
“It is right,” said the hermit, while he paused. “I know you well; but the sentinel upon his post — and mine is an important one — challenges friend as well as foe,”
He then moved forward with the lamp, leading the way into the room which they had left. The Saracen lay on his couch, still fast asleep. The hermit paused by his side, and looked down on him.
“He sleeps,” he said, “in darkness, and must not be awakened45.”
The attitude of the Emir did indeed convey the idea of profound repose. One arm, flung across his body, as he lay with his face half turned to the wall, concealed46, with its loose and long sleeve, the greater part of his face; but the high forehead was yet visible. Its nerves, which during his waking hours were so uncommonly47 active, were now motionless, as if the face had been composed of dark marble, and his long silken eyelashes closed over his piercing and hawklike48 eyes. The open and relaxed hand, and the deep, regular, and soft breathing, all gave tokens of the most profound repose. The slumberer49 formed a singular group along with the tall forms of the hermit in his shaggy dress of goat-skins, bearing the lamp, and the knight in his close leathern coat — the former with an austere50 expression of ascetic51 gloom, the latter with anxious curiosity deeply impressed on his manly52 features.
“He sleeps soundly,” said the hermit, in the same low tone as before; and repeating the words, though he had changed the meaning from that which is literal to a metaphorical53 sense —“he sleeps in darkness, but there shall be for him a dayspring. — O Ilderim, thy waking thoughts are yet as vain and wild as those which are wheeling their giddy dance through thy sleeping brain; but the trumpet54 shall be heard, and the dream shall be dissolved.”
So saying, and making the knight a sign to follow him, the hermit went towards the altar, and passing behind it, pressed a spring, which, opening without noise, showed a small iron door wrought55 in the side of the cavern56, so as to be almost imperceptible, unless upon the most severe scrutiny57. The hermit, ere he ventured fully to open the door, dropped some oil on the hinges, which the lamp supplied. A small staircase, hewn in the rock, was discovered, when the iron door was at length completely opened.
“Take the veil which I hold,” said the hermit, in a melancholy58 tone, “and blind mine eyes; For I may not look on the treasure which thou art presently to behold59, without sin and presumption60.”
Without reply, the knight hastily muffled61 the recluse’s head in the veil, and the latter began to ascend62 the staircase as one too much accustomed to the way to require the use of light, while at the same time he held the lamp to the Scot, who followed him for many steps up the narrow ascent63. At length they rested in a small vault64 of irregular form, in one nook of which the staircase terminated, while in another corner a corresponding stair was seen to continue the ascent. In a third angle was a Gothic door, very rudely ornamented65 with the usual attributes of clustered columns and carving66, and defended by a wicket, strongly guarded with iron, and studded with large nails. To this last point the hermit directed his steps, which seemed to falter67 as he approached it.
“Put off thy shoes,” he said to his attendant; “the ground on which thou standest is holy. Banish68 from thy innermost heart each profane69 and carnal thought, for to harbour such while in this place were a deadly impiety70.”
The knight laid aside his shoes as he was commanded, and the hermit stood in the meanwhile as if communing with his soul in secret prayer, and when he again moved, commanded the knight to knock at the wicket three times. He did so. The door opened spontaneously — at least Sir Kenneth beheld no one — and his senses were at once assailed71 by a stream of the purest light, and by a strong and almost oppressive sense of the richest perfumes. He stepped two or three paces back, and it was the space of a minute ere he recovered the dazzling and overpowering effects of the sudden change from darkness to light.
When he entered the apartment in which this brilliant lustre72 was displayed, he perceived that the light proceeded from a combination of silver lamps, fed with purest oil, and sending forth73 the richest odours, hanging by silver chains from the roof of a small Gothic chapel74, hewn, like most part of the hermit’s singular mansion75, out of the sound and solid rock. But whereas, in every other place which Sir Kenneth had seen, the labour employed upon the rock had been of the simplest and coarsest description, it had in this chapel employed the invention and the chisels76 of the most able architects. The groined roofs rose from six columns on each side, carved with the rarest skill; and the manner in which the crossings of the concave arches were bound together, as it were, with appropriate ornaments77, were all in the finest tone of the architecture of the age. Corresponding to the line of pillars, there were on each side six richly-wrought niches79, each of which contained the image of one of the twelve apostles.
At the upper and eastern end of the chapel stood the altar, behind which a very rich curtain of Persian silk, embroidered80 deeply with gold, covered a recess, containing, unquestionably, some image or relic81 of no ordinary sanctity, in honour of which this singular place of worship had been erected82, Under the persuasion83 that this must be the case, the knight advanced to the shrine84, and kneeling down before it, repeated his devotions with fervency85, during which his attention was disturbed by the curtain being suddenly raised, or rather pulled aside, how or by whom he saw not; but in the niche78 which was thus disclosed he beheld a cabinet of silver and ebony, with a double folding-door, the whole formed into the miniature resemblance of a Gothic church.
As he gazed with anxious curiosity on the shrine, the two folding-doors also flew open, discovering a large piece of wood, on which were blazoned86 the words, VERA CRUX87; at the same time a choir88 of female voices sung GLORIA PATRI. The instant the strain had ceased, the shrine was closed, and the curtain again drawn89, and the knight who knelt at the altar might now continue his devotions undisturbed, in honour of the holy relic which had been just disclosed to his view. He did this under the profound impression of one who had witnessed, with his own eyes, an awful evidence of the truth of his religion; and it was some time ere, concluding his orisons, he arose, and ventured to look around him for the hermit, who had guided him to this sacred and mysterious spot. He beheld him, his head still muffled in the veil which he had himself wrapped around it, crouching90, like a rated hound, upon the threshold of the chapel; but, apparently91, without venturing to cross it — the holiest reverence, the most penitential remorse92, was expressed by his posture, which seemed that of a man borne down and crushed to the earth by the burden of his inward feelings. It seemed to the Scot that only the sense of the deepest penitence93, remorse, and humiliation94 could have thus prostrated95 a frame so strong and a spirit so fiery96.
He approached him as if to speak; but the recluse anticipated his purpose, murmuring in stifled97 tones, from beneath the fold in which his head was muffled, and which sounded like a voice proceeding98 from the cerements of a corpse99 — “Abide100, abide — happy thou that mayest — the vision is not yet ended.” So saying, he reared himself from the ground, drew back from the threshold on which he had hitherto lain prostrate, and closed the door of the chapel, which, secured by a spring bolt within, the snap of which resounded101 through the place, appeared so much like a part of the living rock from which the cavern was hewn, that Kenneth could hardly discern where the aperture had been. He was now alone in the lighted chapel which contained the relic to which he had lately rendered his homage102, without other arms than his dagger, or other companion than his pious103 thoughts and dauntless courage.
Uncertain what was next to happen, but resolved to abide the course of events, Sir Kenneth paced the solitary104 chapel till about the time of the earliest cock-crowing. At this dead season, when night and morning met together, he heard, but from what quarter he could not discover, the sound of such a small silver bell as is rung at the elevation105 of the host in the ceremony, or sacrifice, as it has been called, of the mass. The hour and the place rendered the sound fearfully solemn, and, bold as he was, the knight withdrew himself into the farther nook of the chapel, at the end opposite to the altar, in order to observe, without interruption, the consequences of this unexpected signal.
He did not wait long ere the silken curtain was again withdrawn106, and the relic again presented to his view. As he sunk reverentially on his knee, he heard the sound of the lauds107, or earliest office of the Catholic Church, sung by female voices, which united together in the performance as they had done in the former service. The knight was soon aware that the voices were no longer stationary108 in the distance, but approached the chapel and became louder, when a door, imperceptible when closed, like that by which he had himself entered, opened on the other side of the vault, and gave the tones of the choir more room to swell109 along the ribbed arches of the roof.
The knight fixed110 his eyes on the opening with breathless anxiety, and, continuing to kneel in the attitude of devotion which the place and scene required, expected the consequence of these preparations. A procession appeared about to issue from the door. First, four beautiful boys, whose arms, necks, and legs were bare, showing the bronze complexion111 of the East, and contrasting with the snow-white tunics112 which they wore, entered the chapel by two and two. The first pair bore censers, which they swung from side to side, adding double fragrance113 to the odours with which the chapel already was impregnated. The second pair scattered114 flowers.
After these followed, in due and majestic115 order, the females who composed the choir — six, who from their black scapularies, and black veils over their white garments, appeared to be professed116 nuns117 of the order of Mount Carmel; and as many whose veils, being white, argued them to be novices118, or occasional inhabitants in the cloister119, who were not as yet bound to it by vows120. The former held in their hands large rosaries, while the younger and lighter121 figures who followed carried each a chaplet of red and white roses. They moved in procession around the chapel, without appearing to take the slightest notice of Kenneth, although passing so near him that their robes almost touched him, while they continued to sing. The knight doubted not that he was in one of those cloisters122 where the noble Christian maidens123 had formerly openly devoted125 themselves to the services of the church. Most of them had been suppressed since the Mohammedans had reconquered Palestine, but many, purchasing connivance126 by presents, or receiving it from the clemency127 or contempt of the victors, still continued to observe in private the ritual to which their vows had consecrated128 them. Yet, though Kenneth knew this to be the case, the solemnity of the place and hour, the surprise at the sudden appearance of these votaresses, and the visionary manner in which they moved past him, had such influence on his imagination that he could scarce conceive that the fair procession which he beheld was formed of creatures of this world, so much did they resemble a choir of supernatural beings, rendering homage to the universal object of adoration129.
Such was the knight’s first idea, as the procession passed him, scarce moving, save just sufficiently130 to continue their progress; so that, seen by the shadowy and religious light which the lamps shed through the clouds of incense131 which darkened the apartment, they appeared rather to glide17 than to walk.
But as a second time, in surrounding the chapel, they passed the spot on which he kneeled, one of the white-stoled maidens, as she glided by him, detached from the chaplet which she carried a rosebud132, which dropped from her fingers, perhaps unconsciously, on the foot of Sir Kenneth. The knight started as if a dart133 had suddenly struck his person; for, when the mind is wound up to a high pitch of feeling and expectation, the slightest incident, if unexpected, gives fire to the train which imagination has already laid. But he suppressed his emotion, recollecting134 how easily an incident so indifferent might have happened, and that it was only the uniform monotony of the movement of the choristers which made the incident in the slightest degree remarkable135.
Still, while the procession, for the third time, surrounded the chapel, the thoughts and the eyes of Kenneth followed exclusively the one among the novices who had dropped the rosebud. Her step, her face, her form were so completely assimilated to the rest of the choristers that it was impossible to perceive the least marks of individuality; and yet Kenneth’s heart throbbed136 like a bird that would burst from its cage, as if to assure him, by its sympathetic suggestions, that the female who held the right file on the second rank of the novices was dearer to him, not only than all the rest that were present, but than the whole sex besides. The romantic passion of love, as it was cherished, and indeed enjoined137, by the rules of chivalry138, associated well with the no less romantic feelings of devotion; and they might be said much more to enhance than to counteract139 each other. It was, therefore, with a glow of expectation that had something even of a religious character that Sir Kenneth, his sensations thrilling from his heart to the ends of his fingers, expected some second sign of the presence of one who, he strongly fancied, had already bestowed140 on him the first. Short as the space was during which the procession again completed a third perambulation of the chapel, it seemed an eternity142 to Kenneth. At length the form which he had watched with such devoted attention drew nigh. There was no difference betwixt that shrouded143 figure and the others, with whom it moved in concert and in unison144, until, just as she passed for the third time the kneeling Crusader, a part of a little and well-proportioned hand, so beautifully formed as to give the highest idea of the perfect proportions of the form to which it belonged, stole through the folds of the gauze, like a moonbeam through the fleecy cloud of a summer night, and again a rosebud lay at the feet of the Knight of the Leopard145.
This second intimation could not be accidental —— it could not be fortuitous, the resemblance of that half-seen but beautiful female hand with one which his lips had once touched, and, while they touched it, had internally sworn allegiance to the lovely owner. Had further proof been wanting, there was the glimmer146 of that matchless ruby147 ring on that snow-white finger, whose invaluable148 worth Kenneth would yet have prized less than the slightest sign which that finger could have made; and, veiled too, as she was, he might see, by chance or by favour, a stray curl of the dark tresses, each hair of which was dearer to him a hundred times than a chain of massive gold. It was the lady of his love! But that she should he here — in the savage and sequestered149 desert — among vestals, who rendered themselves habitants of wilds and of caverns150, that they might perform in secret those Christian rites151 which they dared not assist in openly; that this should be so, in truth and in reality, seemed too incredible — it must be a dream — a delusive152 trance of the imagination. While these thoughts passed through the mind of Kenneth, the same passage, by which the procession had entered the chapel, received them on their return. The young sacristans, the sable153 nuns, vanished successively through the open door. At length she from whom he had received this double intimation passed also; yet, in passing, turned her head, slightly indeed, but perceptibly, towards the place where he remained fixed as an image. He marked the last wave of her veil — it was gone — and a darkness sunk upon his soul, scarce less palpable than that which almost immediately enveloped154 his external sense; for the last chorister had no sooner crossed the threshold of the door than it shut with a loud sound, and at the same instant the voices of the choir were silent, the lights of the chapel were at once extinguished, and Sir Kenneth remained solitary and in total darkness. But to Kenneth, solitude155, and darkness, and the uncertainty of his mysterious situation were as nothing — he thought not of them — cared not for them — cared for nought156 in the world save the flitting vision which had just glided past him, and the tokens of her favour which she had bestowed. To grope on the floor for the buds which she had dropped — to press them to his lips, to his bosom, now alternately, now together — to rivet157 his lips to the cold stones on which, as near as he could judge, she had so lately stepped — to play all the extravagances which strong affection suggests and vindicates158 to those who yield themselves up to it, were but the tokens of passionate159 love common to all ages. But it was peculiar160 to the times of chivalry that, in his wildest rapture161, the knight imagined of no attempt to follow or to trace the object of such romantic attachment162; that he thought of her as of a deity163, who, having deigned164 to show herself for an instant to her devoted worshipper, had again returned to the darkness of her sanctuary165 — or as an influential166 planet, which, having darted167 in some auspicious168 minute one favourable169 ray, wrapped itself again in its veil of mist. The motions of the lady of his love were to him those of a superior being, who was to move without watch or control, rejoice him by her appearance, or depress him by her absence, animate170 him by her kindness, or drive him to despair by her cruelty — all at her own free will, and without other importunity171 or remonstrance172 than that expressed by the most devoted services of the heart and sword of the champion, whose sole object in life was to fulfil her commands, and, by the splendour of his own achievements, to exalt173 her fame.
Such were the rules of chivalry, and of the love which was its ruling principle. But Sir Kenneth’s attachment was rendered romantic by other and still more peculiar circumstances. He had never even heard the sound of his lady’s voice, though he had often beheld her beauty with rapture. She moved in a circle which his rank of knighthood permitted him indeed to approach, but not to mingle174 with; and highly as he stood distinguished175 for warlike skill and enterprise, still the poor Scottish soldier was compelled to worship his divinity at a distance almost as great as divides the Persian from the sun which he adores. But when was the pride of woman too lofty to overlook the passionate devotion of a lover, however inferior in degree? Her eye had been on him in the tournament, her ear had heard his praises in the report of the battles which were daily fought; and while count, duke, and lord contended for her grace, it flowed, unwillingly176 perhaps at first, or even unconsciously, towards the poor Knight of the Leopard, who, to support his rank, had little besides his sword. When she looked, and when she listened, the lady saw and heard enough to encourage her in a partiality which had at first crept on her unawares. If a knight’s personal beauty was praised, even the most prudish177 dames178 of the military court of England would make an exception in favour of the Scottish Kenneth; and it oftentimes happened that, notwithstanding the very considerable largesses which princes and peers bestowed on the minstrels, an impartial179 spirit of independence would seize the poet, and the harp23 was swept to the heroism180 of one who had neither palfreys nor garments to bestow141 in guerdon of his applause.
The moments when she listened to the praises of her lover became gradually more and more dear to the high-born Edith, relieving the flattery with which her ear was weary, and presenting to her a subject of secret contemplation, more worthy37, as he seemed by general report, than those who surpassed him in rank and in the gifts of fortune. As her attention became constantly, though cautiously, fixed on Sir Kenneth, she grew more and more convinced of his personal devotion to herself and more and more certain in her mind that in Kenneth of Scotland she beheld the fated knight doomed181 to share with her through weal and woe — and the prospect182 looked gloomy and dangerous — the passionate attachment to which the poets of the age ascribed such universal dominion183, and which its manners and morals placed nearly on the same rank with devotion itself.
Let us not disguise the truth from our readers. When Edith became aware of the state of her own sentiments, chivalrous184 as were her sentiments, becoming a maiden124 not distant from the throne of England — gratified as her pride must have been with the mute though unceasing homage rendered to her by the knight whom she had distinguished, there were moments when the feelings of the woman, loving and beloved, murmured against the restraints of state and form by which she was surrounded, and when she almost blamed the timidity of her lover, who seemed resolved not to infringe185 them. The etiquette186, to use a modern phrase, of birth and rank, had drawn around her a magical circle, beyond which Sir Kenneth might indeed bow and gaze, but within which he could no more pass than an evoked187 spirit can transgress188 the boundaries prescribed by the rod of a powerful enchanter. The thought involuntarily pressed on her that she herself must venture, were it but the point of her fairy foot, beyond the prescribed boundary, if she ever hoped to give a lover so reserved and bashful an opportunity of so slight a favour as but to salute189 her shoe-tie. There was an example — the noted190 precedent191 of the “King’s daughter of Hungary,” who thus generously encouraged the “squire of low degree;” and Edith, though of kingly blood, was no king’s daughter, any more than her lover was of low degree — fortune had put no such extreme barrier in obstacle to their affections. Something, however, within the maiden’s bosom — that modest pride which throws fetters192 even on love itself forbade her, notwithstanding the superiority of her condition, to make those advances, which, in every case, delicacy193 assigns to the other sex; above all, Sir Kenneth was a knight so gentle and honourable194, so highly accomplished195, as her imagination at least suggested, together with the strictest feelings of what was due to himself and to her, that however constrained196 her attitude might be while receiving his adorations, like the image of some deity, who is neither supposed to feel nor to reply to the homage of its votaries197, still the idol198 feared that to step prematurely199 from her pedestal would be to degrade herself in the eyes of her devoted worshipper.
Yet the devout200 adorer of an actual idol can even discover signs of approbation201 in the rigid202 and immovable features of a marble image; and it is no wonder that something, which could be as favourably203 interpreted, glanced from the bright eye of the lovely Edith, whose beauty, indeed, consisted rather more in that very power of expression, than an absolute regularity204 of contour or brilliancy of complexion. Some slight marks of distinction had escaped from her, notwithstanding her own jealous vigilance, else how could Sir Kenneth have so readily and so undoubtingly recognized the lovely hand, of which scarce two fingers were visible from under the veil, or how could he have rested so thoroughly205 assured that two flowers, successively dropped on the spot, were intended as a recognition on the part of his lady-love? By what train of observation — by what secret signs, looks, or gestures — by what instinctive206 freemasonry of love, this degree of intelligence came to subsist207 between Edith and her lover, we cannot attempt to trace; for we are old, and such slight vestiges208 of affection, quickly discovered by younger eyes, defy the power of ours. Enough that such affection did subsist between parties who had never even spoken to one another — though, on the side of Edith, it was checked by a deep sense of the difficulties and dangers which must necessarily attend the further progress of their attachment; and upon that of the knight by a thousand doubts and fears lest he had overestimated209 the slight tokens of the lady’s notice, varied210, as they necessarily were, by long intervals211 of apparent coldness, during which either the fear of exciting the observation of others, and thus drawing danger upon her lover, or that of sinking in his esteem212 by seeming too willing to be won, made her behave with indifference213, and as if unobservant of his presence.
This narrative214, tedious perhaps, but which the story renders necessary, may serve to explain the state of intelligence, if it deserves so strong a name, betwixt the lovers, when Edith’s unexpected appearance in the chapel produced so powerful an effect on the feelings of her knight.
点击收听单词发音
1 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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2 flirting | |
v.调情,打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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3 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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4 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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5 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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6 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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7 hermit | |
n.隐士,修道者;隐居 | |
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8 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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9 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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10 spoke | |
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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11 mantle | |
n.斗篷,覆罩之物,罩子;v.罩住,覆盖,脸红 | |
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12 gourd | |
n.葫芦 | |
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13 dagger | |
n.匕首,短剑,剑号 | |
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14 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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15 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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16 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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17 glide | |
n./v.溜,滑行;(时间)消逝 | |
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18 scourge | |
n.灾难,祸害;v.蹂躏 | |
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19 lashes | |
n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 );鞭子;突然猛烈的一击;急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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20 penance | |
n.(赎罪的)惩罪 | |
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21 recluse | |
n.隐居者 | |
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22 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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23 harp | |
n.竖琴;天琴座 | |
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24 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
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25 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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26 psalms | |
n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 );圣诗;圣歌;(中的) | |
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27 throbs | |
体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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28 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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29 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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30 recess | |
n.短期休息,壁凹(墙上装架子,柜子等凹处) | |
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31 wilt | |
v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎;(指人)疲倦,衰弱 | |
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32 aperture | |
n.孔,隙,窄的缺口 | |
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33 smothered | |
(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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34 vent | |
n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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35 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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36 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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37 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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38 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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39 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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40 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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41 fortresses | |
堡垒,要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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42 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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43 insanity | |
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
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44 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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45 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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46 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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47 uncommonly | |
adv. 稀罕(极,非常) | |
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48 hawklike | |
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49 slumberer | |
睡眠者,微睡者 | |
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50 austere | |
adj.艰苦的;朴素的,朴实无华的;严峻的 | |
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51 ascetic | |
adj.禁欲的;严肃的 | |
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52 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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53 metaphorical | |
a.隐喻的,比喻的 | |
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54 trumpet | |
n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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55 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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56 cavern | |
n.洞穴,大山洞 | |
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57 scrutiny | |
n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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58 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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59 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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60 presumption | |
n.推测,可能性,冒昧,放肆,[法律]推定 | |
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61 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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62 ascend | |
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
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63 ascent | |
n.(声望或地位)提高;上升,升高;登高 | |
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64 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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65 ornamented | |
adj.花式字体的v.装饰,点缀,美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66 carving | |
n.雕刻品,雕花 | |
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67 falter | |
vi.(嗓音)颤抖,结巴地说;犹豫;蹒跚 | |
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68 banish | |
vt.放逐,驱逐;消除,排除 | |
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69 profane | |
adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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70 impiety | |
n.不敬;不孝 | |
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71 assailed | |
v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 );困扰;质问;毅然应对 | |
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72 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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73 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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74 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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75 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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76 chisels | |
n.凿子,錾子( chisel的名词复数 );口凿 | |
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77 ornaments | |
n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 );点缀;装饰品;首饰v.装饰,点缀,美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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78 niche | |
n.壁龛;合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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79 niches | |
壁龛( niche的名词复数 ); 合适的位置[工作等]; (产品的)商机; 生态位(一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位) | |
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80 embroidered | |
adj.绣花的 | |
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81 relic | |
n.神圣的遗物,遗迹,纪念物 | |
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82 ERECTED | |
adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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83 persuasion | |
n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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84 shrine | |
n.圣地,神龛,庙;v.将...置于神龛内,把...奉为神圣 | |
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85 fervency | |
n.热情的;强烈的;热烈 | |
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86 blazoned | |
v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 );宣布;夸示;装饰 | |
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87 crux | |
adj.十字形;难事,关键,最重要点 | |
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88 choir | |
n.唱诗班,唱诗班的席位,合唱团,舞蹈团;v.合唱 | |
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89 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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90 crouching | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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91 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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92 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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93 penitence | |
n.忏悔,赎罪;悔过 | |
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94 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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95 prostrated | |
v.使俯伏,使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 );(指疾病、天气等)使某人无能为力 | |
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96 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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97 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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98 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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99 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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100 abide | |
vi.遵守;坚持;vt.忍受 | |
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101 resounded | |
v.(指声音等)回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 );产生回响;(指某处)回荡着声音 | |
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102 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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103 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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104 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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105 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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106 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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107 lauds | |
v.称赞,赞美( laud的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108 stationary | |
adj.固定的,静止不动的 | |
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109 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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110 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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111 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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112 tunics | |
n.(动植物的)膜皮( tunic的名词复数 );束腰宽松外衣;一套制服的短上衣;(天主教主教等穿的)短祭袍 | |
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113 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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114 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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115 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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116 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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117 nuns | |
n.(通常指基督教的)修女, (佛教的)尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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118 novices | |
n.新手( novice的名词复数 );初学修士(或修女);(修会等的)初学生;尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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119 cloister | |
n.修道院;v.隐退,使与世隔绝 | |
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120 vows | |
誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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121 lighter | |
n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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122 cloisters | |
n.(学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的)走廊( cloister的名词复数 );回廊;修道院的生活;隐居v.隐退,使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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123 maidens | |
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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124 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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125 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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126 connivance | |
n.纵容;默许 | |
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127 clemency | |
n.温和,仁慈,宽厚 | |
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128 consecrated | |
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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129 adoration | |
n.爱慕,崇拜 | |
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130 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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131 incense | |
v.激怒;n.香,焚香时的烟,香气 | |
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132 rosebud | |
n.蔷薇花蕾,妙龄少女 | |
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133 dart | |
v.猛冲,投掷;n.飞镖,猛冲 | |
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134 recollecting | |
v.记起,想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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135 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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136 throbbed | |
抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 ); (心脏、脉搏等)跳动 | |
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137 enjoined | |
v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138 chivalry | |
n.骑士气概,侠义;(男人)对女人彬彬有礼,献殷勤 | |
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139 counteract | |
vt.对…起反作用,对抗,抵消 | |
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140 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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142 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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143 shrouded | |
v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 );保密 | |
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144 unison | |
n.步调一致,行动一致 | |
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145 leopard | |
n.豹 | |
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146 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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147 ruby | |
n.红宝石,红宝石色 | |
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148 invaluable | |
adj.无价的,非常宝贵的,极为贵重的 | |
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149 sequestered | |
adj.扣押的;隐退的;幽静的;偏僻的v.使隔绝,使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 );扣押 | |
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150 caverns | |
大山洞,大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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151 rites | |
仪式,典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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152 delusive | |
adj.欺骗的,妄想的 | |
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153 sable | |
n.黑貂;adj.黑色的 | |
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154 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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156 nought | |
n./adj.无,零 | |
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157 rivet | |
n.铆钉;vt.铆接,铆牢;集中(目光或注意力) | |
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158 vindicates | |
n.澄清(某人/某事物)受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的名词复数 );表明或证明(所争辩的事物)属实、正当、有效等;维护v.澄清(某人/某事物)受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的第三人称单数 );表明或证明(所争辩的事物)属实、正当、有效等;维护 | |
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159 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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160 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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161 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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162 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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163 deity | |
n.神,神性;被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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164 deigned | |
v.屈尊,俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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166 influential | |
adj.有影响的,有权势的 | |
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167 darted | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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168 auspicious | |
adj.吉利的;幸运的,吉兆的 | |
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169 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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170 animate | |
v.赋于生命,鼓励;adj.有生命的,有生气的 | |
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171 importunity | |
n.硬要,强求 | |
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172 remonstrance | |
n抗议,抱怨 | |
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173 exalt | |
v.赞扬,歌颂,晋升,提升 | |
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174 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
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175 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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176 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
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177 prudish | |
adj.装淑女样子的,装规矩的,过分规矩的;adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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178 dames | |
n.(在英国)夫人(一种封号),夫人(爵士妻子的称号)( dame的名词复数 );女人 | |
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179 impartial | |
adj.(in,to)公正的,无偏见的 | |
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180 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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181 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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182 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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183 dominion | |
n.统治,管辖,支配权;领土,版图 | |
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184 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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185 infringe | |
v.违反,触犯,侵害 | |
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186 etiquette | |
n.礼仪,礼节;规矩 | |
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187 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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188 transgress | |
vt.违反,逾越 | |
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189 salute | |
vi.行礼,致意,问候,放礼炮;vt.向…致意,迎接,赞扬;n.招呼,敬礼,礼炮 | |
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190 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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191 precedent | |
n.先例,前例;惯例;adj.在前的,在先的 | |
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192 fetters | |
n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 );束缚v.给…上脚镣,束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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193 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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194 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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195 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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196 constrained | |
adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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197 votaries | |
n.信徒( votary的名词复数 );追随者;(天主教)修士;修女 | |
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198 idol | |
n.偶像,红人,宠儿 | |
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199 prematurely | |
adv.过早地,贸然地 | |
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200 devout | |
adj.虔诚的,虔敬的,衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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201 approbation | |
n.称赞;认可 | |
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202 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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203 favourably | |
adv. 善意地,赞成地 =favorably | |
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204 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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205 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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206 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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207 subsist | |
vi.生存,存在,供养 | |
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208 vestiges | |
残余部分( vestige的名词复数 ); 遗迹; 痕迹; 毫不 | |
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209 overestimated | |
对(数量)估计过高,对…作过高的评价( overestimate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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211 intervals | |
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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212 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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213 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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214 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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