Is more than armies to the common weal.
POPE’S ILLIAD.
“This is a strange tale, Sir Thomas,” said the sick monarch1, when he had heard the report of the trusty Baron2 of Gilsland. “Art thou sure this Scottish man is a tall man and true?”
“I cannot say, my lord,” replied the jealous Borderer. “I live a little too near the Scots to gather much truth among them, having found them ever fair and false. But this man’s bearing is that of a true man, were he a devil as well as a Scot; that I must needs say for him in conscience.”
“And for his carriage as a knight3, how sayest thou, De Vaux?” demanded the King.
“It is your Majesty4’s business more than mine to note men’s bearings; and I warrant you have noted5 the manner in which this man of the Leopard6 hath borne himself. He hath been full well spoken of.”
“And justly, Thomas,” said the King. “We have ourselves witnessed him. It is indeed our purpose in placing ourselves ever in the front of battle, to see how our liegemen and followers8 acquit10 themselves, and not from a desire to accumulate vainglory to ourselves, as some have supposed. We know the vanity of the praise of man, which is but a vapour, and buckle11 on our armour12 for other purposes than to win it.”
De Vaux was alarmed when he heard the King make a declaration so inconsistent with his nature, and believed at first that nothing short of the approach of death could have brought him to speak in depreciating13 terms of military renown14, which was the very breath of his nostrils15. But recollecting16 he had met the royal confessor in the outer pavilion, he was shrewd enough to place this temporary self-abasement to the effect of the reverend man’s lesson, and suffered the King to proceed without reply.
“Yes,” continued Richard, “I have indeed marked the manner in which this knight does his devoir. My leading-staff were not worth a fool’s bauble17 had he escaped my notice; and he had ere now tasted of our bounty18, but that I have also marked his overweening and audacious presumption19.”
“My liege,” said the Baron of Gilsland, observing the King’s countenance20 change, “I fear I have transgressed21 your pleasure in lending some countenance to his transgression22.”
“How, De Multon, thou?” said the King, contracting his brows, and speaking in a tone of angry surprise. “Thou countenance his insolence24? It cannot be.”
“Nay25, your Majesty will pardon me to remind you that I have by mine office right to grant liberty to men of gentle blood to keep them a hound or two within camp, just to cherish the noble art of venerie; and besides, it were a sin to have maimed or harmed a thing so noble as this gentleman’s dog.”
“Has he, then, a dog so handsome?” said the King.
“A most perfect creature of Heaven,” said the baron, who was an enthusiast26 in field-sports —“of the noblest Northern breed — deep in the chest, strong in the stern — black colour, and brindled27 on the breast and legs, not spotted28 with white, but just shaded into grey — strength to pull down a bull, swiftness to cote an antelope29.”
The King laughed at his enthusiasm. “Well, thou hast given him leave to keep the hound, so there is an end of it. Be not, however, liberal of your licenses30 among those knights31 adventurers who have no prince or leader to depend upon; they are ungovernable, and leave no game in Palestine. — But to this piece of learned heathenesse — sayest thou the Scot met him in the desert?”
“No, my liege; the Scot’s tale runs thus. He was dispatched to the old hermit32 of Engaddi, of whom men talk so much —”
“‘Sdeath and hell!” said Richard, starting up. “By whom dispatched, and for what? Who dared send any one thither33, when our Queen was in the Convent of Engaddi, upon her pilgrimage for our recovery?”
“The Council of the Crusade sent him, my lord,” answered the Baron de Vaux; “for what purpose, he declined to account to me. I think it is scarce known in the camp that your royal consort34 is on a pilgrimage; and even the princes may not have been aware, as the Queen has been sequestered35 from company since your love prohibited her attendance in case of infection.”
“Well, it shall be looked into,” said Richard. “So this Scottish man, this envoy36, met with a wandering physician at the grotto37 of Engaddi — ha?”
“Not so my liege,” replied De Vaux? “but he met, I think, near that place, with a Saracen Emir with whom he had some MELEE38 in the way of proof of valour, and finding him worthy39 to bear brave men company, they went together, as errant knights are wont40, to the grotto of Engaddi.”
Here De Vaux stopped, for he was not one of those who can tell a long story in a sentence.
“And did they there meet the physician?” demanded the King impatiently.
“No, my liege,” replied De Vaux; “but the Saracen, learning your Majesty’s grievous illness, undertook that Saladin should send his own physician to you, and with many assurances of his eminent41 skill; and he came to the grotto accordingly, after the Scottish knight had tarried a day for him and more. He is attended as if he were a prince, with drums and atabals, and servants on horse and foot, and brings with him letters of credence42 from Saladin.”
“Have they been examined by Giacomo Loredani?”
“I showed them to the interpreter ere bringing them hither, and behold43 their contents in English.”
Richard took a scroll44, in which were inscribed45 these words: The blessing46 of Allah and his Prophet Mohammed [“Out upon the hound!” said Richard, spitting in contempt, by way of interjection], Saladin, king of kings, Saldan of Egypt and of Syria, the light and refuge of the earth, to the great Melech Ric, Richard of England, greeting. Whereas, we have been informed that the hand of sickness hath been heavy upon thee, our royal brother, and that thou hast with thee only such Nazarene and Jewish mediciners as work without the blessing of Allah and our holy Prophet [“Confusion on his head!” again muttered the English monarch], we have therefore sent to tend and wait upon thee at this time the physician to our own person, Adonbec el Hakim, before whose face the angel Azrael [The Angel of Death.] spreads his wings and departs from the sick chamber47; who knows the virtues48 of herbs and stones, the path of the sun, moon, and stars, and can save man from all that is not written on his forehead. And this we do, praying you heartily49 to honour and make use of his skill; not only that we may do service to thy worth and valour, which is the glory of all the nations of Frangistan, but that we may bring the controversy50 which is at present between us to an end, either by honourable51 agreement, or by open trial thereof with our weapons, in a fair field — seeing that it neither becomes thy place and courage to die the death of a slave who hath been overwrought by his taskmaster, nor befits it our fame that a brave adversary52 be snatched from our weapon by such a disease. And, therefore, may the holy —”
“Hold, hold,” said Richard, “ I will have no more of his dog of a prophet! It makes me sick to think the valiant53 and worthy Soldan should believe in a dead dog. Yes, I will see his physician. I will put myself into the charge of this Hakim — I will repay the noble Soldan his generosity54 — I will meet Saladin in the field, as he so worthily55 proposes, and he shall have no cause to term Richard of England ungrateful. I will strike him to the earth with my battle-axe — I will convert him to Holy Church with such blows as he has rarely endured. He shall recant his errors before my good cross-handled sword, and I will have him baptized on the battle-field, from my own helmet, though the cleansing56 waters were mixed with the blood of us both. — Haste, De Vaux, why dost thou delay a conclusion so pleasing? Fetch the Hakim hither.”
“My lord,” said the baron, who perhaps saw some accession of fever in this overflow57 of confidence, “bethink you, the Soldan is a pagan, and that you are his most formidable enemy —”
“For which reason he is the more bound to do me service in this matter, lest a paltry58 fever end the quarrel betwixt two such kings. I tell thee he loves me as I love him — as noble adversaries59 ever love each other. By my honour, it were sin to doubt his good faith!”
“Nevertheless, my lord, it were well to wait the issue of these medicines upon the Scottish squire60,” said the Lord of Gilsland. “My own life depends upon it, for worthy were I to die like a dog did I proceed rashly in this matter, and make shipwreck61 of the weal of Christendom.”
“I never knew thee before hesitate for fear of life,” said Richard upbraidingly.
“Nor would I now, my liege,” replied the stout-hearted baron, “save that yours lies at pledge as well as my own.”
“Well, thou suspicious mortal,” answered Richard, “begone then, and watch the progress of this remedy. I could almost wish it might either cure or kill me, for I am weary of lying here like an ox dying of the murrain, when tambours are beating, horses stamping, and trumpets62 sounding without.”
The baron hastily departed, resolved, however, to communicate his errand to some churchman, as he felt something burdened in conscience at the idea of his master being attended by an unbeliever.
The Archbishop of Tyre was the first to whom he confided64 his doubts, knowing his interest with his master, Richard, who both loved and honoured that sagacious prelate. The bishop63 heard the doubts which De Vaux stated, with that acuteness of intelligence which distinguishes the Roman Catholic clergy65. The religious scruples67 of De Vaux he treated with as much lightness as propriety68 permitted him to exhibit on such a subject to a layman69.
“Mediciners,” he said, “like the medicines which they employed, were often useful, though the one were by birth or manners the vilest70 of humanity, as the others are, in many cases, extracted from the basest materials. Men may use the assistance of pagans and infidels,” he continued, “in their need, and there is reason to think that one cause of their being permitted to remain on earth is that they might minister to the convenience of true Christians71. Thus we lawfully72 make slaves of heathen captives. Again,” proceeded the prelate, “there is no doubt that the primitive73 Christians used the services of the unconverted heathen. Thus in the ship of Alexandria, in which the blessed Apostle Paul sailed to Italy, the sailors were doubtless pagans; yet what said the holy saint when their ministry74 was needful? —‘NISI HI IN NAVI MANSERINT, VOS SALVI FIERI NON POTESTIS’— Unless these men abide75 in the ship, ye cannot be saved. Again, Jews are infidels to Christianity, as well as Mohammedans. But there are few physicians in the camp excepting Jews, and such are employed without scandal or scruple66. Therefore, Mohammedans may be used for their service in that capacity — QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM.”
This reasoning entirely76 removed the scruples of Thomas de Vaux, who was particularly moved by the Latin quotation77, as he did not understand a word of it.
But the bishop proceeded with far less fluency78 when he considered the possibility of the Saracen’s acting23 with bad faith; and here he came not to a speedy decision. The baron showed him the letters of credence. He read and re-read them, and compared the original with the translation.
“It is a dish choicely cooked,” he said, “to the palate of King Richard, and I cannot but have my suspicions of the wily Saracen. They are curious in the art of poisons, and can so temper them that they shall be weeks in acting upon the party, during which time the perpetrator has leisure to escape. They can impregnate cloth and leather, nay, even paper and parchment, with the most subtle venom79. Our Lady forgive me! And wherefore, knowing this, hold I these letters of credence so close to my face? Take them, Sir Thomas — take them speedily!”
Here he gave them at arm’s-length, and with some appearance of haste, to the baron. “But come, my Lord de Vaux,” he continued, “wend we to the tent of this sick squire, where we shall learn whether this Hakim hath really the art of curing which he professeth, ere we consider whether there be safety in permitting him to exercise his art upon King Richard. — Yet, hold! let me first take my pouncet-box, for these fevers spread like an infection. I would advise you to use dried rosemary steeped in vinegar, my lord. I, too, know something of the healing art.”
“I thank your reverend lordship,” replied Thomas of Gilsland; “but had I been accessible to the fever, I had caught it long since by the bed of my master.”
The Bishop of Tyre blushed, for he had rather avoided the presence of the sick monarch; and he bid the baron lead on.
As they paused before the wretched hut in which Kenneth of the Leopard and his follower9 abode80, the bishop said to De Vaux, “Now, of a surety, my lord, these Scottish Knights have worse care of their followers than we of our dogs. Here is a knight, valiant, they say, in battle, and thought fitting to be graced with charges of weight in time of truce81, whose esquire of the body is lodged82 worse than in the worst dog-kennel in England. What say you of your neighbours?”
“That a master doth well enough for his servant when he lodgeth him in no worse dwelling83 than his own,” said De Vaux, and entered the hut.
The bishop followed, not without evident reluctance84; for though he lacked not courage in some respects, yet it was tempered with a strong and lively regard for his own safety. He recollected85, however, the necessity there was for judging personally of the skill of the Arabian physician, and entered the hut with a stateliness of manner calculated, as he thought, to impose respect on the stranger.
The prelate was, indeed, a striking and commanding figure. In his youth he had been eminently86 handsome, and even in age was unwilling87 to appear less so. His episcopal dress was of the richest fashion, trimmed with costly88 fur, and surrounded by a cope of curious needlework. The rings on his fingers were worth a goodly barony, and the hood89 which he wore, though now unclasped and thrown back for heat, had studs of pure gold to fasten it around his throat and under his chin when he so inclined. His long beard, now silvered with age, descended90 over his breast. One of two youthful acolytes91 who attended him created an artificial shade, peculiar92 then to the East, by bearing over his head an umbrella of palmetto leaves, while the other refreshed his reverend master by agitating93 a fan of peacock-feathers.
When the Bishop of Tyre entered the hut of the Scottish knight, the master was absent, and the Moorish94 physician, whom he had come to see, sat in the very posture95 in which De Vaux had left him several hours before, cross-legged upon a mat made of twisted leaves, by the side of the patient, who appeared in deep slumber96, and whose pulse he felt from time to time. The bishop remained standing97 before him in silence for two or three minutes, as if expecting some honourable salutation, or at least that the Saracen would seem struck with the dignity of his appearance. But Adonbec el Hakim took no notice of him beyond a passing glance, and when the prelate at length saluted98 him in the lingua franca current in the country, he only replied by the ordinary Oriental greeting, “SALAM ALICUM— Peace be with you.”
“Art thou a physician, infidel?” said the bishop, somewhat mortified99 at this cold reception. “I would speak with thee on that art.”
“If thou knewest aught of medicine,” answered El Hakim, “thou wouldst be aware that physicians hold no counsel or debate in the sick chamber of their patient. Hear,” he added, as the low growling100 of the staghound was heard from the inner hut, “even the dog might teach thee reason, Ulemat. His instinct teaches him to suppress his barking in the sick man’s hearing. Come without the tent,” said he, rising and leading the way, “if thou hast ought to say with me.”
Notwithstanding the plainness of the Saracen leech101’s dress, and his inferiority of size when contrasted with the tall prelate and gigantic English baron, there was something striking in his manner and countenance, which prevented the Bishop of Tyre from expressing strongly the displeasure he felt at this unceremonious rebuke102. When without the hut, he gazed upon Adonbec in silence for several minutes before he could fix on the best manner to renew the conversation. No locks were seen under the high bonnet103 of the Arabian, which hid also part of a brow that seemed lofty and expanded, smooth, and free from wrinkles, as were his cheeks, where they were seen under the shade of his long beard. We have elsewhere noticed the piercing quality of his dark eyes.
The prelate, struck with his apparent youth, at length broke a pause, which the other seemed in no haste to interrupt, by demanding of the Arabian how old he was?
“The years of ordinary men,” said the Saracen, “are counted by their wrinkles; those of sages105 by their studies. I dare not call myself older than a hundred revolutions of the Hegira106.” [Meaning that his attainments107 were those which might have been made in a hundred years.]
The Baron of Gilsland, who took this for a literal assertion that he was a century old, looked doubtfully upon the prelate, who, though he better understood the meaning of El Hakim, answered his glance by mysteriously shaking his head. He resumed an air of importance when he again authoritatively108 demanded what evidence Adonbec could produce of his medical proficiency109.
“Ye have the word of the mighty110 Saladin,” said the sage104, touching111 his cap in sign of reverence112 —“a word which was never broken towards friend or foe113. What, Nazarene, wouldst thou demand more?”
“I would have ocular proof of thy skill,” said the baron, “and without it thou approachest not to the couch of King Richard.”
“The praise of the physician,” said the Arabian, “is in the recovery of his patient. Behold this sergeant114, whose blood has been dried up by the fever which has whitened your camp with skeletons, and against which the art of your Nazarene leeches115 hath been like a silken doublet against a lance of steel. Look at his fingers and arms, wasted like the claws and shanks of the crane. Death had this morning his clutch on him; but had Azrael been on one side of the couch, I being on the other, his soul should not have been left from his body. Disturb me not with further questions, but await the critical minute, and behold in silent wonder the marvellous event.”
The physician had then recourse to his astrolabe, the oracle116 of Eastern science, and watching with grave precision until the precise time of the evening prayer had arrived, he sunk on his knees, with his face turned to Mecca, and recited the petitions which close the Moslemah’s day of toil117. The bishop and the English baron looked on each other, meanwhile, with symptoms of contempt and indignation, but neither judged it fit to interrupt El Hakim in his devotions, unholy as they considered them to be.
The Arab arose from the earth, on which he had prostrated118 himself, and walking into the hut where the patient lay extended, he drew a sponge from a small silver box, dipped perhaps in some aromatic119 distillation120, for when he put it to the sleeper’s nose, he sneezed, awoke, and looked wildly around. He was a ghastly spectacle as he sat up almost naked on his couch, the bones and cartilages as visible through the surface of his skin as if they had never been clothed with flesh. His face was long, and furrowed121 with wrinkles; but his eye, though it wandered at first, became gradually more settled. He seemed to be aware of the presence of his dignified122 visitors, for he attempted feebly to pull the covering from his head in token of reverence, as he inquired, in a subdued123 and submissive voice, for his master.
“Do you know us, vassal124?” said the Lord of Gilsland.
“Not perfectly125, my lord,” replied the squire faintly. “My sleep has been long and full of dreams. Yet I know that you are a great English lord, as seemeth by the red cross, and this a holy prelate, whose blessing I crave126 on me a poor sinner.”
“Thou hast it — BENEDICTIO DOMINI SIT VOBISCUM,” said the prelate, making the sign of the cross, but without approaching nearer to the patient’s bed.
“Your eyes witness,” said the Arabian, “the fever hath been subdued. He speaks with calmness and recollection — his pulse beats composedly as yours — try its pulsations yourself.”
The prelate declined the experiment; but Thomas of Gilsland, more determined127 on making the trial, did so, and satisfied himself that the fever was indeed gone.
“This is most wonderful,” said the knight, looking to the bishop; “the man is assuredly cured. I must conduct this mediciner presently to King Richard’s tent. What thinks your reverence?”
“Stay, let me finish one cure ere I commence another,” said the Arab; “I will pass with you when I have given my patient the second cup of this most holy elixir128.”
So saying he pulled out a silver cup, and filling it with water from a gourd129 which stood by the bedside, he next drew forth130 a small silken bag made of network, twisted with silver, the contents of which the bystanders could not discover, and immersing it in the cup, continued to watch it in silence during the space of five minutes. It seemed to the spectators as if some effervescence took place during the operation; but if so, it instantly subsided131.
“Drink,” said the physician to the sick man —“sleep, and awaken132 free from malady133.”
“And with this simple-seeming draught134 thou wilt135 undertake to cure a monarch?” said the Bishop of Tyre.
“I have cured a beggar, as you may behold,” replied the sage. “Are the Kings of Frangistan made of other clay than the meanest of their subjects?”
“Let us have him presently to the King,” said the Baron of Gilsland. “He hath shown that he possesses the secret which may restore his health. If he fails to exercise it, I will put himself past the power of medicine.”
As they were about to leave the hut, the sick man, raising his voice as much as his weakness permitted, exclaimed, “Reverend father, noble knight, and you, kind leech, if you would have me sleep and recover, tell me in charity what is become of my dear master?”
“He is upon a distant expedition, friend,” replied the prelate — “on an honourable embassy, which may detain him for some days.”
“Nay,” said the Baron of Gilsland, “why deceive the poor fellow? — Friend, thy master has returned to the camp, and you will presently see him.”
The invalid136 held up, as if in thankfulness, his wasted hands to Heaven, and resisting no longer the soporiferous operation of the elixir, sunk down in a gentle sleep.
“You are a better physician than I, Sir Thomas,” said the prelate —“a soothing137 falsehood is fitter for a sick-room than an unpleasing truth.”
“How mean you, my reverend lord?” said De Vaux hastily. “Think you I would tell a falsehood to save the lives of a dozen such as he?”
“You said,” replied the bishop, with manifest symptoms of alarm —“you said the esquire’s master was returned — he, I mean, of the Couchant Leopard.”
“And he IS returned,” said De Vaux. “I spoke7 with him but a few hours since. This learned leech came in his company.”
“Holy Virgin138! why told you not of his return to me?” said the bishop, in evident perturbation.
“Did I not say that this same Knight of the Leopard had returned in company with the physician? I thought I had,” replied De Vaux carelessly. “But what signified his return to the skill of the physician, or the cure of his Majesty?”
“Much, Sir Thomas — it signified much,” said the bishop, clenching139 his hands, pressing his foot against the earth, and giving signs of impatience140, as if in an involuntary manner. “But where can he be gone now, this same knight? God be with us — here may be some fatal errors!”
“Yonder serf in the outer space,” said De Vaux, not without wonder at the bishop’s emotion, “can probably tell us whither his master has gone.”
The lad was summoned, and in a language nearly incomprehensible to them, gave them at length to understand that an officer had summoned his master to the royal tent some time before their arrival at that of his master. The anxiety of the bishop appeared to rise to the highest, and became evident to De Vaux, though, neither an acute observer nor of a suspicious temper. But with his anxiety seemed to increase his wish to keep it subdued and unobserved. He took a hasty leave of De Vaux, who looked after him with astonishment141, and after shrugging his shoulders in silent wonder, proceeded to conduct the Arabian physician to the tent of King Richard.
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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depreciating
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的现在分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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bauble
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| n.美观而无价值的饰物 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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transgressed
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transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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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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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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nay
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enthusiast
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brindled
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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antelope
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| n.羚羊；羚羊皮 | |
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licenses
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| n.执照( license的名词复数 )v.批准，许可，颁发执照( license的第三人称单数 ) | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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33
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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34
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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35
sequestered
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| 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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36
envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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37
grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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38
melee
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| n.混战；混战的人群 | |
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39
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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40
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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41
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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42
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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43
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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44
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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45
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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46
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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47
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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48
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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49
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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50
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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51
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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52
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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53
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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54
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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55
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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56
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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57
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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58
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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59
adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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60
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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61
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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62
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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63
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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64
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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65
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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66
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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67
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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69
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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70
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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71
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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72
lawfully
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| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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73
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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74
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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75
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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76
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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77
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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78
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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79
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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80
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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81
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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82
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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83
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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84
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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85
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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87
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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88
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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89
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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90
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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91
acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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92
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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93
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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94
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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95
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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96
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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97
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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98
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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99
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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100
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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101
leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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102
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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103
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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104
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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105
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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106
hegira
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| n.逃亡 | |
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107
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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108
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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109
proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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110
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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111
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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112
reverence
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| 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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113
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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114
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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115
leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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116
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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117
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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118
prostrated
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| 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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119
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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120
distillation
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| n.蒸馏，蒸馏法 | |
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121
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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123
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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124
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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125
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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126
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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127
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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128
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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129
gourd
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| n.葫芦 | |
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130
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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131
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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132
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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133
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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134
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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135
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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136
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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137
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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138
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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139
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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140
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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141
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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