He had encouraged the men to pursue those various industries and ingenuities3, which, though they are affectedly4 considered against “discipline,” formed, as he knew well, the best preservative5 from real insubordination, and the best instrument in humanizing and ameliorating the condition of his comrades. The habit of application alone was something gained; and if it kept them only for a while from the haunts of those coarsest debaucheries which are the only possible form in which the soldier can pursue the forbidden license6 of vice7, it was better than that leisure should be spent in that joyless bestiality which made Cecil, once used to every refinement8 of luxury and indulgence, sicken with a pitying wonder for those who found in it the only shape they knew of “pleasure.”
He had seen from the first, capabilities9 that might be turned to endless uses; in the conscript drawn10 from the populace of the provinces there was almost always a knowledge of self-help, and often of some trade, coupled with habits of diligence; in the soldier made from the street Arab of Paris there were always inconceivable intelligence, rapidity of wit, and plastic vivacity11; in the adventurers come, like himself, from higher grades of society, and burying a broken career under the shelter of the tricolor, there were continually gifts and acquirements, and even genius, that had run to seed and brought forth12 no fruit. Of all these France always avails herself in a great degree; but, as far as Cecil’s influence extended, they were developed much more than usual. As his own character gradually changed under the force of fate, the desire for some interest in life grew on him (every man, save one absolutely brainless and self-engrossed, feels this sooner or late); and that interest he found, or rather created, in his regiment13. All that he could do to contribute to its efficiency in the field he did; all that he could do to further its internal excellence14 he did likewise.
Coarseness perceptibly abated15, and violence became much rarer in that portion of his corps16 with which he had immediately to do; the men gradually acquired from him a better, a higher tone; they learned to do duties inglorious and distasteful as well as they did those which led them to the danger and the excitation that they loved; and, having their good faith and sympathy, heart and soul, with him, he met, in these lawless leopards17 of African France, with loyalty18, courage, generosity19, and self-abnegation far surpassing those which he had ever met with in the polished civilization of his early experience.
For their sakes, he spent many of his free hours in the Chambree. Many a man, seeing him there, came and worked at some ingenious design, instead of going off to burn his brains out with brandy, if he had sous enough to buy any, or to do some dexterous20 bit of thieving on a native, if he had not. Many a time knowing him to be there sufficed to restrain the talk around from lewdness21 and from ribaldry, and turn it into channels at once less loathsome22 and more mirthful, because they felt that obscenity and vulgarity were alike jarring on his ear, although he had never more than tacitly shown that they were so. A precisian would have been covered with their contumely and ridicule23; a saint would have been driven out from their midst with every missile merciless tongues and merciless hands could pelt24 with; a martinet25 would have been cursed aloud, and cheated, flouted26, rebelled against, on every possible occasion. But the man who was “one of them” entirely27, while yet simply and thoroughly28 a gentleman, had great influence — an influence exclusively for good.
The Chambree was empty when he returned; the men were scattered29 over the town in one of their scant30 pauses of liberty; there was only the dog of the regiment, Flick–Flack, a snow-white poodle, asleep in the heat, on a sack, who, without waking, moved his tail in a sign of gratification as Cecil stroked him and sat down near; betaking himself to the work he had in hand.
It was a stone for the grave of Leon Ramon. There was no other to remember the dead Chasseur; no other beside himself, save an old woman sitting spinning at her wheel under the low-sloping, shingle31 roof of a cottage by the western Biscayan sea, who, as she spun32, and as the thread flew, looked with anxious, aged2 eyes over the purple waves where she had seen his father — the son of her youth — go down beneath the waters.
But the thread of her flax would be spun out, and the thread of her waning33 life be broken, ere ever the soldier for whom she watched would go back to her and to Languedoc.
For life is brutal34; and to none so brutal as to the aged who remember so well, and yet are forgotten as though already they were amid the dead.
Cecil’s hand pressed the graver along the letters, but his thoughts wandered far from the place where he was. Alone there, in the great sun-scorched barrack room, the news that he had read, the presence he had quitted, seemed like a dream.
He had never known fully35 all that he had lost until he had stood before the beauty of this woman, in whose deep imperial eyes the light of other years seemed to lie; the memories of other worlds seemed to slumber36.
These blue, proud, fathomless37 eyes! Why had they looked on him? He had grown content with his fate; he had been satisfied to live and to fall a soldier of France; he had set a seal on that far-off life of his earlier time, and had grown to forget that it had ever been. Why had chance flung him in her way that, with one careless, haughty38 glance, one smile of courteous39 pity, she should have undone40 in a moment all the work of a half-score years, and shattered in a day the serenity41 which it had cost him such weary self-contest, such hard-fought victory, to attain42?
She had come to pain, to weaken, to disturb, to influence him, to shadow his peace, to wring43 his pride, to unman his resolve, as women do mostly with men. Was life not hard enough here already, that she must make it more bitter yet to bear?
He had been content, with a soldier’s contentment, in danger and in duty; and she must waken the old coiled serpent of restless, stinging regret which he had thought lulled44 to rest forever!
“If I had my heritage!” he thought; and the chisel45 fell from his hands as he looked down the length of the barrack room with the blue glare of the African sky through the casement46.
Then he smiled at his own folly47, in dreaming idly thus of things that might have been.
“I will see her no more,” he said to himself. “If I do not take care, I shall end by thinking myself a martyr48 — the last refuge and consolation49 of emasculate vanity, of impotent egotism!”
For though his whole existence was a sacrifice, it never occurred to him that there was anything whatever great in its acceptation, or unjust in its endurance. He thought too little of his life’s value, or of its deserts, even to consider by any chance that it had been harshly dealt with, or unmeritedly visited.
At that instant Petit Picpon’s keen, pale, Parisian face peered through the door; his great, black eyes, that at times had so pathetic a melancholy50, and at others such a monkeyish mirth and malice51, were sparkling excitedly and gleefully.
“Mon Caporal!”
“You, Picpon! What is it?”
“Mon, Caporal, there is great news. There is fighting broken out yonder.”
“Ah! Are you sure?”
“Sure, mon Caporal. The Arbicos want a skirmish to the music of musketry. We are not to know just yet; we are to have the order de route tomorrow. I overheard our officers say so. They think we shall have brisk work. And for that they will not punish the vieille lame52.”
“Punish! Is there fresh disobedience? In my squadron; in my absence?”
He rose instinctively53, buckling54 on the sword which he had put aside.
“Not in your squadron, mon Caporal,” said Picpon quickly. “It is not much, either. Only the bon zig Rac.”
“Rake? What has he been doing?”
There was infinite anxiety and vexation in his voice. Rake had recently been changed into another squadron of the regiment, to his great loss and regret; for not only did he miss the man’s bright face and familiar voice from the Chambree, but he had much disquietude on the score of his safety, for Rake was an incorrigible55 pratique, had only been kept from scrapes and mischief56 by Cecil’s influence, and even despite that had been often in hot water, and once even had been drafted for a year or so of chastisement57 among the “Zephyrs58,” a mode of punishment which, but for its separation of him from his idol59, would have given unmitigated delight to the audacious offender60.
“Very little, mon Caporal!” said Picpon eagerly. “A mere61 nothing — a bagatelle62! Run a Spahi through the stomach, that is all. I don’t think the man is so much as dead, even!”
“I hope not, indeed. When will you cease this brawling63 among yourselves? A soldier’s blade should never be turned upon men of his own army. How did it happen?”
“A woman! They quarreled about a little fruit-seller. The Spahi was in fault. ‘Crache-au-nez-d’la-Mort’ was there before him; and was preferred by the girl; and women should be allowed something to do with choosing their lovers, that I think, though it is true they often take the worst man. They quarreled; the Spahi drew first; and then, pouf et passe! quick as thought, Rac lunged through him. He has always a most beautiful stroke. Le Capitaine Argentier was passing, and made a fuss; else nothing would have been done. They have put him under arrest; but I heard them say they would let him free to-night because we should march at dawn.”
“I will go and see him at once.”
“Wait, mon Caporal; I have something to tell you,” said Picpon quickly. “The zig has a motive64 in what he does. Rac wanted to get the prison. He has done more than one bit of mischief only for that.”
“Only for what? He cannot be in love with the prison?”
“It serves his turn,” said Picpon mysteriously. “Did you never guess why, mon Caporal? Well, I have. ‘Crache-au-nez-d’la-Mort’ is a fine fearless soldier. The officers know it; the bureaus know it. He would have mounted, mounted, mounted, and been a Captain long before now, if he had not been a pratique.”
“I know that; so would many of you.”
“Ah, mon Caporal; but that is just what Rac does not choose. In the books his page beats every man’s, except yours. They have talked of him many times for the cross and for promotion65; but whenever they do he goes off to a bit of mischief, and gets himself punished. Any term of punishment, long or short, serves his purpose. They think him too wild to take out of the ranks. You remember, mon Caporal, that splendid thing that he did five years ago at Sabasasta? Well, you know they spoke66 of promoting him for it, and he would have run up all the grades like a squirrel, and died a Kebir, I dare say. What did he do to prevent it? Why, went that escapade into Oran disguised as a Dervish, and go the prison instead.”
“To prevent it? Not purposely?”
“Purposely, mon Caporal,” said Petit Picpon, with a sapient68 nod that spoke volumes. “He always does something when he thinks promotion is coming — something to get himself out of its way, do you see? And the reason is this: ’tis a good zig, and loves you, and will not be put over your head. ‘Me rise afore him?’ said the zig to me once. ‘I’ll have the As de pique69 on my collar fifty times over first! He’s a Prince, and I’m a mongrel got in a gutter70! I owe him more than I’ll ever pay, and I’ll kill the Kebir himself afore I’ll insult him that way.’ So say little to him about the Spahi, mon Caporal. He loves you well, does your Rac.”
“Well, indeed! Good God! what nobility!”
Picpon glanced at him; then, with the tact71 of his nation, glided72 away and busied himself teaching Flick–Flack to shoulder and present arms, the weapon being a long stick.
“After all, Diderot was in the right when he told Rousseau which side of the question to take,” mused73 Cecil, as he crossed the barrack-yard a few minutes later to visit the incarcerated74 pratique. “On my life, civilization develops comfort, but I do believe it kills nobility. Individuality dies in it, and egotism grows strong and specious75. Why is it that in a polished life a man, while becoming incapable76 of sinking to crime, almost always becomes also incapable of rising to greatness? Why is it that misery77, tumult78, privation, bloodshed, famine, beget79, in such a life as this, such countless80 things of heroism81, of endurance, of self-sacrifice — things worthy82 of demigods — in men who quarrel with the wolves for a wild-boar’s carcass, for a sheep’s offal?”
A question which perplexes, very wearily, thinkers who have more time, more subtlety83, and more logic84 to bring to its unravelment than Bertie had either leisure or inclination85 to do.
“Is this true, Rake — that you intentionally86 commit these freaks of misconduct to escape promotion?” he asked of the man when he stood alone with him in his place of confinement87.
Rake flushed a little.
“Mischief’s bred in me, sir; it must come out! It’s just bottled up in me like ale; if I didn’t take the cork88 out now and then, I should fly apieces!”
“But many a time when you have been close on the reward of your splendid gallantry in the field, you have frustrated89 your own fortunes and the wishes of your superiors by wantonly proving yourself unfit for the higher grade they were going to raise you to. Why do you do that?”
Rake fidgeted restlessly, and, to avoid the awkwardness of the question, replied, like a Parliamentary orator90, by a flow of rhetoric91.
“Sir, there’s a many chaps like me. They can’t help nohow busting93 out when the fit takes ’em. ‘Tain’t reasonable to blame ’em for it; they’re just made so, like a chestnut’s made to bust92 its pod, and a chicken to bust its shell. Well, you see, sir, France, she knows that, and she says to herself, ‘Here are these madcaps; if I keep ’em tight in hand I shan’t do nothing with ’em-they’ll turn obstreperous94 and cram95 my convict-cells. Now I want soldiers, I don’t want convicts. I can’t let ’em stay in the Regulars, ‘cause they’ll be for making all the army wildfire like ’em; I’ll just draft ’em by theirselves, treat ’em different, and let ’em fire away. They’ve got good stuff in ’em, though too much of the curb96 riles ’em.’ Well, sir, she do that; and aren’t the Zephyrs as fine a lot of fellows as any in the service? Of course they are; but if they’d been in England — God bless her, the dear old obstinate97 soul! — they’d have been drove crazy along o’ pipeclay and razors; she’d never have seed what was in ’em, her eyes are so bunged up with routine. If a pup riot in the pack, she’s no notion but to double-thong him, and, a-course, in double-quick time, she finds herself obliged to go further and hang him. She don’t ever remember that it may be only just along of his breeding, and that he may make a very good hound elseways let out a bit, though he’ll spoil the whole pack if she will be a fool and try to make a steady line-hunter of him, straight agin his nature.”
Rake stopped, breathless in his rhetoric, which contained more truth in it, as also more roughness, than most rhetoric does.
“You are right. But you wander from my question,” said Cecil gently. “Do you avoid promotion?”
“Yes, sir; I do,” said Rake, something sulkily; for he felt he was being driven “up a corner.” “I do. I ain’t not one bit fitter for an officer than that rioting pup I talk on is fit to lead them crack packs at home. I should be in a strait-waistcoat if I was promoted; and as for the cross — Lord, sir, that would get me into a world o’ trouble! I should pawn98 it for a toss of wine the first day out, or give it to the first moukiera that winked99 her black eye for it! The star put on my buttons suits me a deal better; if you’ll believe me, sir, it do.”4
4 The star on the metal buttons of the insubordinates, or Zephyrs.
Cecil’s eyes rested on him with a look that said far more than his answer.
“Rake, I know you better than you would let me do, if you had your way. My noble fellow! You reject advancement100, and earn yourself an unjust reputation for mutinous101 conduct, because you are too generous to be given a step above mine in the regiment.”
“Who’s been a-telling you that trash, sir?” retorted Rake, with ferocity.
“No matter who. It is no trash. It is a splendid loyalty of which I am utterly102 unworthy, and it shall be my care that it is known at the Bureaus, so that henceforth your great merits may be-”
“Stop that, sir!” cried Rake vehemently103. “Stow that, if you please! Promoted I won’t be-no, not if the Emperor hisself was to order it, and come across here to see it done! A pretty thing, surely! Me a officer, and you never a one — me a-commanding of you, and you a-saluting of me! By the Lord, sir! we might as well see the camp-scullions a-riding in state, and the Marshals a-scouring out the soup-pots!”
“Not at all. This Army has not a finer soldier than yourself; you have a right to the reward of your services in it. And I assure you you do me a great injustice104 if you think I would not as willingly go out under your orders as under those of all the Marshals of the Empire.”
The tears rushed into the hardy105 eyes of the redoubtable106 “Crache-au-nez-d’la-Mort,” though he dashed them away in a fury of eloquence107.
“Sir, if you don’t understand as how you’ve given me a power more than all the crosses in the world in saying of them there words, why, you don’t know me much either, that’s all. You’re a gentleman — a right on rare thing that is — and being a gentleman, a-course you’d be too generous and too proud like not to behave well to me, whether I was a-serving you as I’ve always served you, or a-insulting of you by riding over your head in that way as we’re speaking on. But I know my place, sir, and I know yours. If it wasn’t for that ere Black Hawk108 — damn him! — I can’t help it, sir; I will damn him, if he shoot me for it — you’d been a Chef d’Escadron by now. There ain’t the leastest doubt of it. Ask all the zigs what they think. Well, sir, now you know I’m a man what do as I say. If you don’t let me have my own way, and if you do the littlest thing to get me a step, why, sir, I swear, as I’m a living being, that I’ll draw on Chateauroy the first time I see him afterward109, and slit110 his throat as I’d slit a jackal’s! There — my oath’s took!”
And Cecil saw that it would also be kept. The natural lawlessness and fiery111 passion inborn112 in Rake had of course not been cooled by the teaching of African warfare113; and his hate was intense against the all-potent Chief of his regiment; as intense as the love he bore to the man whom he had followed out into exile.
Cecil tried vainly to argue with him; all his reasonings fell like hailstones on a cuirass, and made no more impression; he was resolute114.
“But listen to one thing,” he urged at last. “Can you not see how you pain me by this self-sacrifice? If I knew that you had attained115 a higher grade, and wore your epaulettes in this service, can you not fancy I should feel pleasure then (as I feel regret, even remorse116, now) that I brought you to Africa through my own follies117 and misfortunes?”
“Do you sir? There ain’t the least cause for it, then,” returned Rake sturdily. “Lord bless you, sir; why this life’s made a-purpose for me! If ever a round peg118 went trim and neat into a round hole, it was when I came into this here Army. I never was so happy in all my days before. They’re right on good fellows, and will back you to the death if so be as you’ve allays119 been share-and-share-alike with ’em, as a zig should. As a private, sir, I’m happy and I’m safe; as a officer, I should be kicking over the traces and blundering everlastingly120. However, there ain’t no need to say a word more about it. I’ve sworn, and you’ve heerd me swear, sir, and you know as how I shall keep my oath if ever I’m provoked to it by being took notice of. I stuck that Spahi just now just by way of a lark121, and only ‘cause he come where he’d no business to poke67 his turbaned old pate122; ‘taint likely as I should stop at giving the Hawk two inches of steel if he comes such a insult over us both as to offer a blackguard like me the epaulettes as you ought to be a-wearing!”
And Cecil knew that it was hopeless either to persuade him to his own advantage or to convince him of his disobedience in speaking thus of his supreme123, before his concommissioned, officer. He was himself, moreover, deeply moved by the man’s fidelity124.
He stretched his hand out.
“I wish there were more blackguards with hearts like yours. I cannot repay your love, Rake, but I can value it.”
Rake put his own hands behind his back.
“God bless you, sir; you’ve repaid it ten dozen times over. But you shan’t do that, sir. I told you long ago, I’m too much of a scamp! Some day, perhaps, as I said, when I’ve settled scores with myself, and wiped off all the bad ‘uns with a clear sweep, tolerably clean. Not afore, sir!”
And Rake was too sturdily obstinate not to always carry his point.
The love that he bore to Cecil was very much such a wild, chivalric125, romantic fidelity as the Cavaliers or the Gentlemen of the North bore to their Stuart idols126. That his benefactor127 had become a soldier of Africa in no way lessened128 the reverent129 love of his loyalty, any more than theirs was lessened by the adversities of their royal masters. Like theirs, also, it had beauty in its blindness — the beauty that lies in every pure unselfishness.
Meanwhile, Picpon’s news was correct.
The regiments130 were ordered out on the march. There was fresh war in the interior; and wherever there was the hottest slaughter131, there the Black Hawk always flew down with his falcon-flock. When Cecil left his incorrigible zig, the trumpets132 were sounding an assembly; there were noise, tumult, eagerness, excitement, delighted zest133 on every side; a general order was read to the enraptured134 squadrons; they were to leave the town at the first streak135 of dawn.
There were before them death, deprivation136, long days of famine, long days of drought and thirst; parching137, sun-baked roads; bitter, chilly138 nights; fiery furnace-blasts of sirocco; killing139, pitiless, northern winds; hunger, only sharpened by a snatch of raw meat or a handful of maize140; and the probabilities, ten to one, of being thrust under the sand to rot, or left to have their skeletons picked clean by the vultures. But what of that! There were also the wild delight of combat, the freedom of lawless warfare, the joy of deep strokes thrust home, the chance of plunder141, of wine-skins, of cattle, of women; above all, that lust142 for slaughter which burns so deep down in the hidden souls of men and gives them such brotherhood143 with wolf and vulture and tiger, when once its flame bursts forth.
That evening, at the Villa144 Aioussa, there gathered a courtly assembly, of much higher rank than Algiers can commonly afford, because many of station as lofty as her own had been drawn thither145 to follow her to what the Princesse Corona146 called her banishment147 — an endurable banishment enough under those azure148 skies, in that clear, elastic149 air, and with that charming “bonbonniere” in which to dwell, yet still a banishment to the reigning150 beauty of Paris, to one who had the habits and the commands of a wholly undisputed sovereignty in the royal splendor151 of her womanhood.
There was a variety of distractions152 to prevent ennui153; there were half a dozen clever Paris actors playing the airiest of vaudevilles in the Bijou theater beyond the drawing-rooms; there were some celebrated155 Italian singers whom an Imperial Prince had brought over in his yacht; there was the best music; there was wit as well as homage156 whispered in her ear. Yet she was not altogether amused; she was a little touched with ennui.
“Those men are very stupid. They have not half the talent of that soldier!” she thought once, turning from a Peer of France, an Austrian Archduke, and a Russian diplomatist. And she smiled a little, furling her fan and musing157 on the horror that the triad of fashionable conquerors158 near her would feel if they knew that she thought them duller than an African lascar!
But they only told her things of which she had been long weary, specially159 of her own beauty; he had told her of things totally unknown to her — things real, terrible, vivid, strong, sorrowful — strong as life, sorrowful as death.
“Chateauroy and his Chasseurs have an order de route,” a voice was saying, that moment, behind her chair.
“Indeed?” said another. “The Black Hawk is never so happy as when unhooded. When do they go?”
“To-morrow. At dawn.”
“There is always fighting here, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes! The losses in men are immense; only the journals would get a communique, or worse, if they ventured to say so in France. How delicious La Doche is! She comes in again with the next scene.”
The Princesse Corona listened; and her attention wandered farther from the Archduke, the Peer, and the diplomatist, as from the Vaudeville154. She did not find Mme. Doche very charming; and she was absorbed for a time looking at the miniatures on her fan.
At the same moment, through the lighted streets of Algiers, Cigarette, like a union of fairy and of fury, was flying with the news. Cigarette had seen the flame of war at its height, and had danced in the midst of its whitest heat, as young children dance to see the fires leap red in the black winter’s night. Cigarette loved the battle, the charge, the wild music of bugles161, the thunder-tramp of battalions162, the sirocco-sweep of light squadrons, the mad tarantala of triumph when the slaughter was done, the grand swoop163 of the Eagles down unto the carnage, the wild hurrah164 of France.
She loved them with all her heart and soul; and she flew now through the starlit, sultry night, crying, “La guerre! La guerre! La guerre!” and chanting to the enraptured soldiery a “Marseillaise” of her own improvisation165, all slang, and doggerel166, and barrack grammar; but fire-giving as a torch, and rousing as a bugle160 in the way she sang it, waving the tricolor high over her head.
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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ingenuities
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| 足智多谋，心灵手巧( ingenuity的名词复数 ) | |
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affectedly
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preservative
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| n.防腐剂；防腐料；保护料；预防药 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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leopards
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| n.豹( leopard的名词复数 )；本性难移 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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lewdness
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| n. 淫荡, 邪恶 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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23
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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24
pelt
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| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
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25
martinet
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| n.要求严格服从纪律的人 | |
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26
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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28
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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29
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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30
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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31
shingle
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|
| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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32
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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33
waning
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|
| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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34
brutal
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|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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35
fully
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|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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36
slumber
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|
| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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37
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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38
haughty
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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39
courteous
|
|
| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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40
undone
|
|
| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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41
serenity
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|
| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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42
attain
|
|
| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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43
wring
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|
| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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44
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
chisel
|
|
| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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46
casement
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|
| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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47
folly
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|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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48
martyr
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|
| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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49
consolation
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|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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50
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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51
malice
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|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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52
lame
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|
| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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53
instinctively
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|
| adv.本能地 | |
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54
buckling
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| 扣住 | |
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55
incorrigible
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|
| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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56
mischief
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|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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57
chastisement
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|
| n.惩罚 | |
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58
zephyrs
|
|
| n.和风，微风( zephyr的名词复数 ) | |
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59
idol
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|
| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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60
offender
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|
| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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61
mere
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|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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62
bagatelle
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|
| n.琐事；小曲儿 | |
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63
brawling
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|
| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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64
motive
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|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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65
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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66
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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67
poke
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|
| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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68
sapient
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|
| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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69
pique
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|
| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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70
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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71
tact
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|
| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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72
glided
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|
| 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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73
mused
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|
| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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74
incarcerated
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|
| 钳闭的 | |
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75
specious
|
|
| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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76
incapable
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|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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77
misery
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|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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78
tumult
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|
| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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79
beget
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|
| v.引起；产生 | |
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80
countless
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|
| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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81
heroism
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|
| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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82
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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83
subtlety
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|
| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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84
logic
|
|
| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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85
inclination
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|
| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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86
intentionally
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|
| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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87
confinement
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|
| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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88
cork
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|
| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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89
frustrated
|
|
| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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90
orator
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|
| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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91
rhetoric
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|
| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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92
bust
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|
| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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93
busting
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|
| 打破，打碎( bust的现在分词 )； 突击搜查（或搜捕）； （使）降级，降低军阶 | |
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94
obstreperous
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|
| adj.喧闹的，不守秩序的 | |
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95
cram
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|
| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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96
curb
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|
| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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97
obstinate
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|
| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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98
pawn
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|
| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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99
winked
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|
| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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100
advancement
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|
| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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101
mutinous
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|
| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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102
utterly
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|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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103
vehemently
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|
| adv. 热烈地 | |
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104
injustice
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|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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105
hardy
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|
| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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106
redoubtable
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|
| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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107
eloquence
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|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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108
hawk
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|
| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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109
afterward
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|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
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110
slit
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|
| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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111
fiery
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|
| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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112
inborn
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|
| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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113
warfare
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|
| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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114
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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115
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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116
remorse
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|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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117
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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118
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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119
allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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120
everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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121
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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122
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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123
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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124
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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125
chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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126
idols
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|
| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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127
benefactor
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|
| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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128
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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129
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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130
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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131
slaughter
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|
| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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132
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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133
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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134
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
streak
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|
| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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136
deprivation
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|
| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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137
parching
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|
| adj.烘烤似的，焦干似的v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的现在分词 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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138
chilly
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|
| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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139
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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140
maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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141
plunder
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|
| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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142
lust
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|
| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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143
brotherhood
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|
| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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144
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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145
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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146
corona
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| n.日冕 | |
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147
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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148
azure
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|
| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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149
elastic
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|
| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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150
reigning
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|
| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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151
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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152
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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153
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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154
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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155
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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156
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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157
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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158
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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159
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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160
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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161
bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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162
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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163
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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164
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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165
improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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166
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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