It was to reach a distant branch of the Army of Occupation with dispatches for the chief in command there, and to do this he had to pass through a fiercely hostile region, occupied by Arabs with whom no sort of peace had ever been made, the most savage1 as well as the most predatory of the wandering tribes. His knowledge of their tongue, and his friendship with some men of their nation, would avail him nothing here; for their fury against the Franks was intense, and it was said that all prisoners who had fallen into their hands had been put to death with merciless barbarities. This might be true or not true; wild tales were common among Algerian campaigners; whichever it were, he thought little of it as he rode out on to the lonely plains. Every kind of hazardous3 adventure and every variety of peril4 had been familiar with him in the African life; and now there were thoughts and memories on him which deadened every recollection of merely physical risk.
“We must ride as hard and as fast as we can, and as silently,” were the only words he exchanged with Rake, as he loosened his gray to a gallop6.
“All right, sir,” answered the trooper, whose warm blood was dancing, and whose blue eyes were alive like fire with delight. That he had been absent on a far-away foraging7 raid on the day of Zaraila had been nothing short of agony to Rake, and the choice made of him for this duty was to him a gift of paradise. He loved fighting for fighting’s sake; and to be beside Cecil was the greatest happiness life held for him.
They had two hundred miles to traverse, and had received only the command he had passed to Rake, to ride “hard, fast, and silently.” To the hero of Zaraila the general had felt too much soldierly sympathy to add the superfluous9 injunction to do his uttermost to carry safely and successfully to their destination the papers that were placed in his care. He knew well that the errand would be done, or the Chasseur would be dead.
It was just nightfall; the after-glow had faded only a few moments before. Giving their horses, which they were to change once, ten hours for the distance, and two for bait and for rest, he reckoned that they would reach the camp before the noon of the coming day, as the beasts, fresh and fast in the camp, flew like greyhounds beneath them.
Another night ride that they had ridden together came to the minds of both; but they spoke10 not a word as they swept on, their sabers shaken loose in their sheaths, their lances well gripped, and the pistols with which they had been supplied sprung in their belts, ready for instant action if a call should come for it. Every rood of the way was as full of unseen danger as if laid over mines. They might pass in safety; they might any moment be cut down by ten score against two. From every hanging scarp of rugged11 rock a storm of musket-balls might pour; from every screen of wild-fig8 foliage12 a shower of lances might whistle through the air; from every darkling grove13 of fir trees an Arab band might spring and swoop14 on them; but the knowledge scarcely recurred15 to the one save to make him shake his sword more loose for quick disengagement, and only made the sunny blue eyes of the other sparkle with a vivid and longing16 zest17.
The night grew very chill as it wore on; the north wind rose, rushing against them with a force and icy touch that seemed to freeze their bones to the marrow18 after the heat of the day and the sun that had scorched19 them so long. There was no regular road; they went across the country, their way sometimes leading over level land, over which they swept like lightning, great plains succeeding one another with wearisome monotony; sometimes on the contrary, lying through ravines, and defiles21, and gloomy woods, and broken, hilly spaces, where rent, bare rocks were thrown on one another in gigantic confusion, and the fantastic shapes of the wild fig and the dwarf22 palm gathered a hideous23 grotesqueness24 in the darkness. For there was no moon, and the stars were often hidden by the storm-rack of leaden clouds that drifted over the sky; and the only sound they heard was the cry of the jackal, or the shriek25 of the night bird, and now and then the sound of shallow water-courses, where the parched26 beds of hidden brooks27 had been filled by the autumnal rain.
The first five-and-twenty miles passed without interruption, and the horses lay well and warmly to their work. They halted to rest and bait the beasts in a rocky hollow, sheltered from the blasts of the bise, and green with short, sweet grass, sprung up afresh after the summer drought.
“Do you ever think of him, sir?” said Rake softly, with a lingering love in his voice, as he stroked the grays and tethered them.
“Of whom?”
“Of the King, sir. If he’s alive, he’s getting a rare old horse now.”
“Think of him! I wish I did not, Rake.”
“Wouldn’t you like to see him agen, sir?”
“What folly28 to ask! You know —”
“Yes, sir, I know,” said Rake slowly. “And I know — leastways I picked it out of a old paper — that your elder brother died, sir, like the old lord, and Mr. Berk’s got the title.”
Rake had longed and pined for an opportunity to dare say this thing which he had learned, and which he could not tell whether or no Cecil knew likewise. His eyes looked with straining eagerness through the gloom into his master’s; he was uncertain how his words would be taken. To his bitter disappointment, Cecil’s face showed no change, no wonder.
“I have heard that,” he said calmly — as calmly as though the news had no bearing on his fortunes, but was some stranger’s history.
“Well, sir, but he ain’t the lord!” pleaded Rake passionately29. “He won’t never be while you’re living, sir!”
“Oh, yes, he is! I am dead, you know.”
“But he won’t, sir!” reiterated31 Rake. “You’re Lord Royallieu if ever there was a Lord Royallieu, and if ever there will be one.”
“You mistake. An outlaw32 has no civil rights, and can claim none.”
The man looked very wistfully at him; all these years through he had never learned why his master was thus “dead” in Africa, and he had too loyal a love and faith ever to ask, or ever to doubt but that Cecil was the wronged and not the wrong-doer.
“You ain’t a outlaw, sir,” he muttered. “You could take the title, if you would.”
“Oh, no! I left England under a criminal charge. I should have to disprove that before I could inherit.”
Rake crushed bitter oaths into muttered words as he heard. “You could disprove it, sir, of course, right and away, if you chose.”
“No; or I should not have come here. Let us leave the subject. It was settled long ago. My brother is Lord Royallieu. I would not disturb him, if I had the power, and I have not it. Look, the horses are taking well to their feed.”
Rake asked him no more. He had never had a harsh word from Cecil in their lives; but he knew him too well, for all that, to venture to press on him a question thus firmly put aside. But his heart ached sorely for his master; he would so gladly have seen “the king among his own again,” and would have striven for the restoration as strenuously33 as ever a Cavalier strove for the White Rose; and he sat in silence, perplexed34 and ill satisfied, under the shelter of the rock, with the great, dim, desolate35 African landscape stretching before him, with here and there a gleam of light upon it when the wind swept the clouds apart. His volatile36 speech was chilled, and his buoyant spirits were checked. That Cecil was justly outlawed37 he would have thought it the foulest38 treason to believe for one instant; yet he felt that he might as soon seek to wrench39 up the great stones above him from their base as seek to change the resolution of this man, whom he had once known pliant40 as a reed and careless as a child.
They were before long in saddle again and off, the country growing wilder at each stride the horses took.
“It is all alive with Arabs for the next ten leagues,” said Cecil, as he settled himself in his saddle. “They have come northward41 and been sweeping42 the country like a locust-swarm, and we shall blunder on some of them sooner or later. If they cut me down, don’t wait; but slash43 my pouch44 loose and ride off with it.”
“All right, sir,” said Rake obediently; but he thought to himself, “Leave you alone with them demons45? Damn me if I will!”
And away they went once more, in speed and in silence, the darkness of full night closing in on them, the skies being black with the heavy drift of rising storm-clouds.
Meanwhile Cigarette was feasting with the officers of the regiment46. The dinner was the best that the camp-scullions could furnish in honor of the two or three illustrious tourists who were on a visit to the headquarters of the Algerian Army; and the Little One, the heroine of Zaraila, and the toast of every mess throughout Algeria, was as indispensable as the champagnes.
Not that she was altogether herself to-night; she was feverish49, she was bitter, she was full of stinging ironies50; but that delicious gayety, like a kitten’s play, was gone from her, and its place, for the first time in her life was supplied by unreal and hectic51 excitation. In truth, while she laughed, and coquetted, and fenced with the bright two-edged blade of her wit, and tossed down the wines into her little throat like a trooper, she was thinking nothing at all of what was around her, and very little of what she said or she did. She was thinking of the starless night out yonder, of the bleak52, arid53 country, of the great, dim, measureless plains; of one who was passing through them all, and one who might never return.
It was the first time that the absent had ever troubled her present; it was the first time that ever this foolish, senseless, haunting, unconquerable fear for another had approached her: fear — she had never known it for herself, why should she feel it now for him — a man whose lips had touched her own as lightly, as indifferently, as they might have touched the leaves of a rose or the curls of a dog!
She felt her face burn with the flash of a keen, unbearable54 passionate30 shame. Men by the score had wooed her love, to be flouted55 with the insouciant56 mischief57 of her coquetry, and forgotten tomorrow if they were shot today; and now he — he whose careless, calm caress58 would make her heart vibrate and her limbs tremble with an emotion she had never known — he valued her love so little that he never even knew that he had roused it! To the proud young warrior59 of France a greater degradation60, a deadlier humiliation61, than this could not have come.
Yet she was true as steel to him; true with the strong and loyal fealty62 that is inborn63 with such natures as hers. To have betrayed what he had trusted to her, because she was neglected and wounded by him, would have been a feminine baseness of which the soldier-like soul of Cigarette would have been totally incapable64. Her revenge might be fierce, and rapid, and sure, like the revenge of a soldier; but it could never be stealing and traitorous65, and never like the revenge of a woman.
Not a word escaped her that could have given a clew to the secret with which he had involuntarily weighted her; she only studied with interest and keenness the face and the words of this man whom he had loved, and from whom he had fled as criminals flee from their accusers.
“What is your name?” she asked him curtly66, in one of the pauses of the amorous67 and witty68 nonsense that circulated in the tent in which the officers of Chasseurs were entertaining him.
“Well — some call me Seraph69.”
“Ah! you have petite names, then, in Albion? I should have though she was too somber70 and too stiff for them. Besides?”
“Lyonnesse.”
“What a droll71 name! What are you?”
“A soldier.”
“Good! What grade?”
“A Colonel of Guards.”
Cigarette gave a little whistle to herself; she remembered that a Marshal of France had once said of a certain Chasseur, “He has the seat of the English Guards.”
“My pretty catechist, M. le Duc does not tell you his title,” cried one of the officers.
Cigarette interrupted him with a toss of her head.
“Ouf! Titles are nothing to me. I am a child of the People. So you are a Duke, are you, M. le Seraph? Well, that is not much, to my thinking. Bah! there is Fialin made a Duke in Paris, and there are aristocrats72 here wearing privates’ uniforms, and littering down their own horses. Bah! Have you that sort of thing in Albion?”
“Attorneys throned on high, and gentlemen glad to sweep crossings? Oh, yes!” laughed her interlocutor. “But you speak of aristocrats in your ranks — that reminds me. Have you not in this corps74 a soldier called Louis Victor?”
He had turned as he spoke to one of the officers, who answered him in the affirmative; while Cigarette listened with all her curiosity and all her interest, that needed a deeper name, heightened and tight-strung.
“A fine fellow,” continued the Chef d’Escadron to whom he had appealed. “He behaved magnificently the other day at Zaraila; he must be distinguished75 for it. He is just sent on a perilous76 errand, but though so quiet he is a croc-mitaine, and woe77 to the Arabs who slay78 him! Are you acquainted with him?”
“Not in the least. But I wished to hear all I could of him. I have been told he seems above his present position. Is it so?”
“Likely enough, monsieur; he seems a gentleman. But then we have many gentlemen in the ranks, and we can make no difference for that. Cigarette can tell you more of him; she used to complain that he bowed like a Court chamberlain.”
“Oh, ha! — I did!” cried Cigarette, stung into instant irony79 because pained and irritated by being appealed to on the subject. “And of course, when so many of his officers have the manners of Pyrenean bears, it is a little awkward for him to bring us the manner of a Palace!”
Which effectually chastised80 the Chef d’Escadron, who was one of those who had a ton of the roughest manners, and piqued81 himself on his powers of fence much more than on his habits of delicacy82.
“Has this Victor any history?” asked the English Duke.
“He has written one with his sword; a fine one,” said Cigarette curtly. “We are not given here to care much about any other.”
“Quite right; I asked because a friend of mine who had seen his carvings83 wished to serve him, if it were possible; and —”
“Ho! That is Milady, is suppose!” Cigarette’s eyes flashed fire instantly, in wrath84 and suspicion. “What did she tell you about him?”
“I am ignorant of whom you speak?” he answered, with something of surprise and annoyance85.
“Are you?” said Cigarette, in derision. “I doubt that. Of whom should I speak but of her? Bah? She insulted him, she offered him gold, she sent my men the spoils of her table, as if they were paupers86, and he thinks it all divine because it is done by Mme. la Princesse Corona87 d’Amague! Bah! when he was delirious88, the other night, he could babble89 of nothing but of her — of her — of her!”
The jealous, fiery90 impatience91 in her vanquished92 every other thought; she was a child in much, she was untutored in all; she had no thought that by the scornful vituperation of “Milady” she could either harm Cecil or betray herself. But she was amazed to see the English guest change color with a haughty93 anger that he strove to subdue94 as he half rose and answered her with an accent in his voice that reminded her — she knew not why — of Bel-a-faire-peur and of Marquise.
“Mme. la Princess Corona d’Amague is my sister; why do you venture to couple the name of this Chasseur with hers?”
Cigarette sprang to her feet, vivacious95, imperious, reckless, dared to anything by the mere5 fact of being publicly arraigned96.
“Pardieu! Is it insult to couple the silver pheasant with the Eagles of France? — a pretty idea, truly! So she is your sister, is she? Milady? Well, then, tell her from me to think twice before she outrages97 a soldier with ‘patronage98’; and tell her, too, that had I been he I would have ground my ivory toys into powder before I would have let them become the playthings of a grande dame99 who tendered me gold for them!”
The Englishman looked at her with astonishment100 that was mingled101 with a vivid sense of intense annoyance and irritated pride, that the name he cherished closest should be thus brought in, at a camp dinner, on the lips of a vivandiere and in connection with a trooper of Chasseurs.
“I do not understand your indignation, mademoiselle,” he said, with an impatient stroke to his beard. “There is no occasion for it. Mme. Corona d’Amague, my sister,” he continued, to the officers present, “became accidentally acquainted with the skill at sculpture of this Corporal of yours; he appeared to her a man of much refinement102 and good breeding. She chanced to name him to me, and feeling some pity —”
“M. le Duc!” cried the ringing voice of Cigarette, loud and startling as a bugle-note, while she stood like a little lioness, flushed with the draughts103 of champagne48 and with the warmth of wrath at once jealous and generous, “keep your compassion104 until it is asked of you. No soldier of France needs it; that I promise you. I know this man that you talk of ‘pitying.’ Well, I saw him at Zaraila three weeks ago; he had drawn105 up his men to die with them rather than surrender and yield up the guidon; I dragged him half dead, when the field was won, from under his horse, and his first conscious act was to give the drink that I brought him to a wretch106 who had thieved from him. Our life here is hell upon earth to such as he, yet none ever heard a lament107 wrung108 out of him; he is gone to the chances of death to-night as most men go to their mistresses’ kisses; he is a soldier Napoleon would have honored. Such a one is not to have the patronage of a Milady Corona, nor the pity of a stranger of England. Let the first respect him; let the last imitate him!”
And Cigarette, having pronounced her defense109 and her eulogy110 with the vibrating eloquence111 of some orator112 from a tribune, threw her champagne goblet113 down with a crash, and, breaking through the arms outstretched to detain her, forced her way out despite them, and left her hosts alone in their lighted tent.
“C’est Cigarette!” said the Chef d’Escadron, with a shrug114 of his shoulders, as of one who explained, by that sentence, a whole world of irreclaimable eccentricities115.
“A strange little Amazon!” said their guest. “Is she in love with this Victor, that I have offended her so much with his name?”
The Major shrugged116 his shoulders.
“I don’t know that, monsieur,” answered one. “She will defend a man in his absence, and rate him to his face most soundly. Cigarette whirls about like a little paper windmill, just as the breeze blows; but, as the windmill never leaves its stick, so she is always constant to the Tricolor.”
Their guest said little more on the subject; in his own thoughts he was bitterly resentful that, by the mention of this Chasseur’s fortunes, he should have brought in the name he loved so well — the purest, fairest, haughtiest117 name in Europe — into a discussion with a vivandiere at a camp dinner.
Chateauroy, throughout, had said nothing; he had listened in silence, the darkness lowering still more heavily upon his swarthy features; only now he opened his lips for a few brief words:
“Mon cher Duc, tell Madame not to waste the rare balm of her pity. The fellow you inquire for was an outcast and an outlaw when he came to us. He fights well — it is often a blackguard’s virtue118!”
His guest nodded and changed the subject; his impatience and aversion at the introduction of his sister’s name into the discussion made him drop the theme unpursued, and let it die out forgotten.
Venetia Corona associated with an Algerian trooper! If Cigarette had been of his own sex he could have dashed the white teeth down her throat for having spoken of the two in one breath.
And as, later on, he stretched his gallant119 limbs out on his narrow camp pallet, tired with a long day in saddle under the hot African sun, the Seraph fell asleep with his right arm under his handsome golden head, and thought no more of this unknown French trooper.
But Cigarette remained wakeful.
She lay curled up in the straw against her pet horse, Etoile Filante, with her head on the beast’s glossy120 flank and her hand among his mane. She often slept thus in camp, and the horse would lie still and cramped121 for hours rather than awaken122 her, or, if he rose, would take the most watchful123 heed124 to leave unharmed the slender limbs, the flushed cheeks, the frank, fair brow of the sleeper125 beneath him, that one stroke of his hoof126 could have stamped out into a bruised127 and shapeless mass.
To-night Etoile Filante slept, and his mistress was awake — wide-awake, with her eyes looking out into the darkness beyond, with a passionate mist of unshed tears in them, and her mouth quivering with pain and with wrath. The vehement128 excitation had not died away in her, but there had come with it a dull, spiritless, aching depression. It had roused her to fury to hear the reference to her rival spoken — of that aristocrat73 whose name had been on Cecil’s lips when he had been delirious. She had kept his secret loyally, she had defended him vehemently129; there was something that touched her to the core in the thought of the love with which he had recognized this friend who, in ignorance, spoke of him as of some unknown French soldier. She could not tell what the history was, but she could divine nearly enough to feel its pathos130 and its pain. She had known, in her short life, more of men and of their passions and of their fortunes than many lives of half a century in length can ever do; she could guess, nearly enough to be wounded with its sorrow, the past which had exiled the man who had kept by him his lost mother’s ring as the sole relic131 of years to which he was dead so utterly132 as though he were lying in his coffin133. No matter what the precise reason was — women, or debt, or accident, or ruin — these two, who had been familiar comrades, were now as strangers to each other; the one slumbered134 in ignorance near her, the other had gone out to the close peril of death, lest the eyes of his friend recognize his face and read his secret. It troubled her, it weighed on her, it smote135 her with a pang136. It might be that now, even now — this very moment, while her gaze watched the dusky shadows of the night chase one another along the dreary137 plains — a shot might have struck down this life that had been stripped of name and fame and country; even now all might be over!
And Cigarette felt a cold, sickly shudder138 seize her that never before, at death or danger, had chilled the warm, swift current of her bright French blood. In bitter scorn at herself, she muttered hot oaths between her pretty teeth.
Mere de Dieu! he had touched her lips as carelessly as her own kiss would have touched the rose-bud, waxen petals139 of a cluster of oleander-blossoms; and she cared for him still!
While the Seraph slept dreamlessly, with the tents of the French camp around him, and the sleepless140 eyes of Cigarette watched afar off the dim, distant forms of the vedettes as they circled slowly round at their outpost duty — eight leagues off, through a vast desert of shadow and silence, the two horsemen swept swiftly on. Not a word had passed between them; they rode close together in unbroken stillness; they were scarcely visible to each other for there was no moon, and storm-clouds obscured the skies. Now and then their horses’ hoofs141 struck fire from a flint-stone, and the flash sparkled through the darkness; often not even the sound of their gallop was audible on the gray, dry, loose soil.
Every rood of the road was sown thick with peril. No frowning ledge2 of rock, with pine-roots in its clefts142, but might serve as the barricade143 behind which some foe144 lurked145; no knot of cypress-shrubs, black even on that black sheet of shadow, but might be pierced with the steel tubes of leveled, waiting muskets146.
Pillaging147, burning, devastating148 wherever they could, in what was to them a holy war of resistance to the infidel and the invader149, the predatory tribes had broken out into a revolt which the rout150 of Zaraila, heavy blow though it had been to them, had by no means ended. They were still in arms, infesting151 the country everywhere southward; defying regular pursuit, impervious152 to regular attacks; carrying on the harassing153 guerilla warfare154 at which they were such adepts155. And causing thus to their Frankish foe more irritation156 and more loss than decisive engagements would have produced. They feared nothing, had nothing to lose, and could subsist157 almost upon nothing. They might be driven into the desert, they might even be exterminated158 after long pursuit; but they would never be vanquished. And they were scattered159 now far and wide over the country; every cave might shelter, every ravine might inclose them; they appeared here, they appeared there; they swooped160 down on a convoy161, they carried sword and flame into a settlement, they darted162 like a flight of hawks163 upon a foraging party, they picked off any vedette, as he wheeled his horse round in the moonlight; and every yard of the sixty miles which the two gray chargers of the Chasseurs d’Afrique must cover ere their service was done was as rife164 with death as though its course lay over the volcanic165 line of an earthquake or a hollow, mined and sprung.
They had reached the center of the plain when the sound they had long looked for rang on their ears, piercing the heavy, breathless stillness of the night. It was the Allah-il-Allah of their foes166, the war-cry of the Moslem167. Out of the gloom — whether from long pursuit or some near hiding-place they could not tell — there broke suddenly upon them the fury of an Arab onslaught. In the darkness all they could see were the flash of steel, the flame of fierce eyes against their own, the white steam of smoking horses, the spray of froth flung off the snorting nostrils168, the rapid glitter of the curved flissas — whether two, or twenty, or twice a hundred were upon them they could not know — they never did know. All of which they were conscious was that in an instant, from the tranquil169 melancholy170 around them of the great, dim, naked space, they were plunged171 into the din20, the fury, the heat, the close, crushing, horrible entanglement172 of conflict, without the power to perceive or to number their foes, and only able to follow the sheer, simple instincts of attack and of defense. All they were sensible of was one of those confused moments, deafening173, blinding, filled with violence and rage and din — an eternity174 in semblance175, a second in duration — that can never be traced, never be recalled; yet in whose feverish excitement men do that which, in their calmer hours, would look to them a fable176 of some Amadis of Gaul.
How they were attacked, how they resisted, how they struck, how they were encompassed177, how they thrust back those who were hurled178 on them in the black night, with the north sea-wind like ice upon their faces, and the loose African soil drifting up in clouds of sand around them, they could never have told. Nor how they strained free from the armed ring that circled them, and beat aside the shafts180 of lances and the blades of swords, and forced their chargers breast to breast against the fence of steel and through the tempest of rage, and blows, and shouts, and wind, and driven sand, cut their way through the foe whose very face they scarce could see, and plunged away into the shadows across the desolation of the plain, pursued, whether by one or by the thousand they could not guess; for the gallop was noiseless on the powdered soil, and the Arab yell of baffled passion and slaughterous181 lust47 was half drowned in the rising of the wind-storm. Had it been day, they would have seen their passage across the level table-land traced by a crimson183 stream upon the sand, in which the blood of Frank and Arab blended equally.
As it was, they dashed headlong down through the darkness that grew yet denser184 and blacker as the storm rose. For miles the ground was level before them, and they had only to let the half-maddened horses, that had as by a miracle escaped all injury, rush on at their own will through the whirl of the wind that drove the dust upward in spiral columns and brought icy breaths of the north over the sear, sunburned, southern wastes.
For a long space they had no sense but that of rapid, ceaseless motion through the thick gloom and against the pressure of the violent blasts. The speed of their gallop and the strength of the currents of air were like some narcotic185 that drowned and that dizzied perception. In the intense darkness neither could see, neither hear, the other; the instinct of the beasts kept them together, but no word could be heard above the roar of the storm, and no light broke the somber veil of shadow through which they passed as fast as leopards186 course through the night. The first faint streak187 of dawn grew gray in the east when Cecil felt his charger stagger and sway beneath him, and halt, worn out and quivering in every sinew with fatigue188. He threw himself off the animal in time to save himself from falling with it as it reeled and sank to the ground.
“Massena cannot stir another yard,” he said. “Do you think they follow us still?”
There was no reply.
He strained his sight to pierce the darkness, but he could distinguish nothing; the gloom was still too deep. He spoke more loudly; still there was no reply. Then he raised his voice in a shout; it rang through the silence, and, when it ceased, the silence reigned189 again.
A deadly chill came on him. How had he missed his comrade? They must be far apart, he knew, since no response was given to his summons; or — the alternative rose before him with a terrible foreboding.
That intense quiet had a repose190 as of death in it, a ghastly loneliness that seemed filled with desolation. His horse was stretched before him on the sand, powerless to rise and drag itself a rood onward191, and fast expiring. From the plains around him not a sound came, either of friend or foe. The consciousness that he was alone, that he had lost forever the only friend left to him, struck on him with that conviction which so often foreruns the assurance of calamity192. Without a moment’s pause he plunged back in the direction he had come, leaving the charger on the ground to pant its life out as it must, and sought to feel his way along, so as to seek as best he could the companion he had deserted193. He still could not see a rood before him, but he went on slowly, with some vague hope that he should ere long reach the man whom he knew death or the fatality194 of accident alone would keep from his side. He could not feel or hear anything that gave him the slightest sign or clew to aid his search; he only wandered farther from his horse, and risked falling afresh into the hands of his pursuers; he shouted again with all his strength, but his own voice alone echoed over the plains, while his heart stood still with the same frozen dread195 that a man feels when, wrecked196 on some barren shore, his cry for rescue rings back on his own ear over the waste of waters.
The flicker197 of the dawn was growing lighter198 in the sky, and he could see dimly now, as in some winter day’s dark twilight199, though all around him hung the leaden mist, with the wild winds driving furiously. It was with difficulty also that he kept his feet against their force; but he was blown onward by their current, though beaten from side to side, and he still made his way forward. He had repassed the ground already traversed by some hundred yards or more, which seemed the length of many miles in the hurricane that was driving over the earth and sky, when some outline still duskier than the dusky shadow caught his sight; it was the body of a horse, standing200 on guard over the fallen body of a man.
Another moment and he was beside them.
“My God! Are you hurt?”
He could see nothing but an indistinct and shapeless mass, without form or color to mark it out from the brooding gloom and from the leaden earth. But the voice he knew so well answered him with the old love and fealty in it; eager with fear for him.
“When did you miss me, sir? I didn’t mean you to know; I held on as long as I could; and when I couldn’t no longer, I thought you was safe not to see I’d knocked over, so dark as it was.”
“Great Heavens! You are hurt, then?”
“Just finished, sir. Lord! It don’t matter. Only you ride on, Mr. Cecil; ride on, I say. Don’t mind me.”
“What is it? When were you struck? O Heaven! I never dreamt ——”
Cecil hung over him, striving in vain through the shadows to read the truth from the face on which he felt by instinct the seal of death was set.
“I never meant you should know, sir. I meant just to drop behind and die on the quiet. You see, sir, it was just this way; they hit me as we forced through them. There’s the lance-head in my loins now. I pressed it in hard, and kept the blood from flowing, and thought I should hold out so till the sun rose. But I couldn’t do it so long; I got sick and faint after a while, and I knew well enough it was death. So I dropped down while I’d sense left to check the horse and get out of saddle in silence. I hoped you wouldn’t miss me, in the darkness and the noise the wind was making; and you didn’t hear me then, sir. I was glad.”
His voice was checked in a quick, gasping201 breath; his only thought had been to lie down and die in the solitude202 so that his master might be saved.
A great sob203 shook Cecil as he heard; no false hope came to him; he felt that this man was lost to him forever, that this was the sole recompense which the cruelty of Africa would give to a fidelity204 passing the fidelity of woman; these throes of dissolution the only payment with which fate would ever requite205 a loyalty206 that had held no travail207 weary, no exile pain, and no danger worthy208 counting, so long as they were encountered and endured in his own service.
“Don’t take on about it, sir,” whispered Rake, striving to raise his head that he might strain his eyes better through the gloom to see his master’s face. “It was sure to come some time; and I ain’t in no pain — to speak of. Do leave me, Mr. Cecil — leave me, for God’s sake, and save yourself!”
“Did you leave me?”
The answer was very low, and his voice shook as he uttered it; but through the roar of the hurricane Rake heard it.
“That was different, sir,” he said simply. “Let me lie here, and go you on. It’ll soon be over, and there’s naught209 to be done.”
“O God! is no help possible?”
“Don’t take on, sir; it’s no odds210. I always was a scamp, and scamps die game, you know. My life’s been a rare spree, count it all and all; and it’s a great, good thing, you see, sir, to go off quick like this. I might have been laid in hospital. If you’d only take the beast and ride on, sir —”
“Hush211! hush! Would you make me coward, or brute212, or both?”
The words broke in an agony from him. The time had been when he had been himself stretched in what he had thought was death, in just such silence, in just such solitude, upon the bare, baked earth, far from men’s aid, and near only to the hungry eyes of watching beasts of prey213. Then he had been very calm, and waited with indifference214 for the end; now his eyes swept over the remorseless wastes, that were growing faintly visible under the coming dawn, with all the impatience, the terror, of despair. Death had smitten215 down many beside him; buoyant youth and dauntless manhood he had seen a thousand times swept under the great waves of war and lost forever, but it had an anguish216 for him here that he would never have known had he felt his own life-blood well out over the sand. The whole existence of this man had been sacrificed for him, and its only reward was a thrust of a lance in a midnight fray217 — a grave in an alien soil.
His grief fell dully on ears half deafened218 already to the sounds of the living world. The exhaustion219 that follows on great loss of blood was upon the soldier who for the last half hour had lain there in the darkness and the stillness, quietly waiting death, and not once seeking even to raise his voice for succor220 lest the cry should reach and should imperil his master.
The morning had broken now, but the storm had not lulled222. The northern winds were sweeping over the plains in tenfold violence, and the rains burst and poured, with the fury of water-spouts on the crust of the parched, cracked earth. Around them there was nothing heard or seen except the leaden, angry mists, tossed to and fro under the hurricane, and the white light of the coming day breaking lividly through the clouds. The world held no place of more utter desolation, more unspeakable loneliness; and in its misery223 Cecil, flung down upon the sands beside him, could do nothing except — helpless to aid, and powerless to save — watch the last breath grow feebler and feebler, until it faded out from the only life that had been faithful to him.
By the fitful gleams of day he could see the blood slowly ebbing224 out from the great gap where the lance-head was still bedded with its wooden shaft179 snapped in two; he could see the drooped225 head that he had raised upon his knee, with the yellow, northern curls that no desert suns had darkened; and Rake’s eyes, smiling so brightly and so bravely still, looked up from under their weary lids to his.
“I’d never let you take my hand before, sir; just take it once now — will you? — while I can see you still.”
Their hands met as he asked it, and held each other close and long; all the loyal service of the one life, and all the speechless gratitude226 of the other, told better than by all words in that one farewell.
A light that was not from the stormy dusky morning shone over the soldier’s face.
“Time was, sir,” he said, with a smile, “when I need to think as how, some day or another, when I should have done something great and grand, and you was back among your own again, and they here had given me the Cross, I’d have asked you to have done that before all the Army, and just to have said to ’em, if so you liked, ‘He was a scamp, and he wasn’t thought good for naught; but he kept true to me, and you see it made him go straight, and I aren’t ashamed to call him my friend.’ I used to think that, sir, though ’twas silly, perhaps. But it’s best as it is — a deal best, no doubt. If you was only back safe in camp ——”
“O God! cease! I am not worthy one thought of love like yours.”
“Yes, you are, sir — leastways, you was to me. When you took pity on me, it was just a toss-up if I didn’t go right to the gallows227. Don’t grieve that way, Mr. Cecil. If I could just have seen you home again in your place, I should have been glad — that’s all. You’ll go back one day, sir; when you do, tell the King I ain’t never forgot him.”
His voice grew faint as the last sentence stole from his lips; he lay quite still, his head leaned back against his mater; and the day came, with the north winds driving over the plains and the gray mists tossed by them to and fro like smoke.
There was a long silence, a pause in which the windstorm ceased, and the clouds of the loosed sands sunk. Alone, with the wastes stretching around them, were the living and the dying man, with the horse standing motionless beside them, and, above, the gloom of the sullen228 sky. No aid was possible; they could but wait, in the stupefaction of despair, for the end of all to come.
In that awful stillness, in that sudden lull221 in the madness of the hurricane, death had a horror which it never wore in the riot of the battlefield, in the intoxication229 of the slaughter182. There was no pity in earth or heaven; the hard, hot ground sucked down its fill of blood; the icy air enwrapped them like a shroud230.
The faithfulness of love, the strength of gratitude, were of no avail; the one perished in agony, the other was powerless to save.
In that momentary231 hush, as the winds sank low, the heavy eyes, half sightless now, sought with their old wistful, doglike loyalty the face to which so soon they would be blind forever.
“Would you tell me once, sir — now? I never asked — I never would have done — but may be I might know in this last minute. You never sinned that sin you bear the charge on?”
“God is my witness, no.”
The light, that was like sunlight, shone once more in the aching, wandering eyes.
“I knew, I knew! It was —”
Cecil bowed his head over him, lower and lower.
“Hush! He was but a child; and I—”
With a sudden and swift motion, as though new life were thrilling in him, Rake raised himself erect232, his arms stretched outward to the east, where the young day was breaking.
“I knew, I knew! I never doubted. You will go back to your own some day, and men shall learn the truth — thank God! thank God!”
Then, with that light still on his face, his head fell backward; and with one quick, brief sigh his life fled out forever.
The time passed on; the storm had risen afresh; the violence of the gusts233 blew yellow sheets of sand whirling over the plains. Alone, with the dead one across his knees, Cecil sat motionless as though turned to stone. His eyes were dry and fixed234; but ever and again a great, tearless sob shook him from head to foot. The only life that linked him with the past, the only love that had suffered all things for his sake, were gone, crushed out as though they never had been, like some insect trodden in the soil.
He had lost all consciousness, all memory, save of that lifeless thing which lay across his knees, like a felled tree, like a broken log, with the glimmer235 of the tempestuous236 day so chill and white upon the upturned face.
He was alone on earth; and the solitudes237 around him were not more desolate than his own fate.
He was like a man numbed238 and stupefied by intense cold; his veins239 seemed stagnant240, and his sight could only see those features that became so terribly serene241, so fearfully unmoved with the dread calm of death. Yet the old mechanical instincts of a soldier guided him still; he vaguely242 knew that his errand had to be done, must be done, let his heart ache as it would, let him long as he might to lie down by the side of his only friend, and leave the torture of life to grow still in him also for evermore.
Instinctively243, he moved to carry out the duty trusted to him. He looked east and west, north and south; there was nothing in sight that could bring him aid; there were only the dust clouds hurled in billows hither and thither244 by the bitter winds still blowing from the sea. All that could be done had to be done by himself alone. His own safety hung on the swiftness of his flight; for aught he knew, at every moment, out of the mist and the driven sheets of sand there might rush the desert horses of his foes. But this memory was not with him; all he thought of was that burden stretched across his limbs, which laid down one hour here unwatched, would be the prey of the jackal and the vulture. He raised it reverently245 in his arms, and with long, laborious246 effort drew its weight up across the saddle of the charger which stood patiently waiting by, turning its docile247 eyes with a plaintive248, wondering sadness on the body of the rider it had loved. Then he mounted himself; and with the head of his lost comrade borne up upon his arm, and rested gently on his breast, he rode westward249 over the great plain to where his mission lay.
The horse paced slowly beneath the double load of dead and living; he would not urge the creature faster on; every movement that shook the drooping250 limbs, or jarred the repose of that last sleep, seemed desecration251. He passed the place where his own horse was stretched; the vultures were already there. He shuddered252; and then pressed faster on, as though the beasts and birds of prey would rob him of his burden ere he could give it sanctuary253. And so he rode, mile after mile, over the barren land, with no companion save the dead.
The winds blew fiercely in his teeth; the sand was in his eyes and hair; the way was long, and weary, and sown thick with danger; but he knew of nothing, felt and saw nothing save that one familiar face so strangely changed and transfigured by that glory with which death had touched it.
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1
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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2
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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7
foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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10
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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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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15
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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19
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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21
defiles
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| v.玷污( defile的第三人称单数 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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23
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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24
grotesqueness
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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29
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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30
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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31
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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36
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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37
outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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38
foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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39
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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40
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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41
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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42
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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43
slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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44
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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45
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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46
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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47
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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48
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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49
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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50
ironies
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| n.反语( irony的名词复数 )；冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事；嘲弄 | |
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51
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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52
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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53
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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54
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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55
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
insouciant
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| adj.不在意的 | |
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57
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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58
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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59
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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60
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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61
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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62
fealty
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| n.忠贞，忠节 | |
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63
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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64
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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65
traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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66
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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67
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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68
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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69
seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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70
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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71
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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72
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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73
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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74
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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75
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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76
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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77
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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78
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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79
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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80
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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81
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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82
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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83
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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84
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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85
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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86
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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87
corona
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| n.日冕 | |
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88
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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89
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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90
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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91
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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92
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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93
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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94
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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95
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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96
arraigned
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|
| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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97
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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98
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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99
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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100
astonishment
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|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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101
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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102
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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103
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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104
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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105
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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106
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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107
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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108
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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109
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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110
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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111
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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112
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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113
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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114
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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115
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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116
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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117
haughtiest
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的最高级形式 | |
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118
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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119
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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120
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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121
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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122
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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123
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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124
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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125
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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126
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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127
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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128
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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129
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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130
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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131
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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132
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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133
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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134
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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135
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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136
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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137
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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138
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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139
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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140
sleepless
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|
| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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141
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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142
clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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143
barricade
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|
| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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144
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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145
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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146
muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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147
pillaging
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的现在分词 ) | |
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148
devastating
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|
| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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149
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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150
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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151
infesting
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| v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的现在分词 )；遍布于 | |
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152
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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153
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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154
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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155
adepts
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| n.专家，能手( adept的名词复数 ) | |
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156
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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157
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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158
exterminated
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| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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160
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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162
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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163
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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164
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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165
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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166
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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167
Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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168
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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169
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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170
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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171
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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172
entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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173
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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174
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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175
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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176
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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177
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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178
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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179
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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180
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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181
slaughterous
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| adj.好杀戮的 | |
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182
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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183
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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184
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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185
narcotic
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| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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186
leopards
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| n.豹( leopard的名词复数 )；本性难移 | |
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187
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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188
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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189
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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190
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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191
onward
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|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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192
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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193
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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194
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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195
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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196
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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197
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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198
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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199
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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200
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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201
gasping
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|
| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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202
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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203
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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204
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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205
requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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206
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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207
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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208
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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209
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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210
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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211
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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212
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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238
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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240
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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241
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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249
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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251
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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252
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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