Winds round by sparry grot and gay pavilion;
There is no flint to gall1 thy tender foot,
There’s ready shelter from each breeze, or shower. —
But duty guides not that way — see her stand,
With wand entwined with amaranth, near yon cliffs.
Oft where she leads thy blood must mark thy footsteps,
Oft where she leads thy head must bear the storm.
And thy shrunk form endure heat, cold, and hunger;
But she will guide thee up to noble heights,
Which he who gains seems native of the sky,
While earthly things lie stretch’d beneath his feet,
Diminish’d, shrunk, and valueless —
ANONYMOUS2.
The reader cannot have forgotten that after his scuffle with the commonwealth3 soldier, Sir Henry Lee, with his daughter Alice, had departed to take refuge in the hut of the stout4 keeper Joceline Joliffe. They walked slow, as before, for the old knight5 was at once oppressed by perceiving these last vestiges6 of royalty7 fall into the hands of republicans, and by the recollection of his recent defeat. At times he paused, and, with his arms folded on his bosom8, recalled all the circumstances attending his expulsion from a house so long his home. It seemed to him that, like the champions of romance of whom he had sometimes read, he himself was retiring from the post which it was his duty to guard, defeated by a Paynim knight, for whom the adventure had been reserved by fate. Alice had her own painful subjects of recollection, nor had the tenor9 of her last conversation with her father been so pleasant as to make her anxious to renew it until his temper should be more composed; for with an excellent disposition10, and much love to his daughter, age and misfortunes, which of late came thicker and thicker, had given to the good knight’s passions a wayward irritability12 unknown to his better days. His daughter, and one or two attached servants, who still followed his decayed fortunes, soothed13 his frailty15 as much as possible, and pitied him even while they suffered under its effects.
It was a long time ere he spoke16, and then he referred to an incident already noticed. “It is strange,” he said, “that Bevis should have followed Joceline and that fellow rather than me.”
“Assure yourself, sir,” replied Alice, “that his sagacity saw in this man a stranger, whom he thought himself obliged to watch circumspectly18, and therefore he remained with Joceline.”
“Not so, Alice,” answered Sir Henry; “he leaves me because my fortunes have fled from me. There is a feeling in nature, affecting even the instinct, as it is called, of dumb animals, which teaches them to fly from misfortune. The very deer there will butt19 a sick or wounded buck20 from the herd21; hurt a dog, and the whole kennel22 will fall on him and worry him; fishes devour23 their own kind when they are wounded with a spear; cut a crow’s wing, or break its leg, the others will buffet24 it to death.”
“That may be true of the more irrational25 kinds of animals among each other,” said Alice, “for their whole life is well nigh a warfare26; but the dog leaves his own race to attach himself to ours; forsakes27, for his master, the company, food, and pleasure of his own kind; and surely the fidelity28 of such a devoted29 and voluntary servant as Bevis hath been in particular, ought not to be lightly suspected.”
“I am not angry with the dog, Alice; I am only sorry,” replied her father. “I have read, in faithful chronicles, that when Richard II. and Henry of Bolingbroke were at Berkeley Castle, a dog of the same kind deserted30 the King, whom he had always attended upon, and attached himself to Henry, whom he then saw for the first time. Richard foretold31, from the desertion of his favourite, his approaching deposition32. The dog was afterwards kept at Woodstock, and Bevis is said to be of his breed, which was heedfully kept up. What I might foretell33 of mischief34 from his desertion, I cannot guess, but my mind assures me it bodes35 no good.”
There was a distant rustling36 among the withered37 leaves, a bouncing or galloping38 sound on the path, and the favourite dog instantly joined his master.
“Come into court, old knave39,” said Alice, cheerfully, “and defend thy character, which is wellnigh endangered by this absence.” But the dog only paid her courtesy by gamboling around them, and instantly plunged40 back again, as fast as he could scamper41.
“How now, knave?” said the knight; “thou art too well trained, surely, to take up the chase without orders.” A minute more showed them Phoebe Mayflower approaching, her light pace so little impeded42 by the burden which she bore, that she joined her master and young mistress just as they arrived at the keeper’s hut, which was the boundary of their journey. Bevis, who had shot a-head to pay his compliments to Sir Henry his master, had returned again to his immediate43 duty, the escorting Phoebe and her cargo44 of provisions. The whole party stood presently assembled before the door of the keeper’s hut.
In better times, a substantial stone habitation, fit for the yeoman-keeper of a royal walk, had adorned45 this place. A fair spring gushed46 out near the spot, and once traversed yards and courts, attached to well-built and convenient kennels48 and mews. But in some of the skirmishes which were common during the civil wars, this little silvan dwelling49 had been attacked and defended, stormed and burnt. A neighbouring squire50, of the Parliament side of the question, took advantage of Sir Henry Lee’s absence, who was then in Charles’s camp, and of the decay of the royal cause, and had, without scruple51, carried off the hewn stones, and such building materials as the fire left unconsumed, and repaired his own manor-house with them. The yeoman-keeper, therefore, our friend Joceline, had constructed, for his own accommodation, and that of the old woman he called his dame52, a wattled hut, such as his own labour, with that of a neighbour or two, had erected54 in the course of a few days. The walls were plastered with clay, white-washed, and covered with vines and other creeping plants; the roof was neatly55 thatched, and the whole, though merely a hut, had, by the neat-handed Joliffe, been so arranged as not to disgrace the condition of the dweller57.
The knight advanced to the entrance; but the ingenuity58 of the architect, for want of a better lock to the door, which itself was but of wattles curiously59 twisted, had contrived60 a mode of securing the latch61 on the inside with a pin, which prevented it from rising; and in this manner it was at present fastened. Conceiving that this was some precaution of Joliffe’s old housekeeper62, of whose deafness they were all aware, Sir Henry raised his voice to demand admittance, but in vain. Irritated at this delay, he pressed the door at once with foot and hand, in a way which the frail14 barrier was unable to resist; it gave way accordingly, and the knight thus forcibly entered the kitchen, or outward apartment, of his servant. In the midst of the floor, and with a posture63 which indicated embarrassment64, stood a youthful stranger, in a riding-suit.
“This may be my last act of authority here,” said the knight, seizing the stranger by the collar, “but I am still Ranger17 of Woodstock for this night at least — Who, or what art thou?”
The stranger dropped the riding-mantle in which his face was muffled65, and at the same time fell on one knee.
“Your poor kinsman66, Markham Everard,” he said, “who came hither for your sake, although he fears you will scarce make him welcome for his own.”
Sir Henry started back, but recovered himself in an instant, as one who recollected67 that he had a part of dignity to perform. He stood erect53, therefore, and replied, with considerable assumption of stately ceremony:
“Fair kinsman, it pleases me that you are come to Woodstock upon the very first night that, for many years which have passed, is likely to promise you a worthy68 or a welcome reception.”
“Now God grant it be so, that I rightly hear and duly understand you,” said the young man; while Alice, though she was silent, kept her looks fixed69 on her father’s face, as if desirous to know whether his meaning was kind towards his nephew, which her knowledge of his character inclined her greatly to doubt.
The knight meanwhile darted70 a sardonic71 look, first on his nephew, then on his daughter, and proceeded —“I need not, I presume, inform Mr. Markham Everard, that it cannot be our purpose to entertain him, or even to offer him a seat in this poor hut.”
“I will attend you most willingly to the Lodge72,” said the young gentleman. “I had, indeed, judged you were already there for the evening, and feared to intrude73 upon you. But if you would permit me, my dearest uncle, to escort my kinswoman and you back to the Lodge, believe me, amongst all which you have so often done of good and kind, you never conferred benefit that will be so dearly prized.”
“You mistake me greatly, Mr. Markham Everard,” replied the knight. “It is not our purpose to return to the Lodge to-night, nor, by Our Lady, tomorrow neither. I meant but to intimate to you in all courtesy, that at Woodstock Lodge you will find those for whom you are fitting society, and who, doubtless, will afford you a willing welcome; which I, sir, in this my present retreat, do not presume to offer to a person of your consequence.”
“For Heaven’s sake,” said the young man, turning to Alice, “tell me how I am to understand language so misterious.”
Alice, to prevent his increasing the restrained anger of her father, compelled herself to answer, though it was with difficulty, “We are expelled from the Lodge by soldiers.”
“Expelled — by soldiers!” exclaimed Everard, in surprise —“there is no legal warrant for this.”
“None at all,” answered the knight, in the same tone of cutting irony74 which he had all along used, “and yet as lawful75 a warrant, as for aught that has been wrought76 in England this twelvemonth and more. You are, I think, or were, an Inns-of-Court-man — marry, sir, your enjoyment77 of your profession is like that lease which a prodigal78 wishes to have of a wealthy widow. You have already survived the law which you studied, and its expiry doubtless has not been without a legacy79 — some decent pickings, some merciful increases, as the phrase goes. You have deserved it two ways — you wore buff and bandalier, as well as wielded80 pen and ink — I have not heard if you held forth81 too.”
“Think of me and speak of me as harshly as you will, sir,” said Everard, submissively. “I have but in this evil time, guided myself by my conscience, and my father’s commands.”
“O, and you talk of conscience,” said the old knight, “I must have mine eye upon you, as Hamlet says. Never yet did Puritan cheat so grossly as when he was appealing to his conscience; and as for thy father”—
He was about to proceed in a tone of the same invective82, when the young man interrupted him, by saying, in a firm tone, “Sir Henry Lee, you have ever been thought noble — Say of me what you will, but speak not of my father what the ear of a son should not endure, and which yet his arm cannot resent. To do me such wrong is to insult an unarmed man, or to beat a captive.”
Sir Henry paused, as if struck by the remark. “Thou hast spoken truth in that, Mark, wert thou the blackest Puritan whom hell ever vomited83, to distract an unhappy country.”
“Be that as you will to think it,” replied Everard; “but let me not leave you to the shelter of this wretched hovel. The night is drawing to storm — let me but conduct you to the Lodge, and expel those intruders, who can, as yet at least, have no warrant for what they do. I will not linger a moment behind them, save just to deliver my father’s message. — Grant me but this much, for the love you once bore me!”
“Yes, Mark,” answered his uncle, firmly, but sorrowfully, “thou speakest truth — I did love thee once. The bright-haired boy whom I taught to ride, to shoot, to hunt — whose hours of happiness were spent with me, wherever those of graver labours were employed — I did love that boy — ay, and I am weak enough to love even the memory of what he was. — But he is gone, Mark — he is gone; and in his room I only behold84 an avowed85 and determined86 rebel to his religion and to his king — a rebel more detestable on account of his success, the more infamous87 through the plundered88 wealth with which he hopes to gild89 his villany. — But I am poor, thou think’st, and should hold my peace, lest men say, ‘Speak, sirrah, when you should.’— Know, however, that, indigent90 and plundered as I am, I feel myself dishonoured91 in holding even but this much talk with the tool of usurping92 rebels. — Go to the Lodge, if thou wilt93 — yonder lies the way — but think not that, to regain94 my dwelling there, or all the wealth I ever possessed95 in my wealthiest days, I would accompany thee three steps on the greensward. If I must be thy companion, it shall be only when thy red-coats have tied my hands behind me, and bound my legs beneath my horse’s belly96. Thou mayst be my fellow traveller then, I grant thee, if thou wilt, but not sooner.”
Alice, who suffered cruelly during this dialogue, and was well aware that farther argument would only kindle97 the knight’s resentment98 still more highly, ventured at last, in her anxiety, to make a sign to her cousin to break off the interview, and to retire, since her father commanded his absence in a manner so peremptory99. Unhappily, she was observed by Sir Henry, who, concluding that what he saw was evidence of a private understanding betwixt the cousins, his wrath100 acquired new fuel, and it required the utmost exertion101 of self-command, and recollection of all that was due to his own dignity, to enable him to veil his real fury under the same ironical102 manner which he had adopted at the beginning of this angry interview.
“If thou art afraid,” he said, “to trace our forest glades103 by night, respected stranger, to whom I am perhaps bound to do honour as my successor in the charge of these walks, here seems to be a modest damsel, who will be most willing to wait on thee, and be thy bow-bearer. — Only, for her mother’s sake, let there pass some slight form of marriage between you — Ye need no license104 or priest in these happy days, but may be buckled105 like beggars in a ditch, with a hedge for a church-roof, and a tinker for a priest. I crave106 pardon of you for making such an officious and simple request — perhaps you are a ranter — or one of the family of Love, or hold marriage rites107 as unnecessary, as Knipperdoling, or Jack108 of Leyden?”
“For mercy’s sake, forbear such dreadful jesting, my father! and do you, Markham, begone, in God’s name, and leave us to our fate — your presence makes my father rave47.”
“Jesting!” said Sir Henry, “I was never more serious — Raving110! — I was never more composed — I could never brook111 that falsehood should approach me — I would no more bear by my side a dishonoured daughter than a dishonoured sword; and this unhappy day hath shown that both can fail.”
“Sir Henry,” said young Everard, “load not your soul with a heavy crime, which be assured you do, in treating your daughter thus unjustly. It is long now since you denied her to me, when we were poor and you were powerful. I acquiesced113 in your prohibition114 of all suit and intercourse115. God knoweth what I suffered — but I acquiesced. Neither is it to renew my suit that I now come hither, and have, I do acknowledge, sought speech of her — not for her own sake only, but for yours also. Destruction hovers116 over you, ready to close her pinions117 to stoop, and her talons118 to clutch — Yes, sir, look contemptuous as you will, such is the case; and it is to protect both you and her that I am here.”
“You refuse then my free gift,” said Sir Henry Lee; “or perhaps you think it loaded with too hard conditions?”
“Shame, shame on you, Sir Henry;” said Everard, waxing warm in his turn; “have your political prejudices so utterly119 warped120 every feeling of a father, that you can speak with bitter mockery and scorn of what concerns your own daughter’s honour? — Hold up your head, fair Alice, and tell your father he has forgotten nature in his fantastic spirit of loyalty121. — Know, Sir Henry, that though I would prefer your daughter’s hand to every blessing122 which Heaven could bestow123 on me, I would not accept it — my conscience would not permit me to do so, when I knew it must withdraw her from her duty to you.”
“Your conscience is over-scrupulous, young man; — carry it to some dissenting124 rabbi, and he who takes all that comes to net, will teach thee it is sinning against our mercies to refuse any good thing that is freely offered to us.”
“When it is freely offered, and kindly125 offered — not when the offer is made in irony and insult — Fare thee well, Alice — if aught could make me desire to profit by thy father’s wild wish to cast thee from him in a moment of unworthy suspicion, it would be that while indulging in such sentiments, Sir Henry Lee is tyrannically oppressing the creature, who of all others is most dependent on his kindness — who of all others will most feel his severity, and whom, of all others, he is most bound to cherish and support.”
“Do not fear for me, Mr. Everard,” exclaimed Alice, aroused from her timidity by a dread109 of the consequences not unlikely to ensue, where civil war sets relations, as well as fellow-citizens, in opposition126 to each other. —“Oh, begone, I conjure127 you, begone! Nothing stands betwixt me and my father’s kindness, but these unhappy family divisions — but your ill-timed presence here — for Heaven’s sake, leave us!”
“So, mistress!” answered the hot old cavalier, “you play lady paramount128 already; and who but you! — you would dictate129 to our train, I warrant, like Goneril and Regan! But I tell thee, no man shall leave my house — and, humble130 as it is, this is now my house — while he has aught to say to me that is to be spoken, as this young man now speaks, with a bent131 brow and a lofty tone. — Speak out, sir, and say your worst!”
“Fear not my temper, Mrs. Alice,” said Everard, with equal firmness and placidity132 of manner; “and you, Sir Henry, do not think that if I speak firmly, I mean therefore to speak in anger, or officiously. You have taxed me with much, and, were I guided by the wild spirit of romantic chivalry133, much which, even from so near a relative, I ought not, as being by birth, and in the world’s estimation, a gentleman, to pass over without reply. Is it your pleasure to give me patient hearing?”
“If you stand on your defence,” answered the stout old knight, “God forbid that you should not challenge a patient hearing — ay, though your pleading were two parts disloyalty and one blasphemy134 — Only, be brief — this has already lasted but too long.”
“I will, Sir Henry,” replied the young man; “yet it is hard to crowd into a few sentences, the defence of a life which, though short, has been a busy one — too busy, your indignant gesture would assert. But I deny it; I have drawn135 my sword neither hastily, nor without due consideration, for a people whose rights have been trampled136 on, and whose consciences have been oppressed — Frown not, sir — such is not your view of the contest, but such is mine. For my religious principles, at which you have scoffed137, believe me, that though they depend not on set forms, they are no less sincere than your own, and thus far purer — excuse the word — that they are unmingled with the blood-thirsty dictates139 of a barbarous age, which you and others have called the code of chivalrous140 honour. Not my own natural disposition, but the better doctrine141 which my creed142 has taught, enables me to bear your harsh revilings without answering in a similar tone of wrath and reproach. You may carry insult to extremity143 against me at your pleasure — not on account of our relationship alone, but because I am bound in charity to endure it. This, Sir Henry, is much from one of our house. But, with forbearance far more than this requires, I can refuse at your hands the gift, which, most of all things under heaven, I should desire to obtain, because duty calls upon her to sustain and comfort you, and because it were sin to permit you, in your blindness, to spurn144 your comforter from your side. — Farewell, sir — not in anger, but in pity — We may meet in a better time, when your heart and your principles shall master the unhappy prejudices by which they are now overclouded. — Farewell — farewell, Alice!”
The last words were repeated twice, and in a tone of feeling and passionate145 grief, which differed utterly from the steady and almost severe tone in which he had addressed Sir Henry Lee. He turned and left the hut so soon as he had uttered these last words; and, as if ashamed of the tenderness which had mingled138 with his accents, the young commonwealth’s-man turned and walked sternly and resolvedly forth into the moonlight, which now was spreading its broad light and autumnal shadows over the woodland.
So soon as he departed, Alice, who had been during the whole scene in the utmost terror that her father might have been hurried, by his natural heat of temper, from violence of language into violence of action, sunk down upon a settle twisted out of willow146 boughs147, like most of Joceline’s few moveables, and endeavoured to conceal148 the tears which accompanied the thanks she rendered in broken accents to Heaven, that, notwithstanding the near alliance and relationship of the parties, some fatal deed had not closed an interview so perilous149 and so angry. Phoebe Mayflower blubbered heartily150 for company, though she understood but little of what had passed; just, indeed, enough to enable her afterwards to report to some half-dozen particular friends, that her old master, Sir Henry, had been perilous angry, and almost fought with young Master Everard, because he had wellnigh carried away her young mistress. —“And what could he have done better?” said Phoebe, “seeing the old man had nothing left either for Mrs. Alice or himself; and as for Mr. Mark Everard and our young lady, oh! they had spoken such loving things to each other as are not to be found in the history of Argalus and Parthenia, who, as the story-book tells, were the truest pair of lovers in all Arcadia, and Oxfordshire to boot.”
Old Goody Jellycot had popped her scarlet151 hood112 into the kitchen more than once while the scene was proceeding152; but, as the worthy dame was parcel blind and more than parcel deaf, knowledge was excluded by two principal entrances; and though she comprehended, by a sort of general instinct, that the gentlefolk were at high words, yet why they chose Joceline’s hut for the scene of their dispute was as great a mystery as the subject of the quarrel.
But what was the state of the old cavalier’s mood, thus contradicted, as his most darling principles had been, by the last words of his departing nephew? The truth is, that he was less thoroughly153 moved than his daughter expected; and in all probability his nephew’s bold defence of his religious and political opinions rather pacified154 than aggravated155 his displeasure. Although sufficiently156 impatient of contradiction, still evasion157 and subterfuge158 were more alien to the blunt old Ranger’s nature than manly159 vindication160 and direct opposition; and he was wont161 to say, that he ever loved the buck best who stood boldest at bay. He graced his nephew’s departure, however, with a quotation162 from Shakspeare, whom, as many others do, he was wont to quote from a sort of habit and respect, as a favourite of his unfortunate master, without having either much real taste for his works, or great skill in applying the passages which he retained on his memory.
“Mark,” he said, “mark this, Alice — the devil can quote Scripture163 for his purpose. Why, this young fanatic164 cousin of thine, with no more beard than I have seen on a clown playing Maid Marion on May-day, when the village barber had shaved him in too great a hurry, shall match any bearded Presbyterian or Independent of them all, in laying down his doctrines165 and his uses, and bethumping us with his texts and his homilies. I would worthy and learned Doctor Rochecliffe had been here, with his battery ready-mounted from the Vulgate, and the Septuagint, and what not — he would have battered166 the presbyterian spirit out of him with a wanion. However, I am glad the young man is no sneaker; for, were a man of the devil’s opinion in religion, and of Old Noll’s in politics, he were better open on it full cry, than deceive you by hunting counter, or running a false scent167. Come — wipe thine eyes — the fray168 is over, and not like to be stirred again soon, I trust.”
Encouraged by these words, Alice rose, and, bewildered as she was, endeavoured to superintend the arrangements for their meal and their repose169 in their new habitation. But her tears fell so fast, they marred170 her counterfeited171 diligence; and it was well for her that Phoebe, though too ignorant and too simple to comprehend the extent of her distress172, could afford her material assistance, in lack of mere56 sympathy.
With great readiness and address, the damsel set about every thing that was requisite173 for preparing the supper and the beds; now screaming into Dame Jellycot’s ear, now whispering into her mistress’s, and artfully managing, as if she was merely the agent, under Alice’s orders. When the cold viands174 were set forth, Sir Henry Lee kindly pressed his daughter to take refreshment175, as if to make up, indirectly176, for his previous harshness towards her; while he himself, like an experienced campaigner, showed, that neither the mortifications nor brawls177 of the day, nor the thoughts of what was to come tomorrow, could diminish his appetite for supper, which was his favourite meal. He ate up two-thirds of the capon, and, devoting the first bumper178 to the happy restoration of Charles, second of the name, he finished a quart of wine; for he belonged to a school accustomed to feed the flame of their loyalty with copious179 brimmers. He even sang a verse of “The King shall enjoy his own again,” in which Phoebe, half-sobbing, and Dame Jellycot, screaming against time and tune11, were contented180 to lend their aid, to cover Mistress Alice’s silence.
At length the jovial181 knight betook himself to his rest on the keeper’s straw pallet, in a recess182 adjoining to the kitchen, and, unaffected by his change of dwelling, slept fast and deep. Alice had less quiet rest in old Goody Jellycot’s wicker couch, in the inner apartment; while the dame and Phoebe slept on a mattress183, stuffed with dry leaves, in the same chamber184, soundly as those whose daily toil185 gains their daily bread, and, whom morning calls up only to renew the toils186 of yesterday.
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1
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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2
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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3
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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7
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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10
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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12
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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14
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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15
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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16
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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ranger
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| n.国家公园管理员，护林员；骑兵巡逻队员 | |
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18
circumspectly
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| adv.慎重地，留心地 | |
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19
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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20
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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23
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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24
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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25
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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forsakes
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| 放弃( forsake的第三人称单数 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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28
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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29
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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30
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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31
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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33
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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34
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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35
bodes
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的第三人称单数 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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36
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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37
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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38
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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39
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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40
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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41
scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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42
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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44
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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45
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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46
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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47
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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48
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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49
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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50
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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51
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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52
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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53
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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54
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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55
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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56
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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57
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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58
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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59
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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60
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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61
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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62
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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63
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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64
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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65
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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66
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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67
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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69
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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70
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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71
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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72
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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73
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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74
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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75
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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76
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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77
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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78
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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79
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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80
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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81
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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82
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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83
vomited
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84
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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85
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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86
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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87
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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88
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
gild
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| vt.给…镀金，把…漆成金色，使呈金色 | |
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90
indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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91
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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92
usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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93
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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94
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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95
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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96
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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97
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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98
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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99
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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100
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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101
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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102
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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103
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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104
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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105
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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106
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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107
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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108
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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109
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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110
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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111
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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112
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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113
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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115
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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116
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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117
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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119
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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120
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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121
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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122
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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123
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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124
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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125
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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126
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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127
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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128
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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129
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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130
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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131
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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132
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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133
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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134
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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135
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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136
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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137
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
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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139
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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140
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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141
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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142
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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143
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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144
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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145
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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146
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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147
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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148
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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149
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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150
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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151
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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152
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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154
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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156
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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158
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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159
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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161
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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164
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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165
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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166
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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167
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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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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169
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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170
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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171
counterfeited
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的过去分词 ) | |
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172
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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173
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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174
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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177
brawls
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| 吵架，打架( brawl的名词复数 ) | |
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178
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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179
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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180
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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181
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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182
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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183
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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184
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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186
toils
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| 网 | |
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| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |