Cast her eyes to heaven, and pray’d devoutly1.
KING HENRY VIII.
Colonel Everard’s departure at the late hour, for, so it was then thought, of seven in the evening, excited much speculation3. There was a gathering4 of menials and dependents in the outer chamber5 or hall, for no one doubted that his sudden departure was owing to his having, as they expressed it, “seen something,” and all desired to know how a man of such acknowledged courage as Everard, looked under the awe6 of a recent apparition7. But he gave them no time to make comments; for, striding through the hall wrapt in his riding suit, he threw himself on horseback, and rode furiously through the Chase, towards the hut of the keeper Joliffe.
It was the disposition8 of Markham Everard to be hot, keen, earnest, impatient, and decisive to a degree of precipitation. The acquired habits which education had taught, and which the strong moral and religious discipline of his sect9 had greatly strengthened, were such as to enable him to conceal10, as well as to check, this constitutional violence, and to place him upon his guard against indulging it. But when in the high tide of violent excitation, the natural impetuosity of the young soldier’s temper was sometimes apt to overcome these artificial obstacles, and then, like a torrent11 foaming12 over a wear, it became more furious, as if in revenge for the constrained13 calm which it had been for some time obliged to assume. In these instances he was accustomed to see only that point to which his thoughts were bent14, and to move straight towards it, whether a moral object, or the storming of a breach15, without either calculating, or even appearing to see, the difficulties which were before him.
At present, his ruling and impelling16 motive17 was to detach his beloved cousin, if possible, from the dangerous and discreditable machinations in which he suspected her to have engaged, or, on the other hand, to discover that she really had no concern with these stratagems19. He should know how to judge of that in some measure, he thought, by finding her present or absent at the hut, towards which he was now galloping20. He had read, indeed, in some ballad21 or minstrel’s tale, of a singular deception22 practised on a jealous old man, by means of a subterranean23 communication between his house and that of a neighbour, which the lady in question made use of to present herself in the two places alternately, with such speed, and so much address, that, after repeated experiments, the dotard was deceived into the opinion, that his wife, and the lady who was so very like her, and to whom his neighbour paid so much attention, were two different persons. But in the present case there was no room for such a deception; the distance was too great, and as he took by much the nearest way from the castle, and rode full speed, it would be impossible, he knew, for his cousin, who was a timorous24 horsewoman even by daylight, to have got home before him.
Her father might indeed be displeased25 at his interference; but what title had he to be so? — Was not Alice Lee the near relation of his blood, the dearest object of his heart, and would he now abstain26 from an effort to save her from the consequences of a silly and wild conspiracy27, because the old knight28’s spleen might be awakened29 by Everard’s making his appearance at their present dwelling30 contrary to his commands? No. He would endure the old man’s harsh language, as he endured the blast of the autumn wind, which was howling around him, and swinging the crashing branches of the trees under which he passed, but could not oppose, or even retard31, his journey.
If he found not Alice, as he had reason to believe she would be absent, to Sir Henry Lee himself he would explain what he had witnessed. However she might have become accessory to the juggling32 tricks performed at Woodstock, he could not but think it was without her father’s knowledge, so severe a judge was the old knight of female propriety33, and so strict an assertor of female decorum. He would take the same opportunity, he thought, of stating to him the well-grounded hopes he entertained, that his dwelling at the Lodge34 might be prolonged, and the sequestrators removed from the royal mansion35 and domains36, by other means than those of the absurd species of intimidation37 which seemed to be resorted to, to scare them from thence.
All this seemed to be so much within the line of his duty as a relative, that it was not until he halted at the door of the ranger’s hut, and threw his bridle38 into Wildrake’s hand, that Everard recollected39 the fiery40, high, and unbending character of Sir Henry Lee, and felt, even when his fingers were on the latch41, a reluctance42 to intrude43 himself upon the presence of the irritable44 old knight.
But there was no time for hesitation45. Bevis, who had already bayed more than once from within the Lodge, was growing impatient, and Everard had but just time to bid Wildrake hold the horses until he should send Joceline to his assistance, when old Joan unpinned the door, to demand who was without at that time of the night. To have attempted anything like an explanation with poor dame47 Joan, would have been quite hopeless; the Colonel, therefore, put her gently aside, and shaking himself loose from the hold she had laid on his cloak, entered the kitchen of Joceline’s dwelling. Bevis, who had advanced to support Joan in her opposition48, humbled49 his lion-port, with that wonderful instinct which makes his race remember so long those with whom they have been familiar, and acknowledged his master’s relative, by doing homage50 in his fashion, with his head and tail.
Colonel Everard, more uncertain in his purpose every moment as the necessity of its execution drew near, stole over the floor like one who treads in a sick chamber, and opening the door of the interior apartment with a slow and trembling hand, as he would have withdrawn51 the curtains of a dying friend, he saw, within, the scene which we are about to describe.
Sir Henry Lee sat in a wicker arm-chair by the fire. He was wrapped in a cloak, and his limbs extended on a stool, as if he were suffering from gout or indisposition. His long white beard flowing over the dark-coloured garment, gave him more the appearance of a hermit52 than of an aged18 soldier or man of quality; and that character was increased by the deep and devout2 attention with which he listened to a respectable old man, whose dilapidated dress showed still something of the clerical habit, and who, with a low, but full and deep voice, was reading the Evening Service according to the Church of England. Alice Lee kneeled at the feet of her father, and made the responses with a voice that might have suited the choir53 of angels; and a modest and serious devotion, which suited the melody of her tone. The face of the officiating clergyman would have been good-looking, had it not been disfigured with a black patch which covered the left eye and a part of his face, and had not the features which were visible been marked with the traces of care and suffering.
When Colonel Everard entered, the clergyman raised his finger, as cautioning him to forbear disturbing the divine service of the evening, and pointed54 to a seat; to which, struck deeply with the scene he had witnessed, the intruder stole with as light a step as possible, and knelt devoutly down as one of the little congregation.
Everard had been bred by his father what was called a Puritan; a member of a sect who, in the primitive55 sense of the word, were persons that did not except against the doctrines56 of the Church of England, or even in all respects against its hierarchy57, but chiefly dissented59 from it on the subject of certain ceremonies, habits, and forms of ritual, which were insisted upon by the celebrated60 and unfortunate Laud61 with ill-timed tenacity62. But even if, from the habits of his father’s house, Everard’s opinions had been diametrically opposed to the doctrines of the English Church, he must have been reconciled to them by the regularity63 with which the service was performed in his uncle’s family at Woodstock, who, during the blossom of his fortunes, generally had a chaplain residing in the Lodge for that special purpose.
Yet deep as was the habitual64 veneration65 with which he heard the impressive service of the Church, Everard’s eyes could not help straying towards Alice, and his thoughts wandering to the purpose of his presence there. She seemed to have recognised him at once, for there was a deeper glow than usual upon her cheek, her fingers trembled as they turned the leaves of her prayerbook, and her voice, lately as firm as it was melodious66, faltered67 when she repeated the responses. It appeared to Everard, as far as he could collect by the stolen glances which he directed towards her, that the character of her beauty, as well as of her outward appearance, had changed with her fortunes.
The beautiful and high-born young lady had now approached as nearly as possible to the brown stuff dress of an ordinary village maiden68; but what she had lost in gaiety of appearance, she had gained as it seemed in dignity. Her beautiful light-brown tresses, now folded around her head, and only curled where nature had so arranged them, gave her an air of simplicity69, which did not exist when her head-dress showed the skill of a curious tire-woman. A light joyous70 air, with something of a humorous expression, which seemed to be looking for amusement, had vanished before the touch of affliction, and a calm melancholy71 supplied its place, which seemed on the watch to administer comfort to others. Perhaps the former arch, though innocent expression of countenance72, was uppermost in her lover’s recollection, when he concluded that Alice had acted a part in the disturbances73 which had taken place at the Lodge. It is certain, that when he now looked upon her, it was with shame for having nourished such a suspicion, and the resolution to believe rather that the devil had imitated her voice, than that a creature, who seemed so much above the feelings of this world, and so nearly allied74 to the purity of the next, should have had the indelicacy to mingle75 in such manoeuvres as he himself and others had been subjected to.
These thoughts shot through his mind, in spite of the impropriety of indulging them at such a moment. The service now approached the close, and a good deal to Colonel Everard’s surprise, as well as confusion, the officiating priest, in firm and audible tone, and with every attribute of dignity, prayed to the Almighty76 to bless and preserve “Our Sovereign Lord, King Charles, the lawful77 and undoubted King of these realms.” The petition (in those days most dangerous) was pronounced with a full, raised, and distinct articulation78, as if the priest challenged all who heard him to dissent58, if they dared. If the republican officer did not assent79 to the petition, he thought at least it was no time to protest against it.
The service was concluded in the usual manner, and the little congregation arose. It now included Wildrake, who had entered during the latter prayer, and was the first of the party to speak, running up to the priest, and shaking him by the hand most heartily80, swearing at the same time, that he truly rejoiced to see him. The good clergyman returned the pressure with a smile, observing he should have believed his asseveration without an oath. In the meanwhile, Colonel Everard, approaching his uncle’s seat, made a deep inclination81 of respect, first to Sir Henry Lee, and then to Alice, whose colour now spread from her cheek to her brow and bosom82.
“I have to crave83 your excuse,” said the Colonel with hesitation, “for having chosen for my visit, which I dare not hope would be very agreeable at any time, a season most peculiarly unsuitable.”
“So far from it, nephew,” answered Sir Henry, with much more mildness of manner than Everard had dared to expect, “that your visits at other times would be much more welcome, had we the fortune to see you often at our hours of worship.”
“I hope the time will soon come, sir, when Englishmen of all sects84 and denominations,” replied Everard, “will be free in conscience to worship in common the great Father, whom they all after their manner call by that affectionate name.”
“I hope so too, nephew,” said the old man in the same unaltered tone; “and we will not at present dispute, whether you would have the Church of England coalesce85 with the Conventicle, or the Conventicle conform to the Church. It was, I ween, not to settle jarring creeds86, that you have honoured our poor dwelling, where, to say the truth, we dared scarce have expected to see you again, so coarse was our last welcome.”
“I should be happy to believe,” said Colonel Everard, hesitating, “that — that — in short my presence was not now so unwelcome here as on that occasion.”
“Nephew,” said Sir Henry, “I will be frank with you. When you were last here, I thought you had stolen from me a precious pearl, which at one time it would have been my pride and happiness to have bestowed87 on you; but which, being such as you have been of late, I would bury in the depths of the earth rather than give to your keeping. This somewhat chafed88, as honest Will says, ‘the rash humour which my mother gave me.’ I thought I was robbed, and I thought I saw the robber before me. I am mistaken — I am not robbed; and the attempt without the deed I can pardon.”
“I would not willingly seek offence in your words, sir,” said Colonel Everard, “when their general purport89 sounds kind; but I can protest before Heaven, that my views and wishes towards you and your family are as void of selfish hopes and selfish ends, as they are fraught90 with love to you and to yours.”
“Let us hear them, man; we are not much accustomed to good wishes now-a-days; and their very rarity will make them welcome.”
“I would willingly, Sir Henry, since you might not choose me to give you a more affectionate name, convert those wishes into something effectual for your comfort. Your fate, as the world now stands, is bad, and, I fear, like to be worse.”
“Worse than I expect it cannot be. Nephew, I do not shrink before my changes of fortune. I shall wear coarser clothes — I shall feed on more ordinary food — men will not doff91 their cap to me as they were wont92, when I was the great and the wealthy. What of that? Old Harry93 Lee loved his honour better than his title, his faith better than his land and lordship. Have I not seen the 30th of January? I am neither Philomath nor astrologer; but old Will teaches me, that when green leaves fall winter is at hand, and that darkness will come when the sun sets.”
“Bethink you, sir,” said Colonel Everard, “if, without any submission94 asked, any oath taken, any engagement imposed, express or tacit, excepting that you are not to excite disturbances in the public peace, you can be restored to your residence in the Lodge, and your usual fortunes and perquisities there — I have great reason to hope this may be permitted, if not expressly, at least on sufferance.”
“Yes, I understand you. I am to be treated like the royal coin, marked with the ensign of the Rump to make it pass current, although I am too old to have the royal insignia grinded off from me. Kinsman95, I will have none of this. I have lived at the Lodge too long; and let me tell you, I had left it in scorn long since, but for the orders of one whom I may yet live to do service to. I will take nothing from the usurpers, be their name Rump or Cromwell — be they one devil or legion — I will not take from them an old cap to cover my grey hairs — a cast cloak to protect my frail97 limbs from the cold. They shall not say they have, by their unwilling98 bounty99, made Abraham rich — I will live, as I will die, the Loyal Lee.”
“May I hope you will think of it, sir; and that you will, perhaps, considering what slight submission is asked, give me a better answer?”
“Sir, if I retract100 my opinion, which is not my wont, you shall hear of it. — And now, cousin, have you more to say? We keep that worthy101 clergyman in the outer room.”
“Something I had to say — something touching102 my cousin Alice,” said Everard, with embarrassment103; “but I fear that the prejudices of both are so strong against me”—
“Sir, I dare turn my daughter loose to you — I will go join the good doctor in dame Joan’s apartment. I am not unwilling that you should know that the girl hath, in all reasonable sort, the exercise of her free will.”
He withdrew, and left the cousins together.
Colonel Everard advanced to Alice, and was about to take her hand. She drew back, took the seat which her father had occupied, and pointed out to him one at some distance.
“Are we then so much estranged104, my dearest Alice?” he said.
“We will speak of that presently,” she replied. “In the first place, let me ask the cause of your visit here at so late an hour.”
“You heard,” said Everard, “what I stated to your father?”
“I did; but that seems to have been only part of your errand — something there seemed to be which applied105 particularly to me.”
“It was a fancy — a strange mistake,” answered Everard. “May I ask if you have been abroad this evening?”
“Certainly not,” she replied. “I have small temptation to wander from my present home, poor as it is; and whilst here, I have important duties to discharge. But why does Colonel Everard ask so strange a question?”
“Tell me in turn, why your cousin Markham has lost the name of friendship and kindred, and even of some nearer feeling, and then I will answer you, Alice?”
“It is soon answered,” she said. “When you drew your sword against my father’s cause — almost against his person — I studied, more than I should have done, to find excuse for you. I knew, that is, I thought I knew your high feelings of public duty — I knew the opinions in which you had been bred up; and I said, I will not, even for this, cast him off — he opposes his King because he is loyal to his country. You endeavoured to avert106 the great and concluding tragedy of the 30th of January; and it confirmed me in my opinion, that Markham Everard might be misled, but could not be base or selfish.”
“And what has changed your opinion, Alice? or who dare,” said Everard, reddening, “attach such epithets107 to the name of Markham Everard?”
“I am no subject,” she said, “for exercising your valour, Colonel Everard, nor do I mean to offend. But you will find enough of others who will avow108, that Colonel Everard is truckling to the usurper96 Cromwell, and that all his fair pretexts109 of forwarding his country’s liberties, are but a screen for driving a bargain with the successful encroacher, and obtaining the best terms he can for himself and his family.”
“For myself — never!”
“But for your family you have — Yes, I am well assured that you have pointed out to the military tyrant110, the way in which he and his satraps may master the government. Do you think my father or I would accept an asylum111 purchased at the price of England’s liberty, and your honour?”
“Gracious Heaven, Alice, what is this? You accuse me of pursuing the very course which so lately had your approbation112!”
“When you spoke113 with authority of your father, and recommended our submission to the existing government, such as it was, I own I thought — that my father’s grey head might, without dishonour114, have remained under the roof where it had so long been sheltered. But did your father sanction your becoming the adviser115 of yonder ambitious soldier to a new course of innovation, and his abettor in the establishment of a new species of tyranny? — It is one thing to submit to oppression, another to be the agent of tyrants116 — And O, Markham — their bloodhound!”
“How! bloodhound? — what mean you? — I own it is true I could see with content the wounds of this bleeding country stanched117, even at the expense of beholding118 Cromwell, after his matchless rise, take a yet farther step to power — but to be his bloodhound! What is your meaning?”
“It is false, then? — I thought I could swear it had been false.”
“What, in the name of God, is it you ask?”
“It is false that you are engaged to betray the young King of Scotland?”
“Betray him! I betray him, or any fugitive119? Never! I would he were well out of England — I would lend him my aid to escape, were he in the house at this instant; and think in acting120 so I did his enemies good service, by preventing their soiling themselves with his blood — but betray him, never!”
“I knew it — I was sure it was impossible. Oh, be yet more honest; disengage yourself from yonder gloomy and ambitious soldier! Shun121 him and his schemes, which are formed in injustice122, and can only be realized in yet more blood!”
“Believe me,” replied Everard, “that I choose the line of policy best befitting the times.”
“Choose that,” she said, “which best befits duty, Markham — which best befits truth and honour. Do your duty, and let Providence123 decide the rest. — Farewell! we tempt46 my father’s patience too far — you know his temper — farewell, Markham.”
She extended her hand, which he pressed to his lips, and left the apartment. A silent bow to his uncle, and a sign to Wildrake, whom he found in the kitchen of the cabin, were the only tokens of recognition exhibited, and leaving the hut, he was soon mounted, and, with his companion, advanced on his return to the Lodge.
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1
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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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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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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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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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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intimidation
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| n.恐吓，威胁 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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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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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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51
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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52
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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53
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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54
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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55
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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56
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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57
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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58
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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59
dissented
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| 不同意，持异议( dissent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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61
laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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62
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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63
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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64
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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66
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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68
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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70
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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71
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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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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73
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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75
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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79
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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81
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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82
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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83
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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85
coalesce
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| v.联合，结合，合并 | |
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86
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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87
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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doff
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| v.脱，丢弃，废除 | |
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92
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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93
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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94
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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97
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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98
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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99
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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100
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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101
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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102
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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103
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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104
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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105
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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106
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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107
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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108
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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109
pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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110
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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111
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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112
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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113
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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114
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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115
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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116
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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117
stanched
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| v.使（伤口）止血( stanch的过去式 )；止（血）；使不漏；使不流失 | |
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118
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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119
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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120
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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121
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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122
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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123
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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