He wadna fail the pledge.”
Wi’ that in at the door there ran
A ghastly-looking page —
“I saw them, master, O! I saw,
Beneath the thornie brae,
Of black-mail’d warriors1 many a rank;
‘Revenge!’ he cried, ‘and gae.’”
HENRY MACKENZIE.
The little party at the Lodge2 were assembled at supper, at the early hour of eight o’clock. Sir Henry Lee, neglecting the food that was placed on the table, stood by a lamp on the chimney-piece, and read a letter with mournful attention.
“Does my son write to you more particularly than to me, Doctor Rochecliffe?” said the knight3. “He only says here, that he will return probably this night; and that Master Kerneguy must be ready to set off with him instantly. What can this haste mean? Have you heard of any new search after our suffering party? I wish they would permit me to enjoy my son’s company in quiet but for a day.”
“The quiet which depends on the wicked ceasing from troubling,” said Dr. Rochecliffe, “is connected, not by days and hours, but by minutes. Their glut4 of blood at Worcester had satiated them for a moment, but their appetite, I fancy, has revived.”
“You have news, then, to that purpose?” said Sir Henry.
“Your son,” replied the Doctor, “wrote to me by the same messenger: he seldom fails to do so, being aware of what importance it is that I should know every thing that passes. Means of escape are provided on the coast, and Master Kerneguy must be ready to start with your son the instant he appears.”
“It is strange,” said the knight; “for forty years I have dwelt in this house, man and boy, and the point only was how to make the day pass over our heads; for if I did not scheme out some hunting match or hawking6, or the like, I might have sat here on my arm-chair, as undisturbed as a sleeping dormouse, from one end of the year to the other; and now I am more like a hare on her form, that dare not sleep unless with her eyes open, and scuds7 off when the wind rustles8 among the fern.”
“It is strange,” said Alice, looking at Dr. Rochecliffe, “that the roundhead steward9 has told you nothing of this. He is usually communicative enough of the motions of his party; and I saw you close together this morning.”
“I must be closer with him this evening,” said the Doctor gloomily; “but he will not blab.”
“I wish you may not trust him too much,” said Alice in reply. —“To me, that man’s face, with all its shrewdness, evinces such a dark expression, that methinks I read treason in his very eye.”
“Be assured, that matter is looked to,” answered the Doctor, in the same ominous10 tone as before. No one replied, and there was a chilling and anxious feeling of apprehension11 which seemed to sink down on the company at once, like those sensations which make such constitutions as are particularly subject to the electrical influence, conscious of an approaching thunder-storm.
The disguised Monarch12, apprised13 that day to be prepared on short notice to quit his temporary asylum14, felt his own share of the gloom which involved the little society. But he was the first also to shake it off, as what neither suited his character nor his situation. Gaiety was the leading distinction of the former, and presence of mind, not depression of spirits, was required by the latter.
“We make the hour heavier,” he said, “by being melancholy15 about it. Had you not better join me, Mistress Alice, in Patrick Carey’s jovial16 farewell? — Ah, you do not know Pat Carey — a younger brother of Lord Falkland’s?”
“A brother of the immortal17 Lord Falkland’s, and write songs!” said the Doctor.
“Oh, Doctor, the Muses18 take tithe19 as well as the Church,” said Charles, “and have their share in every family of distinction. You do not know the words, Mistress Alice, but you can aid me, notwithstanding, in the burden at least —
‘Come, now that we’re parting, and ’tis one to ten
If the towers of sweet Woodstock I e’er see agen,
Let us e’en have a frolic, and drink like tall men,
While the goblet20 goes merrily round.’”
The song arose, but not with spirit. It was one of those efforts at forced mirth, by which, above all other modes of expressing it, the absence of real cheerfulness is most distinctly animated21. Charles stopt the song, and upbraided22 the choristers.
“You sing, my dear Mistress Alice, as if you were chanting one of the seven penitential psalms23; and you, good Doctor, as if you recited the funeral service.”
The Doctor rose hastily from the table, and turned to the window; for the expression connected singularly with the task which he was that evening to discharge. Charles looked at him with some surprise; for the peril24 in which he lived, made him watchful25 of the slightest motions of those around him — then turned to Sir Henry, and said, “My honoured host, can you tell any reason for this moody26 fit, which has so strangely crept upon us all?”
“Not I, my dear Louis,” replied the knight; “I have no skill in these nice quillets of philosophy. I could as soon undertake to tell you the reason why Bevis turns round three times before he lies down. I can only say for myself, that if age and sorrow and uncertainty27 be enough to break a jovial spirit, or at least to bend it now and then, I have my share of them all; so that I, for one, cannot say that I am sad merely because I am not merry. I have but too good cause for sadness. I would I saw my son, were it but for a minute.”
Fortune seemed for once disposed to gratify the old man; for Albert Lee entered at that moment. He was dressed in a riding suit, and appeared to have travelled hard. He cast his eye hastily around as he entered. It rested for a second on that of the disguised Prince, and, satisfied with the glance which he received in lieu, he hastened, after the fashion of the olden day, to kneel down to his father, and request his blessing28.
“It is thine, my boy,” said the old man; a tear springing to his eyes as he laid his hand on the long locks, which distinguished29 the young cavalier’s rank and principles, and which, usually combed and curled with some care, now hung wild and dishevelled about his shoulders. They remained an instant in this posture30, when the old man suddenly started from it, as if ashamed of the emotion which he had expressed before so many witnesses, and passing the back of his hand hastily across his eyes, bid Albert get up and mind his supper, “since I dare say you have ridden fast and far since you last baited — and we’ll send round a cup to his health, if Doctor Rochecliffe and the company pleases — Joceline, thou knave31, skink about — thou look’st as if thou hadst seen a ghost.”
“Joceline,” said Alice, “is sick for sympathy — one of the stags ran at Phoebe Mayflower today, and she was fain to have Joceline’s assistance to drive the creature off — the girl has been in fits since she came home.”
“Silly slut,” said the old knight —“She a woodman’s daughter! — But, Joceline, if the deer gets dangerous, you must send a broad arrow through him.”
“It will not need, Sir Henry,” said Joceline, speaking with great difficulty of utterance32 —“he is quiet enough now — he will not offend in that sort again.”
“See it be so,” replied the knight; “remember Mistress Alice often walks in the Chase. And now, fill round, and fill too, a cup to thyself to overred thy fear, as mad Will has it. Tush, man, Phoebe will do well enough — she only screamed and ran, that thou might’st have the pleasure to help her. Mind what thou dost, and do not go spilling the wine after that fashion. — Come, here is a health to our wanderer, who has come to us again.”
“None will pledge it more willingly than I,” said the disguised Prince, unconsciously assuming an importance which the character he personated scarce warranted; but Sir Henry, who had become fond of the supposed page, with all his peculiarities33, imposed only a moderate rebuke34 upon his petulance35. “Thou art a merry, good-humoured youth, Louis,” he said, “but it is a world to see how the forwardness of the present generation hath gone beyond the gravity and reverence36 which in my youth was so regularly observed towards those of higher rank and station — I dared no more have given my own tongue the rein37, when there was a doctor of divinity in company, than I would have dared to have spoken in church in service time.”
“True, sir,” said Albert, hastily interfering38; “but Master Kerneguy had the better right to speak at present, that I have been absent on his business as well as my own, have seen several of his friends, and bring him important intelligence.”
Charles was about to rise and beckon39 Albert aside, naturally impatient to know what news he had procured40, or what scheme of safe escape was now decreed for him. But Dr. Rochecliffe twitched41 his cloak, as a hint to him to sit still, and not show any extraordinary motive42 for anxiety, since, in case of a sudden discovery of his real quality, the violence of Sir Henry Lee’s feelings might have been likely to attract too much attention.
Charles, therefore, only replied, as to the knight’s stricture, that he had a particular title to be sudden and unceremonious in expressing his thanks to Colonel Lee — that gratitude43 was apt to be unmannerly — finally, that he was much obliged to Sir Henry for his admonition; and that quit Woodstock when he would, “he was sure to leave it a better man than he came there.”
His speech was of course ostensibly directed towards the father; but a glance at Alice assured her that she had her full share in the compliment.
“I fear,” he concluded, addressing Albert, “that you come to tell us our stay here must be very short.”
“A few hours only,” said Albert —“just enough for needful rest for ourselves and our horses. I have procured two which are good and tried. But Doctor Rochecliffe broke faith with me. I expected to have met some one down at Joceline’s hut, where I left the horses; and finding no person, I was delayed an hour in littering them down myself, that they might be ready for tomorrow’s work — for we must be off before day.”
“I— I— intended to have sent Tomkins — but — but”— hesitated the Doctor, “I”—
“The roundheaded rascal44 was drunk, or out of the way, I presume,” said Albert. “I am glad of it — you may easily trust him too far.”
“Hitherto he has been faithful,” said the Doctor, “and I scarce think he will fail me now. But Joceline will go down and have the horses in readiness in the morning.”
Joceline’s countenance45 was usually that of alacrity46 itself on a case extraordinary. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate.
“You will go with me a little way, Doctor?” he said, as he edged himself closely to Rochecliffe.
“How? puppy, fool, and blockhead,” said the knight, “wouldst thou ask Doctor Rochecliffe to bear thee company at this hour? — Out, hound! — get down to the kennel47 yonder instantly, or I will break the knave’s pate48 of thee.”
Joceline looked with an eye of agony at the divine, as if entreating49 him to interfere50 in his behalf; but just as he was about to speak, a most melancholy howling arose at the hall-door, and a dog was heard scratching for admittance.
“What ails5 Bevis next?” said the old knight. “I think this must be All-Fools-day, and that every thing around me is going mad!”
The same sound startled Albert and Charles from a private conference in which they had engaged, and Albert ran to the hall-door to examine personally into the cause of the noise.
“It is no alarm,” said the old knight to Kerneguy, “for in such cases the dog’s bark is short, sharp, and furious. These long howls are said to be ominous. It was even so that Bevis’s grandsire bayed the whole livelong night on which my poor father died. If it comes now as a presage51, God send it regard the old and useless, not the young, and those who may yet serve King and country!”
The dog had pushed past Colonel Lee, who stood a little while at the hall-door to listen if there were any thing stirring without, while Bevis advanced into the room where the company were assembled, bearing something in his mouth, and exhibiting, in an unusual degree, that sense of duty and interest which a dog seems to show when he thinks he has the charge of something important. He entered therefore, drooping52 his long tail, slouching his head and ears, and walking with the stately yet melancholy dignity of a war-horse at his master’s funeral. In this manner he paced through the room, went straight up to Joceline, who had been regarding him with astonishment53, and uttering a short and melancholy howl, laid at his feet the object which he bore in his mouth. Joceline stooped, and took from the floor a man’s glove, of the fashion worn by the troopers, having something like the old-fashioned gauntleted projections54 of thick leather arising from the wrist, which go half way up to the elbow, and secure the arm against a cut with a sword. But Joceline had no sooner looked at what in itself was so common an object, than he dropped it from his hand, staggered backward, uttered a groan55, and nearly fell to the ground.
“Now, the coward’s curse be upon thee for an idiot!” said the knight, who had picked up the glove, and was looking at it —“thou shouldst be sent back to school, and flogged till the craven’s blood was switched out of thee — What dost thou look at but a glove, thou base poltroon56, and a very dirty glove, too? Stay, here is writing — Joseph Tomkins? Why, that is the roundheaded fellow — I wish he hath not come to some mischief57, for this is not dirt on the cheveron, but blood. Bevis may have bit the fellow, and yet the dog seemed to love him well too, or the stag may have hurt him. Out, Joceline, instantly, and see where he is — wind your bugle58.”
“I cannot go,” said Joliffe, “unless”— and again he looked piteously at Dr. Rochecliffe, who saw no time was to be lost in appeasing59 the ranger’s terrors, as his ministry60 was most needful in the present circumstances. —“Get spade and mattock,” he whispered to him, “and a dark lantern, and meet me in the Wilderness61.”
Joceline left the room; and the Doctor, before following him, had a few words of explanation with Colonel Lee. His own spirit, far from being dismayed on the occasion, rather rose higher, like one whose natural element was intrigue62 and danger. “Here hath been wild work,” he said, “since you parted. Tomkins was rude to the wench Phoebe — Joceline and he had a brawl63 together, and Tomkins is lying dead in the thicket64, not far from Rosamond’s Well. It will be necessary that Joceline and I go directly to bury the body; for besides that some one might stumble upon it, and raise an alarm, this fellow Joceline will never be fit for any active purpose till it is under ground. Though as stout65 as a lion, the under-keeper has his own weak side, and is more afraid of a dead body than a living one. When do you propose to start tomorrow?”
“By daybreak, or earlier,” said Colonel Lee; “but we will meet again. A vessel66 is provided, and I have relays in more places than one — we go off from the coast of Sussex; and I am to get a letter at — — acquainting me precisely67 with the spot.”
“Wherefore not go off instantly?” said the Doctor.
“The horses would fail us,” replied Albert; “they have been hard ridden today.”
“Adieu,” said Rochecliffe, “I must to my task — Do you take rest and repose68 for yours. To conceal69 a slaughtered70 body, and convey on the same night a king from danger and captivity71, are two feats72 which have fallen to few folks save myself; but let me not, while putting on my harness, boast myself as if I were taking it off after a victory.” So saying he left the apartment, and, muffling73 himself in his cloak, went out into what was called the Wilderness.
The weather was a raw frost. The mists lay in partial wreaths upon the lower grounds; but the night, considering that the heavenly bodies were in a great measure hidden by the haze74, was not extremely dark. Dr. Rochecliffe could not, however, distinguish the under-keeper until he had hemmed75 once or twice, when Joceline answered the signal by showing a glimpse of light from the dark lantern which he carried. Guided by this intimation of his presence, the divine found him leaning against a buttress76 which had once supported a terrace, now ruinous. He had a pickaxe and shovel77, together with a deer’s hide hanging over his shoulder.
“What do you want with the hide, Joceline,” said Dr. Rochecliffe, “that you lumber78 it about with you on such an errand?”
“Why, look you, Doctor,” he answered, “it is as well to tell you all about it. The man and I— he there — you know whom I mean — had many years since a quarrel about this deer. For though we were great friends, and Philip was sometimes allowed by my master’s permission to help me in mine office, yet I knew, for all that, Philip Hazeldine was sometimes a trespasser79. The deer-stealers were very bold at that time, it being just before the breaking out of the war, when men were becoming unsettled — And so it chanced, that one day, in the Chase, I found two fellows, with their faces blacked and shirts over their clothes, carrying as prime a buck80 between them as any was in the park. I was upon them in the instant — one escaped, but I got hold of the other fellow, and who should it prove to be but trusty Phil Hazeldine! Well, I don’t know whether it was right or wrong, but he was my old friend and pot-companion, and I took his word for amendment81 in future; and he helped me to hang up the deer on a tree, and I came back with a horse to carry him to the Lodge, and tell the knight the story, all but Phil’s name. But the rogues82 had been too clever for me; for they had flayed83 and dressed the deer, and quartered him, and carried him off, and left the hide and horns, with a chime, saying —
‘The haunch to thee,
The breast to me,
The hide and the horns for the keeper’s fee.’
And this I knew for one of Phil’s mad pranks84, that he would play in those days with any lad in the country. But I was so nettled85 that I made the deer’s hide be curried86 and dressed by a tanner, and swore that it should be his winding-sheet or mine; and though I had long repented87 my rash oath, yet now, Doctor, you see what it is come to — though I forgot it, the devil did not.”
“It was a very wrong thing to make a vow88 so sinful,” said Rochecliffe; “but it would have been greatly worse had you endeavoured to keep it. Therefore, I bid you cheer up,” said the good divine; “for in this unhappy case, I could not have wished, after what I have heard from Phoebe and yourself, that you should have kept your hand still, though I may regret that the blow has proved fatal. Nevertheless, thou hast done even that which was done by the great and inspired legislator, when he beheld89 an Egyptian tyrannizing over a Hebrew, saving that, in the case present, it was a female, when, says the Septuagint, Percussum Egyptium abscondit sabulo; the meaning whereof I will explain to you another time. Wherefore, I exhort90 you not to grieve beyond measure; for although this circumstance is unhappy in time and place, yet, from what Phoebe hath informed me of yonder wretch’s opinions, it is much to be regretted that his brains had not been beaten out in his cradle, rather than that he had grown up to be one of those Grindlestonians, or Muggletonians, in whom is the perfection of every foul91 and blasphemous92 heresy93, united with such an universal practice of hypocritical assentation as would deceive their master, even Satan himself.”
“Nevertheless, sir,” said the forester, “I hope you will bestow94 some of the service of the Church on this poor man, as it was his last wish, naming you, sir, at the same time; and unless this were done, I should scarce dare to walk out in the dark again for my whole life.”
“Thou art a silly fellow; but if,” continued the Doctor, “he named me as he departed, and desired the last rites95 of the Church, there was, it may be, a turning from evil and a seeking to good even in his last moments; and if Heaven granted him grace to form a prayer so fitting, wherefore should man refuse it? All I fear is the briefness of time.”
“Nay, your reverence may cut the service somewhat short,” said Joceline; “assuredly he does not deserve the whole of it; only if something were not to be done, I believe I should flee the country. They were his last words; and methinks he sent Bevis with his glove to put me in mind of them.”
“Out, fool! Do you think,” said the Doctor, “dead men send gauntlets to the living, like knights96 in a romance; or, if so, would they choose dogs to carry their challenges? I tell thee, fool, the cause was natural enough. Bevis, questing about, found the body, and brought the glove to you to intimate where it was lying, and to require assistance; for such is the high instinct of these animals towards one in peril.”
“Nay, if you think so, Doctor,” said Joceline —“and, doubtless, I must say, Bevis took an interest in the man — if indeed it was not something worse in the shape of Bevis, for methought his eyes looked wild and fiery97, as if he would have spoken.”
As he talked thus, Joceline rather hung back, and, in doing so, displeased98 the Doctor, who exclaimed, “Come along, thou lazy laggard99! Art thou a soldier, and a brave one, and so much afraid of a dead man? Thou hast killed men in battle and in chase, I warrant thee.”
“Ay, but their backs were to me,” said Joceline. “I never saw one of them cast back his head, and glare at me as yonder fellow did, his eye retaining a glance of hatred100, mixed with terror and reproach, till it became fixed101 like a jelly. And were you not with me, and my master’s concerns, and something else, very deeply at stake, I promise you I would not again look at him for all Woodstock.”
“You must, though,” said the Doctor, suddenly pausing, “for here is the place where he lies. Come hither deep into the copse; take care of stumbling — Here is a place just fitting, and we will draw the briars over the grave afterwards.”
As the Doctor thus issued his directions, he assisted also in the execution of them; and while his attendant laboured to dig a shallow and mishapen grave, a task which the state of the soil, perplexed102 with roots, and hardened by the influence of the frost, rendered very difficult, the divine read a few passages out of the funeral service, partly in order to appease103 the superstitious104 terrors of Joceline, and partly because he held it matter of conscience not to deny the Church’s rites to one who had requested their aid in extremity105.
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1
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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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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3
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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glut
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| n.存货过多，供过于求；v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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5
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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6
hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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scuds
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| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的第三人称单数 ) | |
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8
rustles
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| n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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10
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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11
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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13
apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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15
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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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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24
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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38
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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39
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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40
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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41
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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42
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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43
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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44
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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45
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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46
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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47
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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48
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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49
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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50
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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51
presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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52
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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53
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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54
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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55
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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56
poltroon
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| n.胆怯者；懦夫 | |
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57
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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58
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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59
appeasing
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的现在分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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60
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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61
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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63
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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68
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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70
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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72
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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73
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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74
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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76
buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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79
trespasser
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| n.侵犯者；违反者 | |
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80
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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82
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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83
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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84
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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85
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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86
curried
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| adj.加了咖喱（或咖喱粉的），用咖哩粉调理的 | |
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87
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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89
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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90
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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91
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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92
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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93
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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94
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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95
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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96
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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97
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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98
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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99
laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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100
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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101
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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102
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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103
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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104
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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105
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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