“We helped her with the linen,” she said, “but I fear this is a more difficult matter; but it makes my heart bleed for the poor innocent and she only twelve years old. We can manage to feed her, but the child will pine away shut up there. I cannot think what to do.”
“The thing would be to get Mistress Audry back,” said Janet. “That would be something.”
“Ay, that would it,” Elspeth assented1.
They talked it over for some time and Elspeth decided2 that she would try and say something in an indirect way to Master Mowbray, which might result in his sending for his daughter.
When she was gone John turned to his mother,—“Mother, somehow I believe Walter Margrove is the man to help us, and he told us to let him hear how things283 went and they have gone a deal worse than any of us could have dreamed. He knows the world and he knows, too, what the real risk is. Even if Mistress Audry comes back, methinks that will not alter the true danger.”
“Ay,” said his mother, “but Master Walter was here but yesterday, how are we to get him?”
John thought for a time and then said,—“I have no regular work here and Silas, who sees to my hours, is one of our faith. I would even risk telling him something; although I need not say it is for Mistress Aline that I want to see Walter.”
“But how would you find Walter even if you did consult Silas?” said his mother.
“That should not be difficult,” said John. “He always calls at Carlisle on his rounds and I think I heard him say that he expected to be there this time within a sennight. In any case, however, he gets there long enough before he gets here. He generally stays with one, Timothy Fenwick, at the sign of the Golden Keys.”
“How will you go,” said his mother, “round by Middleton?”
“No, it is such a long way round; I shall keep this side the river.”
“What, with all this snow!”
“Yes, if I can get off to-day; the sky is clear and the weather set and the snow hard.”
“Well, good-bye, my boy. God bless you and I trust the Lord will grant you success.”
John Arnside obtained the permission with no trouble at all, made himself up a bundle, put it on a stick over his shoulder, kissed his mother and set off.
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Fortune favoured him and on the third day he was in Carlisle without mishap3.
He enquired5 for the Golden Keys and easily found the house, but Walter was not there. He found, however, a man seated by the fire; he was of medium height, lightly built and well proportioned. He looked very ill and was holding one knee with his hands as he leaned back, and was gazing into the fire with his deep set eyes.
“Come and sit by the fire, lad, the day is cold.”
John came as invited. “I heard you asking for Walter Margrove,” said the stranger, “he will not be here for some time. I hope your business is not of importance.”
“Well,” said the boy, “I must just wait, unless you could tell me where he is to be found.”
“That could not I,” replied the other. “I know he was going to Newcastle and then up Tyne and down Tees; after that I think he was going to Skipton and West to Clitheroe and then North. He should be somewhere on the Tees now, I reckon, perhaps down as far as Rokeby.”
“Do you know the Tees?” said John.
The man lifted his grey deep set eyes; they had a far away look in them, as though he did not see the boy before him. They were watching the Tees come over the High Force and the rainbow that hung in the quivering spray.
“Yes, I know the Tees,” he said at length. “I know the Tees.
“Do you know the Tees?” he went on; and it seemed to John that the hollow eyes in the sick man’s face285 looked at him hungrily. “Maybe you come from those parts yourself.”
“I do,” said John; “I was born and bred in Upper Teesdale.”
“What is your name?”
“John Arnside.”
The man looked at him and then the sad eyes seemed to brighten a little. “John Arnside, son of Janet Arnside?” he asked.
“Yes,” said John, wondering what was coming next.
The man got up and closed the door softly, he then came back and held out his hand to the boy. “I am so glad to see you, John; I know about you. I heard you asking for Walter Margrove, and oh,” he continued, apprehensively6, “I do hope it is nothing about Mistress Aline that brings you here. Yes, I know quite well who you are and you may trust me.”
John’s was a simple nature and not easily suspicious; he just hesitated a moment and then reflected that if he merely said what was known to every one he could not do any harm. Walter Margrove’s part in the matter, he could keep for the present as a second string to his bow.
“They say that Mistress Aline is a heretic,” he said, “and they are going to burn her.”
The man clutched at the table to try and prevent himself from falling; the shock was so terrible in his weak condition; but he slipped back and was only saved by the boy catching8 him as he fell.
“O God,” he exclaimed, “not so, not so.”
He then made a tremendous effort and pulled himself together, but it was enough for John, there was no286 doubt that this stranger was in some way as interested in Aline’s welfare as himself.
“We must save her then,” said the stranger in a steady voice, while within him his thoughts and feelings tossed as in a storm.
“Marry though, what are we to do?”
“Let us sit down and think— Now look you here; it is not easy to think quickly, but we must act quickly. Can you get speech of Mistress Aline?”
“No,” answered John; “she is confined to her room, but old Elspeth sees her.”
“Can you write, John?”
“Gramercy no, Master, you would hardly expect the likes of me to be able to do that.”
“Well, you must get her my letter, somehow, and, furthermore, tell me what you yourself are willing to do for Mistress Aline.”
“I would give my life for her,” said John simply.
“Then,” said the other, looking him straight in the face, “you must hie you home at once and I will follow as soon as I can be ready. Keep a sharp look-out for the inquisitors and, if I do not come before them, you must get speech of her by hook or by crook9 and tell her that I, James Mitchell, told you that she must reveal to you our secret and that you must feed her. She will know what that means and you must do as she bids you. Indeed, if you get there before me, you had better do this in any case.”
“Surely I will; how could I other?”
“Marry then, hasten; for, even now we know not what an hour may bring forth10. We must not wait for Walter, though he would have been our best aid. God speed thy287 feet, John; my heart goes with thee and I myself shall follow hard after thee.”
Without more ado John took his small bundle and started off at once.
Ian was nearly beside himself, the shock had brought on the pains in his head and he put his hands to his throbbing11 brows and strove to think. His money had all gone; how was he to act? Certainly the first thing was to get the child away somewhere, but how even was that to be done without horses? If only Margrove and his horses had been to hand! But that was a vain wish. Of course she could be concealed12 in the secret room, but he felt this was too perilous13. There was risk enough in feeding him when Aline and Audry had been in the house. Suspicion would be roused tenfold if Aline were simply to disappear. John would certainly be seen, sooner or later, carrying food to the gully. Mortifying14 as the discovery of old Moll had been, it was a mercy to be forewarned. No, it might do as a very temporary expedient15, but no more.
Of course it might be just within the bounds of possibility to get horses from Holwick Hall itself; but failure would mean absolute and irretrievable disaster. No again, nothing must be left to chance. Suddenly a thought struck him, there were horses on the estate where Andrew Woolridge worked. Possibly Andrew might help him and, if not, the risk was comparatively small.
This then decided him. He would set out immediately; but there was one more thing to consider. Should he say anything to the boy, Wilfred? It was true, he argued, that the more people that knew, the greater the chance of discovery. But on the other hand, if anything288 should happen to him, how was Aline to be saved? After all there was still Walter Margrove, who would surely attempt to do something. Finally he went and found Wilfred.
“Wilfred,” he said, “I want to ask a favour of thee.”
“That mayest thou well ask, Master Mitchell.”
“Well, I shall not tell thee more than that it concerns a matter of life and death, so that if any enquire4 of thee, there will be little that thou canst say, however they question thee. But when Walter Margrove cometh, tell him that Mistress Aline is in great jeopardy17 and let him do that which seemeth him best and may the Lord quicken his steps.”
“What, the little lady of whom they were talking one night not long syne18?”
“Yes, that same; now be faithful to us, Wilfred.”
“But, Master Mitchell, thou art not going to leave us,” said the boy piteously. “After all that thou hast done for us that cannot be. See, prithee let me come with thee an thou must go.”
Ian considered for a moment as to whether the boy might be a help or a hindrance19 and decided that it would rather complicate20 matters than otherwise to take him.
“No, Wilfred, it cannot be,” he said; “but thou mightest, so far as thou art able, go out on the road to Brampton when thou art not at work and keep a look-out for me coming from Alston or Kirkoswald between the third and the seventh day from now.
“Indeed thou mightest do better. I will show thee more. Keep thine eyes and ears open for all the gossip of the city. I know thee well enough to know that thou289 wouldst not see any one burned alive and I go to save one from the burning. If thou hearest aught of inquisitors come as far south along the road as thou mayest.”
Wilfred bade good-bye and promised by all that was holy that he would do everything that he could.
Ian had decided to take nothing but one small wallet, as less likely to rouse suspicion, and started off. What was his horror, before he had gone ten paces from the door, to see a group of black robed figures on horseback approaching the hostelry, and his horror increased to terror when he recognised one of the figures as Father Austin, who had superintended, when he himself had been tortured in York.
The keen shrewd face shewed instant recognition in spite of Ian’s altered appearance. “Whither away, Ian Menstrie? Come return to the hostelry with us and have a talk with an old friend.” An evil smile of triumph spread over his face and he added quietly but firmly to his attendants,—“That is the man we have sought these many months, our Lady hath delivered him into our hands.”
Ian said nothing, but Wilfred, who was still standing21 at the door, said,—“That is not Ian Menstrie, that is Master James Mitchell.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Mitchell,” said Father Austin sarcastically22, bowing from his horse.
“My name is Ian Menstrie,” said Ian.
“You have varying names then, like a gaol-bird,” replied the inquisitor with a sneer23.
“We shall have two for our burning, perdy!” he290 continued to his companion. “It will make a right merrie blaze. What think you, Father Martin?”
“Burning’s too good for them; I would give them a taste of something first. As for that young witch up in Holwick, the Devil will be sorry to see her in Hell before her time. If she had lived to grow up, she would have charmed men’s souls to Satan more surely than any siren ever charmed a mariner24.”
“If we burn the body shall we not save the soul?” said Father Austin.
“That doctrine25 liketh me not; no, Father, methinks in these cases we do but hasten the final judgment26.”
“Have a care, friend, lest these be heresies27 also.”
“I a heretic! That is a mirthful jest.” Then looking toward Ian he went on,—“As for this fellow, he seems a sickly creature; I reckon by the looks of him that he has not long to live. But it is good for the souls of the faithful that he should blaze to the glory of God rather than die in his bed. Marry, methinks he is like enough to faint even now.”
Nothing but Ian Menstrie’s iron will indeed prevented it. The pains shot through his head like knives and his back and joints28 ached as though red hot with fire, but it was nothing to the anguish29 of his heart; yet he felt that his only chance was to keep up somehow.
He would have died on the rack some five months ago had it not been for his sheer strength of will. He had done it before, he would do it again; he would defy them yet.
Great cold beads30 of perspiration31 stood on his forehead, but he held himself erect32. “Is it Timothy Fenwick’s hostelry you seek, gentlemen?”
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There was a touch of defiance33, even of scorn, in the lordly ring of his voice. Father Austin knew only too well that, clever as he was himself, he was no match for this man, who had beaten him once; “But he shall not escape me this time,” he said to himself, and having already alighted, he followed into the hostelry. “The day is past its prime,” he remarked, “and we have caught our main game. We have come far and there is no haste. We will bide34 here and rest till Wednesday; the little bird at Holwick will not flutter far, I warrant ye.”
It amused Father Austin to have Ian with them at meals to taunt35 him and to gloat over his own triumph. Ian realised that he would have little chance unless he were well nourished, so he fell in with their scheme and humoured them. At first he would talk brightly to the others and then, as he was an excellent raconteur36 and had a pretty wit, he made himself such good company that they could ill spare him. He played with Father Austin, assuming an attitude of deference37 and fear with an anxious desire to please; but if he wanted to retire to rest, he would lead him into an argument and when the father was worsted he would order the guards to take Ian to his room.
Again, by extraordinary will power, he would achieve the almost impossible feat38 of forcing himself to sleep. It was Aline’s only chance, he argued; and in that way he almost miraculously39 overcame the raging torments40 of his mind.
By the Wednesday he had even recovered slightly and felt rather like one going into battle than like a beaten man. He had thought out several plans; but the292 best one was to try and contrive42 to cross the ford43 of the Eden when it was getting dark. For this some delay was necessary, and he even managed to whisper to Wilfred unobserved, while he set the company off into boisterous44 and uncontrollable laughter, that he should loosen one of the horse’s shoes. He reckoned further to be able to do something more in the way of delay by his powers of conversation.
Another part of his scheme was to put his captors off the scent45, if he should succeed in making his escape, and therefore he took occasion to remark; “Well, Father, and when we set out on our travels, whither are we bound? Is it south we shall be going?”
“Forsooth, man, you do not think we should go north, do you?”
“No, may be not; but I should like to see Scotland again.”
“Trouble not yourself, you will never see Scotland more; and when next I visit Scotland the Regent Mary will be glad to hear that her daughter has one heretic the less among her subjects.”
“But what if I should reach Scotland first,” said Ian jocularly. “That might spoil the pleasure of your visit.”
“There is no fear of that,” replied the other.
“Bishop Bonner may think differently from yourself,” Ian rejoined; “it is not every heretic that even Bonner burns. There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip; and Bonner might send me to Scotland if I promised to stay there. I warrant if once I were on that side again, there would be little temptation to come over.”
“Come, this is no time for talking, we must be off,” said Father Austin.
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All fell out as Ian had planned; the shoe was quite loose and before they had reached the city gate, Ian said to Father Martin, “Methinks, Father, your mare46 will shortly cast her shoe.”
So they returned to the hostelry where there was a smithy. Ian then succeeded in getting them all interested in a thrilling narrative47 just as the mare was ready, and put off the time until it seemed best to stay and have dinner before starting. More stories lengthened48 the meal, so that it was not till well on in the afternoon of the short winter day that they actually set out.
Ian was placed in the middle, surrounded by the guards, with loaded pistols, and his hands were tied, but not very tightly, as they allowed him to hold the reins49. Try as he would he could not help the violent beating of his heart. Could he, one man, unarmed and bound, outwit all these knaves50? The vision of little Aline rose before him. “I must fight the very fates,” he said to himself, “verily, I must win.” His thoughts travelled back to those days, long ago, when as a mere7 child he had given his heart-worship to the beautiful girl who had gone from him, but whom he had loved with a passionate52 devotion ever since. He had said practically nothing to Aline, but he was sure that he knew whence the strange likeness53 came; and for the double claim that she had upon him, fate, that had so cruelly treated him long ago, should be made to yield. He felt the strength of his own will like a white fire and then he trembled for a moment lest he should be fighting against God. “O Lord,” he prayed, “Thou hast brought me on this road and Thou hast made this lovely child; let her not perish by the machinations of294 evil men. Take my life, O God, give me all torture and the terrible burning, but grant her happiness.”
He felt a sudden influx54 of power and prayed again a prayer of thankfulness. “Yes,” he said, “I will bend fate to my will and God will smile on my struggle and then I will yield myself to Him and He shall toss me into the void or do unto me in my despite whatsoever55 seemeth Him good.”
It was a long road and the spirits of the party flagged. It was, moreover, bitterly cold, but Ian had not dared to put on more clothing for fear that it should defeat his plans. There had been a thaw56 and he watched anxiously for the river. He had succeeded during the long ride, in very considerably57 loosening the cord that tied his wrists, and although it was still quite tight round one wrist and he could not be certain of freeing the other, he was sure that he could slip it sufficiently58 to get twenty to thirty inches of free play between his hands. He had managed, too, greatly to fray59 the portion that would be the connecting piece.
It was getting dusk when they reached the river, and, owing to the recent heavy weather and thaws60, the ford was so high that the water was more than up to the horses’ girths. Ian’s heart beat more violently than ever; it seemed almost as though it could be heard. “Aline, Aline, had she no more reliable deliverer than himself?”
As they crossed, the horses had to pick their way and they spread out a good deal so that they were almost in a line, with Ian in the middle, who managed also to coax61 his horse a little bit down the stream. He then nerved himself for the supreme62 effort and, first jerking295 his horse back almost on to its haunches, so as to give in the gloom the appearance of the animal having stumbled, he flung himself from its back shrieking,—“Help, help,” as he went. As soon as the water closed over him he struck out and swam under water as far as he possibly could. Unfortunately the cord did not break as he hoped and the swimming was exceedingly difficult, but there was sufficient play of cord to make the feat quite possible, and the swift current helped him not a little.
It was perhaps fortunate that nearly all the pistols were discharged at once, before he came to the surface, as they were fired at random64 into the confused water round the horse, which had some difficulty in regaining65 its footing.
When he rose he immediately took a breath and went under again. Only one man was looking in that direction and he did not seriously think that the dark spot in the turbid66 river was really anything; where occasionally a half hidden boulder67 would appear above the water. But he took aim, more or less mechanically or from intuition, and fired, and the bullet actually grazed Ian’s shoulder.
Before he had appeared again the little company had turned to the riderless horse and those who had lances were prodding68 into the deeps of the river. Again he swam under water; it was still very shallow and he bruised69 himself several times more or less severely70 on the boulders71 in the river bed. He did this twice more and the water grew deeper; and then he ventured to glance back. They were already but dimly visible and he knew that he himself was out of sight, so he slowly296 made for the bank with some difficulty across the current. When he reached the bank they were no longer to be seen, and he was glad to get out of the icy water. But the air was miserably72 cold, even more trying, as is often the case, than during the frost itself.
He was only two miles from Andrew’s cottage, which he had once visited, and he wondered whether it would be safe for him to go there at once. After all, the risk was about as great one way as another. Besides, he hoped that they would think he was drowned and, even if they did not, that they would think he would endeavour to make his way north to Scotland. In any case it would not take him long to perish from exposure. Of course, he would have to cross his enemies’ tracks and he decided to keep near the water’s edge as at least affording some chance of escape. He soon managed to get rid of the cord that tied his hands and crept along by the wooded banks looking and listening intently.
After a few minutes he heard voices and they grew louder; he lay down on the brink73 and waited a moment. In the still evening they could be heard quite distinctly.
“Oh, the fellow is drowned right enough,” said one of the voices.
“Yes, curse the knave51,” said the other voice, which was that of Father Austin. “It grieveth me sore. Mother Church hath missed an opportunity for a great lesson. I would even that we had his corpse74, it would be something to show; and at the least I should get the credit for the bringing of the loon75 to his death. I am greatly afeared lest he may have gotten away to Scotland. Did he not say something to me himself about297 Scotland and the slip twixt cup and lip? He is a deep one as I know to my cost. I would that this had happened earlier in the day. It will be quite dark in about half an hour. Beshrew me, how came it that the rogue76 was not tied?”
“His wrists were tied, Father,” said the other voice. “I noticed that just before we came to the river.”
“Oh, I meant tied to the horse, but who would have thought of such a thing! However, if the wrists were tied, belike it may have been an accident and the knave must be dead. I trow it was but a dog’s chance. Besides, one of those bullets must have hit him. The body must have been swept down stream.”
The surmise77 about the bullet was true enough, as Ian knew to his cost, and the wound was an added pain. “It is wonderful what the human frame can stand,” he said to himself. “I cannot think how I am alive at all. I must win this game somehow and the next move is mine.”
He slowly lowered himself into the water. The men had stood still, a little higher up the stream, not twenty yards from where he was. It was a trying test to his nerves, but he hoped he was concealed by the brushwood on the flooded bank.
He waited awhile and heard them discuss how a few of the party would try and make search in the direction of Scotland and the remainder go south. Apparently78 they were waiting for some of the others to join them and the conversation turned to other subjects.
Ian was standing on the bottom, but had to work his arms all the time to prevent himself from being carried down by the current. His teeth chattered79 and his298 fingers were numb80 with the pain of the cold. “If I stay here any longer,” he thought, “the cold will finish me.” So he struck out and by the aid of the brushwood swam within a foot or two of where they were standing. It was an anxious moment and although the stream was slacker near the bank it was slow work. But he passed them unobserved, although he experienced a tumultuous wave of feeling when the conversation stopped short for an instant and he feared that they were listening.
But at last he judged that it might be safe to creep out, and at first he crawled and then walked quietly, but finally broke into a run, as much for the cold as for any other reason; and, in twenty minutes from the time he started running, he found himself at Andrew’s cottage.
It was in a secluded81 spot, quite near the river, and about a third of a mile from the Hall where Andrew was employed. He crept softly to the window and peeped in. Andrew was there alone. So he knocked at the door.
Andrew’s astonishment82 was immense as he opened the door and still more so when he saw that his visitor was dripping wet.
“Can you let me have some dry clothes, Andrew, and help me to get warm, and provide me with something for the inner man?”
“That I can, Master Mitchell,” and Andrew bestirred himself, brought the clothes and made up a roaring fire and prepared a simple but appetising supper.
When Ian had finished he stretched out his feet to the cheerful blaze. It was tempting83 to stay and rest299 after all his sufferings. The wound in his shoulder was very painful, although Andrew had bandaged it, and the sundry84 cuts and bruises85 made him feel very stiff. But there was much to be done and no time to be lost.
He talked things over with Andrew, very cautiously, as he was not sure what line he would take. It so happened that the Hall was nearly empty; the family and their immediate16 entourage were South during the winter and the reeve was away on business with two of the other men; so Andrew’s help in getting the horses was not needed after all. Ian led him into all kinds of general gossip about the place and discovered how many horses were kept and where the stables were, without exciting any suspicion. Andrew offered to come with him to Holwick, but Ian doubted whether it would not make matters more and not less difficult and Andrew’s disappearance86 would itself give a clue.
Luck favoured him, he found that the man who had charge of the horses, while the reeve was away, was a drunken fellow, whose cottage was not far from Andrew’s on the way to the Hall. Owing to the absence of the reeve he was having a more dissipated time even than usual. It was his custom to see to the horses the last thing at night, and Ian determined87 on an attempt to get the better of him.
Without explaining his movements to Andrew he said it was time for him to be going, and he set out into the darkness. There was just enough starlight to find his way and he soon reached Jock’s cottage. The man had not returned, so Ian crouched88 down behind a tree to wait for him.
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He was trembling with excitement and apprehension89 and was disturbed in spirit about the part of the venture in which he was engaged. He was deliberately90 setting out to steal the horses and he felt that it was a sin. He did not try to justify91 himself, although he had determined that he would make all possible reparation so that the owner of the horses would not suffer. He had written a note to his mother which he had given to Andrew, just saying that if his adventure should miscarry and Andrew did not hear from him shortly, he was to take it to Stirling and ask for some relatives of his of the name of Menstrie, as he had no relatives named Mitchell still alive. In the letter he had said that she was to clear his honour as far as was possible by replacing the horses if death should overtake him.
Yet he did not feel that this in the least altered the crime; but he argued to himself, that if the crime did not hurt any one that it was only his own soul that would suffer. For that he was absolutely ready. He would gladly give his life for Aline, would he not also gladly give his soul? It was a great shock to his naturally upright nature and when he had lied to Andrew and told him that he was going to make his way south on foot, and while his blood boiled with shame within him, he yet welcomed the sacrifice. “She shall have my honour and my good name, she shall have my soul indeed as well as my life. Fate may crush me in eternal torment41 at the last or annihilate92 me altogether; but Aline must escape these fiends; she must live to be happy. Sweet little child-heart, who never did any wrong to any one and whose short life has been so sad301 and who yet has only been sunshine in the lives of others, why should she be cheated out of her due?”
As he wrestled93 with himself Jock came stumbling from side to side down the path, babbling94 incoherently. Ian braced95 himself for the struggle and, as the man opened the door and entered the cottage, Ian stole in after him. He was utterly96 unprepared and, as Ian leaped upon him from behind, he gave one wild shriek63 and collapsed97. Ian tied his hands and feet with his own cord that he had saved, put the man on the bed and secured the key of the stable.
He had comparatively little difficulty in getting out the two best horses, taking the precaution of tying some sacking over their hoofs98 so as to lessen99 the noise. Fortunately the wind was rising and a storm of rain was clearly on its way.
Before leaving he fastened a note at the stall-head:
“I require these horses but will replace them when I reach Scotland. Necessity knows no law.
One in great need.”
He took the horses first in a northerly direction as though making for Scotland, so that their tracks might throw pursuers off the scent. Then when he reached the harder road, he followed it only a little way and turned back south. Finally he struck over the high ground to the west, hoping to get into another district altogether, where any travellers that he might meet would not carry any description to the neighbourhood of Kirkoswald.
It meant a considerable detour100 and the inquisitors had a long start as well; but he felt so certain that they302 would rest somewhere for the night, that he felt very little alarm. Shortly afterwards the rain came down heavily and he trusted that this would at least help to obliterate101 the tracks.303
304
THE UPPER COURT SHOWING TERRACE AND TURRET-STAIR TO ALINE’S ROOM
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decided
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mishap
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crook
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forth
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throbbing
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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15
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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19
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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20
complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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21
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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22
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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23
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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24
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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25
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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29
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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30
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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32
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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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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34
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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35
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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36
raconteur
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| n.善讲故事者 | |
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37
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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38
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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40
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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41
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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42
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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46
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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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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53
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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54
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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55
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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57
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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58
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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59
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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thaws
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| n.（足以解冻的）暖和天气( thaw的名词复数 )；（敌对国家之间）关系缓和v.（气候）解冻( thaw的第三人称单数 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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61
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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62
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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63
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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67
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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68
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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69
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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71
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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73
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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74
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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75
loon
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| n.狂人 | |
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76
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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77
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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78
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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79
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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81
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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82
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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83
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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84
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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85
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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86
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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87
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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88
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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90
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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91
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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92
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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93
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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94
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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95
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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96
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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97
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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98
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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99
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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100
detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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101
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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