It was something of a relief to Gabriel to see the well-known spires2 and towers of Oxford3, but he had lived through so much since his undergraduate days that he felt like a returned ghost—aloof from all his past interests, alone in a crowd, remorselessly stared at and criticised by the inhabitants.
At the city gate they were halted while arrangements were made as to their reception. Gabriel was thankful enough for the brief respite4; for Norton’s treatment at Marlborough had set up keen pain in his old wound, while the thirty miles’ march from Devizes, bareheaded under a blazing sun, had given him a racking headache.
The last time he had passed out of Oxford by this gateway5, three years before, he had been riding home to Herefordshire with Ned Harley, little dreaming of the future that lay before them. He fell now to wondering whether Ned had recovered from the wound he had got at Lansdown, and whether the letter he had left with him had by this time reached his father at Hereford.
Just then the sound of a mellow6 voice, with a mocking ring about it which spoilt its pleasantness, roused him from his reverie.
“Well, Mr. Harford!” said Norton. “’Tis warm work, isn’t it? You seem exhausted7.”
Gabriel at once drew himself up with the undaunted look which had taken Prince Rupert’s fancy. He glanced at the prisoner with the bandaged head who leant heavily upon him, utterly8 spent with the march. The poor fellow, Passey by name, was one of his own men, and had been wounded and taken in the pursuit.
“This man is in far worse case,” he said. “But I know it is waste of breath to ask mercy of you, sir.”
Norton laughed. “You know me better than the day we spoke9 together at the gate of Wells. I told you I was not one to be baulked, and mark my words, Mr. Harford, the rest of my prophecy will follow in due time. I shall yet have the hanging of you.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Gabriel, stung into a bitter retort, “you seem better fitted to play the part of a hangman, sir, than that of an English gentleman.”
“Bravely said, Ecclesiastes! You have clearly studied under the most virulent10 Puritan preachers of the day,” said Norton, regarding his victim with an amused smile.
“Pardon me, sir,” said Gabriel, ashamed of his words, “I should have held my tongue, for, truth to tell, on first sight of you at Gloucester, I thought you——”
He broke off, puzzled by that same hint of a better nature which made itself visible in his enemy’s face, as if in response to his unspoken idea.
“You thought me as generous and good-hearted a man as ever you had clapped eyes on,” said Norton, laughing. “They all do on occasion, but quickly discover their mistake.”
He strolled away from the prisoners, and entering the alehouse hard by, called for a cup of claret.
“A second,” he said, when he had drained it. “Here, Tarverfield, you are always for pampering12 these rebels, take this to Mr. Harford, I’ll warrant his throat is as dry as a lime-kiln.” The Captain was willing enough to undertake the errand, and Norton saw the look of surprise on the prisoner’s face when he heard who had sent the claret.
But the next minute an oath burst from the Colonel’s lips. “Curse the fellow! doth he fancy himself at the Sacrament? He but tastes it and passes it on to that wounded wretch13 beside him, and he again to his neighbour.”
For the third time a twinge of shame dragged him for a little while out of the slough14 of brutality15 which threatened to engulph him, and once more there rose before him the vision of the dead wife he still loved, though his profligacy16 had broken her heart and brought her to the grave.
The incident drove from Gabriel’s mind the despair he had felt since passing the King. He insensibly learnt that in the most unlooked-for ways good would manifest itself in those who seemed most uncongenial, and thus with a brave heart went to meet the troubles that awaited him in Oxford Castle.
Prince Rupert had very truly observed that the prisoners of war were not pampered17. The cruelties of Provost-Marshal Smith, the Governor, had been revealed by the Lady Essex, who had been called into the House of Commons some six months before, and had given evidence on her return from Oxford of what the prisoners had to undergo. This had been fully18 confirmed by Captain Wingate, who after months of imprisonment19 at Oxford had obtained an exchange.
Still bound to Passey, Gabriel was ordered up to the highest room in one of the towers of the Castle with four other officers and six of the rank and file. The place seemed already full of men, and the exhausted prisoners looked round blankly enough, wondering how they were to find room in these wretched quarters.
The unhappy inmates20, however, gave them a warm welcome, and it was pitiful to see the way in which these half-famished men crowded round them, eager to gain some news from the outer world.
“Where do you come from?” demanded a grey-haired prisoner, seizing upon Gabriel.
“We lay at Marlborough last night, sir,” he replied, looking with something like awe21 at the emaciated22 face of the speaker.
“Marlborough!” cried the prisoner, his eyes lighting23 up; “I was carried off from Marlborough last winter.”
And he poured out question after question in the vain hope of gaining news of his family.
“But may you not receive visitors?” asked Gabriel, knowing that even criminals were not debarred from this privilege.
“We may see no one,” said the poor lawyer, for such he proved to be. “Come, you are unbound now, sit here and I will tell you what to expect.”
“With your permission, sir, I will first find some place for my companion to lie; he is wounded, and well-nigh spent.”
“I should stow him in yonder corner, next to the man with the fever,” said the lawyer, bitterly. “The air is so foul25 there that he’ll get a few inches more space.”
Gabriel went to reconnoitre the ground, but was fairly beaten back by the pestilent atmosphere.
“Any crowding is better than that,” he said. “Here, Passey, stretch yourself by the wall; maybe they will give us food presently.”
“Not till to-morrow morning,” said the lawyer; “and then the Provost-Marshal will not overfeed you, my friend. For though the King allows sixpence a day for the prisoners—a fair enough sum—this miserable26 governor of ours keeps for himself all but five farthings a head.”
“And what doth that furnish?” asked Gabriel, beginning to understand the lean and hungry looks of his companions.
“A pennyworth of bread, and a little can of a most vile24 mixture of beer and water,” said the lawyer.
Gabriel reflected that by the next morning hunger and thirst would probably be so keen that any diet would be endurable. To him the worst trial at present was the sickening atmosphere of the overcrowded room, which, to one accustomed to sleeping more often than not in the open air, seemed on this hot July night well-nigh insufferable. In a space measuring, perhaps, twenty feet square, some fifty prisoners were pent up night and day.
“’Twas here that Mr. Franklyn, Member of Parliament for Marlborough, died,” said the lawyer, in his melancholy28 voice, “and yonder man with the fever will scarce recover, I think. But hark! there is the curfew ringing, we shall have prayers before settling for the night.”
The prisoners all stood, and a short service, led by one of the captive officers, was held. It was this habit which kept the place from becoming the hell on earth which most prisons of the day were apt to become. And that grand simplicity29 which is the strength of Puritanism made its mighty30 influence felt, for all present, from the highest to the lowest, held the same religious ideal, and were ready to die for their conviction that each individual soul should have direct communion with God.
Wearied by all that he had undergone in the last few days, Gabriel soon slept with Falkland’s cloak wrapped about him, and though stretched on the bare boards of the prison floor, his sleep was more profound and restful than any that for many months had visited the careworn31 Secretary of State.
It was sheer hunger that at last disturbed him, and feeling stiff and miserable he raised himself, looking in a bewildered way round the room. The moonlight shone in patches on the grim stone walls, and on the strange spectacle of the prisoners lying in rows on the bare floor. The dismal32 sound of clanking fetters33 echoed through the place, when some of the men, who for attempted escape were heavily ironed, stirred in their sleep. The man with the fever was muttering and groaning34 horribly.
A sudden wave of realisation swept over Gabriel. He was in prison, and must starve and pine, and as likely as not die, in this horrible place, no longer a free agent, but wholly at the mercy of tyrants35. The bitterness of death seemed already to overwhelm him.
“Let me out! Let me out!” moaned the sick man in his delirium36 “My house is burning—my children—my wife! How can you do it, you fiends? Let me go home, I say! Let me out!”
Gabriel roused himself from the despair into which he had fallen, and picking his way cautiously across the forms of the sleeping prisoners, sat down beside the man with the fever. There was still a little water left in the earthenware37 mug near him, and, raising the poor fellow into an easier posture38, he held this to his parched39 lips.
“Where do you come from?” he asked.
“From Marlborough,” said the man, speaking rationally for a minute. “I was one of the wealthiest of the burgesses; my name is Rawlyns.” Then suddenly relapsing into his fevered ravings, “Let me out! Let me out! They are burning my home.”
“I came from Marlborough yesterday, and there was no house burning,” said Gabriel soothingly40. “Come, be at rest, you’ll need all your strength.”
His quiet words, and perhaps some subtle magnetism41 in his hands as he smoothed back the sick man’s hair, certainly calmed the poor fellow. The Hereford people always declared that Dr. Harford had what they called “the healing touch,” and possibly Gabriel had inherited a similar power. At any rate, the patient fell into a sound sleep, and his sore need had done much to chase despair from the mind of his helper.
Noiselessly he stole back to his former place and once more lay down, and as he mused11 over past and future there suddenly flashed into his mind the perception that here and now in this distasteful present the wish of his childhood had been granted. He had longed to be like his hero Sir John Eliot, and to give his life for the country’s freedom; and now, like Eliot, he was to languish42 in prison, debarred from air and exercise and all that makes life sweet.
Gazing at the sharp contrasts of shadow and moonlight on the Castle wall, an indescribable sense of strength and consolation43 came to him; for he grasped the truth that, however the war ended, even if for awhile utter defeat and ruin should overwhelm the cause, in the future Justice was bound to triumph, being Divine, and every sacrifice honestly made in her cause would prove to have been infinitely44 worth while, and would hearten future generations to resist everything which threatened the liberties so dearly bought.
Musing46 over Eliot’s imprisonment of nearly four years and his lonely death, musing over the eleven years’ imprisonment of Valentine and Strode, who still valiantly47 fought against the despotism of the King, he fell asleep once more, and never woke until the surly gaoler, Aaron, brought the day’s rations45, when, as he had foreseen, desperate hunger and thirst made the pennyworth of bread and the can of beer-and-water welcome enough.
But the unutterable tedium48 of the long, hot day in the stifling49 room seemed to him well-nigh unendurable, and when in the afternoon the gaoler threw open the door and shouted his name, he felt that even if the summons meant death he would hail it as a relief.
Without a word, Aaron fastened a pair of shackles50 round his ankles, and signed to him to follow up the steps leading to the top of the tower.
“I shall await you below,” he said, pushing the prisoner through the small opening on to the leads.
Gabriel drew in a deep breath of the fresh, sweet air. The tower was not battlemented in the ordinary way, but the high wall surrounding it was pierced on the north and south sides by openings. Standing51 by one of these, he perceived the short and somewhat insignificant-looking Secretary of State, and hurried forward with an eager exclamation52 of pleasure.
Falkland, who had always been entirely53 free from the arrogance54 of manner which characterised his class in those days, greeted the prisoner with his usual simplicity, and with that gentle sweetness of expression which was peculiarly his own.
“You must not hope much from my visit, Mr. Harford,” he said. “I have tried my best to plead for you, but I fear you will not see your way to accepting the conditions imposed. Prince Rupert, pleased with your soldierly bearing yesterday, begged to have you in his troop, and His Majesty55 deputed me to offer you his pardon on your consenting to serve under the Prince.”
As he spoke he looked searchingly at the prisoner, and read in his clear, undaunted eyes exactly what he had expected. The offer was not even a temptation to him—to accept it would have been a sheer impossibility.
“My lord,” said Gabriel, “for your kindness in remembering me amid all your arduous56 work I thank you heartily57; but for this offer—I feel sure you did not expect me to accept it.”
“In truth I did not, and told His Majesty as much with a bluntness he did not altogether like,” said Falkland. “Yet I can see that this prison life proves a hard trial to one of your temperament58.”
“’Tis hard for all of them,” said Gabriel. “Some of the poor fellows have already been cooped up in the room for seven months, having been taken at the siege of Marlborough, and they say the winter proved fatal to many, for they were allowed neither light nor firing. Just now the suffocating59 heat is the worst part of it, for the overcrowding is terrible.”
He pulled himself up abruptly60, not wishing to trouble his kindly61 visitor with complaints, but Falkland could well imagine what a purgatory62 the prison would prove to a man of refined tastes and of great natural reserve.
“Have you written any letters?” he asked. “If so, I will gladly have them sent for you. We must try to get you an exchange.”
“Paper and ink and books are all forbidden,” said Gabriel.
“There is literally63 nothing to do the livelong day, except, indeed, to try to slaughter64 the vermin. One of our officers managed to smuggle65 in his copy of Cromwell’s ‘Soldier’s Pocket Bible, but it is doubtful if he will be able to keep it, for the gaoler is a very dragon.”
“I brought you a couple of books,” said Falkland. “You will find them in the pockets of this coat, which you had best don here before the gaoler sees you again. Whether you elected to stay in prison or to fight under Prince Rupert I knew you would stand in need of a garment to replace the one they robbed you of.”
“My lord——” faltered66 Gabriel, touched inexpressibly by the thoughtful kindness which contrasted so sharply with the harshness he had lately encountered, “I wish I could thank you as I would—— He broke off, unable to find the words he wanted, and Falkland, with the smile that since the opening of the war had scarcely been seen, took advantage of the silence.
“Nay, no thanks,” he said. “But you shall do this for me, Mr. Harford; you shall tell me something I am eager to know. With your General hopelessly beaten and yourself a prisoner, made to suffer moral and physical torture, how was it that we found you tied up to the pillar in that church bearing the look of a conqueror67? Of what were you thinking?”
“One does not think much in pain,” said Gabriel. “I believe I thought most of Burton when he had his ears cut off.”
“Of Burton!” exclaimed Falkland, in astonishment68; for, though he disliked Archbishop Laud’s fussiness70 and disapproved71 of his system, he held men like Burton, Bastwick and Prynne in yet greater abhorrence72. Himself liberal-minded and moderate, both extremes offended his taste. It startled him to find that the prisoner, who was clearly not the type of man to interest himself in dogmatic theology, should speak of the ardent73 Puritan controversialist in such a way.
“What can have attracted you at such a time to Burton?” he asked.
“The words he used while he suffered,” said Gabriel, his colour rising a little.
“What were they?” said Falkland, gently.
“‘Seeing I have so noble a Captain that hath gone before me with so undaunted a spirit, shall I be ashamed of a pillory74 for Christ, who was not ashamed of a cross for me?’” quoted Gabriel, his eyes fixed75 on the gleaming river down below as it sped on its way to freedom and the sea.
Falkland watched in silence, coming nearer than he had ever done before to a comprehension of the true power of Puritanism, its direct appeal to the individual soul, the force, and simplicity, and strenuousness76 with which it laid siege not to the intellect and fine taste of the cultivated and learned few, but to the highest and noblest part in the nature of the mass of men.
He sighed heavily, only too conscious of the cruel loneliness that must always be the portion of those in his position during times of strife77.
“Think yourself a happy man, Mr. Harford,” he said. “You believe in your Cause.”
There was something in the sadness and isolation78 of the speaker that strongly appealed to Gabriel; he knew how bitterly the Parliamentarians condemned79 Falkland for forsaking80 his old allies, and he had learnt of late to understand how intolerable to a high-minded and scrupulously81 honourable82 man the office of Secretary of State to King Charles must be. It was impossible to be in Falkland’s presence without realising that he was, indeed, as commonly reported, “so severe an adorer of truth that he could as easily have given himself leave to steal as to dissemble.” The same deep admiration83 and love which he had learnt to feel for the Bishop69 of Hereford stirred in his heart now, as he felt the strong but indescribable influence of one who has the power of forming the highest ideals, and the courage to strive for their attainment84. There was, moreover, already in Falkland’s dark eyes, the pathos85 which tells of latent disease and an early death. He would strive for peace to the last, but the long and seemingly hopeless struggle had broken his heart.
“My lord,” said Gabriel, with some hesitation86, “there is a great favour I would ask at your hands.”
“If I can in any way serve you,” said Falkland, “nothing would please me more. But little enough seems permitted in Oxford Castle. Could you conceal87 more books? If so, I will gladly bring you more, for books are friends that bite no man’s meat or reputation.”
“It is that I cannot endure to think that Lord Harry88 Dalblane should have my favourite horse, Harkaway. If he could be in your hands——”
“A doubtful blessing89 for the horse,” said Falkland, smiling as he noted90 the eager, boyish face of his petitioner91. “For I tell you frankly27, Mr. Harford, I ever ride where the danger is the hottest, and am in the case of Job when he cried, ‘Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery92, and life unto the bitter in soul: which long for death but it cometh not, and dig for it more than for hid treasures.’”
Gabriel was too thoroughly93 healthy in body and mind to grasp the full import of the words; he thought the speaker only referred to that brief and natural craving94 for freedom which assails95 everyone in the extremity96 of pain, whether mental or physical. He himself had so quickly overcome the craving at Hereford and at Edgehill that it never occurred to him that one so immeasurably his superior could not also overcome it.
But the surgeon at Marlborough had surmised97 rightly enough; Falkland, handicapped in the race by months of sleeplessness98, could only see that his present position was untenable, could only yearn99 to exchange the prolonged and thankless suffering of one who metaphorically100 stands between two fires, for a literal and brief riding forth101 alone between the two armies, welcoming a bullet in the heart from Royalist or Parliamentarian, since with both alike he was out of harmony.
“I shall be sending a messenger to the West to-morrow,” he said, after a minute’s silence. “If you will give me your father’s address I will myself write to him and tell him what has befallen you. Since you are known to Sir Ralph Hopton and Sir William Waller, and since your father and Sir Robert Harley are lifelong friends, it will assuredly be possible in time to get you exchanged. And for your horse, I will speak to Lord Harry about it ere he goes to the siege of Bristol. An you wish it, I will myself ride Harkaway.”
So they parted, the prisoner to return to his stifling and noisome102 quarters, the Secretary of State to the equally uncongenial atmosphere of the Court and the presence of a King whose obstinacy103 and insincerity made it hard, even for Falkland, who was noted for the sweet graciousness of his manners, to refrain from sharp words and caustic104 comments.
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1
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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12
pampering
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| v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的现在分词 ) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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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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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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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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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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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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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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42
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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43
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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44
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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46
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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47
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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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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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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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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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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fussiness
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| [医]易激怒 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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strenuousness
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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petitioner
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| n.请愿人 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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assails
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| v.攻击( assail的第三人称单数 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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99
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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100
metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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101
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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102
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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103
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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104
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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