She was not confined in the regular gaol of the town; for nigh two months past that had been filled to overflowing3. Those arrested within the last few weeks, together with the unfortunates sent on from Exeter in the van of the dread-inspiring Jeffreys, were lodged4 in convenient sheds and storehouses, situated5 in various parts of the town; bare, dreary6 places with little or no suitable accommodation for the wretches7 herded8 within their walls, but affording enough shelter in the opinion of the authorities for rebels during the short interval9 which must elapse before their trial.
The building wherein Barbara awoke was a large wooden shed, originally a storehouse for wool, some few bales of which still remained piled in the corners. A large door closely guarded and windows high in the roof were the only means of egress10, and no provision for the accommodation of the inmates11 had been made beyond a few straw pallet-beds for the women prisoners, roughly screened from the rest of the shed by a dilapidated piece of sacking. Even in the most hopeless moments since her arrest Barbara had calculated on nothing so dismal12 as this.
She had slept late after the fatigues13 of the previous day, and when at length she awoke, the other occupants of her corner had already risen, and passed beyond the partition into the shed.
Barbara seated herself on the edge of her bed and stared forlornly at the bare wall opposite.
"Well! Many better women have been in worse plights14, there is not a doubt. I must e'en comfort myself with that," was her verdict after musing15 some minutes upon her situation. "Now let me see. Rupert would say that the duty of every woman under every circumstance is to look her fairest, but there seemeth little scope for that maxim16 here, and I see not wherein lies the vantage of tending one's looks when here is no mirror to show the result. However, for lack of other advice I'll e'en follow Rupert's."
Having come to this laudable conclusion, Barbara opened her bundle and proceeded to arrange her curls, and make such improvements in her toilet as the scanty17 means at her disposal allowed. This done she drew aside the partition and stepped into the room beyond.
It was a curious sight that met her eyes. The shed was totally destitute18 of furniture, unless as such might be designated the few bales of wool and some bundles of straw, used by the prisoners indiscriminately as couch, chair, or table.
The place served as lodging19 for about fifty prisoners, many of whom had been from two to three weeks in captivity20. The majority of them were rough, ignorant peasants, who, having faithfully followed their leaders into a quarrel which they themselves but half comprehended, now awaited their doom21 with that same half-puzzled, stolid22 patience and dogged courage which had helped them already to face death on the fatal field of Sedgemoor.
There were some, too, of the yeoman class, some of the richer townsfolk, and here and there a noncomformist divine, but save perhaps in a certain intelligence and eagerness of expression, there was nothing to distinguish the man of learning or station from the poorest peasant. All alike were dirty, ragged23, and dishevelled; unshaven, unwashed, with ill-kempt beards and hair. Existence in such a prison, following in many cases upon days of homeless wanderings, had wrought24 this levelling effect upon them all. Their money, what little they once possessed25, was long ago exhausted26. They could pay their gaolers for neither books, amusements, nor drink. They talked little; what was there to talk of? For the most part they were plunged27 in the deepest apathy28. They had fought, they had failed; now they awaited what was to come in silence. They showed no fear, no despair, no hope, only a great patience.
Barbara gazed on the scene with the utmost astonishment29 and indignation. Were these men, indeed, the same wild enthusiasts30 who a while ago had so eagerly cheered Monmouth through the streets of Taunton? Aye, and not only cheered him, but aided him loyally, leaving work, home, wife, children, and all, that they might follow him and strike a blow for the Cause. Were these indeed those who, armed but with stake or scythe31, had made such a gallant32 stand against the best disciplined troops of the country; those who (men were forced to confess) would but for an accident, undoubtedly33 have won an unprecedented34 victory? Could these indeed be the same? She stared with anger and scorn at their silence, their apathy, their unkempt looks. Her ardent35 young nature had no understanding of this submission36 to the Inevitable37; she had not yet learned that an Inevitable might exist.
Her birth and breeding afforded her no comprehension of the stolid bravery of the peasantry. The farther man is removed from the natural state, the greater the advance he has made in civilisation38, so much the more does he deem it necessary to hide his emotions beneath an artificial mask, to seem to be that which he is not. A century later in the massacres39 in Paris the victims were for the most part nobles and gentlemen; they went to their doom bravely, with a smile in their eyes, a jest upon their lips. In this great Rebellion of the West the victims were the poorest of the peasantry; they faced their doom no less bravely, but they faced it gravely, in silence.
Barbara's family traditions had taught her nothing of this. She had expected her fellow prisoners to be a company of merry dare-devils such as her brother Rupert, or Sir Peter Dare, men who laughed at danger, mocked their gaolers, and turned misfortune, nay40, death itself, into a subject for jest. Men, too, who could fight fiercely and endure bravely on occasion, yet would scorn to appear serious in any circumstances (save perchance when discussing the set of a doublet or the colour of a bow), and who looked upon gravity as a sign of cowardice41. Such were the rebels she knew, the rebels she had dreamed of, gay, careless, defiant42 to the end; not such as these, silent, sunk in a helpless submission to their fate. She could not understand. She looked round upon them in indignation, her lips curled in scorn.
But while she stood there surveying the scene she had herself been the subject of observation; presently one of the prisoners approached her and interrupted her meditations43.
"What are you doing in this place, my child?" he asked gently.
The speaker was a small, spare man, with bushy white hair and beard, a face seamed and lined with age, yet full of kindliness44 and humour, with a pair of bright, piercing eyes; a face calculated to win friends or to daunt45 foes46.
Barbara turned to him at once as to an old friend; his voice invited confidence.
"I was arrested but yesterday, sir, on a charge of sheltering rebels, and I am here, as the rest of the company, to await my trial."
"You are very young, but you have a stout47 heart," he said, smiling kindly48.
"Why, sir, I hope so," answered Barbara cheerfully. "I am Barbara Winslow of Durford Manor49, and no Winslow yet was ever written coward," she added proudly, with a scornful glance round the shed.
"Noblesse oblige," he quoted, smiling at her sadly. "Ah, child, your strength may seem great, but trust not in it too wholly, lest in the hour of darkness it prove but a broken reed."
Barbara was puzzled. "What mean you, sir? Sure, 'tis not sinful to be brave for a name's sake."
"Nay, I say not that," he answered gently. "There be three qualities that have power to beget50 a courage unto death—Faith, Love, and Pride. But of these three only the courage born of Faith has never been known to fail. Yet whencesoever it springs, courage is the gift of God and a blessing51 to man, and as such must be honoured."
Barbara looked at him curiously52.
"You are a divine, sir, are you not?"
"Yes, I am indeed a servant of the Lord, though for many years I have been withheld53 from openly preaching His word. For fifty years I have lived and worked secretly among the miners of the Mendip Hills, and when they marched to support the defender54 of our religion, I followed to give them the comfort of my words. I thank God that I shall follow them to the end. Ah, child," he continued earnestly, "you cannot understand what it is to be silenced, to be dumb, as 'twere, for twenty-three years; to be torn to pieces 'twixt the burning in my heart to speak the Word, the fear in my breast of meeting the punishment. It is worth a thousand deaths to have had at last this chance of testifying once again to the truth."
Barbara looked at him gravely.
"No," she said, "I do not understand."
His earnestness vanished. He gave a soft resigned sigh and smiled at her, as at a child.
"No, you do not understand; you are young and fearless."
"It should be easy to me to be courageous55," she answered lightly. "I have nought56 to fear. 'Tis for me but some few days in prison, and then perchance a fine. In justice they can do no more."
He smiled at her a trifle sadly.
"Aye, child, as you say, in justice they could do no more."
She looked up at him doubtfully, but forbore to question further the meaning of his words.
"But these folk," she continued, looking round, "have doubtless more to fear."
"There is indeed little hope for them this side the grave," he answered calmly, "save for a speedy and merciful death."
Barbara was startled.
"Surely not so—and yet—I had not thought on't," she muttered. "Verily, sir, if this be true, my scorn was ill-timed, they have courage. They are but rude peasants, with neither pride of birth nor name to strengthen their hearts, yet they await death as calmly as any noble. How comes this?"
"So thou deemest courage a monopoly of gentle folk, eh?" he asked, laughing softly. "Ah, child, thou art young. But indeed," he continued more seriously, "these men have fought in the Lord's cause, there is no fear but He will send them strength to fight their battle bravely to the end."
"How can it be God's cause when it hath failed?" asked Barbara bluntly.
"Failed, child? What mean you?"
"Why, call you not this failure?" she asked, glancing round.
"This! In good sooth, no; this is but the beginning of success, only the times were unripe57 for rebellion, the leaders were unworthy of the cause. Think you these men will die in vain? In God's name I tell you, no. A cause strengthened by such devotion cannot but succeed; for every drop of blood shed to-day there will spring up seeds of justice and resolution in the hearts of the survivors59 which shall blossom forth60 into a mighty61 power. I shall not see it, but thou mayest, for the day is not far off when justice, toleration and true religion shall once more flourish in this kingdom. Failure! Never! We are but the necessary martyrs62, the runners of success. The cause of justice was never yet won save by a path of blood and tears."
His enthusiasm communicated itself to Barbara. Her face glowed with eagerness; at that moment she had resolution to face block or scaffold that she also might die for the Cause.
"Ah!" she cried, "this is the courage of which you spoke63, the courage born of Faith."
He bowed his head in assent64, and there was silence between them while Barbara pondered on his words. Presently she continued:
"And the third, the courage of Love? What mean you by that?" she asked.
Instantly his face was transfigured by a smile of great tenderness.
"I will show you," he answered gently. "Look."
Barbara followed the direction of his eyes. In a far corner of the shed, apart from the rest of the prisoners, sat a man and a woman. She lay in the circle of his arm, her head dropped back upon his shoulder, and oblivious65 to all around them they sat gazing in one another's eyes. Pale, ragged and unkempt, as were all the prisoners, yet beautiful in each other's eyes, and transfigured by the light of perfect happiness, by the glory of their love.
"It is their wedding-day," he continued softly. "I married them at seven o'clock this morning."
"But who are they?" asked Barbara in bewilderment.
"He is the son of the squire66 of Hardon, and an officer in Monmouth's army; she, the daughter of a rich cloth-maker of Taunton, who joined the army and met his death at Sedgemoor. He lodged in her father's house when the army was first quartered here. Later, she was attainted a rebel, and they met again, in prison. See now how mighty is love, that it will even force its way into such a desert as this. They have lived here together for three weeks as in a Paradise, and yesterday, feeling the time of separation draw near, they besought67 me to join them forever in God's sight, as man and wife. I know not whether I rightly consented, yet who could refuse?"
"And the future?" whispered Barbara eagerly.
He shook his head.
"She has money, the charge against her is but slight, her friends will buy her freedom. But for him, an officer in the rebel army, there can be little doubt—— Is it not wonderful?" he continued softly, as though to himself. "Thus they sit hour by hour. Hopes and fears alike have faded in the great light of their love, and for to-day at least they live as in the Garden of Eden, where there is neither past nor future; nought but the present and themselves."
Barbara gazed silently at the couple, until suddenly a great sense of loneliness overcame her, and her eyes darkened with a mist of tears. She turned to her companion with a pathetic gesture of helplessness.
"Alas68! ere I came here I had believed myself so strong, so fearless. And here I find all others are brave, and I but a helpless fool."
There was something bewitching in this sudden confession69 of weakness, and her companion's face softened70 for an instant as he looked at her. Then he laughed, and his laughter was wise, for it stung her pride, and recalled her former resolution.
"In truth, this discovery is to be deeply regretted, Mistress Winslow," he answered lightly, "seeing I had hoped to enlist71 the services of one so stout-hearted in the work of cheering the weary hours of some of our unfortunate comrades."
"My services! Why, what think you I can do?" asked Barbara eagerly. "Wouldest have me clamber on a bale of wool and harangue72 these men upon the duty and virtue73 of courage?" she added merrily.
"Nay, that were hardly woman's work. And 'tis not for men your help is needed."
"For whom, then?"
"There is a poor girl, she is scarce more than a child, who was brought hither yesterday with her younger sister. They were among those maids of Taunton who presented to the Duke his banners, and for this innocent action they have been arrested. I think, indeed, there is little fear for them; they have rich friends, people of influence, who can save them at a price. But the poor child is fragile. Terror hath gripped her by the heart, and if she be not roused and cheered 'tis to be feared her brain may give way."
"Take me to her, I will try."
"Come, then. Her sister is beside her, but the poor child is very young and can do but little. It may be that you will be able to cheer her."
Barbara gathered up her dainty skirts and followed her companion. As she passed along she was greeted by many a look of surprise and admiration74, but so intent was she upon her errand she scarce noted75 the interest she aroused.
They found the two ill-fated children—they were both little more—crouched76 against the wall in the darkest corner of the shed. Near them sat a poor peasant woman weeping bitterly, while a second woman offered rough attempts at comfort. Close beside the latter was a thin, elderly woman, with the severe mouth and narrow forehead of a fanatic77, who stared straight before her, muttering rapidly to herself, oblivious to her surroundings. These few, with Barbara and the young bride, were the only female prisoners in the shed.
Barbara paused a moment, surveying the group curiously, then she advanced slowly towards the two sisters. The elder of the two was scarce sixteen, fragile and pale. She crouched beside the wall, her chin sunk on her breast, silent, immovable, but when Barbara, touched her on the shoulder she raised her head suddenly, and displayed a face so frozen with despair and eyes so wild with terror that the girl was horrified78. In an instant all other considerations vanished before the great pity and tenderness that filled her heart.
"My poor, poor child," she exclaimed gently, "what have they done to thee? Nay, look not thus, none shall hurt thee, I promise it. See, I will sit thus beside thee. Come, now thou art safe and hast nought to fear."
She sank down beside her, drew the child close and encircled her tenderly with her strong young arms.
The bright face, cheery smile, and gentle voice, all tended to excite confidence, as did also the firm pressure of human touch. The child gazed at her for a few moments in doubt and bewilderment, then suddenly clung to her fiercely and burst into wild tears.
"Oh! they will kill me," she sobbed79. "Do not let them. Do not let them take me away."
"No, no, they shall not, I swear they shall not harm thee," answered Barbara soothingly80, though with more rashness than conviction. "Only look cheerily, sweetheart, and be brave and all will be well."
"Will you take me home? Prithee, take me home," she begged, sobbing81.
"Nay, we must bide82 here for a day or two, but what of that? It will not harm you, and 'tis for a great cause. Bethink you of the saints, of the martyrs; they suffered even death without fear. Bethink you, childie, how many women have striven and suffered manfully for their cause, and be you courageous and proud to suffer thus little for yours."
"Tell me of those women," whispered the younger child, creeping near to their new-found protector. She was stronger; she did not suffer as did her sister, but her poor puzzled brain could not understand why this imprisonment83 had befallen them; she grasped eagerly at the reference to martyrs. 'Tis easier to be brave in paths which others have trod before us.
So Barbara settled herself between the two children and bent84 all her efforts to recollecting85 and relating to the best effect every tale of heroism86 she had ever read, heard, or imagined, incidents culled87 from the histories of many nations, from romances, ballads88, and legends. From her earliest childhood she had loved to listen to all such tales of prowess and brave endurance; her store seemed unlimited89, she had a clear memory, and above all, she possessed that rarest of all gifts, the art of story-telling.
The two children were soon listening with deep interest. She raised her voice, that beautiful voice, not the least of her many charms, and presently the woman sitting near them ceased her sobbing to listen; some of the men even raised themselves from their lethargic90 musings and drew near, so that she became in time the centre of a large group of prisoners. Cheered with this success, Barbara braced91 herself to an increased effort. She related story after story of the heroes of many countries and times, stories of love and tenderness, of fierce passions, of high devotion to a worthy58 cause, till her audience were infected with the enthusiasm and followed her words with startling eagerness. For a time prison walls faded away, trial, punishment, death were forgotten, they lived again in the past.
It is a wonderful power, the art of story-telling, and is given to few, especially among Western peoples, but it is a power which, when combined with the magnetism92 of a beautiful presence, is irresistible93.
Thus intermittently94 for several hours Barbara continued, and to her hearers the long day passed quickly, until late in the afternoon the pealing95 of bells and a roll of drums were heard from without. These sounds betokened96, as some guessed, the expected arrival of the king's judges. On the morrow, therefore, would commence the Assize trial, which was to decide for each whether he, too, was destined97 to follow in the footsteps of the long line of martyrs and heroes who had suffered and died in the cause of freedom.
The charm cast around them by Barbara was broken, and she finished her narrative98 lamely99, as her audience grew inattentive and relapsed into moody100 restlessness. As the darkening shadows gathered in the wool-shed a silence fell, the silence of an overhanging doom.
Suddenly and with startling effect the silence was broken by a clear voice which rang through the room. "Be strong and He shall 'stablish your hearts, all ye that put your trust in the Lord."
The words seemed to echo like a battle-clarion, an incentive101 to lead all men to victory.
It was Barbara's friend of the morning, Mr. Hardcastle, the noncomformist divine.
When other comfort had failed he was at hand to show these untutored peasants the true source of strength in danger, of consolation102 in affliction, the promise of their God. Few and simple were his words, yet charged with the fervour of belief, they served their purpose well. Again the courage of Faith strengthened them, the peace of God filled their hearts, and when at the close of his address he besought all to sing with him the eighty-sixth psalm103, they joined him with a cheerful heartiness104 which made the rafters of the barn ring again.
So night drew down upon them, but there was light in their hearts, and they settled to rest in peace.
Barbara carried off her children to their pallet bed in the corner. With the darkness the poor child Katherine's terror had revived somewhat, and for a time she could not be induced to lie down. But gradually Barbara soothed105 her, talking hopefully of her probable return home on the morrow, and crooning tender child ballads such as her mother sang. Nature was merciful; clinging to the hand of her protectress she sank at last to sleep.
Barbara herself lay long awake listening to the heavy breathing of the sleepers106 around her and to the dull tramp of the sentries107 in the street without.
Sleep! the very thought of it seemed ill-timed with the lives of all these men at stake, and some way, surely some way was to be found, could she but think of it, to save them. To her active spirit it seemed past belief that escape should be impossible; intolerable to think that these forty or more around her, strong and healthy men, should go quietly to their deaths without one bid for freedom.
She tossed from side to side upon her mattress108, racking her brains to devise a plan. Had she not wit and cleverness more than common? Sure she could find some way! But in vain; her thoughts wandered round and round in a circle, a circle she could not break. At length she sprang to her feet in desperation.
"'Tis no use," she exclaimed, "I can think of nothing. But he hath brains and he cares for their safety, I will go to him. Together surely we may devise some means of escape."
Softly she stepped out into the shed, and picked her way carefully among the sleepers, looking right and left for the face she sought. The moonlight poured in through the windows high in the room so that her passage was not difficult. She came at length upon the man she sought, the Reverend Mr. Hardcastle. Half the night he had spent at the side of one or another of his weaker comrades, cheering and strengthening each by his sympathy. Now at last he had found time for repose109, and lay sleeping quietly, his Bible still open at his side. His slumbers110 were light, for he awoke at her slightest touch, and raised himself to his feet, instantly alert.
"What is the matter, child, do you need me?" he cried.
Barbara's face was pale in the moonlight, her eyes gleamed strangely and she clutched his arm with desperate eagerness.
"Surely something can be done to save them all," she cried confusedly. "It cannot be impossible."
"What mean you, child?"
"Why, here are fifty brave men, at most but half a dozen guards. Can we not break prison, rush the door, devise some mode of escape? 'Tis intolerable to sit here in idleness while the lives of all these are at stake. 'Tis monstrous111. Sure, something can be done!"
"Peace, child," he answered sternly; "you know nought of the matter. We be fifty to six, 'tis true, but those six are armed and behind them are many more. If the door were passed we could not escape the town, or if perchance we won from the town where could we hide? The royal troops are everywhere. 'Twere but a hopeless venture which must cost the lives of all."
"Yet, sure, 'twere better to venture some effort than to sit thus helplessly awaiting their fate," she pleaded impatiently.
"Ah! Mistress Barbara, you have yet to learn that the highest courage may lie in such waiting. And I charge you, child, say nought of this to the men. They are nerved now to meet their fate, I will not have them distressed112 by false hopes. You have played your part well to-day, your place is with yon poor children. Go to them now, and leave these men to me."
Unaccustomed though she was to contradiction, Barbara was yet too strongly awed113 by his air of command to disobey. Reluctantly she turned away and with a glance of hopeless pity at the sleepers around her, passed beyond the partition and again took her place beside the weary children.
So the long night hours passed slowly away and the first morning of the Bloody114 Assize of Taunton grew rosy115 in the east.
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1
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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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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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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plights
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| n.境况，困境( plight的名词复数 ) | |
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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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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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34
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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35
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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36
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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37
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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38
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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39
massacres
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| 大屠杀( massacre的名词复数 )； 惨败 | |
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40
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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41
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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42
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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43
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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44
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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45
daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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46
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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48
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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49
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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50
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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51
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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52
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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53
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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54
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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55
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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56
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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57
unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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59
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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61
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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62
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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63
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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64
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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68
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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69
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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71
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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75
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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76
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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79
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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81
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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82
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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83
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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84
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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85
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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86
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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87
culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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89
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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90
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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91
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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92
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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93
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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94
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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95
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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96
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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98
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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99
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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100
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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101
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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102
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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103
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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104
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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105
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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106
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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107
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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108
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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109
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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110
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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111
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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112
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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113
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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115
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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