It was not long after the breaking out of the Greek Revolution that Harry1 Valency visited Greece. Many an Englishman was led thither2 at that time by the spirit of adventure, and many perished. Valency was not nineteen; his spirit was wild and reckless;—thought or care had never touched his brow; his heart was too light for love. Restless and energetic, he longed to try his powers, with the instinct that leads the young deer to butt3 against trees, or to wrestle4 with each other in the forest-dells. He was the only son of a widowed mother, whose life was wrapped in his, and he loved her fondly; yet left her, impelled5 by a desire for adventure, unable to understand what anxiety and fear meant; and in his own person eager to meet even misfortune, so that it came in a guise6 to call forth7 manly8 and active struggles. He longed to have the pages of his young life written over by deeds that would hereafter be memories, to which he could turn with delight. The cause of Greece warmed his soul. He was in a transport of ecstasy9 when he touched the shores of that antique land, and looked around on mountain and mountain-stream, whose names were associated with the most heroic acts, and the most sublime10 poetry man ever achieved or wrote. Yes, he was now in Greece. He was about to fight in her cause against the usurping11 Turk. He had prepared himself by a sedulous12 study of Romaic; he was on his way to the seat of Government, to offer his services. To proceed thither from the spot where he had disembarked was a matter of some difficulty; the Turkish troops being then in possession of many of the passes. At length he heard that a band of about fifty Greek soldiers, headed by a young but brave and renowned14 chief, was about to pursue the same road; he asked, and obtained leave to accompany them.
How delightful15 was the commencement of the journey! How beautiful the country—defile16 and steep hill-side, by which they proceeded; where the grey olive clothed the upland, or vines, embracing elms, red now with late summer tints17, varied18 the scene. The mountain-tops were bare, or crowned with pines, and torrents19 ran down the sides and fed a stream in the dell. The air was balmy; the cicada loud and merry—to live was to be happy. Valency was mounted on a spirited horse; he made it leap and caracole. He threw a spear against a tree, and dashed after to recover it. He fired at a mark as he hurried on at full gallop21; every feat22 was insufficient23 to tame his exhaustless spirits.
The chief marked him with eyes, whose deep melancholy24 expression darkened as he gazed. He was known as bravest among the brave; yet gentle as a woman. He was young and singularly handsome; his countenance25 was stamped with traces of intellectual refinement26, while his person was tall, muscular, and strong, but so gracefully27 formed, that every attitude reminded you of some Praxitilean shape of his own native land. Once he had been more beautiful; joy, as well as tenderness, and a soldier’s ardour had lighted up his dark eye; his lip had been the home of smiles, and the thoughts, which presided in his brow, had been as clear and soft and gladsome as that godlike brow itself. Now this was changed. Grief had become a master passion: his cheeks were sunken; his eye seemed to brood eternally over melancholy regrets; his measured harmonious30 voice was attuned31 to the utterance32 of no light fancy or gay sallies; he spoke33 only the necessary words of direction to his followers34, and then silence and gloom gathered over his face. His sorrow was respected; for it was known to be well founded, and to spring from a recent disaster. If any of his troop desired to indulge in merriment, they withdrew from his vicinity. It was strange to them to hear the light laugh of the English youth ring through the grove35, and to catch the tones of his merry voice, as he sang some of their own gayest songs. The chief gazed with interest. There was a winning frankness in the boy; he was so very young, and all he did was in graceful28 accordance with his age. We are alike mere36 youths, thought the chief, and how different! Yet soon he may become like me. He soars like an eagle; but the eagle may be wounded, and stoop to earth; because earth contains its secret and its regret.
Suddenly Valency, who was some hundred yards in advance, was encountered by a Greek, riding at full speed towards the advancing troop.
“Back! back! silence!” the man cried. He was a scout38, who had been sent on before, and now brought tidings that a troop of three or four hundred of the Turkish army were entering the defile, and would soon advance on the handful of men which Valency accompanied. The scout rode directly up to the leader, and made his report, adding,—
“We have yet time. If we fall back but a quarter of a mile, there is a path I know, by which I can guide you across the mountain; on the other side we shall be safe.”
A smile of scorn for a moment wreathed the lip of the chief at the word safety, but his face soon reassumed its usual sad composure. The troop had halted; each man bent39 his eye on the leader. Valency, in particular, marked the look of scorn, and felt that he would never retreat before danger.
“Comrades!” the chief thus addressed his men, “it shall never be said that Greeks fell back to make way for the destroyers; we will betake ourselves to our old warfare40. Before we entered this olive wood, we passed a thick cover, where the dark jutting41 mountain-side threw a deep shadow across our path, and the torrent20 drowned all sound of voice or hoof42. There we shall find ambush43; there the enemy will meet death.”
He turned his horse’s head, and in a few minutes reached the spot he named; the men were mostly eager for the fray—while one or two eyed the mountain-side, and then the path that led to the village, which they had quitted that morning. The chief saw their look, and he glanced also at the English youth, who had thrown himself from his horse, and was busy loading and priming his arms. The chief rode up to him.
“You are our guest and fellow-traveller,” he said, “but not our comrade in the fight. We are about to meet danger—it may be that not one of us shall escape. You have no injuries to avenge44, no liberty to gain; you have friends—probably a mother—in your native land. You must not fall with us. I am going to send a message to warn the village we last passed through—do you accompany my messengers.”
Valency had listened attentively45 at first; but as the chief continued, his attention reverted47 to his task of loading his pistols. The last words called a blush into his cheek.
“You treat me as a boy,” he cried; “I may be one in aspect, but you shall find me a man in heart this day. You also young, I have not deserved your scorn!”
The chief caught the youth’s flashing eye. He held out his hand to him, saying, “Forgive me.”
“I will,” said Valency, “on one condition; give me a post of danger—of honour. You owe it to me in reparation of the insult you offered.”
“Be it so,” said the chief; “your place shall be at my side.”
A few minutes more and his dispositions48 were made;—two of the most down-hearted of the troop were despatched to alarm the village, the rest were placed behind the rocks; beneath the bushes, wherever broken ground, or tuft of underwood, or fragment from the cliff, afforded shelter and concealment49, a man was placed; while the chief himself took his stand on an elevated platform, and, sheltered by a tree, gazed upon the road. Soon the tramp of horses, the busy sound of feet and voices were heard, overpowering the rushing of the stream; and turban and musket50 could be distinguished51 as the enemy’s troop threaded the defile.
The shout of battle—the firing—the clash of weapons were over. Above the crest52 of the hill, whose side had afforded ambush to the Greeks, the crescent moon hung, just about to dip behind; the stars in her train burnt bright as lamps floating in the firmament53; while the fire-flies flashed among the myrtle underwood and up the mountain-side; and sometimes the steel of the arms strewn around, dropped from the hand of the dead, caught and reflected the flashes of the celestial54 or earthly stars. The ground was strewn with the slain55. Such of the enemy as had cut their way through were already far—the sound of their horses’ hoofs56 had died away. The Greeks who had fled across the mountain had reached a place of safety—none lay there but the silent dead—cold as the moonbeam that rested for a moment on their pale faces. All were still and motionless; some lay on the hill-side among the underwood—some on the open road—horses and men had fallen, pell mell—none moved—none breathed.
Yet there was a sigh—it was lost in the murmur57 of the stream; a groan58 succeeded, and then a voice feeble and broken, “My mother, my poor mother!”—the pale lips that spoke these words could form no other, a gush59 of tears followed. The cry seemed to awake another form from among the dead. One of the prostrate60 bodies raised itself slowly and painfully on its arm, the eyes were filmy, the countenance pallid61 from approaching death, the voice was hollow, yet firm, that said, “Who speaks?—who lives?—who weeps?”
The question struck shame to the wounded man; he checked his overflow62 of passionate63 sobbings. The other spoke again, “It was not the voice of a Greek—yet I thought I had saved that gallant64 boy—the ball meant for him is now in my side.—Speak again, young Englishman—on whom do you call?”
“On her who will weep my death too bitterly—on my mother,” replied Valency, and tears would follow the loved name.
“Art thou wounded to death?” asked the chief.
“Thus unaided I must die,” he replied; “yet, could I reach those waters, I might live—I must try.” And Valency rose; he staggered a few steps, and fell heavily at the feet of the chief. He had fainted. The Greek looked on the ghastly pallor of his face; he half rose—his own wound did not bleed, but it was mortal, and a deadly sickness had gathered round his heart, and chilled his brow, which he strove to master, that he might save the English boy. The effort brought cold drops on his brow, as he rose on his knees and stooped to raise the head of Valency; he shuddered65 to feel the warm moisture his hand encountered. It is his blood; his life-blood he thought; and again he placed his head on the earth, and continued a moment still, summoning what vitality67 remained to him to animate68 his limbs. Then with a determined69 effort he rose, and staggered to the banks of the stream. He held a steel cap in his hand—and now he stooped down to fill it; but with the effort the ground slid from under him, and he fell. There was a ringing in his ears—a cold dew on his brow—his breath came thick—the cap had fallen from his hand—he was dying. The bough70 of a tree, shot off in the morning’s melée, lay near;—the mind, even of a dying man, can form swift, unerring combinations of thought;—it was his last chance—the bough was plunged71 in the waters, and he scattered72 the grateful, reviving drops over his face; vigour73 returned with the act, and he could stoop and fill the cap, and drink a deep draught74, which for a moment restored the vital powers. And now he carried water to Valency; he dipped the unfolded turban of a Turk in the stream, and bound the youth’s wound, which was a deep sabre cut in the shoulder, that had bled copiously75. Valency revived—life gathered warm in his heart—his cheeks, though still pale, lost the ashy hue77 of death—his limbs again seemed willing to obey his will—he sat up, but he was too weak, and his head dropped. As a mother tending her sick first-born, the Greek chief hovered78 over him; he brought a cloak to pillow his head; as he picked up this, he found that some careful soldier had brought a small bag at his saddle-bow, in which was a loaf and a bunch or two of grapes; he gave them to the youth, who ate. Valency now recognised his saviour79; at first he wondered to see him there, tending on him, apparently80 unhurt; but soon the chief sank to the ground, and Valency could mark the rigidity81 of feature, and ghastliness of aspect, that portended82 death. In his turn he would have assisted his friend; but the chief stopped him—“You die if you move,” he said; “your wound will bleed afresh, and you will die, while you cannot aid me. My weakness does not arise from mere loss of blood. The messenger of death has reached a vital part—yet a little while and the soul will obey the summons. It is slow, slow is the deliverance; yet the long creeping hour will come at last, and I shall be free.”
“Do not speak thus,” cried Valency; “I am strong now—I will go for help.”
“There is no help for me,” replied the chief, “save the death I desire. I command you, move not.”
Valency had risen, but the effort was vain: his knees bent under him, his head spun83 round; before he could save himself he had sunk to the ground.
“Why torture yourself?” said the chief. “A few hours and help will come: it will not injure you to pass this interval84 beneath this calm sky. The cowards who fled will alarm the country; by dawn succour will be here: you must wait for it. I too must wait—not for help, but for death. It is soothing85 even to me to die here beneath this sky, with the murmurs86 of yonder stream in my ear, the shadows of my native mountains thrown athwart. Could aught save me, it would be the balmy airs of this most blessed night; my soul feels the bliss87, though my body is sick and fast stiffening88 in death. Such was not the hour when she died whom soon I shall meet, my Euphrasia, my own sweet sister, in heaven!”
It was strange, Valency said, that at such an hour, but half saved from death, and his preserver in the grim destroyer’s clutches, that he should feel curiosity to know the Greek chief’s story. His youth, his beauty, his valour—the act, which Valency well remembered, of his springing forward so as to shield him with his own person—his last words and thoughts devoted89 to the soft recollection of a beloved sister,—awakened90 an interest beyond even the present hour, fraught91 as it was with the chances of life and death. He questioned the chief. Probably fever had succeeded to his previous state of weakness, imparted a deceitful strength, and even inclined him to talk; for thus dying, unaided and unsheltered, with the starry92 sky overhead, he willingly reverted to the years of his youth and to the miserable93 event which a few months before had eclipsed the sun of his life and rendered death welcome.
They—brother and sister, Constantine and Euphrasia—were the last of their race. They were orphans94; their youth was passed under the guardianship95 of the brother by adoption96 of their father, whom they named father, and who loved them. He was a glorious old man, nursed in classic lore97, and more familiar with the deeds of men who had glorified98 his country several thousand years before than with any more modern names. Yet all who had ever done and suffered for Greece were embalmed99 in his memory, and honoured as martyrs100 in the best of causes. He had been educated in Paris, and travelled in Europe and America, and was aware of the progress made in the science of politics all over the civilised world. He felt that Greece would soon share the benefits to arise from the changes then operating, and he looked forward at no distant day to its liberation from bondage101. He educated his young ward37 for that day. Had he believed that Greece would have continued hopelessly enslaved, he had brought him up as a scholar and a recluse102: but, assured of the impending103 struggle, he made him a warrior104; he implanted a detestation of the oppressor, a yearning105 love for the sacred blessings106 of freedom, a noble desire to have his name enrolled107 among the deliverers of his country. The education he bestowed108 on Euphrasia was yet more singular. He knew that though liberty must be bought and maintained by the sword, yet that its dearest blessings must be derived109 from civilisation111 and knowledge; and he believed women to be the proper fosterers of these. They cannot handle a sword nor endure bodily labour for their country, but they could refine the manners, exalt112 the souls—impart honour, and truth, and wisdom to their relatives and their children. Euphrasia, therefore, he made a scholar. By nature she was an enthusiast113 and a poet. The study of the classic literature of her country corrected her taste and exalted114 her love of the beautiful. While a child, she improvised115 passionate songs of liberty; and as she grew in years and loveliness, and her heart opened to tenderness, and she became aware of all the honour and happiness that a woman must derive110 from being held the friend of man, not his slave, she thanked God that she was a Greek and a Christian116; and holding fast by the advantages which these names conferred, she looked forward eagerly to the day when Mohammedanism should no longer contaminate her native land, and when her countrywomen should be awakened from ignorance and sloth117 in which they were plunged, and learn that their proper vocation118 in the creation was that of mothers of heroes and teachers of sages119.
Her brother was her idol120, her hope, her joy. And he who had been taught that his career must be that of deeds, not words, yet was fired by her poetry and eloquence121 to desire glory yet more eagerly, and to devote himself yet more entirely122 and with purer ardour to the hope of one day living and dying for his country. The first sorrow the orphans knew was the death of their adopted father. He descended123 to the grave full of years and honour. Constantine was then eighteen; his fair sister had just entered her fifteenth year. Often they spent the night beside the revered124 tomb of their lost friend, talking of the hopes and aspirations125 he had implanted. The young can form such sublime, such beautiful dreams. No disappointment, no evil, no bad passion shadows their glorious visions. To dare and do greatly for Greece was the ambition of Constantine. To cheer and watch over her brother, to regulate his wilder and more untaught soul, to paint in celestial colours the bourne he tended towards by action, were Euphrasia’s tasks.
“There is a heaven,” said the dying man as he told his tale,—“there is a paradise for those who die in the just cause. I know not what joys are there prepared for the blest; but they can scarcely transcend126 those that were mine as I listened to my own sweet sister, and felt my heart swell127 with patriotism128 and fond, warm affection.”
At length there was a stir through the land, and Constantine made a journey of some distance, to confer with the capitani of the mountains, and to prepare for the outbreak of the revolution. The moment came, sooner even than he expected. As an eagle chained when the iron links drop from him, and with clang of wing and bright undazzled eye he soars to heaven, so did Constantine feel when freedom to Greece became the war-cry. He was still among the mountains when first the echoes of his native valleys repeated that animating129, that sacred word. Instead of returning, as he intended, to his Athenian home, he was hurried off to Western Greece, and became a participator in a series of warlike movements, the promised success of which filled him with transport.
Suddenly a pause came in the delirium130 of joy which possessed131 his soul. He received not the accustomed letters from his sister—missives which had been to him angelic messengers, teaching him patience with the unworthy—hope in disappointment—certainty of final triumph. Those dear letters ceased; and he thought he saw in the countenances133 of his friends around a concealed134 knowledge of evil. He questioned them: their answers were evasive. At the same time, they endeavoured to fill his mind with the details of some anticipated exploit in which his presence and co-operation was necessary. Day after day passed; he could not leave his post without injury to the cause, without even the taint132 of dishonour135. He belonged to a band of Albanians, by whom he had been received as a brother and he could not desert them in the hour of danger. But the suspense136 grew too terrible; and at length, finding that there was an interval of a few days which he might call his own, he left the camp, resting neither day nor night; dismounting from one horse only to bestride another, in forty-eight hours he was in Athens, before his vacant, desecrated137 home. The tale of horror was soon told. Athens was still in the hands of the Turks; the sister of a rebel had become the prey138 of the oppressor. She had none to guard her. Her matchless beauty had been seen and marked by the son of the pasha; she had for the last two months been immured139 in his harem.
“Despair is a cold, dark feeling,” said the dying warrior; “if I may name that despair which had a hope—a certainty—an aim. Had Euphrasia died I had wept. Now my eyes were horn—my heart stone. I was silent. I neither expressed resentment140 nor revenge. I concealed myself by day; at night I wandered round the tyrant141’s dwelling142. It was a pleasure-palace, one of the most luxurious143 in our beloved Athens. At this time it was carefully guarded: my character was known, and Euphrasia’s worth; and the oppressor feared the result of his deed. Still, under shadow of darkness I drew near. I marked the position of the women’s apartments—I learned the number—the length of the watch—the orders they received, and then I returned to the camp. I revealed my project to a few select spirits. They were fired by my wrongs, and eager to deliver my Euphrasia.”—
Constantine broke off—a spasm144 of pain shook his body. After this had passed he lay motionless for a few minutes; then starting up, as fever and delirium, excited by the exertion145 of speaking, increased by the agonies of recollection, at last fully29 possessed him. “What is this?” he cried. “Fire! Yes, the palace burns. Do you not hear the roaring of the flames, and thunder too—the artillery146 of Heaven levelled against the unblest? Ha! a shot—he falls—they are driven back—now fling the torches—the wood crackles—there, there are the women’s rooms—ha! poor victims! lo! you shudder66 and fly! Fear not; give me only my Euphrasia!—my own Euphrasia! No disguise can hide thee, dressed as a Turkish bride crowned with flowers, thy lovely face, the seat of unutterable woe—still, my sweet sister, even in this smoke and tumult147 of this house, thou art the angel of my life! Spring into my arms, poor, frightened bird; cling to me—it is herself—her voice—her fair arms are round my neck—what ruin—what flame—what choking smoke—what driving storm can stay me? Soft! the burning breach148 is passed—there are steps—gently—dear one, I am firm—fear not!—what eyes glare?—fear not, Euphrasia, he is dead—the miserable retainers of the tyrant fell beneath our onset149—ha! a shot—gracious Panagia, is this thy protection?” Thus did he continue to rave13: the onset, the burning of the palace, the deliverance of his sister, all seemed to pass again vividly150 as if in present action. His eyes glared; he tossed up his arms; he shouted as if calling his followers around him; and then in tones of heartfelt tenderness he addressed the fair burden he fancied that he bore—till, with a shriek151, he cried again, “A shot!” and sank to the ground as if his heartstrings had broken.
An interval of calm succeeded; he was exhausted152; his voice was broken.
“What have I told thee?” he continued feebly; “I have said how a mere handful of men attacked the palace, and drove back the guards—how we strove in vain to make good our entrance—fresh troops were on their way—there was no alternative; we fired the palace. Deep in the seclusion153 of the harem the women had retreated, a herd154 of frightened deer. One alone stood erect155. Her eyes bent on the intruders—a dagger156 in her hand—majestic and fearless, her face was marked with traces of passed suffering, but at the moment the stern resolution her soft features expressed was more than human. The moment she saw me, all was changed; the angel alone beamed in her countenance. Her dagger fell from her hand—she was in my arms—I bore her from the burning roof—the rest you know; have I not said it? Some miscreant157, who survived the slaughter158, and yet lay as dead on the earth, aimed a deadly shot. She did not shriek. At first she clung closer to my neck, and then I felt her frame shiver in my arms and her hold relax. I trusted that fear alone moved her; but she knew not fear—it was death. Horses had been prepared, and were waiting; a few hours more and I hoped to be on our way to the west, to that portion of Greece that was free. But I felt her head fall on my shoulder. I heard her whisper, ‘I die, my brother! carry me to our father’s tomb.’
“My soul yearned159 to comply with her request; but it was impossible. The city was alarmed; troops gathering160 from all quarters. Our safety lay in flight, for still I thought that her wound was not mortal. I bore her to the spot where we had left our horses. Here two or three of my comrades speedily joined me; they had rescued the women of the harem from the flames, but the various sounds denoting the advance of the Turkish soldiery caused them to hurry from the scene. I leapt on my horse, and placed my sweet sister before me, and we fled amain through desert streets, I well knew how to choose, and along the lanes of the suburbs into the open country, where, deviating161 from the high-road, along which I directed my companions to proceed in all haste—alone with my beloved burden, I sought a solitary162, unsuspected spot among the neighbouring hills. The storm which had ceased for a time, now broke afresh; the deafening163 thunder drowned every other sound, while the frequent glare of the lightning showed us our path; my horse did not quail164 before it. Euphrasia still lay clinging to me; no complaint escaped her; a few words of fondness, of encouragement, of pious76 resignation, she now and then breathed forth. I knew not she was dying, till at last entering a retired165 valley, where an olive wood afforded shelter, and still better the portico166 of a fallen ancient temple, I dismounted and bore her to the marble steps, on which I placed her. Then indeed I felt how near the beloved one was to death, from which I could not save her. The lightning showed me her face—pale as the marble which pillowed it. Her dress was dabbled167 in warm blood, which soon stained the stones on which she lay. I took her hand; it was deathly cold. I raised her from the marble; I pillowed her cheek upon my heart. I repressed my despair, or rather my despair in that hour was mild and soft as herself. There was no help—no hope. The life-blood oozed168 fast from her side; scarce could she raise her heavy eyelids169 to look on me; her voice could no longer articulate my name. The burden of her fair limbs grew heavier and more chill; soon it was a corpse170 only that I held. When I knew that her sufferings were over, I raised her once more in my arms, and once more I placed her before me on my horse, and betook me to my journey. The storm was over now, and the moon bright above. Earth glittered under the rays, and a soft breeze swept by, as if heaven itself became clear and peaceful to receive her stainless171 soul, and present it to its Maker172. By morning’s dawn, I stopped at a convent gate, and rang. To the holy maidens173 within I consigned174 my own fair Euphrasia. I kissed but once again her dear brow, which spoke of peace in death; and then saw her placed upon a bier, and was away, back to my camp, to live and die for Greece.”
He grew more silent as he became weaker. Now and then he spoke a few words to record some other of Euphrasia’s perfections, or to repeat some of her dying words; to speak of her magnanimity, her genius, her love, and his own wish to die.
“I might have lived,” he said, “till her image had faded in my mind, or been mingled175 with less holy memories. I die young, all her own.”
His voice grew more feeble after this; he complained of cold. Valency continued: “I contrived176 to rise, and crawl about, and to collect a capote or two, and a pelisse from among the slain, with some of which I covered him; and then I drew one over myself, for the air grew chill, as midnight had passed away and the morning hour drew near. The warmth which the coverings imparted calmed the aching of my wound, and, strange to say, I felt slumber177 creep over me. I tried to watch and wake. At first the stars above and the dark forms of the mountains mingled with my dreamy feelings; but soon I lost all sense of where I was, and what I had suffered, and slept peacefully and long.
“The morning sunbeams, as creeping down the hill-side they at last fell upon my face, awoke me. At first I had forgotten all thought of the events of the past night, and my first impulse was to spring up, crying aloud, where am I? but the stiffness of my limbs and their weakness, soon revealed the truth. Gladly I now welcomed the sound of voices, and marked the approach of a number of peasants along the ravine. Hitherto, strange to say, I had thought only of myself; but with the ideas of succour came the recollection of my companion, and the tale of the previous night. I glanced eagerly to where he lay; his posture178 disclosed his state; he was still, and stiff, and dead. Yet his countenance was calm and beautiful. He had died in the dear hope of meeting his sister, and her image had shed peace over the last moment of life.
“I am ashamed to revert46 to myself. The death of Constantine is the true end of my tale. My wound was a severe one. I was forced to leave Greece, and for some months remained between life and death in Cefalonia, till a good constitution saved me, when at once I returned to England.”
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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sedulous
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| adj.勤勉的，努力的 | |
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rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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17
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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19
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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21
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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22
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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23
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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24
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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25
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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26
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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27
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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28
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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29
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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30
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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31
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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32
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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33
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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34
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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35
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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36
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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37
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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38
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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39
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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40
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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41
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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42
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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43
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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44
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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45
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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46
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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47
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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48
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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49
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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50
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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51
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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52
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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53
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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54
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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55
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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56
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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57
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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58
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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59
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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60
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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61
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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62
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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63
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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64
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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65
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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66
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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67
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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68
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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69
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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70
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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71
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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72
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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73
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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74
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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75
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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76
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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77
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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78
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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79
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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80
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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81
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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82
portended
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| v.预示( portend的过去式和过去分词 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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83
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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84
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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85
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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86
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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87
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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88
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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89
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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90
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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91
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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92
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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93
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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94
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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95
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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96
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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97
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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98
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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99
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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100
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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101
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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102
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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103
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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104
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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105
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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106
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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107
enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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108
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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110
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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111
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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112
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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113
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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114
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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115
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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116
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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117
sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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118
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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119
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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120
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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121
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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122
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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123
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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124
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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126
transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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127
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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128
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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129
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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130
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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131
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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132
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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133
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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134
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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135
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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136
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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137
desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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139
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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141
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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142
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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143
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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144
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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145
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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146
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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147
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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148
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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149
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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150
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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151
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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152
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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153
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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154
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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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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156
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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157
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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158
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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159
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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161
deviating
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的现在分词 ) | |
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162
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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163
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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164
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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165
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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166
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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167
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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168
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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169
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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170
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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171
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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172
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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173
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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174
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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175
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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176
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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177
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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178
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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