‘It is very kind of you to come round,’ I said by way of making a remark; ‘it must have been heavy walking in the snow.’
They said nothing, but Sir Henry slowly filled his pipe and lit it with a burning ember. As he leant forward to do so the fire got hold of a gassy bit of pine and flared3 up brightly, throwing the whole scene into strong relief, and I thought, What a splendid-looking man he is! Calm, powerful face, clear-cut features, large grey eyes, yellow beard and hair—altogether a magnificent specimen4 of the higher type of humanity. Nor did his form belie5 his face. I have never seen wider shoulders or a deeper chest. Indeed, Sir Henry’s girth is so great that, though he is six feet two high, he does not strike one as a tall man. As I looked at him I could not help thinking what a curious contrast my little dried-up self presented to his grand face and form. Imagine to yourself a small, withered6, yellow-faced man of sixty-three, with thin hands, large brown eyes, a head of grizzled hair cut short and standing7 up like a half-worn scrubbing-brush—total weight in my clothes, nine stone six—and you will get a very fair idea of Allan Quatermain, commonly called Hunter Quatermain, or by the natives ‘Macumazahn’—Anglicè, he who keeps a bright look-out at night, or, in vulgar English, a sharp fellow who is not to be taken in.
Then there was Good, who is not like either of us, being short, dark, stout8—very stout—with twinkling black eyes, in one of which an eyeglass is everlastingly9 fixed10. I say stout, but it is a mild term; I regret to state that of late years Good has been running to fat in a most disgraceful way. Sir Henry tells him that it comes from idleness and over-feeding, and Good does not like it at all, though he cannot deny it.
We sat for a while, and then I got a match and lit the lamp that stood ready on the table, for the half-light began to grow dreary11, as it is apt to do when one has a short week ago buried the hope of one’s life. Next, I opened a cupboard in the wainscoting and got a bottle of whisky and some tumblers and water. I always like to do these things for myself: it is irritating to me to have somebody continually at my elbow, as though I were an eighteen-month-old baby. All this while Curtis and Good had been silent, feeling, I suppose, that they had nothing to say that could do me any good, and content to give me the comfort of their presence and unspoken sympathy; for it was only their second visit since the funeral. And it is, by the way, from the presence of others that we really derive13 support in our dark hours of grief, and not from their talk, which often only serves to irritate us. Before a bad storm the game always herd14 together, but they cease their calling.
They sat and smoked and drank whisky and water, and I stood by the fire also smoking and looking at them.
‘Three years,’ said Good. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I ask because I think that I have had a long enough spell of civilization. I am going back to the veldt.’
Sir Henry laid his head back in his arm-chair and laughed one of his deep laughs. ‘How very odd,’ he said, ‘eh, Good?’
Good beamed at me mysteriously through his eyeglass and murmured, ‘Yes, odd—very odd.’
‘I don’t quite understand,’ said I, looking from one to the other, for I dislike mysteries.
‘Don’t you, old fellow?’ said Sir Henry; ‘then I will explain. As Good and I were walking up here we had a talk.’
‘If Good was there you probably did,’ I put in sarcastically15, for Good is a great hand at talking. ‘And what may it have been about?’
‘What do you think?’ asked Sir Henry.
I shook my head. It was not likely that I should know what Good might be talking about. He talks about so many things.
‘Well, it was about a little plan that I have formed—namely, that if you were willing we should pack up our traps and go off to Africa on another expedition.’
I fairly jumped at his words. ‘You don’t say so!’ I said.
‘Yes I do, though, and so does Good; don’t you, Good?’
‘Rather,’ said that gentleman.
‘Listen, old fellow,’ went on Sir Henry, with considerable animation16 of manner. ‘I’m tired of it too, dead-tired of doing nothing more except play the squire17 in a country that is sick of squires18. For a year or more I have been getting as restless as an old elephant who scents19 danger. I am always dreaming of Kukuanaland and Gagool and King Solomon’s Mines. I can assure you I have become the victim of an almost unaccountable craving20. I am sick of shooting pheasants and partridges, and want to have a go at some large game again. There, you know the feeling—when one has once tasted brandy and water, milk becomes insipid21 to the palate. That year we spent together up in Kukuanaland seems to me worth all the other years of my life put together. I dare say that I am a fool for my pains, but I can’t help it; I long to go, and, what is more, I mean to go.’ He paused, and then went on again. ‘And, after all, why should I not go? I have no wife or parent, no chick or child to keep me. If anything happens to me the baronetcy will go to my brother George and his boy, as it would ultimately do in any case. I am of no importance to any one.’
‘Ah!’ I said, ‘I thought you would come to that sooner or later. And now, Good, what is your reason for wanting to trek22; have you got one?’
‘I have,’ said Good, solemnly. ‘I never do anything without a reason; and it isn’t a lady—at least, if it is, it’s several.’
‘Well, if you really want to know, though I’d rather not speak of a delicate and strictly24 personal matter, I’ll tell you: I’m getting too fat.’
‘Shut up, Good!’ said Sir Henry. ‘And now, Quatermain, tell us, where do you propose going to?’
I lit my pipe, which had gone out, before answering.
‘Have you people ever heard of Mt Kenia?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know the place,’ said Good.
‘Did you ever hear of the Island of Lamu?’ I asked again.
‘No. Stop, though—isn’t it a place about 300 miles north of Zanzibar?’
‘Yes. Now listen. What I have to propose is this. That we go to Lamu and thence make our way about 250 miles inland to Mt Kenia; from Mt Kenia on inland to Mt Lekakisera, another 200 miles, or thereabouts, beyond which no white man has to the best of my belief ever been; and then, if we get so far, right on into the unknown interior. What do you say to that, my hearties25?’
‘It’s a big order,’ said Sir Henry, reflectively.
‘You are right,’ I answered, ‘it is; but I take it that we are all three of us in search of a big order. We want a change of scene, and we are likely to get one—a thorough change. All my life I have longed to visit those parts, and I mean to do it before I die. My poor boy’s death has broken the last link between me and civilization, and I’m off to my native wilds. And now I’ll tell you another thing, and that is, that for years and years I have heard rumours26 of a great white race which is supposed to have its home somewhere up in this direction, and I have a mind to see if there is any truth in them. If you fellows like to come, well and good; if not, I’ll go alone.’
‘I’m your man, though I don’t believe in your white race,’ said Sir Henry Curtis, rising and placing his arm upon my shoulder.
‘Ditto,’ remarked Good. ‘I’ll go into training at once. By all means let’s go to Mt Kenia and the other place with an unpronounceable name, and look for a white race that does not exist. It’s all one to me.’
‘When do you propose to start?’ asked Sir Henry.
‘This day month,’ I answered, ‘by the British India steamboat; and don’t you be so certain that things have no existence because you do not happen to have heard of them. Remember King Solomon’s mines!’
Some fourteen weeks or so had passed since the date of this conversation, and this history goes on its way in very different surroundings.
After much deliberation and inquiry27 we came to the conclusion that our best starting-point for Mt Kenia would be from the neighbourhood of the mouth of the Tana River, and not from Mombassa, a place over 100 miles nearer Zanzibar. This conclusion we arrived at from information given to us by a German trader whom we met upon the steamer at Aden. I think that he was the dirtiest German I ever knew; but he was a good fellow, and gave us a great deal of valuable information. ‘Lamu,’ said he, ‘you goes to Lamu—oh ze beautiful place!’ and he turned up his fat face and beamed with mild rapture28. ‘One year and a half I live there and never change my shirt—never at all.’
And so it came to pass that on arriving at the island we disembarked with all our goods and chattels29, and, not knowing where to go, marched boldly up to the house of Her Majesty’s Consul30, where we were most hospitably31 received.
Lamu is a very curious place, but the things which stand out most clearly in my memory in connection with it are its exceeding dirtiness and its smells. These last are simply awful. Just below the Consulate32 is the beach, or rather a mud bank that is called a beach. It is left quite bare at low tide, and serves as a repository for all the filth33, offal, and refuse of the town. Here it is, too, that the women come to bury coconuts34 in the mud, leaving them there till the outer husk is quite rotten, when they dig them up again and use the fibres to make mats with, and for various other purposes. As this process has been going on for generations, the condition of the shore can be better imagined than described. I have smelt35 many evil odours in the course of my life, but the concentrated essence of stench which arose from that beach at Lamu as we sat in the moonlit night—not under, but on our friend the Consul’s hospitable36 roof—and sniffed37 it, makes the remembrance of them very poor and faint. No wonder people get fever at Lamu. And yet the place was not without a certain quaintness38 and charm of its own, though possibly—indeed probably—it was one which would quickly pall39.
‘Well, where are you gentlemen steering40 for?’ asked our friend the hospitable Consul, as we smoked our pipes after dinner.
‘We propose to go to Mt Kenia and then on to Mt Lekakisera,’ answered Sir Henry. ‘Quatermain has got hold of some yarn41 about there being a white race up in the unknown territories beyond.’
The Consul looked interested, and answered that he had heard something of that, too.
‘What have you heard?’ I asked.
‘Oh, not much. All I know about it is that a year or so ago I got a letter from Mackenzie, the Scotch42 missionary43, whose station, “The Highlands”, is placed at the highest navigable point of the Tana River, in which he said something about it.’
‘Have you the letter?’ I asked.
‘No, I destroyed it; but I remember that he said that a man had arrived at his station who declared that two months’ journey beyond Mt Lekakisera, which no white man has yet visited—at least, so far as I know—he found a lake called Laga, and that then he went off to the north-east, a month’s journey, over desert and thorn veldt and great mountains, till he came to a country where the people are white and live in stone houses. Here he was hospitably entertained for a while, till at last the priests of the country set it about that he was a devil, and the people drove him away, and he journeyed for eight months and reached Mackenzie’s place, as I heard, dying. That’s all I know; and if you ask me, I believe that it is a lie; but if you want to find out more about it, you had better go up the Tana to Mackenzie’s place and ask him for information.’
‘I think that we will go to Mr Mackenzie’s,’ I said.
‘Well,’ answered the Consul, ‘that is your best way, but I warn you that you are likely to have a rough journey, for I hear that the Masai are about, and, as you know, they are not pleasant customers. Your best plan will be to choose a few picked men for personal servants and hunters, and to hire bearers from village to village. It will give you an infinity45 of trouble, but perhaps on the whole it will prove a cheaper and more advantageous46 course than engaging a caravan47, and you will be less liable to desertion.’
Fortunately there were at Lamu at this time a party of Wakwafi Askari (soldiers). The Wakwafi, who are a cross between the Masai and the Wataveta, are a fine manly48 race, possessing many of the good qualities of the Zulu, and a great capacity for civilization. They are also great hunters. As it happened, these particular men had recently been on a long trip with an Englishman named Jutson, who had started from Mombasa, a port about 150 miles below Lamu, and journeyed right round Kilimanjaro, one of the highest known mountains in Africa. Poor fellow, he had died of fever when on his return journey, and within a day’s march of Mombasa. It does seem hard that he should have gone off thus when within a few hours of safety, and after having survived so many perils49, but so it was. His hunters buried him, and then came on to Lamu in a dhow. Our friend the Consul suggested to us that we had better try and hire these men, and accordingly on the following morning we started to interview the party, accompanied by an interpreter.
In due course we found them in a mud hut on the outskirts50 of the town. Three of the men were sitting outside the hut, and fine frank-looking fellows they were, having a more or less civilized51 appearance. To them we cautiously opened the object of our visit, at first with very scant52 success. They declared that they could not entertain any such idea, that they were worn and weary with long travelling, and that their hearts were sore at the loss of their master. They meant to go back to their homes and rest awhile. This did not sound very promising53, so by way of effecting a diversion I asked where the remainder of them were. I was told there were six, and I saw but three. One of the men said they slept in the hut, and were yet resting after their labours—‘sleep weighed down their eyelids54, and sorrow made their hearts as lead: it was best to sleep, for with sleep came forgetfulness. But the men should be awakened55.’
Presently they came out of the hut, yawning—the first two men being evidently of the same race and style as those already before us; but the appearance of the third and last nearly made me jump out of my skin. He was a very tall, broad man, quite six foot three, I should say, but gaunt, with lean, wiry-looking limbs. My first glance at him told me that he was no Wakwafi: he was a pure bred Zulu. He came out with his thin aristocratic-looking hand placed before his face to hide a yawn, so I could only see that he was a ‘Keshla’ or ringed man {Endnote 1}, and that he had a great three-cornered hole in his forehead. In another second he removed his hand, revealing a powerful-looking Zulu face, with a humorous mouth, a short woolly beard, tinged56 with grey, and a pair of brown eyes keen as a hawk’s. I knew my man at once, although I had not seen him for twelve years. ‘How do you do, Umslopogaas?’ I said quietly in Zulu.
The tall man (who among his own people was commonly known as the ‘Woodpecker’, and also as the ‘Slaughterer’) started, and almost let the long-handled battleaxe he held in his hand fall in his astonishment58. Next second he had recognized me, and was saluting59 me in an outburst of sonorous60 language which made his companions the Wakwafi stare.
‘Koos’ (chief), he began, ‘Koos-y-Pagete! Koos-y-umcool! (Chief from of old—mighty chief) Koos! Baba! (father) Macumazahn, old hunter, slayer62 of elephants, eater up of lions, clever one! watchful63 one! brave one! quick one! whose shot never misses, who strikes straight home, who grasps a hand and holds it to the death (i.e. is a true friend) Koos! Baba! Wise is the voice of our people that says, “Mountain never meets with mountain, but at daybreak or at even man shall meet again with man.” Behold64! a messenger came up from Natal65, “Macumazahn is dead!” cried he. “The land knows Macumazahn no more.” That is years ago. And now, behold, now in this strange place of stinks66 I find Macumazahn, my friend. There is no room for doubt. The brush of the old jackal has gone a little grey; but is not his eye as keen, and are not his teeth as sharp? Ha! ha! Macumazahn, mindest thou how thou didst plant the ball in the eye of the charging buffalo—mindest thou—’
I had let him run on thus because I saw that his enthusiasm was producing a marked effect upon the minds of the five Wakwafi, who appeared to understand something of his talk; but now I thought it time to put a stop to it, for there is nothing that I hate so much as this Zulu system of extravagant67 praising—‘bongering’ as they call it. ‘Silence!’ I said. ‘Has all thy noisy talk been stopped up since last I saw thee that it breaks out thus, and sweeps us away? What doest thou here with these men—thou whom I left a chief in Zululand? How is it that thou art far from thine own place, and gathered together with strangers?’
Umslopogaas leant himself upon the head of his long battleaxe (which was nothing else but a pole-axe57, with a beautiful handle of rhinoceros68 horn), and his grim face grew sad.
‘My Father,’ he answered, ‘I have a word to tell thee, but I cannot speak it before these low people (umfagozana),’ and he glanced at the Wakwafi Askari; ‘it is for thine own ear. My Father, this will I say,’ and here his face grew stern again, ‘a woman betrayed me to the death, and covered my name with shame—ay, my own wife, a round-faced girl, betrayed me; but I escaped from death; ay, I broke from the very hands of those who came to slay61 me. I struck but three blows with this mine axe Inkosikaas—surely my Father will remember it—one to the right, one to the left, and one in front, and yet I left three men dead. And then I fled, and, as my Father knows, even now that I am old my feet are as the feet of the Sassaby {Endnote 2}, and there breathes not the man who, by running, can touch me again when once I have bounded from his side. On I sped, and after me came the messengers of death, and their voice was as the voice of dogs that hunt. From my own kraal I flew, and, as I passed, she who had betrayed me was drawing water from the spring. I fleeted by her like the shadow of Death, and as I went I smote69 with mine axe, and lo! her head fell: it fell into the water pan. Then I fled north. Day after day I journeyed on; for three moons I journeyed, resting not, stopping not, but running on towards forgetfulness, till I met the party of the white hunter who is now dead, and am come hither with his servants. And nought70 have I brought with me. I who was high-born, ay, of the blood of Chaka, the great king—a chief, and a captain of the regiment71 of the Nkomabakosi—am a wanderer in strange places, a man without a kraal. Nought have I brought save this mine axe; of all my belongings72 this remains73 alone. They have divided my cattle; they have taken my wives; and my children know my face no more. Yet with this axe’—and he swung the formidable weapon round his head, making the air hiss74 as he clove75 it—‘will I cut another path to fortune. I have spoken.’
I shook my head at him. ‘Umslopogaas,’ I said, ‘I know thee from of old. Ever ambitious, ever plotting to be great, I fear me that thou hast overreached thyself at last. Years ago, when thou wouldst have plotted against Cetywayo, son of Panda, I warned thee, and thou didst listen. But now, when I was not by thee to stay thy hand, thou hast dug a pit for thine own feet to fall in. Is it not so? But what is done is done. Who can make the dead tree green, or gaze again upon last year’s light? Who can recall the spoken word, or bring back the spirit of the fallen? That which Time swallows comes not up again. Let it be forgotten!
‘And now, behold, Umslopogaas, I know thee for a great warrior76 and a brave man, faithful to the death. Even in Zululand, where all the men are brave, they called thee the “Slaughterer”, and at night told stories round the fire of thy strength and deeds. Hear me now. Thou seest this great man, my friend’—and I pointed77 to Sir Henry; ‘he also is a warrior as great as thou, and, strong as thou art, he could throw thee over his shoulder. Incubu is his name. And thou seest this one also; him with the round stomach, the shining eye, and the pleasant face. Bougwan (glass eye) is his name, and a good man is he and a true, being of a curious tribe who pass their life upon the water, and live in floating kraals.
‘Now, we three whom thou seest would travel inland, past Dongo Egere, the great white mountain (Mt Kenia), and far into the unknown beyond. We know not what we shall find there; we go to hunt and seek adventures, and new places, being tired of sitting still, with the same old things around us. Wilt78 thou come with us? To thee shall be given command of all our servants; but what shall befall thee, that I know not. Once before we three journeyed thus, in search of adventure, and we took with us a man such as thou—one Umbopa; and, behold, we left him the king of a great country, with twenty Impis (regiments), each of 3,000 plumed79 warriors80, waiting on his word. How it shall go with thee, I know not; mayhap death awaits thee and us. Wilt thou throw thyself to Fortune and come, or fearest thou, Umslopogaas?’
The great man smiled. ‘Thou art not altogether right, Macumazahn,’ he said; ‘I have plotted in my time, but it was not ambition that led me to my fall; but, shame on me that I should have to say it, a fair woman’s face. Let it pass. So we are going to see something like the old times again, Macumazahn, when we fought and hunted in Zululand? Ay, I will come. Come life, come death, what care I, so that the blows fall fast and the blood runs red? I grow old, I grow old, and I have not fought enough! And yet am I a warrior among warriors; see my scars’—and he pointed to countless81 cicatrices, stabs and cuts, that marked the skin of his chest and legs and arms. ‘See the hole in my head; the brains gushed82 out therefrom, yet did I slay him who smote, and live. Knowest thou how many men I have slain83, in fair hand-to-hand combat, Macumazahn? See, here is the tale of them’—and he pointed to long rows of notches84 cut in the rhinoceros-horn handle of his axe. ‘Number them, Macumazahn—one hundred and three—and I have never counted but those whom I have ripped open {Endnote 3}, nor have I reckoned those whom another man had struck.’
‘Be silent,’ I said, for I saw that he was getting the blood-fever on him; ‘be silent; well art thou called the “Slaughterer”. We would not hear of thy deeds of blood. Remember, if thou comest with us, we fight not save in self-defence. Listen, we need servants. These men,’ and I pointed to the Wakwafi, who had retired85 a little way during our ‘indaba’ (talk), ‘say they will not come.’
‘Will not come!’ shouted Umslopogaas; ‘where is the dog who says he will not come when my Father orders? Here, thou’—and with a single bound he sprang upon the Wakwafi with whom I had first spoken, and, seizing him by the arm, dragged him towards us. ‘Thou dog!’ he said, giving the terrified man a shake, ‘didst thou say that thou wouldst not go with my Father? Say it once more and I will choke thee’—and his long fingers closed round his throat as he said it—‘thee, and those with thee. Hast thou forgotten how I served thy brother?’
‘White man!’ went on Umslopogaas, in simulated fury, which a very little provocation87 would have made real enough; ‘of whom speakest thou, insolent88 dog?’
‘Nay, we will go with the great chief.’
‘So!’ said Umslopogaas, in a quiet voice, as he suddenly released his hold, so that the man fell backward. ‘I thought you would.’
‘That man Umslopogaas seems to have a curious moral ascendency over his companions,’ Good afterwards remarked thoughtfully.
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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trek
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| vi.作长途艰辛的旅行；n.长途艰苦的旅行 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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hearties
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| 亲切的( hearty的名词复数 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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rumours
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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chattels
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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coconuts
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| n.椰子( coconut的名词复数 )；椰肉，椰果 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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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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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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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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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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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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stinks
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| v.散发出恶臭( stink的第三人称单数 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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rhinoceros
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| n.犀牛 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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83
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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84
notches
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| n.（边缘或表面上的）V型痕迹( notch的名词复数 )；刻痕；水平；等级 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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