The Morgans’ old house, far above the townlet of Abercorran, had windows commanding mountains behind as well as sea in front. Their tales had given me, at the beginning, an idea of mountains, as distinct from those objects resembling saw teeth by which they are sometimes represented. They formed the foundation of my idea of mountains. Then upon that I raised slowly a magnificent edifice13 by means of books of travel and of romance. These later elements were also added unto the Welsh mountains where Jack14 found the kite’s nest,[94] where Roland saw an eagle, where Philip had learnt the ways of raven15, buzzard, and curlew, of badger16, fox, and otter17. My notions of their size had been given to me by Ann, in a story of two men who were lost on them in the mist. For three days the men were neither seen nor heard in their wanderings; on the fourth they were discovered by chance, one dead, the other mad. These high solitudes18, I thought, must keep men wild in their minds, and still more I thought so after hearing of the runaway20 boy from Ann’s own parish. He lived entirely21 out of doors—without stealing, said Ann—for a year and a half. Every now and then someone caught sight of him, but that was all the news. He told nothing when he was arrested on the charge of setting fire to a rick. Ann said that if he did this it was an accident, but they wanted to get rid of the scandal of the “wild boy,” so they packed him off to a training ship until he was sixteen. “He would have thought it a piece of luck,” said Ann, “to escape from the ship, however it was, for he thought it worse than any weather on the mountains; and before he was sixteen he did escape—he fell overboard by some mercy, and was never seen again on sea or land, my children.”
[95]
But above all other tales of the mountains was the one that had David Morgan for hero. David Morgan was the eldest22 brother of the Morgans of Abercorran House. He had been to London before ever the family thought of quitting their Welsh home; in a year’s time he had returned with an inveterate23 melancholy24. After remaining silent, except to his mother, for some months, he left home to build himself a house up in the mountains. When I was at Abercorran, Morgan’s Folly25—so everybody called it—was in ruins, but still made a black letter against the sky when the north was clear. People imagined that he had hidden gold somewhere among the rocks. He was said to have worshipped a god who never entered chapel26 or church. He was said to speak with raven and fox. He was said to pray for the end of man or of the world. Atheist27, blasphemer, outlaw28, madman, brute29, were some of the names he received in rumour30. But the last that was positively31 known of him was that, one summer, he used to come down night after night, courting the girl Angharad who became his wife.
One of his obsessions32 in solitude19, so said his mother when I travelled down with her to see the last of him, was a belief in a race who had kept[96] themselves apart from the rest of men, though found among many nations, perhaps all. The belief may have come from the Bible, and this was the race that grew up alongside the family of Cain, the guiltless “daughters of men” from whom the children of the fratricides obtained their wives. These, untainted with the blood of Cain, knew not sin or shame—so his belief seems to have been—but neither had they souls. They were a careless and a godless race, knowing not good or evil. They had never been cast out of Eden. “In fact,” said Mrs Morgan, “they must be something like Aurelius.” Some of the branches of this race had already been exterminated34 by men; for example, the Nymphs and Fauns. David Morgan was not afraid of uttering his belief. Others of them, he said, had adopted for safety many of men’s ways. They had become moorland or mountain men living at peace with their neighbours, but not recognised as equals. They were to be found even in the towns. There the uncommon35 beauty of the women sometimes led to unions of violent happiness and of calamity36, and to the birth of a poet or musician who could abide neither with the strange race nor with the children of Adam. They were feared but more[97] often despised, because they retained what men had lost by civilisation37, because they lived as if time was not, yet could not be persuaded to believe in a future life.
Up in his tower Morgan came to believe his own father one of this people, and resolved to take a woman from amongst them for a wife. Angharad, the shy, the bold, the fierce dark Angharad whose black eyes radiated light and blackness together, was one of them. She became his wife and went up with him to the tower. After that these things only were certainly known; that she was unhappy; that when she came down to the village for food she was silent, and would never betray him or fail to return; and that he himself never came down, that he also was silent and with his unshorn hair looked like a wild man. He was seen at all hours, usually far off, on the high paths of the mountains. His hair was as black as in boyhood. He was never known to have ailed38, until one day the wild wife knocked at a farm-house door near Abercorran, asking for help to bring him where he might be looked after, since he would have no one in the tower but her. The next day Mrs Morgan travelled down to see her son. When she asked me to accompany[98] her I did so with some curiosity; for I had already become something of a stranger at Abercorran House, and had often wondered what had become of David Morgan up on his tower. His mother talked readily of his younger days and his stay in London. Though he had great gifts, some said genius, which he might have been expected to employ in the study, he had applied39 himself to direct social work. For a year he laboured “almost as hard,” he said, “as the women who make our shirts.” But gradually he formed the opinion that he did not understand town life, that he never could understand the men and women whom he saw living a town life pure and simple. Before he came amongst them he had been thinking grandly about men without realising that these were of a different species. His own interference seemed to him impudent40. They disgusted him, he wanted to make them more or less in his own image to save his feelings, which, said he, was absurd. He was trying to alter the conditions of other men’s lives because he could not have himself endured them, because it would have been unpleasant to him to be like them in their hideous41 pleasure, hideous suffering, hideous indifference42. In this attitude, which altogether[99] neglected the consolations43 and even beauty and glory possible or incident to such a life, he saw a modern Pharisaism whose followers44 did not merely desire to be unlike others, but to make others like themselves. It was, he thought, due to lack of the imagination and sympathy to see their lives from a higher or a more intimate point of view, in connection with implicit45 ideals, not as a spectacle for which he had an expensive seat. Did they fall farther short of their ideals than he from his? He had not the power to see, but he thought not; and he came to believe that, lacking as their life might be in familiar forms of beauty and power, it possessed46, nevertheless, a profound unconsciousness and dark strength which might some day bring forth47 beauty—might even now be beautiful to simple and true eyes—and had already given them a fitness to their place which he had for no place on earth. When it was food and warmth which were lacking he never hesitated to use his money, but beyond satisfying these needs he could not feel sure that he was not fancifully interfering48 with a force which he did not understand and could not overestimate49. Therefore, leaving all save a little of his money to be spent in directly supplying the needs of hungry and[100] cold men, he escaped from the sublime50, unintelligible51 scene. He went up into the tower that he had built on a rock in his own mountains, to think about life before he began to live. Up there, said his mother, he hoped to learn why sometimes in a London street, beneath the new and the multitudinous, could be felt a simple and a pure beauty, beneath the turmoil52 a placidity53, beneath the noise a silence which he longed to reach and drink deeply and perpetuate54, but in vain. It was his desire to learn to see in human life, as we see in the life of bees, the unity55, which perhaps some higher order of beings can see through the complexity56 which confuses us. He had set out to seek at first by means of science, but he thought that science was an end, not a means. For a hundred years, he said, men had been reading science and investigating, as they had been reading history, with the result that they knew some science and some history. “So he went up into his tower, and there he has been these twelve years,” said Mrs Morgan, “with Angharad and no comforts. You would think by his letters that his thoughts had become giddy up there. Only five letters have I had from him in these twelve years. This is all,” she added, showing a small packet[101] in her handbag. “For the last six years nobody has heard from him except Ann. He wished he had asked Ann to go with him to the tower. She would have gone, too. She would have preserved him from being poetical57. It is true he was only twenty-five years old at the time, but he was too poetical. He said things which he was bound to repent58 in a year, perhaps in a day. He writes quite seriously, as actors half seriously talk, in tones quite inhumanly59 sublime.” She read me scraps60 from these old letters, evidently admiring as well as disapproving61:
“I am alone. From my tower I look out at the huge desolate63 heaves of the grey beacons64. Their magnitude and pure form give me a great calm. Here is nothing human, gentle, disturbing, as there is in the vales. There is nothing but the hills and the silence, which is God. The greater heights, set free from night and the mist, look as if straight from the hands of God, as if here He also delighted in pure form and magnitude that are worthy65 of His love. The huge shadows moving slowly over the grey spaces of winter, the olive spaces of summer, are as God’s hand....
“While I watch, the dream comes, more and[102] more often, of a Paradise to be established upon the mountains when at last the wind shall blow sweet over a world that knows not the taint33 of life any more than of death. Then my thought sweeps rejoicing through the high Gate of the Winds that cleaves66 the hills—you could see it from my bedroom at Abercorran—far off, where a shadow miles long sleeps across the peaks, but leaves the lower wild as yellow in the sunlight as corn....
“Following my thought I have walked upwards67 to that Gate of the Winds, to range the high spaces, sometimes to sleep there. Or I have lain among the gorse—I could lie on my back a thousand years, hearing the cuckoo in the bushes and looking up at the blue sky above the mountains. In the rain and wind I have sat against one of the rocks in the autumn bracken until the sheep have surrounded me, shaggy and but half visible through the mist, peering at me fearlessly, as if they had not seen a man since that one was put to rest under the cairn above; I sat on and on in the mystery, part of it but not divining, so that I went disappointed away. The crags stared at me on the hill-top where the dark spirits of the earth had crept out of their abysses into the[103] day, and, still clad in darkness, looked grimly at the sky, the light, and at me....
“More and more now I stay in the tower, since even in the mountains as to a greater extent in the cities of men, I am dismayed by numbers, by variety, by the grotesque68, by the thousand gods demanding idolatry instead of the One I desire, Whose hand’s shadow I have seen far off....
“Looking on a May midnight at Algol rising from behind a mountain, the awe69 and the glory of that first step into the broad heaven exalted70 me; a sound arose as of the whole of Time making music behind me, a music as of something passing away to leave me alone in the silence, so that I also were about to step off into the air....”
“Oh,” said Mrs Morgan, “it would do him good to do something—to keep a few pigeons, now. I am afraid he will take to counting the stones in his tower.” She continued her quotations71:
“The moon was rising. The sombre ranges eastward72 seemed to be the edge of the earth, and as the orb73 ascended74, the world was emptied and grieved, having given birth to this mighty75 child. I was left alone. The great white clouds[104] sat round about on the horizon, judging me. For days I lay desolate and awake, and dreamed and never stirred.”
“You see,” said Mrs Morgan, “that London could not cure him. He says:
“‘I have visited London. I saw the city pillared, above the shadowy abyss of the river, on columns of light; and it was less than one of my dreams. It was Winter and I was resolved to work again in Poplar. I was crossing one of the bridges, full of purpose and thought, going against the tide of the crowd. The morning had a low yellow roof of fog. About the heads of the crowd swayed a few gulls77, inter-lacing so that they could not be counted. They swayed like falling snow and screamed. They brought light on their long wings, as the ship below, setting out slowly with misty78 masts, brought light to the green and leaden river upon the foam79 at her bows. And ever about the determined80, careless faces of the men swayed the pale wings, like wraiths81 of evil and good, calling and calling to ears that know not what they hear. And they tempted82 my brain with the temptation of their beauty: I went to and fro to hear and to see them until they slept and the crowd had flowed away. I rejoiced that[105] day, for I thought that this beauty had made ready my brain, and that on the mountains at last I should behold83 the fulness and the simplicity84 of beauty. So I went away without seeing Poplar. But there, again, among the mountains was weariness, because I also was there.’”
“Why is he always weary?” asked Mrs Morgan plaintively85, before reading on:
“But not always weariness. For have I not the company of planet and star in the heavens, the same as bent86 over prophet, poet, and philosopher of old? By day a scene unfolds as when the first man spread forth his eyes and saw more than his soul knew. These things lift up my heart sometimes for days together, so that the voices of fear and doubt are not so much in that infinite silence as rivulets87 in an unbounded plain. The sheer mountains, on some days, seem to be the creation of my own lean terrible thoughts, and I am glad: the soft, wooded hills below and behind seem the creation of the pampered88 luxurious89 thought which I have left in the world of many men....
“Would that I could speak in the style of the mountains. But language, except to genius[106] and simple men, is but a paraphrase90, dissipating and dissolving the forms of passion and thought....
“Again Time lured91 me back out of Eternity92, and I believed that I longed to die as I lay and watched the sky at sunset inlaid with swart forest, and watched it with a dull eye and a cold heart....”
“And they think he is an atheist. They think he has buried gold on the mountain,” exclaimed Mrs Morgan, indignantly.
Little she guessed of the nights before her in the lone62 farmhouse93 with her bewildered son and the wild Angharad. While he raved94 through his last hours and Angharad spent herself in wailing95, and Mrs Morgan tried to steady his thoughts, I could only walk about the hills. I climbed to the tower, but learnt nothing because Morgan or his wife had set fire to it on leaving, and the shell of stones only remained.
On the fourth morning, after a night of storm, all was over. That morning once more I could hear the brook’s murmur96 which had been obliterated97 by the storm and by thought. The air was clear and gentle in the coomb behind the farm, and all but still after the night of death and of[107] great wind. High up in the drifting rose of dawn the tall trees were swaying their tips as if stirred by memories of the tempest. They made no sound in the coomb with the trembling of their slender length; some were never to sound again, for they lay motionless and prone98 in the underwood, or hung slanting99 among neighbour branches, where they fell in the night—the rabbits could nibble100 at crests101 which once wavered about the stars. The path was strewn with broken branches and innumerable twigs102.
The silence was so great that I could hear, by enchantment103 of the ears, the departed storm. Yet the tragic104 repose105 was unbroken. One robin106 singing called up the roars and tumults107 that had to cease utterly108 before his voice could gain this power of peculiar109 sweetness and awe and make itself heard.
The mountains and sky, beautiful as they were, were more beautiful because a cloak of terror had been lifted from them and left them free to the dark and silver, and now rosy110, dawn. The masses of the mountains were still heavy and sombre, but their ridges76 and the protruding111 tower bit sharply into the sky; the uttermost peaks appeared again, dark with shadows of[108] clouds of a most lustrous112 whiteness that hung like a white forest, very far off, in the country of the sun. Seen out of the clear gloom of the wood this country was as a place to which a man might wholly and vainly desire to go, knowing that he would be at rest there and there only.
As I listened, walking the ledge113 between precipice4 and precipice in the coomb, the silence murmured of the departed tempest like a sea-shell. I could hear the dark hills convulsed with a hollow roaring as of an endless explosion. All night the trees were caught up and shaken in the furious air like grasses; the sounds on earth were mingled114 with those of the struggle in the high spaces of air. Outside the window branches were brandished115 wildly, and their anger was the more terrible because the voice of it could not be distinguished116 amidst the universal voice. The sky itself seemed to aid the roar, as the stars raced over it among floes of white cloud, and dark menacing fragments flitted on messages of darkness across the white. I looked out from the death room, having turned away from the helpless, tranquil117 bed and the still wife, and saw the hillside trees surging under a wild moon, but they were strange and[109] no longer to be recognised, while the earth was heaving and be-nightmared by the storm. It was the awe of that hour which still hung over the coomb, making its clearness so solemn, its silence so pregnant, its gentleness so sublime. How fresh it was after the sick room, how calm after the vain conflict with death.
The blue smoke rose straight up from the house of death, over there in the white fields, where the wife sat and looked at the dead. Everyone else was talking of the strange life just ended, but the woman who had shared it would tell nothing; she wished only to persuade us that in spite of his extraordinary life he was a good man and very good to her. She had become as silent as Morgan himself, though eleven years before, when she began to live with him on the mountain, she was a happy, gay woman, the best dancer and singer in the village, and had the most lovers. Upon the mountain her wholly black Silurian eyes had turned inwards and taught her lips their mystery and Morgan’s. They buried him, according to his wish, at the foot of the tower. Outraged118 by this, some of the neighbours removed his body to the churchyard under the cover of night. Others equally enraged119 at putting such a one in consecrated[110] ground, exhumed120 him again. But in the end it was in the churchyard that his bones came to rest, with the inscription121, chosen by Ann:
“Though thou shouldest make thy nest as high as the eagle,
I will bring thee down from thence, saith the Lord.”
Angharad married a pious122 eccentric much older than herself, and in a year inherited his money. She lives on in one of those gray houses which make Queen Street so stately at Abercorran. She keeps no company but that of the dead. The children call her Angharad of the Folly, or simply Angharad Folly.
“She ought to have gone back to the tower,” said Mr Torrance in some anger.
“She would have done, Mr Torrance,” said Ann, “if she had been a poet; but you would not have done it if you had been through those eleven years and those four nights. No, I really don’t think you would.... I knew a poet who jumped into a girl’s grave, but he was not buried with her. Now you are angry with him, poor fellow, because he did not insist on being buried. Well, but it is lucky he was not, because if he had been we should not have known he was a poet.”
“Well said, Ann,” muttered Aurelius.
[111]
“Ann forgets that she was young once,” protested Mr Torrance.
“No,” she said, “I don’t think I do, but I think this, that you forget you will some day be old. Now, as this is Shrove Tuesday and you will be wanting pancakes I must go make them.”
“Good old Ann,” whispered Mr Torrance.
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1
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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hoots
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| 咄，啐 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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otter
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| n.水獭 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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obsessions
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| n.使人痴迷的人（或物）( obsession的名词复数 )；着魔；困扰 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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exterminated
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| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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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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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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overestimate
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| v.估计过高，过高评价 | |
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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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51
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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52
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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53
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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54
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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55
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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56
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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57
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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58
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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59
inhumanly
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| adv.无人情味地，残忍地 | |
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60
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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61
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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62
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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64
beacons
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| 灯塔( beacon的名词复数 )； 烽火； 指路明灯； 无线电台或发射台 | |
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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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66
cleaves
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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71
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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72
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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wraiths
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| n.幽灵( wraith的名词复数 )；（传说中人在将死或死后不久的）显形阴魂 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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84
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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99
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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100
nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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101
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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102
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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103
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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104
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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105
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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106
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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107
tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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108
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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109
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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111
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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112
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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113
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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114
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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115
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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116
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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117
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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118
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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119
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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120
exhumed
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| v.挖出，发掘出( exhume的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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122
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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