Peyraque was equal to the emergency. He received M. de Villemer with the calm dignity of a man who has the most rigid1 ideas of duty. It was no longer a question of putting him in communication with the pretended Charlette; it was necessary to get him away before any suspicions arose in his mind, or, in case they had already arisen, to dispel2 them at once. From the first words of the Marquis, Peyraque saw that he suspected nothing. Desirous to set out again in a few days with his son, whom he intended to keep nearer to himself in future, he had made the most of a fine morning to come on foot and repay this debt of gratitude3 to some generous stranger. He had not supposed the distance so great, and was, therefore, a little late in arriving. He confessed he was somewhat tired, and, in point of fact, his face betrayed both weariness and suffering.
Peyraque hastened to offer him food and drink, the duties of hospitality preceding everything else. He called Justine, who had, by this time, regained4 her composure; and they waited upon M. de Villemer, who, catching6 at this opportunity of rewarding his entertainers generously, accepted their services with a good grace. He learned with regret that Charlette had gone away; but there was no reason why he should ask many questions about her. He thought of leaving a present for her, which Justine, in a low tone, advised her husband to accept, that he might not be surprised at anything. Caroline would readily find a chance to send it back. Peyraque did not see the necessity; his pride revolted at the idea of seeming to accept money on her account.
Caroline, in her little chamber7, overheard this strife8 on a point of delicacy9. The voice of the Marquis sent shudders10 through her. She dared not stir. It seemed as if M. de Villemer would recognize her footfall through the flooring. He, for his part, hoping to find a way of discharging his obligations under some different form, pretended and really tried to eat a little; and after this inquired whether he could hire a horse to return with. The night was dark and the rain came on again. Peyraque agreed to carry him back and went out to get his wagon11 ready; but first, he climbed up softly to Caroline's room. "This poor gentleman makes me uneasy," said he in a low voice. "He is very ill, that I am sure of. You can see drops of sweat on his forehead, and yet he creeps up to the fire like a man with a fever-chill. He could not swallow two morsels12, and when he breathes hard it seems to affect his heart like a spasm13, for he puts his hand there, smiling bravely all the while, but afterwards carrying it to his head, as one does in severe pain.
"Heavens!" exclaimed Caroline, in alarm, "when he is ill it is so dangerous! You must not carry him back to-night; your wagon is not easy, and then the bad roads and the cold, and this rain and his fever! No, no, he must stay here to-night. But where, pray? He would rather sleep out of doors than at the inn, which is so untidy. There is only one way. Keep him from going, keep him here. Give him my room. I will gather up my things; it will not take long, and I will go to your daughter-in-law's."
"With my son's wife or in the village, you will be too near. If he should happen to be a little worse in the night you would come in spite of yourself, to take care of him."
"That is true. What shall I do?"
"Do you want me to say? Well, you have courage and health: I will take you to Laussonne, where you can pass the night with my sister-in-law; it is as neat there as it is here, and to-morrow, after he goes, I will come for you."
"Yes, you are right," said Caroline, doing up her bundle hastily. "Make him agree to stay, and tell your son, as you go by, to harness Mignon."
Peyraque, having given his orders, returned to tell the Marquis the rain had set in for the whole evening, which was indeed true; and, giving Justine a significant glance, he urged him to stay so cordially that M. de Villemer consented. "You are right, my friends," said he, with his heart-broken smile; "I am somewhat ill, and I am one of those who have no right to wish for death."
"No one has that right," replied Peyraque; "but you will not be dangerously sick here with us, I assure you. My wife will take good care of you. The chamber up above is very clean and warm, and if you get worse you have only to knock lightly, just once; we shall hear it."
Justine went up stairs to prepare his room and embrace poor Caroline, who was really dismayed. "What!" said Caroline, speaking very low; "I know he is sick and I am going to desert him in this way. No. I was mad! I will stay."
"But that is just what Peyraque will never let you do," replied Justine. "Peyraque is stern; but what would you! Perhaps he is right. If you take pity on one another now, you will never be able to part again. And then—for myself I am sure you would never do anything wrong, but the mother—And then, think what other people might say!"
Caroline would not listen; Peyraque went up stairs, took her hand with an air of authority, and made her come down. She had put her poor heart under the guidance of this Protestant of the Cévennes; there was no longer any way of drawing back.
He led her out to the carriage and put in her bundle. At this moment Caroline, who had really lost her senses, escaped from his grasp, darted15 into the house through the kitchen-door, and caught sight of M. de Villemer, who was seated with his back toward her. She went no farther; her reason returned. And then his appearance reassured16 her a little. He had not that bruised17, broken-down aspect she had seen him wear on the night of his former attack. He was sitting before the fire, reading in Peyraque's Bible. The little iron lamp hanging from the mantel-piece threw its light on his black hair, wavy18 like his son's, and partly also on his clear, strong forehead. M. de Villemer was doubtless suffering much, but he still wished to live; he had not lost hope.
"Here I am," said Caroline, returning to Peyraque. "He did n't see me, and I have seen him! I am more at ease. Let us start; but you must promise on your honor," added she, as she drew near the step of the carriage, "that if he is taken to-night with suffocation19 you will come for me at whatever damage to your horse. It must be done, do you see? No one else knows what this sick man needs in way of care—and you—you would see him die in your own house, and you would have it on your conscience forever!"
Peyraque promised, and they set out. The weather was dreadful, and the road frightful20; but Peyraque knew every one of its holes and its stones. Besides, the distance was short. He left Caroline at the house of his sister-in-law, and had reached home again by eleven o'clock.
The Marquis was feeling better; he had gone to lie down after having chatted with Justine in such a friendly way that she was delighted. "Do you see, Peyraque, this man," said she, "he has a good heart like hers— I can understand it perfectly21 myself—"
"Stop talking now," said Peyraque, who knew the thinness of the flooring; "if he is asleep, we ought to sleep too."
At Lantriac the night passed in absolute quiet. The Marquis actually rested, and at two o'clock awoke, having shaken off the fever. He felt imbued22 with a pleasant calm, such as he had not known for a long time, and he attributed this to some sweet dream that he had forgotten, though its impression remained. Unwilling23 to awaken24 his hosts, he kept still, gazing at the four walls of the little chamber, brightly lighted by his lamp, and grasping the facts of his position more positively25 than he had done before since Caroline's departure. He had debated a thousand extreme measures; then he had said to himself that his first duty was to his son; and the sight of this child had given him the force of will he needed to resist the physical disease which now began to threaten him anew. Within twenty-four hours he had fixed26 upon a definite plan. He would take Didier to Madame Heudebert, leaving with her a letter for Caroline, and then quit France for some time, so that Mlle de Saint-Geneix, reassured by his absence, might return to be near her sister at Étampes. In the course of a few quiet weeks, the Marchioness would perhaps get further information, or perhaps her secret would be discovered by the Duke, who had sworn he would draw it from her by surprise. If the Duke failed, Urbain was not at the end of his resources. He would come back quietly to the castle of Mauveroche, where his mother, was to pass the summer with her daughter-in-law, and he would not let Caroline know of his return until he had cleared her in his mother's estimation, and thus again smoothed away every difficulty.
The most important and the most urgent thing, then, was to draw Mlle de Saint-Geneix from her mysterious hiding-place. The Marquis still thought she was in some Parisian convent. He found himself compelled to stay a few days longer in Polignac to make sure of Dame27 Roqueberte's complete recovery, before grieving her by taking away his son, and this delay had fretted28 him more than anything else. To cheat his impatience29, he asked himself why he should not write to Madame Heudebert at once and to Caroline also, that they might be prepared to rejoin each other after his departure for a foreign land. By this means he would perhaps gain a few days. He could mail the letter at once, as he would pass through Le Puy on his return to Polignac.
What gave him the idea of writing from Lantriac was, mainly, the sight of the little bureau, where Caroline had left pens, some ink in a cup, and a few stray sheets of paper. These objects, on which his gaze fastened mechanically, seemed inviting30 him to follow his inspiration. He rose noiselessly, put the lamp on the table, and wrote to Caroline.
"My friend, my sister, you will not desert an unhappy man, who, for a year past, has centred in you the hopes of his life. Caroline, do not mistake my meaning. I have a favor to ask of you which you cannot refuse. I am going away.
"I have a son who has no mother. I love him devotedly31; I intrust him to you. Come back!—As for myself, I go to England. You shall never see me again, if you have lost faith in me,—but that is impossible. When have I been unworthy of your esteem32? Caroline—"
The Marquis stopped abruptly33. An object of little importance had caught his eye. The ordinary paper, the steel pens, had no peculiarities34; but one black bead35 lay on the table between his hand and the inkstand, a trifle insignificant36 in itself, but one bringing with it a whole world of memories. It was a bit of jet, cut and perforated in a certain unusual fashion. It was part of a valueless bracelet37 Caroline had worn at Séval; which he easily recognized because she used to take it off whenever she wrote, and he had himself formed a habit of toying with this bracelet while talking to her. He had handled it a hundred times, and one day she had said to him, "Pray don't break it, it is all I have left from my mother's jewel-box." He had looked at it respectfully, and held it lovingly in his hands. Just as she was on the point of quitting her little room in Lantriac, Caroline, in her precipitation, had broken this bracelet; she had picked up the beads38 hastily, leaving behind but this one.
This black bead reversed all the ideas of the Marquis; but what kind of dreaming was this? These cut jets might be an industrial product of the country he was then in. Nevertheless he sat motionless, absorbed in new surmises39. He breathed and questioned the vague perfume of the room. He looked everywhere without moving from his chair. There was nothing on the walls, nothing on the table, nothing on the mantel. Finally he became aware of some bits of paper in the fireplace, which were not completely charred40. He bent41 over the ashes, searched minutely, and found one single fragment of an address, only two syllables42 of which were legible: one, written by hand, was the last in the word Lantriac, the other, "am," forming part of the postmark. The postmark was that of Étampes, the handwriting that of Madame Heudebert. There could be no longer a doubt: Charlette was no one but Caroline, and perhaps she had never gone away, perhaps she was still in the house.
From that moment, the Marquis had the cunning, the watchfulness43, the coolness, and the keen perception of a savage44. He discovered the pipe from the little spring leading down to the sink below. The pipe itself was stopped up, but there was more than one fissure45 in the plaster which surrounded it. He put his ear down to it closely, and caught Peyraque's long, even breathing as he lay yet asleep.
Not a word, though spoken ever so low, could then escape him. In a few moments he distinctly heard Justine rise, uttering the words, "Come, get up, Peyraque; perhaps poor Caroline has not been sleeping so well as we have!"
"A night is a night," said Peyraque; "besides, I can't go for her till after he has gone away."
Justine listened and replied, "He does n't stir, but he said he should get up at daybreak. Daylight is n't far off now; he means to go away without taking anything, he said so."
"It is all the same," rejoined Peyraque, who had now risen, and whose voice was even more audible, though he spoke46 quite low; "I don't want him to set out on foot; it is too far. The lad shall saddle my horse, and when I have seen him fairly off, I will start for Laussonne."
M. de Villemer had made sure. He stirred a little to show he was up, and went down stairs after having slipped his purse into the bureau-drawer. He seemed very impatient to get back to Polignac, and declaring he felt perfectly strong, obstinately47 refused the horse. It would have been an encumbrance48 in the war of observation he was about to wage. He shook hands cordially with his entertainers and set out; but, on the borders of the village, having inquired about the road of a passer-by, he changed his course, plunging49 into a by-way that led to Laussonne.
He thought he could arrive there in advance of Peyraque, wait for him stealthily, and see him take Caroline back. When he had made sure of her return to Lantriac, he would lay his plans further. Until then, being quite aware she was trying to escape him, he would not risk losing track of her again. But Peyraque was very expeditious50; Mignon travelled fast in spite of the roads which grew worse and worse, forming one unbroken ascent51 in the direction of Laussonne, and crossing more than one mountain declivity52. The by-path cut off the angles of the main road but slightly, and the Marquis was distanced by the rustic53 equipage. He saw it pass and recognized Peyraque, who, for his part, thought he distinguished54, in the morning fog, a man who was not in peasant garb55, and who quickly retreated behind an embanking wall of rough stones.
Peyraque was suspicious. "Very likely," thought he, "he has been fooling us, or he has found out something. Well! if it is he, and if he is no more of an invalid56 than that, I will cure him of trying to follow a mountain horse on foot."
He urged Mignon forward, and arrived at Laussonne with the first rays of the sun. Caroline, in deadly anxiety, after a cruelly sleepless57 night, came out to meet him.
"All is going well," said he. "I was mistaken yesterday; he is not so very ill, for he slept well and would return on foot."
"So he is gone?" replied Caroline, climbing to her seat by Peyraque. "He never suspected anything, then? And I shall never see him again? Well, so much the better!" and she burst into tears under her hood58, which she pulled over her face in vain. Peyraque heard her sob59 as if her heart would break.
"So you are the one going to be sick now?" said he, in a tone of paternal60 severity. "Come, be reasonable, or your Peyraque will never believe you when you tell him you are a Christian61."
"So long as I do not weep before him, can you not excuse one moment of weakness in me? But what are you doing? Why are we going on toward Laussonne?"
Peyraque thought he again caught sight of the Marquis still creeping onward62. "You must excuse me," said he, "but I have an errand to do in the village. It is quite near."
He entered the village, shrewdly thinking that the Marquis would still keep himself in sight at a distance. He went up the street and exchanged a few words with one of the townspeople. Pretexts63 could not fail to be at hand. Then, returning to Caroline, he said, "You see, my daughter, you have too much on your mind. I want to revive your spirits; you know an excursion always does you good. Would you like to have me take you on one—O, a very pleasant one!"
"If you have business anywhere, I don't want to incommode you. I will go wherever you like."
"I shall have to go to the foot of Mézenc, to the village of Estables. It is a beautiful place really, and you have been longing64 to see the grandest of the Cévennes."
"You said it would be hard travelling over there until after next month."
"Bless me! Why, the weather is cloudy, to be sure, and perhaps the roads are a little damaged. I have n't passed over them since last year; but they have been worked upon, as I have heard, and besides you know with me there is no danger."
"I assure you I am in no mood to worry about danger. Let us set out."
Peyraque hurried on his horse, which soon crossed the boundaries of Laussonne and bravely descended65 the rocky hill, climbing the other slope again without delay, and even more rapidly. When they had reached the top, Peyraque turned round, saw no one in the paths behind him, and looked at the road ahead, which was taking on a discouraging aspect. "You are going to see a wilderness," said he; "but that need n't annoy you, need it?"
"No, no," replied she; "when we are desperate we cease to be annoyed."
Peyraque went on, not without warning his companion repeatedly that the sun might not be disposed to shine, that they had four leagues to go, and that perhaps Mézenc would be under a fog. All this had little interest for Caroline, who did not guess the hesitation66 of her old friend or his qualms67 of conscience.
They traversed a mountain wooded with pines, and cut into by a vast glade,—the result of an ancient felling of the trees,—which opened a gigantic avenue, where the road, from a distance, looked like a highway for a hundred chariots abreast68; but when the little carriage had ventured in, it was a frightful task to get over the ground, rain-soaked and hollowed out into deep ruts in a thousand places. Further on, it was worse still; the turf was strewed69 with blocks of lava70, which left boggy71 places between them; and when they found traces of the travelled road again, they had to turn aside for monstrous72 piles of flints and pebbles73, to stop altogether before deep cuts or trenches74, to seek the old road among twenty others that lost themselves in the morass75. The horse performed prodigies76 of courage, and Peyraque miracles of skill and judgment77.
At the expiration78 of two hours, they had accomplished79 only two leagues, and were in open country on an interminable plateau, at an elevation80 of fifteen hundred metres. Except the breaks here and there in the road, nothing could be distinguished. The sun had disappeared; a thick mist enshrouded everything, and nothing can paint the feeling of bitter desolation which fell upon Caroline. Peyraque himself lost courage and kept silence. The obstructed81 road, which, he had been forced to leave one side did not reappear, and for the last fifteen minutes they had been pacing over a spongy turf, broken up by the hoofs82 of cattle in search of pasturage, but no longer bearing any traces of wheels. The horse stopped, bathed in sweat; he thus gave warning that he had never been over this ground before.
Peyraque alighted, sinking almost knee deep in the boggy soil, and tried to find where he was. It was out of the question. The mountains and ravines were only one plain of white vapor83.
"Have we lost our way?" asked Caroline with cool indifference84.
At this point the wind made a little opening in the fog, and they saw in the distance fantastic horizons empurpled by the sun; but the mist closed in again so quickly that Peyraque could not determine his position from this isolated85 peak in the distant circle of mountains. However, they heard a confused barking and then voices, though they could not distinguish the dogs till they were quite upon them. These dogs were the advance-guard of a caravan86 of men and mules87 carrying vegetables and leather bottles. They were mountaineers who had been down to the plains to exchange the cheese and butter of their cows for the fruits and vegetables of the level country. They accosted88 Peyraque, who asked information. They told him that he had done very wrong to think of going with a carriage to Estables at this season, that it could not be done, and that he would have to return. Peyraque showed some obstinacy89, and asked if he was still far from the village. They guided him into the road again, telling him he had work before him for an hour and a half; but as their animals were loaded and warm, and they themselves in haste to arrive, these mountaineers offered no assistance, and disappeared, with a laugh at the little carriage. Caroline saw them rapidly vanish into the fog like shadows.
It was absolutely necessary to let the horse breathe, for a fresh effort to regain5 the solid road had exhausted90 him. "What comforts me," said Peyraque, really moved, "is that you don't complain of anything! It is very cold, nevertheless, and I'm sure the dampness has gone through your cloak."
Caroline replied only by a shiver.
A new shadow had just passed along the side of the road; it was M. de Villemer. He pretended not to see the carriage, although he did see it perfectly; but he chose to seem unconscious that it held any one he knew. He advanced with extraordinary energy, affecting an air of indifference.
"It is he! I saw him," said Caroline to Peyraque. "He goes wherever we go."
"Well, let him go on, and we will turn back."
"No, I cannot, I will not! He will die after such a walk. He will never reach Estables. Let us follow him."
This time Caroline's terror was so commanding that Peyraque obeyed. They came up with M. de Villemer, who moved aside to let them pass, without stopping or looking up. He would be neither intrusive91 nor rebellious92, but he would know, he would follow to the death.
Unfortunately he was at the end of his strength. The difficulty of this walk, which from Lantriac had been a continual ascent and, for the last two leagues, one chaos93 of stones and peaty turf, had started on him a profuse94 perspiration95 which he could feel freezing in the blast of a sharp wind that had suddenly veered96 to the east. He lost his breath, and was forced to stop.
Caroline turned her head toward him, and was on the point of crying out. Peyraque seized her arm. "Courage, my daughter," he said, with his stern religious fervor97. "The Lord requires it at your hands." And she felt herself overborne by the strong faith of the peasant.
"What do you want to do for him?" resumed Peyraque, as he still drove on. "He has had strength to come so far, he will have enough to go the rest of the way. A man does not die from the effects of a walk. He will rest at Estables. And if he is sick,—I shall be there."
"But he is following me! You see I shall have to speak to him there or elsewhere."
"Why should he follow you? He does not suspect you are here even. So many travellers want to see Mézenc."
"In such weather as this?"
"The sun rose brightly, and we ourselves started to see Mézenc."
The Marquis saw Caroline hesitate and submit. This was the final blow. No sooner had he seen himself left behind than he felt he could go no farther. He sank down on a stone, his eyes fixed on the black speck98 slowly vanishing from his sight, for the wind had risen suddenly and was violently scattering99 the fog, in whose stead there now came light flurries of snow and sleet100. "So she would have me know nothing more of her?" said he to himself, as he felt his strength failing. "She flees from hope, she has lost faith. Then she never loved me!"
And he lay down to die.
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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morsels
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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suffocation
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frightful
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perfectly
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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unwilling
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awaken
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positively
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fixed
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dame
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fretted
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impatience
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inviting
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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esteem
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abruptly
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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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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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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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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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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expeditious
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| adj.迅速的，敏捷的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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boggy
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| adj.沼泽多的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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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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83
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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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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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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98
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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99
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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