The sense of the unwonted solitude grew upon him suddenly, and in the unusual silence he caught himself longing14 even for the usually unwelcome sound of his wife’s voice to break the oppressive stillness which seemed, to his frightened fancy, to portend15 the advent16 of some new misfortune. “What has happened?” he muttered half aloud, as he shuffled18 in his imperfectly adjusted slippers19 towards the balustrade of the verandah. “Is everybody asleep or dead?”
The settlement was alive and very much awake. It was awake ever since the early break of day, when Mahmat Banjer, in a fit of unheard-of energy, arose and, taking up his hatchet20, stepped over the sleeping forms of his two wives and walked shivering to the water’s edge to make sure that the new house he was building had not floated away during the night.
The house was being built by the enterprising Mahmat on a large raft, and he had securely moored21 it just inside the muddy point of land at the junction22 of the two branches of the Pantai so as to be out of the way of drifting logs that would no doubt strand23 on the point during the freshet. Mahmat walked through the wet grass saying bourrouh, and cursing softly to himself the hard necessities of active life that drove him from his warm couch into the cold of the morning. A glance showed him that his house was still there, and he congratulated himself on his foresight24 in hauling it out of harm’s way, for the increasing light showed him a confused wrack25 of drift-logs, half-stranded on the muddy flat, interlocked into a shapeless raft by their branches, tossing to and fro and grinding together in the eddy26 caused by the meeting currents of the two branches of the river. Mahmat walked down to the water’s edge to examine the rattan27 moorings of his house just as the sun cleared the trees of the forest on the opposite shore. As he bent28 over the fastenings he glanced again carelessly at the unquiet jumble29 of logs and saw there something that caused him to drop his hatchet and stand up, shading his eyes with his hand from the rays of the rising sun. It was something red, and the logs rolled over it, at times closing round it, sometimes hiding it. It looked to him at first like a strip of red cloth. The next moment Mahmat had made it out and raised a great shout.
“Ah ya! There!” yelled Mahmat. “There’s a man amongst the logs.” He put the palms of his hand to his lips and shouted, enunciating distinctly, his face turned towards the settlement: “There’s a body of a man in the river! Come and see! A dead—stranger!”
The women of the nearest house were already outside kindling30 the fires and husking the morning rice. They took up the cry shrilly31, and it travelled so from house to house, dying away in the distance. The men rushed out excited but silent, and ran towards the muddy point where the unconscious logs tossed and ground and bumped and rolled over the dead stranger with the stupid persistency33 of inanimate things. The women followed, neglecting their domestic duties and disregarding the possibilities of domestic discontent, while groups of children brought up the rear, warbling joyously35, in the delight of unexpected excitement.
Almayer called aloud for his wife and daughter, but receiving no response, stood listening intently. The murmur36 of the crowd reached him faintly, bringing with it the assurance of some unusual event. He glanced at the river just as he was going to leave the verandah and checked himself at the sight of a small canoe crossing over from the Rajah’s landing-place. The solitary37 occupant (in whom Almayer soon recognised Babalatchi) effected the crossing a little below the house and paddled up to the Lingard jetty in the dead water under the bank. Babalatchi clambered out slowly and went on fastening his canoe with fastidious care, as if not in a hurry to meet Almayer, whom he saw looking at him from the verandah. This delay gave Almayer time to notice and greatly wonder at Babalatchi’s official get-up. The statesman of Sambir was clad in a costume befitting his high rank. A loudly checkered38 sarong encircled his waist, and from its many folds peeped out the silver hilt of the kriss that saw the light only on great festivals or during official receptions. Over the left shoulder and across the otherwise unclad breast of the aged39 diplomatist glistened40 a patent leather belt bearing a brass41 plate with the arms of Netherlands under the inscription42, “Sultan of Sambir.” Babalatchi’s head was covered by a red turban, whose fringed ends falling over the left cheek and shoulder gave to his aged face a ludicrous expression of joyous34 recklessness. When the canoe was at last fastened to his satisfaction he straightened himself up, shaking down the folds of his sarong, and moved with long strides towards Almayer’s house, swinging regularly his long ebony staff, whose gold head ornamented43 with precious stones flashed in the morning sun. Almayer waved his hand to the right towards the point of land, to him invisible, but in full view from the jetty.
“Oh, Babalatchi! oh!” he called out; “what is the matter there? can you see?”
Babalatchi stopped and gazed intently at the crowd on the river bank, and after a little while the astonished Almayer saw him leave the path, gather up his sarong in one hand, and break into a trot44 through the grass towards the muddy point. Almayer, now greatly interested, ran down the steps of the verandah. The murmur of men’s voices and the shrill32 cries of women reached him quite distinctly now, and as soon as he turned the corner of his house he could see the crowd on the low promontory45 swaying and pushing round some object of interest. He could indistinctly hear Babalatchi’s voice, then the crowd opened before the aged statesman and closed after him with an excited hum, ending in a loud shout.
As Almayer approached the throng46 a man ran out and rushed past him towards the settlement, unheeding his call to stop and explain the cause of this excitement. On the very outskirts47 of the crowd Almayer found himself arrested by an unyielding mass of humanity, regardless of his entreaties48 for a passage, insensible to his gentle pushes as he tried to work his way through it towards the riverside.
In the midst of his gentle and slow progress he fancied suddenly he had heard his wife’s voice in the thickest of the throng. He could not mistake very well Mrs. Almayer’s high-pitched tones, yet the words were too indistinct for him to understand their purport49. He paused in his endeavours to make a passage for himself, intending to get some intelligence from those around him, when a long and piercing shriek50 rent the air, silencing the murmurs51 of the crowd and the voices of his informants. For a moment Almayer remained as if turned into stone with astonishment52 and horror, for he was certain now that he had heard his wife wailing53 for the dead. He remembered Nina’s unusual absence, and maddened by his apprehensions54 as to her safety, he pushed blindly and violently forward, the crowd falling back with cries of surprise and pain before his frantic55 advance.
On the point of land in a little clear space lay the body of the stranger just hauled out from amongst the logs. On one side stood Babalatchi, his chin resting on the head of his staff and his one eye gazing steadily56 at the shapeless mass of broken limbs, torn flesh, and bloodstained rags. As Almayer burst through the ring of horrified57 spectators, Mrs. Almayer threw her own head-veil over the upturned face of the drowned man, and, squatting58 by it, with another mournful howl, sent a shiver through the now silent crowd. Mahmat, dripping wet, turned to Almayer, eager to tell his tale.
In the first moment of reaction from the anguish59 of his fear the sunshine seemed to waver before Almayer’s eyes, and he listened to words spoken around him without comprehending their meaning. When, by a strong effort of will, he regained61 the possession of his senses, Mahmat was saying—
“That is the way, Tuan. His sarong was caught in the broken branch, and he hung with his head under water. When I saw what it was I did not want it here. I wanted it to get clear and drift away. Why should we bury a stranger in the midst of our houses for his ghost to frighten our women and children? Have we not enough ghosts about this place?”
A murmur of approval interrupted him here. Mahmat looked reproachfully at Babalatchi.
“But the Tuan Babalatchi ordered me to drag the body ashore”—he went on looking round at his audience, but addressing himself only to Almayer—“and I dragged him by the feet; in through the mud I have dragged him, although my heart longed to see him float down the river to strand perchance on Bulangi’s clearing—may his father’s grave be defiled62!”
There was subdued63 laughter at this, for the enmity of Mahmat and Bulangi was a matter of common notoriety and of undying interest to the inhabitants of Sambir. In the midst of that mirth Mrs. Almayer wailed64 suddenly again.
“Allah! What ails13 the woman!” exclaimed Mahmat, angrily. “Here, I have touched this carcass which came from nobody knows where, and have most likely defiled myself before eating rice. By orders of Tuan Babalatchi I did this thing to please the white man. Are you pleased, O Tuan Almayer? And what will be my recompense? Tuan Babalatchi said a recompense there will be, and from you. Now consider. I have been defiled, and if not defiled I may be under the spell. Look at his anklets! Who ever heard of a corpse65 appearing during the night amongst the logs with gold anklets on its legs? There is witchcraft66 there. However,” added Mahmat, after a reflective pause, “I will have the anklet if there is permission, for I have a charm against the ghosts and am not afraid. God is great!”
A fresh outburst of noisy grief from Mrs. Almayer checked the flow of Mahmat’s eloquence67. Almayer, bewildered, looked in turn at his wife, at Mahmat, at Babalatchi, and at last arrested his fascinated gaze on the body lying on the mud with covered face in a grotesquely68 unnatural69 contortion70 of mangled71 and broken limbs, one twisted and lacerated arm, with white bones protruding72 in many places through the torn flesh, stretched out; the hand with outspread fingers nearly touching73 his foot.
“Do you know who this is?” he asked of Babalatchi, in a low voice.
Babalatchi, staring straight before him, hardly moved his lips, while Mrs. Almayer’s persistent74 lamentations drowned the whisper of his murmured reply intended only for Almayer’s ear.
“It was fate. Look at your feet, white man. I can see a ring on those torn fingers which I know well.”
Saying this, Babalatchi stepped carelessly forward, putting his foot as if accidentally on the hand of the corpse and pressing it into the soft mud. He swung his staff menacingly towards the crowd, which fell back a little.
“Go away,” he said sternly, “and send your women to their cooking fires, which they ought not to have left to run after a dead stranger. This is men’s work here. I take him now in the name of the Rajah. Let no man remain here but Tuan Almayer’s slaves. Now go!”
The crowd reluctantly began to disperse75. The women went first, dragging away the children that hung back with all their weight on the maternal76 hand. The men strolled slowly after them in ever forming and changing groups that gradually dissolved as they neared the settlement and every man regained his own house with steps quickened by the hungry anticipation77 of the morning rice. Only on the slight elevation78 where the land sloped down towards the muddy point a few men, either friends or enemies of Mahmat, remained gazing curiously79 for some time longer at the small group standing80 around the body on the river bank.
“I do not understand what you mean, Babalatchi,” said Almayer. “What is the ring you are talking about? Whoever he is, you have trodden the poor fellow’s hand right into the mud. Uncover his face,” he went on, addressing Mrs. Almayer, who, squatting by the head of the corpse, rocked herself to and fro, shaking from time to time her dishevelled grey locks, and muttering mournfully.
“Hai!” exclaimed Mahmat, who had lingered close by. “Look, Tuan; the logs came together so,” and here he pressed the palms of his hands together, “and his head must have been between them, and now there is no face for you to look at. There are his flesh and his bones, the nose, and the lips, and maybe his eyes, but nobody could tell the one from the other. It was written the day he was born that no man could look at him in death and be able to say, ‘This is my friend’s face.’”
“Silence, Mahmat; enough!” said Babalatchi, “and take thy eyes off his anklet, thou eater of pigs flesh. Tuan Almayer,” he went on, lowering his voice, “have you seen Dain this morning?”
Almayer opened his eyes wide and looked alarmed. “No,” he said quickly; “haven’t you seen him? Is he not with the Rajah? I am waiting; why does he not come?”
Babalatchi nodded his head sadly.
“He is come, Tuan. He left last night when the storm was great and the river spoke60 angrily. The night was very black, but he had within him a light that showed the way to your house as smooth as a narrow backwater, and the many logs no bigger than wisps of dried grass. Therefore he went; and now he lies here.” And Babalatchi nodded his head towards the body.
“How can you tell?” said Almayer, excitedly, pushing his wife aside. He snatched the cover off and looked at the formless mass of flesh, hair, and drying mud, where the face of the drowned man should have been. “Nobody can tell,” he added, turning away with a shudder81.
Babalatchi was on his knees wiping the mud from the stiffened82 fingers of the outstretched hand. He rose to his feet and flashed before Almayer’s eyes a gold ring set with a large green stone.
“You know this well,” he said. “This never left Dain’s hand. I had to tear the flesh now to get it off. Do you believe now?”
Almayer raised his hands to his head and let them fall listlessly by his side in the utter abandonment of despair. Babalatchi, looking at him curiously, was astonished to see him smile. A strange fancy had taken possession of Almayer’s brain, distracted by this new misfortune. It seemed to him that for many years he had been falling into a deep precipice83. Day after day, month after month, year after year, he had been falling, falling, falling; it was a smooth, round, black thing, and the black walls had been rushing upwards84 with wearisome rapidity. A great rush, the noise of which he fancied he could hear yet; and now, with an awful shock, he had reached the bottom, and behold85! he was alive and whole, and Dain was dead with all his bones broken. It struck him as funny. A dead Malay; he had seen many dead Malays without any emotion; and now he felt inclined to weep, but it was over the fate of a white man he knew; a man that fell over a deep precipice and did not die. He seemed somehow to himself to be standing on one side, a little way off, looking at a certain Almayer who was in great trouble. Poor, poor fellow! Why doesn’t he cut his throat? He wished to encourage him; he was very anxious to see him lying dead over that other corpse. Why does he not die and end this suffering? He groaned86 aloud unconsciously and started with affright at the sound of his own voice. Was he going mad? Terrified by the thought he turned away and ran towards his house repeating to himself, I am not going mad; of course not, no, no, no! He tried to keep a firm hold of the idea.
Not mad, not mad. He stumbled as he ran blindly up the steps repeating fast and ever faster those words wherein seemed to lie his salvation87. He saw Nina standing there, and wished to say something to her, but could not remember what, in his extreme anxiety not to forget that he was not going mad, which he still kept repeating mentally as he ran round the table, till he stumbled against one of the arm-chairs and dropped into it exhausted88. He sat staring wildly at Nina, still assuring himself mentally of his own sanity89 and wondering why the girl shrank from him in open-eyed alarm. What was the matter with her? This was foolish. He struck the table violently with his clenched90 fist and shouted hoarsely91, “Give me some gin! Run!” Then, while Nina ran off, he remained in the chair, very still and quiet, astonished at the noise he had made.
Nina returned with a tumbler half filled with gin, and found her father staring absently before him. Almayer felt very tired now, as if he had come from a long journey. He felt as if he had walked miles and miles that morning and now wanted to rest very much. He took the tumbler with a shaking hand, and as he drank his teeth chattered92 against the glass which he drained and set down heavily on the table. He turned his eyes slowly towards Nina standing beside him, and said steadily—
“Now all is over, Nina. He is dead, and I may as well burn all my boats.”
He felt very proud of being able to speak so calmly. Decidedly he was not going mad. This certitude was very comforting, and he went on talking about the finding of the body, listening to his own voice complacently93. Nina stood quietly, her hand resting lightly on her father’s shoulder, her face unmoved, but every line of her features, the attitude of her whole body expressing the most keen and anxious attention.
“And so Dain is dead,” she said coldly, when her father ceased speaking.
Almayer’s elaborately calm demeanour gave way in a moment to an outburst of violent indignation.
“You stand there as if you were only half alive, and talk to me,” he exclaimed angrily, “as if it was a matter of no importance. Yes, he is dead! Do you understand? Dead! What do you care? You never cared; you saw me struggle, and work, and strive, unmoved; and my suffering you could never see. No, never. You have no heart, and you have no mind, or you would have understood that it was for you, for your happiness I was working. I wanted to be rich; I wanted to get away from here. I wanted to see white men bowing low before the power of your beauty and your wealth. Old as I am I wished to seek a strange land, a civilisation to which I am a stranger, so as to find a new life in the contemplation of your high fortunes, of your triumphs, of your happiness. For that I bore patiently the burden of work, of disappointment, of humiliation94 amongst these savages95 here, and I had it all nearly in my grasp.”
“Do you hear? I had it all there; so; within reach of my hand.”
He paused, trying to keep down his rising anger, and failed.
“Have you no feeling?” he went on. “Have you lived without hope?” Nina’s silence exasperated97 him; his voice rose, although he tried to master his feelings.
“Are you content to live in this misery98 and die in this wretched hole? Say something, Nina; have you no sympathy? Have you no word of comfort for me? I that loved you so.”
He waited for a while for an answer, and receiving none shook his fist in his daughter’s face.
“I believe you are an idiot!” he yelled.
He looked round for the chair, picked it up and sat down stiffly. His anger was dead within him, and he felt ashamed of his outburst, yet relieved to think that now he had laid clear before his daughter the inner meaning of his life. He thought so in perfect good faith, deceived by the emotional estimate of his motives99, unable to see the crookedness100 of his ways, the unreality of his aims, the futility101 of his regrets. And now his heart was filled only with a great tenderness and love for his daughter. He wanted to see her miserable102, and to share with her his despair; but he wanted it only as all weak natures long for a companionship in misfortune with beings innocent of its cause. If she suffered herself she would understand and pity him; but now she would not, or could not, find one word of comfort or love for him in his dire103 extremity104. The sense of his absolute loneliness came home to his heart with a force that made him shudder. He swayed and fell forward with his face on the table, his arms stretched straight out, extended and rigid105. Nina made a quick movement towards her father and stood looking at the grey head, on the broad shoulders shaken convulsively by the violence of feelings that found relief at last in sobs106 and tears.
Nina sighed deeply and moved away from the table. Her features lost the appearance of stony107 indifference108 that had exasperated her father into his outburst of anger and sorrow. The expression of her face, now unseen by her father, underwent a rapid change. She had listened to Almayer’s appeal for sympathy, for one word of comfort, apparently109 indifferent, yet with her breast torn by conflicting impulses raised unexpectedly by events she had not foreseen, or at least did not expect to happen so soon. With her heart deeply moved by the sight of Almayer’s misery, knowing it in her power to end it with a word, longing to bring peace to that troubled heart, she heard with terror the voice of her overpowering love commanding her to be silent. And she submitted after a short and fierce struggle of her old self against the new principle of her life. She wrapped herself up in absolute silence, the only safeguard against some fatal admission. She could not trust herself to make a sign, to murmur a word for fear of saying too much; and the very violence of the feelings that stirred the innermost recesses110 of her soul seemed to turn her person into a stone. The dilated111 nostrils112 and the flashing eyes were the only signs of the storm raging within, and those signs of his daughter’s emotion Almayer did not see, for his sight was dimmed by self-pity, by anger, and by despair.
Had Almayer looked at his daughter as she leant over the front rail of the verandah he could have seen the expression of indifference give way to a look of pain, and that again pass away, leaving the glorious beauty of her face marred113 by deep-drawn lines of watchful114 anxiety. The long grass in the neglected courtyard stood very straight before her eyes in the noonday heat. From the river-bank there were voices and a shuffle17 of bare feet approaching the house; Babalatchi could be heard giving directions to Almayer’s men, and Mrs. Almayer’s subdued wailing became audible as the small procession bearing the body of the drowned man and headed by that sorrowful matron turned the corner of the house. Babalatchi had taken the broken anklet off the man’s leg, and now held it in his hand as he moved by the side of the bearers, while Mahmat lingered behind timidly, in the hopes of the promised reward.
“Lay him there,” said Babalatchi to Almayer’s men, pointing to a pile of drying planks115 in front of the verandah. “Lay him there. He was a Kaffir and the son of a dog, and he was the white man’s friend. He drank the white man’s strong water,” he added, with affected116 horror. “That I have seen myself.”
The men stretched out the broken limbs on two planks they had laid level, while Mrs. Almayer covered the body with a piece of white cotton cloth, and after whispering for some time with Babalatchi departed to her domestic duties. Almayer’s men, after laying down their burden, dispersed117 themselves in quest of shady spots wherein to idle the day away. Babalatchi was left alone by the corpse that laid rigid under the white cloth in the bright sunshine.
Nina came down the steps and joined Babalatchi, who put his hand to his forehead, and squatted118 down with great deference119.
“You have a bangle there,” said Nina, looking down on Babalatchi’s upturned face and into his solitary eye.
“I have, Mem Putih,” returned the polite statesman. Then turning towards Mahmat he beckoned120 him closer, calling out, “Come here!”
Mahmat approached with some hesitation121. He avoided looking at Nina, but fixed122 his eyes on Babalatchi.
“Now, listen,” said Babalatchi, sharply. “The ring and the anklet you have seen, and you know they belonged to Dain the trader, and to no other. Dain returned last night in a canoe. He spoke with the Rajah, and in the middle of the night left to cross over to the white man’s house. There was a great flood, and this morning you found him in the river.”
“By his feet I dragged him out,” muttered Mahmat under his breath. “Tuan Babalatchi, there will be a recompense!” he exclaimed aloud.
Babalatchi held up the gold bangle before Mahmat’s eyes. “What I have told you, Mahmat, is for all ears. What I give you now is for your eyes only. Take.”
Mahmat took the bangle eagerly and hid it in the folds of his waist-cloth. “Am I a fool to show this thing in a house with three women in it?” he growled123. “But I shall tell them about Dain the trader, and there will be talk enough.”
He turned and went away, increasing his pace as soon as he was outside Almayer’s compound.
Babalatchi looked after him till he disappeared behind the bushes. “Have I done well, Mem Putih?” he asked, humbly124 addressing Nina.
“You have,” answered Nina. “The ring you may keep yourself.”
Babalatchi touched his lips and forehead, and scrambled125 to his feet. He looked at Nina, as if expecting her to say something more, but Nina turned towards the house and went up the steps, motioning him away with her hand.
Babalatchi picked up his staff and prepared to go. It was very warm, and he did not care for the long pull to the Rajah’s house. Yet he must go and tell the Rajah—tell of the event; of the change in his plans; of all his suspicions. He walked to the jetty and began casting off the rattan painter of his canoe.
The broad expanse of the lower reach, with its shimmering126 surface dotted by the black specks127 of the fishing canoes, lay before his eyes. The fishermen seemed to be racing128. Babalatchi paused in his work, and looked on with sudden interest. The man in the foremost canoe, now within hail of the first houses of Sambir, laid in his paddle and stood up shouting—
“The boats! the boats! The man-of-war’s boats are coming! They are here!”
In a moment the settlement was again alive with people rushing to the riverside. The men began to unfasten their boats, the women stood in groups looking towards the bend down the river. Above the trees lining the reach a slight puff129 of smoke appeared like a black stain on the brilliant blue of the cloudless sky.
Babalatchi stood perplexed130, the painter in his hand. He looked down the reach, then up towards Almayer’s house, and back again at the river as if undecided what to do. At last he made the canoe fast again hastily, and ran towards the house and up the steps of the verandah.
“Tuan! Tuan!” he called, eagerly. “The boats are coming. The man-of-war’s boats. You had better get ready. The officers will come here, I know.”
Almayer lifted his head slowly from the table, and looked at him stupidly.
“Mem Putih!” exclaimed Babalatchi to Nina, “look at him. He does not hear. You must take care,” he added meaningly.
Nina nodded to him with an uncertain smile, and was going to speak, when a sharp report from the gun mounted in the bow of the steam launch that was just then coming into view arrested the words on her parted lips. The smile died out, and was replaced by the old look of anxious attention. From the hills far away the echo came back like a long-drawn and mournful sigh, as if the land had sent it in answer to the voice of its masters.
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1
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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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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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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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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piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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portend
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| v.预兆，预示；给…以警告 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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24
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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25
wrack
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| v.折磨；n.海草 | |
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26
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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27
rattan
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| n.藤条，藤杖 | |
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28
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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29
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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30
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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31
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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32
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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33
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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34
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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35
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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36
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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37
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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38
checkered
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| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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39
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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40
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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42
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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43
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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45
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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46
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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47
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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48
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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49
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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50
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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51
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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52
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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53
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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54
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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55
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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56
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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57
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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58
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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59
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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60
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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61
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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62
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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63
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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64
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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66
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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67
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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68
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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69
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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70
contortion
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| n.扭弯，扭歪，曲解 | |
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71
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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72
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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73
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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74
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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75
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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76
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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77
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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78
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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79
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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80
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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81
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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82
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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83
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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84
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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85
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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86
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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87
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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88
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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89
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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90
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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92
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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93
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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94
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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95
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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96
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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97
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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98
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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99
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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100
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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101
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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102
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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103
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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104
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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105
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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106
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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107
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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108
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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109
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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110
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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111
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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113
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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114
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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115
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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116
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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117
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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118
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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119
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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120
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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122
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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123
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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124
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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125
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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126
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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127
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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128
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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129
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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130
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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