It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when Felipe fainted and fell in the wool; and it was only a little past noon of the third, when Juan Canito, who, not without some secret exultation8, had taken Senor Felipe's place at the packing, fell from the cross-beam to the ground, and broke his right leg,—a bad break near the knee; and Juan Canito's bones were much too old for fresh knitting. He would never again be able to do more than hobble about on crutches9, dragging along the useless leg. It was a cruel blow to the old man. He could not be resigned to it. He lost faith in his saints, and privately10 indulged in blasphemous11 beratings and reproaches of them, which would have filled the Senora with terror, had she known that such blasphemies12 were being committed under her roof.
“As many times as I have crossed that plank13, in my day!” cried Juan; “only the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and there was that whole box of candles I paid for with my own money last month, and burned to Saint Francis in the chapel14 for this very sheep-shearing! He may sit in the dark, for all me, to the end of time! He is no saint at all! What are they for, if not to keep us from harm when we pray to them? I'll pray no more. I believe the Americans are right, who laugh at us.” From morning till night, and nearly from night till morning, for the leg ached so he slept little, poor Juan groaned15 and grumbled16 and swore, and swore and grumbled and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita said, to wear out the patience of the Madonna herself. There was no pleasing him, whatever you did, and his tongue was never still a minute. For her part, she believed that it must be as he said, that the fiends had pushed him off the plank, and that the saints had had their reasons for leaving him to his fate. A coldness and suspicion gradually grew up in the minds of all the servants towards him. His own reckless language, combined with Margarita's reports, gave the superstitious3 fair ground for believing that something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that the Devil was in a fair way to get his soul, which was very hard for the old man, in addition to all the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation17 he had for his torments18, was in having his fellow-servants, men and women, drop in, sit by his pallet, and chat with him, telling him all that was going on; and when by degrees they dropped off, coming more and more seldom, and one by one leaving off coming altogether, it was the one drop that overflowed19 his cup of misery20; and he turned his face to the wall, left off grumbling21, and spoke22 only when he must.
This phase frightened Margarita even more than the first. Now, she thought, surely the dumb terror and remorse23 of one who belongs to the Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she went through the needful ministrations for him each day. Three months, at least, the doctor, who had come from Ventura to set the leg, had said he must lie still in bed and be thus tended. “Three months!” sighed Margarita. “If I be not dead or gone crazy myself before the end of that be come!”
The Senora was too busy with Felipe to pay attention or to give thought to Juan. Felipe's fainting had been the symptom and beginning of a fierce relapse of the fever, and he was lying in his bed, tossing and raving24 in delirium25, always about the wool.
“Throw them faster, faster! That's a good fleece; five pounds more; a round ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro! Captain!—Jesus, how this sun burns my head!”
Several times he had called “Alessandro” so earnestly, that Father Salvierderra advised bringing Alessandro into the room, to see if by any chance there might have been something in his mind that he wished to say to him. But when Alessandro stood by the bedside, Felipe gazed at him vacantly, as he did at all the others, still repeating, however, “Alessandro! Alessandro!”
“I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his violin,” sobbed26 out Ramona. “He was telling me how beautifully Alessandro played, and said he would have him up on the veranda27 in the evening to play to us.”
“We might try it,” said Father Salvierderra. “Have you your violin here, Alessandro?”
“Alas, no, Father,” replied Alessandro, “I did not bring it.”
“Perhaps it would do him good it you were to sing, then,” said Ramona. “He was speaking of your voice also.”
“Oh, try, try.” said the Senorita, turning to Alessandro. “Sing something low and soft.”
Alessandro walked from the bed to the open window, and after thinking for a moment, began a slow strain from one of the masses.
At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet, evidently listening. An expression of pleasure spread over his feverish28 face. He turned his head to one side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his eyes. The three watching him looked at each other in astonishment29.
“It is a miracle,” said Father Salvierderra. “He will sleep.”
“It was what he wanted!” whispered Ramona.
The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the bedclothes for a second; then lifting it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were praying to a saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang lower and lower, till the notes sounded as if they came from afar; lower and lower, slower; finally they ceased, as if they died away lost in distance. As they ceased, Felipe opened his eyes.
Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn; his voice trembled; the air in the room seemed stifling32, spite of the open window; he felt something like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to sleep by reason of the notes of his voice. There had been nothing in Alessandro's healthy outdoor experience to enable him to understand such a phenomenon. Felipe breathed more and more slowly, softly, regularly; soon he was in a deep sleep. The singing stopped; Felipe did not stir.
“Can I go?” whispered Alessandro.
“No, no.” replied the Senora, impatiently. “He may wake any minute.”
Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head submissively, and remained standing33 by the window. Father Salvierderra was kneeling on one side of the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at the foot,—all praying; the silence was so great that the slight sounds of the rosary beads34 slipping against each other seemed loud. In a niche35 in the wall, at the head of the bed, stood a statue of the Madonna, on the other side a picture of Santa Barbara. Candles were burning before each. The long wicks smouldered and died down, sputtering36, then flared37 up again as the ends fell into the melted wax. The Senora's eyes were fixed38 on the Madonna. The Father's were closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears streaming down her face as she mechanically told her beads.
“She is his betrothed39, no doubt,” thought Alessandro. “The saints will not let him die;” and Alessandro also prayed. But the oppression of the scene was too much for him. Laying his hand on the low window-sill, he vaulted40 over it, saying to Ramona, who turned her head at the sound, “I will not go away, Senorita, I will be close under the window, if he awakes.”
Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and gazed bewilderedly about him, like one just recovering consciousness after a faint. Then he threw himself on the ground under the window, and lay looking up into the sky. Capitan came up, and with a low whine41 stretched himself out at full length by his side. The dog knew as well as any other one of the house that danger and anguish42 were there.
One hour passed, two, three; still no sound from Felipe's room. Alessandro rose, and looked in at the window. The Father and the Senora had not changed their attitudes; their lips were yet moving in prayer. But Ramona had yielded to her fatigue43; slipped from her knees into a sitting posture44, with her head leaning against the post of the bedstead, and fallen asleep. Her face was swollen45 and discolored by weeping, and heavy circles under her eyes told how tired she was. For three days and nights she had scarcely rested, so constant were the demands on her. Between Felipe's illness and Juan Can's, there was not a moment without something to be done, or some perplexing question to be settled, and above all, and through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona was broken down with grief at the thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till she saw him lying there delirious46, and as she in her inexperience thought, dying, how her whole life was entwined with his. But now, at the very thought of what it would be to live without him, her heart sickened. “When he is buried, I will ask Father Salvierderra to take me away. I never can live here alone,” she said to herself, never for a moment perceiving that the word “alone” was a strange one to have come into her mind in the connection. The thought of the Senora did not enter into her imaginations of the future which so smote47 her with terror. In the Senora's presence, Ramona always felt herself alone.
Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded, leaning on the sill, his eyes fixed on Ramona's face and form. To any other than a lover's eyes she had not looked beautiful now; but to Alessandro she looked more beautiful than the picture of Santa Barbara on the wall beyond. With a lover's instinct he knew the thoughts which had written such lines on her face in the last three days. “It will kill her if he dies,” he thought, “if these three days have made her look like that.” And Alessandro threw himself on the ground again, his face down. He did not know whether it were an hour or a day that he had lain there, when he heard Father Salvierderra's voice speaking his name. He sprang up, to see the old monk standing in the window, tears running down his cheeks. “God be praised,” he said, “the Senor Felipe will get well. A sweat has broken out on his skin; he still sleeps, but when he wakes he will be in his right mind. The strength of the fever is broken. But, Alessandro, we know not how to spare you. Can you not let the men go without you, and remain here? The Senora would like to have you remain in Juan Can's place till he is about. She will give you the same wages he had. Would it not be a good thing for you, Alessandro? You cannot be sure of earning so much as that for the next three months, can you?”
While the Father was speaking, a tumult48 had been going on in Alessandro's breast. He did not know by name any of the impulses which were warring there, tearing him in twain, as it were, by their pulling in opposite directions; one saying “Stay!” and the other saying “Go!” He would not have known what any one meant, who had said to him, “It is danger to stay; it is safety to fly.” All the same, he felt as if he could do neither.
“There is another shearing yet, Father,” he began, “at the Ortega's ranch49. I had promised to go to them as soon as I had finished here, and they have been wroth enough with us for the delay already. It will not do to break the promise, Father.”
Father Salvierderra's face fell. “No, my son, certainly not,” he said; “but could no one else take your place with the band?”
Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and leaning out, whispered, “Are you talking about Alessandro's staying? Let me come and talk to him. He must not go.” And running swiftly through the hall, across the veranda, and down the steps, she stood by Alessandro's side in a moment. Looking up in his face pleadingly, she said: “We can't let you go, Alessandro. The Senor will pay wages to some other to go in your place with the shearers. We want you to stay here in Juan Can's place till he is well. Don't say you can't stay! Felipe may need you to sing again, and what would we do then? Can't you stay?”
“Yes, I can stay, Senorita,” answered Alessandro, gravely. “I will stay so long as you need me.”
“Oh, thank you, Alessandro!” Ramona cried. “You are good, to stay. The Senora will see that it is no loss to you;” and she flew back to the house.
“It is not for the wages, Senorita,” Alessandro began; but Ramona was gone. She did not hear him, and he turned away with a sense of humiliation50. “I don't want the Senorita to think that it was the money kept me,” he said, turning to Father Salvierderra. “I would not leave the band for money; it is to help, because they are in trouble, Father.”
“Yes, yes, son. I understand that,” replied the monk, who had known Alessandro since he was a little fellow playing in the corridors of San Luis Rey, the pet of all the Brothers there. “That is quite right of you, and the Senora will not be insensible of it. It is not for such things that money can pay. They are indeed in great trouble now, and only the two women in the house; and I must soon be going on my way North again.”
“Is it sure that Senor Felipe will get well?” asked Alessandro.
“I think so,” replied Father Salvierderra. “These relapses are always worse than the first attack; but I have never known one to die, after he had the natural sweat to break from the skin, and got good sleep. I doubt not he will be in his bed, though, for many days, and there will be much to be seen to. It was an ill luck to have Juan Can laid up, too, just at this time. I must go and see him; I hear he is in most rebellious52 frame of mind, and blasphemes impiously.”
“That does he!” said Alessandro. “He swears the saints gave him over to the fiends to push him off the plank, and he'll have none of them from this out! I told him to beware, or they might bring him to worse things yet if he did not mend his speech of them.”
Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk said: “It is but a sign of the times. Blasphemers are on the highway. The people are being corrupted53. Keeps your father the worship in the chapel still, and does a priest come often to the village?”
“Only twice a year,” replied Alessandro; “and sometimes for a funeral, if there is money enough to pay for the mass. But my father has the chapel open, and each Sunday we sing what we know of the mass; and the people are often there praying.”
“Ay, ay! Ever for money!” groaned Father Salvierderra, not heeding54 the latter part of the sentence. “Ever for money! It is a shame. But that it were sure to be held as a trespass55, I would go myself to Temecula once in three months; but I may not. The priests do not love our order.”
“Oh, if you could, Father,” exclaimed Alessandro, “it would make my father very glad! He speaks often to me of the difference he sees between the words of the Church now and in the days of the Mission. He is very sad, Father, and in great fear about our village. They say the Americans, when they buy the Mexicans' lands, drive the Indians away as if they were dogs; they say we have no right to our lands. Do you think that can be so, Father, when we have always lived on them, and the owners promised them to us forever?”
Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before replying, and Alessandro watched his face anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating for words to convey his meaning. At last he said: “Got your father any notice, at any time since the Americans took the country,—notice to appear before a court, or anything about a title to the land?”
“No, Father,” replied Alessandro.
“There has to be some such paper, as I understand their laws,” continued the monk; “some notice, before any steps can be taken to remove Indians from an estate. It must be done according to the law, in the courts. If you have had no such notice, you are not in danger.”
“But, Father,” persisted Alessandro, “how could there be a law to take away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us forever?”
“Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it?”
“No, no paper; but it is marked in red lines on the map. It was marked off by Jose Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all the boundaries of Senor Valdez's estate. They had many instruments of brass56 and wood to measure with, and a long chain, very heavy, which I helped them carry. I myself saw it marked on the map. They all slept in my father's house,—Senor Valdez, and Ramirez, and the man who made the measures. He hired one of our men to carry his instruments, and I went to help, for I wished to see how it was done; but I could understand nothing, and Jose told me a man must study many years to learn the way of it. It seemed to me our way, by the stones, was much better. But I know it is all marked on the map, for it was with a red line; and my father understood it, and Jose Ramirez and Senor Valdez both pointed57 to it with their finger, and they said, 'All this here is your land, Pablo, always.' I do not think my father need fear, do you?”
“I hope not,” replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously; “but since the way that all the lands of the Missions have been taken away, I have small faith in the honesty of the Americans. I think they will take all that they can. The Church has suffered terrible loss at their hands.”
“That is what my father says,” replied Alessandro. “He says, 'Look at San Luis Rey! Nothing but the garden and orchard58 left, of all their vast lands where they used to pasture thirty thousand sheep. If the Church and the Fathers could not keep their lands, what can we Indians do?' That is what my father says.”
“True, true!” said the monk, as he turned into the door of the room where Juan Can lay on his narrow bed, longing59 yet fearing to see Father Salvierderra's face coming in. “We are all alike helpless in their hands, Alessandro. They possess the country, and can make what laws they please. We can only say, 'God's will be done,'” and he crossed himself devoutly60, repeating the words twice.
Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout61 spirit, for he was full of veneration62 for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he walked on towards the shearing-shed he thought: “Then, again, how can it be God's will that wrong be done? It cannot be God's will that one man should steal from another all he has. That would make God no better than a thief, it looks to me. But how can it happen, if it is not God's will?”
It does not need that one be educated, to see the logic63 in this formula. Generations of the oppressed and despoiled64, before Alessandro, had grappled with the problem in one shape or another.
At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in confusion and ill-humor. The shearing had been over and done by ten in the morning, and why were they not on their way to the Ortega's? Waiting all day,—it was now near sunset,—with nothing to do, and still worse with not much of anything to eat, had made them all cross; and no wonder. The economical Juan Can, finding that the work would be done by ten, and supposing they would be off before noon, had ordered only two sheep killed for them the day before, and the mutton was all gone, and old Marda, getting her cue from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the family needed themselves; so the poor shearers had indeed had a sorry day of it, in no wise alleviated65 either by the reports brought from time to time that their captain was lying on the ground, face down, under Senor Felipe's window, and must not be spoken to.
It was not a propitious66 moment for Alessandro to make the announcement of his purpose to leave the band; but he made a clean breast of it in few words, and diplomatically diverted all resentment67 from himself by setting them immediately to voting for a new captain to take his place for the remainder of the season.
“Very well!” they said hotly; “captain for this year, captain for next, too!” It wasn't so easy to step out and in again of the captaincy of the shearers!
“All right,” said Alessandro; “please yourselves! It is all the same to me. But here I am going to stay for the present. Father Salvierderra wishes it.”
“Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different.” “Ah, that alters the case!” “Alessandro is right!” came up in confused murmur68 from the appeased69 crowd. They were all good Catholics, every one of the Temecula men, and would never think of going against the Father's orders. But when they understood that Alessandro's intention was to remain until Juan Canito's leg should be well enough for him to go about again, fresh grumblings began. That would not do. It would be all summer. Alessandro must be at home for the Saint Juan's Day fete, in midsummer,—no doing anything without Alessandro then. What was he thinking of? Not of the midsummer fete, that was certain, when he promised to stay as long as the Senorita Ramona should need him. Alessandro had remembered nothing except the Senorita's voice, while she was speaking to him. If he had had a hundred engagements for the summer, he would have forgotten them all. Now that he was reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be confessed he was for a moment dismayed at the recollection; for that was a time, when, as he well knew, his father could not do without his help. There were sometimes a thousand Indians at this fete, and disorderly whites took advantage of the occasion to sell whisky and encourage all sorts of license70 and disturbance71. Yes, Alessandro's clear path of duty lay at Temecula when that fete came off. That was certain.
“I will manage to be at home then,” he said. “If I am not through here by that time, I will at least come for the fete. That you may depend on.”
The voting for the new captain did not take long. There was, in fact, but one man in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando, the only old man in the band; all the rest were young men under thirty, or boys. Fernando had been captain for several years, but had himself begged, two years ago, that the band would elect Alessandro in his place. He was getting old, and he did not like to have to sit up and walk about the first half of every night, to see that the shearers were not gambling72 away all their money at cards; he preferred to roll himself up in his blanket at sunset and sleep till dawn the next morning. But just for these few remaining weeks he had no objection to taking the office again. And Alessandro was right, entirely73 right, in remaining; they ought all to see that, Fernando said; and his word had great weight with the men.
The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always been a good friend of theirs, and had said that so long as she had sheep to shear2, the Temecula shearers should do it; and it would be very ungrateful now if they did not do all they could to help her in her need.
The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected, the ponies74 caught and driven up to the shed, when Ramona and Margarita were seen coming at full speed from the house.
“Alessandro! Alessandro!” cried Ramona, out of breath, “I have only just now heard that the men have had no dinner to-day. I am ashamed; but you know it would not have happened except for the sickness in the house. Everybody thought they were going away this morning. Now they must have a good supper before they go. It is already cooking. Tell them to wait.”
Those of the men who understood the Spanish language, in which Ramona spoke, translated it to those who did not, and there was a cordial outburst of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were only too ready to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the Ortega sheep-shearing had suddenly faded from their minds. Only Alessandro hesitated.
“It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's,” he said to the men. “You'll be late in, if you do not start now.”
“Supper will be ready in an hour,” said Ramona. “Please let them stay; one hour can't make any difference.”
Alessandro smiled. “It will take nearer two, Senorita, before they are off,” he said; “but it shall be as you wish, and many thanks to you, Senorita, for thinking of it.”
“Oh, I did not think of it myself,” said Ramona. “It was Margarita, here, who came and told me. She knew we would be ashamed to have the shearers go away hungry. I am afraid they are very hungry indeed,” she added ruefully. “It must be dreadful to go a whole day without anything to eat; they had their breakfast soon after sunrise, did they not?”
“Yes, Senorita,” answered Alessandro, “but that is not long; one can do without food very well for one day. I often do.”
“Often.” exclaimed Ramona; “but why should you do that?” Then suddenly bethinking herself, she said in her heart, “Oh, what a thoughtless question! Can it be they are so poor as that?” And to save Alessandro from replying, she set off on a run for the house, saying, “Come, come, Margarita, we must go and help at the supper.”
“Will the Senorita let me help, too,” asked Alessandro, wondering at his own boldness,—“if there is anything I can do?”
“Oh, no,” she cried, “there is not. Yes, there is, too. You can help carry the things down to the booth; for we are short of hands now, with Juan Can in bed, and Luigo gone to Ventura for the doctor. You and some of your men might carry all the supper over. I'll call you when we are ready.”
The men sat down in a group and waited contentedly75, smoking, chatting, and laughing. Alessandro walked up and down between the kitchen and the shed. He could hear the sounds of rattling76 dishes, jingling77 spoons, frying, pouring water. Savory78 smells began to be wafted79 out. Evidently old Marda meant to atone80 for the shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can, in his bed, also heard and smelled what was going on. “May the fiends get me,” he growled81, “if that wasteful82 old hussy isn't getting up a feast for those beasts of Indians! There's mutton and onions, and peppers stewing83, and potatoes, I'll be bound, and God knows what else, for beggars that are only too thankful to get a handful of roasted wheat or a bowl of acorn85 porridge at home. Well, they'll have to say they were well feasted at the Moreno's,—that's one comfort. I wonder if Margarita'll think I am worthy86 of tasting that stew84! San Jose! but it smells well! Margarita! Margarita!” he called at top of his lungs; but Margarita did not hear. She was absorbed in her duties in the kitchen; and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of the good broth51 which the doctor had said was the only sort of food he must eat for two weeks, she had dismissed him from her mind for the night. Moreover, Margarita was absent-minded to-night. She was more than half in love with the handsome Alessandro, who, when he had been on the ranch the year before, had danced with her, and said many a light pleasant word to her, evenings, as a young man may; and what ailed87 him now, that he seemed, when he saw her, as if she were no more than a transparent88 shade, through which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor Felipe's illness, she thought, and the general misery and confusion, had perhaps put everything else out of his head; but now he was going to stay, and it would be good fun having him there, if only Senor Felipe got well, which he seemed likely to do. And as Margarita flew about, here, there, and everywhere, she cast frequent glances at the tall straight figure pacing up and down in the dusk outside.
Alessandro did not see her. He did not see anything. He was looking off at the sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, “I will call you when we are ready.” But she did not do as she said. She told Margarita to call.
“Run, Margarita,” she said. “All is ready now; see if Alessandro is in sight. Call him to come and take the things.”
So it was Margarita's voice, and not Ramona's, that called “Alessandro! Alessandro! the supper is ready.”
But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro reached the doorway89, stood there holding in her arms a huge smoking platter of the stew which had so roused poor Juan Can's longings90; and it was Ramona who said, as she gave it into Alessandro's hands, “Take care, Alessandro, it is very full. The gravy91 will run over if you are not careful. You are not used to waiting on table;” and as she said it, she smiled full into Alessandro's eyes,—a little flitting, gentle, friendly smile, which went near to making him drop the platter, mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at her feet.
The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after all, much more than an hour, when, full fed and happy, they were mounting their horses to set off. At the last moment Alessandro drew one of them aside. “Jose,” he said, “whose horse is the faster, yours or Antonio's?”
Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after. But Alessandro was learning a great many things in these days, among other things a little diplomacy93. He wanted a man to ride at the swiftest to Temecula and back. He knew that Jose's pony94 could go like the wind. He also knew that there was a perpetual feud95 of rivalry96 between him and Antonio, in matter of the fleetness of their respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for his messenger, he went thus to work to make sure that he would urge his horse to its utmost speed.
Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said, “Will you go? I will pay you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing.”
“I will go,” said Jose, elated. “You will see me back tomorrow by sundown.”
“Not earlier?” asked Alessandro. “I thought by noon.”
“Well, by noon be it, then,” said Jose. “The horse can do it.”
“Have great care!” said Alessandro.
“That will I,” replied Jose; and giving his horse's sides a sharp punch with his knees, set off at full gallop97 westward98.
“I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula,” said Alessandro, walking up to Fernando. “He will be back here tomorrow noon, and join you at the Ortega's the next morning.”
“Back here by noon to-morrow!” exclaimed Fernando. “Not unless he kills his horse!”
“That was what he said,” replied Alessandro, nonchalantly.
“Easy enough, too!” cried Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare99. “I'd go in less time than that, on this mare. Jose's is no match for her, and never was. Why did you not send me, Alessandro?”
“Is your horse really faster than Jose's?” said Alessandro. “Then I wish I had sent you. I'll send you next time.”
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1
shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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2
shear
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| n.修剪，剪下的东西，羊的一岁；vt.剪掉，割，剥夺；vi.修剪，切割，剥夺，穿越 | |
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3
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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superstitiously
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| 被邪教所支配 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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6
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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7
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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10
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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11
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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12
blasphemies
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| n.对上帝的亵渎，亵渎的言词[行为]( blasphemy的名词复数 )；侮慢的言词（或行为） | |
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13
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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14
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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15
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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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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17
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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18
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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19
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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20
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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22
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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23
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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24
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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26
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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27
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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28
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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29
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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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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34
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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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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36
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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37
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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40
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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41
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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42
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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43
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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44
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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45
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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46
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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47
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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48
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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49
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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50
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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51
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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53
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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54
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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55
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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56
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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57
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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58
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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60
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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61
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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62
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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63
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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67
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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68
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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70
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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71
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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72
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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73
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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74
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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75
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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76
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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77
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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78
savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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79
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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81
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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82
wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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83
stewing
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| 炖 | |
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84
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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85
acorn
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| n.橡实，橡子 | |
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86
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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87
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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88
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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89
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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90
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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91
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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92
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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93
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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94
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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95
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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96
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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97
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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98
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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99
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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