All he had dreamed in Yoredale was in the doing here. Kit8 was unsteadied by it, as if wine were mounting to his head.
"My thanks, gentlemen," he said. "Be pleased to nickname me. For my part, I feel like the ass1 Michael rode to York—patient and long-suffering, but no knight at all."
So then Kit told the tale, losing his diffidence and pointing the narrative10 with dry, upland humour.
"Good, Mr. Metcalf," said Lady Derby. "I have not laughed since my lord rode out, until to-day. Where is this Michael who rode to York?"
"With the rest of the good Metcalfs," said Rupert. "I left the whole fine brood to guard Lathom from without. They go north with me in two days' time. You shall see them—six-score on their white horses." A shadow crossed his face; the so-called failing of the Stuart temperament11 was his, and he counted each man lost as a brother to be mourned for.
"Why the cloud on your face, Prince?" asked Lady Derby.
"There are only five-score now. When we counted our dead at Bolton, there were some gallant12 Metcalfs lying face upward to their God."
A sickness came to Christopher. He turned aside, and longed for the mother who had sheltered his young days. Bloodshed and wounds he had foreseen; but to his boy's view of life, it seemed incredible that any of the jolly Yoredale clan13 should die—should go out for ever, beyond reach of hand-grip.
"Was my father with the slain—or Michael?" he asked by and by.
"Neither, lad." Rupert came and touched him on the arm. "Oh, I know, I know! The pity of one's dead—and yet their glory—it is all a muddle14, this affair of war."
It was on the second morning afterwards, while Rupert was getting his army in readiness for the march on York, that Lady Derby saw Christopher standing15 apart, the new sadness in his face.
"You are thinking of your dead?" she said, in her brisk, imperative16 way. "Laddie, do you not guess that the dead are thinking, too, of you?"
"They rest where they lie," he said, stubborn in his grief.
"Oh, go to kirk more often, and learn that they know more than we do. These twenty Yoredale men, they are not dead—they watch you from the Heights."
"My lady," said Christopher, with a smile made up of weariness, "I am a plain man of my hands, like all my folk. I have no gift for dreams."
"Nor I," she agreed. "When wounds conquer all your pride of strength—when you are laid by, and weak as a little child—ask yourself if I spoke17 dreams or living truth."
He glanced once at her. There was an odd look about her, a light in her eyes that he could not understand.
He forgot it all when he joined his folk to ride behind Rupert for the relief of York. The high adventure was in front, like a good fox, and his thoughts were all of hazard and keen blows. They crossed the Lancashire border; and, when Kit learned that the route lay through Skipton-in-Craven, his heart warmed to the skirmish that his fancy painted. He was looking backward to that crashing fight—the first of his life—when the White Horsemen drove through the Roundhead gun-convoy and swirled18 down to battle in the High Street. He was looking forward, as a boy does, to a resurrection of that fight, under the like conditions.
Instead, he found the business of market-day in full swing. The Castle was silent. Lambert's guns, away on Cock Hill, were dumb. Farmers were selling ewes and cattle, were standing at inn doors, wind and wine of the country in their honest faces.
"What is all this?" asked Rupert of a jolly countryman.
"Skipton Fair—naught more or less. There's a two days' truce19, or some such moonshine, while either side go burying their dead. For my part, I've sold three heifers, and sold 'em well. I'm content."
Rupert had had in mind to go into the Castle, and snatch a meal and an hour of leisure there while he talked with the Governor. He could not do it now. Punctilio—the word spelt honesty to him—forbade it. He glanced about and saw Kit close beside him.
"Knock at the gate, Mr. Metcalf, and bid Sir John Mallory come out and talk with me."
The drawbridge was down in accordance with the truce, and Kit clattered20 over it on his white horse. He knocked at the gate, and sent Prince Rupert's message forward. In a little while Mallory came out, a pleasant gentleman, built for hard riding and all field sports, whom Providence21 had entrusted22 with this do-nothing, lazy business of sitting behind walls besieged23.
"The Prince commands you, Sir John," said Kit, with great precision.
Formality was ended on the instant; for Mallory clapped him on the shoulder and laughed like a boy let loose for play. "By the Lord Harry24, I'm glad to get out of doors—and for Rupert, of all men."
In the great sweep of roadway that mounted to the Castle gate—the grey, comely25 church beside it—Prince Rupert met Mallory with hand outstretched.
"Well done, friend! If it had not been a day of truce, I had hoped to come indoors and crack a bottle with you. As matters stand, we hope to slake26 our thirst at a more convenient time."
"There's no hindrance27, your Highness. Lambert, who besieges28 us, is doubtless entertaining friends at the Quaker meeting-house in this good town. Why should you not accept the warmer sort of hospitality we Cavaliers affect?"
"Oh, a whim29. I can tell you in the open here—No Man's Ground—what I came to tell you. It would not be fair to hide my news behind closed gates."
Mallory glanced sharply at him. Rupert's fury in attack, his relentless30 gallop31 through one battle after another—-the man's whole record—had not prepared him for this waywardness of scruple32. The next moment Rupert's face was keen and hard.
"We ride for York, Sir John," he said, "and I give you the same errand I shall give Knaresborough's garrison33 later on. Keep Lambert busy. Sortie till these Roundheads have no rest, day or night. Turn siege into attack. The Lady of Lathom has taught us what a slender garrison may do."
"Does she hold out still?" asked the other eagerly. "We have so little news these days."
"She has captured twenty-seven standards, friend, and is rebuilding her walls in preparation for the next siege."
"God be thanked!" said Sir John, lifting his hat. "There are so few great ladies in our midst."
"And so few great gentlemen, Mallory. Nay34, friend, do not redden because I praise you to your face. We know Skipton's story."
Lambert was not at the Quakers' meeting-house, as it chanced. He was on Cock Hill, passing the time of inaction away by looking down on the Castle that had flouted35 him so often. His thrifty36 mind was busy with new methods of attack, when he saw Rupert with his advance-guard come up the High Street. The light—a strong sun beating down through heavy rain-clouds—-showed a clear picture of the horsemen. By the carriage of their heads, by the way they sat their horses, Lambert knew them for Cavaliers. As he was puzzling out the matter—loth to doubt Sir John Mallory's good faith—a man of the town came running up.
"The truce is broken, Captain Lambert. Here's a rogue37 with love-locks—they say he's Prince Rupert—come with a press of horsemen. He's talking with Sir John Mallory fair in front of the Castle gateway38."
Lambert's temper fired. What he had seen accorded with the townsman's view. Something quixotic in the man's nature, that always waited on his unguarded moments, bade him go down and ask the meaning of it all. It seemed to him that his faith in all men would go, root and branch, if Sir John Mallory were indeed less than a simple, upright gentleman. He reached the High Street, and made his way through the press of soldiery and townsfolk till he reached the wide space, in front of church and Castle, where the Prince stood with Mallory.
"Sir John," he said very coldly, "I come to ask if you break truce by free will or compulsion."
"By compulsion, sir," said Rupert, with a quick smile. "I ride too fast for knowledge of each town's days of truce. Sir John here came out at my request, to talk with me. You are Captain Lambert, I take it? Ah, we have heard of you—have heard matters to your credit, if you will permit an adversary39 so much freedom."
Lambert yielded a little to the other's easy charm; but it was plain that the grievance40 rankled41 still.
"Well, then, I'll give you punctilio for punctilio, sir," went on Rupert. "The King's needs are urgent I could not wait—truce or no, I had to give my orders to Sir John here. To be precise, I urged him to harry you unceasingly. I told him that we were pressing forward to the relief of York. Is honour satisfied? If not, name a convenient hour for hostilities42 to open. My men are here. Yours are on the hill yonder, where your guns look down on us."
Lambert's humour, deep-hidden, was touched at last. "Press on to York, by your leave. Mallory, I'm in your debt. I doubted your good faith just now."
"That was unwise, Lambert. Eh, man, the troubled days will soon be ended—then, if we're both alive, come sup with me as of old."
Kit, when they took the road again, was bewildered a little by the shifting issues of this madness known as civil war. The Prince, Lambert, and Sir John—three men conspicuously43 survivals from Crusading days—had talked in the High Street of honour and punctilio—-had shown the extreme courtesy of knights44 prepared to tilt45 against each other in the ring at any moment—-and all this with the assault of Bolton and the red havoc46 of it scarcely ended, with rough fights ahead, and York's garrison in piteous need of succour.
"I fancied war was simple, and I'm losing myself among the mists, somehow."
"An old trick of yours. Mistress Joan taught it you. There was a lady, too, in Knaresborough, who gave you lessons in the pastime."
"But this Captain Lambert is besieging48 Skipton, and Mallory defends it, and one asks the other to sup with him when the affair is over. That is not stark49 fighting, Michael."
"Why not, lad? Lambert's cannon50 will thunder just as merrily when the truce is ended. The world jogs after that fashion."
It was when they were pressing on to York the next day—after a brief night's sleep in the open and a breakfast captured by each man as best he could—that the Prince rode back to the white company of horses that carried the Metcalf clan. He reined51 about on finding Michael.
"You found your way into York once for me, sir. You will do it a second time. Bid them be ready. Tell them we travel as quickly as may be, and sorties from their three main gates, when the moment comes, will be of service."
"Oh, I think one would grant you anything in reason. A man with your merry eyes is privileged."
"I had a sutler's donkey with me in the first attempt. She brought me luck, undoubtedly—we had the like temperament, she and I—but we lost her during these forced marches. Can I have Christopher here to share the venture?"
Kit reddened, then laughed the jest aside. And the Prince, as he looked at these two, so dissimilar and yet so full of comradeship, thought of his own brother Maurice, and wished that he were here.
"Ay, take him with you," he said; "he will steady your venture. And, gentlemen, take your route at once."
"You heard what he said?" asked Christopher, after the Prince had spurred forward to the main body. "I shall steady your venture. There's a counter for your talk of donkeys, Michael."
Michael said nothing. As one who knew his brother's weakness, he waited till they were well on their way to York, and had reached a finger-post where four cross-roads met.
"We might go by way of Ripley," he hazarded, pointing to the left-hand road.
"Why, yes," said Kit unguardedly. "It is the nearest way, and the road better—
"The road even viler53, and the distance a league more. I said we might take the Ripley way. In sober earnest, we go wide of Mistress Joan."
"Who spoke of Joan Grant?"
"Your cheeks, lad, and the note in your voice. Nay, no heat. D'ye think the Prince gave us this venture for you to go standing under yon Ripley casement54, sighing for the moon that lives behind it? York would be relieved and all over, before I steadied you."
"You've no heart, Michael."
"None, lad; and I'm free of trouble, by that token."
And Kit, the young fire in his veins55, did not know that Michael was jesting at the grave of his own hopes. That upper chamber—the look of Mistress Joan, her pride and slenderness—were matters that had pierced the light surface of his life, once for all.
"The York country was eaten bare when I last went through it," he said, after they had ridden a league in silence. "It will be emptier now. Best snatch a meal at the tavern56 here, Kit, while we have the chance. Our wits will need feeding if we're to find our way into York."
They found a cheery host, a table well spread with cold meats. When the host returned with wine, ordered hastily, he glanced at his guests with an air that was half humorous and half secretive.
"Here is the wine, Mr. Metcalf," he said—"the best of a good cellar, though I say it."
"Eh?" drawled Michael, always most indolent when surprised. "You know my name, it seems."
"Well, sir, if two big, lusty gentry57 choose to come riding two white horses—and all the Plain o' York ringing with news of the Riding Metcalfs—small blame to me if I guessed your quality. I'm a King's man, too."
"You'd best prove it quickly," said Michael, with a gentle laugh. "The business we ride on asks for sacrifice, and a fat host or two would not be missed."
"I am asking to prove it." The way of the man, the jolly red of his face, and the eyes that were clear as honesty, did not admit of doubt. "In the little room across the passage there are three crop-headed Puritans dining—dining well, and I grudge58 'em every mouthful. They're not ashamed to take their liquor, too; and whether 'twas that, or whether they fancied I was as slow-witted as I seemed, they babbled59 of what was in the doing."
"I always had the luck," said Michael impassively. "Had they the password through the ranks besieging York?"
"Ay, that; and more. They had papers with them; one was drying them at the fire, after the late storm o' rain that had run into his pocket, and it seemed they were come with orders for the siege. I should say they were high in office with the Puritans, for they carried the three sourest faces I've seen since I was breeked."
"The papers can wait. What was the password, host?"
"Idolatry. It seemed a heathenish word, and I remembered it."
"Good," laughed Michael. "To-morrow it will be Mariolatry, doubtless, and Red Rome on the next day. How these folk love a gibe60 at His Majesty's sound Churchmanship! They carry papers, you say? It is all diverting, host. My brother here will not admit that luck, pure and simple, is a fine horse to ride. Kit, we must see that little room across the passage."
Michael got to his feet, finished his wine in three leisurely61 gulps62, then moved to the closed door, which he opened without ceremony. The three Parliament men had their heads together at the board, and one was emphasising an argument by drumming with a forefinger63 on the papers spread before them. They turned sharply as the door opened, and reached out for their weapons when they saw Michael step into the room, followed by a lesser64 giant.
The three looked at each other with puzzled question. These strangers wore their hair in the fashion dear to Cavaliers, and they carried an intangible air that suggested lightness of spirit.
"You have the password," said one; "but your fashion is the fashion of Belial's sons. What would you?"
"We come with full powers to claim your papers and to do your errand with the forces now besieging York. To be candid66, you are suspect of eating more and drinking more than sober Parliament men should—and, faith, your crowded table here bears out the scandal."
The three flushed guiltily, then gathered the dourness67 that stood to them for strength; and Kit wondered what was passing through his brother's nimble brain.
"Your credentials," snapped the one who seemed to be leader of the three.
Michael, glancing round the board, saw a great pasty, with the mincemeat showing through where the knife had cut it. "Oh, my own password is Christmas-pie, friends! I encountered the dish at Banbury, and a great uproar68 followed when my brother gave it the true name."
And now the Roundheads knew that they were being played with. So great was their party's abhorrence69 of anything which savoured of the Mass, that a dish, pleasant in itself, had long since grown to be a shibboleth70.
The first man raised a pistol—a weapon that seemed out of keeping with his preacher's garb71—but Kit, longing72 for action instead of all this play of words, ran in with a jolly laugh, lifted his man high, as one lifts a child in frolic, and let him drop. The pistol fell, too, and the trigger snapped; but the Parliament man, however strong his trust in Providence might be, had forgotten Cromwell's other maxim—that he should keep his powder dry.
Michael's voice was very gentle. "I said we came with full powers. It would be wiser not to play with fire. Indeed, we do not wish you ill, and, in proof of friendship, we are willing to change clothes with you."
A little later Michael and Christopher came out, locking the door behind them. They asked the astonished host for scissors, and bade him clip their locks as close as he could contrive73 without knowledge of the barber's art. And it was odd that these two, who six months ago had been close-cropped in Yoredale, resented the loss of the lovelocks they had grown in deference74 to fashion. To them it seemed as if they were losing the badge of loyalty, as if the fat host played Delilah to their Samson.
"Keep that easy carriage of your bodies down, gentles, if you're bent75 on play-acting," said Boniface, with a cheery grin.
"How should we walk, then?"
"With a humble76 stoop, sir—a very humble stoop—that was how the three Parliament men came in and asked for the best victuals77 I could give 'em."
Michael's laugh was easy-going; but, for all that, his orders were precise and sharp. Their horses, of the tell-tale white, were to be stabled securely out of eyeshot, and well tended until called for. He and Kit would ride out on the pick of the three Roundhead cattle.
"As for that, sir, there's no pick, in a manner of speaking. They rode in on the sorriest jades78 I ever saw at a horse-fair."
"We'll take the rough luck with the smooth."
Yet even Michael grew snappish when he saw the steeds they had to ride. It was only when Kit laughed consumedly at sight of them that he recovered his good humour.
"After all, sir," suggested Boniface, "it proves the loyalty of the country hereabouts. They couldn't get decent horseflesh, for love or money. Our folk would only sell them stuff ready for the knacker's yard."
"That has a pleasant sound for us, with all between this and York to travel."
"Take two o' my beasts, gentles, if there's haste. You're cropped enough, and in quiet clothes enough, to ride good horses—always granting their colour doesn't happen to be white. As for these two o' mine, one is a roan, t'other a darkish bay."
Michael was arrested by the host's thoroughness and zeal79, his disregard of his own safety. "And you, when you unlock the door on these rogues80?"
"I shall fare as I shall fare, and not grumble81 either way. For your part, get away on the King's business, and God guide him safe, say I."
"But at least there's our reckoning to pay."
"Not a stiver. Nay, I'll not hear of it. Am I so poor a King's man that I grudge a cut from the joint82 and a bottle to the Riding Metcalfs?"
Michael warmed afresh to the man's loyalty. "Our thanks, host. As for the three in yonder, they'll not trouble you. I told them the door would be unlocked in an hour's time, explained that my folk were in the neighbourhood, and warned them to save their skins as best they could. You'll laugh till there are no more tears to shed when you see two of them in their bravery. Till I die that picture will return—their two sad faces set on top of our gay finery."
With a nod and a cheery call to his horse, he took the road again; and Kit and he spurred fast to recover the lost ground until they reached a steep and winding83 hill. For their cattle's sake they were compelled to take a breather at the top, and Kit looked over the rolling wolds with a heart on fire for Rupert and the errand. Somewhere yonder, under the blue, misty84 haze85, lay York, the city old to courage and the hazard. New hazards were in the making; it behoved Michael and himself to give no spoiled page to York's long story.
"What a lad for dreams it is!" said Michael, in his gentlest voice.
Kit turned, and the sight of Michael habited in sober gear, with a steeple hat to crown the picture, broke down his dreams. It is good that comedy and the high resolve are friends who seldom ride apart. "The two we changed gear with, Michael—you would not laugh at them if you could see yourself."
"I have a good mirror, Kit, in you."
So they eyed each other for a while, and took their fill of merriment. Then they went forward. What the end of the venture was to be, they hazarded no guess; but at least they had papers and a garb that would pass them safely through the lines at York.
Another Royalist was abroad, as it happened, on a venture that to her own mind was both hazardous86 and lonely. The donkey that had helped Michael to secure his first entry into York—the patient, strong-minded ass that had followed the Riding Metcalfs south and had grown to be the luck of their superstitious87 company—had been lost on the march between Lathom House and Skipton. She had been stolen by a travelling pedlar, who found her browsing88 in a thistle-field a mile behind the army she hoped to overtake a little later on. He owned her for a day; and then, high spirit getting the better of dejection, she bided89 her time, shot out two hind-feet that left him helpless in the road, and set out on the quest that led to Michael—Michael, who might command her anything, except to go forward in the direction of her head.
To Elizabeth—her name among the Metcalfs—the forward journey was full of trouble and bewilderment. She followed them easily enough as far as Skipton, and some queer instinct guided her up the High Street and into the country beyond Otley. Then tiredness came on her, and she shambled forward at haphazard90. At long last she blundered into Ripley; and, either because she knew the look of the Castle gateway, or because she gave up all for lost, she stood there and brayed91 plaintively92.
Elizabeth lifted up her head and brayed; and presently William Fullaboy, guardian94 of the little door set in the main gateway, opened and peered out into the flood of moonlight. Lady Ingilby came running, with Joan Grant, to learn the meaning of the uproar; alarms and sharp assaults had been frequent since the Metcalfs left to find Prince Rupert.
"Why, 'tis Elizabeth, my lady," laughed William—"Elizabeth, the snod, li'le donkey we grew so fond of."
"Give her supper and a warm bed for the night," said Lady Ingilby. "The luck comes home at last."
"But does it?" asked Joan Grant, a pitiful break in her voice. "We have lain warm abed while Kit was nursing his wounds on the open moors——"
"True, girl. He'll be none the worse for it. Lovers have a trick of coming home, like their four-footed kindred."
She would listen to no further trouble of Joan's, but patted Elizabeth's smooth ears, and talked to her, and fed her. The wife of a strong man, and the mother of strong sons, is always tender with four-footed things.
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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loyalty
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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gust
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narrative
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temperament
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gallant
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clan
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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standing
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imperative
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spoke
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swirled
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truce
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clattered
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providence
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entrusted
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besieged
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harry
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comely
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slake
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hindrance
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besieges
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whim
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relentless
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gallop
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scruple
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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34
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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35
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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38
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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39
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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43
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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44
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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45
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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besieging
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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50
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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51
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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52
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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viler
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的比较级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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54
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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56
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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58
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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59
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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60
gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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62
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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suavely
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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dourness
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| n.性情乖僻，酸味，坏心眼 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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shibboleth
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| n.陈规陋习；口令；暗语 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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73
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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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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76
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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78
jades
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| n.玉，翡翠（jade的复数形式）v.（使）疲（jade的第三人称单数形式） | |
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79
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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80
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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81
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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82
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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83
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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84
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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85
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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86
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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87
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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88
browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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89
bided
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| v.等待，停留( bide的过去式 )；居住；等待；面临 | |
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90
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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91
brayed
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的过去式和过去分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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92
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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93
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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94
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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