One autumn night, when the first heavy rains were falling and a cold wind whistled through the valley, a knock came at the minister's door, and, opening it, he found an Indian boy, ragged3, hungry, and foot-sore, who begged for food and shelter. In his broken way, he told how he had fallen ill, and been left to die by enemies who had taken him from his own people, months before; how he had wandered for days till almost sinking; and that he had come now to ask for help, led by the hospitable4 light in the parsonage window.
"Send him away, master, or harm will come of it. He is a spy, and we shall all be scalped by the murdering Injuns who are waiting in the wood," said old Becky, harshly; while little Eunice hid in the old servant's ample skirts, and twelve-year-old Reuben laid his hand on his cross-bow, ready to defend his sister if need be.
But the good man drew the poor lad in, saying, with his friendly smile: "Shall not a Christian5 be as hospitable as a godless savage6? Come in, child, and be fed: you sorely need rest and shelter."
Leaving his face to express the gratitude7 he had no[73] words to tell, the boy sat by the comfortable fire and ate like a famished8 wolf, while Becky muttered her forebodings and the children eyed the dark youth at a safe distance. Something in his pinched face, wounded foot, and eyes full of dumb pain and patience, touched the little girl's tender heart, and, yielding to a pitiful impulse, she brought her own basin of new milk and, setting it beside the stranger, ran to hide behind her father, suddenly remembering that this was one of the dreaded10 Indians.
"That was well done, little daughter. Thou shalt love thine enemies, and share thy bread with the needy11. See, he is smiling; that pleased him, and he wishes us to be his friends."
But Eunice ventured no more that night, and quaked in her little bed at the thought of the strange boy sleeping on a blanket before the fire below. Reuben hid his fears better, and resolved to watch while others slept; but was off as soon as his curly head touched the pillow, and dreamed of tomahawks and war-whoops till morning.
Next day, neighbors came to see the waif, and one and all advised sending him away as soon as possible, since he was doubtless a spy, as Becky said, and would bring trouble of some sort.
"When he is well, he may go whithersoever he will; but while he is too lame12 to walk, weak with hunger, and worn out with weariness, I will harbor him. He cannot feign13 suffering and starvation like this. I shall do my duty, and leave the consequences[74] to the Lord," answered the parson, with such pious14 firmness that the neighbors said no more.
But they kept a close watch upon Onawandah, when he went among them, silent and submissive, but with the proud air of a captive prince, and sometimes a fierce flash in his black eyes when the other lads taunted15 him with his red skin. He was very lame for weeks, and could only sit in the sun, weaving pretty baskets for Eunice, and shaping bows and arrows for Reuben. The children were soon his friends, for with them he was always gentle, trying in his soft language and expressive16 gestures to show his good-will and gratitude; for they defended him against their ruder playmates, and, following their father's example, trusted and cherished the homeless youth.
When he was able to walk, he taught the boy to shoot and trap the wild creatures of the wood, to find fish where others failed, and to guide himself in the wilderness17 by star and sun, wind and water. To Eunice he brought little offerings of bark and feathers; taught her to make moccasins of skin, belts of shells, or pouches19 gay with porcupine20 quills21 and colored grass. He would not work for old Becky,—who plainly showed her distrust,—saying: "A brave does not grind corn and bring wood; that is squaw's work. Onawandah will hunt and fish and fight for you, but no more." And even the request of the parson could not win obedience22 in this, though the boy would have died for the good man.
"We can not tame an eagle as we can a barnyard[75] fowl23. Let him remember only kindness of us, and so we turn a foe24 into a friend," said Parson Bain, stroking the sleek25, dark head, that always bowed before him, with a docile26 reverence27 shown to no other living creature.
Winter came, and the settlers fared hardly through the long months, when the drifts rose to the eaves of their low cabins, and the stores, carefully harvested, failed to supply even their simple wants. But the minister's family never lacked wild meat, for Onawandah proved himself a better hunter than any man in the town; and the boy of sixteen led the way on his snow-shoes when they went to track a bear to its den9, chase the deer for miles, or shoot the wolves that howled about their homes in the winter nights.
But he never joined in their games, and sat apart when the young folk made merry, as if he scorned such childish pastimes and longed to be a man in all things. Why he stayed when he was well again, no one could tell, unless he waited for spring to make his way to his own people. But Reuben and Eunice rejoiced to keep him; for while he taught them many things, he was their pupil also, learning English rapidly, and proving himself a very affectionate and devoted28 friend and servant, in his own quiet way.
"Be of good cheer, little daughter; I shall be gone but three days, and our brave Onawandah will guard you well," said the parson, one April morning, as he mounted his horse to visit a distant settlement, where the bitter winter had brought sickness and death to more than one household.
The boy showed his white teeth in a bright smile[76] as he stood beside the children, while Becky croaked29, with a shake of the head:—
Two days later, it seemed as if Becky was a true prophet, and that the confiding32 minister had been terribly deceived; for Onawandah went away to hunt, and that night the awful war-whoop woke the sleeping villagers, to find their houses burning, while the hidden Indians shot at them by the light of the fires kindled33 by dusky scouts35. In terror and confusion the whites flew to the fort; and, while the men fought bravely, the women held blankets to catch arrows and bullets, or bound up the hurts of their defenders36.
It was all over by daylight, and the red men sped away up the river, with several prisoners, and such booty as they could plunder37 from the deserted38 houses. Not till all fear of a return of their enemies was over, did the poor people venture to leave the fort and seek their ruined homes. Then it was discovered that Becky and the parson's children were gone, and great was the bewailing, for the good man was much beloved by all his flock.
"I am here, betwixt the beds. Pull me out, neighbors, for I am half dead with fright and smothering40."
The old woman was quickly extricated41 from her hiding-place, and with much energy declared that she had seen Onawandah, disguised with war-paint,[77] among the Indians, and that he had torn away the children from her arms before she could fly from the house.
"He chose his time well, when they were defenceless, dear lambs! Spite of all my warnings, master trusted him, and this is the thanks we get. Oh, my poor master! How can I tell him this heavy news?"
There was no need to tell it; for, as Becky sat moaning and beating her breast on the fireless hearth42, and the sympathizing neighbors stood about her, the sound of a horse's hoofs43 was heard, and the parson came down the hilly road like one riding for his life. He had seen the smoke afar off, guessed the sad truth, and hurried on, to find his home in ruins, and to learn by his first glance at the faces around him that his children were gone.
When he had heard all there was to tell, he sat down upon his door-stone with his head in his hands, praying for strength to bear a grief too deep for words. The wounded and weary men tried to comfort him with hope, and the women wept with him as they hugged their own babies closer to the hearts that ached for the lost children. Suddenly a stir went through the mournful group, as Onawandah came from the wood with a young deer upon his shoulders, and amazement44 in his face as he saw the desolation before him. Dropping his burden, he stood an instant looking with eyes that kindled fiercely; then he came bounding toward them, undaunted by the hatred47, suspicion, and surprise plainly written on the countenances[78] before him. He missed his playmates, and asked but one question:—
"The boy, the little squaw,—where gone?"
His answer was a rough one, for the men seized him and poured forth48 the tale, heaping reproaches upon him for such treachery and ingratitude49. He bore it all in proud silence till they pointed50 to the poor father, whose dumb sorrow was more eloquent51 than all their wrath52. Onawandah looked at him, and the fire died out of his eyes as if quenched53 by the tears he would not shed. Shaking off the hands that held him, he went to his good friend, saying with passionate55 earnestness:—
The poor parson looked up at him, and could not doubt his truth; for genuine love and sorrow ennobled the dark face, and he had never known the boy to lie.
"I believe and trust you still, but others will not. Go, you are no longer safe here, and I have no home to offer you," said the parson, sadly, feeling that he cared for none, unless his children were restored to him.
"Onawandah has no fear. He goes; but he comes again to bring the boy, the little squaw."
Few words, but they were so solemnly spoken that the most unbelieving were impressed; for the youth laid one hand on the gray head bowed before him, and lifted the other toward heaven, as if calling the Great Spirit to hear his vow58.
A relenting murmur59 went through the crowd, but[79] the boy paid no heed60, as he turned away, and with no arms but his hunting knife and bow, no food but such as he could find, no guide but the sun by day, the stars by night, plunged61 into the pathless forest and was gone.
Then the people drew a long breath, and muttered to one another:—
"He will never do it, yet he is a brave lad for his years."
"Only a shift to get off with a whole skin, I warrant you. These varlets are as cunning as foxes," added Becky, sourly.
The parson alone believed and hoped, though weeks and months went by, and his children did not come.
Meantime, Reuben and Eunice were far away in an Indian camp, resting as best they could, after the long journey that followed that dreadful night. Their captors were not cruel to them, for Reuben was a stout62 fellow, and, thanks to Onawandah, could hold his own with the boys who would have tormented63 him if he had been feeble or cowardly. Eunice also was a hardy64 creature for her years, and when her first fright and fatigue65 were over, made herself useful in many ways among the squaws, who did not let the pretty child suffer greatly; though she was neglected, because they knew no better.
Life in a wigwam was not a life of ease, and fortunately the children were accustomed to simple habits and the hardships that all endured in those early[80] times. But they mourned for home till their young faces were pathetic with the longing66, and their pillows of dry leaves were often wet with tears in the night. Their clothes grew ragged, their hair unkempt, their faces tanned by sun and wind. Scanty67 food and exposure to all weathers tried the strength of their bodies, and uncertainty68 as to their fate saddened their spirits; yet they bore up bravely, and said their prayers faithfully, feeling sure that God would bring them home to father in His own good time.
One day, when Reuben was snaring69 birds in the wood,—for the Indians had no fear of such young children venturing to escape,—he heard the cry of a quail70, and followed it deeper and deeper into the forest, till it ceased, and, with a sudden rustle71, Onawandah rose up from the brakes, his finger on his lips to prevent any exclamation72 that might betray him to other ears and eyes.
"I come for you and little Laroka" (the name he gave Eunice, meaning "Wild Rose"). "I take you home. Not know me yet. Go and wait."
He spoke57 low and fast; but the joy in his face told how glad he was to find the boy after his long search, and Reuben clung to him, trying not to disgrace himself by crying like a girl, in his surprise and delight.
Lying hidden in the tall brakes they talked in whispers, while one told of the capture, and the other of a plan of escape; for, though a friendly tribe, these Indians were not Onawandah's people, and they must not suspect that he knew the children, else they might be separated at once.
"Little squaw betray me. You watch her. Tell[81] her not to cry out, not speak me any time. When I say come, we go—fast—in the night. Not ready yet."
These were the orders Reuben received, and, when he could compose himself, he went back to the wigwams, leaving his friend in the wood, while he told the good news to Eunice, and prepared her for the part she must play.
Fear had taught her self-control, and the poor child stood the test well, working off her relief and rapture73 by pounding corn on the stone mortar74 till her little hands were blistered75, and her arms ached for hours afterward76.
Not till the next day did Onawandah make his appearance, and then he came limping into the village, weary, lame, and half starved, after his long wandering in the wilderness. He was kindly77 welcomed, and his story believed; for he told only the first part, and said nothing of his life among the white men. He hardly glanced at the children when they were pointed out to him by their captors, and scowled78 at poor Eunice, who forgot her part in her joy, and smiled as she met the dark eyes that till now had always looked kindly at her. A touch from Reuben warned her, and she was glad to hide her confusion by shaking her long hair over her face, as if afraid of the stranger.
Onawandah took no further notice of them, but seemed to be very lame with the old wound in his foot, which prevented his being obliged to hunt with the men. He was resting and slowly gathering79 strength[82] for the hard task he had set himself, while he waited for a safe time to save the children. They understood, but the suspense80 proved too much for little Eunice, and she pined with impatience81 to be gone. She lost appetite and color, and cast such appealing glances at Onawandah, that he could not seem quite indifferent, and gave her a soft word now and then, or did such acts of kindness as he could perform unsuspected. When she lay awake at night thinking of home, a cricket would chirp82 outside the wigwam, and a hand slip in a leaf full of berries, or a bark-cup of fresh water for the feverish83 little mouth. Sometimes it was only a caress84 or a whisper of encouragement, that re-assured the childish heart, and sent her to sleep with a comfortable sense of love and protection, like a sheltering wing over a motherless bird.
Reuben stood it better, and entered heartily85 into the excitement of the plot; for he had grown tall and strong in these trying months, and felt that he must prove himself a man to sustain and defend his sister. Quietly he put away each day a bit of dried meat, a handful of parched86 corn, or a well-sharpened arrowhead, as provision for the journey; while Onawandah seemed to be amusing himself with making moccasins and a little vest of deer-skin for an Indian child about the age of Eunice.
At last, in the early autumn, all the men went off on the war-path, leaving only boys and women behind. Then Onawandah's eyes began to kindle34, and Reuben's heart to beat fast, for both felt that their time for escape had come.
All was ready, and one moonless night the signal[83] was given. A cricket chirped87 shrilly88 outside the tent where the children slept with one old squaw. A strong hand cut the skin beside their bed of fir-boughs89, and two trembling creatures crept out to follow the tall shadow that flitted noiselessly before them into the darkness of the wood. Not a broken twig90, a careless step, or a whispered word betrayed them, and they vanished as swiftly and silently as hunted deer flying for their lives.
Till dawn they hurried on, Onawandah carrying Eunice, whose strength soon failed, and Reuben manfully shouldering the hatchet91 and the pouch18 of food. At sunrise they hid in a thicket92 by a spring and rested, while waiting for the friendly night to come again. Then they pushed on, and fear gave wings to their feet, so that by another morning they were far enough away to venture to travel more slowly and sleep at night.
If the children had learned to love and trust the Indian boy in happier times, they adored him now, and came to regard him as an earthly Providence93; so faithful, brave, and tender was he,—so forgetful of himself, so bent94 on saving them. He never seemed to sleep, ate the poorest morsels95, or went without any food when provision failed; let no danger daunt45 him, no hardship wring96 complaint from him, but went on through the wild forest, led by guides invisible to them, till they began to hope that home was near.
Twice he saved their lives. Once, when he went in search of food, leaving Reuben to guard his sister, the children, being very hungry, ignorantly ate some[84] poisonous berries which looked like wild cherries, and were deliciously sweet. The boy generously gave most of them to Eunice, and soon was terror-stricken to see her grow pale, and cold, and deathly ill. Not knowing what to do, he could only rub her hands and call wildly for Onawandah.
The name echoed through the silent wood, and, though far away, the keen ear of the Indian heard it, his fleet feet brought him back in time, and his knowledge of wild roots and herbs made it possible to save the child when no other help was at hand.
"Make fire. Keep warm. I soon come," he said, after hearing the story and examining Eunice, who could only lift her eyes to him, full of childish confidence and patience.
Then he was off again, scouring97 the woods like a hound on the scent98, searching everywhere for the precious little herb that would counteract99 the poison. Any one watching him would have thought him crazy, as he rushed hither and thither100, tearing up the leaves, creeping on his hands and knees that it might not escape him, and when he found it, springing up with a cry that startled the birds, and carried hope to poor Reuben, who was trying to forget his own pain in his anxiety for Eunice, whom he thought dying.
"Eat, eat, while I make drink. All safe now," cried Onawandah, as he came leaping toward them with his hands full of green leaves, and his dark face shining with joy.
The boy was soon relieved, but for hours they hung over the girl, who suffered sadly, till she grew unconscious[85] and lay as if dead. Reuben's courage failed then, and he cried bitterly, thinking how hard it would be to leave the dear little creature under the pines and go home alone to father. Even Onawandah lost hope for a while, and sat like a bronze statue of despair, with his eyes fixed101 on his Wild Rose, who seemed fading away too soon.
Suddenly he rose, stretched his arms to the west, where the sun was setting splendidly, and in his own musical language prayed to the Great Spirit. The Christian boy fell upon his knees, feeling that the only help was in the Father who saw and heard them even in the wilderness. Both were comforted, and when they turned to Eunice there was a faint tinge102 of color on the pale cheeks, as if the evening red kissed her; the look of pain was gone, and she slept quietly, without the moans that had made their hearts ache before.
"He hears! he hears!" cried Onawandah, and for the first time Reuben saw tears in his keen eyes, as the Indian boy turned his face to the sky, full of a gratitude that no words were sweet enough to tell.
All night Eunice lay peacefully sleeping, and the moon lighted Onawandah's lonely watch, for Reuben was worn out with suspense, and slept beside his sister.
In the morning she was safe, and great was the rejoicing; but for two days the little invalid103 was not allowed to continue the journey, much as they longed to hurry on. It was a pretty sight, the bed of hemlock104 boughs spread under a green tent of woven branches, and on the pillow of moss105 the pale child[86] watching the flicker106 of sunshine through the leaves, listening to the babble107 of a brook108 close by, or sleeping tranquilly109, lulled110 by the murmur of the pines. Patient, loving, and grateful, it was a pleasure to serve her, and both the lads were faithful nurses. Onawandah cooked birds for her to eat, and made a pleasant drink of the wild-raspberry leaves to quench54 her thirst. Reuben snared111 rabbits, that she might have nourishing food, and longed to shoot a deer for provision, that she might not suffer hunger again on their journey. This boyish desire led him deeper into the wood than it was wise for him to go alone, for it was near nightfall, and wild creatures haunted the forest in those days. The fire, which Onawandah kept constantly burning, guarded their little camp where Eunice lay; but Reuben, with no weapon but his bow and hunting knife, was beyond this protection when he at last gave up his vain hunt and turned homeward. Suddenly, the sound of stealthy steps startled him, but he could see nothing through the dusk at first, and hurried on, fearing that some treacherous112 Indian was following him. Then he remembered his sister, and resolved not to betray her resting-place if he could help it, for he had learned courage of Onawandah, and longed to be as brave and generous as his dusky hero.
So he paused to watch and wait, and soon saw the gleam of two fiery113 eyes, not behind, but above him, in a tree. Then he knew that it was an "Indian devil," as they called a species of fierce animal that lurked114 in the thickets115 and sprang on its prey116 like a small tiger.
"If I could only kill it alone, how proud Onawandah[87] would be of me," thought Reuben, burning for the good opinion of his friend.
It would have been wiser to hurry on and give the beast no time to spring; but the boy was over bold, and, fitting an arrow to the string, aimed at the bright eye-ball and let fly. A sharp snarl117 showed that some harm was done, and, rather daunted46 by the savage sound, Reuben raced away, meaning to come back next day for the prize he hoped he had secured.
But soon he heard the creature bounding after him, and he uttered one ringing shout for help, feeling too late that he had been foolhardy. Fortunately, he was nearer camp than he thought. Onawandah heard him, and was there in time to receive the beast, as, mad with the pain of the wound, it sprung at Reuben. There was no time for words, and the boy could only watch in breathless interest and anxiety the fight which went on between the brute118 and the Indian.
It was sharp but short; for Onawandah had his knife, and as soon as he could get the snarling119, struggling creature down, he killed it with a skilful120 stroke. But not before it had torn and bitten him more dangerously than he knew; for the dusk hid the wounds, and excitement kept him from feeling them at first. Reuben thanked him heartily, and accepted his few words of warning with grateful docility121; then both hurried back to Eunice, who till next day knew nothing of her brother's danger.
Onawandah made light of his scratches, as he called[88] them, got their supper, and sent Reuben early to bed, for to-morrow they were to start again.
Excited by his adventure, the boy slept lightly, and waking in the night, saw by the flicker of the fire Onawandah binding122 up a deep wound in his breast with wet moss and his own belt. A stifled123 groan124 betrayed how much he suffered; but when Reuben went to him, he would accept no help, said it was nothing, and sent him back to bed, preferring to endure the pain in stern silence, with true Indian pride and courage.
Next morning, they set out and pushed on as fast as Eunice's strength allowed. But it was evident that Onawandah suffered much, though he would not rest, forbade the children to speak of his wounds, and pressed on with feverish haste, as if he feared that his strength might not hold out. Reuben watched him anxiously, for there was a look in his face that troubled the boy and filled him with alarm, as well as with remorse125 and love. Eunice would not let him carry her as before, but trudged bravely behind him, though her feet ached and her breath often failed as she tried to keep up; and both children did all they could to comfort and sustain their friend, who seemed glad to give his life for them.
In three days they reached the river, and, as if Heaven helped them in their greatest need, found a canoe, left by some hunter, near the shore. In they sprang, and let the swift current bear them along, Eunice kneeling in the bow like a little figure-head of Hope, Reuben steering126 with his paddle, and Onawandah sitting with arms tightly folded over his breast, as[89] if to control the sharp anguish127 of the neglected wound. He knew that it was past help now, and only cared to see the children safe; then, worn out but happy, he was proud to die, having paid his debt to the good parson, and proved that he was not a liar128 nor a traitor.
Hour after hour they floated down the great river, looking eagerly for signs of home, and when at last they entered the familiar valley, while the little girl cried for joy, and the boy paddled as he had never done before, Onawandah sat erect129, with his haggard eyes fixed on the dim distance, and sang his death-song in a clear, strong voice,—though every breath was pain,—bent on dying like a brave, without complaint or fear.
At last they saw the smoke from the cabins on the hillside, and, hastily mooring130 the canoe, all sprang out, eager to be at home after their long and perilous131 wandering. But as his foot touched the land, Onawandah felt that he could do no more, and stretching his arms toward the parsonage, the windows of which glimmered132 as hospitably133 as they had done when he first saw them, he said, with a pathetic sort of triumph in his broken voice: "Go. I cannot. Tell the good father, Onawandah not lie, not forget. He keep his promise."
Then he dropped upon the grass and lay as if dead, while Reuben, bidding Eunice keep watch, ran as fast as his tired legs could carry him to tell the tale and bring help.
The little girl did her part tenderly, carrying water in her hands to wet the white lips, tearing up her[90] ragged skirt to lay fresh bandages on the wound that had been bleeding the brave boy's life away, and, sitting by him, gathered his head into her arms, begging him to wait till father came.
But poor Onawandah had waited too long; now he could only look up into the dear, loving, little face bent over him, and whisper wistfully: "Wild Rose will remember Onawandah?" as the light went out of his eyes, and his last breath was a smile for her.
When the parson and his people came hurrying up full of wonder, joy, and good-will, they found Eunice weeping bitterly, and the Indian boy lying like a young warrior134 smiling at death.
"Ah, my neighbors, the savage has taught us a lesson we never can forget. Let us imitate his virtues135, and do honor to his memory," said the pastor, as he held his little daughter close and looked down at the pathetic figure at his feet, whose silence was more eloquent than any words.
All felt it, and even old Becky had a remorseful136 sigh for the boy who had kept his word so well and given back her darlings safe.
They buried him where he lay; and for years the lonely mound137 under the great oak was kept green by loving hands. Wild roses bloomed there, and the murmur of the Long River of Pines was a fit lullaby for faithful Onawandah.
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1
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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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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7
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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pouches
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| n.（放在衣袋里或连在腰带上的）小袋( pouch的名词复数 )；（袋鼠等的）育儿袋；邮袋；（某些动物贮存食物的）颊袋 | |
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porcupine
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| n.豪猪， 箭猪 | |
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quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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22
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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23
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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24
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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25
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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26
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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27
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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28
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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29
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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30
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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31
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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32
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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33
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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34
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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35
scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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36
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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37
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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38
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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39
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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40
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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41
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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43
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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45
daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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46
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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48
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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49
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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50
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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51
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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52
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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53
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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54
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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55
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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56
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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57
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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58
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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59
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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60
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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61
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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63
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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64
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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65
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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66
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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67
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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68
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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69
snaring
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| v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的现在分词 ) | |
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70
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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71
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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72
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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73
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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74
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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75
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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76
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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77
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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78
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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80
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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81
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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82
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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83
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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84
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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85
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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86
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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87
chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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88
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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89
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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90
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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91
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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92
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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93
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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94
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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95
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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96
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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97
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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98
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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99
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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100
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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101
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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102
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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103
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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104
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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105
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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106
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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107
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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108
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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109
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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110
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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111
snared
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| v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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113
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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114
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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115
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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116
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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117
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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118
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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119
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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120
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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121
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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122
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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123
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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124
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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125
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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126
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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127
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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128
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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129
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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130
mooring
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| n.停泊处；系泊用具，系船具；下锚v.停泊，系泊（船只）(moor的现在分词) | |
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131
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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132
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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134
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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135
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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136
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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137
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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