A single aim, a single hope sustained her: that of leaving the Isle3 of Sarek. She had had her fill of horror. Had she seen three corpses4, three women who had had their throats cut, or been shot, or even hanged, she would not have felt, as she did now, that her whole being was in revolt. But this, this torture, was too much. It involved an ignominy, it was an act of sacrilege, a damnable performance which surpassed the bounds of wickedness.
And then she was thinking of herself, the fourth and last victim. Fate seemed to be leading her towards that catastrophe5 as a person condemned6 to death is pushed on to the scaffold. How could she do other than tremble with fear? How could she fail to read a warning in the choice of the hill of the Great Oak for the torture of the three sisters Archignat?
She tried to find comfort in words:
"Everything will be explained. At the bottom of these hideous7 mysteries are quite simple causes, actions apparently8 fantastic but in reality performed by beings of the same species as myself, who behave as they do from criminal motives9 and in accordance with a determined10 plan. No doubt all this is only possible because of the war; the war brings about a peculiar11 state of affairs in which events of this kind are able to take place. But, all the same, there is nothing miraculous12 about it nor anything inconsistent with the rules of ordinary life."
Useless phrases! Vain attempts at argument which her brain found difficulty in following! In reality, upset as she was by violent nervous shocks, she came to think and feel like all those people of Sarek whose death she had witnessed. She shared their weakness, she was shaken by the same terrors, besieged13 by the same nightmares, unbalanced by the persistence14 within her of the instincts of bygone ages and lingering superstitions15 ever ready to rise to the surface.
Who were these invisible beings who persecuted16 her? Whose mission was it to fill the thirty coffins17 of Sarek? Who was it that was wiping out all the inhabitants of the luckless island? Who was it that lived in caverns18, gathering19 at the fateful hours the sacred mistletoe and the herbs of St. John, using axes and arrows and crucifying women? And in view of what horrible task, of what monstrous20 duty? In accordance with what inconceivable plans? Were they spirits of darkness, malevolent21 genii, priests of a dead religion, sacrificing men, women and children to their blood-thirsty gods?
"Enough, enough, or I shall go mad!" she said, aloud. "I must go! That must be my only thought: to get away from this hell!"
But it was as though destiny were taking special pains to torture her! On beginning her search for a little food, she suddenly noticed, in her father's study, at the back of a cupboard, a drawing pinned to the wall, representing the same scene as the roll of paper which she had found near Maguennoc's body in the deserted22 cabin.
A portfolio23 full of drawings lay on one of the shelves in the cupboard. She opened it. It contained a number of sketches24 of the same scene, likewise in red chalk. Each of them bore above the head of the first woman the inscription25, "V. d'H." One of them was signed, "Antoine d'Hergemont."
So it was her father who had made the drawing on Maguennoc's paper! It was her father who had tried in all these sketches to give the tortured woman a closer and closer resemblance to his own daughter!
"Enough, enough!" repeated Véronique. "I won't think, I won't reflect!"
Feeling very faint, she pursued her search but found nothing with which to stay her hunger.
Nor did she find anything that would allow her to light a fire at the point of the island, though the fog had lifted and the signals would certainly have been observed.
She tried rubbing two flints against each other, but she did not understand how to go to work and she did not succeed.
For three days she kept herself alive with water and wild grapes gathered among the ruins. Feverish26 and utterly27 exhausted28, she had fits of weeping which nearly every time produced the sudden appearance of All's Well; and her physical suffering was such that she felt angry with the poor dog for having that ridiculous name and drove him away. All's Well, greatly surprised, squatted29 on his haunches farther off and began to sit up again. She felt exasperated30 with him, as though he could help being François' dog!
The least sound made her shake from head to foot and covered her with perspiration31. What were the creatures in the Great Oak doing? From which side were they preparing to attack her? She hugged herself nervously32, shuddering33 at the thought of falling into those monsters' hands, and could not keep herself from remembering that she was a beautiful woman and that they might be tempted34 by her good looks and her youth.
But, on the fourth day, a great hope uplifted her. She had found in a drawer a powerful reading-glass. Taking advantage of the bright sunshine, she focussed the rays upon a piece of paper which ended by catching35 fire and enabling her to light a candle.
She believed that she was saved. She had discovered quite a stock of candles, which allowed her, to begin with, to keep the precious flame alive until the evening. At eleven o'clock, she took a lantern and went towards the summer-house, intending to set fire to it. It was a fine night and the signal would be perceived from the coast.
Fearing to be seen with her light, fearing above all the tragic36 vision of the sisters Archignat, whose tragic Calvary was flooded by the moonlight, she took, on leaving the Priory, another road, more to the left and bordered with thickets37. She walked anxiously, taking care not to rustle38 the leaves or stumble over the roots. When she reached open country, not far from the summer-house, she felt so tired that she had to sit down. Her head was buzzing. Her heart almost refused to beat.
She could not see the place of execution from here either. But, on turning her eyes, despite herself, in the direction of the hill, she received the impression that something resembling a white figure had moved. It was in the very heart of the wood, at the end of an avenue which intersected the thick mass of trees on that side.
The figure appeared again, in the full moonlight; and Véronique saw, notwithstanding the considerable distance, that it was the figure of a person clad in a robe and perched amid the branches of a tree which stood alone and higher than the others.
She remembered what the sisters Archignat had said:
"The sixth day of the moon is near at hand. They will climb the Great Oak and gather the sacred mistletoe."
And she now remembered certain descriptions which she had read in books and different stories which her father had told her; and she felt as if she were present at one of those Druid ceremonies which had appealed to her imagination as a child. But at the same time she felt so weak that she was not convinced that she was awake or that the strange sight before her eyes was real. Four other figures formed a group at the foot of the tree and raised their arms as though to catch the bough40 ready to fall. A light flashed above. The high-priest's golden sickle41 had cut off the bunch of mistletoe.
Then the high-priest climbed down from the oak; and all five figures glided42 along the avenue, skirted the wood and reached the top of the knoll43.
[Pg 118]Véronique, who was unable to take her haggard eyes from those creatures, bent44 forward and saw the three corpses hanging each from its tree of torment45. At the distance where she stood, the black bows of the caps looked like crows. The figures stopped opposite the victims as though to perform some incomprehensible rite46. At last the high-priest separated himself from the group and, holding the bunch of mistletoe in his hand, came down the hill and went towards the spot where the first arch of the bridge was anchored.
Véronique was almost fainting. Her wavering eyes, before which everything seemed to dance, fastened on to the glittering sickle which swung from side to side on the priest's chest, below his long white beard. What was he going to do? Though the bridge no longer existed, Véronique was convulsed with anguish47. Her legs refused to carry her. She lay down on the ground, keeping her eyes fixed48 upon the terrifying sight.
On reaching the edge of the chasm49, the priest again stopped for a few seconds. Then he stretched out the arm in which he carried the mistletoe and, preceded by the sacred plant as by a talisman50 which altered the laws of nature in his favour, he took a step forward above the yawning gulf51.
And he walked thus in space, all white in the moonlight.
What happened Véronique did not know, nor was she quite sure what had been happening, if she had not been the sport of an hallucination, nor at what stage of the strange ceremony this hallucination had originated in her enfeebled brain.
She waited with closed eyes for events which did not take place and which, for that matter, she did not even try to foresee. But other, more real things preoccupied52 her mind. Her candle was going out inside the lantern. She was aware of this; and yet she had not the strength to pull herself together and return to the Priory. And she said to herself that, if the sun should not shine again within the next few days, she would not be able to light the flame and that she was lost.
She resigned herself, weary of fighting and realizing that she was defeated beforehand in this unequal contest. The only ending that was not to be endured was that of being captured. But why not abandon herself to the death that offered, death from starvation, from exhaustion53? If you suffer long enough, there must come a moment when the suffering decreases and when you pass, almost unconsciously, from life, which has grown too cruel, to death, which Véronique was gradually beginning to desire.
"That's it, that's it," she murmured. "To go from Sarek or to die: it's all the same. What I want is to get away."
A sound of leaves made her open her eyes. The flame of the candle was expiring. But behind the lantern All's Well was sitting, beating the air with his fore-paws.
And Véronique saw that he carried a packet of biscuits, fastened round his neck by a string.
"Tell me your story, you dear old All's Well," said Véronique, next morning, after a good night's rest in her bedroom at the Priory. "For, after all,[Pg 120] I can't believe that you came to look for me and bring me food of your own accord. It was an accident, wasn't it? You were wandering in that direction, you heard me crying and you came to me. But who tied that little box of biscuits round your neck? Does it mean that we have a friend in the island, a friend who takes an interest in us? Why doesn't he show himself? Speak and tell me, All's Well."
She kissed the dog and went on:
"And whom were those biscuits intended for? For your master, for François? Or for Honorine? No? Then for Monsieur Stéphane perhaps?"
The dog wagged his tail and moved towards the door. He really seemed to understand. Véronique followed him to Stéphane Maroux's room. All's Well slipped under the tutor's bed. There were three more cardboard boxes of biscuits, two packets of chocolate and two tins of preserved meat. And each parcel was supplied with a string ending in a wide loop, from which All's Well must have released his head.
"What does it mean?" asked Véronique, bewildered. "Did you put them under there? But who gave them to you? Have we actually a friend in the island, who knows us and knows Stéphane Maroux? Can you take me to him? He must live on this side of the island, because there is no means of communicating with the other and you can't have been there."
Véronique stopped to think. But, in addition to the provisions stowed away by All's Well, she also noticed a small canvas-covered satchel54 under the bed; and she wondered why Stéphane Maroux had hidden it. She thought that she had the right to open it and to look for some clue to the part played by the tutor, to his character, to his past perhaps, to his relations with M. d'Hergemont and François:
"Yes," she said, "it is my right and even my duty."
The satchel contained nothing but a manuscript-book, with a rubber band round it. But, the moment she opened the book, she stood amazed.
On the first page was her own portrait, her photograph as a girl, with her signature in full and the inscription:
"To my friend Stéphane."
"I don't understand, I don't understand," she murmured. "I remember the photograph: I must have been sixteen. But how did I come to give it to him? I must have known him!"
Eager to learn more, she read the next page, a sort of preface worded as follows:
"Véronique, I wish to lead my life under your eyes. In undertaking57 the education of your son, of that son whom I ought to loathe58, because he is the son of another, but whom I love because he is your son, my intention is that my life shall be in full harmony with the secret feeling that has swayed it so long. One day, I have no doubt, you will resume your place as François' mother. On that day you will be proud of him. I shall have effaced59 all that may survive in him of his father and I shall have exalted60 all the fine and noble qualities which he inherits from you. The aim is great enough for me to devote myself to it body and soul. I do so with gladness. Your smile shall be my reward."
Véronique's heart was flooded with a singular emotion. Her life was lit with a calmer radiance; and this new mystery, which she was unable to fathom61 any more than the others, was at least, like that of Maguennoc's flowers, gentle and comforting.
As she continued to turn the pages, she followed her son's education from day to day. She beheld62 the pupil's progress and the master's methods. The pupil was engaging, intelligent, studious, zealous63 loving, sensitive, impulsive64 and at the same time thoughtful. The master was affectionate, patient and borne up by some profound feeling which showed through every line of the manuscript.
And, little by little, there was a growing enthusiasm in the daily confession65, which expressed itself in terms less and less restrained:
"François, my dearly-beloved son—for I may call you so, may I not?—François, your mother lives once again in you. Your eyes are pure and limpid66 as hers. Your soul is grave and simple as her soul. You are unacquainted with evil; and one might almost say that you are unacquainted with good, so closely is it blended with your beautiful nature."
Some of the child's exercises were copied into the book, exercises in which he spoke67 of his mother with passionate68 affection and with the persistent69 hope that he would soon see her again.
"We shall see her again, François," Stéphane added, "and you will then understand better what beauty means and light and the charm of life and the delight of beholding70 and admiring."
Next came anecdotes71 about Véronique, minor72 details which she herself did not remember or which she thought that she alone knew:
"One day, at the Tuileries—she was only sixteen—a circle was formed round her . . . by people who looked at her and wondered at her loveliness. Her girl friends laughed, happy at seeing her admired . . . .
"Open her right hand, François. You will see a long, white scar in the middle of the palm. When she was quite a little girl, she ran the point of an iron railing into her hand . . . ."
But the last pages were not written for the boy and had certainly not been read by him. The writer's love was no longer disguised beneath admiring phrases. It displayed itself without reserve, ardent73, exalted, suffering, quivering with hope, though always respectful.
Véronique closed the book. She could read no more.
"Yes, I confess, All's Well," she said to the dog, who was already sitting up, "my eyes are wet with tears. Devoid74 of feminine weaknesses as I am, I will tell you what I would say to nobody else: that really touches me. Yes, I must try to recall the unknown features of the man who loves me like this . . . some friend of my childhood whose affection I never suspected and whose name has not left even a trace in my memory."
She drew the dog to her:
"Two kind hearts, are they not, All's Well? Neither the master nor the pupil is capable of the crimes which I saw them commit. If they are the accomplices75 of our enemies here, they are so in spite of themselves and without knowing it. I cannot believe in philtres and incantations and plants which deprive you of your reason. But, all the same, there is something, isn't there, you dear little dog? The boy who planted veronicas round the Calvary of Flowers and who wrote, 'Mother's flowers,' is not guilty, is he? And Honorine was right, when she spoke of a fit of madness, and he will come back to look for me, won't he? Stéphane and he are sure to come back."
The hours that went by were full of soothing76 quiet. Véronique was no longer lonely. The present had no terrors for her; and she had faith in the future.
Next morning, she said to All's Well, whom she had locked up to prevent his running away:
"Will you take me there now my man? Where? Why, to the friend, of course, who sent provisions to Stéphane Maroux. Come along."
All's Well was only waiting for Véronique's permission. He dashed off in the direction of the grassy77 sward that led to the dolmen; and he stopped half way. Véronique came up with him. He turned to the right and took a path which brought them to a huddle78 of ruins near the edge of the cliffs. Then he stopped again.
"Is it here?" asked Véronique.
The dog lay down flat. In front of him, at the foot of two blocks of stones leaning against each other and covered with the same growth of ivy79, was a tangle80 of brambles with under it a little passage like the entrance to a rabbit-warren. All's Well slipped in, disappeared and then returned in search of Véronique, who had to go back to the Priory and fetch a bill-hook to cut down the brambles.
She managed in half an hour to uncover the top step of a staircase, which she descended81, feeling her way and preceded by All's Well, and which took her to a long tunnel, cut in the body of the rock and lighted on the left by little openings. She raised herself on tip-toe and saw that these openings overlooked the sea.
She walked on the level for ten minutes and then went down some more steps. The tunnel grew narrower. The openings, which all looked towards the sky, no doubt so as not to be seen from below, now gave light from both the right and the left. Véronique began to understand how All's Well was able to communicate with the other part of the island. The tunnel followed the narrow strip of cliff which joined the Priory estate to Sarek. The waves lapped the rocks on either side.
They next climbed by steps under the knoll of the Great Oak. Two tunnels opened at the top. All's Well chose the one on the left, which continued to skirt the sea.
Then on the right there were two more passages, both quite dark. The island appeared to be riddled82 in this way with invisible communications; and Véronique felt something clutch at her heart as she reflected that she was making for the part which the sisters Archignat had described as the enemy's subterranean83 domains84, under the Black Heath.
"Yes, yes, dear, I'm coming," she whispered, "and I am not a bit afraid: I am sure that you are leading me to a friend . . . a friend who has taken shelter down here. But why has he not left his shelter? Why did you not show him the way?"
The passage had been chipped smooth throughout, with a rounded ceiling and a very dry granite86 floor, which was amply ventilated by the openings. There was not a mark, not a scratch of any kind on the walls. Sometimes the point of a black flint projected.
"Is it here?" asked Véronique, when All's Well stopped.
The tunnel went no farther and widened into a chamber87 into which the light filtered more thinly through a narrower window.
All's Well seemed undecided. He listened, with his ears pricked88 up, standing39 on his hind-legs and resting his fore-paws against the end wall of the tunnel.
Véronique noticed that the wall, at this spot, was not formed throughout its length of the bare granite but consisted of an accumulation of stones of unequal size set in cement. The work evidently belonged to a different, doubtless more recent period.
A regular partition-wall had been built, closing the underground passage, which was probably continued on the other side.
She repeated:
"It's here, isn't it?"
She went up to the wall and presently gave a start. The voice was raised higher. The sounds became more distinct. Some one, a child, was singing, and she caught the words:
"And the mother said,
Rocking her child abed:
'Weep not. If you do,
Véronique murmured:
"The song . . . the song . . ."
It was the same that Honorine had hummed at Beg-Meil. Who could be singing it now? A child, imprisoned91 in the island? A boy friend of François'?
And the voice went on:
"'Babes that laugh and sing
Smiles to the Blessed Virgin bring.
Fold your hands this way
And to sweet Mary pray.'"
The last verse was followed by a silence that lasted for a few minutes. All's Well appeared to be listening with increasing attention, as though something, which he knew of, was about to take place.
Thereupon, just where he stood, there was a slight noise of stones carefully moved. All's Well wagged his tail frantically92 and barked, so to speak, in a[Pg 128] whisper, like an animal that understands the danger of breaking the silence. And suddenly, about his head, one of the stones was drawn93 inward, leaving a fairly large aperture94.
All's Well leapt into the hole at a bound, stretched himself out and, helping95 himself with his hind-legs, twisting and crawling, disappeared inside.
"Ah, there's Master All's Well!" said the young voice. "How are we, Master All's Well? And why didn't we come and pay our master a visit yesterday? Serious business, was it? A walk with Honorine? Oh, if you could talk, my dear old chap, what stories you would have to tell! And, first of all, look here . . ."
Véronique, thrilled with excitement, had knelt down against the wall. Was it her son's voice that she heard? Was she to believe that he was back and in hiding? She tried in vain to see. The wall was thick; and there was a bend in the opening. But how clearly each syllable96 uttered, how plainly each intonation97 reached her ears!
"Look here," repeated the boy, "why doesn't Honorine come to set me free? Why don't you bring her here? You managed to find me all right. And grandfather must be worried about me . . . . But what an adventure! . . . So you're still of the same mind, eh, old chap? All's well, isn't it? All's as well as well can be!"
Véronique could not understand. Her son—for there was no doubt that it was François—her son was speaking as if he knew nothing of what had happened. Had he forgotten? Had his memory lost every trace of the deeds done during his fit of madness?
[Pg 129]"Yes, a fit of madness," thought Véronique, obstinately98. "He was mad. Honorine was quite right: he was undoubtedly99 mad. And his reason has returned. Oh, François, François! . . ."
She listened, with all her tense being and all her trembling soul, to the words that might bring her so much gladness or such an added load of despair. Either the darkness would close in upon her more thickly and heavily than ever, or daylight was to pierce that endless night in which she had been struggling for fifteen years.
"Why, yes," continued the boy, "I agree with you, All's Well. But all the same, I should be jolly glad if you could bring me some real proof of it. On the one hand, there's no news of grandfather or Honorine, though I've given you lots of messages for them; on the other hand, there's no news of Stéphane. And that's what alarms me. Where is he? Where have they locked him up? Won't he be starving by now? Come, All's Well, tell me: where did you take the biscuits yesterday? . . . But, look here, what's the matter with you? You seem to have something on your mind. What are you looking at over there? Do you want to go away? No? Then what is it?"
The boy stopped. Then, after a moment, in a much lower voice:
"Did you come with some one?" he asked. "Is there anybody behind the wall?"
The dog gave a dull bark. Then there was a long pause, during which François also must have been listening.
Véronique's emotion was so great that it seemed to her that François must hear the beating of her heart.
He whispered:
"Is that you, Honorine?"
There was a fresh pause; and he continued:
"Yes, I'm sure it's you . . . . I can hear you breathing . . . . Why don't you answer?"
Véronique was carried away by a sudden impulse. Certain gleams of light had flashed upon her mind since she had understood that Stéphane was a prisoner, no doubt like François, therefore a victim of the enemy; and all sorts of vague suppositions flitted through her brain. Besides, how could she resist the appeal of that voice? Her son was asking her a question . . . her son!
"Ah," he said, "there's an answer! I knew it! Is it you, Honorine?"
"No, François," she said.
"Then who is it?"
"A friend of Honorine's."
"I don't know you, do I?"
"No . . . but I am your friend."
He hesitated. Was he on his guard?
"Why didn't Honorine come with you?"
Véronique was not prepared for this question, but she at once realized that, if the involuntary suppositions that were forcing themselves upon her were correct, the boy must not yet be told the truth.
She therefore said:
"Honorine came back from her journey, but has gone away again."
"Gone to look for me?"
"That's it, that's it," she said, quickly. "She thought that you had been carried away from Sarek and your tutor with you."
"But grandfather?"
"He's gone too: so have all the inhabitants of the island."
"Ah! The old story of the coffins and the crosses, I suppose?"
"Just so. They thought that your disappearance101 meant the beginning of the disasters; and their fear made them take to flight."
"But you, madame?"
"I have known Honorine for a long time. I came from Paris with her to take a holiday at Sarek. I have no reason to go away. All these superstitions have no terrors for me."
The child was silent. The improbability and inadequacy102 of the replies must have been apparent to him: and his suspicions increased in consequence. He confessed as much, frankly103:
"Listen, madame, there's something I must tell you. It's ten days since I was imprisoned in this cell. During the first part of that time, I saw and heard nobody. But, since the day before yesterday, every morning a little wicket opens in the middle of my door and a woman's hand comes through and gives a fresh supply of water. A woman's hand . . . so . . . you see?"
"So you want to know if that woman is myself?"
"Yes, I am obliged to ask you."
"Would you recognize that woman's hand?"
"Yes, it is lean and bony, with a yellow arm."
"Here's mine," said Véronique. "It can pass where All's Well did."
"Oh," said François, at once, "that's not the hand I saw!"
And he added, in a lower voice:
"How pretty this one is!"
Suddenly Véronique felt him take it in his own with a quick movement; and he exclaimed:
"Oh, it can't be true, it can't be true!"
He had turned her hand over and was separating the fingers so as to uncover the palm entirely105. And he whispered:
"The scar! . . . It's there! . . . The white scar! . . ."
Then Véronique became greatly agitated106. She remembered Stéphane Maroux's diary and certain details set down by him which François must have heard. One of these details was this scar, which recalled an old and rather serious injury.
She felt the boy's lips pressed to her hand, first gently and then with passionate ardour and a great flow of tears, and heard him stammering107:
"Oh, mother, mother darling! . . . My dear, dear mother! . . ."
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1
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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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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32
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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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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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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41
sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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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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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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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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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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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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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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78
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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79
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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80
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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82
riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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83
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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84
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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87
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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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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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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93
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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94
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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95
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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96
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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97
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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98
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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99
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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100
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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102
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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103
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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104
flexing
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| n.挠曲，可挠性v.屈曲( flex的现在分词 )；弯曲；（为准备大干而）显示实力；摩拳擦掌 | |
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105
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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106
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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107
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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